Odette was in the cruelest suspense and anxiety during her stroll
through the Bois de Boulogne with her husband. Fortunately, Paul was so
gay and happy that he chatted merrily all the time, hardly giving her a
chance to reply. After an hour or so they returned home, Paul saying he
must go to his mother.
As they reached the gate, Odette said "I will leave you here."
"Are you not coming in?"
"Not just yet; I have a call to make in the neighborhood."
So Paul left her and went to his mother's room. As soon as he had
entered the house she walked quickly to Claude's studio, and finding it
empty, went in and locked the door. At last she was alone! She had had
no time yet to think. Ever since her trip to Dijon had she been haunted
by the dread of discovery, although she had always tried to banish
the thought. If it did intrude she had always answered it by thinking
that Paul would kill her, or else that she and Claude would commit
suicide together. As she crouched now in a corner of the sofa these
thoughts thronged her brain; she lived over again the frightful scene
with Elaine, and grovelled in spirit before her sublime sacrifice. She
compared herself to Elaine, and writhed at the abyss separating them;
one so pure and noble, the other so degraded. It grew dark; her mind
was full of despair and anguish. Would Claude never come to put an end
to this cruel uncertainty?
At last she heard his step outside. He fitted his key in the lock and
opened the door. He lighted a wax taper on the mantelpiece and started
when he saw Odette. He had been walking aimlessly, miles and miles,
into the country, trying to find some way to retrieve his honor and
extricate himself from the quicksands where his passion had led him.
But he had arrived at no decision, and had returned as miserable and
anxious as when he started.
"I have been waiting hours for your return," said Odette, "for it was
your wife that overheard us in the drawing-room."
"Elaine?"
"Yes! She knows all. So I was waiting till you came, to----"
"To what?"
"To commit suicide."
"Commit suicide!"
"What else can we do, now that your wife has discovered our secret? I
wish you could have seen her! She knew our guilt, and yet she had the
superhuman strength to speak to me, to smile and take my hand, so that
she could shield her son from the blow. But no human being could stand
such a struggle without succumbing sooner or later. And, besides, I
should die under her contempt. My own seems, sometimes, more than I can
endure. We must die!"
Claude did not reply. His was one of those natures that look upon a
secret crime as comparatively harmless. Only when it is dragged to the
light do they see its guilt in its true color. And now he felt degraded
in his own sight, and torn by conflicting emotions.
"We must kill ourselves. There is no other way out of it."
"Kill ourselves!" he repeated in the same tone of consternation.
"Death, or flight. Take your choice."
"But, Odette, you are insane. Your ideas are entirely too dramatic. You
never see such tragedies except on the stage. When we are so happy in
our love, that is not the time to commit suicide!"
"But there is no other way of escape that I can discover. We have
committed a crime, and must abide the consequences. We can flee, it
is true. I am ready now to take your arm and go out with you into the
world, giving up home and reputation for your love. Come, shall we go?"
"No; that is impossible, too."
Odette was filled with contempt at his cowardly indecision.
"Do you want to give me up?" she cried. "Would you leave me?"
"Leave you? never! You know I can not live without you. But I hesitate
to sacrifice your honor, your reputation--"
"My honor! that was tarnished long ago when I gave it into your
keeping. My reputation--what do I care for the respect of others, when
I have lost my own!"
"And the disgrace!"
"Are you afraid? I am not."
"I am only thinking of you."
She saw his hesitation.
"You are a coward! You are trembling. You did not tremble when you
followed me to Dijon. You were the one that proposed flight then. Do
you not see that we must accept the responsibility of our guilt, and
support it with dignity and courage. I have been more distressed by
the thought of retaining the respect of our friends by deceit, than by
any thing else. That has tormented me at times beyond endurance; this
cringing dissembling, hypocrisy and treachery. When your wife flung her
disdain and contempt in my face, I breathed freely for the first time
in months; for this hateful deception of all around us must now come to
an end. The world, our world, will cover us with disgrace; but we need
not care. Place the pleasures of our mutual love in one side of the
balance, with society's contempt in the other, and which will turn the
scale? Braving scandal and disgrace shows that we at least have dignity
and courage left. Come, let us go."
These burning words roused him from his torpor. How beautiful she was
in her scorn and excitement! He replied to Odette, who stood straight
and motionless before him:
"No; we will not go."
Her lip curled with contempt; but without replying, she turned to the
door.
"Odette, where are you going?" he cried, frightened at her silence.
"I despise you."
He sprang to her side and seized her in his arms.
"But I love you. Am I not yours, body and soul? Do you blame me for
hesitating to resort to extremes? You wish to die, because you are a
woman, and they always incline to tragedy. I wish to enjoy your love,
and yet avoid any thing leading to scandal and disgrace." He covered
her with kisses as she lay quiet in his arms.
"Be reasonable and calm. We must not meet this danger with any foolish,
sentimental excitement, but with cool and wary plans. Sit down here by
me, and let us discuss it quietly."
She yielded, subdued as usual by his magnetic influence over her.
"Who knows our secret? Elaine.--Poor Elaine! I curse the day I was born
when I think of what she must be suffering. As she shows herself nobler
and more self-sacrificing, my remorse increases."
"Yes, indeed," sighed Odette.
There was silence between them. Both were lost in wondering admiration
of Elaine's grand sacrifice. Claude continued:
"Why should not our life go on as before? Elaine will keep the secret,
and I can not bear the thought of Death when we are enjoying such love
and life. Flight would be shame and disgrace for both of us--your
reputation irretrievably ruined, my career ended. You see that we can
remain at home; Elaine will close her eyes to our affection----"
Both were flushed with shame at their cruel calculations on Elaine's
tortured heart. Instinctively, they felt themselves still more closely
bound together as they sunk lower and lower.
A servant's voice was heard outside. Odette rose. She had not replied
to Claude, save by her silence. She felt herself humiliated and
mortified; her brave resolutions had vanished, and she accused herself
of cowardice, but still she yielded to Claude's advice.
They separated,--she going to her room, and Claude to his wife, so as
to have the dreaded interview over at once.
Elaine had not left her room. When Paul knocked, she had begged him to
leave her alone. Alone? She could never be alone again! The thought of
her husband's black and cruel treachery would never leave her. More and
more did she become convinced that her renunciation of his heart was
the only way to save Paul. She must sacrifice her life to save his,
and she must nerve herself to seeing Claude and Odette together under
her roof. She would close her eyes to the shameful truth; she would
even protect it from discovery. Her only fear was that her strength
would not be sufficient to carry out the sacrifice to the bitter end.
One moment of thoughtlessness or resentment would undo all. Her son
must be saved from the tortures she was then undergoing.
And Claude, she shuddered when she thought of him. She loved him no
longer. She saw the idol crumble to dust that she had supposed so grand
and noble. She had almost deified him in her heart, but she must have
been blinded by her love. She recalled their early married life. No, he
was sincere and loyal in those days. Did she deceive herself, or did he
deceive her?
Her maid came in to say that M. Sirvin was at the door, wishing to see
her a few minutes. She replied that he might enter, in a voice she
tried in vain to control. Claude appeared pale and trembling. Elaine
did not venture to even glance at him--innocence always shows more
embarrassment than guilt. At last she raised her head, saying coldly,
"I suppose Odette has told you that I know your cruel treachery."
"Elaine!"
She looked him full in the face, with an expression of such scorn that
he dropped his eyes.
She continued:
"Here is my decision. If I only listened to my own contempt
and disgust, I would leave the house this minute with my son.
Unfortunately, we can not always follow our inclinations in this world.
One victim, I hope, is enough for you. I do not wish to have the son's
heart broken, as you have broken the mother's. Our life can continue
as usual, we four under one roof. That is all I wish to say, so will
detain you no longer."
Claude stood in remorseful admiration before her. He gazed at her
exquisite beauty, resembling in its stony pallor some antique statue.
He saw the sublimity and strength of this noble character, and a sharp
and strange regret overpowered him when he saw that he had lost her
forever. Alas, for poor humanity! His keen regret caused him to forget
Odette entirely, and only see Elaine in her sorrow.
"Why do you not leave me?" said Elaine still more coldly, surprised
that he did not move.
"I am waiting your permission to say--"
"There is nothing to be said. Go!"
"But you are my wife. You loved me once--"
She interrupted him with a glance.
"Certainly; but I love you no longer."
"Forgive me, but I must say one word. I will obey you, whatever you
say. May I not see at least a glimmer of hope that some day when I have
expiated my sin by penances, punishments without number, some day you
will forgive me?"
Seeing the cold scorn in her eyes he continued: "Very well. There are
some crimes that only blood can wash away. I will kill myself."
"It is too late for that! You should have killed yourself before, not
after your crime."
Pointing again to the door, he was forced to leave her.
Claude was perfectly sincere in his appeal for a hope of pardon. His
heart was elastic enough to hold two affections at the same time. His
passionate love for Odette did not interfere with his tender, admiring
affection for Elaine; and, besides, it cut him to the quick to meet
scorn and contempt where he had always before found loving idolatry.
Elaine, as he left her, buried her face in her hands, weeping: "I am
bereaved. My husband is dead, but my son is left me; henceforth I only
live for him."
So life recommenced for these three, as if nothing had happened. Paul
always found his mother smiling and apparently cheerful. He saw her
pale face, however, marked with lines of care, and was anxious about
her health, fearing some secret complaint that she would not confess
for fear of distressing her dear ones.
Her torments were increasing. At first Claude and Odette were silent
and constrained in her presence; then gradually their prudent guard
relaxed, knowing so well that Elaine would not betray them. Paul's
confidence was so absolute and loyal that not the least suspicion could
come to him.
But Elaine's misery increased every hour. We can accomplish in a moment
of sublime courage and despair some wonderful act of self-martyrdom;
but it is beyond human strength to meet with the same heroism an agony,
renewed hour after hour, day after day.
Often was she tempted to shriek out the horrible truth, and have the
guilty pair driven from her presence. As the days passed by and she
occasionally surprised a glance passing between them, or overheard some
whispered remark, she felt that she would become insane, unless she
had some respite from her unceasing torture. So one morning, about a
fortnight later, she sent for M. Sirvin.
"Sir!" said Elaine, as he appeared in answer to her summons, "I wish
to have you and Mme. Frager leave the house for a short time. You can
easily arrange some sketching tour with Grenoble, while Mme. Frager can
accept Mme. de Smarte's invitation to spend a few days with her at St.
Cloud."
Claude did not reply, and Mme. Sirvin, thinking his hesitation arose
from disinclination, cried: "Do you not see that I can not stand this
life another hour? I am growing insane, and my mouth will proclaim the
truth in spite of my struggles to be silent."
"We will obey you, Madame."
The same day Elaine spoke to her son, saying: "Do you not think that
Odette is indisposed? She needs a change. A few days in the country
would improve her health very much. Do not be selfish, and keep her
shut up with you in the stifling, hot city."
"Dear mother, how thoughtful you are! A little trip to the mountains
would do us both good. I will go with her next week some where--"
"What, would you leave me alone! I have a better plan than that. Let
Odette accept Mme. de Smarte's invitation to St. Cloud. She would then
have the advantage of country air, and yet be so near that you could go
to see her every day. Grenoble and Claude are going away to-morrow on a
sketching tour, so you and I will be alone together for a week or so."
Claude left the next day; Odette, two or three days later. Elaine felt
as if half of her burden had been removed when the pair were no longer
in her sight. The future did not look so utterly hopeless when she and
her son were at last alone.