Poor Elaine. She had returned to her room completely overwhelmed by
what she had heard. What woman could it have been with Claude? To whom
could he have been talking? Some cruel coquette who made it her pastime
to lead men astray, blinding them to their true happiness and boasting
of her conquests. She, Elaine, had been a help to him in his work,
his faithful companion, always ready with sweet sympathy and valuable
counsel. How many times had she helped him to overcome despondency and
to triumph over obstacles of all kinds. And was she to lose all this?
Was she to submit passively to the sight of her happiness crumbling to
the ground before her eyes? No! she would struggle to regain it! She
would make every effort as long as there was the least hope; would try
to win back his love; would never reproach him; would be as cheerful
and as lovely as ever. She would try in every way to make herself
beautiful and fascinating. One thought tormented her--she turned to the
mirror to see if she were commencing to grow old. How many women have
asked themselves this same question, and with what fear of the answer?
She heard a knock at the door.
"It is I, mother; may I come in?"
Her son!
"Certainly."
Paul started when he saw how pale his mother was.
She sat down, pointing out a chair for her son; but he knelt at her
feet, and, embracing her tenderly, said:
"You are the loveliest woman in the world, and the most intelligent;
but, at the same time, you are the most ungrateful."
"I, ungrateful?"
"Oh! you need not look so astonished. Do you not remember when we used
to live alone together, that I told you every thing? No matter what the
trouble was, I would turn to you, and you would console me. How many
times have you wiped away my tears! But now, you are in sorrow; and you
will not confide in me."
Paul felt his mother tremble.
"You are mistaken dear child. I am not unhappy."
"Then, why are you so sad? Why do you tremble? Why are you so pale, and
why are these tears in your eyes?"
Elaine's wounded heart could not withstand this loving appeal. Her head
rested on Paul's shoulder, and she burst into tears.
The young man was frightened. Was the wound so deep--
"Great God, mother! you are unhappy? What can be the cause?"
She wept without replying. Paul pressed his cheek against her lovely
head, his eyes full of tears.
"You will not tell me? But, remember, dearest mother, that you have
always been my mother and sister at the same time. I know there are
some things that a mother can not reveal to her son. Keep your secret
from your son, but confide it to your loving brother."
"Thank you, darling. I am unhappy."
"But, why?"
"Because I--"
"Open your heart so that I can sympathize with you."
"Forgive me, Paul. I am weak and miserable. I dread to reveal my
heart's secrets. A mother ought not to make a confidant of her son;
but I am wretched! and who can sympathize with me but you? Who can
comfort me, but you? You were angry when I married your step-father.
But I loved him, and I could not resist his pleading. He confessed
his faults, his past love-affairs, fully to me, and I, in my foolish
vanity, thought I could change his life; thought his love would keep
him pure and loyal to me. For four years his conduct has been above
reproach. Is he deceiving me now? I do not know. I do not wish to know.
His disloyalty, if it exists, has not taken him away from home; but I
feel that he is drifting away from me. He is no longer mine. For two
months has this terrible truth been slowly forcing itself upon me. I
have a rival, a pitiless rival, whose iron will and stony heart are
coming between me and my husband.
"I am losing his confidence, as well as his affection. I no longer
reign supreme. If you knew how I have suffered! Many a time have I
spent the whole night in tears and misery! When we met again in the
morning, you knew not that my smiling face was only a mask to cover the
sorrow and despair within."
"Dear, dear mother! why did you not appeal to me for sympathy long
ago? Love is as cruel as it is blissful. I can imagine what I should
suffer, if Odette were to drift away from me. But I do not think you
need be so hopeless. Claude is true and good. You will always be his
guiding star, as you have been in the past. We must forgive much to
these excitable, artistic natures. That is where you have always shown
such tender wisdom. Who knows but what he may return to you to-morrow,
more loving, more devoted than ever?"
She continued, with more energy, "No! this time he is caught in a
strong net. This rival, whoever she may be, is dangerous. Claude has
always before been incapable of dissimulation or falsehood, but she has
tainted him with her poisonous hypocrisy. Do you not see how careful he
is to spend as much time as possible at home with us all; he is either
with us four, or with dear Odette all the time."
"Can it not be that you are mistaken? When and where could he meet
her, as he is so seldom out of our sight?"
"Ah, Paul! Must I tell you every thing? You ask me where he meets
her. Here, in my house! He dares to make love to her at my very side.
Why, not half an hour ago, I surprised him and some woman in the
drawing-room; and he said----"
"I know," interrupted Paul, smilingly.
"What?"
"He was with Odette."
Elaine stood turned to stone. She closed her eyes, on the point of
swooning. She heard again Claude's exquisite, soft tones, "I love you
more than life and honor." And he had said that to Odette!
"You are astonished that I know so much," Paul continued. "I met them
just as they were leaving the drawing-room together. Now, do you not
see you were mistaken. Your jealous fancy causes you to misconstrue
what you saw and heard. Claude is sincere and loyal; he is incapable
of treachery of any kind, and you must confess now that you were
entirely mistaken."
Elaine was listening no longer. She thought she was dying. So this
rival, implacable and cruel, was Odette! The conviction came to her
with the irresistible force of truth. She was afraid her son would read
it in her eyes, but could neither speak nor move. He continued in the
same cheerful tone. "I can explain every thing, dear mother; you have
been unreasonably jealous lately, and misconstrued every thing, so
that you seemed to yourself to be right in your conclusions. Instead
of confiding in Claude, you have shut your heart to him and sought
proofs of infidelity where every thing was simple and loyal. I have
noticed myself that Claude has painted very little lately, but Grenoble
says this temporary paralysis comes upon him occasionally, and he only
works the better after it. But I do not wish to leave you with a single
suspicion; I hope to cure you completely; so tell me what you thought
you heard him say just now in the drawing-room?"
She gazed at her son with haggard eyes. She knew that Paul would not
survive the truth one single hour, and, by a supreme effort, forced her
lips to a smile, saying, "You are right; I was mistaken; you have cured
me. Thanks! oh, my child! my child! my child!"
She kissed him again and again. "I love you, dear Paul; my jealousy is
at an end--if you could only see the happiness in my heart."
The door opened and Odette came in, dressed for her walk, buttoning her
gloves.
"I am ready first, Paul," she said.
"I will not keep you waiting five seconds," he replied, and whispered
to his mother. "We will not tell any one our little secrets--good bye,"
and he hurried from the room, leaving the two women face to face, the
elder knowing herself so infamously betrayed by the other!
Elaine followed Paul with her eyes. As soon as he had disappeared she
rose. The savage despair in her heart flamed from her eyes. She sprang
towards Odette in a burst of jealous fury.
"Wretch!" she hissed between her teeth.
Odette started as if a bullet had reached her heart. As a flash of
lightning lights up a landscape, so did every thing come clear before
her eyes. She did not attempt any denial.
"Yes, Claude is my lover," she said in a hollow voice. "You call me a
wretch? I have called myself nothing else for a long time. What can you
do? It will kill Paul if you tell him."
Elaine felt herself fainting away. The thought of appearing so weak
before Odette, gave her strength enough to drag herself to the window,
where she leaned against the frame. The sun streamed in uninterrupted
on the furniture, the pictures and the carpet. Its dazzling brilliancy
flooded the whole room and the two women who stood there, dumb and
immovable as statues--Odette, her eyes flashing anguish and suspense;
Elaine, struggling against her deathly faintness. She held fast
to the window-frame, her teeth chattering. The avenue was full of
people--carriages dashing past to the Bois de Boulogne; the sidewalks
filled with gay loungers, enjoying the glorious weather. An orange-man
had raised his little stall across the avenue, and was crying his
oranges in a shrill, loud voice. The trees waved gently in the soft
June air. Some children were playing on the lawn between the sidewalk
and the street. None of these details escaped Elaine's eyes, which yet
were staring at vacancy, while her brain was burning with thoughts and
ideas dashing against each other like waves on the ocean in a storm.
She wanted to scream to Paul, "Kill this guilty wretch!" then the
thought of Paul's despair restrained her. And the other woman saw
her dilemma and gloated over it. What could she do? Her heart writhed
in her breast. Could she see her at her table, eat in the same room,
smile at her, talk to her? That would be more than human nature could
endure! In spite of herself, her mouth would scream the truth, and Paul
would kill himself. The poor woman felt as if she were in a cage of
red-hot iron. Whichever way she turned, she hit against the bars that
burned into her flesh. Paul would kill himself if she told him the
truth, and she could not plunge the knife into her son's heart. She
shook convulsively from head to foot. Then she forced her will to obey
her, and, turning suddenly, faced Odette. She would sacrifice her life
for her son--any thing--rather than that he should learn the truth.
Her life was ended. She offered her heart and pride on the altar of
maternity. She resolved to tear herself to pieces with her own hands,
rather than have Paul suffer.
She heard him outside, giving an order to a servant. She did not even
tremble, but advanced to Odette, took her arm, forced her to sit down
on the sofa, and sat down by her side. Paul came in. At the first
glance he cast upon them, he cried: "My God! what is the matter,
Odette? You are so pale, mother!"
Elaine took Odette's hand affectionately. "I was very faint.
Fortunately your wife was here to help me. I am quite well again now."
Paul supposed it was the effects of his conversation with his mother;
so he was not so much alarmed.
"The weather is magnificent. Go, my children."
Paul replied: "But we will not leave you if you are not well."
"No, no; go! It will do you both good to take a walk. This glorious
sunshine is so delightful."
Paul kissed her, and offered his arm to Odette. She had said nothing.
She was completely crushed to the ground at Elaine's great sacrifice.
"Why do you not kiss my mother?" asked Paul, astonished at her silence.
Odette looked at Elaine humbly, deprecatingly. She leaned over and
touched her lips to Mme. Sirvin's cold brow. Elaine shuddered to the
very depths of her soul.
The husband and wife left the room. Then a frightful change came over
this suffering saint. She remained one minute immovable--Odette's touch
was still burning on her forehead. Then she sprang to her feet with
a wild shriek of "Paul! Paul!" Her strength, however, had all gone;
wildly beating the air with her arms, with a groan of despair, she fell
her full length on the floor, rigid and unconscious.