It has now become due to Graham Vane, and to his place in the estimation
of my readers, to explain somewhat more distinctly the nature of the
quest in prosecution of which he had sought the aid of the Parisian
police, and under an assumed name made the acquaintance of M. Lebeau.
The best way of discharging this duty will perhaps be to place before the
reader the contents of the letter which passed under Graham's eyes on the
day in which the heart of the writer ceased to beat.
(Confidential. To be opened immediately after my death, and before the
perusal of my will.--Richard King.)
TO GRAHAM VANE, Esq.
My DEAR GRAHAM,--By the direction on the envelope of this letter,
"Before the perusal of my will," I have wished to save you from the
disappointment you would naturally experience if you learned my bequest
without being prevised of the conditions which I am about to impose upon
your honour. You will see ere you conclude this letter that you are the
only man living to whom I could intrust the secret it contains and the
task it enjoins.
You are aware that I was not born to the fortune that passed to me by the
death of a distant relation, who had, in my earlier youth, children of
his own. I was an only son, left an orphan at the age of sixteen with
a very slender pittance. My guardians designed me for the medical
profession. I began my studies at Edinburgh, and was sent to Paris to
complete them, It so chanced that there I lodged in the same house with
an artist named Auguste Duval, who, failing to gain his livelihood as a
painter, in what--for his style was ambitious--is termed the Historical
School, had accepted the humbler calling of a drawing-master. He had
practised in that branch of the profession for several years at Tours,
having a good clientele among English families settled there. This
clientele, as he frankly confessed, he had lost from some irregularities
of conduct. He was not a bad man, but of convivial temper, and easily
led into temptation. He had removed to Paris a few months before I made
his acquaintance. He obtained a few pupils, and often lost them as soon
as gained. He was unpunctual and addicted to drink. But he had a small
pension, accorded to him, he was wont to say mysteriously, by some high-
born kinsfolk, too proud to own connection with a drawing-master, and on
the condition that he should never name them. He never did name them to
me, and I do not know to this day whether the story of this noble
relationship was true or false. A pension, however, he did receive
quarterly from some person or other, and it was an unhappy provision for
him. It tended to make him an idler in his proper calling; and whenever
he received the payment he spent it in debauch, to the neglect, while it
lasted, of his pupils. This man had residing with him a young daughter,
singularly beautiful. You may divine the rest. I fell in love with
her,--a love deepened by the compassion with which she inspired me. Her
father left her so frequently that, living on the same floor, we saw much
of each other. Parent and child were often in great need,--lacking even
fuel or food. Of course I assisted them to the utmost of my scanty means
Much as I was fascinated by Louise Duval, I was not blind to great
defects in her character. She was capricious, vain, aware of her beauty,
and sighing for the pleasures or the gauds beyond her reach. I knew that
she did not love me,--there was little, indeed, to captivate her fancy
in a poor, thread-bare medical student,--and yet I fondly imagined that
my own persevering devotion would at length win her affections, I spoke
to her father more than once of my hope some day to make Louise my wife.
This hope, I must frankly acknowledge, he never encouraged. On the
contrary, he treated it with scorn,--"His child with her beauty would
look much higher;" but be continued all the same to accept my assistance,
and to sanction my visits. At length my slender purse was pretty well
exhausted, and the luckless drawing-master was so harassed with petty
debts that further credit became impossible. At this time I happened to
hear from a fellow-student that his sister, who was the principal of a
lady's school in Cheltenham, bad commissioned him to look out for a
first-rate teacher of drawing with whom her elder pupils could converse
in French, but who should be sufficiently acquainted with English to make
his instructions intelligible to the young. The salary was liberal, the
school large and of high repute, and his appointment to it would open to
an able teacher no inconsiderable connection among private families. I
communicated this intelligence to Duval. He caught at it eagerly. He
had learned at Tours to speak English fluently; and as his professional
skill was of high order, and he was popular with several eminent artists,
he obtained certificates as to his talents, which my fellow-student
forwarded to England with specimens of Duval's drawings. In a few days
the offer of an engagement arrived, was accepted, and Duval and his
daughter set out for Cheltenham. At the eve of their departure, Louise,
profoundly dejected at the prospect of banishment to a foreign country,
and placing no trust in her father's reform to steady habits, evinced a
tenderness for me hitherto new; she wept bitterly; she allowed me to
believe that her tears flowed at the thought of parting with me, and even
besought me to accompany them to Cheltenham, if only for a few days. You
may suppose how delightedly I complied with the request. Duval had been
about a week at the watering place, and was discharging the duties he had
undertaken with such unwonted steadiness and regularity that I began
sorrowfully to feel I had no longer an excuse for not returning to my
studies at Paris, when the poor teacher was seized with a fit of
paralysis. He lost the power of movement, and his mind was affected.
The medical attendant called in said that he might linger thus for some
time, but that, even if he recovered his intellect, which was more than
doubtful, he would never be able to resume his profession. I could not
leave Louise in circumstances so distressing,--I remained. The little
money Duval had brought from Paris was now exhausted; and when the day on
which he had been in the habit of receiving his quarter's pension came
round, Louise was unable even to conjecture how it was to be applied for.
It seems he had always gone for it in perscn; but to whom he went was a
secret which he bad never divulged, and at this critical juncture his
mind was too enfeebled even to comprehend us when we inquired. I had
already drawn from the small capital on the interest of which I had
maintained myself; I now drew out most of the remainder. But this was a
resource that could not last long. Nor could I, without seriously
compromising Louise's character, be constantly in the house with a girl
so young, and whose sole legitimate protector was thus afflicted. There
seemed but one alternative to that of abandoning her altogether,--namely,
to make her my wife, to conclude the studies necessary to obtain my
diploma, and purchase some partnership in a small country practice with
the scanty surplus that might be left of my capital. I placed this
option before Louise timidly, for I could not bear the thought of forcing
her inclinations. She seemed much moved by what she called my
generosity: she consented; we were married. I was, as you may conceive,
wholly ignorant of French law. We were married according to the English
ceremony and the Protestant ritual. Shortly after our marriage we all
three returned to Paris, taking an apartment in a quarter remote from
that in which we had before lodged, in order to avoid any, harassment to
which such small creditors as Duval had left behind him might subject us.
I resumed my studies with redoubled energy, and Louise was necessarily
left much alone with her poor father in the daytime. The defects in her
character became more and more visible. She reproached me for the
solitude to which I condemned her; our poverty galled her; she had no
kind greeting for me when I returned at evening, wearied out. Before
marriage she had not loved me; after marriage, alas! I fear she hated.
We had been returned to Paris some months when poor Duval died; he had
never recovered his faculties, nor had we ever learned from whom his
pension had been received. Very soon after her father's death I observed
a singular change in the humour and manner of Louise. She was no longer
peevish, irascible, reproachful; but taciturn and thoughtful. She seemed
to me under the influence of some suppressed excitement, her cheeks
flushed and her eye abstracted. At length, one evening when I returned
I found her gone. She did not come back that night nor the next day.
It was impossible for me to conjecture what had become of her. She had
no friends, so far as I knew; no one had visited at our squalid
apartment. The poor house in which we lodged had no concierge whom I
could question; but the ground-floor was occupied by a small
tobacconist's shop, and the woman at the counter told me that for some
days before my wife's disappearance, she had observed her pass the shop-
window in going out in the afternoon and returning towards the evening.
Two terrible conjectures beset me either in her walk she had met some
admirer, with whom she had fled; or, unable to bear the companionship and
poverty of a union which she had begun to loathe, she had gone forth to
drown herself in the Seine. On the third day from her flight I received
the letter I enclose. Possibly the handwriting may serve you as a guide
in the mission I intrust to you.
MONSIEUR,--You have deceived me vilely,--taken advantage of my
inexperienced youth and friendless position to decoy me into an
illegal marriage. My only consolation under my calamity and
disgrace is, that I am at least free from a detested bond. You will
not see me again,--it is idle to attempt to do so. I have obtained
refuge with relations whom I have been fortunate enough to discover,
and to whom I intrust my fate; and even if you could learn the
shelter I have sought, and have the audacity to molest me, you would
but subject yourself to the chastisement you so richly deserve.
Louise DUVAL.
At the perusal of this cold-hearted, ungrateful letter, the love I had
felt for this woman--already much shaken by her wayward and perverse
temper--vanished from my heart, never to return. But as an honest man,
my conscience was terribly stung. Could it be possible that I had
unknowingly deceived her,--that our marriage was not legal? When I
recovered from the stun which was the first effect of her letter, I
sought the opinion of an _avoue_ in the neighbourbood, named Sartiges,
and to my dismay, I learned that while I, marrying according to the
customs of my own country, was legally bound to Louise in England, and
could not marry another, the marriage was in all ways illegal for her,--
being without the consent of her relations while she was under age;
without the ceremonials of the Roman Catholic Church,--to which, though I
never heard any profession of religious belief from her or her father, it
might fairly be presumed that she belonged; and, above all, without the
form of civil contract which is indispensable to the legal marriage of a
French subject.
The _avoue_ said that the marriage, therefore, in itself was null, and
that Louise could, without incurring legal penalties for bigamy, marry
again in France according to the French laws; but that under the
circumstances it was probable that her next of kin would apply on her
behalf to the proper court for the formal annulment of the marriage,
which would be the most effectual mode of saving her from any molestation
on my part, and remove all possible questions hereafter as to her single
state and absolute right to remarry. I had better remain quiet, and wait
for intimation of further proceedings. I knew not what else to do, and
necessarily submitted.
From this wretched listlessness of mind, alternated now by vehement
resentment against Louise, now by the reproach of my own sense of honour
in leaving that honour in so questionable a point of view, I was aroused
by a letter from the distant kinsman by whom hitherto I had been so
neglected. In the previous year he had lost one of his two children; the
other was just dead. No nearer relation now surviving stood between me
and my chance of inheritance from him. He wrote word of his domestic
affliction with a manly sorrow which touched me, said that his health was
failing, and begged me, as soon as possible, to come and visit him in
Scotland. I went, and continued to reside with him till his death, some
months afterwards. By his will I succeeded to his ample fortune on
condition of taking his name.
As soon as the affairs connected with this inheritance permitted, I
returned to Paris, and again saw M. Sartiges. I had never heard from
Louise, nor from any one connected with her since the letter you have
read. No steps had been taken to annul the marriage, and sufficient time
had elapsed to render it improbable that such steps would be taken now;
but if no such steps were taken, however free from the marriage-bond
Louise might be, it clearly remained binding on myself.
At my request, M. Sartiges took the most vigorous measures that occurred
to him to ascertain where Louise was, and what and who was the relation
with whom she asserted she had found refuge. The police were employed;
advertisements were issued, concealing names, but sufficiently clear to
be intelligible to Louise if they came under her eye, and to the effect
that if any informality in our marriage existed, she was implored for her
own sake to remove it by a second ceremonial--answer to be addressed to
the _avoue_. No answer came; the police had hitherto failed of
discovering her, but were sanguine of success, when a few weeks after
these advertisements a packet reached M. Sartiges, enclosing the
certificates annexed to this letter, of the death of Louise Duval at
Munich. The certificates, as you will see, are to appearance.
officially attested and unquestionably genuine. So they were considered
by M. Sartiges as well as by myself. Here, then, all inquiry ceased; the
police were dismissed. I was free. By little and little I overcame the
painful impressions which my ill-starred union and the announcement of
Louise's early death bequeathed. Rich, and of active mind, I learned to
dismiss the trials of my youth as a gloomy dream. I entered into public
life; I made myself a creditable position; became acquainted with your
aunt; we were wedded, and the beauty of her nature embellished mine.
Alas, alas! two years after our marriage--nearly five years after I had
received the certificates of Louise's death--I and your aunt made a
summer excursion into the country of the Rhine; on our return we rested
at Aix-la-Chapelle. One day while there I was walking alone in the
environs of the town, when, on the road, a little girl, seemingly about
five years old, in chase of a butterfly, stumbled and fell just before my
feet; I took her up, and as she was crying more from the shock of the
fall than any actual hurt, I was still trying my best to comfort her,
when a lady some paces behind her came up, and in taking the child from
my arms as I was bending over her, thanked me in a voice that made my
heart stand still. I looked up, and beheld Louise.
It was not till I had convulsively clasped her hand and uttered her name
that she recognized me. I was, no doubt, the more altered of the two,--
prosperity and happiness had left little trace of the needy, care worn,
threadbare student. But if she were the last to recognize, she was the
first to recover self-possession. The expression of her face became hard
and set. I cannot pretend to repeat with any verbal accuracy the brief
converse that took place between us, as she placed the child on the grass
bank beside the path, bade her stay there quietly, and walked on with me
some paces as if she did not wish the child to hear what was said.
The purport of what passed was to this effect: She refused to explain the
certificates of her death further than that, becoming aware of what she
called the "persecution" of the advertisements issued and inquiries
instituted, she had caused those documents to be sent to the address
given in the advertisement, in order to terminate all further
molestation. But how they could have been obtained, or by what art
so ingeniously forged as to deceive the acuteness of a practised lawyer,
I know not to this day. She declared, indeed, that she was now happy, in
easy circumstances, and that if I wished to make some reparation for the
wrong I had done her, it would be to leave her in peace; and in case--
which was not likely--we ever met again, to regard and treat her as a
stranger; that she, on her part, never would molest me, and that the
certified death of Louise Duval left me as free to marry again as she
considered herself to be.
My mind was so confused, so bewildered, while she thus talked, that I did
not attempt to interrupt her. The blow had so crushed me that I scarcely
struggled under it; only, as she turned to leave me, I suddenly
recollected that the child, when taken from my arms, had called her
"Maman," and, judging by the apparent age of the child, it must have been
born but a few months after Louise had left me,--that it must be mine.
And so, in my dreary woe, I faltered out, "But what of your infant?
Surely that has on me a claim that you relinquish for yourself. You were
not unfaithful to me while you deemed you were my wife?"
"Heavens! can you insult me by such a doubt? No!" she cried out,
impulsively and haughtily. "But as I was not legally your wife, the
child is not legally yours; it is mine, and only mine. Nevertheless,
if you wish to claim it"--here she paused as in doubt. I saw at once
that she was prepared to resign to me the child if I had urged her to do
so. I must own, with a pang of remorse, that I recoiled from such a
proposal. What could I do with the child? How explain to my wife
the cause of my interest in it? If only a natural child of mine, I
should have shrunk from owning to Janet a youthful error. But as it
was,--the child by a former marriage, the former wife still living!--
my blood ran cold with dread. And if I did take the child, invent what
story I might as to its parentage, should I not expose myself, expose
Janet, to terrible constant danger? The mother's natural affection might
urge her at any time to seek tidings of the child, and in so doing she
might easily discover my new name, and, perhaps years hence, establish on
me her own claim.
No, I could not risk such perils. I replied sullenly, "You say rightly;
the child is yours,--only yours." I was about to add an offer of
pecuniary provision for it, but Louise had already turned scornfully
towards the bank on which she bad left the infant. I saw her snatch from
the child's hand some wild flowers the poor thing had been gathering; and
how often have I thought of the rude way in which she did it,--not as a
mother who loves her child. Just then other passengers appeared on the
road; two of them I knew,--an English couple very intimate with Lady
Janet and myself. They stopped to accost me, while Louise passed by with
the infant towards the town. I turned in the opposite direction, and
strove to collect my thoughts. Terrible as was the discovery thus
suddenly made, it was evident that Louise had as strong an interest as
myself to conceal it. There was little chance that it would ever be
divulged. Her dress and that of the child were those of persons in the
richer classes of life. After all, doubtless, the child needed not
pecuniary assistance from me, and was surely best off under the mother's
care. Thus I sought to comfort and to delude myself.
The next day Janet and I left Aix-la-Chapelle and returned to England.
But it was impossible for me to banish the dreadful thought that Janet
was not legally my wife; that could she even guess the secret lodged in
my breast she would be lost to me forever, even though she died of the
separation (you know well how tenderly she loved me). My nature
underwent a silent revolution. I had previously cherished the ambition
common to most men in public life,--the ambition for fame, for place, for
power. That ambition left me; I shrank from the thought of becoming too
well known, lest Louise or her connections, as yet ignorant of my new
name, might more easily learn what the world knew; namely that I had
previously borne another name,--the name of her husband,--and finding me
wealthy and honoured, might hereafter be tempted to claim for herself or
her daughter the ties she adjured for both while she deemed me poor and
despised. But partly my conscience, partly the influence of the angel by
my side, compelled me to seek whatever means of doing good to others
position and circumstances placed at my disposal. I was alarmed when
even such quiet exercise of mind and fortune acquired a sort of
celebrity. How pain fully I shrank from it! The world attributed my
dread of publicity to unaffected modesty. The world praised me, and I
knew myself an impostor. But the years stole on. I heard no more of
Louise or her child, and my fears gradually subsided. Yet I was consoled
when the two children born to me by Janet died in their infancy. Had
they lived, who can tell whether something might not have transpired to
prove them illegitimate.
I must hasten on. At last came the great and crushing calamity of my
life,--I lost the woman who was my all in all. At least she was spared
the discovery that would have deprived me of the right of tending her
deathbed, and leaving within her tomb a place vacant for myself.
But after the first agonies that followed her loss, the conscience I had
so long sought to tranquillize became terribly reproachful. Louise had
forfeited all right to my consideration, but my guiltless child had not
done so. Did it live still? If so, was it not the heir to my fortunes,
--the only child left to me? True, I have the absolute right to dispose
of my wealth: it is not in land; it is not entailed: but was not the
daughter I had forsaken morally the first claimant; was no reparation due
to her? You remember that my physician ordered me, some little time
after your aunt's death, to seek a temporary change of scene. I obeyed,
and went away no one knew whither. Well, I repaired to Paris; there
I sought M. Sartiges, the _avoue_. I found he had been long dead. I
discovered his executors, and inquired if any papers or correspondence
between Richard Macdonald and himself many years ago were in existence.
All such documents, with others not returned to correspondents at his
decease, had been burned by his desire. No possible clew to the
whereabouts of Louise, should any have been gained since I last saw her,
was left. What then to do I knew not. I did not dare to make inquiries
through strangers, which, if discovering my child, might also bring to
light a marriage that would have dishonoured the memory of my lost saint.
I returned to England, feeling that my days were numbered. It is to you
that I transmit the task of those researches which I could not institute.
I bequeath to you, with the exception of trifling legacies and donations
to public charities, the whole of my fortune; but you will understand by
this letter that it is to be held on a trust which I cannot specify in my
will. I could not, without dishonouring the venerated name of your aunt,
indicate as the heiress of my wealth a child by a wife living at the time
I married Janet. I cannot form any words for such a devise which would
not arouse gossip and suspicion, and furnish ultimately a clew to the
discovery I would shun. I calculate that, after all deductions, the sum
that will devolve to you will be about L220,000. That which I mean to be
absolutely and at once yours is the comparatively trifling legacy of
L20,000. If Louise's child be not living, or if you find full reason to
suppose that despite appearances the child is not mine, the whole of my
fortune lapses to you; but should Louise be surviving and need pecuniary
aid, you will contrive that she may have such an annuity as you may deem
fitting, without learning whence it come. You perceive that it is your
object, if possible, even more than mine, to preserve free from slur the
name and memory of her who was to you a second mother. All ends we
desire would be accomplished could you, on discovering my lost child,
feel that, without constraining your inclinations, you could make her
your wife. She would then naturally share with you my fortune, and all
claims of justice and duty would be quietly appeased. She would now be
of age suitable to yours. When I saw her at Aix she gave promise of
inheriting no small share of her mother's beauty. If Louise's assurance
of her easy circumstances were true, her daughter has possibly been
educated and reared with tenderness and care. You have already assured
me that you have no prior attachment. But if, on discovering this child,
you find her already married, or one whom you could not love nor esteem,
I leave it implicitly to your honour and judgment to determine what share
of the L200,000 left in your hands should be consigned to her. She may
have been corrupted by her mother's principles. She may--Heaven forbid!
--have fallen into evil courses, and wealth would be misspent in her
hands. In that case a competence sufficing to save her from further
degradation, from the temptations of poverty, would be all that I desire
you to devote from my wealth. On the contrary, you may find in her one
who, in all respects, ought to be my chief inheritor. All this I leave
in full confidence to you, as being, of all the men I know, the one who
unites the highest sense of honour with the largest share of practical
sense and knowledge of life. The main difficulty, whatever this lost
girl may derive from my substance, will be in devising some means to
convey it to her so that neither she nor those around her may trace the
bequest to me. She can never be acknowledged as my child,--never! Your
reverence for the beloved dead forbids that. This difficulty your clear
strong sense must overcome; mine is blinded by the shades of death. You
too will deliberately consider how to institute the inquiries after
mother and child so as not to betray our secret. This will require great
caution. You will probably commence at Paris, through the agency of the
police, to whom you will be very guarded in your communications. It is
most unfortunate that I have no miniature of Louise, and that any
description of her must be so vague that it may not serve to discover
her; but such as it is, it may prevent your mistaking for her some other
of her name. Louise was above the common height, and looked taller than
she was, with the peculiar combination of very dark hair, very fair
complexion, and light-gray eyes. She would now be somewhat under the age
of forty. She was not without accomplishments, derived from the
companionship with her father. She spoke English fluently; she drew with
taste, and even with talent. You will see the prudence of confining
research at first to Louise, rather than to the child who is the
principal object of it; for it is not till you can ascertain what has
become of her that you can trust the accuracy of any information
respecting the daughter, whom I assume, perhaps after all erroneously, to
be mine. Though Louise talked with such levity of holding herself free
to marry, the birth of her child might be sufficient injury to her
reputation to become a serious obstacle to such second nuptials, not
having taken formal steps to annul her marriage with myself. If not thus
remarried, there would be no reason why she should not resume her maiden
name of Duval, as she did in the signature of her letter to me: finding
that I had ceased to molest her by the inquiries, to elude which she had
invented the false statement of her death. It seems probable, therefore,
that she is residing somewhere in Paris, and in the name of Duval. Of
course the burden of uncertainty as to your future cannot be left to
oppress you for an indefinite length of time. If at the end, say, of two
years, your researches have wholly failed, consider three-fourths of my
whole fortune to have passed to you, and put by the fourth to accumulate,
should the child afterwards be discovered, and satisfy your judgment as
to her claims on me as her father. Should she not, it will be a reserve
fund for your own children. But oh, if my child could be found in time!
and oh, if she be all that could win your heart, and be the wife you
would select from free choice! I can say no more. Pity me, and judge
leniently of Janet's husband.
R. K.
The key to Graham's conduct is now given,--the deep sorrow that took him
to the tomb of the aunt he so revered, and whose honoured memory was
subjected to so great a risk; the slightness of change in his expenditure
and mode of life, after an inheritance supposed to be so ample; the
abnegation of his political ambition; the subject of his inquiries, and
the cautious reserve imposed upon them; above all, the position towards
Isaura in which he was so cruelly placed.
Certainly, his first thought in revolving the conditions of his trust had
been that of marriage with this lost child of Richard King's, should she
be discovered single, disengaged, and not repulsive to his inclinations.
Tacitly he subscribed to the reasons for this course alleged by the
deceased. It was the simplest and readiest plan of uniting justice to
the rightful inheritor with care for a secret so important to the honour
of his aunt, of Richard King himself,--his benefactor,--of the
illustrious house from which Lady Janet had sprung. Perhaps, too, the
consideration that by this course a fortune so useful to his career was
secured was not without influence on the mind of a man naturally
ambitious. But on that consideration he forbade himself to dwell. He
put it away from him as a sin. Yet, to marriage with any one else, until
his mission was fulfilled, and the uncertainty as to the extent of his
fortune was dispelled, there interposed grave practical obstacles. How
could he honestly present himself to a girl and to her parents in the
light of a rich man, when in reality he might be but a poor man? How
could he refer to any lawyer the conditions which rendered impossible any
settlement that touched a shilling of the large sum which at any day he
might have to transfer to another? Still, when once fully conspicuous
how deep was the love with which Isaura had inspired him, the idea of
wedlock with the daughter of Richard King, if she yet lived and was
single, became inadmissible. The orphan condition of the young Italian
smoothed away the obstacles to proposals of marriage which would have
embarrassed his addresses to girls of his own rank, and with parents who
would have demanded settlements. And if he had found Isaura alone on
that day on which he had seen her last, he would doubtless have yielded
to the voice of his heart, avowed his love, wooed her own, and committed
both to the tie of betrothal. We have seen how rudely such yearnings of
his heart were repelled on that last interview. His English prejudices
were so deeply rooted, that, even if he had been wholly free from the
trust bequeathed to him, he would have recoiled from marriage with a girl
who, in the ardour for notoriety, could link herself with such associates
as Gustave Rameau, by habits a Bohemian, and by principles a Socialist.
In flying from Paris, he embraced the resolve to banish all thought of
wedding Isaura, and to devote himself sternly to the task which had so
sacred a claim upon him. Not that he could endure the idea of marrying
another, even if the lost heiress should be all that his heart could have
worshipped, had that heart been his own to give; but he was impatient of
the burden heaped on him,--of the fortune which might not be his, of the
uncertainty which paralyzed all his ambitious schemes for the future.
Yet, strive as he would--and no man could strive more resolutely--he
could not succeed in banishing the image of Isaura. It was with him
always; and with it a sense of irreparable loss, of a terrible void,
of a pining anguish.
And the success of his inquiries at Aix-la-Chapelle, while sufficient to
detain him in the place, was so slight, and advanced by such slow
degrees, that it furnished no continued occupation to his restless mind.
M. Renard was acute and painstaking. But it was no easy matter to obtain
any trace of a Parisian visitor to so popular a Spa so many years ago.
The name Duval, too, was so common, that at Aix, as we have seen at
Paris, time was wasted in the chase of a Duval who proved not to be the
lost Louise. At last M. Renard chanced on a house in which, in the year
1849, two ladies from Paris had lodged for three weeks. One was named
Madame Duval, the other Madame Marigny. They were both young, both very
handsome, and much of the same height and colouring. But Madame Marigny
was the handsomer of the two. Madame Duval frequented the gaming-tables
and was apparently of very lively temper. Madame Marigny lived very
quietly, rarely or never stirred out, and seemed in delicate health.
She, however, quitted the apartment somewhat abruptly, and, to the best
of the lodging-house-keeper's recollection, took rooms in the country
near Aix--she could not remember where. About two months after the
departure of Madame Marigny, Madame Duval also left Aix, and in company
with a French gentleman who had visited her much of late,--a handsome man
of striking appearance. The lodging house-keeper did not know what or
who he was. She remembered that he used to be announced to Madame Duval
by the name of M. Achille. Madame Duval had never been seen again by the
lodging-house-keeper after she had left. But Madame Marigny she had once
seen, nearly five years after she had quitted the lodgings,--seen her by
chance at the railway station, recognized her at once, and accosted her,
offering her the old apartment. Madame Marigny had, however, briefly
replied that she was only at Aix for a few hours, and should quit it the
same day.
The inquiry now turned towards Madame Marigny. The date on which the
lodging-house-keeper had last seen her coincided with the year in which
Richard King had met Louise. Possibly, therefore, she might have
accompanied the latter to Aix at that time, and could, if found, give
information as to her subsequent history and present whereabouts.
After a tedious search throughout all the environs of Aix, Graham himself
came, by the merest accident, upon the vestiges of Louise's friend. He
had been wandering alone in the country round Aix, when a violent
thunderstorm drove him to ask shelter in the house of a small farmer,
situated in a field, a little off the byway which he had taken. While
waiting for the cessation of the storm, and drying his clothes by the
fire in a room that adjoined the kitchen, he entered into conversation
with the farmer's wife, a pleasant, well-mannered person, and made some
complimentary observation on a small sketch of the house in water-colours
that hung upon the wall. "Ah," said the farmer's wife, "that was done by
a French lady who lodged here many years ago. She drew very prettily,
poor thing."
"A lady who lodged here many years ago,--how many?"
"Well, I guess somewhere about twenty."
"Ah, indeed! Was it a Madame Marigny?"
"Bon Dieu! That was indeed her name. Did you know her? I should be so
glad to hear she is well and--I hope--happy."
"I do not know where she is now, and am making inquiries to ascertain.
Pray help me. How long did Madame Marigny lodge with you?"
"I think pretty well two months; yes, two months. She left a month after
her confinement."
"She was confined here?"
"Yes. When she first came, I had no idea that she was _enceinte_. She
had a pretty figure, and no one would have guessed it, in the way she
wore her shawl. Indeed I only began to suspect it a few days before it
happened; and that was so suddenly, that all was happily over before we
could send for the _accoucheur_."
"And the child lived?--a girl or a boy?"
"A girl,--the prettiest baby."
"Did she take the child with her when she went?"
"No; it was put out to nurse with a niece of my husband who was confined
about the same time. Madame paid liberally in advance, and continued to
send money half-yearly, till she came herself and took away the little
girl."
"When was that,--a little less than five years after she had left it?"
"Why, you know all about it, Monsieur; yes, not quite five years after.
She did not come to see me, which I thought unkind, but she sent me,
through my niece-in-law, a real gold watch and a shawl. Poor dear lady--
for lady she was all over,--with proud ways, and would not bear to be
questioned. But I am sure she was none of your French light ones, but an
honest wife like myself, though she never said so."
"And have you no idea where she was all the five years she was away, or
where she went after reclaiming her child?"
"No, indeed, Monsieur."
"But her remittances for the infant must have been made by letters, and
the letters would have had post-marks?"
"Well, I dare say; I am no scholar myself. But suppose you see Marie
Hubert, that is my niece-in-law, perhaps she has kept the envelopes."
"''Where does Madame Hubert live?"
"It is just a league off by the short path; you can't miss the way. Her
husband has a bit of land of his own, but he is also a carrier--'Max
Hubert, carrier,'--written over the door, just opposite the first church
you get to. The rain has ceased, but it may be too far for you to-day."
"Not a bit of it. Many thanks."
"But if you find out the dear lady and see her, do tell her how pleased I
should be to hear good news of her and the little one."
Graham strode on under the clearing skies to the house indicated. He
found Madame Hubert at home, and ready to answer all questions; but,
alas! she had not the envelopes. Madame Marigny, on removing the child,
had asked for all the envelopes or letters, and carried them away with
her. Madame Hubert, who was as little of a scholar as her aunt-in-law
was, had never paid much attention to the post-marks on the envelopes;
and the only one that she did remember was the first, that contained a
bank-note, and that post-mark was "Vienna."
"But did not Madame Marigny's letters ever give you an address to which
to write with news of her child?"
"I don't think she cared much for her child, Monsieur. She kissed it
very coldly when she came to take it away. I told the poor infant that
that was her own mamma; and Madame said, 'Yes, you may call me maman,' in
a tone of voice--well, not at all like that of a mother. She brought
with her a little bag which contained some fine clothes for the child,
and was very impatient till the child had got them on."
"Are you quite sure it was the same lady who left the child?"
"Oh, there is no doubt of that. She was certainly _tres belle_, but
I did not fancy her as aunt did. She carried her head very high, and
looked rather scornful. However, I must say she behaved very
generously."
"Still you have not answered my question whether her letters contained no
address."
She never wrote more than two letters. One enclosing the first
remittance was but a few lines, saying that if the child was well and
thriving, I need not write; but if it died or became dangerously ill, I
might at any time write a line to Madame -----, Poste Restante, Vienna.
She was travelling about, but the letter would be sure to reach her
sooner or later. The only other letter I had was to apprise me that she
was coming to remove the child, and might be expected in three days after
the receipt of her letter."
"And all the other communications from her were merely remittances in
blank envelopes?"
"Exactly so."
Graham, finding he could learn no more, took his departure. On his way
home, meditating the new idea that his adventure that day suggested, he
resolved to proceed at once, accompanied by M. Renard, to Munich, and
there learn what particulars could be yet ascertained respecting those
certificates of the death of Louise Duval, to which (sharing Richard
King's very natural belief that they had been skilfully forged) he had
hitherto attached no importance.