Ernest Maltravers. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон

Their love was a beautiful and wanton butterfly; but not the butterfly which is the emblem of the soul.”

      Valerie sighed. She looked timidly into the face of the young philosopher, but his eyes were averted.

      “Perhaps,” she said, after a short pause, “we pass our lives more happily without love than with it. And in our modern social system” (she continued, thoughtfully, and with profound truth, though it is scarcely the conclusion to which a woman often arrives) “I think we have pampered Love to too great a preponderance over the other excitements of life. As children, we are taught to dream of it; in youth, our books, our conversation, our plays, are filled with it. We are trained to consider it the essential of life; and yet, the moment we come to actual experience, the moment we indulge this inculcated and stimulated craving, nine times out of ten we find ourselves wretched and undone. Ah, believe me, Mr. Maltravers, this is not a world in which we should preach up too far the philosophy of Love!”

      “And does Madame de Ventadour speak from experience?” asked Maltravers, gazing earnestly upon the changing countenance of his companion.

      “No; and I trust that I never may!” said Valerie, with great energy.

      Ernest’s lip curled slightly, for his pride was touched.

      “I could give up many dreams of the future,” said he, “to hear Madame de Ventadour revoke that sentiment.”

      “We have outridden our companions, Mr. Maltravers,” said Valerie, coldly, and she reined in her horse. “Ah, Mr. Ferrers,” she continued, as Lumley and the handsome German baron now joined her, “you are too gallant; I see you imply a delicate compliment to my horsemanship, when you wish me to believe you cannot keep up with me: Mr. Maltravers is not so polite.”

      “Nay,” returned Ferrers, who rarely threw away a compliment without a satisfactory return, “Nay, you and Maltravers appeared lost among the old Romans; and our friend the baron took that opportunity to tell me of all the ladies who adored him.”

      “Ah, Monsieur Ferrare, que vous etes malin!” said Schomberg, looking very much confused.

      “Malin! no; I spoke from no envy: I never was adored, thank Heaven! What a bore it must be!”

      “I congratulate you on the sympathy between yourself and Ferrers,” whispered Maltravers to Valerie.

      Valerie laughed; but during the rest of the excursion she remained thoughtful and absent, and for some days their rides were discontinued. Madame de Ventadour was not well.

      CHAPTER III.

       Table of Contents

      “O Love, forsake me not;

       Mine were a lone dark lot

       Bereft of thee.”

       HEMANS, Genius singing to Love.

      I fear that as yet Ernest Maltravers had gained little from Experience, except a few current coins of worldly wisdom (and not very valuable those!) while he has lost much of that nobler wealth with which youthful enthusiasm sets out on the journey of life. Experience is an open giver, but a stealthy thief. There is, however, this to be said in her favour, that we retain her gifts; and if ever we demand restitution in earnest, ’tis ten to one but what we recover her thefts. Maltravers had lived in lands where public opinion is neither strong in its influence, nor rigid in its canons; and that does not make a man better. Moreover, thrown headlong amidst the temptations that make the first ordeal of youth, with ardent passions and intellectual superiority, he had been led by the one into many errors, from the consequences of which the other had delivered him; the necessity of roughing it through the world—of resisting fraud to-day, and violence to-morrow—had hardened over the surface of his heart, though at bottom the springs were still fresh and living. He had lost much of his chivalrous veneration for women, for he had seen them less often deceived than deceiving. Again, too, the last few years had been spent without any high aims or fixed pursuits. Maltravers had been living on the capital of his faculties and affections in a wasteful, speculating spirit. It is a bad thing for a clever and ardent man not to have from the onset some paramount object of life.

      All this considered, we can scarcely wonder that Maltravers should have fallen into an involuntary system of pursuing his own amusements and pursuits, without much forethought of the harm or the good they were to do to others or himself. The moment we lose forethought, we lose sight of duty; and though it seems like a paradox, we can seldom be careless without being selfish.

      In seeking the society of Madame de Ventadour, Maltravers obeyed but the mechanical impulse that leads the idler towards the companionship which most pleases his leisure. He was interested and excited; and Valerie’s manners, which to-day flattered, and to-morrow piqued him, enlisted his vanity and pride on the side of his fancy. But although Monsieur de Ventadour, a frivolous and profligate Frenchman, seemed utterly indifferent as to what his wife chose to do—and in the society in which Valerie lived, almost every lady had her cavalier—yet Maltravers would have started with incredulity or dismay had any one accused him of a systematic design on her affections. But he was living with the world, and the world affected him as it almost always does every one else. Still he had, at times, in his heart, the feeling that he was not fulfilling his proper destiny and duties; and when he stole from the brilliant resorts of an unworthy and heartless pleasure, he was ever and anon haunted by his old familiar aspirations for the Beautiful, the Virtuous, and the Great. However, hell is paved with good intentions; and so, in the meanwhile, Ernest Maltravers surrendered himself to the delicious presence of Valerie de Ventadour.

      One evening, Maltravers, Ferrers, the French minister, a pretty Italian, and the Princess di———, made the whole party collected at Madame de Ventadour’s. The conversation fell upon one of the tales of scandal relative to English persons, so common on the Continent.

      “Is it true, Monsieur,” said the French minister, gravely, to Lumley, “that your countrymen are much more immoral than other people? It is very strange, but in every town I enter, there is always some story in which les Anglais are the heroes. I hear nothing of French scandal—nothing of Italian—toujours les Anglais.”

      “Because we are shocked at these things, and make a noise about them, while you take them quietly. Vice is our episode—your epic.”

      “I suppose it is so,” said the Frenchman, with affected seriousness. “If we cheat at play, or flirt with a fair lady, we do it with decorum, and our neighbours think it no business of theirs. But you treat every frailty you find in your countrymen as a public concern, to be discussed and talked over, and exclaimed against, and told to all the world.”

      “I like the system of scandal,” said Madame de Ventadour, abruptly; “say what you will, the policy of fear keeps many of us virtuous. Sin might not be odious, if we did not tremble at the consequence even of appearances.”

      “Hein, hein,” grunted Monsieur de Ventadour, shuffling into the room. “How are you?—how are you? Charmed to see you. Dull night—I suspect we shall have rain. Hein, hein. Aha, Monsieur Ferrers, comment ca va-t-il? Will you give me my revenge at ecarte? I have my suspicions that I am in luck to-night. Hein, hein.”

      “Ecarte!—well, with pleasure,” said Ferrers.

      Ferrers played well.

      The conversation ended in a moment. The little party gathered round the table—all, except Valerie and Maltravers. The chairs that were vacated left a kind of breach between them; but still they were next to each other, and they felt embarrassed, for they felt alone.

      “Do you never play?” asked Madame de Ventadour, after a pause.

      “I have played,” said Maltravers, “and I know the temptation. I dare not play now. I love the excitement, but I have been humbled at the debasement: it is a moral drunkenness that is worse than the physical.”

      “You