Then, with the scent of the glorious roses smiling in great bowls wherever within the little sanctuary, my eyes chanced to light, filling the atmosphere and my nostrils, I read.
The balmy air-soft, cool, and in gentle motion-gratefully fanned my cheeks and neck. A sense of deep rest, of intense peace, as distinctive of this apartment as of its mistress, settled itself upon me, leaving me free to concentrate my undisturbed attention upon a narrative which speedily absorbed it.
From the lawns and terraces of the gardens beneath the large window, shaded by an ample awning outside, came the sounds made by Juno's proud birds, wheeling themselves out with pride, expanding their blue, green, and gold tails to their utmost dimensions, stretching downwards their wings so that their rustle along the ground, as they strutted to and fro, rivalled the noise made by a modern belle and her garments. Then, with the burst peculiar to them, they allowed their pent-up magnificence to escape, only to recommence the performance, their discordant cries startling me from time to time with their dissonant harshness.
The hum and buzz of the myriad of summer insects were unceasing. More than one industrious and adventurous bee sailed about the window, and having reconnoitred the lady's apartment and the lady within, withdrew with polite reserve.
Amid these ideas and surroundings and under the potent spell exercised by them, one to which by temperament I was more than ordinarily susceptible, to which indeed my peculiar circumstances, my vesture, and what I had undergone, exposed me in a special manner, I opened the book of all others fitted for that place and time.
This the golden book of spirit and sense,
The holy writ of beauty.
The engravings did not retain me long. I desired to become acquainted with Mademoiselle de Maupin herself.
I felt satisfied as my eyes fell on the clear text and I read with slow rapture, in order to prolong the delicious impression made by my imaginative expectations and their gradual and entire realisation. Here is what I read.
"You know the eagerness with which I have sought for physical beauty, the importance I attach to outward form and how the world I am in love with is the world that the eyes can see; or, to put the matter in more conventional language, I am so corrupt and blase, that my faith in moral beauty is gone, and my power of striving after it also… I find that the earth is all as fair as heaven, and virtue for me is nothing but the perfection of form.
"Many a time and long have I paused in some cathedral under the shadow of the marble foliage, when the lights were quivering in through the stained windows, when the organ unbidden made a low murmuring of itself, and the wind was breathing amongst the pipes; and I have plunged my gaze far into the pale blue depths of the almond-shaped eyes of the Madonna. I have followed with a tender reverence the curves of that wasted figure of hers, and the arch of her eyebrows just visible, and no more than that.
"I have admired her smooth and lustrous brow, her temples with her transparent chastity, and her cheeks shaped with a sober virginal colour, more tender than the colour of a peach-flower. I have counted one by one the fair and golden lashes that threw their tremulous shade upon it.
"I have traced out with care in the subdued tone that surrounds her, the evanescent lines of her throat so fragile and inclined so modestly. I have even lifted with an adventuring hand, the folds of her tunic, and have seen unveiled that bosom, maiden and full of milk, that has never been pressed by any except divine lips.
"I have traced out the rare clear veins of it even to their faintest branchings. I have laid my finger on it, to draw the white drops forth of the draught of heaven. I have so much as touched with my lips the very bud of the rosa mystica."
"Oh, Mademoiselle! Oh, Gertrude Stormont!" I exclaimed, and sighed involuntarily, and as I lingered in my contemplation of Mademoiselle's bosom, which the above lines exactly described, I sank into a soft transport, half closing my eyes and dwelling upon my recollection of the contact of my mystical rose, recalling the lilies and the roses of the exquisite mounds, out of which it grew and the azure veins which I too had traced with my eyes.
I had then no further opportunity of pursuing this train of thought, or of reading any more of the words of one who so fully understood and expressed my ideas.
I heard the portiere removed and someone took hold of the door handle. I hastily glanced at myself to ascertain whether my pose was satisfactory and my drapery as it should be. No doubt it was Mademoiselle, and yet perhaps-I kept my eyes down upon the book, I dared not raise them yet-perhaps it might be Lord Alfred Ridlington!
What if he should find me here alone in that turmoil of mind, in that little sanctuary at my devotions to Venus, carried away by her sacred inspirations? 278
The door opened and closed again. Someone came across the thick soft carpet towards the couch. With a blush, which must have been perceptible, I looked up. It was he, it was Lord Alfred Ridlington-and alone.
"Julia!" he said, gazing at me.
I returned the look in silence, not knowing what to say.
"At last," he murmured, a suppressed eagerness in his tone, and an earnestness too which startled me. I blushed afresh.
I was satisfied with my posture and my appearance and saw that it had produced all the effect that I could wish. A certain light came into his eyes as I unconsciously made room for him to sit himself beside me. His eyes, I noticed, rested on my ankles and seemed to travel up my legs. I knew intuitively he longed to see more than was exposed.
Approval of what he did see, however, was plainly expressed in his looks. He seated himself beside me and was very careful, I observed with secret amusement, not to terrify my obvious timidity. He instilled a wonderful gentleness and softness into his manner as for a few moments he silently sat at my side.
If I had done what I wanted, what I should have liked to do, I should have thrown myself upon him. I, however, let my eyes serve as the mirrors of a human form-his. But one man then existed for me in the universe. Many girls, I doubt not, have to make this confession.
Yes, I honestly avow and confess, that if I had done what I longed to do, what all the fierce passion surging in my breast prompted, I should have thrown myself upon him, gathered him in my arms, and scattered our clothing to the winds.
But something-my maiden coyness, my virginal modesty (your virginal modesty! Oh, Julia!)-withheld me. He was still silent but not from want of feeling. I was sensible of the passion radiating from him like the heat from a furnace. How could I encourage him?
He must make the first advance. Suppose (terrible idea!) he did not do so! What would become of me in that case? Suppose he had merely intended to propose a saunter or a ramble in the grounds?
He took my hand, jewelled with lady's rings.
I involuntarily glanced at the door.
"Oh!" he cried, in a reassuring way. "Mademoiselle has gone out-gone out in her phaeton, I think. She told me she was going to sketch some ruin or other, miles away. No one will disturb us."
I looked relieved.
He took my hand, and approached me more closely. His hot breath, which began to come with more rapidity, played about my cheeks.
I did not draw myself away. Why should I not take what the Gods provided? Why should I deprive myself of what I desired above all things? I did not draw myself away, nor did I repel him.
Now this is strange; for what I myself like in a woman is boldness, and an entire, imperious disregard of all les convenances; and how I enjoyed that embrace of Mademoiselle's after whipping Beatrice, because she had given the violence of her passion full scope, and had thrown herself upon me in headlong fury.