“We are going in here,” he said to Prosper; “come.”
They went up the steps, and stopped on the second floor, before a door
over which was a large sign, “Fashionable Dressmaker.”
A handsome bell-rope hung on the wall, but M. Verduret did not touch it.
He tapped with the ends of his fingers in a peculiar way, and the door
instantly opened as if someone had been watching for his signal on the
other side.
The door was opened by a neatly dressed woman of about forty. She
quietly ushered M. Verduret and Prosper into a neat dining-room with
several doors opening into it.
This woman bowed humbly to M. Verduret, as if he were some superior
being.
He scarcely noticed her salutation, but questioned her with a look. His
look said:
“Well?”
She bowed affirmatively:
“Yes.”
“In there?” asked M. Verduret in a low tone, pointing to one of the
doors.
“No,” said the woman in the same tone, “over there, in the little
parlor.”
M. Verduret opened the door pointed out, and pushed Prosper into the
little parlor, whispering, as he did so:
“Go in, and keep your presence of mind.”
But his injunction was useless. The instant he cast his eyes around
the room into which he had so unceremoniously been pushed without any
warning, Prosper exclaimed, in a startled voice:
“Madeleine!”
It was indeed M. Fauvel’s niece, looking more beautiful than ever. Hers
was that calm, dignified beauty which imposes admiration and respect.
Standing in the middle of the room, near a table covered with silks and
satins, she was arranging a skirt of red velvet embroidered in gold;
probably the dress she was to wear as maid of honor to Catherine de
Medicis.
At sight of Prosper, all the blood rushed to her face, and her beautiful
eyes half closed, as if she were about to faint; she clung to the table
to prevent herself from falling.
Prosper well knew that Madeleine was not one of those cold-hearted women
whom nothing could disturb, and who feel sensations, but never a true
sentiment.
Of a tender, dreamy nature, she betrayed in the minute details of her
life the most exquisite delicacy. But she was also proud, and incapable
of in any way violating her conscience. When duty spoke, she obeyed.
She recovered from her momentary weakness, and the soft expression of
her eyes changed to one of haughty resentment. In an offended tone she
said:
“What has emboldened you, monsieur, to be watching my movements? Who
gave you permission to follow me, to enter this house?”
Prosper was certainly innocent. He would have given worlds to explain
what had just happened, but he was powerless, and could only remain
silent.
“You promised me upon your honor, monsieur,” continued Madeleine, “that
you would never again seek my presence. Is this the way you keep your
word?”
“I did promise, mademoiselle, but----”
He stopped.
“Oh, speak!”
“So many things have happened since that terrible day, that I think I am
excusable in forgetting, for one hour, an oath torn from me in a moment
of blind weakness. It is to chance, at least to another will than my
own, that I am indebted for the happiness of once more finding myself
near you. Alas! the instant I saw you my heart bounded with joy. I did
not think, no I could not think, that you would prove more pitiless than
strangers have been, that you would cast me off when I am so miserable
and heart-broken.”
Had not Prosper been so agitated he could have read in the eyes of
Madeleine--those beautiful eyes which had so long been the arbiters of
his destiny--the signs of a great inward struggle.
It was, however, in a firm voice that she replied:
“You know me well enough, Prosper, to be sure than no blow can strike
you without reaching me at the same time. You suffer, I suffer with you:
I pity you as a sister would pity a beloved brother.”
“A sister!” said Prosper, bitterly. “Yes, that was the word you used the
day you banished me from your presence. A sister! Then why during three
years did you delude me with vain hopes? Was I a brother to you the day
we went to Notre Dame de Fourvieres, that day when, at the foot of the
altar, we swore to love each other for ever and ever, and you fastened
around my neck a holy relic and said, ‘Wear this always for my sake,
never part from it, and it will bring you good fortune’?”
Madeleine attempted to interrupt him by a supplicating gesture: he would
not heed it, but continued with increased bitterness:
“One month after that happy day--a year ago--you gave me back my
promise, told me to consider myself free from any engagement, and never
to come near you again. If I could have discovered in what way I had
offended you--But no, you refused to explain. You drove me away, and to
obey you I told everyone that I had left you of my own accord. You told
me that an invincible obstacle had arisen between us, and I believed
you, fool that I was! The obstacle was your own heart, Madeleine. I
have always worn the medal; but it has not brought me happiness or good
fortune.”
As white and motionless as a statue, Madeleine stood with bowed head
before this storm of passionate reproach.
“I told you to forget me,” she murmured.
“Forget!” exclaimed Prosper, excitedly, “forget! Can I forget! Is it in
my power to stop, by an effort of will, the circulation of my blood? Ah,
you have never loved! To forget, as to stop the beatings of the heart,
there is but one means--death!”
This word, uttered with the fixed determination of a desperate, reckless
man, caused Madeleine to shudder.
“Miserable man!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, miserable man, and a thousand times more miserable than you can
imagine! You can never understand the tortures I have suffered, when for
a year I would awake every morning, and say to myself, ‘It is all over,
she has ceased to love me!’ This great sorrow stared me in the face
day and night in spite of all my efforts to dispel it. And you speak of
forgetfulness! I sought it at the bottom of poisoned cups, but found it
not. I tried to extinguish this memory of the past, that tears my heart
to shreds like a devouring flame; in vain. When the body succumbed, the
pitiless heart kept watch. With this corroding torture making life a
burden, do you wonder that I should seek rest which can only be obtained
by suicide?”
“I forbid you to utter that word.”
“You forget, Madeleine, that you have no right to forbid me, unless you
love me. Love would make you all powerful, and me obedient.”
With an imperious gesture Madeleine interrupted him as if she wished to
speak, and perhaps to explain all, to exculpate herself.
But a sudden thought stopped her; she clasped her hands despairingly,
and cried:
“My God! this suffering is beyond endurance!”
Prosper seemed to misconstrue her words.
“Your pity comes too late,” he said. “There is no happiness in store for
one like myself, who has had a glimpse of divine felicity, had the
cup of bliss held to his lips, and then dashed to the ground. There
is nothing left to attach me to life. You have destroyed my holiest
beliefs; I came forth from prison disgraced by my enemies; what is to
become of me? Vainly do I question the future; for me there is no hope
of happiness. I look around me to see nothing but abandonment, ignominy,
and despair!”
“Prosper, my brother, my friend, if you only knew----”
“I know but one thing, Madeleine, and that is, that you no longer love
me, and that I love you more madly than ever. Oh, Madeleine, God only
knows how I love you!”
He was silent. He hoped for an answer. None came.
But suddenly the silence was broken by a stifled sob.
It was Madeleine’s maid, who, seated in a corner, was weeping bitterly.
Madeleine had forgotten her presence.
Prosper had been so surprised at finding Madeleine when he entered
the room, that he kept his eyes fastened upon her face, and never once
looked about him to see if anyone else were present.
He turned in surprise and looked at the weeping woman.
He was not mistaken: this neatly dressed waiting-maid was Nina Gypsy.
Prosper was so startled that he became perfectly dumb. He stood there
with ashy lips, and a chilly sensation creeping through his veins.
The horror of the situation terrified him. He was there, between the two
women who had ruled his fate; between Madeleine, the proud heiress
who spurned his love, and Nina Gypsy, the poor girl whose devotion to
himself he had so disdainfully rejected.
And she had heard all; poor Gypsy had witnessed the passionate avowal
of her lover, had heard him swear that he could never love any woman but
Madeleine, that if his love were not reciprocated he would kill himself,
as he had nothing else to live for.
Prosper could judge of her sufferings by his own. For she was wounded
not only in the present, but in the past. What must be her humiliation
and danger on hearing the miserable part which Prosper, in his
disappointed love, had imposed upon her?
He was astonished that Gypsy--violence itself--remained silently
weeping, instead of rising and bitterly denouncing him.
Meanwhile Madeleine had succeeded in recovering her usual calmness.
Slowly and almost unconsciously she had put on her bonnet and shawl,
which were lying on the sofa.
Then she approached Prosper, and said:
“Why did you come here? We both have need of all the courage we can
command. You are unhappy, Prosper; I am more than unhappy, I am most
wretched. You have a right to complain: I have not the right to shed a
tear. While my heart is slowly breaking, I must wear a smiling face. You
can seek consolation in the bosom of a friend: I can have no confidant
but God.”
Prosper tried to murmur a reply, but his pale lips refused to
articulate; he was stifling.
“I wish to tell you,” continued Madeleine, “that I have forgotten
nothing. But oh! let not this knowledge give you any hope; the future
is blank for us, but if you love me you will live. You will not, I know,
add to my already heavy burden of sorrow, the agony of mourning your
death. For my sake, live; live the life of a good man, and perhaps the
day will come when I can justify myself in your eyes. And now, oh, my
brother, oh, my only friend, adieu! adieu!”
She pressed a kiss upon his brow, and rushed from the room, followed by
Nina Gypsy.
Prosper was alone. He seemed to be awaking from a troubled dream. He
tried to think over what had just happened, and asked himself if he were
losing his mind, or whether he had really spoken to Madeleine and seen
Gypsy?
He was obliged to attribute all this to the mysterious power of the
strange man whom he had seen for the first time that very morning.
How did he gain this wonderful power of controlling events to suit his
own purposes?
He seemed to have anticipated everything, to know everything. He was
acquainted with Cavaillon, he knew all Madeleine’s movements; he had
made even Gypsy become humble and submissive.
Thinking all this, Prosper had reached such a degree of exasperation,
that when M. Verduret entered the little parlor, he strode toward him
white with rage, and in a harsh, threatening voice, said to him:
“Who are you?”
The stout man did not show any surprise at this burst of anger, but
quietly answered:
“A friend of your father’s; did you not know it?”
“That is no answer, monsieur; I have been surprised into being
influenced by a stranger, and now--”
“Do you want my biography, what I have been, what I am, and what I may
be? What difference does it make to you? I told you that I would save
you; the main point is that I am saving you.”
“Still I have the right to ask by what means you are saving me.”
“What good will it do you to know what my plans are?”
“In order to decide whether I will accept or reject them?”
“But suppose I guarantee success?”
“That is not sufficient, monsieur. I do not choose to be any longer
deprived of my own free will, to be exposed without warning to trials
like those I have undergone to-day. A man of my age must know what he is
doing.”
“A man of your age, Prosper, when he is blind, takes a guide, and does
not undertake to point out the way to his leader.”
The half-bantering, half-commiserating tone of M. Verduret was not
calculated to calm Prosper’s irritation.
“That being the case, monsieur,” he cried, “I will thank you for your
past services, and decline them for the future, as I have no need of
them. If I attempted to defend my honor and my life, it was because
I hoped that Madeleine would be restored to me. I have been convinced
to-day that all is at an end between us; I retire from the struggle, and
care not what becomes of me now.”
Prosper was so decided, that M. Verduret seemed alarmed.
“You must be mad,” he finally said.
“No, unfortunately I am not. Madeleine has ceased to love me, and of
what importance is anything else?”
His heart-broken tone aroused M. Verduret’s sympathy, and he said, in a
kind, soothing tone:
“Then you suspect nothing? You did not fathom the meaning of what she
said?”
“You were listening,” cried Prosper fiercely.
“I certainly was.”
“Monsieur!”
“Yes. It was a presumptuous thing to do, perhaps; but the end justified
the means in this instance. I am glad I did listen, because it has
enabled me to say to you, Take courage, Prosper: Mlle. Madeleine loves
you; she has never ceased to love you.”
Like a dying man who eagerly listens to deceitful promises of recovery,
although he feels himself sinking into the grave, did Prosper feel his
sad heart cheered by M. Verduret’s assertion.
“Oh,” he murmured, suddenly calmed, “if only I could hope!”
“Rely upon me, I am not mistaken. Ah, I could see the torture endured by
this generous girl, while she struggled between her love, and what she
believed to be her duty. Were you not convinced of her love when she
bade you farewell?”
“She loves me, she is free, and yet she shuns me.”
“No, she is not free! In breaking off her engagement with you, she
was governed by some powerful, irrepressible event. She is sacrificing
herself--for whom? We shall soon know; and the secret of her
self-sacrifice will discover to us the secret of her plot against you.”
As M. Verduret spoke, Prosper felt all his resolutions of revolt slowly
melting away, and their place taken by confidence and hope.
“If what you say were true!” he mournfully said.
“Foolish young man! Why do you persist in obstinately shutting your eyes
to the proof I place before you? Can you not see that Mlle. Madeleine
knows who the thief is? Yes, you need not look so shocked; she knows the
thief, but no human power can tear it from her. She sacrifices you, but
then she almost has the right, since she first sacrificed herself.”
Prosper was almost convinced; and it nearly broke his heart to leave
this little parlor where he had seen Madeleine.
“Alas!” he said, pressing M. Verduret’s hand, “you must think me a
ridiculous fool! but you don’t know how I suffer.”
The man with the red whiskers sadly shook his head, and his voice
sounded very unsteady as he replied, in a low tone:
“What you suffer, I have suffered. Like you, I loved, not a pure, noble
girl, yet a girl fair to look upon. For three years I was at her feet,
a slave to her every whim; when, one day she suddenly deserted me who
adored her, to throw herself in the arms of a man who despised her.
Then, like you, I wished to die. Neither threats nor entreaties could
induce her to return to me. Passion never reasons, and she loved my
rival.”
“And did you know this rival?”
“I knew him.”
“And you did not seek revenge?”
“No,” replied M. Verduret with a singular expression, “no: fate took
charge of my vengeance.”
For a minute Prosper was silent; then he said:
“I have finally decided, monsieur. My honor is a sacred trust for which
I must account to my family. I am ready to follow you to the end of the
world; dispose of me as you judge proper.”
That same day Prosper, faithful to his promise, sold his furniture, and
wrote a letter to his friends announcing his intended departure to San
Francisco.
In the evening he and M. Verduret installed themselves in the
“Archangel.”
Mme. Alexandre gave Prosper her prettiest room, but it was very ugly
compared with the coquettish little parlor on the Rue Chaptal. His state
of mind did not permit him, however, to notice the difference between
his former and present quarters. He lay on an old sofa, meditating upon
the events of the day, and feeling a bitter satisfaction in his isolated
condition.
About eleven o’clock he thought he would raise the window, and let the
cool air fan his burning brow; as he did so a piece of paper was blown
from among the folds of the window-curtain, and lay at his feet on the
floor.
Prosper mechanically picked it up, and looked at it.
It was covered with writing, the handwriting of Nina Gypsy; he could not
be mistaken about that.
It was the fragment of a torn letter; and, if the half sentences did not
convey any clear meaning, they were sufficient to lead the mind into all
sorts of conjectures.
The fragment read as follows:
“of M. Raoul, I have been very im . . . plotted against him, of whom
never . . . warn Prosper, and then . . . best friend. he . . . hand of
Mlle. Ma . . .”
Prosper never closed his eyes during that night.