It was the chamber of
Gabrielle de Latour, who had died of joy. Here certainly she had
watched, at these windows, during ten whole years, for the return of
her beloved husband from a disastrous battle in the East, till
against all expectation she beheld him crossing the court at last.
Immense privilege! Immense distinction! Again and again Gaston
tried to master the paradox, at times, in deep concentration of mind,
seemed [21] almost to touch the point of that wonderful moment.
Hither, as to an oratory, a religious place, the finer spirits of her
kin had always found their way, to leave behind them there the more
intimate relics of themselves. To Gaston its influence imparted
early a taste for delicate things as being indispensable in all his
pleasures to come; and, from the very first, with the appetite for
some great distinguishing passion, the peculiar genius of his age
seeming already awake spontaneously within him. Here, at least, had
been one of those grand passions, such as were needed to give life
its true meaning and effect. Conscious of that rudeness in his home,
and feeding a strong natural instinct for outward beauty hitherto on
what was barely sufficient, he found for himself in this perfumed
place the centre of a fanciful world, reaching out to who could tell
what refined passages of existence in that great world beyond, of
which the echoes seemed to light here amid the stillness.
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