It may
be the caprice of an extravagant imagination, it may be the freak of a
foolish fancy, an empty day-dream, an idle reverie, but to me while it
lasts, it is sweeter than any reality.
Thus was it with this picture that hung upon my bedroom wall that
night. I could not take my eyes from it. There I lay, tired and
travel-worn, on an easy bed; but the light burned beside me and I
could not sleep. Something held my gaze fixed upon the opposite wall.
I could but stare and wonder at the curious loveliness of that woman's
face, and ask myself doubtfully over and over again whether such
beauty always engenders proportionate happiness for its possessor.
"And Bayard loved her," I went on in mental soliloquy. "This strange,
handsome fellow with the sad face and solemn air." Did he still love
her, I wondered, or was she called away in her youthful grace and
loveliness to where he could only see her with the eyes of faith? Did
he now live upon her cherished memory, isolated from all the profane
distractions of social life? Where was she, or who was she, and why
had Hortense never spoken of her in all her intimate conversations
with me? Was she his wife? May not this picture have got there in some
accidental way? She might be a relative. It might have happened that
they were just the same size and style of portrait, and were put
together on that account. But no! something in the faces of both
insinuated a close relationship.
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