Corinne and the humble M. Descoutures were at lunch when Mme. de
Bricourt was announced. They entered the drawing-room together, Corinne
having signified her august desire for him to remain and help her
receive her venerable friend.
"How glad I am to see you, dear child," said Mme. de Bricourt,
embracing Corinne affectionately. "How charming you look to-day. Your
hair is arranged so artistically and becomingly. Do you know I am
worried to death over these slanders about our poor, dear Odette. We
must find some way to defend her, or her reputation will be ruined
for ever. What can we do to save her?" She raised her eyes to heaven
as if calling it to witness to the purity and loyalty of her heart.
Fortunately heaven usually refuses to testify in such cases. Corinne
had assumed an air of dumb consternation that relieved her from the
responsibility of replying.
"This love affair between Odette and Claude, is whispered about on all
sides. Of course, we do not believe in it; but all agree in saying that
there must be some fire where there is so much smoke. We must do some
thing, dearest Corinne, to save Odette, before it is too late. We must
sacrifice every thing to friendship; but, what can we do?"
"I am sure I do not know!"
"I thought perhaps you might tell her what people are saying about her;
skilfully, you know, concealing the worst, perhaps. What could be more
natural than for you to do so--two friends of about the same age."
Corinne smiled at this pleasant little fiction in regard to their age
being the same, but replied:
"I do not think that would have the least effect, Odette is so wilful
and determined."
"Yes, I am afraid you are right. She would naturally be indignant and
deny every thing. But if we could only let her husband know in some way
of the disgrace hanging over his name."
Corinne's eyes sparkled. She had never forgiven Paul his desertion
of her for Odette, at Carqueirannes; and here was an opportunity for
revenge, both on him and on Odette.
Mme. de Bricourt continued: "He will never know, unless some accident
or some devoted friend opens his eyes. If I were young and charming
like you, dear child, I would not delay an instant in informing him of
these slanders, so that he could refute them. I am too old to undertake
the task. My fingers are not delicate enough to pour the balm into the
wound; but you, dear Corinne, your gentle sympathy would heal the blow
as it was made."
Corinne sighed. She was thinking of that declaration of love, so
inopportunely and fatally interrupted by Odette. Perhaps free from her
sorcery, he might return to his first love. Mme. de Bricourt read these
thoughts in her mind as well as if she had spoken them aloud, and was
satisfied with her work. The seed she had sown would come to maturity.
So she adroitly changed the subject, and, soon after, took leave.
When Corinne returned to the drawing-room after having accompanied her
friend to the door, she found M. Descoutures pacing up and down the
room in great agitation, instead of sitting quietly upright in his
chair, as usual.
Corinne glanced at him severely: "Are you trying to imitate the bears
at the menagerie? But it is of no consequence; leave the room. I wish
to be alone."
He usually vanished at this command; but this time he did not obey.
"Did you not hear me, M. Descoutures?"
He stood before her, pale, evidently trying to nerve himself to speak.
He opened his mouth two or three times, but had not the courage to
utter a sound. Finally, he said:
"If--I--yes, heard you, only I--perfectly--wanted to say--"
"What do you want to say?"
"I was in the room during your conversation with Mme. de Bricourt; and,
I beg your pardon if I am mistaken, but I understood from your remarks
that it was your intention to repeat these foolish scandals to M.
Frager."
"Well! what then?" she replied scornfully indifferent.
M. Descoutures seemed to grow more and more embarrassed. He loosened
his cravat, that appeared to be strangling him. His eyes seemed to be
starting from their sockets.
He continued, however: "But you must not do any thing to open his eyes.
Your heart must show you that ignorance is better than the anguish of
certainty or even suspicion. In your blind, mistaken generosity, you
would plunge a whole family into the bitterest sorrow and despair."
Poor, brave little gentleman! He had spoken quickly, and only stopped
as he thought of Laviguerie overwhelmed by this scandal about his
favorite daughter. Corinne gazed at him in amazement, and then, struck
by the absurdity of the situation, laughed and turned to leave the
room. M. Descoutures rose to the occasion. Seizing her by the arm, he
continued: "To begin with, you must not leave this room." Corinne drew
herself to her full height and said with the greatest indignation: "Do
you dare to lay hands on me! You must be insane!" She tried to leave
the room, but the little man held her fast. "I am not insane now, but I
was the day I married you, you cruel, wicked woman! I have been quiet
for twenty years, submitting to you and your unreasonable demands. I
did not care so much when you only wounded me; but now you are planning
to mortally injure the friends I love most on earth, and I swear you
shall not do it. I see through your plots, and if you attempt to resist
me, and carry them out, by God! I will kill you!"
M. Descoutures stood erect before her, his arms crossed. Corinne
really was afraid of him. She sank into a chair. M. Descoutures pulled
the bell. When the servant answered the summons, he said: "Madame
Descoutures is very much indisposed. She will keep her room for a few
days, and will see no callers or friends. She will not be at home to
any one. Do you understand?"
The servant looked at Madame Descoutures for a ratification of the
order, but he only met her gaze of stony horror. He felt vaguely that
some unusual scene was taking place; that the authority in the house
was changing hands.
When he had disappeared, M. Descoutures turned to his wife, saying:
"Now go to your room, and do not dare to leave it."
She rose and went to her room, his threat still ringing in her ears,
"By God! I will murder you!" Her anger and baffled fury were at a
white heat by this time. She charged Odette with being the cause of
all this humiliation, and her affection for her was not increased by
this thought. And she was balked of her revenge! At this point the good
soul wept with rage. She spent an hour trying to devise some means
to circumvent her husband. A Hindoo proverb says, "If you imprison a
woman, keep watch over the key-hole." Corinne could write. She could
use that cowardly weapon--an anonymous letter.
But how could she word it? Her accusation must be accompanied by
convincing proof, or Paul's noble, trusting heart would meet it with
simple disbelief. Where could she find this proof? She reflected for
another hour, till finally, she started with a cry of delight. Claude
and Odette must certainly have exchanged a few notes. Lovers have so
much to say to each other, that, in spite of their frequent meetings,
they must have occasionally written a line or two to slip into the
other's hand. At first, of course they destroyed them; but Odette
surely must have received some little note so sweet, so tender, that
she could not deny herself the pleasure of keeping it to read again
at her leisure. A woman that preserves one love-letter is lost, for a
second and a third is added to it, until all are preserved, hidden away
under lock and key.
Corinne had found the thread to guide her out of the labyrinth, while
her jealous hatred aided her still farther. Taking it for granted that
Odette had some love-letters from Claude in her possession, where could
she have concealed them. Corinne thought she was baffled at first,
but she finally remembered an exquisitely carved oaken cabinet that
Germaine had found in a bric-à-brac store in Naples and sent to her
sister. Odette valued it very highly, and was in the habit of keeping
her letters and jewelry in it. What would be more probable than that
she had locked Claude's letters in this desk with her other valuables.
So Corinne based her communication on two hypotheses; first, that any
letters had passed between the lovers; second, the place where they
were kept.
In any case, such an accusation, accompanied with such apparent proof,
must destroy the confidence and loving trust of the husband.
He would either find the letters, or he would not find them. If his
trust survived this shock Corinne could then find some other way to
enlighten him.
She sat down to her writing-desk, and disguising her handwriting as
much as possible, wrote as follows:
"One of your friends believes it his duty to inform you that M. Sirvin
is the favored lover of Mme. Frager. He was her lover before she
married you. If you still doubt, ask her to show you the contents of
the oaken desk, in her bed-room."
Mme. Descoutures quietly folded her note, put it in an envelope, wrote
the address, and calling a servant, gave it to him to mail.
M. Descoutures having given no orders to the contrary, the servant
obeyed, and Corinne, from the window, watched him put it into the
letter-box on the corner.
So it was launched. It was taken from the letter-box to the
post-office, where it seemed lost among the thousands of other letters,
circulars and newspapers. One of the employés picked it up, little
dreaming that he held in his hand the fate of a whole family; he tossed
it one side, on a table already covered with hundreds of letters.
The Greeks of old wrote of Fate. The oracles of ancient Greece are
replaced to-day by the honest, sturdy letter-carriers in their grey and
black uniform.
It was nine o'clock in the evening. Odette was visiting her friend at
St. Cloud; Claude and Grenoble had been absent several days on their
sketching tour; Mme. Sirvin had retired early; so Paul was writing
alone in his study. His book was progressing finely and would soon be
ready for the publisher. Happiness is such a help to labor. He finally
threw aside his pen, gayly, conscious that he had written well, and
glad to have accomplished so much. He looked around for the evening
paper and saw the letter lying on the table, that the servant had
brought up with the paper. He noticed that the handwriting was unknown
to him, and, carelessly thinking of some thing else, he opened the
envelope.
He read the note in one glance, without moving, or uttering a sound;
then, thinking he had misunderstood it, read it again. He crushed the
paper in his hand and tossed it away, saying, "Poor Odette! That such a
scoundrel should dare to even take her name on his lips!" Not a moment,
not an instant of suspicion. His only thought was of tender sympathy
with his wife and anger at her enemy.
He walked up and down the room, trying to imagine who could have
written the cowardly, venomous thing; but could not think of a single
enemy, far or near. The idea of his wife being untrue to him brought a
smile to his lips, it was so preposterous. Then, to think that the only
man whose name could be coupled with hers, should be Claude! Claude, so
kind, so generous and thoughtful! These hideous fancies, perhaps, arose
from the fact that it was Claude's generosity that had enabled them to
marry; and then, Claude and Odette were obliged to go out a great deal
together, as they were dwelling under the same roof. He did not notice
that he was proving that the calumny at least had some appearance of
probability. He knew well the oak cabinet in her room; he could catch
a glimpse of it through the open door. Involuntarily he walked in and
looked at it, and a sudden instinct caused him to seize the poker from
the fireplace, and knock on the lock till it gave way and the carved
doors flew open. He felt ashamed of his suspicious search as he saw the
little drawers and divisions open before him. He withdrew his hand that
he had half extended. Then, hurriedly, stealthily, like a thief in the
night, he pulled open the drawers one by one, looking their contents
carefully over, and tossing them aside. At last he came across a small,
square, Japanese box. He shuddered as he found it locked. He knocked it
violently against the desk, so that the cover came off in his hands,
and his heart stood still as he saw a package of letters inside, tied
with a narrow ribbon. He tore off this band and read the letters. He
uttered a stifled cry of horror and despair. A wild, insane longing to
have the blood of the guilty pair, seized him. He remembered that both
were away from home; but Odette was at St. Cloud. He seized his hat and
rushed out of the house, saying to himself; "I will kill her! I will
kill her!" The avenue was crowded with the usual Summer evening throng,
happy and gay; but Paul made his way through it, seeing nothing,
hearing nothing, but Odette in Claude's arms, and a voice in his heart
crying fiercely, Kill her! kill her!
So he had been deceived from the first! Even before his marriage
had Claude and Odette loved each other! Nothing but treachery! He
recalled the first months of his married life, when Odette had been so
inexpressibly sweet and fascinating; those long, passionate embraces;
their strolls in the woods; he could see the waves dancing in the
sunbeams as he closed his eyes; that enchanting "solitude à deux;" and
he gnashed his teeth as he reflected that it was all treachery and
deceit. Odette had been lying when she told him she loved him; lying,
when she embraced him. Nothing, nothing was left him. All had been
false. She must die; and Claude must die. Paul recalled Claude's visit
to Canet, when he thought him the soul of generosity and honor; and
that, too, was false treachery! Claude wanted to establish his mistress
in a house of her own, and could find no more suitable husband for her
than his wife's son! Oh! it was infamous! And perhaps people thought
that Paul had walked into the snare with his eyes open! No one could
have believed that he alone was blind to his dishonor, but must have
supposed his complaisant approval arose from feeling it to be to his
interest to silently acquiesce! Paul stopped. He was seized with a
sudden dizziness that forced him to cling to a tree for support. He
had been walking blindly through the Bois de Boulogne, deserted and
quiet at this late hour. His honor, as well as his happiness, had been
smitten to the ground. Again he felt the instinct to kill his guilty
wife drive him on. He dashed madly forward. He stumbled over a stone
and fell to the ground. He grasped a drooping branch of the tree above
him, and raised himself to his feet. He found his wild flight stopped
by a low wall, broken down in many places, and covered with moss. He
uttered a cry of dismay, for it was a cemetery that lay before him,
gloomy and silent.
Paul saw the white gravestones in the pale moonlight, extending as far
as he could see. The neglected cypresses and willows stretched their
shaggy arms towards each other in ghostly silence. The grass grew
thick and rank on the graves. No grand monuments or tombs were to be
seen; only simple crosses, or plain marble slabs, gray and discolored
with age.
It all seemed to Paul so sad, so sweetly peaceful. His anger subsided.
He was hurrying to St. Cloud to kill his wife, and here lay Death at
his feet. He leaned his arms on the wall and gazed on the solemn scene.
Just before him lay a grave whose plain slab bore no other words save
this simple inscription: "My Mother." Probably some poor, nameless
woman, whose child had raised this touching tribute to her memory.
Those two words, "My Mother," sank into Paul's heart. Where was he
going? To kill Odette, and to bring shame and disgrace to the wife of
Claude Sirvin, the other victim of the tragedy. His mother! He thought
no longer of himself, only of her, and his heart seemed ready to burst
with sorrow and grief for her. How she worshiped her husband! and she
would die at the news of his crime! Then the same thought came to him,
in his love for his mother, that had come to the mother in her love
for him; the sublime and noble idea of sacrificing himself for her
happiness. The son said "My mother," as the mother had said "My son."
His eyes still rested on the slab before him, that seemed to say:
"Tread lightly; speak softly; there is some one sleeping here."
This unknown son, imploring silence for his dead mother, seemed to
show Paul that his duty was silence. Mme. Sirvin must never learn the
horrible truth. It was a fearful sacrifice; but had not the mother
borne as much for him? She had carried him under her heart; she had
brought him into the world; she had devoted her life to rear him to
manhood. Now he must, in his turn, suffer for her.
But could he be silent? Could he close his eyes to his own dishonor?
He would take Odette far, far away; cross the ocean; hide himself in a
desert--no matter where; at least, he would leave peace and contentment
with his mother.
God seemed to reward his noble resolution, for a heavenly calm
succeeded the tempest of rage in his soul. He had been on the point of
committing a crime, but God had shown him that vengeance cometh from
on high. Was he the only unhappy creature on earth? Among the hundreds
lying so peacefully before him, there must have been some that had
suffered during their mortal life. The moonlight showed hundreds and
hundreds of graves, and in each one there must be either a man, or a
woman, or a child; and each one had had their share of pain and sorrow.
Pain and sorrow--they meet us at the cradle, and accompany us to the
grave.
Paul buried his face in his hands and wept. The cypresses, the willows,
the graves--all were silent. Not a murmur, not a whisper, among the
branches. Nature seemed to sympathize with his unspeakable woe. As he
wept his grief seemed lightened. His mother needed him, or he would
have been tempted to lay down this life that had grown such a sad,
sad burden. He envied the dead around him. But still it was cowardly
to even wish to die. This life is a battle-field, and God pardons no
deserters. Paul said to himself he would fight it out to the bitter
end, would struggle and conquer. If even his contempt and hatred
should not strangle his fatal love for Odette; if, in spite of all his
efforts, he could not tear her from his heart, why, even then, life is
not made for happiness alone, and he ought not to complain.
The path of duty lay plain before him. Prevent his mother from
suspecting the truth; take his wife to America, for he must earn his
own livelihood now. That infamous gift of Claude's should be cast in
his teeth!
He raised his head, strengthened by his decisions, and turned to
retrace his steps; but where could he go? Return to Claude's house--eat
his bread? Never! And yet he would be obliged to, for he must avoid
giving his mother the least cause for suspicion. He would go to St.
Cloud the next day to acquaint Odette with his decision. He thought of
her quite calmly now; his scorn and contempt had killed his love.
It was long past midnight when he found himself again in his study. He
shuddered, for he was surrounded by the traces of Odette's presence. He
saw her in the book she had been reading, in the furniture, arranged
according to her taste, in the paintings she admired.
He staggered into her bedchamber, where he fell into a chair, his heart
beating fast. Every thing was as he had left it. The oaken cabinet
faced him with its open doors and contents in disorder. The letters
still lay scattered about the floor. Her room! And he had loved her
so! The delicate perfume that she was accustomed to use floated in the
air; in one corner stood the tiny book-case with her favorite books;
Germaine's portrait smiled at him from the wall. He shivered from head
to foot; and he thought his love had been killed by contempt! How
foolish he had been to think that his passionate love, stronger than
death itself, had been destroyed in an hour!
He hated her; he despised her; and he adored her! He threw himself,
still dressed, on the bed, and all night long he tossed and turned,
his brain teeming with these burning thoughts, his heart bleeding with
anguish, and his imagination recalling scenes of happiness and despair.
The sun stood high in the heavens when sleep came at last to soothe his
fevered brain.
Elaine wondered what made her son sleep so unusually late this morning,
but would not allow him to be disturbed. Between four and five she went
to his room and knocked lightly. As she received no reply she opened
the door, and saw Paul throwing clothes and books into his trunk.
"Are you going away, my son?"
He turned hastily, hesitated an instant, then tenderly embraced her.
She supposed he was going to spend a day or so with Odette, and the
thought filled her with sorrow and indignation; but she must conceal
her feelings, so she said:
"Is it a pleasant day?"
He, too, had his terrible secret. If the room had been lighter she
would have read it in his blood-shot eyes, in his drawn features, and
his livid pallor. But she saw nothing of it.
"Very pleasant, mother."
A long silence. Both hesitating and embarrassed; neither daring to
glance at the other. Elaine saw his reflection in the mirror and
started at his paleness. Could he have any suspicions? Did he know of
his wife's dishonor? How could she find out? Turning to the window, she
said, "Why, here is a carriage at the door. How tiresome; some one has
come to call, and I'm not dressed. But, no; it is Grenoble, and there
is Claude."
"He?" cried Paul, angrily.
Elaine turned around. She said,
"You know all."
Without replying, he buried his head in his hands. Elaine went to him,
put her arms around him, and drew his head to her bosom.
"My poor child, how you must suffer."
"Oh, mother!" and he wept like a little child. She kissed him, caressed
him, as if he were again the little son of so many years ago. A son
never seems a man in his mother's eyes, and when he is in trouble, she
takes him again to her heart, as she did in his childhood.
She whispered:
"And have you found it out? And did you try to conceal it from me to
save my happiness, as I have kept it from you to save yours, my brave
Paul?"
In the midst of her bitter anguish, she still felt a glow of pride at
this proof of her son's noble character. They seemed drawn still closer
together by their mutual suffering--their mutual sacrifice.
Grieving over his sorrow, she forgot her own. He was so young. He had
barely raised the cup of life and happiness to his lips, when it was
dashed from his hand. So young, so brave, so noble!
Finally, she raised her head:
"We must weep no longer, Paul. Every crime must have its punishment. Do
your duty. Those two criminals deserve no mercy. They have dishonored
the mother and the son. You know where to find them. Do your duty--my
revenge and yours!"
She raised her hand and pointed to the door, beautiful as Truth,
implacable as Destiny!