They started for Paris the next day, stopping at Dijon, to see Anna
Laviguerie, a distant cousin, aged and poor, who would have died of
starvation long ago if Odette had not sent her money from time to
time. Thanks to her cousin, Mdlle. Anna was able to spend her days in
complete mental and physical peace, which is really, if we did but know
it, two-thirds of what we call happiness in this world.
The old lady was so gratified and pleased at their visit that they were
really touched; but they could not stop long; the next day they took
the express for Paris. As they came north they found the weather very
much colder, of course, and the country was covered with snow.
When the train stopped in the Paris dépôt, the first person they saw
was Grenoble waving his long arms in welcome, while Mme. Sirvin stood
near him, beaming with joy.
"Let me look at you, dear children," said Elaine, when they were seated
in the carriage. "You have both grown handsome during your travels.
Have they not, Grenoble? You must excuse your step-father's absence; he
has been out of town a few days and will not return until to-morrow."
Odette enquired for her father and sister. Elaine replied that she
would meet them at the house. The conversation ran on, gay and lively.
Paul pressed his mother's hand from time to time, as if he would say,
"You are not mistaken. I am very, very happy."
Grenoble seemed to think his suggestions for their trip had proved very
successful, and said that Paris would seem dull and gloomy after the
southern sunshine.
They soon arrived at the house where Laviguerie and Germaine were
awaiting them. Germaine looked pale, but smiling and lovely as usual.
"Are you happy?" she found time to whisper to Odette.
"Very happy. I love him, and he loves me."
"May God watch over your happiness. And He will. Your husband will love
you as long as he lives, and he is worthy of your utmost love."
She did not even sigh at this happiness, built upon the ruins of hers.
She seemed quietly happy all the evening, as usual. It would have
needed a very close observer to have noticed the slight tremor when she
happened to meet her brother-in-law's glance. The company broke up at
eleven, as Odette was tired from her journey. Their rooms were ready
on the second floor, as Mme. Sirvin had written. The sweet intimacy of
their early married life had come to an end, as Paul and Odette, of
course, now had their separate apartments.
In spite of her fatigue, Odette could not sleep. She lay with wide-open
eyes, staring at the dying embers on the hearth. She would see Claude
the next day! What would he say to her? What would she reply? What
could they say, these two that used to love one another? Not that she
was afraid. She loved Paul now, and was cured of the old infatuation.
But in spite of such thoughts, a dull pain was gnawing at her heart.
Any slight noise, the fire-brands falling, startled her into almost a
fever. She finally fell asleep, but was haunted by weird dreams all
night long, and woke in the morning exhausted and nervous.
Until their house-keeping arrangements were completed, they were to
take their meals with the Sirvins, so Odette kept her room until lunch
time, when she knew the dreaded interview must take place.
As she entered the lunch room with Mme. Sirvin, she saw Claude talking
to Grenoble by the window. He turned as she approached and said
politely and naturally: "I hope you have recovered from the fatigue of
your journey, Madame."
She thanked him by a formal salutation, but she could not utter a
sound. She felt as if some one had suddenly pierced her heart with
a red-hot iron. She soon excused herself on a plea of headache, and
returned to her room. Then slowly she drew a chair in front of the long
cheval glass, and, sinking into it, gazed at her reflection. Her face
was livid. Her eyes were nearly twice their natural size. She passed
her hand across her cold brow, and said in a tone of utter despair:
"I am lost!"
At the sound of her own voice she trembled from head to foot. So all
her struggles and efforts had been in vain. She had seen him, and one
glance had brought the old passion back again in all its strength and
power. What could she do? Where could she flee? She could implore Paul
to save her, to take her away, any where; but it would break his heart.
Her arms crossed, she paced up and down, nervous, feverish, almost
insane. Who could help her? Perhaps Germaine. If she were to confess
every thing to her sister! She would go immediately! She rang for the
maid. Paul answered the summons, and, with the tender vigilance of
affection, inquired if she were sick, or if any thing were the matter.
Her excitement lent her strength to dissemble: "I am better, thank you.
I want to see Germaine. I have a thousand things to tell her. No!--I do
not care to have you go with me."
She spoke quite naturally, almost smilingly, running a pin again and
again into her hat, which she held in her hand. She felt that her
husband must be allowed no glimpse of her anguish. And how could
he have had the least suspicion? How could he know any thing of her
unhappy passion?
As soon as she was alone on the street, her former thought came again
to her, to confess every thing to Germaine. But she felt now it was
impossible. Her womanly instinct revolted at the thought of such a
confession. There are some things that can never be confided, even to a
dearly loved sister. She hurried along, her eyes fixed on the ground,
accusing herself of cowardice; that one little sentence from Claude
had sufficed to undo the work of months. M. Laviguerie occupied the
first floor of one of those large, old-fashioned houses on the quai
Voltaire, with high ceilings, comfortable and airy. Germaine had taken
possession of two large sunny rooms, one for her bed-room, the other
her sitting-room, and was always at home to any one in trouble. Mme.
de Rozan had left her a considerable fortune, which she expended in
feeding the hungry and clothing the poor, with tender words of sympathy
and hope for those in sorrow. Thus was her life spent; almost nun-like
in her self-sacrificing devotion to suffering humanity.
At seven o'clock, every morning, she attended early service at Saint
Germain-des-Prés. She then visited her poor people until lunch time,
when she returned home to be with her father, trying to enter into his
pursuits and make his life cheerful and happy.
At first, M. Laviguerie was somewhat embarrassed in her presence.
He did not feel at ease with this daughter that he had condemned to
disease and morbid nervousness. Her peaceful life seemed to subvert
all his theories. But he felt re-assured of his correct judgment when
he saw her devotion to religion and charity. He saw in her many little
traits that reminded him of her mother, and when M. Descoutures, one
day, with great hesitation, ventured to enquire his present opinion
of Germaine, he replied, "I was not mistaken. There are certain
unmistakable symptoms. Women of this nature must always have something
to which they can devote their time and energies; at present, Germaine
thinks of nothing but her religion and her poor people. I do not
interfere at all, of course."
Germaine was sewing busily on a black dress, for a poor woman whose
husband had been killed the day before by some accident, when Odette
came to her room.
"You are very kind to come and see me so soon, dear Odette; but how
feverish you are. Are you sick?"
"I am not well, Germaine. I am suffering beyond expression. Do not ask
me any questions, I can not answer them; but I come to you for help.
I am being carried away by a raging torrent, and I cling to you for
safety!"
Germaine was dumb with astonishment and consternation, then suddenly
she comprehended, and as Odette stopped, she said, "Oh, unhappy soul!
You do not love your husband!"
"Oh, no, no!" cried Odette, terrified at her sister's keenness. "You
are mistaken, I do love him."
"But not as you ought to love him," replied Germaine, as excited as
Odette, "for then you could not be unhappy. Then you would appreciate
your wonderfully happy lot in life, or, if you were in trouble you
would appeal to him, not come to me."
Odette came closer to her sister, seized her hands and said slowly:
"You are right. I do not love him."
Germaine's eyes flashed with anger. What! _his_ wife! belong to _him_!
so tenderly loved, and no love for him in return! Oh, it was infamous!
She groaned in her despair, but suddenly reproached herself that her
sympathy was all for Paul. She conquered her anger, and with infinite
tenderness said: "Then, dear one, I understand your sufferings; but,
hope! dearest Odette. Every one has hours of anguish and despair; but
hope, and you will regain your lost love. Depend on me and on God!"
As Germaine repeated her last word, the young wife cried: "You can
believe and pray. I can not; I have tried, and found nothing to answer
me." She covered her face with her hands, while sobs convulsed her
frame from head to foot.
"Weep, dear Odette. I weep with you from the depths of my heart. I do
not understand, though. Why did you marry if you did not love him? and,
if you loved him, why have you changed so suddenly?"
Odette commenced a true confession, but again her womanly delicacy
rebelled. She could not tell her pure and gentle sister the shameful
secret of her marriage, and no words could she bring over her lips. At
last she said: "Do not leave me alone, Germaine; come back with me to
the house to-day. I must return now. Come with me, I beseech you. I
will leave a note for my father, so that he will come up to dinner."
"I will do whatever you wish," Germaine replied.
Claude happened to have invited a few gentlemen to dinner, so the
conversation was very gay and animated. Odette wished nothing more
than to be left to her own thoughts; but Grenoble insisted upon
discussing art with her, and she replied with some vivacity. As she
became interested in the subject, her wit and sparkling sallies drew
the attention of the whole party. Grenoble and the gentlemen applauded.
She was inexpressibly beautiful--her nervous excitement flushing her
delicate complexion and lending brilliancy to her glorious eyes. Claude
looked at her in wondering admiration, appreciating her rare wit and
beauty.
Usually he went out after dinner, or the gentlemen adjourned to the
studio; but no one left the drawing-room this evening.
"You are eloquent, Madame," said Grenoble. "I never heard an art critic
express himself better. Women play with paradoxes as skilfully as
Japanese jugglers play with knives."
"Do not abuse the paradox, M. Grenoble. It is the truth of to-morrow."
Grenoble turned to Claude, saying: "Do you know that I think you are
very foolish to be hunting every where for a model for your Danae. If
Mme. Frager would consent, you could copy from her the loveliest head
that ever was painted on canvas. Do you not agree with me, Mme. Elaine?"
"You are right, Grenoble," replied Mme. Sirvin.
Neither Claude nor Odette replied; but in her heart Odette resolved she
never would sit to him. The conversation soon took another turn, and a
different subject was introduced.
As for Germaine, her heart was bleeding all the evening. Her thoughts
were now in Naples, and now on the sad revelation of the afternoon. How
was it that Odette could help loving Paul--so handsome, so good, so
loyal! For the first time her virgin heart suffered something like the
pangs of jealousy. When she bade him good night, she had to close her
eyes that he might not see the tender love and pity swimming in their
depths.
"But you must not go home alone, Germaine," said Mme. Sirvin. "The
carriage is ready. Paul will go with you."
"Oh, no!" she replied, quickly. "Odette will lend me her maid," and to
Paul's polite insistance she gave a firm refusal. She had whispered,
"Be brave," to Odette, and as she drove off, asked herself why life
never unites those who would be happiest together.