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MADAME X
_A STORY OF MOTHER-LOVE_
BY
J. W. McCONAUGHY
FROM THE PLAY OF THE
SAME NAME BY
ALEXANDRE BISSON
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
EDWARD C. VOLKERT
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
1910
Table
I. Two Invalids
II. The Return
III. Magdalen
IV. Opening for the Defense
V. Continuing for the Prosecution
VI. Closing for the Defense
VII. The Wanderers
VIII. "Confidential Missions"
IX. The Hotel of the Three Crowns
X. The Uses of Adversity
XI. Concerning Dower Claims
XII. "Who Saves Another----"
XIII. From Out the Shadow
XIV. Sic Itur ad Averno
XV. The Swelling of Jordan
XVI. A Woman of Mystery
XVII. Two Lovers and a Lecture
XVIII. A Ghost Rises
XIX. Hope at Last
XX. The Trial Begins
XXI. Cherchez l'Homme
XXII. Madame X Speaks
XXIII. The Verdict
XXIV. The Guttering Flame
XXV. "While the Lamp Holds Out to Burn----"
_ELEGIE_
(_From the French of Massenet_)
_Oh, Spring of days long ago, blooming and bright,_
_Far have you fluttered away_!
_No more the skies azure light, caroling birds_
_Waken and glisten for me_!
_Bearing all joy from my heart--Loved one_!
_How far from my life hast thou flown_!
_Vainly to me does the springtime return_!
_It brings thee never again--Dark is the sun_!
_Dead are the days of delight_!
_Cold is my heart and as dark as the grave_!
_Life is in vain--evermore_!
MADAME X
CHAPTER I
TWO INVALIDS
A night lamp--the chosen companion of illness, misery and
murder--burned dimly on a little table in the midst of a grim array of
bottles and boxes. In a big armchair between the table and the bed,
and within easy reach of both, sat a young man. It was his fourteenth
night in that chair and he leaned his head back against the cushions
in an attitude of utter exhaustion. The hands rested on the arms with
the palms turned up. But the strong, clean-cut face--that for two weeks
had been a mask of fear and suffering--was transfigured with joy and
thanksgiving when he reached over every few minutes and touched the
forehead of the little boy in the bed. There was moisture under the
dark curls and the fever flush had given way to the pallor of weakness.
Louis Floriot was a man with steel nerves and an unbending will.
Barely in his thirty-first year, he was Deputy Attorney of Paris, and
in all the two weeks he had watched at the bedside of his boy he had
not been ten seconds late at the opening of court in the morning. His
work and his child were all that were left to him and he divided the
day between them without a thought of himself. The woman that had made
both dear to him was gone. He had loved the baby with almost more than
a father's love because he was hers--theirs. He had slaved for fame and
power to lay them at her feet as a proof of his love.
Two short years ago it would have been impossible to find a happier man
within the girth of the seven seas. Then one night he had returned from
his office too early--returned to find his life in ruins and his home
made desolate. And she had fled from him into the night and had gone
out of his life--but not out of his memory.
He had striven with all the strength of his will to forget her; but in
his heart he knew that as long as he breathed her image would be there.
He worked with feverish energy and poured his love out on Raymond. The
child was with him every moment that he was not in court or in his
office, but his dark curly hair and great dark eyes were his mother's
and forgetfulness did not lie that way.
In the two years that had passed since the whole scheme of his life had
been shattered he had barely had time to piece together a make-shift
plan that would give him an excuse for living. In this new plan Raymond
was the one element of tenderness. But for his love for the boy he
would have become as stem and inexorable as the laws in which he dealt.
He could not tear Jacqueline out of his heart but he forced himself to
remember only the bitterness of her perfidy.
In the past two weeks the memory had come back more bitterly. How
different, he had thought in the long nights, if she had been there!
They would have watched hand in hand and whispered hope and comfort to
each other. One would have slept calmly when wearied, knowing that the
tender love of the other guarded their baby. And what happiness would
have been theirs that hour when the fever broke and Raymond passed from
stupor to natural sleep! But she had not loved him--she had not even
loved her boy; for she had deserted both.
Rose, the maid, who had been in their house since his marriage, softly
opened the door and whispered that Madame Varenne was in the library
waiting to see him. He rose with a sigh, and after a last look at the
sleeping child, tiptoed out of the room and noiselessly shut the door
behind him.
Madame Varenne was a sprightly young widow, the sister of Dr. Chennel,
who attended Raymond as if the boy were his own son. Madame Varenne,
too, had almost a motherly affection for the child and something beyond
admiration for the handsome, slightly grayed father. They supposed, as
did everyone else in Passy, that Madame Floriot was dead. Floriot was
living in Paris when she left him and he moved out to Passy shortly
afterward.
He shook hands with her cordially as he came in.
"How kind of you to come, Madame Varenne!" he said, gratefully. The
young woman looked up at him with a happy smile.
"I am delighted with the news that Rose has just given me!" she
exclaimed, pressing his hand.
"Yes," he smiled wearily, "our nightmare is over and it was time it
finished. I couldn't have held out much longer."
"You have had a bad time of it," she murmured, sympathetically.
"It hasn't been easy. And I shall never be able, to thank your brother
enough for what he has done for me," and Floriot's voice trembled.
"He has thought of nothing else beside the boy for weeks and he was
always talking about him," declared Madame Varenne, shaking her head.
"The day before yesterday he went to see one of his old professors
to consult him on the treatment, and he was hard at work that night
experimenting and reading."
Floriot nodded.
"He tells me that it was then that he got the idea which has saved
Raymond's life. I owe my boy's life to your brother, Madame Varenne,"
he added, his voice vibrant with gratitude, "and you may be sure that I
will never forget it."
"What he has done has been its own reward," she replied gently. "My
brother is so fond of Raymond!"
Floriot smiled tenderly.
"And you?"
"Oh, I love the child!" she exclaimed.
"He loves you, too," Floriot assured her. "You were the first person he
asked for when the fever left him. And now, that we are alone for a
moment I want to take the opportunity of thanking you from the bottom
of my heart!"
"Thanking me! For what?"
"For your friendship."
"How absurd you are!" she laughed. "Then I ought to be making pretty
speeches to you to thank you for yours as well!"
"It is not quite the same thing," returned Floriot. "You are a
charming, happy, amiable and altogether delightful woman while I--Well,
I'm just a bear."
"You don't mean to say so!" she exclaimed, with a look of mock alarm.
"Oh, yes!" he nodded with a smile. "Bear is the only word that
describes me--an ill-tempered bear, at that!"
"You will never be as disagreeable as my husband was!" And Madame
Varenne shook her head decidedly. Floriot laughed.
"Really! Was he even gloomier than I?"
"My husband! Good gracious me! You are a regular devil of a chap
compared to him!" exclaimed the sprightly lady, earnestly. Again
Floriot burst into a laugh. It was the first exercise of the kind he
had had in some time.
"You can't have amused yourself much," he suggested. "You can't have
had a wildly merry time."
"I didn't!" was the forcible response. "But now everything and
everybody appear charming by contrast!"
"Even I?" he smiled.
"Yes, even you!" she admitted, with another smile. At that moment her
brother entered and Floriot greeted him affectionately. His first
questions were about Raymond and the replies were satisfactory. He
rubbed his hands enthusiastically and busied himself with his bag,
while Floriot attempted to continue his speech of thanks in the face of
protests from both.
"There, there, there!" broke in the doctor. "How do you know that we
are not both of us sowing that we may reap? One never knows how useful
it may be to be friends with a man in your profession," he chuckled.
Madame Varenne made her adieux and left with a rather wistful look at
Floriot as she pressed his hand. She promised to come back the first
thing in the morning.
"And now, friend Floriot," said the doctor, looking at him gravely, "as
the boy is out of danger, you begin taking care of yourself."
Floriot stared at him in surprise.
"Why, there's nothing the matter with me!" he exclaimed.
"Oh, yes, there is!" retorted the man of medicine. "And a great deal
more than you think!"
"Nonsense!" said Floriot, lightly. "I'm a little tired, but a few days'
rest will----"
"No, no, no!" interrupted the doctor, with an energetic shake of the
head. "You are working too much and you are taking too little exercise.
You brood and worry over things and you must take a cure!"
"What sort of a cure?" inquired Floriot, with an uneasy glance.
"Every morning, no matter what the weather is, you must take a smart
two hours' walk."
"But, my dear fellow----"
"You must walk at a smart pace for two hours," insisted the doctor.
"And you must feed heartily."
"My dear fellow, I can hardly get through a cutlet for my lunch!"
protested Floriot.
"I will let you off to-day, but from to-morrow on you must eat two," he
continued firmly, as if he had not heard the interruption. Considering
that luncheon was some eight hours in the past, this was not much of a
concession.
"I shall never be able to do anything of the sort!" Floriot declared.
"Oh, yes, you will!" the doctor assured him with exasperating
confidence. "On your way home every evening you must look in at the
fencing school and fence for half-hour, take a cold shower and walk
home."
"Walk! Out to Passy?"
"Out to Passy."
"My dear doctor," he smiled pityingly, "I can't possibly follow your
prescription. I haven't the time."
"Then you must get married," returned the doctor calmly. Floriot gazed
at him for a few moments in dumb amazement and then laughed amusedly.
"Distraction of some sort is absolutely necessary for your case,"
the doctor explained as gravely as a judge. "There is nothing to be
startled at--you've been married before"--Floriot winced--"you can
do so again. A lonely life is not the life for you. Look out for a
happy-minded woman, who will keep you young and be a mother to your
child, and marry her. I have an idea," he smiled knowingly, "that you
won't have much difficulty in finding the very woman!"
In a flash the young lawyer saw what was in his friend's mind. He saw,
too, that he must make him a confidant--tell him a story that he had
sworn should never be put into words. For almost a minute emotion held
him tongue-tied.
Then he said brokenly:
"My friend, I see now that I ought to--I ought to have--told you
before. I--am not a widower!"
Dr. Chennel fell back against the table astounded.
"Not a widower!" he gasped.
"My wife is living," said Floriot in a low, unsteady voice. "After
three years of married life--she left me--with a lover. I came home
unexpectedly one day--and found them--together. They rushed out of the
house in terror. I should have killed them both, I think, if they had
not run."
The doctor murmured something meant to be sympathetic. He was too much
amazed for speech.
"I have sometimes thought of telling you, but, somehow, I could not
talk of it. Chennel, old man!" he cried, miserably, laying his hand on
his friend's arm, "you can't guess how horribly unhappy I am!"
"Then--you--you love her still?" asked the doctor, gently. Floriot
bowed his head to conceal the agony written on his face and threw up a
hand in a gesture of despair.
"I can think of no other woman! God knows, I have tried hard to forget
her! She was the whole joy of my life--my life itself! I cannot tell
you how I suffered. I would have died if I had dared. But I thought
of the child, and that saved me from suicide. I remembered my duty to
the boy and the thought of it kept me alive. If I had lost him----" He
choked and turned abruptly away.
"He will be running about in a week," said the doctor's quiet voice.
"Thanks to you, doctor, thanks to you!" he cried, his eyes shining
with tears and gratitude as he turned to his friend with both hands
outstretched. "You have saved both of our lives!"
They were gripping each other's hands hard when Rose appeared at the
door to announce that Master Raymond was awake. Arm in arm they hurried
off to the sick-room. Rose was about to follow a little later when she
heard the buzz of the muffled door bell.
"It is Monsieur Noel," she thought as she hurried to the door. Noel
Sauvrin, a life-long friend of Floriot's expected to reach the house in
Passy from the south of France that night.
She opened the door with a smile of welcome that changed to a stare of
frightened astonishment. There was a quick swish of skirt, a half-sob
of "Rose!" a half-smothered exclamation of "Madame!" and a young woman
threw herself into the maid's arms.
Jacqueline Floriot had returned.