A SCHEME OF VENGEANCE.
The marriage between Norbert and Mademoiselle de Puymandour was entirely
deficient in that brief, ephemeral light that shines over the honeymoon.
The icy wall that stood between them became each day stronger and
taller. There was no one to smooth away inequalities, no one to exercise
a kindly influence over two characters, both haughty and determined.
After his father’s death, when Norbert announced his intention of
residing in Paris, M. de Puymandour highly approved of this resolution,
for he fancied that if he were to remain alone in the country, he could
to a certain extent take the place and position of the late Duke, and,
with the permission of his son-in-law, at once take up his residence at
Champdoce.
Almost as soon as the young Duchess arrived in Paris she realized the
fact that she was the most unfortunate woman in the world. As Champdoce
was almost like her own home, her eyes lighted on familiar scenes;
and if she went out, she was sure of being greeted by kindly words and
friendly features; but in Paris she only found solitude, for everything
there was strange and hostile. The late Duke, pinching and parsimonious
as he had been towards himself and his son, launched out into the
wildest extravagances when he imagined he was working for his coming
race, and the home which he had prepared for his great-grandchildren was
the incarnation of splendor and luxury.
Upon the arrival of Norbert and his wife, they could almost fancy that
they had only quitted their town house a few days before, so perfect
were all the arrangements. Had Norbert been left to act for himself, he
might have felt a little embarrassed, but his trusty servant Jean aided
him with his advice, and the establishment was kept on a footing to do
honor to the traditions of the house of Champdoce. Everything can be
procured in Paris for money, and Jean had filled the ante-rooms with
lackeys, the kitchens and offices with cooks and scullions, and the
stables with grooms, coachmen, and horses, while every description of
carriage stood in the place appointed for their reception.
But all this bustle and excitement did not seem in the eyes of the young
Duchess to impart life to the house. It appeared to her dead and empty
as a sepulchre. It seemed as if she were living beneath the weight of
some vague and indefinable terror, some hideous and hidden spectre which
might at any moment start from its hiding place and drive her mad with
the alarm it excited. She had not a soul in whom she could confide. She
had been forbidden by Norbert to renew her acquaintance with her old
Parisian friends, for Norbert did not consider them of sufficiently good
family, and in addition he had used the pretext of the deep mourning
they were in to put off receiving visitors for a twelvemonth at least.
She felt herself alone and solitary, and, in this frame of mind, how was
it possible for her not to let her thoughts wander once again to George
de Croisenois. Had her father been willing, she might have been his
wife now, and have been wandering hand in hand in some sequestered
spot beneath the clear blue sky of Italy. _He_ had loved her, while
Norbert----.
Norbert was leading one of those mad, headstrong lives which have but
two conclusions--ruin or suicide. His name had been put up for election
at a fashionable club by his uncle, the Chevalier de Septraor, as soon
as he arrived in Paris. He had been elected at once, being looked on as
a decided acquisition to the list of members. He bore one of the oldest
names to be found among the French nobility, while his fortune--gigantic
as it was--had been magnified threefold by the tongue of common report.
He was received with open arms everywhere, and lived in a perfect
atmosphere of flattery. Not being able to shine by means of cultivation
or polish, he sought to gain a position in his club by a certain
roughness of demeanor and a cynical mode of speech. He flung away his
money in every direction, kept racers, and was uniformly fortunate in
his betting transactions. He frequented the world of gallantry, and was
constantly to be seen in the company of women whose reputations were
exceedingly equivocal. His days were spent on horseback, or in the
fencing room, and his nights in drinking, gambling, and all kinds of
debauchery. His wife scarcely ever saw him, for when he returned home
it was usually with the first beams of day, either half intoxicated or
savage from having lost large sums at the gambling table. Jean, the old
and trusty retainer of the house of Champdoce, was deeply grieved, not
so much at seeing his master so rapidly pursuing the path to ruin as
at the fact that he was ever surrounded by dissolute and disreputable
acquaintances.
“Think of your name,” he would urge; “of the honor of your name.”
“And what does that matter,” sneered Norbert, “provided that I live a
jolly life, and shuffle out of the world rapidly?”
There was one fixed star in all the dark clouds that surrounded him,
which now seemed to blaze brightly, and this star was Diana de Mussidan.
Do what he would, it was impossible to efface her image from his memory.
Even amidst the fumes of wine and the debauched revelry of the supper
table he could see the form that he had once so passionately loved
standing out like a pillar of light, clear and distinct against the
darkness. He had led this demoralizing existence for fully six months,
when one day, as he was riding down the Avenue des Champs Elysees, he
saw a lady give him a friendly bow. She was seated in a magnificent open
carriage, wrapped in the richest and most costly furs. Thinking that she
might be one of the many actresses with whom he was acquainted, Norbert
turned his horse’s head towards the carriage; but as he got nearer he
saw, to his extreme amazement and almost terror, that it was Diana de
Mussidan who was seated in it. He did not turn back, however; and as
the carriage had just drawn up, he reined in his horse alongside of it.
Diana was as much agitated as he was, and for a moment neither of them
spoke, but their eyes were firmly fixed upon each other, and they sat
pale and breathless, as if each had some sad presentiment which fate
was preparing for them both. At last Norbert felt that he must break
the silence, for the servants were beginning to gaze upon them with eyes
full of curiosity.
“What, madame, you here, in Paris?” said he with an effort.
She had drawn out a slender hand from the mass of furs in which she was
enveloped, and extended it to him, as she replied in a tone which had a
ring of tenderness beneath its commonplace tone,--
“Yes, we are established here, and I hope that we shall be as good
friends as we were once before. Farewell, until we meet again.”
As if her words had been a signal, the coachman struck his horses
lightly with his whip, and the magnificent equipage rolled swiftly
away. Norbert had not accepted Diana’s proffered hand, but presently he
realized the whole scene, and plunging his spurs into his horse dashed
furiously up the Avenue in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe.
“Ah!” said he, as a bitter pang of despair shot through his heart, “I
still love her, and can never care for any one else; but I will see her
again. She has not forgotten me. I could read it in her eyes, and detect
it all in the tones of her voice.” Here a momentary gleam of reason
crossed his brain. “But will a woman like Diana ever forgive an offence
like mine? and when she seems most friendly the danger is the more
near.”
Unfortunately he thrust aside this idea, and refused to listen to
the voice of reason. That evening he went down to his club with the
intention of asking a few questions regarding the Mussidans. He heard
enough to satisfy himself, and the next day he met Madame de Mussidan
in the Champs Elysees, and for many days afterwards in rapid succession.
Each day they exchanged a few words, and at last Diana, with much
simulated hesitation, promised to alight from her carriage when next
they met in the Bois, and talk to Norbert unhampered by the presence of
the domestics.
Madame de Mussidan had made the appointment for three o’clock, but
before two Norbert was on the spot, in a fever of expectation and doubt.
“Is it I,” asked he of himself, “waiting once more for Diana, as I have
so often waited for her at Bevron?”
Ah, how many changes had taken place since then! He was now no longer
waiting for Diana de Laurebourg, but for the Countess de Mussidan,
another man’s wife, while he also was a married man. It was no longer
the whim of a monomaniac that kept them apart, but the dictates of law,
honor, and the world.
“Why,” said he, in a mad burst of passion, “why should we not set at
defiance all the cold social rules framed by an artificial state of
society; why should not the woman leave her husband and the man his
wife?” Norbert had consulted his watch times without number before the
appointed hour came. “Ah,” sighed he, “suppose that she should not come
after all.”
As he said these words a cab stopped, and the Countess de Mussidan
alighted from it. She came rapidly along towards him, crossing an
open space without heeding the irregularities of the ground, as that
diminished the distance which separated her from Norbert. He advanced
to meet her, and taking his arm, they plunged into the recesses of the
Bois. There had been heavy rain on the day previous, and the pathway was
wet and muddy, but Madame de Mussidan did not seem to notice this.
“Let us go on,” said she, “until we are certain of not being seen from
the road. I have taken every precaution. My carriage and servants are
waiting for me in front of St. Philippe du Roule; but for all that I may
have been watched.”
“You were not so timid in bygone days.”
“Then I was my own mistress; and if I lost my reputation, the loss
affected me only; but on my wedding day I had a sacred trust confided
to me--the honor of the man who has given me his name, and that I must
guard with jealous care.”
“Then you love me no longer.”
She stopped suddenly, and overwhelming Norbert with one of those glacial
glances which she knew so well how to assume, answered in measured
accents,--
“Your memory fails you; all that has remained to me of the past is the
rejection of a proposal conveyed in a certain letter that I wrote.”
Norbert interrupted her by a piteous gesture of entreaty.
“Mercy!” said he. “You would pardon me if you knew all the horrors of
the punishment that I am enduring. I was mad, blind, besotted, nor did I
love you as I do at this moment.”
A smile played round Diana’s beautiful mouth, for Norbert had told her
nothing that she did not know before, but she wished to hear it from his
own lips.
“Alas!” murmured she; “I can only frame my reply with the fatal words,
‘_Too late_!’”
“Diana!”
He endeavored to seize her hand, but she drew it away with a rapid
movement.
“Do not use that name,” said she; “you have no right to do so. Is it not
sufficient to have blighted the young girl’s life? and yet you seek to
compromise the honor of the wife. You must forget me; do you understand?
It is to tell you this that I am here. The other day, when I saw you
again, I lost my self-command. My heart leapt up at the sight of you,
and, fool that I was, I permitted you to see this; but base no hopes
on my weakness. I said to you, Let us be friends. It was a mere act of
madness. We can never be friends, and had better, therefore, treat each
other as strangers. Do you forget that lying tongues at Bevron accused
me of being your mistress? Do you think that this falsehood has not
reached my husband’s ears? One day, when your name was mentioned in
his presence, I saw a gleam of hatred and jealousy in his eye. Great
heavens! should he, on my return, suspect that my hand had rested in
yours, he would expel me from his house like some guilty wretch! The
door of our house must remain for ever closed to you. I am miserable
indeed. Be a man; and if your heart still holds one atom of the love you
once bore for me, prove it by never seeking me again.”
As she concluded she hurried away, leaving in Norbert’s heart a more
deadly poison than the one she had endeavored to persuade the son to
administer to his father, the Duke de Champdoce. She knew each chord
that vibrated in his heart, and could play on it at will. She felt sure
that in a month he would again be her slave, and that she could exercise
over him a sway more despotic than she had yet done, and, in addition to
this, that he would assist her in executing a cruel scheme of revenge,
which she had long been plotting.
After having followed Diana about like her very shadow for several days,
Norbert at last ventured to approach her in the Champs Elysees. She was
angry, but not to such an extent that he feared to repeat his offence.
Then she wept, but her tears could not force him to avoid her. At first
her system of defence was very strong, then it gradually grew weaker.
She granted him another interview, and then two others followed. But
what were these meetings worth to him? They took place in a church or a
public gallery, in places where they could scarcely exchange a grasp of
the hand. At length she told him that she had thought of a place which
would render their interviews less perilous, but that she hardly dared
tell him where it was. He pressed her to tell him, and, by degrees, she
permitted herself to be persuaded. Her idea was to become the friend of
the Duchess of Champdoce.
Norbert now felt that she was more an angel than a woman, and it was
agreed that on the next day he himself would introduce her to his wife.