MASCARIN MOVES.
The Viscountess de Bois Arden had not been wrong when she told Andre
in Van Klopen’s establishment that community of sorrow had brought the
Count and Countess of Mussidan nearer together, and that Sabine had
made up her mind to sacrifice herself for the honor of the family.
Unfortunately, however, this change in the relations of husband and wife
had not taken place immediately; for after her interview with Doctor
Hortebise, Diana’s first impulse had not been to go to her husband, but
to write to Norbert, who was as much compromised by the correspondence
as she herself. Her first letter did not elicit a reply. She wrote a
second, and then a third, in which, though she did not go into details,
she let the Duke know that she was the victim of a dark intrigue, and
that a deadly peril was hanging over her daughter’s head. This last
letter was brought back to her by the messenger, without any envelope,
and across it Norbert had written,--
“The weapon which you have used against me has now been turned against
yourself. Heaven is just.”
These words started up in letters of fire before her eyes as the presage
of coming misfortune, and telling her that the hour of retribution had
now come, and that she must be prepared to suffer, as an atonement for
her crimes. Then it was that she felt all was lost, and she must go
to her husband for aid, unless she desired that copies of the stolen
letters should be sent to him; and in a little boudoir, adjoining
Sabine’s own room, she opened her heart and told her husband all. She
performed it with all the skill of a woman who, without descending to
falsehood, contrives to conceal the truth. But she could not hide
the share that she had taken, both in the death of the late Duke of
Champdoce and the disappearance of George de Croisenois.
The Count’s brain reeled. He called up to his memory what Diana had been
when he first saw and loved her at Laurebourg: how pure and modest she
looked! what virginal candor sat upon her brow! and yet she was even
then doing her best to urge on a son to murder his father.
De Mussidan had had hideous doubts concerning the relations of Norbert
and Diana, both before and after marriage; but his wife firmly denied
this at the moment when she was revealing the other guilty secrets of
her past life. He had believed that Sabine was not his child, and now he
had to reproach himself with the indifference he had displayed towards
her.
He made no answer to the terrible revelation that was poured into his
ears; but when the Countess had concluded, he rose and left the room,
stretching out his hands and grasping the walls for support, like a
drunken man.
The Count and Countess believed that Sabine had slept through this
interview, but they were mistaken, for Sabine had heard all those fatal
words--“ruin, dishonor, and despair!” At first she scarcely understood.
Were not these words merely the offspring of her delirium? She strove
to shake it off, but too soon she knew that the whispered words were
sad realities, and she lay on her bed quivering with terror. Much of the
conversation escaped her, but she heard enough. Her mother’s past sins
were to be exposed if the daughter did not marry a man entirely unknown
to her--the Marquis de Croisenois. She knew that her torments would not
be of very long duration, for to part with her love for Andre would be
to part with life itself. She made up her mind to live until she had
saved her parents’ honor by the sacrifice of herself, and then she would
be free to accept the calm repose of the grave.
But the terrible revelation bore its fruits, for her fever came back,
and a relapse was the result. But youth and a sound constitution gained
the day, and when she was convalescent her will was as strong as ever.
Her first act was to write the letter to her lover which had driven him
to the verge of distraction; and then, fearing lest her father might, in
his agony and remorse, be driven to some rash act, she went to him and
told him that she knew all.
“I never loved M. de Breulh,” said she with a pitiful smile, “and
therefore the sacrifice is not so great after all.”
The Count was not for a moment the dupe of the generous-souled girl,
but he did not dare to brave the scandal of the death of Montlouis,
and still less the exposure of his wife’s conduct. Time was passing,
however, and the miscreants in whose power they were made no signs of
life. Hortebise did not appear any more, and there were moments when
the miserable Diana actually ventured to hope. “Have they forgotten us?”
thought she.
Alas! no; they were people who never forgot.
The Champdoce affair had been satisfactorily arranged, and every
precaution had been taken to prevent the detection of Paul as an
impostor, and engaged as he had been, Mascarin had no time to turn
his attention to the marriage of Sabine and De Croisenois. The famous
Limited Company, with the Marquis as chairman, had, too, to be started,
the shares of which were to be taken up by the unhappy victims of
the blackmailers; but first some decided steps must be taken with the
Mussidans, and Tantaine was dispatched on this errand.
This amiable individual, though he was going into such very excellent
society, did not consider it necessary to make any improvement in his
attire. This was the reason why the footman, upon seeing such a shabby
visitor and hearing him ask for the Count or Countess, did not hesitate
to reply, with a sneer, that his master and mistress had been out for
some months, and were not likely to return for a week or two. This fact
did not disconcert the wily man, for drawing one of Mascarin’s cards
from his pocket, he begged the kind gentleman to take it upstairs, when
he was sure that he would at once be sent for.
De Mussidan, when he read the name on the card, turned ghastly pale.
“Show him into the library,” said he curtly.
Florestan left the room, and the Count mutely handed the card to his
wife, but she had no need to read it.
“I can tell what it is,” gasped she.
“The day for settling accounts has come,” said the Count, “and this name
is the fatal sign.”
The Countess flung herself upon her knees, and taking the hand that hung
placidly by his side, pressed her lips tenderly to it.
“Forgive me, Octave!” she muttered. “Will you not forgive me? I am a
miserable wretch, and why did not Heaven punish me for the sins that I
have committed, and not make others expiate my offences?”
The Count put her gently aside. He suffered intensely, and yet no word
of reproach escaped his lips against the woman who had ruined his whole
life.
“And Sabine,” she went on, “must she, a De Mussidan, marry one of these
wretched scoundrels?”
Sabine was the only one in the room who preserved her calmness; she had
so schooled herself that her distress of mind was not apparent to the
outward eye.
“Do not make yourselves miserable,” said she, with a faint smile; “how
do we know that M. de Croisenois may not make me an excellent husband
after all?”
The Count gazed upon his daughter with a look of the fondest affection
and gratitude.
“Dearest Sabine!” murmured he. Her fortitude had restored his
self-command. “Let us be outwardly resigned,” said he, “whatever our
feelings may be. Time may do much for us, and at the very church door we
may find means of escape.”