During the twenty years of her married life, Valentine had experienced
but one real sorrow; and this was one which, in the course of nature,
must happen sooner or later.
In 1859 her mother caught a violent cold during one of her frequent
journeys to Paris, and, in spite of every attention which money could
procure, she became worse, and died.
The countess preserved her faculties to the last, and with her dying
breath said to her daughter:
“Ah, well! was I not wise in prevailing upon you to bury the past? Your
silence has made my old age peaceful and happy, and I now thank you for
having done your duty to yourself and to me. You will be rewarded on
earth and in heaven, my dear daughter.”
Mme. Fauvel constantly said that, since the loss of her mother, she had
never had cause to shed a tear.
And what more could she wish for? As years rolled on, Andre’s love
remained steadfast; he was as devoted a husband as the most exacting
woman could wish. To his great love was added that sweet intimacy which
results from long conformity of ideas and unbounded confidence.
Everything prospered with this happy couple. Andre was twice as wealthy
as he had ever hoped to be even in his wildest visions; every wish of
Valentine was anticipated by Andre; their two sons, Lucien and Abel,
were handsome, intelligent young men, whose honorable characters
and graceful bearing reflected credit upon their parents, who had so
carefully watched over their education.
Nothing seemed wanting to insure Valentine’s felicity. When her husband
and sons were at their business, her solitude was cheered by the
intelligent, affectionate companionship of a young girl whom she loved
as her own daughter, and who in return filled the place of a devoted
child.
Madeleine was M. Fauvel’s niece, and when an infant had lost both
parents, who were poor but very worthy people. Valentine begged to adopt
the babe, thinking she could thus, in a measure, atone for the desertion
of the poor little creature whom she had abandoned to strangers.
She hoped that this good work would bring down the blessings of God upon
her.
The day of the little orphan’s arrival, M. Fauvel invested for her ten
thousand francs, which he presented to Madeleine as her dowry.
The banker amused himself by increasing this ten thousand francs in the
most marvellous ways. He, who never ventured upon a rash speculation
with his own money, always invested it in the most hazardous schemes,
and was always so successful, that at the end of fifteen years the ten
thousand francs had become half a million.
People were right when they said that the Fauvel family were to be
envied.
Time had dulled the remorse and anxiety of Valentine. In the
genial atmosphere of a happy home, she had found rest, and almost
forgetfulness. She had suffered so much at being compelled to deceive
Andre that she hoped she was now at quits with fate.
She began to look forward to the future, and her youth seemed buried
in an impenetrable mist, and was, as it were, the memory of a painful
dream.
Yes, she believed herself saved, and her very feeling of security made
the impending danger more fearful in its shock.
One rainy November day, her husband had gone to Provence on business.
She was sitting, gazing into the bright fire, and thankfully meditating
upon her present happiness, when the servant brought her a letter, which
had been left by a stranger, who refused to give his name.
Without the faintest presentiment of evil, she carelessly broke the
seal, and in an instant was almost petrified by the words which met her
terrified eye:
“MADAME--Would it be relying too much upon the memories of the past to
hope for half an hour of your time?
“To-morrow, between two and three, I will do myself the honor of calling
upon you.
“THE MARQUIS OF CLAMERAN.”
Fortunately, Mme. Fauvel was alone.
Trembling like a leaf, she read the letter over and over again, as if
to convince herself that she was not the victim of a horrible
hallucination.
Half a dozen times, with a sort of terror, she whispered that name once
so dear--Clameran! spelling it aloud as if it were a strange name which
she could not pronounce. And the eight letters forming the name seemed
to shine like the lightning which precedes a clap of thunder.
Ah! she had hoped and believed that the fatal past was atoned for,
and buried in oblivion; and now it stood before her, pitiless and
threatening.
Poor woman! As if all human will could prevent what was fated to be!
It was in this hour of security, when she imagined herself pardoned,
that the storm was to burst upon the fragile edifice of her happiness,
and destroy her every hope.
A long time passed before she could collect her scattered thoughts
sufficiently to decide upon a course of conduct.
Then she began to think she was foolish to be so frightened. This
letter was written by Gaston, of course; therefore she need feel no
apprehension. Gaston had returned to France, and wished to see her. She
could understand this desire, and she knew too well this man, upon whom
she had lavished her young affection, to attribute any bad motives to
his visit.
He would come; and finding her the wife of another, the mother of grown
sons, they would exchange thoughts of the past, perhaps a few regrets;
she would restore the jewels which she had faithfully kept for him; he
would assure her of his lifelong friendship, and--that would be all.
But one distressing doubt beset her agitated mind. Should she conceal
from Gaston the birth of his son?
To confess was to expose herself to many dangers. It was placing herself
at the mercy of a man--a loyal, honorable man to be sure--confiding
to him not only her own peace, honor, and happiness, but the honor and
happiness of her family, of her noble husband and loving sons.
Still silence would be a crime. She had abandoned her child, denied him
the cares and affection of a mother; and now should she add to her sin
by depriving him of the name and fortune of his father?
She was still undecided when the servant announced dinner.
But she had not the courage to meet the glance of her sons. She sent
word that she was not well, and would not be down to dinner. For the
first time in her life she rejoiced at her husband’s absence.
Madeleine came hurrying into her aunt’s room to see what was the matter;
but Valentine dismissed her, saying she would try to sleep off her
indisposition.
She wished to be alone in her trouble, and see if she could decide upon
some plan for warding off this impending ruin.
The dreaded morrow came.
She counted the hours until two o’clock. After that, she counted the
minutes.
At half-past two the servant announced:
“M. the Marquis of Clameran.”
Mme. Fauvel had promised herself to be calm, even cold. During a long,
sleepless night, she had mentally arranged beforehand every detail of
this painful meeting. She had even decided upon what she should say.
She would reply this, and ask that; her words were all selected, and her
speech ready.
But, at the dreaded moment, her strength gave way; she turned as cold as
marble, and could not rise from her seat; she was speechless, and, with
a frightened look, silently gazed upon the man who respectfully bowed,
and stood in the middle of the room.
Her visitor was about fifty years of age, with iron-gray hair and
mustache, and a cold, severe cast of countenance; his expression was one
of haughty severity as he stood there in his full suit of black.
The agitated woman tried to discover in his face some traces of the
man whom she had so madly loved, who had pressed her to his heart, and
besought her to remain faithful until he should return from a foreign
land, and lay his fortune at her feet--the father of her son.
She was surprised to discover no resemblance to the youth whose memory
had haunted her life; no, never would she have recognized this stranger
as Gaston.
As he continued to stand motionless before her, she faintly murmured:
“Gaston!”
He sadly shook his head, and replied:
“I am not Gaston, madame. My brother succumbed to the misery and
suffering of exile: I am Louis de Clameran.”
What! it was not Gaston, then, who had written to her; it was not Gaston
who stood before her!
She trembled with terror; her head whirled, and her eyes grew dim.
It was not he! And she had committed herself, betrayed her secret by
calling him “Gaston.”
What could this man want?--this brother in whom Gaston had never
confided? What did he know of the past?
A thousand probabilities, each one more terrible than the other, flashed
across her brain.
Yet she succeeded in overcoming her weakness so that Louis scarcely
perceived it.
The fearful strangeness of her situation, the very imminence of peril,
inspired her with coolness and self-possession.
Haughtily pointing to a chair, she said to Louis with affected
indifference:
“Will you be kind enough, monsieur, to explain the object of this
unexpected visit?”
The marquis, seeming not to notice this sudden change of manner, took a
seat without removing his eyes from Mme. Fauvel’s face.
“First of all, madame,” he began, “I must ask if we can be overheard by
anyone?”
“Why this question? You can have nothing to say to me that my husband
and children should not hear.”
Louis shrugged his shoulders, and said:
“Be good enough to answer me, madame; not for my sake, but for your
own.”
“Speak, then, monsieur; you will not be heard.”
In spite of this assurance, the marquis drew his chair close to the sofa
where Mme. Fauvel sat, so as to speak in a very low tone, as if almost
afraid to hear his own voice.
“As I told you, madame, Gaston is dead; and it was I who closed his
eyes, and received his last wishes. Do you understand?”
The poor woman understood only too well, but was racking her brain to
discover what could be the purpose of this fatal visit. Perhaps it was
only to claim Gaston’s jewels.
“It is unnecessary to recall,” continued Louis, “the painful
circumstances which blasted my brother’s life. However happy your own
lot has been, you must sometimes have thought of this friend of your
youth, who unhesitatingly sacrificed himself in defence of your honor.”
Not a muscle of Mme. Fauvel’s face moved; she appeared to be trying to
recall the circumstances to which Louis alluded.
“Have you forgotten, madame?” he asked with bitterness: “then I must
explain more clearly. A long, long time ago you loved my unfortunate
brother.”
“Monsieur!”
“Ah, it is useless to deny it, madame: I told you that Gaston confided
everything to me--everything,” he added significantly.
But Mme. Fauvel was not frightened by this information. This
“everything” could not be of any importance, for Gaston had gone abroad
in total ignorance of her secret.
She rose, and said with an apparent assurance she was far from feeling:
“You forget, monsieur, that you are speaking to a woman who is now
advanced in life, who is married, and who has grown sons. If your
brother loved me, it was his affair, and not yours. If, young and
ignorant, I was led into imprudence, it is not your place to remind me
of it. This past which you evoke I buried in oblivion twenty years ago.”
“Thus you have forgotten all that happened?”
“Absolutely all; everything.”
“Even your child, madame?”
This question, uttered in a sneer of triumph, fell upon Mme. Fauvel like
a thunder-clap. She dropped tremblingly into her seat, murmuring:
“My God! How did he discover it?”
Had her own happiness alone been at stake, she would have instantly
thrown herself upon a Clameran’s mercy. But she had her family to
defend, and the consciousness of this gave her strength to resist him.
“Do you wish to insult me, monsieur?” she asked.
“Do you pretend to say you have forgotten Valentin-Raoul?”
She saw that this man did indeed know all. How? It little mattered. He
certainly knew; but she determined to deny everything, even the most
positive proofs, if he should produce them.
For an instant she had an idea of ordering the Marquis of Clameran
to leave the house; but prudence stayed her. She thought it best to
discover how much he really knew.
“Well,” she said with a forced laugh, “will you be kind enough to state
what you wish with me?”
“Certainly, madame. Two years ago the vicissitudes of exile took my
brother to London. There, at the house of a friend, he met a young man
by the name of Raoul. Gaston was so struck by the youth’s appearance and
intelligence, that he inquired who he was, and discovered that beyond a
doubt this boy was his son, and your son, madame.”
“This is quite a romance you are relating.”
“Yes, madame, a romance the denouement of which is in your hands. Your
mother certainly used every precaution to conceal your secret; but the
best-laid plans always have some weak point. After your marriage, one of
your mother’s London friends came to Tarascon, and spread the report
of what had taken place at the English village. This lady also revealed
your true name to the nurse who was bringing up the child. Thus
everything was discovered by my brother, who had no difficulty in
obtaining the most positive proofs of the boy’s parentage.”
Louis closely watched Mme. Fauvel’s face to see the effect of his words.
To his astonishment she betrayed not the slightest agitation or alarm;
she was smiling as if entertained by the recital of his romance.
“Well, what next?” she asked carelessly.
“Then, madame, Gaston acknowledged the child. But the Clamerans are
poor; my brother died on a pallet in a lodging-house; and I have only
an income of twelve hundred francs to live upon. What is to become of
Raoul, alone with no relations or friends to assist him? My brother’s
last moments were embittered by anxiety for the welfare of his child.”
“Really, monsieur----”
“Allow me to finish,” interrupted Louis. “In that supreme hour Gaston
opened his heart to me. He told me to apply to you. ‘Valentine,’ said
he, ‘Valentine will remember the past, and will not let our son want for
anything; she is wealthy, she is just and generous; I die with my mind
at rest.’”
Mme. Fauvel rose from her seat, and stood, evidently waiting for her
visitor to retire.
“You must confess, monsieur,” she said, “that I have shown great
patience.”
This imperturbable assurance amazed Louis.
“I do not deny,” she continued, “that I at one time possessed the
confidence of M. Gaston de Clameran. I will prove it by restoring to you
your mother’s jewels, with which he intrusted me on his departure.”
While speaking she took from beneath the sofa-cushion the purse of
jewels, and handed it to Louis.
“These jewels would have been given to the owner the instant they
were called for, monsieur, and I am surprised that your brother never
reclaimed them.”
Louis betrayed his astonishment at the sight of the jewels. He tried to
cover his embarrassment by boldly saying:
“I was told not to mention this sacred trust.”
Mme. Fauvel, without making any reply, laid her hand on the bell-rope
and quietly said:
“You will allow me to end this interview, monsieur, which was only
granted for the purpose of placing in your hands these precious jewels.”
Thus dismissed, M. de Clameran was obliged to take his leave without
attaining his object.
“As you will, madame,” he said, “I leave you; but before doing so I
must tell you the rest of my brother’s dying injunctions: ‘If Valentine
disregards the past, and refuses to provide for our son, I enjoin it
upon you to compel her to do her duty.’ Meditate upon these words,
madame, for what I have sworn to do, upon my honor, shall be done!”
At last Mme. Fauvel was alone. She could give vent to her despair.
Exhausted at her efforts at self-restraint during the presence of
Clameran, she felt weary and crushed in body and spirit.
She had scarcely strength to drag herself up to her chamber, and lock
the door.
Now there was no room for doubt; her fears had become realities. She
could fathom the abyss into which she was about to be hurled, and knew
that in her fall she would drag her family with her.
God alone, in this hour of danger, could help her, could save her from
destruction. She prayed.
“Oh, my God!” she cried, “punish me for my great sin, and I will
evermore adore thy chastising hand! I have been a bad daughter, an
unworthy mother, and a perfidious wife. Smite me, oh, God, and only me!
In thy just anger spare the innocent, have pity upon my husband and my
children!”
What were her twenty years of happiness compared to this hour of misery?
A bitter remorse; nothing more. Ah, why did she listen to her mother?
Why had she committed moral suicide?
Hope had fled; despair had come.
This man who had left her presence with a threat upon his lips would
return to torture her now. How could she escape him?
To-day she had succeeded in subduing her heart and conscience; would she
again have the strength to master her feelings?
She well knew that her calmness and courage were entirely due to the
inaptness of Clameran.
Why did he not use entreaties instead of threats?
When Louis spoke of Raoul, she could scarcely conceal her emotion; her
maternal heart yearned toward the innocent child who was expiating his
mother’s faults.
A chill of horror passed over her at the idea of his enduring the pangs
of hunger.
Her child wanting bread, when she, his mother, was rolling in wealth!
Ah, why could she not lay all her possessions at his feet? With what
delight would she undergo the greatest privations for his sake! If she
could but send him enough money to support him comfortably!
But no; she could not take this step without compromising herself and
her family.
Prudence forbade her acceptance of the intervention of Louis de
Clameran.
To confide in him, was placing herself, and all she held dear, at his
mercy--at the mercy of a man who inspired her with instinctive terror.
Then she began to ask herself if he had spoken the truth, or had trumped
up this story to frighten her?
In thinking over Louis’s story, it seemed improbable and disconnected.
If Gaston had been living in Paris, in the poverty described by his
brother, why had he not demanded of the married woman the deposit
intrusted to the maiden?
Why, when anxious about the future of their child, had he not come to
her, if he had such confidence in her generosity? If he intrusted her on
his death-bed, why had he not shown this trust while living?
A thousand vague apprehensions beset her mind; she felt suspicion and
distrust of everyone and everything.
She was aware that the time had come for her to take a decisive step,
and upon this step depended her whole future peace and happiness. If she
once yielded, what would not be exacted of her in the future? She would
certainly be made to suffer if she refused to yield. If she had only
some wise friend to advise her!
For a moment she thought of throwing herself at her husband’s feet and
confessing all.
Unfortunately, she thrust aside this means of salvation. She pictured
to herself the mortification and sorrow that her noble-hearted husband
would suffer upon discovering, after a lapse of twenty years, how
shamefully he had been deceived, how his confidence and love had been
betrayed.
Having been once deceived, would he ever trust her again? Would he
believe in her fidelity as a wife, when he discovered that she had
uttered her marriage vows to love and honor him, when her heart was
already given to another?
She knew Andre was too magnanimous to ever allude to her horrible fault,
and would use every means to conceal it. But his domestic happiness
would be gone forever. His chair at the fireside would be left empty;
his sons would shun her presence, and every family bond would be
severed.
Then again, would peace be preserved by her silence? Would not Clameran
end by betraying her to Andre?
She thought of ending her doubts by suicide; but her death would not
silence her implacable enemy, who, not being able to disgrace her while
alive, would dishonor her memory.
Fortunately, the banker was still absent; and, during the two days
succeeding Louis’s visit, Mme. Fauvel could keep her room under pretence
of sickness.
But Madeleine, with her feminine instinct, saw that her aunt was
troubled by something worse than nervous headache, for which the
physician was prescribing all sorts of remedies, with no beneficial
effect.
She remembered that this sudden illness dated from the visit of the
melancholy looking stranger, who had been closeted for a long time with
her aunt.
Madeleine supposed something was weighing upon the miserable woman’s
mind, and the second day of her sickness ventured to say:
“What makes you so sad, dear aunt? If you will not tell me, do let me
bring our good cure to see you.”
With a sharpness foreign to her nature, which was gentleness itself,
Mme. Fauvel refused to assent to her niece’s proposition.
What Louis calculated upon happened.
After long reflection, not seeing any issue to her deplorable situation,
Mme. Fauvel determined to yield.
By consenting to everything demanded of her, she had a chance of saving
her husband from suffering and disgrace.
She well knew that to act thus was to prepare a life of torture for
herself; but she alone would be the victim, and, at any rate, she would
be gaining time. Heaven might at last interpose, and save her from ruin.
In the meantime, M. Fauvel had returned home, and Valentine resumed her
accustomed duties.
But she was no longer the happy mother and devoted wife, whose smiling
presence was wont to fill the house with sunshine and comfort. She was
melancholy, anxious, and at times irritable.
Hearing nothing of Clameran, she expected to see him appear at any
moment; trembling at every knock, and turning pale when a strange step
was heard to enter, she dared not leave the house, for fear he should
come during her absence.
Her agony was like that of a condemned man, who, each day as he wakes
from his uneasy slumber, asks himself, “Am I to die to-day?”
Clameran did not come; he wrote, or rather, as he was too prudent to
furnish arms which could be used against him, he had a note written,
which Mme. Fauvel alone might understand, in which he said that he was
quite ill, and unable to call upon her; and hoped she would be so good
as to come to his room the next day; she had only to ask for 317, Hotel
du Louvre.
The letter was almost a relief for Mme. Fauvel. Anything was preferable
to suspense. She was ready to consent to everything.
She burned the letter, and said, “I shall go.”
The next day at the appointed hour, she dressed herself in a plain black
silk, a large bonnet which concealed her face, and, putting a thick veil
in her pocket to be used if she found it necessary, started forth.
After hurriedly walking several squares, she thought she might, without
fear of being recognized, call a coach. In a few minutes she was set
down at the Hotel du Louvre. Here her uneasiness increased. Her circle
of acquaintances being large, she was in terror of being recognized.
What would her friends think if they saw her at the Hotel du Louvre
disguised in this old dress?
Anyone would naturally suspect an intrigue, a rendezvous; and her
character would be ruined forever.
This was the first time since her marriage that she had had occasion for
mystery; and her efforts to escape notice were in every way calculated
to attract attention.
The porter said that the Marquis of Clameran’s rooms were on the third
floor.
She hurried up the stairs, glad to escape the scrutinizing glances of
several men standing near; but, in spite of the minute directions given
by the porter, she lost her way in one of the long corridors of the
hotel.
Finally, after wandering about for some time, she found a door bearing
the number sought--317.
She stood leaning against the wall with her hand pressed to her
throbbing heart, which seemed bursting.
Now, at the moment of risking this decisive step, she felt paralyzed
with fright. She would have given all she possessed to find herself safe
in her own home.
The sight of a stranger entering the corridor ended her hesitation.
With a trembling hand she knocked at the door.
“Come in,” said a voice from within.
She entered the room.
It was not the Marquis of Clameran who stood in the middle of the
room, but a young man, almost a youth, who bowed to Mme. Fauvel with a
singular expression on his handsome face.
Mme. Fauvel thought that she had mistaken the room.
“Excuse me, monsieur,” she said, blushing deeply. “I thought that this
was the Marquis of Clameran’s room.”
“It is his room, madame,” replied the young man; then, seeing she was
silent and about to leave, he added:
“I presume I have the honor of addressing Mme. Fauvel?”
She bowed affirmatively, shuddering at the sound of her own name,
frightened at this proof of Clameran’s betrayal of her secret to a
stranger.
With visible anxiety she awaited an explanation.
“Reassure yourself, madame,” said the young man: “you are as safe here
as if you were in your own house. M. de Clameran desired me to make his
excuses; he will not have the honor of seeing you to-day.”
“But, monsieur, from an urgent letter sent by him yesterday, I was led
to suppose--to infer--that he----”
“When he wrote to you, madame, he had projects in view which he has
since renounced.”
Mme. Fauvel was too agitated and troubled to think clearly. Beyond the
present she could see nothing.
“Do you mean,” she asked with distrust, “that he has changed his
intentions?”
The young man’s face was expressive of sad compassion, as if he shared
the sufferings of the unhappy woman before him.
“The marquis has renounced,” he said, in a melancholy tone, “what he
wrongly considered a sacred duty. Believe me, he hesitated a long time
before he could decide to apply to you on a subject painful to you
both. When he began to explain his apparent intrusion upon your private
affairs, you refused to hear him, and dismissed him with indignant
contempt. He knew not what imperious reasons dictated your conduct.
Blinded by unjust anger, he swore to obtain by threats what you refused
to give voluntarily. Resolved to attack your domestic happiness, he had
collected overwhelming proofs against you. Pardon him: an oath given to
his dying brother bound him.
“These convincing proofs,” he continued, as he tapped his finger on a
bundle of papers which he had taken from the mantel, “this evidence that
cannot be denied, I now hold in my hand. This is the certificate of the
Rev. Dr. Sedley; this is the declaration of Mrs. Dobbin, the farmer’s
wife; and these others are the statements of the physician and of
several persons of high social position who were acquainted with Mme. de
la Verberie during her stay in London. Not a single link is missing. I
had great difficulty in getting these papers away from M. de Clameran.
Had he anticipated my intention of thus disposing of them, they would
never have been surrendered to my keeping.”
As he finished speaking, the young man threw the bundle of papers into
the fire where they blazed up; and in a moment nothing remained of them
but a little heap of ashes.
“All is now destroyed, madame,” he said, with a satisfied air. “The
past, if you desire it, is as completely annihilated as those papers.
If anyone, thereafter, dares accuse you of having had a son before your
marriage, treat him as a vile calumniator. No proof against you can be
produced; none exists. You are free.”
Mme. Fauvel began to understand the sense of this scene; the truth
dawned upon her bewildered mind.
This noble youth, who protected her from the anger of De Clameran, who
restored her peace of mind and the exercise of her own free will, by
destroying all proofs of her past, was, must be, the child whom she had
abandoned: Valentin-Raoul.
In an instant, all was forgotten save the present. Maternal tenderness,
so long restrained, now welled up and overflowed as with intense emotion
she murmured:
“Raoul!”
At this name, uttered in so thrilling a tone, the youth started and
tottered, as if overcome by an unhoped-for happiness.
“Yes, Raoul,” he cried, “Raoul, who would a thousand times rather die
than cause his mother a moment’s pain; Raoul, who would shed his life’s
blood to spare her one tear.”
She made no attempt to struggle against nature’s yearnings; her longing
to clasp to her heart this long-pined-for first-born must be gratified
at all costs.
She opened her arms, and Raoul sprang forward with a cry of joy:
“Mother! my blessed mother! Thanks be to God for this first kiss!”
Alas! this was the sad truth. The deserted child had never been blest by
a mother’s kiss. This dear son whom she had never seen before, had
been taken from her, despite her prayers and tears, without a mother’s
blessing, a mother’s embrace. After twenty years waiting, should it be
denied him now?
But joy so great, following upon so many contending emotions, was more
than the excited mother could bear; she sank back in her chair almost
fainting, and with distended eyes gazed in a bewildered, eager way upon
her long-lost son, who was now kneeling at her feet.
With tenderness she stroked the soft chestnut curls, and drank in the
tenderness of his soft dark eyes, and expressive mouth, as he murmured
words of filial affection in her craving ear.
“Oh, mother!” he said, “words cannot describe my feelings of pain
and anguish upon hearing that my uncle had dared to threaten you. He
threaten you! He repents already of his cruelty; he did not know you as
I do. Yes, my mother, I have known you for a long, long time. Often have
my father and I hovered around your happy home to catch a glimpse of you
through the window. When you passed by in your carriage, he would say
to me, ‘There is your mother, Raoul!’ To look upon you was our greatest
joy. When we knew you were going to a ball, we would wait near the door
to see you enter, in your satin and diamonds. How often have I followed
your fast horses to see you descend from the carriage and enter wealthy
doors, which I could never hope to penetrate! And how my noble father
loved you always! When he told his brother to apply to you in my behalf,
he was unconscious of what he said; his mind was wandering.”
Tears, the sweetest tears she had ever shed, coursed down Mme. Fauvel’s
cheeks, as she listened to the musical tones of Raoul’s voice.
This voice was so like Gaston’s, that she seemed once more to be
listening to the lover of her almost forgotten youth.
She was living over again those stolen meetings, those long hours of
bliss, when Gaston was at her side, as they sat and watched the river
rippling beneath the trees.
It seemed only yesterday that Gaston had pressed her to his faithful
heart; she saw him still saying gently:
“In three years, Valentine! Wait for me!”
Andre, her two sons, Madeleine, all were forgotten in this new-found
affection.
Raoul continued in tender tones:
“Only yesterday I discovered that my uncle had been to demand for me a
few crumbs of your wealth. Why did he take such a step? I am poor, it is
true, very poor; but I am too familiar with poverty to bemoan it. I have
a clear brain and willing hands: that is fortune enough for a young man.
You are very rich. What is that to me? Keep all your fortune, my beloved
mother; but do not repel my affection; let me love you. Promise me
that this first kiss shall not be the last. No one will ever know of
my new-found happiness; not by word or deed will I do aught to let the
world suspect that I possess this great joy.”
And Mme. Fauvel had dreaded this son! Ah, how bitterly did she now
reproach herself for not having flown to meet him the instant she heard
that he was living!
She questioned him regarding the past; she wished to know how he had
lived, what he had been doing.
He replied that he had nothing to conceal; his existence had been that
of every poor boy, who had nothing to look forward to but a life of
labor and privation.
The farmer’s wife who had brought him up was a kind-hearted woman,
and had always treated him with affection. She had even given him an
education superior to his condition in life, because, as she always
said, he would make himself a great name, and attain to wealth, if he
were taught.
When about sixteen years of age, she procured him a situation in a
banking-house; and he was getting a salary, which, though small, was
enough to support him and supply a few luxuries for his adopted mother.
One day a stranger came to him and said:
“I am your father: come with me.”
Since then nothing was wanting to his happiness, save a mother’s
tenderness. He had suffered but one great sorrow, and that was the day
when Gaston de Clameran, his father, had died in his arms.
“But now,” he said, “all is forgotten, that one sorrow is forgotten in
my present happiness. Now that I see you and possess your love, I forget
the past, and ask for nothing more.”
Mme. Fauvel was oblivious of the lapse of time, and was startled when
Raoul exclaimed:
“Why, it is seven o’clock!”
Seven o’clock! What would her family think of this long absence? Her
husband must be even now awaiting dinner.
“Shall I see you again, mother?” asked Raoul in a beseeching tone, as
they were about to separate.
“Oh, yes!” she replied, fondly, “yes, often; every day, to-morrow.”
But now, for the first time since her marriage, Mme. Fauvel perceived
that she was not mistress of her actions. Never before had she had
occasion to wish for uncontrolled liberty.
She left her heart and soul behind her in the Hotel du Louvre, where she
had just found her son. She was compelled to leave him, to undergo the
intolerable agony of composing her face to conceal this great happiness,
which had changed her whole life and being. She was angry with fate
because she could not remain with her first-born son.
Having some difficulty in procuring a carriage, it was half-past seven
before she reached the Rue de Provence, when she found the family
waiting for her.
She thought her husband silly, and even vulgar, when he joked her upon
letting her poor children starve to death, while she was promenading the
boulevards.
So strange are the sudden effects of a new passion, that she regarded
almost with contempt this unbounded confidence reposed in her.
She replied to his jest with a forced calmness, as if her mind were
really as free and undisturbed as it had been before Clameran’s visit.
So intoxicated had been her sensations while with Raoul, that in her joy
she was incapable of desiring anything else, of dreaming of aught save
the renewal of these delightful emotions.
No longer was she a devoted wife, an affectionate mother to this
household which looked up to her as though she were a superior being.
She took no interest in the two sons who were a short while since her
chief pride and joy. They had always been petted and indulged in every
way; they had a father, they were rich; whist the other, the other! oh,
how much reparation was due to him!
She almost regarded her family as responsible for Raoul’s sufferings, so
blinded was she in her devotion to her martyr, as she called him.
Her folly was complete. No remorse for the past, no apprehensions for
the future, disturbed the satisfied present. To her the future was
to-morrow; eternity was the sixteen hours which must elapse before
another interview.
She seemed to think that Gaston’s death absolved the past, and changed
the present.
Her sole regret was her marriage. Free, with no family ties, she could
have consecrated herself exclusively to Raoul. How gladly would she have
sacrificed her affluence to enjoy poverty with him!
She felt no fear that her husband and sons would suspect the thoughts
which absorbed her mind; but she dreaded her niece.
She imagined that Madeleine looked at her strangely on her return from
the Hotel du Louvre. She must suspect something; but did she suspect the
truth?
For several days she asked embarrassing questions, as to where her aunt
went, and with whom she had been during these long absences from home.
This disquietude and seeming curiosity changed the affection which Mme.
Fauvel had hitherto felt for her adopted daughter into positive dislike.
She regretted having placed over herself a vigilant spy from whom she
could not escape. She pondered what means she could take to avoid the
penetrating watchfulness of a girl who was accustomed to read in her
face every thought that crossed her mind.
With unspeakable satisfaction she solved the difficulty in a way which
she thought would please all parties.
During the last two years the banker’s cashier and _protege_, Prosper
Bertomy, had been devoted in his attentions to Madeleine. Mme. Fauvel
decided to do all in her power to hasten matters, so that, Madeleine
once married and out of the house, there would be no one to criticise
her own movements. She could then spend most of her time with Raoul
without fear of detection.
That evening, with a duplicity of which she would have been incapable a
few weeks before, she began to question Madeleine about her sentiments
toward Prosper:
“Ah, ha, mademoiselle,” she said, gayly, “I have discovered your secret.
You are going on at a pretty rate! The idea of your choosing a husband
without my permission!”
“Why, aunt! I thought you----”
“Yes, I know; you thought I had suspected the true state of affairs!
That is precisely what I have done.”
Then, in a serious tone, she said:
“Therefore nothing remains to be done except to obtain the consent of
Master Prosper. Do you think he will grant it?”
“Oh, Aunt Valentine! he would be too happy.”
“Ah, indeed! you seem to know all about it; perhaps you do not care for
any assistance in carrying out your wishes?”
Madeleine, blushing and confused, hung her head, and said nothing. Mme.
Fauvel drew her toward her, and continued affectionately:
“My dear child, do not be distressed: you have done nothing wrong, and
need fear no opposition to your wishes. Is it possible that a person of
your penetration supposed us to be in ignorance of your secret? Did you
think that Prosper would have been so warmly welcomed by your uncle and
myself, had we not approved of him in every respect?”
Madeleine threw her arms around her aunt’s neck, and said:
“Oh, my dear aunt, you make me so happy! I am very grateful for your
love and kindness. I am very glad that you are pleased with my choice.”
Mme. Fauvel said to herself:
“I will make Andre speak to Prosper, and before two months are over the
marriage must take place. Madeleine once married, I shall have nothing
to fear.”
Unfortunately, Mme. Fauvel was so engrossed by her new passion that she
put off from day to day her project of hastening the marriage, until it
was too late. Spending a portion of each day at the Hotel du Louvre with
Raoul, and, when separated from him, devoting her thoughts to insuring
him an independent fortune and a good position, she could think of
nothing else.
She had not yet spoken to him of money or business.
She imagined that she had discovered in him his father’s noble
qualities; that the sensitiveness which is so easily wounded was
expressed in his every word and action.
She anxiously wondered if he would ever accept the least assistance from
her. The Marquis of Clameran quieted her doubts on this point.
She had frequently met him since the day on which he had so frightened
her, and to her first aversion had succeeded a secret sympathy. She felt
kindly toward him for the affection he lavished on her son.
If Raoul, with the heedlessness of youth, mocked at the future, Louis,
the man of the world, looked upon it with different eyes. He was anxious
for the welfare of his nephew, and constantly complained of the idle
life he was now leading.
One day, after praising the attractive qualities of Raoul, he said:
“This pleasant life is very well, as long as it lasts; but people cannot
live upon air, and, as my handsome nephew has no fortune, it would be
only prudent for us to procure him some employment.”
“Ah, my dear uncle, do let me enjoy my present happiness. What is the
use of any change? What do I want?”
“You want for nothing at present, Raoul; but when your resources are
exhausted, and mine, too--which will be in a short time--what will
become of you?”
“_Bast!_ I will enter the army. All the Clamerans are born soldiers; and
if a war comes----”
Mme. Fauvel laid her hand upon his lips, and said in a tone of
reproachful tenderness:
“Cruel boy, become a soldier? would you, then, deprive me of the joy of
seeing you?”
“No, my mother; no.”
“You must agree to whatever plans we make for your good,” said Louis;
“and not be talking of any wild schemes of your own.”
“I am ready to obey; but not yet. One of these days I will go to work,
and make a fortune.”
“How, poor, foolish boy? What can you do?”
“_Dame!_ I don’t know now; but set your mind at rest, I will find a
way.”
Finding it impossible to make this self-sufficient youth listen to
reason, Louis and Mme. Fauvel, after discussing the matter fully,
decided that assistance must be forced upon him, and his path in life
marked out for him.
It was difficult, however, to choose a profession; and Clameran thought
it prudent to wait awhile, and study the bent of the young man’s mind.
In the meanwhile it was decided that Mme. Fauvel should place funds at
Clameran’s disposal for Raoul’s support.
Regarding Gaston’s brother in the light of a father to her child, Mme.
Fauvel soon found him indispensable. She continually longed to see
him, either to consult him concerning some step to be taken for Raoul’s
benefit, or to impress upon him some good advice to be given.
Thus she was well pleased, when one day he requested the honor of being
allowed to call upon her at her own house.
Nothing was easier than to introduce the Marquis of Clameran to her
husband as an old friend of her family; and, after once being admitted,
he might come as often as he chose.
Mme. Fauvel congratulated herself upon this arrangement.
Afraid to go to Raoul every day, and in constant terror lest her letters
to him should be discovered, and his replies fall into her husband’s
hands, she was delighted at the prospect of having news of him from
Clameran.
For a month, things went on very smoothly, when one day the marquis
confessed that Raoul was giving him a great deal of trouble. His
hesitating, embarrassed manner frightened Mme. Fauvel. She thought
something dreadful had happened, and that he was trying to break the bad
news gently.
“What is the matter?” she said, turning pale.
“I am sorry to say,” replied Clameran, “that this young man has
inherited all the pride and passions of his ancestors. He is one
of those natures who stop at nothing, who only find incitement in
opposition; and I can think of no way of checking him in his mad
career.”
“Merciful Heaven! what has he been doing?”
“Nothing especially censurable; that is, nothing irreparable, thus far;
but I am afraid of the future. He is unaware of the liberal allowance
which you have placed in my hands for his benefit; and, although he
thinks that I support him, there is not a single indulgence which
he denies himself; he throws away money as if he were the son of a
millionaire.”
Like all mothers, Mme. Fauvel attempted to excuse her son.
“Perhaps you are a little severe,” she said. “Poor child, he has
suffered so much! He has undergone so many privations during his
childhood, that this sudden happiness and wealth has turned his head;
he seizes it as a starving man seizes a piece of bread. Is it surprising
that he should refuse to listen to reason until hungry nature shall have
been gratified? Ah, only have patience, and he will soon return to
the path of sober duty. He has too noble a heart to do anything really
wrong.”
“He has suffered so much!” was Mme. Fauvel’s constant excuse for Raoul.
This was her invariable reply to M. de Clameran’s complaints of his
nephew’s conduct.
And, having once commenced, he was now constant in his accusations
against Raoul.
“Nothing restrains his extravagance and dissipation,” Louis would say in
a mournful voice; “the instant a piece of folly enters his head, it is
carried out, no matter at what cost.”
Mme. Fauvel saw no reason why her son should be thus harshly judged.
“You must remember,” she said in an aggrieved tone, “that from infancy
he has been left to his own unguided impulses. The unfortunate boy never
had a mother to tend and counsel him. You must remember, too, that he
has never known a father’s guidance.”
“There is some excuse for him, to be sure; but nevertheless he must
change his present course. Could you not speak seriously to him, madame?
You have more influence over him than I.”
She promised, but forgot her good resolution when with Raoul. She had
so little time to devote to him, that it seemed cruel to spend it in
reprimands. Sometimes she would hurry from home for the purpose of
following the marquis’s advice; but, the instant she saw Raoul, her
courage failed; a pleading look from his soft, dark eyes silenced the
rebuke upon her lips; the sound of his voice banished every anxious
thought, and lulled her mind to the present happiness.
But Clameran was not a man to lose sight of the main object, in what he
considered a sentimental wasting of time. He would have no compromise of
duty.
His brother had bequeathed to him, as a precious trust, his son Raoul;
he regarded himself, he said, as his guardian, and would be held
responsible in another world for his welfare.
He entreated Mme. Fauvel to use her influence, when he found himself
powerless in trying to check the heedless youth in his headlong career.
She ought, for the sake of her child, to see more of him, study his
disposition, and daily admonish him in his duty to himself and to her.
“Alas,” the poor woman replied, “that would be my heart’s desire. But
how can I do it? Have I the right to ruin myself? I have other children,
for whom I must be careful of my reputation.”
This answer appeared to astonish Clameran. A fortnight before, Mme.
Fauvel would not have alluded to her other sons.
“I will think the matter over,” said Louis, “And perhaps when I see
you next I shall be able to submit to you a plan which will reconcile
everything.”
The reflections of a man of so much experience could not be fruitless.
He had a relieved, satisfied look, when he called to see Mme. Fauvel on
the following week.
“I think I have solved the problem,” he said.
“What problem?”
“The means of saving Raoul.”
He explained himself by saying, that as Mme. Fauvel could not, without
arousing her husband’s suspicions, continue her daily visits to Raoul,
she must receive him at her own house.
This proposition shocked Mme. Fauvel; for though she had been imprudent,
even culpable, she was the soul of honor, and naturally shrank from the
idea of introducing Raoul into the midst of her family, and seeing him
welcomed by her husband, and perhaps become the friend of his sons.
Her instinctive sense of justice made her declare that she would never
consent to such an infamous step.
“Yes,” said the marquis, thoughtfully, “there is some risk; but then, it
is the only chance of saving your child.”
She resisted with so much firmness and indignation that Louis was
astonished, and for a time nonplussed; though he by no means let the
subject drop, but seized every opportunity of impressing upon her
tortured mind that Raoul’s salvation depended entirely upon her.
“No,” she would always reply, “no! Never will I be so base and
perfidious to my husband!”
Unfortunate woman! little did she know of the pitfalls which stand ever
ready to swallow up wanderers from the path of virtue.
Before a week had passed, she listened to this project, which at first
had filled her with horror, with a willing ear, and even began to devise
means for its speedy execution.
Yes, after a cruel struggle, she finally yielded to the pressure of
Clameran’s politely uttered threats and Raoul’s wheedling entreaties.
“But how,” she asked, “upon what pretext can I receive Raoul?”
“It would be the easiest thing in the world,” replied Clameran, “to
admit him as an ordinary acquaintance, and, indeed, to place him on
the same footing which I myself occupy--that of an intimate friend and
habitue of your drawing-rooms. But Raoul must have more than this; he
needs your constant care.”
After torturing Mme. Fauvel for a long time, he finally revealed his
scheme.
“We have in our hands,” he said, “the solution of this problem, which
may be so easily reached that I regard it as an inspiration.”
Mme. Fauvel eagerly scanned his face as she listened with the pitiable
resignation of a martyr.
“Have you not a cousin, a widow lady, who had two daughters, living at
St. Remy?” asked Louis.
“Yes, Mme. de Lagors.”
“Precisely so. What fortune has she?”
“She is poor, monsieur, very poor.”
“And, but for the assistance you render her secretly, she would be
thrown upon the charity of the world.”
Mme. Fauvel was bewildered at finding the marquis so well informed of
her private affairs.
“How could you have discovered this?” she asked.
“Oh, I know all about this affair, and many others besides. I know, for
example, that your husband has never met any of your relatives, and that
he is not even aware of the existence of your cousin De Lagors. Do you
begin to comprehend my plan?”
She not only understood it, but also knew that she would end by being a
party to it.
“All will succeed if you follow my instructions,” said Louis. “To-morrow
or next day, you will receive a letter from your cousin at St. Remy,
telling you that she has sent her son to Paris on a visit, and begs you
to receive and watch over him. Naturally you show this letter to your
husband; and a few days afterward he warmly welcomes your nephew, Raoul
de Lagors, a handsome, rich, attractive young man, who does everything
he can to please you both.”
“Monsieur,” replied Mme. Fauvel, “my cousin is a pious, honorable woman,
and nothing would induce her to countenance so shameful a transaction.”
The marquis smiled scornfully, and said:
“Who told you that I intended to confide in her?”
“But you would be obliged to do so! How else?”
“You are very simple, madame. The letter which you will receive, and
show to your husband, will be dictated by me, and posted at St. Remy
by a friend of mine. If I spoke of the obligations under which you have
placed your cousin, it was merely to show you that, in case of accident,
her own interest would make her serve you. Do you see any obstacle to
this plan, madame?”
Mme. Fauvel’s eyes flashed with indignation.
“Is my will of no account?” she exclaimed. “You seem to have made your
arrangements without consulting me at all.”
“Excuse me,” said the marquis, with ironical politeness, “but I knew
that you would take the same view of the matter as myself. Your good
sense would convince you of the necessity of using every possible means
of rescuing your child from destruction.”
“But it is a crime, monsieur, that you propose--an abominable crime! My
mind revolts at the very idea of it!”
This speech seemed to arouse all the bad passions slumbering in
Clameran’s bosom; and his pale face had a fiendish expression as he
fiercely replied:
“We had better end this humbuggery, and come to a clear understanding at
once. Before you begin to talk about crime, think over your past life.
You were not so timid and scrupulous when you gave yourself up to your
lover; neither did you hesitate to faithlessly refuse to share his
exile, although for your sake he had just jeopardized his life by
killing two men. You felt no scruples at abandoning your child in
London; although rolling in wealth, you never even inquired if this poor
waif had bread to eat. You felt no scruples about marrying M. Fauvel.
Did you tell your confiding husband of the lines of shame concealed
beneath that orange wreath? Did you hesitate to confirm and strengthen
his happy delusion, that his lips had pressed the first kiss upon your
brow? No! All these crimes you indulged in; and, when in Gaston’s name
I demand reparation, you indignantly refuse. But, mark my words, madame,
it is too late! You ruined the father; but you shall save the son, or,
by all the saints in heaven, I swear you shall no longer cheat the world
of its esteem.”
“I will obey you, monsieur,” murmured the trembling, frightened woman.
The following week Raoul, now Raoul de Lagors, was seated at the
banker’s dinner-table, between Mme. Fauvel and Madeleine.