University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

Mrs. Davenant in Paris to a friend in New York.

Dear Madeline:—We have returned north,
you see, with the return of warm weather, and
here we are once more in the great metropolis of
fashion and philosophy, of gayety and science, of
revolutions and of arts. It is still the same delightful
Paris—with much to admire and reprove, to
fascinate and offend—an epitome of the world and
an emblem of life itself, where you can partake of
the influences of all that is most base and all that
is most elevating in the institutions of man.

But I will come to that subject, about which I
know you will feel most concern, my health.
Rest content then, dear Madeline, for know that it
has much improved since I wrote you from Leghorn.
I was well enough last Wednesday to accompany
Mr. Davenant and Florinda to the annual
festivities at Longchamps. The weather was
gratefully mild—so much so that we rode in an
open carriage all the way. Florinda was as usual
dreadfully stared at; and young men on horseback

were continually riding by our carriage, obviously
to get a sight at her.

You ask me, by the way, if the stories which
Mrs. W. brought you from Italy in relation to my
young charge are not exaggerated. I know not
what those stories were, but can imagine that they
may have seemed to you very extravagant and yet
have been true. It is now some five years since
Florinda was placed under my protection by
my son-in-law's unfortunate friend, Fleetwood. I
was, at the time, about visiting Europe. Fleetwood
wished to cross the Atlantic in the same
ship; and I cheerfully consented to take his little
protégée under my care. She had recently lost her
only remaining female relative. She seemed about
ten years old. I have understood that she was of
humble parentage—both her father and mother
having been public performers at the theatre. But
there are traces of gentle blood in her, more conclusive
than family pedigrees. Her ancles, feet and
hands are exquisitely symmetrical; her figure is
perfect, and her temper angelic.

Florinda has a handsome annuity secured to her
by the will of Fleetwood's short-lived lady-love,
whose history you know. The bulk of Miss Challoner's
immense property was, you may remember,
left to Fleetwood himself; but, after adding to
some of the legacies, which Miss Challoner had
made, he transferred it to the Gordon family; and,
I am told, it came very opportunely to lift them to
affluence from threatened bankruptcy.

You ask me for some description of Florinda. I
will not attempt it, for I am sure I should fail. I
will only say, she is strangely beautiful. Until her
fourteenth year, she was pretty constantly in the
society of Fleetwood, who guided her in her studies,

and imbued her with many of his own tastes and
views. I have noticed that the pursuits in which
she excels are precisely those to which he was
most attached. She is the most consummate artiste
in all the minor as well as the higher embellishments
of life. She exhibits an original and a truly
admirable taste in dress, which is allowed to be
so superior, that by the tacit consent of the Parisians,
young as she is and unmarried, she now fixes
the standard for the season. She has made the
fortunes of several poor dress-makers, whom she
has chosen to employ; and yet her modes have
this peculiarity, which renders them unpopular
save with the few beautiful women, who here sway
the fashions: they are so severely simple that they
are adapted only to the most elegant persons. But
Florinda pleases herself; and seems indifferent to
the sceptre, which has been confided to her. I
have heard of threats of disembarrassment among
the fashionable modistes, who find themselves all at
once shorn of their importance. Do you know
what the term means? You are said to disembarrass
yourself when you kill off by poison an individual,
who incommodes or displeases you. A dainty
phrase—is it not?

I have said that Florinda was pretty constantly
in the society of Fleetwood, from the time I became
acquainted with her till her fourteenth year. He
then left us for the east, and we have not seen him
since. The settled melancholy, to which he was
a prey after Miss Challoner's death, hardly seemed
to have abated at the period of his departure.
What travel and time may have done for him I
cannot say. His chief solace used to be in superintending
the education of Florinda; and he was
accustomed to take long rides with her on horse-back,

which I think were advantageous to the
health of both. Suddenly he appeared to avoid
the child's society as much as he had coveted it
Whether anything had occurred to prejudice him
against her I cannot say. I have my suspicion,
however. It is this: He saw that Florinda, child
though she was, was becoming altogether too much
interested in him—in short, that she threatened to
be in love. Indeed, from the earliest time that I
saw them together, I was struck by the constant
effort on her part to divert his melancholy, and
engage his attention. She had no eyes for any
one else while he was in the room—no ears for
any one while he was speaking. She would anticipate
his slightest wishes by his looks, and show
an anxiety to please, which he at first placed to
the account of childish affection and gratitude, but
which he afterwards, I suspect, attributed to causes
more calculated to awaken his solicitude.

There are other circumstances, which I can now
call to remembrance, which go to confirm my suspicion.
For a month or two after Fleetwood's
departure, I recollect that Florinda visibly failed
in health and in spirits. She became pale, reserved
and thoughtful, and lost all that vivacity, that earnestness
of disposition, which is perhaps her most
winning charm. At length she roused from this
depression—applied herself with redoubled ardor
to her studies, and acquiesced in all that I proposed
for her amusement or instruction. Two seasons
since I introduced her into society. Her beauty,
her figure, and that enchanting grace which marks
all her movements, caught perhaps from her early
practice as a danseuse, made her at once an object
of extraordinary attraction. Her conquests have
been numerous, and of the most brilliant description.

But she has never stooped to conquer. She
seems to shrink from the admiration which courts
her. She is a perfect enigma both to the women
and the men.

I think I have hit upon the solution. How else
should it be that, at her age, she should pass unscathed,
with such decorum and statue-like propriety,
through the gay and tempting scenes, the
bewildering allurements, to which she is subjected?
How should it be that she should receive unmoved,
save perhaps by an emotion of pity, the passionate
devotion of the most accomplished, elegant and distinguished
young men in Paris? Her heart's palladium,
I am convinced, is a previous attachment—
a strong, enduring and irreversible one. I tremble
for her future when I ask myself—is there any
likelihood that it will ever be returned?

We received a letter from Fleetwood about a
week since, under the date of Constantinople. He
writes that he shall be in Paris before June—and
the roses in our garden are already in bloom! The
color fled from Florinda's cheeks as I announced
the news. Her agitation was so violent that I
feared she would faint. I pretended not to notice
her, and she gradually recovered firmness enough
to remark: “Mr. Fleetwood has been absent a
long, long while!”

Fleetwood cannot but be amazed at the change
in his pupil's appearance. He left her a puny
though lovely girl. He will find her in the full
bloom of womanhood—with a figure developed to
the proportions of the most consummate beauty—
to which all the graces seem to “lend their zone”
by turns—a face that would charm an anchorite,
and give him purer dreams of heaven while it

charmed—a voice, that, in its commonest tones, is
music—and, better than all, a heart
He will find her surrounded by all that can distract
the young and the healthy—courted, flattered and
caressed—receiving the homage of the gifted, the
noble and the proud—and yet, amid all these fascinations,
retaining, as I am persuaded, his image
enshrined in her soul as its dearest and paramount
human object of veneration and love.

I have ordered his old apartment in our hotel to
be made ready. We are hourly expecting his
arrival. He will come; but will he still turn with
dismay from the danger of awakening in this young
girl an attachment to which he cannot respond?
He has suffered much. He is alone in the world,
without a relative. There are circumstances which
should endear Florinda to him forever. Did they
not exist, he might well be proud of her preference.

You will smile, dear Madeline, to see that I, who
have inveighed so often against meddlesome matchmakers,
am in danger of becoming one myself.
But is not this a case wherein I might exert some
influence, and venture upon some management,
with propriety? I am full of anxiety on Florinda's
account; and my concern for Fleetwood is not less
lively. Can it be that he will shun the matrimonial
haven, where he cannot fail to find happiness after
his wanderings and his griefs? I have no facts on
which to base my calculations as to his present intentions
and dispositions. Whether he is still
sorrowing, or whether activity has allured cheerfulness
to join its train, I cannot say. But be assured,
if my influence can avail, it shall not be wanting
to bring about a result which, according to my

notions of the fitness of things, ought to be among
the pre-arranged adjudications of that place where,
I can readily believe, some matches, at least, are
made.