THE RECONCILIATION.
It was a sad day for Jacob, for many reasons. His friend had left him
for almost certain death. A rude person had come to weary him with
reproaches and complaints, and then followed a message from Saint
George's street to hasten, as the invalid was in the last extremity.
When he arrived, she was no longer of this world. Lia had breathed her
last.
There remained the orphan: what should he do with him? To whom confide
him? Jacob thought of his mother at first; the good woman blushed; she
attributed the parentage to Jacob, and in order to satisfy her
scruples, he was obliged to relate to her the whole sad history.
"I believe you," said she; "but will others believe it? Seeing the
child under your protection, what calumnies, think you, will be
circulated?"
"Is it necessary, then, that I leave this poor innocent to hirelings?
And ought I to refuse to do my duty for fear of unjust criticism?"
"The child will never again find a mother, but I will place him in good
hands. I will not hinder you from doing a good action, but I will save
you from the blame which might attach to your good name. You may leave
it to me," said his mother.
In his present mood, Jacob felt instinctively drawn toward Mathilde,
and late in the evening he directed his steps to her house. The
servants, accustomed to see him enter unannounced, opened the doors of
the _salon_. He waited there for some time, looking at the closed
piano, the stiffly-arranged furniture, and the withered flowers in the
vases. Everything bore that air of desolation found in houses that have
been closed for some time.
Clad in a long, trained peignoir, Mathilde appeared, gliding like a
shadow, with slow and measured steps. She was very much changed since
he last saw her. Her eyes shone with a feverish fire, and her cheeks
were sunken. Her former soft lassitude had become a torpor. She offered
him a cold, trembling hand. Jacob understood by this reception that
here as elsewhere he had been slandered; but, happily, he was one of
those characters whose clear conscience fortify them against all
contumely.
"Have I come at an inopportune moment?" said he. "In that case, I will
go."
"No. You could not arrive more opportunely. I was anxious to see you,
monsieur."
"You are ill."
"Not the least in the world."
"Well, Mathilde, so many unfortunate things have happened to me lately,
that I come to you to comfort my tortured heart."
"Your heart? It is in the Old Testament."
"I do not understand you. Do you doubt me?"
"Ah! I do not know. This doubt is killing me. I wish to know all the
worst; then I can die. You used to be frank and sincere. Why do you
deceive me now, like the others?"
"This is too much, Mathilde," said Jacob.
"Oh! I have proofs of your deceit," cried she. "Would it not be better
to confide in me as a sister, and say, 'I love another, I am tired of
contact with a corpse. I wish a living creature? I would have answered
you thus: 'Go, be happy!' In losing you I would at least have kept my
respect for you."
"Why do you not respect me now?"
"What! you dare to deny it?"
"Mathilde," replied Jacob gravely, "I assure you I have done nothing to
merit these reproaches. I have never been guilty of forgetting you."
"How explain, then, your mysterious adventure; that woman, who is she?"
"You shall hear the truth," said Jacob. "Listen!" He then related the
dark drama of which Lia was the heroine, not omitting the scene of the
previous evening and the morning's death. The poor girl's fate made
Mathilde weep, but at the same time she felt proud and happy. Her
beloved was worthy of her deepest respect. When he had finished she
could hardly refrain from throwing herself at Jacob's feet and asking
pardon for her unjust suspicions.
"Forgive me," she cried, "for my foolish credulity. But the calumny was
so well devised that it had all the appearance of truth. It was
repeated to me as undoubtedly true."
"One thing astonishes me: it is that you did not come to me about it
immediately. You were wrong not to demand an explanation."
"A long and frightful torture has punished me for my hesitation. The
days that have passed since then have been the bitterest of my
existence. Your supposed infidelity poisoned all remembrances of the
past, and I tried to tear your image from my heart."
"I could not have foreseen that a good action would have had such
direful consequences," said Jacob sadly.
"How happy would I be could I adopt the orphan! Unfortunately, in this
house I am a slave, a prisoner. I am respected, it is true, and the
master surrounds me with luxury to gratify his vanity; he strews
flowers on my path to dazzle the world; but in the midst of this
perfumed atmosphere I am a captive, and very often envy the working
women who live by labour, or in their poverty beg upon the streets. For
a long time I have been abandoned. Henri Segel divides his days between
the Russians and Muse. When I feel very ill the physician comes here.
Sometimes a beggar appears, and, you will not believe it, under this
exterior wealth I am often without money, without a sou to give for
charity."
She sighed, and continued:--
"To-day I live again; my soul is at peace once more. I have been given
back the only man in the world who makes me love humanity and believe
in virtue."
Their conversation was continued for a long time. Tea was served at the
usual hour, and the Englishwoman arrived, but she had a bad cold and
her presence was a constraint. Absorbed in each other, they forgot the
world. Mathilde went to the piano, which had been closed for several
days, and the celebration of their reconciliation ended with the
polonaise of Chopin (A-dur).
When Jacob found himself some distance down the street he went back to
look at the house he had just left as if he had a presentiment of not
returning.