apartment?”
Chamoureau simpered and balanced himself on one leg as he replied:
“To my apartment--of course not; but to-night, it would be very pleasant
to me--it seems to me that after dancing so much--the natural sequence
of a party--in short, my dear and loving heart, I would like to go with
you to your room--you understand----”
And the amorous husband put out his hand to take his wife’s. But she
abruptly withdrew her hand and exclaimed, with an angry glance at
Chamoureau:
“It’s very becoming of you, monsieur, to presume to ask to pass the
night with me, after all the idiotic things you have done to-day! for
you have done nothing else.”
“What! I have been doing idiotic things! What were they, pray?”
“It is useless for me to tell you, monsieur; you wouldn’t understand
me.”
“Was it my fault if Monsieur Luminot and Monsieur Edmond had a quarrel?
After all, madame, it was you who insisted on inviting the two friends;
I wouldn’t have asked them to come here myself. I was sure that
Freluchon would call me Chamoureau, and he didn’t fail to do it; you
heard him, didn’t you?”
“That’s all right, monsieur; that’s not what I refer to. Go to bed.”
Chamoureau drew himself up, assumed a dignified air, and replied:
“You tell me to go to bed. But allow me, madame, to remind you, that
since we have occupied this house, where you consigned me to an
apartment a long way from yours, you have not once allowed me to enter
your apartment at night! Sometimes it’s one excuse, sometimes another;
you always have a pretext for refusing to admit me.--But it seems to me,
madame, that I have some rights--some glorious rights in fact! Am I your
husband, or am I not? ‘That is the question,’ as the English would say.”
“Oh! how you bore me, monsieur!”
“Madame, I didn’t bring you twenty-two thousand five hundred francs a
year for the privilege of sleeping alone. Deuce take it! I married for
another purpose--otherwise it wasn’t worth while for me to
marry!--Why----”
“Have you finished, monsieur?”
“Madame, you made me dance seventeen times with different women. Some of
them were very ugly. I do whatever you want me to; and it seems to me
that you, in your turn----”
“How dare you talk to me of such matters, monsieur, when you have a duel
on hand for to-morrow--a serious duel? If Monsieur Luminot should fall,
it would be your duty, as his second, to avenge him.”
The memory of the duel instantly put to flight the amorous thoughts
which were agitating Chamoureau. He turned pale and stammered:
“I don’t know, madame, why you mixed me up in that affair, which did not
concern me at all. There was your old friend, Baron von Schtapelmerg--a
man who has fought against the Turks; he would have asked nothing better
than to be Monsieur Luminot’s second. However, two seconds are required;
I will see the baron to-morrow, and----”
“You will not see him; the baron has gone to Paris.”
“What! Monsieur de Schtapelmerg has left Chelles like this--without
shaking hands with me--without bidding me adieu?”
“You will see him later; urgent business compelled him to start at once.
The other second can be found to-morrow. Now I feel the need of rest.
This day has tired me terribly. Good-night, monsieur.”
Chamoureau took a candle, blew it out because he saw that day was
breaking, and made up his mind at last to go to his room, saying to
himself:
“I am beginning to think that I should have done as well to remain a
widower. O Eléonore! you would not refuse to admit me to your bedroom!
To be sure, we had only one between us.”
Thélénie hastened into the garden. Croque was awaiting her in a clump of
trees. Having satisfied herself that they were quite alone, she said:
“Listen attentively to what I expect you to do. This time I trust that
you will not hesitate to obey me; the commission that I am going to
intrust to you is not dangerous.”
“Sacrebleu! I am no coward, but only a blasted fool puts himself in the
way of being thrashed when there’s no need of it. That young Freluchon’s
as strong as Hercules; I saw that at a glance. He would have thrown me
down as he did Luminot. How would that have helped us?”
“Listen: you saw that nurse, that Jacqueline, who came here during
dinner, with a little boy?”
“Yes; and you didn’t want to see her, for you skipped out in a
hurry!--I’d like to bet something that you’re the Baronne de Mortagne,
and that that little chap is your son.”
“Hush! hold your tongue!”
“Oh! after all, it’s your business! It’s all one to me, you understand!”
“What I want you to understand is that this nurse must leave this part
of the country to-morrow; for if chance should bring us face to
face----”
“True; she would recognize you, and that would have a bad effect, the
world is so unfeeling!--And the little boy?”
“She must take him with her. In two or three hours, you will go to this
woman----”
“Where does she live?”
“With her sister, the widow Tourniquoi; any peasant will show you the
way.”
“Widow Tourniquoi; all right! I’ll find her.”
“You will ask for this Jacqueline.”
“Oh! I shall recognize her; I examined her closely, and the little
fellow too; he’s not bad-looking--he’ll be a tough one!”
“You will take the woman aside and tell her that you come from the
Baronne de Mortagne, who has the most ardent desire to see her son.”
“She has taken plenty of time about it; but never mind that.”
“You may invent whatever fable you choose to account for the baroness’s
conduct.”
“Oh! as to inventing fables, that’s my particular forte; I am never at a
loss; I’ll give ‘em to her of all colors.”
“You must tell her that Madame de Mortagne, being unable to come here,
expects her and the child to come to Dieppe, and that she must go there
instantly; that when she gets there the baroness will pay her all the
arrears she owes her, and will reward her handsomely for the care she
has taken of her child.”
“Very good; but why do you send her to Dieppe rather than somewhere
else?”
“Because there are vessels there which sail for distant countries; and I
know someone there to whom I will send this Jacqueline; and that person
will find a way to ship her and the little boy to America or some other
part of the globe; and when they are once there, as the woman will have
no money to pay her return passage, she will be obliged to stay there.”
“Perfectly thought out; there is only one difficulty: how am I to
persuade this Jacqueline to go to Dieppe? Suppose she doesn’t believe
what I tell her?”
“Haven’t we the great means to which all obstacles yield? Here are three
hundred francs in gold, which you will hand to the woman, and tell her
that it’s to pay the cost of the journey, and that at Dieppe the
baroness will pay her all that she owes her.--Do you think that
Jacqueline will hesitate an instant on receiving that money?”
“Oh no! that will smooth away all difficulties; the peasant won’t doubt
for an instant the truth of everything I tell her; she will be too well
pleased, first, by the feeling of these fifteen yellow boys, and
secondly, by the hope of receiving a still larger sum at Dieppe.”
“Tell her that the Baronne de Mortagne awaits her impatiently, and hand
her this address; it is that of the person to whom I propose to commend
her.”
“In order to ship her away from France?--Very good. I will say: ‘That is
the place where you will find little Emile’s mother.’”
“She must start for Paris with the child to-day; there she will take the
train for Dieppe.”
“Do you want me to go with them?”
“No; for I need you for something else.”
“For the duel? That suits me; I will be Luminot’s other second. I’ll
load the pistols, for I know a neat little way of assuring myself the
advantage.”
“No, no, that isn’t what I want of you; I have other plans. On the
contrary, you must not show yourself; I have said that you have gone to
Paris.”
“The deuce! then I shan’t dine with you! that’s a pity!”
“You must take off those clothes and obtain others--a boatman’s, for
instance--and make yourself unrecognizable.”
“Oh! as for disguising myself, that’s easy enough. I have a pretty knack
at that. You might pass me on the street and you wouldn’t know me.--What
else?”
“I will tell you. In the first place, I must find out when this duel is
to take place.--Oh! those women! those women! they are the ones I want
to be revenged on most of all! One is adored by Edmond, the other has
won the heart of that----”
“Of that what?”
“It is enough for you to know that on the day when you announce to me
the ruin of those two women, I will cover you with gold, I will give you
as much of it as you can carry.”
“_Bigre!_ I’ll be strong that day, I promise you!”
“It is broad daylight; don’t stay here. By-and-by, about six o’clock
this afternoon, be at the end of my park--on the lonely road that skirts
the wall.”
“Agreed; I will be there.”
Croque left the villa, and Thélénie hastened to her apartment.
XXII
REVELATION
While all these events were taking place at Goldfish Villa, let us see
what was happening in the modest abode of Honorine and Agathe.
Edmond’s young betrothed was secretly unhappy at the thought that her
beloved was going to Madame de Belleville’s fête. She remembered how
that lady had stared at her the first time that she saw her at the
summer-house window, and the familiar tone in which she had spoken to
Edmond.
The woman who is most innocent of intrigue has nevertheless a secret
instinct which enables her to detect the sentiments which people try to
conceal from her; and that instinct never deceives her in the matter of
a rival.
Agathe, however, did not doubt the love or the fidelity of the man she
loved; that was why, dreading to appear ridiculous if she allowed the
apprehensions caused by Madame de Belleville’s invitation to appear, she
had been the first to urge him to attend the fête.
But that evening, as soon as Edmond had left them, to go home to dress,
Agathe had gone up to her room, in order to conceal from Honorine the
anxiety she felt.
Honorine had divined what was taking place in Agathe’s heart; but she
did not share her apprehensions. She thought that a woman ought never to
abuse her influence over the man who loves her, by obliging him to do
only what she wished. She imagined too that Edmond’s presence at Madame
de Belleville’s would prevent the slanderous tongues of the village from
making any unseemly remarks about herself and her young friend.
Honorine therefore was alone that evening in the small salon which
opened into the garden; it was the first time that that had happened
since she had lived at Chelles. At that moment solitude was not irksome
to her; when the heart has much to think about, it loves silence and
repose. Honorine reflected that for several days their neighbor Paul had
not called upon them. She wondered if it was possible that anything that
she had said had displeased him; she could think of nothing to account
for his absence, and the result of her cogitations was a deep sigh, and
the reflection that she was thinking of someone who did not waste a
thought on her.
The young woman, absorbed in her reverie, had long since let her
embroidery fall from her hands, without being conscious that she had
ceased to work, when of a sudden she felt something cold against her
hand, then a heavy paw was laid on her lap; that was the way in which
the dog from the Tower always said good-morning or good-evening. When
she saw Ami fawning upon her, Honorine’s heart beat fast with pleasure,
and she patted the dog gently.
“Why, is that you, Ami? So you have found the road to this house again?
I was beginning to think that you had forgotten us altogether, and that
we should not see you again!”
These words were addressed no less to the master than to the dog; and
Paul, who appeared in the doorway, would have been very ungrateful if he
had not taken them home to himself.
He bowed low to the young woman, saying:
“Is it not presumptuous in me, madame, to present myself here so late?”
“Why, no, monsieur; it is little more than nine o’clock, I think; and if
you find me alone--which I very rarely am--it is because Agathe felt
tired and sleepy. As for Monsieur Edmond, he is at a party, which fact
accounts in some measure for Agathe’s headache.--Now, monsieur, consider
whether you have the courage to remain with one poor woman--who has
nothing but her conversation to offer you.”
Paul took a chair and seated himself at some distance from Honorine. On
learning that he was to be alone with her, he seemed embarrassed.
Luckily, Ami was there to enliven the interview; Honorine continued to
caress him and said to him:
“How glad you seem to see me, Ami! But if it gives you so much pleasure
to be with me, why don’t you come oftener? You don’t need to wait until
it happens to occur to your master to come. If he doesn’t enjoy himself
here, he is right not to come; but you know the way, and I don’t think
that he objects to your coming here to show us that you haven’t
forgotten us.”
“Surely you cannot think, madame, that I do not enjoy myself in your
house; only in your pleasant company have I found at last some
distraction from the sorrows which have made me shun society for many
years.”
“If that is so, how does it happen that we have not seen you for several
days? You had accustomed us to your company of late; we made up our
minds--too soon--that it would continue. There are habits which give one
so much pleasure!”
Honorine’s voice began to quiver, and she abruptly ceased speaking, in
order to conceal the emotion she felt.
But Paul had drawn his chair nearer to hers; he gazed at the young woman
with an expression which was not calculated to calm her agitation, and
replied:
“I went to Paris several days ago. I had received some information which
led me to believe that I had found the traces of a person whom I have
sought in vain for nine years! But the information was misleading; my
investigations were of no avail, and I have learned nothing.”
“I shall be very presumptuous, I fear, if I ask you who this person is
whom you have been seeking so long.”
“It is a young girl; she must be about sixteen years old now.”
“Ah! and this girl is your kinswoman, or perhaps even more than that?
Why shrink from admitting it? Men do many foolish things in their youth;
they should never be ashamed to try to atone for them.”
“You are mistaken, madame; this girl is no connection of mine; and yet,
it is my duty to stand in a father’s place to her, for I had the
misfortune to deprive her of her father--in a duel.”
“In a duel! Ah! I guessed as much; I understand it all now!”
“What? what did you guess?”
“This duel took place in the ravine yonder, by your estate of the
Tower.”
“That is true, madame. But who can have told you?”
“We had heard the story of a young man being found dead on that spot; no
one knew whether he had been attacked there, but he had not been robbed;
so that it was presumable that he was killed in a duel.”
“Yes, madame, yes. Ah! that is the deed for which I can never forgive
myself; for that unfortunate man had never offended me--he was the
victim of an execrable plot. A woman--but I am not sure that one should
give that name to such a monster of wickedness!--I loved her, I loved
her madly! Our liaison had lasted three years. I was young, rich,
independent; my father, Monsieur Duronceray, had left me more than
thirty thousand francs a year, so that I could afford to make every
sacrifice for that woman; I would have gone so far as to give her my
hand and my name. But that woman deceived me. A man whom I believed to
be my friend was secretly her lover; but in order to turn aside my
suspicions more effectually, she played the flirt with other men; with
one, among others, of whom I was jealous--for he was well adapted to
seduce! he was young and rich and had every quality likely to attract
and charm a woman. Ah! if he had chosen to respond to that woman’s
allurements, I am sure that she would have asked nothing better than to
number him among her lovers. And it was to revenge herself for his
indifference that she made him her victim.--But I ought to have been
enlightened as to the real sentiments of those who surrounded me. My
faithful Ami, my brave companion, had never been willing to bestow the
slightest caress on the woman who betrayed me; far from it! he always
manifested such an aversion for her, that I had ceased to take him with
me when I went to see her. Whereas, whenever I was with that young man
whom I believed to be my rival, Ami would run to him and display as much
friendly feeling as he displayed just now for you. But at that time I
did not know that the dog was so skilful in divining the sentiments that
people entertained for his master; I attributed his behavior to caprice,
and drew no other inference from it.
“At last, on a certain day--a fatal day, which I cannot recall without a
shudder!--this woman, by the way, had hired a small country house near
the village of Couberon--I went to her house in Paris; not finding her
there, I suspected that she was in the country, and I hastened thither,
torn in advance by a thousand suspicions, for she was not in the habit
of going to Couberon without me.--I arrived. A lady’s maid, who was
doing sentry duty, saw me in the distance and hastened to warn her
mistress. She instantly dismissed her lover, and learning that Comte
Adhémar had just arrived----”
“Comte Adhémar! was that the name you said, monsieur?” cried Honorine,
in the most intense excitement.
“Yes, madame, Comte Adhémar de Hautmont.”
“Ah! that is the name! the very name!”
“Did you know him, madame?”
“Yes--that is to say, not I--But finish, monsieur! for heaven’s sake,
finish your story!”
“Well! on entering my mistress’s room, I found her alone with the count,
and apparently in the utmost confusion. Thereupon, blinded by jealousy,
I overwhelmed her with reproaches. And she, instead of telling me that
the man who was then with her was not her lover, had the perfidy to
confirm my suspicions by some words which seemed to escape her
involuntarily. I instantly insulted the count and demanded satisfaction
for his conduct. He, utterly amazed by what he had seen and heard, could
not comprehend my jealousy, and tried to make me understand that I was
wrong to think him my rival. But I could no longer restrain my fury,
jealousy drove me mad. I thought that the count declined to fight with
me, and, to force him to do it, I raised my hand against him.
“Adhémar’s temperament was as fiery as mine. I had offered him an insult
which could only be washed out in blood; and after that, it was on his
own account, to avenge his outraged honor, that he fought.
“I succeeded in obtaining pistols, and we both went out from that house
to which that woman had lured the count, solely in the hope--too fully
realized--that if I should surprise her, he would serve to lead my
jealousy astray.--Adhémar and I walked a long distance through the
fields. It was mid-day, and we constantly met villagers and farm-hands
at work in the fields, in whose presence we could not fight. At last we
reached the sunken road that leads from the road to Noisy-le-Grand. It
was a deserted spot, no one could see us in that ravine, and there our
duel took place.
“Adhémar was the insulted party; he fired first, but did not hit me;
whereas I--poor, poor fellow! shot through the breast, he had barely
time to say:
“‘I was not your rival; I have never made love to that woman in whose
house you found me. I love devotedly a young girl who has made me a
father. She is poor; my relations are opposed to the connection; but
before long I should have been able to marry my love. What will become
of my poor little girl and her mother without me?--Go to them and take
care of them.’
“‘Their name, their address?’ I cried; ‘on my honor I swear to take your
place with them.’
“Alas! poor Adhémar tried to speak, but he had not the strength; he died
without naming the woman whom he adored. I looked through his wallet,
hoping to find the name and address there. Nothing--no paper, no scrap
of information to put me on the track of those unfortunate creatures
from whom I had taken their only support. I rushed away from the spot,
beside myself with grief, like a madman. I had seen people coming; I was
afraid of being arrested; for I said to myself: ‘If they deprive me of
my liberty, how shall I find this woman whom I have deprived of her
husband, this child whom I have deprived of her father?’”
“That child is here, monsieur, very near you--in this house.”
“Mon Dieu! what do you say, madame?”
“I say that Agathe is the daughter of Comte Adhémar de Hautmont!”
“Is it possible? are you not mistaken?”
“No, monsieur, and you shall have proofs of it--letters from the count
which her poor mother possessed and kept religiously; they were all she
had of his.”
“Agathe, Adhémar’s daughter! I have found her at last! O my God! hast
Thou forgiven me?--But her mother?”
“Julia Montoni, Agathe’s mother, is no longer living. Poor woman! she
died five years after the disappearance of the man she adored, and whom
she never ceased to expect, for no one knew how the count had died. And
when she went to his hotel to inquire what had become of him, they could
give her no information. She caused inquiries to be made of his family,
but obtained no reply; and when she was on her deathbed, when she
commended her daughter to my care, poor Julia still hoped that Agathe’s
father would be restored to her some day.”
“Ah! madame, from this day half of my fortune belongs to her. But do you
think that she will forgive me for having deprived her of her father?”
“Your long repentance, your remorse for the duel, the seclusion and
isolation to which you condemned yourself--all these surely entitle you
to forgiveness.”
“Yes; after fruitless endeavors to find the two persons whom the count
had so earnestly recommended to me, I returned to this region, to the
stage upon which those events took place. The woman who was the cause of
everything had left her Couberon estate long before. I found, in the
ravine, the modest memorial of the unfortunate Adhémar; an estate near
by was for sale; I bought it and went into retirement there. Far from
the world which I hated, and near the last resting-place of the victim
of my blind jealousy, I was enabled to visit the ravine every day, to
visit the spot where that fatal duel took place, and to weep by the
cross which has been set up where Adhémar lies.--Ah! if his daughter had
seen me there, she would forgive me!”
“She has seen you there; that evening, after the storm, Agathe and I
heard you praying by the cross.”
“Is it possible?”
“Yes; and Agathe herself said: ‘That gentleman cannot be guilty; he
regrets too sincerely the person who lies there.’”
“Dear child! poor girl!--But that is not all, madame. Still hoping that
I might sooner or later find the count’s natural daughter, I went to his
family. There I asked if anyone knew the name of the young woman whom
Adhémar loved. His people did not know, or at all events they would give
me no information. But one old uncle, who was more kind-hearted and
indulgent than the rest, said to me: ‘They are concealing from me too
the name of the young woman whom my nephew wanted to marry. But if you
ever succeed in finding her, tell her that her daughter, Adhémar’s
daughter, shall have the whole of my fortune; that I will leave
everything I possess to her.’
“That old man is still alive, I know. And Agathe, you say, has letters
from Adhémar to her mother. Those letters will suffice to prove that she
is his daughter, and to give her the fortune that is destined for her;
for I am certain that this uncle, by recognizing her as his niece, will
give her the right to bear her father’s name.”
“Mon Dieu! this seems like a dream. My poor Agathe rich and happy!
Suppose I wake her?”
“No, no! Let me prepare myself to see her. If you knew all that I feel!
Ah! madame, you have made me very happy; and yet I tremble--it seems to
me that I shall not dare to face this girl whom I have wronged so
terribly!”
“Calm yourself, monsieur; your duel was the result of a mistake, of an
act of perfidy; the sole culprit was that woman who so ill requited your
love for her.”