CHAPTER XLII.

It will be remembered, perhaps, that at the moment of departure for

Blemur, Bridou put on Jacques Bastien's greatcoat, made of goatskin.

Bastien, half drunk, had, in spite of old Andre's advice to the

contrary, persisted in fording a place inundated by the pond as well as

by the waters of the Loire; the horse lost his footing, and the carriage

was dragged down the current. Bridou succeeded in getting out of the

carriage, but was swept by the torrent under the wheels of the mill and

crushed to death. A part of the goatskin coat was caught in one of the

wheels. In the pocket of the garment were found several letters

addressed to M. Bastien. Hence the fatal error. It was supposed that M.

Bastien had been crushed under the wheels, and that the body of the

bailiff had disappeared under the water.

Jacques Bastien, incommoded by his great corpulence, had not, in spite

of his efforts, succeeded in getting out of the carriage; this

circumstance saved him. The horse, after having been dragged some

distance with the drift, regained his footing, but soon, exhausted by

fatigue, and attempting to ascend a very steep hill, he tumbled down.

Jacques, thrown forward, received a deep wound in the head, and lay

insensible for some time, when, at the break of day, some labourers

going to the fields found him, picked him up and carried him to an

isolated farm quite distant from the scene of the disaster.

Jacques remained a long time in this farmhouse, seriously ill from the

results of his wound, and a dangerous attack produced by fright and

prolonged immersion in the ice-cold water. When he was in a condition

to write to his wife, he intentionally neglected to do so, promising

himself--as no doubt rumours of his death were current--to make his

resurrection a stupid and brutal joke, for he well understood with what

sentiments his household would receive the news of his tragic end.

In his project, Jacques, as we have seen, did not fail.

When, however, he saw his wife fall, overwhelmed at the sight of him, he

thought he had killed her, and fled from his house in a terror which

partook of the nature of frenzy.

Marie was not the only one overcome by this terrible blow.

Frederick was not less shocked by the sudden appearance of Bastien, and,

seeing his mother fall dead as it were on the floor, fell fainting in

the arms of Doctor Dufour.

The poor boy was not borne to his own chamber, but to the library, and a

bed was there prepared for him, as Doctor Dufour feared, with reason,

that the removal of Frederick to his own chamber, which opened into his

mother's, might be followed by consequences disastrous to both.

The doctor could not give his attention to both at the same time, and

occupied himself first with Marie, who, scarcely convalescent from her

previous illness, was alas! struck with a mortal blow.

When Doctor Dufour returned to Frederick he found him prostrated by

cerebral congestion, and soon his condition was desperate.

When Marie regained consciousness she realised that her end was

approaching, and asked to see her son immediately.

The embarrassment of Marguerite, her pallor and tears, her look of

despair, and the excuses and evasions she made to explain the absence of

Frederick in that solemn moment were a revelation to the young mother.

She felt, so to speak, that, like herself, her son was about to die;

then she asked to see David.

Marguerite ushered the preceptor into the room and left him alone with

Madame Bastien, whose angelic features already bore the impress of

death. With her cold white hand she made a sign to David to sit down at

her bedside and said to him:

"How is my son?"

"Madame--"

"He is not in his chamber; they are hiding him from me."

"Do not think--"

"I understand all; he is in a desperate state I know, but as my end is

near, too, I wish to say farewell to him, Henri."

For the first and the last time, alas! Marie called David by his

baptismal name.

"Farewell!" repeated he, with a heartrending sob "you wish to say

farewell!"

"But I cannot die without telling you how much I have loved you. You

knew it, did you not, my friend?"

"And you say that you are going to die! No, no! Marie, the power of my

love will give new life to you!" cried David, under a sort of aberration

of mind. "Die! Oh, why will you die? We love each other so much."

"Yes, our love is great, my friend, and for me it began from the day you

restored the life of my son's soul."

"Oh, woe! woe!"

"No, Henri, my death is not a woe for us. It seems to me, you

understand, that, in the moment of leaving this life, my soul, freed

from terrestrial ties, can read the future. Henri, do you know what

would have been our fate?"

"You ask me to tell you that, when this morning our plans were so--"

"Listen to me, my friend; there are profound mysteries of maternal love

which, perhaps, are never unveiled but in supreme moments. As long as I

felt myself free, the future appeared radiant to me, as it did to you,

Henri, and perhaps for a few months, you and my son and myself would

have mingled our lives in the same bliss."

"Oh, that dream! that dream!"

"The dream was beautiful, Henri; perhaps the awakening would have been

cruel."

"What do you mean?"

"You know how much my son loves me. You know that all passionate

affection has its jealousy; sooner or later, he would have been jealous

of my love for you, Henri."

"He, he jealous of me?"

"You can believe a mother's heart; I am not mistaken."

"Alas, you only wish to make my sorrow less grievous; brave and generous

to the last!"

"Say I am a mother to the last. Listen to me still, Henri. In uniting

myself to you, I would have lost my name, that humble name that my son

wanted above everything to make illustrious, because that name was mine,

because everything in the poor child had reference to me."

"Oh, yes, you were in all his thoughts; when he thought he was dying, he

cried, 'My mother!' and his first cry, as he began his march to a

glorious destiny, was still, 'My mother!'"

"My friend, let us not deceive ourselves. What would have been our

grief, if, just when we were about to be united, the fear of arousing my

son's jealousy, perhaps would have stopped me? And however painful to

have renounced our love, think how much more horrible it would have been

to see, perhaps, the development of Frederick's jealousy after our

union. What could we have done then? What would have become of us?"

"No, no, Marie, do not believe that. Frederick loves me, too, and he

would have sacrificed himself to your happiness and mine."

"Sacrificed? Yes, my friend, he would have sacrificed himself. Oh, I

know it, not a word, not a complaint would have passed his lips. Always

loving, always tender, he would have smiled on us sadly, and then by

degrees, we would have seen him at last wasting away."

"Oh, my God, that is dreadful! Woe to me!" murmured David, with bitter

lamentation. "Woe to me!"

"Joy to you, Henri, because you have been the most generous of men,"

cried Marie, with an exaltation which imparted a superhuman expression

to her dying features, "Joy to you, Henri, for you have been loved, oh,

passionately loved, without costing a tear or one moment of shame to the

loyal heart which adores you. Yes, Henri, I have loved you without

hesitation, without resistance. I have loved you with pride, with

serenity, because my love for you, Henri, had all the sacred sweetness

of duty. Courage, then, my friend, let the memory of Marie and Frederick

Bastien sustain you and console you."

"What do you mean? Frederick! Oh, he at least will remain to me!"

"My son will not survive me."

"Frederick?"

"I feel it here, yes, Henri, here in my heart; I tell you he will die."

"But, a little while ago, Pierre came out of the chamber where your son

is lying, and told me he had not given up all hope. No, no, for him to

die, too, would be more than I could bear."

"Why do you say that, Henri?"

"Great God! you--you, his mother, ask that question!"

"I told you, my friend, there are profound mysteries in maternal love. I

think it would be a dreadful evil to survive my son, and Frederick

thinks as I do; he loves me as much as I love him, and he does not

desire to survive me."

"Oh, what misery for me to lose you both!"

"Marie and Frederick cannot be separated; neither in this world nor in

the other, my friend."

"Ah, you and he are happy!"

"Henri, my strength is gone, the chill of death is on me. Give me your

hand, your dear and faithful hand."

David threw himself on his knees at the bedside of the young woman,

covering her hand with tears and kisses; he burst into sobs.

Marie continued talking, her voice growing more and more feeble.

"One last request, Henri; you will grant it, if it is possible. M.

Bastien has spoken to me of his desire to sell this house; I would not

like to have strangers profane this home, where my life has been passed,

as well as the life of my son; for my life dates from the day I became a

mother. Doctor Dufour, your best friend, dwells near here, you would

like to live near him some day. Hasten that day, Henri; you will find

great consolation in a heart like his."

"Oh, Marie, this house will be the object of a religious care--but--"

"Thank you, Henri, oh, thank you, that thought consoles me. A last

prayer: I do not wish to be separated from my son; you understand me, do

you not?"

Scarcely had Marie uttered these words when a great noise was heard in

the corridor.

Marguerite in terror called the doctor.

Suddenly Madame Bastien's door was thrown open violently. Frederick

entered, livid as a corpse, dragging after him a piece of the bed linen,

like a winding-sheet, while Marguerite was trying in vain to hold him

back.

A last ray of intelligence, the filial instinct perhaps, led this child

to die near his mother.

David, who was kneeling at the bedside of the young woman, rose,

bewildered, as if he had seen a spectre.

"Mother! mother!" cried Frederick, in an agonising voice, throwing

himself on Marie's bed, and enfolding her in his arms, as the doctor ran

to them in dismay.

"Oh, come, my child, come!" murmured Marie, embracing her son in a last

embrace with convulsive joy, "now it is for ever!"

These were the last words of the young mother.

Frederick and Marie breathed out their souls in a supreme embrace.

EPILOGUE.

We began this story supposing a tourist, going from the city of Pont

Brillant to the castle of the same name, would pass the humble home of

Marie Bastien.

We finish this story with a like supposition.

If this tourist had travelled from Pont Brillant to the castle eighteen

months after the death of Frederick and Marie, he would have found

nothing changed in the farm.

The same elegant simplicity reigned in this humble abode; the same wild

flowers were carefully tended by old Andre; the same century-old grove

shaded the verdant lawn through which the limpid brook wound its way.

But the tourist would not have seen without emotion, under the shade of

the grove, and not far from the little murmuring cascade, a tombstone of

white marble on which he could read the words: "Marie and Frederick

Bastien."

Before this tomb, which was sheltered by a rustic porch, already covered

with ivy and climbing flowers, was placed the little boat presented to

Frederick at the time of the overflow, on which could be read the

inscription: "The poor people of the valley to Frederick Bastien."

If the tourist had chanced to pass this grove at sunrise or at sunset,

he would have seen a man tall of stature and clad in mourning, with hair

as white as snow, although his face was young, approaching this tomb in

religious meditation.

This man was David.

He had not failed in the mission entrusted to him by Marie.

Nothing was changed without or within the house. The chamber of the

young mother, that of Frederick, and the library, filled with the

uncompleted tasks left by the son of Madame Bastien, all remained as on

the day of the death of the mother and child.

The chamber of Jacques Bastien was walled up.

David continued to inhabit the garret chamber which he occupied as

preceptor. Marguerite was his only servant.

Doctor Dufour came every day to see David, near whom he wished to

establish himself, when he could trust his patronage to a young

physician newly arrived in Pont Brillant.

As a memorial to his young brother and to Frederick, David--that his

grief might not be barren of result--transformed one of the barns on the

farm into a schoolroom, and there, every day, he instructed the children

of the neighbouring farmers. In order to assure the benefit of his

instruction, the preceptor gave a small indemnity to the parents of the

pupils, inasmuch as the children forced by the poverty of their families

to go out to work could not avail themselves of public education.

We will suppose that our tourist, after having paused before the modest

tomb of Marie and Frederick, would meet some inhabitant of the valley.

"My good man," the tourist might have said to him, "pray, whose is that

tomb down there under those old oaks?"

"It is the tomb of the good saint of our country, monsieur."

"What is his name?"

"Frederick Bastien, monsieur, and his good angel of a mother is buried

with him."

"You are weeping, my good man."

"Yes, monsieur, as all weep who knew that angel mother and her son."

"They were, then, much loved by the people of the country?"

"Wait, monsieur; do you see that tall fine castle down there?"

"The Castle of Pont Brillant?"

"The young marquis and his grandmother are richer than the king. Good

year or bad year, they give a great deal of money to the poor, and yet,

if the name of the young marquis is mentioned among the good people of

the valley once, the names of Frederick Bastien and his mother are

mentioned a hundred times."

"And why is that?"

"Because, instead of money, which they did not have, the mother gave the

poor her kind heart, and the half of her bread, and the son, when it was

necessary, his life to save the life of others, as I and mine can

testify, without counting other families whom he rescued at the risk of

his own life at the great overflow two years ago. So, you see, monsieur,

the name of the good saint of the country will endure longer in the

valley than the grand Castle of Pont Brillant. Castles crumble to the

ground, while our children's children will learn from their fathers the

name of Frederick Bastien."

INDOLENCE.

CHAPTER I.

A CHARMING IDLER.

Should there be any artist who desires to depict _dolce far niente_ in

its most attractive guise, we think we might offer him as a model,--

Florence de Luceval, six months married, but not quite seventeen, a

blonde with a skin of dazzling whiteness, cheeks rivalling the wild rose

in hue, and a wealth of golden hair. Though tall and beautifully formed,

the young lady is a trifle stout, but the slight superabundance of flesh

is so admirably distributed that it only adds to her attractiveness.

Enveloped in a soft mull peignoir, profusely trimmed with lace, her

attitude is careless but graceful in the extreme, as, half reclining in

a luxurious armchair, with her head a little to one side, and her dainty

slippered feet crossed upon a big velvet cushion, she toys with a

magnificent rose that is lying on her lap.

Thus luxuriously established before an open window that overlooks a

beautiful garden, she gazes out through her half closed eyelids upon the

charming play of light and shade produced by the golden sunbeams as they

pierce the dense shrubbery that borders the walk. At the farther end of

this shady path is a fountain where the water in one marble shell

overflows into the larger one below; and the faint murmur of the

distant fountain, the twittering of the birds, the soft humidity of the

atmosphere, the clearness of the sky, and the balmy fragrance from

several beds of heliotrope and huge clumps of Japanese honeysuckle seem

to have plunged the fair young creature into a sort of ecstatic trance,

in which body and mind are alike held captive by the same delightful

lethargy.

While this incorrigible idler is thus yielding to the charm of her

habitual indolence, an entirely different scene is going on in an

adjoining room.

M. Alexandre de Luceval had just entered his wife's bedchamber. He was a

young man about twenty-five years of age, and dark complexioned. Quick,

nervous, and lithe in his movements, the natural petulance of his

disposition manifested itself in his every gesture. He belonged, in

fact, to that class of individuals who are blessed, or afflicted, with a

desire to be always on the go, and who are utterly unable to remain for

more than a minute in one place, or without busying themselves about

something or other. In short, he was a man who seemed to be not only in

a dozen places at once, but to be engaged in solving two problems at the

same time,--that of perpetual motion and ubiquity.

It was now two o'clock in the afternoon, and M. de Luceval, who had

risen with the sun,--he never slept more than four or five hours,--had

already traversed half of Paris, either on foot or on horseback. When he

entered his wife's bedchamber, one of her women happened to be there,

and her employer, in the quick, curt way which was habitual to him,

exclaimed:

"Well, has madame returned? Is she dressed? Is she ready?"

"Madame la marquise has not been out this morning, monsieur," replied

Mlle. Lise, the maid.

"What! Madame did not go out at eleven o'clock, as she intended?"

"No, monsieur, madame did not rise until half-past twelve."

"Another ride postponed!" muttered M. de Luceval, stamping his foot

impatiently.

"But madame is dressed now, of course?" he said aloud.

"Oh, no, monsieur; madame is still in her dressing-gown. Madame told me

she had no intention of going out to-day."

"Where is she?" demanded M. de Luceval, with another impatient stamp of

the foot; "where is she?"

"In her boudoir, monsieur."

A few seconds afterwards M. de Luceval burst noisily into the room where

his pretty wife lay stretched out in her armchair, too comfortable to

even turn her head to see who the intruder was.

"Really, Florence, this is intolerable!" exclaimed M. de Luceval.

"What, my dear?" the lady asked, languidly, without moving, and with her

eyes still fixed on the garden.

"You ask me that, when you know that we were to go out together at two

o'clock!"

"It is entirely too hot."

"But the carriage is ready."

"They can take the horses out, then, I wouldn't move for a kingdom."

"But you will have to. You know perfectly well that it is absolutely

necessary we should go out together to-day, particularly as you did not

go out earlier, as you ought to have done."

"I really hadn't the courage to get up."

"You will at least have to summon up courage to dress yourself, and at

once."

"Don't insist, my dear. It is not of the slightest use."

"You must be jesting."

"Nothing of the sort."

"But the purchases we have to make cannot be put off any longer. My

niece's _corbeille_ must be completed. It would have been a week ago,

but for your indolence."

"You have excellent taste, my dear, attend to the _corbeille_ yourself.

The mere thought of rushing about from shop to shop, and going up and

down stairs, and standing on one's feet for hours at a time, is really

too appalling."

"Nonsense, madame! Such indolence in a girl of seventeen is monstrous,

disgraceful! It positively amounts to a disease with you. I shall

consult Doctor Gasterini about it to-morrow."

"An excellent idea!" said Florence, really arousing herself enough to

laugh this time. "The dear doctor is so witty it is sure to be a very

amusing consultation."

"I am in earnest, madame. Something must be done to cure you of this

apathy."

"I sincerely hope it will prove incurable. You have no idea how much I

was enjoying myself before you came in, lying here with half closed

eyes, listening to the fountain, and not even taking the trouble to

think."

"You dare to admit that?"

"And why not, pray?"

"I don't believe there is another person in the world who can compare

with you so far as indolence is concerned."

"You forget your cousin Michel, who, judging from what you say,

certainly rivals me in this respect. Possibly it is on this account that

he has never taken the trouble to come and see you since your marriage."

"You two are certainly very much alike. I really believe you are more

indolent than he is, though. But come, Florence, don't let us have any

more nonsense. Dress at once, and let us be off, I beg of you."

"And I, in turn, beg that you will attend to this shopping yourself, my

dear Alexandre. If you will, I'll promise to drive with you in the Bois

this evening. We won't go until after dark, so I shall only have to put

on a hat and mantle."

"But this is the day of Madame de Mirecourt's reception. She has called

on you twice, and you have never set foot in her house, so you really

must do me the favour to go there this evening."

"Make an evening toilet? Oh, no, indeed. It is entirely too much

trouble."

"That is not the question. One must fulfil one's duties to society, so

you will accompany me to Madame de Mirecourt's this evening."

"Society can do without me just as well as I can do without society.

Society bores me. I shall not go to Madame de Mirecourt's."

"Yes, you will."

"When I say no, I mean no."

"Zounds, madame--"

"My dear, as I have told you very often, I married so I might get out of

the convent, so I might lie in bed as late as I chose in the morning, so

I might get rid of lessons, and so I might do nothing as long and as

much as I pleased,--so I might be my own mistress, in short."

"You are talking and reasoning like a child,--and like an utterly

spoiled child."

"That doesn't matter."

"Ah, your guardian warned me! Why did I not believe him? I had no idea

that such a person as you could exist. I said to myself, 'This indolence

on the part of a girl of seventeen is nothing but the ennui caused by

the monotony of convent life. When she marries, the duties and pleasures

of society, the care of her house, and improving travel will cure her of

her indolence, and--'"

"Then that is the reason, I suppose, that you had the barbarity to

propose a long journey to me only a day or two after our marriage,"

interrupted Madame de Luceval, in reproachful tones.

"But, madame, travelling--"

"Don't! The slightest allusion to it positively makes me shudder. A

journey is the most fatiguing and disagreeable thing in the world. Think

of nights spent in diligences or in horrid inns, and long walks and

drives to see the pretended beauties or wonders of a country. I have

asked you before, monsieur, not to even mention the subject of

travelling to me. I have perfect horror of it."

"Ah, madame, had I foreseen this--"

"I understand; I should not have had the happiness of being Madame de

Luceval."

"Say, rather, that I should not have had the misfortune to be your

husband."

"A gallant speech after six months of married life, truly."

"But you exasperate me beyond endurance, madame. I am the most unhappy

man alive. I can stand it no longer. I must say what I have to say."

"Do, by all means. But pray don't make such a fuss about it. I abhor a

noise."

"Very well, then, madame. I tell you very plainly, though very quietly,

that it is a woman's duty to attend to the affairs of her household, and

you do not pay the slightest attention to yours. If it were not for me,

I don't know what would become of the house."

"That is the steward's business, it seems to me. But you have energy

enough for two, and you've got to expend it upon something."

"I tell you, again, madame, very quietly, understand, that I anticipated

a very different and very delightful life. I had deferred exploring

several of the most interesting countries until after my marriage,

saying to myself, 'Instead of exploring them alone, I shall then have a

charming and congenial companion; fatigue, adventures, even

dangers,--we will share them all courageously together.'"

"Great Heavens!" murmured Florence, lifting her beautiful eyes

heavenward, "he admits such an atrocious thing as that."

"'What happiness it will be,' I said to myself," continued M. de

Luceval, quite carried away by the bitterness of his regret,--"'what

happiness it will be to visit such extremely interesting countries as

Egypt--'"

"Egypt!"

"Turkey--"

"_Mon Dieu!_ Turkey!"

"And if you had been the woman I so fondly dreamed, we might even have

pushed on to the Caucasus."

"The Caucasus!" exclaimed Florence, straightening herself up in her

chair this time. "Is it possible you thought of such a thing as visiting

the Caucasus?" she added, clasping her pretty hands in undisguised

horror.

"But, madame, Lady Stanhope, and the Duchesse de Plaisance, and many

others, have made similar journeys."

"The Caucasus! So that was what you reserved for me! That was what you

were infamously plotting, when I so trustingly gave you my hand in the

Chapel of the Assumption. Ah, I understand the cruel selfishness of your

character now."

And sinking back in her armchair again, she repeated, in the same

horrified tones:

"The Caucasus! Think of it, the Caucasus!"

"Oh, I know very well now that you are one of those women who are

incapable of making the slightest concession to their husband's wishes,"

retorted M. de Luceval, bitterly.

"The slightest concession! Why don't you propose a voyage of discovery

to Timbuctoo, or the North Pole, and be done with it?"

"Madame Biard, the brave-hearted wife of an eminent painter, had the

courage to accompany her husband to the polar seas without a murmur;

yes, even gladly, madame," answered M. de Luceval,--"to polar seas, do

you hear, madame?"

"I hear only too well, monsieur. You are either the most wicked or the

most insane of men!"

"Really, madame--"

"And what and who, in Heaven's name, is keeping you, monsieur? If you

have a passion--a mania, I call it--for travelling, if repose is so

irksome to you, why don't you travel? Go to the Caucasus! Go to the

North Pole, if you like, start at once, make haste about it. We shall

both be the gainers by it. I shall no longer distress you by the sight

of my atrocious indolence, and you will cease to irritate my nerves by

the restlessness that prevents you from remaining for a moment in one

place or allowing others to do so. Twenty times a day you rush into my

room merely for the sake of coming and going; or, even worse, marvellous

as it may appear, you come and wake me at five o'clock in the morning to

propose a horseback ride, or to take me to the natatorium. You have even

gone so far as to insist upon my practising gymnastics a little.

Gymnastics! Who but you would ever think of such a thing? So, monsieur,

I repeat that your absurd ideas, your constant coming and going, the

sort of perpetual motion you keep up, the spirit of unrest that seems to

possess you, causes me quite as much annoyance as my indolence can

possibly cause you. Consequently you need not suppose for one moment

that you alone have cause to complain, and as we have both made up our

minds to say our say to each other, I declare in my turn, monsieur, that

such a life as this is intolerable to me, and, unless there is a change

for the better, I do not intend to put up with it much longer."

"What do you mean by that, madame?"

"I mean that it would be very foolish for us to go on interfering with

and annoying each other. You have your tastes, I have mine; you have

your fortune, I have mine; then let us live as seems good to us, and,

for Heaven's sake, let us, above all, live in quiet."

"I admire your assurance, really, madame. It is something marvellous! Do

you suppose I married to lead a life that was not to my liking?"

"Oh, _mon Dieu_! live as you please, monsieur, but let me live as I

please, as well."

"It pleases me, madame, to live with you. It was for that I married you,

I think; so it is for you to accept my sort of life. Yes, madame, I have

the right to expect it, ay, to demand it; and you may rest assured that

I shall have the energy to enforce my demands."

"What you say is perfectly ridiculous, M. de Luceval."

"Ah, you think so, do you?" retorted the husband, with a sardonic smile.

"Yes, ridiculous in the highest degree."

"Then the Civil Code is ridiculous in the highest degree, I suppose?"

"Very possibly, monsieur, as you bring it into this discussion. I don't

know enough about it to judge, however."

"Then understand, once for all, madame, that the Civil Code expressly

states that a woman is expected, obliged, compelled to follow her

husband."

"To the Caucasus?"

"Wherever he may see fit to take her."

"I am in no mood for jesting, monsieur. But for that, your

interpretation of the Civil Code would amuse me immensely."

"I, too, am in earnest, madame,--very much in earnest."

"That is what makes the whole affair so irresistibly comical."

"Take care, madame, do not drive me to desperation."

"Oh, threaten me with the North Pole at once, and let that be the end of

it."

"I have no intention of resorting to threats, madame. I merely wish to

impress upon your mind the fact that the time for weakness is past, so

when it suits me to start on a journey,--and that moment is, perhaps,

nearer than you think,--I shall notify you one week in advance, so you

may have time to make all needful preparations; then, willing or not,

when the post-horses come, you will enter the carriage."

"If not, the magistrate, and a 'In the name of the law, follow your

husband,' I suppose, monsieur."

"Yes, madame. You may sneer as much as you please, but you will follow

me at the law's bidding, for you must realise that some guaranties in

relation to such a serious and sacred thing as marriage must and do

exist. After all, a man's happiness and peace of mind must not be at the

mercy of the slightest caprice of a spoiled child."

"Caprice! that is ridiculous. I have a horror of travelling, the

slightest fatigue is intolerable to me, and because you take it into

your head to rival the Wandering Jew, I am to be compelled to follow

you?"

"Yes, madame; and I will prove to you that--"

"M. de Luceval, I hate controversy. It is entirely too much trouble. So,

to put an end to this discussion, I will merely say that I shall not

accompany you on a single one of your journeys, even if it be merely

from here to St. Cloud. You shall see if I do not keep my word."

And Florence threw herself back in her armchair again, crossed her

little feet, and closed her eyes, as if completely exhausted.

"Madame," exclaimed M. de Luceval, "this is not to be borne. I will not

permit this disdainful silence!"

All her husband's efforts to extort a word from her proved futile,

however, and despairing, at last, of overcoming his wife's obstinacy, he

departed, in high dudgeon.

M. de Luceval was perfectly sincere in saying what he did, for, being

passionately fond of travel himself, he could not believe that his wife

really loathed it, and he was the more incredulous on this point as,

when he married Florence, he had persuaded himself that a child of

sixteen, an orphan, who had spent her life in a convent, could not have

much will of her own, and would be delighted to travel. In fact, he had

felt certain that such a proposal would prove a delightful surprise to

her.

His notary had told him of an orphan girl of sixteen, with a lovely

face, an exquisite figure, and a fortune of more than a million francs,

which, invested in the business of her guardian, a famous banker,

yielded a yearly income of eighty thousand francs. M. de Luceval gave

sincere thanks to Heaven and his notary. He saw the young girl, thought

her ravishingly beautiful, fell in love with her, married her, and, when

the awakening came, he had the simplicity to marvel at the loss of his

illusions, and the credulity to believe that right, persistency,

threats, force, and the law would have some effect upon the will of a

woman who entrenches herself in a passive resistance.

* * * * *

A few minutes after M. de Luceval had taken his departure, Lise, the

maid, entered the room with a rather frightened air, and said to her

mistress:

"A lady, who says her name is Madame d'Infreville, is down at the door,

in a carriage."

"Valentine!" exclaimed the young marquise, in accents of joyful

surprise. "It is ages since I saw her. Ask her to come up at once."

"But that is impossible, madame."

"And why?"

"The lady sent, through the concierge, for madame's maid. Some one told

me and I went down at once. When I got there, the lady, who was

frightfully pale, said to me: 'Mademoiselle, go to Madame de Luceval and

ask her to have the goodness to come down here for a moment. I want to

speak to her on a very important matter. Tell her that my name is Madame

d'Infreville,--Valentine d'Infreville.'"

Lise had scarcely uttered these words before a footman entered the room,

after having knocked, and said to Florence:

"Will madame la marquise see Madame d'Infreville?"

"What!" exclaimed Florence, greatly surprised at this sudden change in

her friend's resolution, "is Madame d'Infreville here?"

"Yes, madame."

"Then show her in at once," said Madame de Luceval, rising to meet her

friend, whom she embraced affectionately, and with whom she was a moment

afterwards left alone.

CHAPTER II.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

Valentine d'Infreville was three years older than Madame de Luceval, and

a striking contrast to her in every way, though equally beautiful and

attractive.

Tall, lithe, and slender, without being thin, and a decided brunette in

colouring,--she had beautiful eyes, full of fire, and black as her long,

luxuriant hair, and rich scarlet lips, shaded by the slightest suspicion

of down, while her thin nostrils, which quivered and dilated with the

slightest emotion, the excessive mobility of her features, her animated

gestures, and even the rather virile timbre of her contralto voice, all

indicated that she was the possessor of an ardent and impassioned

nature. She had first met Florence at the Convent of the Sacred Heart,

where they had become very intimate. Valentine had left the convent to

be married a year before her friend, and though she afterwards came to

see Florence several times at the convent, for several months prior to

her marriage with M. de Luceval, Florence, to her great surprise, had

seen nothing of her friend, and since that time their intercourse had

been confined to a correspondence which had been very irregular on the

part of Madame d'Infreville, who was, she declared, absorbed with

household cares; so the two friends had not seen each other for more

than six months.

Madame de Luceval, after having tenderly embraced her friend, noticed

her unusual pallor as well as her extreme agitation, and asked,

anxiously:

"Valentine, what is the matter? My maid told me first that you wished to

see me, but that you did not want to come in."

"I seem to have lost my head completely, Florence. I am nearly mad, I

believe."

"You frighten me. Explain, for pity's sake!"

"Florence, will you save me from a terrible misfortune?"

"Speak, speak! Am I not your friend, though you have deserted me for the

last six months?"

"I did very wrong. I have been unkind and ungrateful, I know, and yet I

appeal to you now."

"It is the only way to gain my forgiveness."

"Always the same generous Florence!"

"But now tell me, quick, what can I do for you?"

"Have you writing materials here?"

"Over there on that table."

"Then write what I dictate, I beg of you. It may save me."

"This paper has my initials on it. Does that make any difference?"

"On the contrary, it is all the better, as you are the person who is

supposed to be writing to me."

"Go on, then, Valentine. I am ready."

So Madame d'Infreville dictated the following in a strangely altered

voice, pausing now and then, so great was her emotion.

"'The recollection of the pleasant hours we spent together

yesterday is so delightful, my dear Valentine,--though I really can

not say that it was in any respect a more charming day than last

Wednesday,--that at the risk of seeming both selfish and

importunate, I am going to ask you to give me Sunday.'"

"Give me Sunday," repeated Florence, greatly surprised at this

beginning.

"'Our programme shall be the same,'" continued

Madame d'Infreville. "Underline programme," she added, with a bitter

smile, then resumed:

"'Our _programme_ shall be the same: breakfast at eleven, a stroll

in the garden, embroidery, music, and conversation until seven

o'clock, then dinner and afterwards a drive in the Bois de Boulogne

in an open carriage if the evening is fine, after which I shall

take you home at ten o'clock as I did yesterday.

"'Answer me yes or no, but let it be a yes, and you will make very

happy your devoted

"'FLORENCE.'"

"Your devoted Florence," repeated Madame de Luceval; then, with a half

smile, she added: "It is certainly cruel in you, Valentine, to dictate

such a programme to excite my envy and regret; but the time for

reproaches or explanations will come presently. I will have my revenge

then. Is that all, my dear Valentine?"

"Put my address on the note, seal it, and have it sent to my house at

once."

Madame de Luceval was about to ring when she paused as if a new thought

had suddenly struck her, and she said to her friend, with some slight

embarrassment:

"Valentine, I do hope you will not take offence at what I am about to

say to you."

"Go on."

"If I am not mistaken, the object of this letter is to make some one

suppose that we have spent several days together recently."

"Yes, yes, that is it exactly. Well, what of it?"

"In that case, I think it advisable to tell you that my husband is

unfortunately endowed with such a prodigious amount of energy and

activity that, though he is almost always out of the house, he

nevertheless finds a way to be almost always in my room; in fact, he

rushes in and out about a dozen times a day, so if his testimony should

be invoked, he would be sure to say that he had never seen you here."

"I foresaw this difficulty, but of two dangers, one must choose the

least. Send this letter without delay, I beg of you, by one of your

servants; but no, he might talk. You had better entrust it to the post.

It will arrive in time, even then."

Madame de Luceval rang the bell.

A footman answered the summons.

His mistress was about to give him the letter, but she changed her mind

and asked instead:

"Is Baptiste here?"

"Yes, madame la marquise."

"Send him to me at once."

"Why this servant instead of the other, Florence?" inquired Madame

d'Infreville.

"The other man knows how to read. He is rather inquisitive, too, and he

might think it singular that I wrote to you while you were here. The man

I sent for cannot read, and is very stupid besides, so there is very

little danger to apprehend from him."

"You are right, a thousand times right, Florence. In my excitement, I

did not think of all this."

"Did madame la marquise send for me?" inquired Baptiste, appearing in

the doorway.

"Do you know the flower girl that has a shop near the Chinese

bath-house?" inquired Florence.

"Yes, madame la marquise."

"Go there at once, and buy me two large bunches of Parma violets."

"Yes, madame."

The man turned to go.

"Oh, I forgot," exclaimed Madame de Luceval, calling him back. "I want

you to post this letter on your way."

"Has madame any other commissions?"

"No."

So Baptiste departed.

Madame d'Infreville understood and appreciated her friend's generosity

in thus making herself an accessory to the deed.

"Thank you, thank you, my dearest Florence," she exclaimed, gratefully.

"Heaven grant that your kindness may not prove unavailing."

"I hope it may not, indeed, but--"

"Florence, listen to me. The only way I can prove my gratitude for the

great service you have just rendered me is to place myself at your

mercy,--in other words, to conceal nothing from you. I ought to have

done that at first, and then explained the object of this letter,

instead of exacting this proof of your devotion and friendship; but I

admit that I was afraid you would refuse my request and blame me when

you learned that--"

Then, after a moment's hesitation, Valentine said, resolutely, though

she blushed deeply up to her very eyes:

"Florence, I have a lover."

"I suspected as much, Valentine."

"Do not condemn me without a hearing, I beseech you."

"My poor Valentine, I remember only one thing,--the confidence you have

shown in me."

"Ah, but for my mother, I would not have stooped to this trickery and

falsehood. I would have borne all the consequences of my wrong-doing,

for I, at least, have the courage of my actions, but in my mother's

present precarious condition of health, a scandal would kill her. Oh,

Florence, though I am culpable, I am also very miserable," exclaimed

Madame d'Infreville, bursting into tears, and throwing herself in her

friend's arms.

"Calm yourself, I beseech you, Valentine," said the young marquise,

though she shared her companion's emotion. "Trust to my sincere

affection, and open your heart to your friend. It will at least be some

consolation to you."

"My only hope is in your affection. Yes, Florence, I feel and know that

you love me; that conviction alone gives me courage to make this painful

confession. But, stay, there is another confession which I wish to have

off my mind first. If I have come, after a long estrangement, to ask

this great favour of you, it is not only because I counted blindly upon

your friendship, but because, of all the women of my acquaintance, you

are the only one my husband never visits. Now, listen to me: When I

married M. d'Infreville, you were still in the convent. You were still a

young girl, and my natural reserve prevented me from telling you many

things,--among them, the fact that I married without love."

"Like myself," murmured Florence.

"The marriage pleased my mother, and assured me a large fortune,

consequently I unfortunately yielded to my mother's persuasions all the

more readily as I, too, was dazzled by the advantages of such a

position; so I married M. d'Infreville, without realising, alas! what

grievous obligations I was incurring, and at what a price I was selling

my liberty. Though I have abundant cause to complain of my husband, my

own wrong-doing prevents any recrimination on my part. Without trying to

excuse my own weakness, I will endeavour to state the facts of the case,

clearly and impartially. M. d'Infreville, though he should be in his

prime, is a valetudinarian, because, in his youth, he plunged into all

sorts of excesses. He is morose, because he regrets the past; imperious

and stern, because he has no heart. In his eyes, I have never been

anything but a penniless young girl, whom he condescended to marry in

order to make a sort of nurse out of me, and for a long time I accepted

this role, and performed the duties it involved religiously,--this role

which was not only so trying but also so humiliating and disgraceful,

because the attentions I paid my husband were not from the heart; and

too late, alas! I realised how vile my conduct had been."

"Valentine--"

"No, Florence, no, the term is none too severe. I married M.

d'Infreville without love. I married him because he was rich. I sold

myself to him, body and soul, and such conduct is vile and disgraceful,

I tell you."

"You blame yourself too much, Valentine. You were not thinking as much

about yourself as you were about your mother, I am sure."

"And my mother was less solicitous about herself than about me. M.

d'Infreville's wealth made filial deference on my part only too easy. At

first, I was resigned to my fate, at least in a measure. After our

marriage, my husband's health was so poor as to confine him to the house

most of the time; but after a few months had elapsed, a marked change

for the better became apparent in his condition, thanks to my nursing,

perhaps; but from that time his habits, too, underwent an entire change.

I saw him but seldom; he was scarcely ever at home, and I soon heard

that he had a mistress."

"Poor Valentine!"

"A woman known to all Paris. My husband gave her a magnificent

establishment, and made so little effort to conceal his relations with

her that I learned all the particulars of the scandalous affair through

public hearsay. I ventured to remonstrate with M. d'Infreville, not from

any feeling of jealousy, Heaven knows! but I begged him, out of

consideration for me, to have a little more regard for appearances. Even

these very temperate reproaches irritated my husband, and he asked me,

in the most insolent and disdainful manner, what right I had to meddle

in this matter. He reminded me that I was indebted to him for a lot to

which I could not otherwise have aspired, and that, as he had married me

without a dowry, I had no right to make the slightest complaint."

"Why, this conduct was shameful, infamous!"

"'But, as you so flagrantly fail in your duty, monsieur, what would you

say if I should forget mine?' I asked."

"'There is no comparison to be made between you and me,' he replied. 'I

am the master; it is your duty to obey. You owe everything to me; I owe

you nothing. Fail in your duty, and I will turn you out into the

street,--you and your mother, who lives upon my charity.'"

"Such insolence and cruelty are inconceivable!"

"A wise and commendable inspiration seized me. I went to my mother,

resolved to separate from my husband, and never to return to his house.

'But what will become of me?' said my mother. 'Sick and infirm as I am,

poverty means death to me. Besides, my poor child, a separation is

impossible. Your husband has a right to do this, so long as he does not

bring this woman where you are; and as the law is on his side, and as he

needs you, and is accustomed to your care and attentions when he is ill,

he will not hear of a separation, and you will be obliged to remain with

him. So make the best of it, my poor child. His infatuation for this

creature will not last long. Sooner or later, your husband will return

to you. Your patience and resignation will touch him; besides, he is in

such poor health that this unfortunate affair is sure to be his last, so

go on doing exactly as you have done in the past. In such cases, believe

me, my child, a good woman suffers and waits and hopes.'"

"What! your mother dared to--"

"Do not censure her too severely, Florence. She has such a horror of

poverty, quite as much on my account as on her own. Besides, does not

her advice conform in every respect with reason, the law, and the

opinion of the world in general?"

"What you say is only too true, alas!"

"Ah, well, so be it, I said to myself bitterly. All possibility of a

self-respecting, rightful revolt against this disgraceful state of

things being denied me, marriage becomes only a degrading servitude

henceforth. I accept it. I shall experience all the degradation of a

slave, but I will also practise a slave's perfidy and trickery. After

all, degradation of soul has one advantage. It annihilates all remorse;

it banishes every scruple. From this on, I will shut my eyes, and

instead of struggling against the tide which is sweeping me on to ruin,

I will yield myself to it."

"What do you mean?"

"It is now, Florence, that I need all your friendly indulgence. Up to

this time I have deserved some interest and sympathy, perhaps, but

now--"

The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of Madame de

Luceval's maid.

"What do you want?" asked Florence, impatiently.

"Here is a letter a messenger just brought from M. de Luceval, madame."

"Give it to me."

After having read it, Florence turned to her friend and said: "M. de

Luceval informs me that he will not dine at home, so can you not spend

the afternoon and take dinner with me?"

"I accept your invitation with pleasure, my dear Florence," Madame

d'Infreville replied, after a moment's reflection.

"Madame d'Infreville will dine with me," said Madame de Luceval, turning

to her maid. "Give the servants to understand that I am at home to no

one,--absolutely no one."

"Yes, madame," replied Mlle. Lise, quitting the room.

CHAPTER III.

A CONFERENCE.

We will leave the two ladies for a time and give our attention to M. de

Luceval. This gentleman, as we have just learned through his message to

his wife, did not intend to dine at home that day.

The reason was this:

He had, as we know, left Madame de Luceval in a towering rage. He was

also firmly resolved to insist upon his rights, and to force her to

submit to his will, as well as to his mania for travelling.

He had gone only a few steps from his house before he was accosted by a

rather distinguished looking man about forty-five years of age, whose

worn and haggard features bore the lines and the impress of a premature

old age. As M. de Luceval approached, this gentleman's stern, arrogant

face took on an expression of formal courtesy, and, bowing with great

politeness, he inquired:

"Is it to M. de Luceval that I have the honour of speaking?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"I was on my way to your house to tender you both my apologies and my

thanks."

"Before accepting either, may I not at least know, monsieur--"

"Who I am? Pardon me, monsieur, for not having told you sooner. I am M.

d'Infreville, so my name is not unknown to you, I think."

"We have several mutual friends, I think," replied M. de Luceval, "and

I congratulate myself upon my good fortune in meeting you personally,

monsieur. But we are only a short distance from my house, and if you

will return with me--"

"I could not think of giving you that trouble, monsieur. Besides, to

tell the truth, I should be almost afraid to meet Madame de Luceval."

"And why, monsieur?"

"The fact is, I have wronged madame so deeply, monsieur, that I must beg

you to make my excuses to her before I have the honour to be presented

to her."

"Pardon me," said Florence's husband, more and more mystified, "but I

really do not understand--"

"I will explain more clearly, monsieur. But we are almost at the Champs

Elysees. If agreeable to you, suppose we have a little chat together as

we walk along."

"Certainly, if you prefer that."

And M. de Luceval, who manifested the same energy in his walk that he

did in everything else, began to stride along, accompanied, or rather

followed, by M. d'Infreville, who found it extremely difficult to keep

up with his more agile companion. Nevertheless, continuing the

conversation, he said, in a rather panting fashion:

"Just now, monsieur, when I had the honour to tell you my name, and to

add that it was probably not unknown to you, you replied that we had

mutual friends, and I--But pardon me, I have a favour to ask of you,

monsieur," said M. d'Infreville, entirely out of breath now.

"What is it, monsieur?"

"I must ask you to walk a little more slowly. My lungs are not very

strong, and I get out of breath very quickly, as you see."

"On the contrary, monsieur, it is I who should beg you to excuse me for

walking so fast. It is a bad habit of which I find it very difficult to

break myself; besides, if you prefer it, we can sit down. Here are some

chairs."

"I accept the proposition with pleasure, monsieur," said M.

d'Infreville, sinking into a chair, "with very great pleasure."

The two gentlemen having established themselves comfortably, M.

d'Infreville remarked:

"Permit me to say, monsieur, that you must also have heard of me through

some other intermediary than mutual friends."

"To what intermediary do you refer, monsieur?"

"To Madame de Luceval."

"My wife?"

"Certainly, monsieur, for though I have not yet had the honour of an

introduction to her,--as I remarked a few minutes ago,--my wife is so

intimate with your wife that you and I cannot be strangers to each

other. The friendship of the ladies began at the convent, and still

continues, as they see each other almost daily, and--"

"Pardon me, monsieur, but I think there must be some mistake--"

"Some mistake?"

"Or rather, some misunderstanding in regard to names."

"And why, monsieur?"

"I seldom leave Madame de Luceval. She receives very few people, and I

have never had the pleasure of seeing Madame d'Infreville in my house."

It seemed as if Valentine's husband could not believe his own ears, for,

turning to his companion, he exclaimed, hoarsely:

"Do you mean to say, monsieur--?"

"That I have never had the honour of seeing Madame d'Infreville in my

house."

"But that is impossible, monsieur. My wife is with your wife almost

constantly."

"But I repeat that I have never seen Madame d'Infreville in my house,

monsieur."

"Never?" exclaimed Valentine's husband, so completely stupefied that M.

de Luceval gazed at him in astonishment, and said:

"So, as I remarked a short time ago, there must be some mistake in

regard to the name, as you tell me that your wife visits my wife every

day."

M. d'Infreville's face had become livid. Big drops of sweat stood out

upon his forehead, and a bitter smile contracted his bluish lips, but

controlling himself,--for he was resolved to act the part of a gentleman

in the presence of this stranger,--he responded in a sardonic tone:

"Fortunately, all this is between husbands, my dear sir; and we ought to

feel a little compassion for each other, for, after all, each has his

turn at it, as one never knows what may happen."

"What do you mean, monsieur?"

"Ah, my vague distrust was only too well founded," murmured M.

d'Infreville, in a sort of sullen rage. "Why did I not discover the

truth sooner? Oh, these women, these miserable women!"

"Once more, may I beg you to explain, monsieur."

"You are an honourable man, monsieur," replied M. d'Infreville, in an

almost solemn tone, "and I trust to your loyalty, sure that you will not

refuse to aid me in my efforts to ferret out and punish an infamous

crime, for now I understand everything. Oh, these women, these women!"

M. de Luceval, fearing his companion's exclamations would attract the

attention of several persons who were sitting a little distance from

them, was endeavouring to calm him, when it so chanced that he caught

sight of the footman Florence had sent out to mail her letter.

Seeing this man sauntering along with a letter which had, doubtless,

been written by Florence immediately after the lively altercation with

her husband, M. de Luceval, yielding to an almost irresistible impulse,

called the servant to him, and asked:

"Where are you going?"

"I am going to buy some violets for madame la marquise, and post this

letter," he replied, showing the missive to his master as he spoke.

That gentleman took it, and could not repress a movement of surprise as

his eye fell upon the address, then, recovering himself, he dismissed

the servant by a gesture, saying at the same time:

"You can go. I will take charge of the letter."

The footman having taken his departure, M. de Luceval turned to

Valentine's husband, and remarked:

"A strange presentiment, but one which did not deceive me, I find,

impelled me to secure this letter. It proves to be one which my wife has

written to Madame d'Infreville."

"Why, in that case, my wife and your wife must at least keep up a

correspondence," exclaimed Valentine's husband, more hopefully.

"True, but I discover this fact to-day for the first time, monsieur."

"Monsieur, I implore you, I adjure you, to open this letter. It is

addressed to my wife. I will assume the whole responsibility."

"Here is the letter; read it, monsieur," responded M. de Luceval, quite

as eager to know the contents of the missive as M. d'Infreville.

The latter gentleman, after hastily perusing the note, exclaimed:

"Read it, monsieur. It is surely enough to drive one mad, for in this

letter your wife reminds my wife of the delightful day they spent

together yesterday, as well as last Wednesday, and begs her to come

again on Sunday."

[Illustration: "'HERE IS THE LETTER; READ IT, MONSIEUR.'"]

"And I assure you, upon my word of honour, monsieur," responded M. de

Luceval, after having perused the note in his turn, "that yesterday

my wife did not get up until noon, that about three o'clock, I, with no

little difficulty, succeeded in persuading her to take a drive with me.

We returned a short time before dinner, and after dinner two friends of

ours spent the evening with us. As regards Wednesday, I remember

perfectly that I was in and out of my wife's room a number of times, and

I again assure you, upon my word of honour, that Madame d'Infreville did

not spend the day at our house."

"Then, how do you explain this letter, monsieur?"

"I do not explain it, monsieur. I merely confine myself to a plain

statement of the facts of the case. I am as much interested in clearing

up this mystery as you can possibly be."

"Oh, I will have my revenge!" exclaimed M. d'Infreville, his long

repressed rage bursting forth at last. "I can doubt no longer now. The

discovery that my wife has been absenting herself from home for days at

a time naturally aroused my suspicions. I inquired the cause of these

frequent and prolonged absences; she replied that she often went to

spend the day with a former schoolmate, named Madame de Luceval. The

name was so widely known and respected, the excuse so plausible, my

wife's manner so sincere, that I, like a fool, believed her. Now, I know

that it was an instinctive distrust that impelled me to seek you out.

You see what I have discovered. Oh, the infamous wretch!"

"Be calm, I beg of you," entreated M. de Luceval, "your excited manner

is attracting attention. Let us take a cab, and drive to my house at

once, monsieur, for this mystery must be cleared up. I shudder to think

that my wife, impelled by a desire to protect her friend, has consented

to become an accomplice in a shameful deception. Come, monsieur, come. I

count upon you, and you, in turn, can count upon me. It is the duty of

all honest men to aid and sustain each other under such distressing

circumstances. Justice must be done, and the guilty must be punished."

"Yes, yes. I will have my revenge! You may be sure I will have my

revenge!"

He was trembling with rage, and his excitement increased his weakness to

such an extent that he was obliged to lean heavily upon his companion's

supporting arm to reach the carriage.

It was about an hour after this chance meeting of the two gentlemen that

Florence received the note from her husband announcing that he would not

dine at home that day.

So while this matrimonial storm is becoming more and more threatening,

we will return to the two ladies who were left alone together after the

departure of the maid who had brought M. de Luceval's note.

CHAPTER IV.

THE CONFESSION.

The maid had no sooner quitted the apartment than Madame d'Infreville

said to her friend:

"You proposed I should spend the rest of the day here, my dear Florence,

and I accept your offer, so as to give a semblance of truth to my

falsehood in case there should be any trouble."

"But my letter?"

"It will be supposed that the letter and I passed each other on the way,

and that I reached here after the missive was sent."

"True."

"And now, my dear friend, grant me your indulgence, and perhaps, too,

your compassion, while I tell you the rest of my sad story."

"Compassion, indulgence! Surely you feel that you can count upon both,

my poor Valentine! But go on. I am listening."

"I have never told you that the windows of my bedroom, which is in the

second story of M. d'Infreville's house, overlook a small garden which

belongs to the ground floor of the adjoining house. About three months

before I discovered that my husband had a mistress, and while he was

still in a precarious state of health, the garden, as well as the

apartments I speak of,--which had been vacant for a long

time,--underwent numerous changes. I spent most of my time at home, my

husband's ill health preventing me from going out at all. It was the

beginning of summer. In order that I might enjoy more privacy when M.

d'Infreville did not need my care, I often retired to my own room, and

sewed or embroidered by the open window. The weather was delightful, and

I began to notice with great interest the extensive improvements that

were being made in the neighbouring garden. As I said a moment ago, they

were peculiar changes, but they indicated so much originality, as well

as good taste, that my curiosity gradually became much excited,

especially as I saw all these changes effected without ever catching a

glimpse of the new inmate of the neighbouring _rez-de-chaussee_. It was

interesting to watch the transformation of this rather neglected,

commonplace garden into a place of ravishing beauty. A conservatory

filled with rare plants, and communicating with one of the rooms, was

built along the south wall; the opposite wall was concealed from view by

a grotto built of large rocks intermingled with shrubbery. A tiny

waterfall trickled down one side of this rocky grotto into a big basin

below, diffusing a refreshing coolness around; and finally, a sort of

rustic summer-house, roofed with thatch and divided into arches, was

constructed against the other side of the wall which enclosed this

garden, which was soon so filled with flowers that, seen from my window,

it resembled one gigantic bouquet. You will understand presently why I

enter into these details."

"But this ravishing spot in the heart of Paris was a veritable

paradise!"

"It was, indeed, a charming spot. A gilded aviary, filled with

magnificent birds, was placed in the middle of the grass plot, and a

sort of veranda or broad covered gallery was built in front of the

windows, and furnished with rattan couches, Turkish divans, and costly

rugs. A piano, too, was placed there, and this broad piazza, protected

by Venetian blinds during the day, if necessary, made a delightfully

cool and shady retreat in summer."

"Really, it seems to be a tale from the Arabian Nights that I am

listening to! What a clever person it must have been who could gather

together so many marvels of good taste and comfort in so small a space.

But did the originator never show himself?"

"He did not appear until after all these arrangements had been

completed."

"But hadn't you endeavoured to find out who this mysterious neighbour

was? I confess that I couldn't have resisted the temptation to do so."

Valentine smiled sadly as she replied:

"It so happened that the sister of M. d'Infreville's steward was my

mysterious neighbour's only servant. Informed by her brother, this woman

had told her employer of this apartment and garden. One day, my

curiosity so far got the better of me that I asked our steward if he

knew who had just leased the ground floor in the next house, and he told

me several things that excited my curiosity still more."

"Indeed, and what were these things, my dear Valentine?"

"He said that this new neighbour was the best and most generous-hearted

man in the world,--for instance, when, after the death of an uncle who

left him quite a handsome fortune, he wanted to hire several servants,

and live in a rather more luxurious fashion, this same old woman whom I

have spoken of, and who used to be his nurse, told him, with tears in

her eyes, that she could not endure the thought of seeing other servants

in his house. In vain he promised her that she should have authority

over them all, act as a sort of confidential servant or housekeeper in

short, but she would not listen to him. In his kindness of heart, he did

not insist, so, in spite of his newly acquired wealth, he kept in his

service only this old servant. This may seem a trivial incident to you,

my dear Florence, but--"

"On the contrary, I think the delicate consideration he displayed

extremely touching, and not unfrequently these apparent trifles enable

one to judge very accurately of a person's character."

"I think so, too. In fact, from that time, I felt sure that my neighbour

was both kind-hearted and generous. I soon discovered, too, that his

name was Michel Renaud."

"Michel Renaud? Good Heavens!" exclaimed Madame de Luceval.

"Yes; but what is the matter, Florence?"

"How strange, how passing strange that--"

"Pray go on."

"Is he the son of General Renaud, who was killed in the last war of the

Empire?"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

"He is M. de Luceval's cousin."

"Michel, M. de Luceval's cousin?"

"And hardly a day passes that my husband does not speak of him."

"Of Michel?"

"Yes, but I have never seen him. Possibly he took offence on account of

M. de Luceval's marriage, like nearly all the members of the family, for

he has never called to see us. That doesn't surprise me much, however,

for my husband has never been on particularly friendly terms with any of

his relatives."

"What you say amazes me! Michel, your husband's cousin? But how does M.

de Luceval happen to speak of Michel so often?"

"Alas! my poor Valentine, it is on account of a grievous fault of which

M. Michel Renaud and I are both guilty, it seems,--a fault which is my

chief happiness, and, to speak plainly, my husband's greatest safeguard;

but men are so blind!"

"Explain, I beg of you."

"You know I was considered incorrigibly indolent at the convent. How

many remonstrances, how many punishments I received on account of that

fault!"

"True."

"Well, this fault seems to increase with age,--it has attained truly

colossal proportions now, so colossal, in fact, that it has become

almost a virtue."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that, far from experiencing any desire to imitate them, I feel

only the greatest pity and compassion for those unfortunate women whom a

mad love of society plunges into a whirlpool of gaiety and dissipation.

The mere thought of the tiresome, unsatisfactory, wearing manner in

which they enjoy themselves makes me shudder. Think of attending three

or four balls or receptions every evening, to say nothing of the play;

of rushing madly from one's dressmaker to one's milliner, and from there

to one's florist; of dressing and undressing oneself, and of trying on

gowns, and having one's hair arranged; of making three toilets a day,

and dancing and riding and waltzing from morning till night. One must

have nerves of steel, and the constitution of a prize-fighter to stand

such a fatiguing life. How different all this is from the delightful

rest I enjoy on this armchair, finding inexpressible enjoyment in my

languid contemplation of earth and sky. When winter comes, I find myself

equally happy half dozing in my armchair, or nestling under my

eider-down quilt while the hail dashes against the window-panes. I thus

enjoy all the varying charms of _dolce far niente_ at all seasons of the

year, thinking and dreaming, sometimes awake, sometimes half asleep. I

am quite capable, I must admit, of spending an entire day stretched out

on the grass, watching the passing clouds, listening to the sighing of

the wind, the buzzing of the insects, and the soft murmur of the

brooklet,--in short, my dear Valentine, no savage denizen of the forest

ever appreciated the infinite delight of a free and idle life more

keenly than I do, and never was there a person more devoutly grateful

to Heaven who has provided such simple and innocent enjoyment for us.

But what is the matter, Valentine?" asked Madame de Luceval, gazing at

her friend in surprise. "What is the meaning of these troubled looks,

this emotion which you cannot conceal, try as you will? Valentine, once

more I entreat you, answer me."

A brief silence followed this appeal, after which Madame d'Infreville,

passing her hand across her forehead, replied, in a slightly constrained

voice:

"Listen to the conclusion of my story, Florence, and you will, perhaps,

divine what I cannot and dare not tell you."

"Speak, then, I beg of you."

"The first time I saw Michel," Valentine continued, "he was on the

veranda I told you about. He spent most of his time there during the

summer. Concealed from view by my window-shutter, I could examine him at

my leisure, and it would be difficult to conceive of a handsomer man.

Half reclining on a Turkish divan, enveloped in a long robe of India

silk, he was smoking a narghile in an attitude of Oriental _abandon_,

with his eyes fixed upon his garden. After listening awhile with evident

delight to the murmur of the waterfall, and the singing of the beautiful

birds in his aviary, he picked up a book, which he laid down again now

and then, as if to think over what he had just read. Soon two of his

friends dropped in. One of them is justly considered one of the most

eminent men of the day. It was M. M----"

"You are right. He is one of the most brilliant and famous men of his

time. I know him by sight and by reputation, and his exalted position,

as well as the great difference in age between Michel and himself, make

his visit to a rather obscure young man certainly very extraordinary.

Did M. Michel seem to be very much flattered by this visit?"

"On the contrary, Michel welcomed him with affectionate familiarity. It

seemed to me that M. M---- treated him on a footing of perfect equality.

A long conversation ensued, of which I, of course, could not hear a

word. To compensate for this disappointment, I took an opera-glass, and

from my place of concealment studied Michel's face closely during the

interview. I could even watch the movements of his lips. I found a

singular charm in this close scrutiny, and though I, of course, had no

idea concerning the subject of the conversation, I could see that an

animated discussion was going on between M---- and Michel. At first,

M---- seemed to be arguing his point in the most energetic manner, but

subsequently I saw, by the expression of his face, that he was gradually

becoming a convert to Michel's opinion, though not without a stubborn

resistance on his part. Nevertheless, an involuntary sign of assent

occasionally testified to the advantage Michel was gaining, and he

finally won a complete victory. I cannot describe the charm of your

cousin's features during this long contest. By their mobility, as well

as by the animation of his gestures, I could see that he was employing,

in turn, fervid eloquence, keen raillery, and weighty arguments, to

refute the statements of his guests and convert them to his way of

thinking. The interview lasted a long time; when it was ended, Michel's

friends took leave of him with even greater cordiality. He made a

movement as if to rise and accompany them to the door, but they,

laughingly, compelled him to retain his half recumbent attitude,

apparently telling him that they knew what a terrible effort it would be

for him to move. I learned afterwards that M----, being obliged to make

a very important decision, had come--as he was frequently in the habit

of doing--to consult Michel, whose tact is as unerring as his judgment

is sound. From that day, my dear friend, though I had never even spoken

to Michel, I felt a deep interest in him, which, alas, was fated to

exert entirely too great an influence on my life."

The young woman remained silent for a moment.

As her friend proceeded, Florence had become more and more interested in

the story and its hero, especially as she noted the many points of

similarity between that gentleman's tastes and character and her own,

for M. de Luceval, in reverting to his cousin Michel's incurable

indolence, had never said anything that would serve to excuse it or

imbue it with any romantic charm. And Florence also understood now the

surprise, and, perhaps, even the feeling of involuntary jealousy that

Valentine had not been able to entirely conceal when she, Florence, had

expounded her ingenious theory on the subject of indolence and its

delights.

Not that Madame d'Infreville was really jealous of Madame de Luceval;

that would have been the height of folly. Florence did not even know

Michel Renaud, and she was too sincere in her friendship to desire to

make his acquaintance with the intention of alienating him from her

friend.

Nevertheless, Madame d'Infreville experienced a sort of vague envy and

uneasiness as she thought of all the elements of sympathy and happiness

which were combined in the strange similarity of character which she now

perceived in Florence and Michel Renaud.

CHAPTER V.

COUNTERPARTS.

Madame de Luceval, after having remained silent and thoughtful for a

moment, remarked to her friend:

"I can easily understand the deep impression that the incidents of the

day on which you saw Cousin Michel for the first time must have made

upon you. You saw that he was remarkably handsome and that he was also

highly gifted, as he seemed to exercise such an influence over one of

the most famous men of our time, while the delicate consideration shown

to his old nurse proved conclusively that his was a most generous heart.

This, alas! was enough, and more than enough, my poor Valentine, to

excite the interest and admiration of a person so unfortunately situated

as yourself."

"Then, Florence, though you may not excuse, you can at least understand

how such a passion as this was born in my heart."

"I can not only understand, but excuse it, in one so crushed with grief

and disappointment. Your situation was so trying that it was only

natural that you should endeavour to divert and console yourself."

"I scarcely need tell you, then, that I thought of Michel all that night

in spite of myself. Early the next morning I ran to my window, and gazed

eagerly out through the protecting blinds. The day was superb, and

Michel spent it as he had spent the previous day, stretched out upon a

couch on the veranda, smoking, reading, dreaming, and enjoying to the

full the happiness of being alive, as he told me afterwards. During the

day, a man dressed in black, and carrying a large portfolio under his

arm, visited him. Thanks to my lorgnette I soon discovered that he was

Michel's man of affairs. In fact, he drew several papers from his

portfolio, apparently with the intention of reading them to Michel, but

the latter took them and signed them without even taking the trouble to

glance over them, after which the visitor drew from his pocket a roll of

bank-notes, which he handed to your cousin, apparently with the request

that he would count them, which he refused to do, thus showing his blind

confidence in this man."

"All of which goes to prove that our dear cousin is very careless in

business matters."

"Alas! that is only too true, unfortunately for him."

"What! is his fortune--?"

"You shall know all if you will give me your attention a few minutes

longer. During the day, which was spent in complete idleness, like the

one which had preceded it, Michel's nurse brought him a letter. He read

it. Ah, Florence, never have I seen compassion so touchingly depicted

upon any human face. He opened the desk in which he had placed the

bank-notes, and handed one to his nurse. The good woman threw her arms

around his neck, and you can not imagine with what delightful emotion he

seemed to receive her almost maternal caresses.

"It was long after sunset," continued Valentine, "before I could again

shut myself up in my own room, and return to my dear window. But I had

scarcely looked out before I saw a young woman enter the gallery and

hasten towards Michel. It was a terrible shock to me. It was both stupid

and foolish in me, of course, for I had not the slightest claim upon

Michel, but the feeling was not only involuntary but uncontrollable,

and, darting away from the window, I threw myself in an armchair, and

burying my face in my hands, wept long and bitterly. Subsequently, I

fell into a deep reverie, from which I was aroused a couple of hours

afterwards by a prelude upon the piano, and soon two voices that

harmonised perfectly began to sing the impassioned duet of Mathilde and

Arnold from the opera of 'Guillaume Tell.'"

"It was Michel?"

"Yes, Michel and that woman!"

It is impossible to describe the way in which Valentine uttered the

words, "That woman."

After a moment of painful silence she continued:

"The night was clear and still, and the two vibrant, impassioned voices

soared heavenward like a paean of happiness and love. For awhile I

listened in spite of myself, but towards the last it made me so utterly

wretched, that, not having the courage to go away, I covered my ears

with my hands; then, blushing for my absurd weakness, I tried to listen

again, but the song had ended. I went back to the window; the air was

heavy with the rich perfume of a thousand flowers; there was not a

breath of wind; a soft, faint light like that from an alabaster lamp

shone through the lowered blinds of the gallery. A profound silence

reigned for a few moments, then I heard the gravel in the garden path

crunch under the feet of Michel and that woman. They were walking slowly

along; his arm was around her waist. I could bear no more, and I hastily

closed the window. I passed a frightful night. What new and terrible

passions had been aroused during the last two days! Love, desire,

jealousy, hatred, remorse,--yes, remorse, for I felt now that an

irresistible power was sweeping me on to ruin, and that I should succumb

in the struggle. You know the energy and ardour of my character; the

same attributes entered into this unfortunate love. I resisted bravely

for a time; but when my husband's cruel and brutal conduct exasperated

me so deeply, I felt released from all obligations to him, and blindly

abandoned myself to the passion that was devouring me."

"But you have been happy, very happy, have you not, Valentine?"

"At first I experienced bliss unspeakable, though it was marred at times

by the recollection of that woman from whom Michel had long been

separated. She was a celebrated opera singer, celebrated even in Italy,

I believe. I found Michel all I had dreamed,--talented, witty, refined,

graceful, deferential, courteous,--all these attributes were united in

him, together with a marvellous tenderness and delicacy of feeling, and

a perfect disposition. And yet, this liaison had scarcely lasted two

months before I became the most miserable of women, while adoring Michel

as much as ever."

"But why, my poor Valentine? From what you have just told me, I should

think that Michel possessed every attribute necessary to make you

happy."

"Yes," sighed Valentine, "but all these attributes are nullified by an

incurable fault, by--"

Madame d'Infreville gave a sudden start, then paused abruptly.

"Why do you stop so suddenly, Valentine?" asked Florence, in surprise.

"Why this reticence? Go on, I beg of you. Haven't you perfect confidence

in me?"

"Have I not just proved it by my confession?"

"Yes, oh, yes; but go on."

"You will understand my reticence, I think," continued Madame

d'Infreville, after a moment's hesitation, "when I tell you that all

that is kind and noble and tender and commendable in Michel is spoiled

by an incurable apathy."

"My chief fault!" exclaimed Madame de Luceval, "so you were afraid to

tell me that."

"No, no, Florence; your indolence is charming."

"M. de Luceval doesn't agree with you on that point," responded the

young wife, smiling faintly.

"But your indolence has no such disastrous consequences, either so far

as you, yourself, or your husband are concerned," replied Valentine.

"You enjoy it, and no one really suffers from it. It is very different

in Michel's case. He has paid no attention whatever to money matters,

and his man of business, encouraged by this negligence, has not only

stolen from him in the most shameful manner, but has also embarked in

various business enterprises which have been profitable to him but

ruinous to Michel, who has been too indolent to verify his accounts; and

now, I am by no means sure that he has enough money left to live upon

even in the most frugal manner."

"Poor fellow, how sad that is! But is not your influence sufficiently

strong to overcome this unfortunate indolence?"

"My influence!" repeated Valentine, smiling bitterly. "What influence

can one have over a character like his. Arguments, prayers, entreaties,

and warnings do not disturb his serenity in the least. No harsh or

unkind word ever falls from Michel's lips, oh, no, but he shrinks from

anger and impatience, precisely as he shrinks from fatigue. Always calm,

smiling, and affectionate, the most vehement remonstrances, the most

despairing supplications, receive no other answer than a smile or a

kiss. It is because he has thus completely ignored my advice and

entreaties that he finds himself in his present alarming position,

alarming at least to me, though not to him; for having led a perfectly

indolent life up to the present time, he is not likely to find himself

possessed of sufficient courage or energy to rescue himself from his

deplorable position when his entire ruin is accomplished."

"You are right, Valentine; the situation is even graver than I thought."

"Yes, for one terrible fear haunts me continually."

"What do you mean?"

"Michel is endowed with too keen powers of discernment to deceive

himself in regard to his future. He knows, too, that when his last louis

is spent he has nothing to expect from any one, much less from himself."

"But what do you fear?"

"That he will kill himself," replied Valentine, shuddering.

"Good Heavens! has he hinted at anything of the kind?"

"Oh, no, he has taken good care not to do that. Any such intimation

would be sure to lead to a distressing scene on my part, and he hates

tears and complaints of any kind. No, he has never admitted that the

thought of self-destruction has even occurred to him, but the fact

escaped him one day, for he remarked, laughingly, as if it were the

simplest thing in the world: 'Happy dead,--eternal idleness is their

portion.'"

"But Valentine, this fear is terrible."

"And it never leaves me, even for an instant," replied the unfortunate

woman, bursting into tears; "and yet I am obliged to conceal it in his

presence, for whenever he sees me sad or preoccupied, he says to me,

with that tender, gracious smile of his:

"'Why this sadness, my dear Valentine? Are we not young, and do we not

love each other? Let us think only of our happiness. I love you as much

as it is possible for me to love any one, so take me as I am, and if I

have displeased you in any way, or if I no longer please you, leave me,

find some one who suits you better, and let us remain friends only. In

my opinion, love should be only joy and felicity, tenderness and repose.

It should be like a beautiful lake, clear and calm, reflecting only the

pleasant things of life. Why cast a gloom over it by useless anxiety?

Let us enjoy our youth in peace, my angel! The person who has known

during his whole life ten days of perfect, radiant happiness, should be

content to thank God and die. We have had a hundred and more of such

days, my Valentine, and whether we enjoy more of them depends only upon

yourself, for I adore you. Am I not too indolent to be inconstant?'"

"Yes," added Valentine, with increasing earnestness, "yes, that is the

way in which Michel regards love. Those alternations of hope and fear,

the vague unrest, the foolish, but no less terrible fits of jealousy

that lacerate one's heart, only excite Michel's derision. His

indolence--I can not say his indifference, for, after all, he loves me

as much as he can love any one, as he says himself--irritates me and

makes my blood fairly boil sometimes; but I restrain myself, because, in

spite of myself, I adore him just as he is. Nor is this all. Michel

never seems to have the slightest suspicion of the remorse and anxiety

and fears that assail me every day, for in order that I may be able to

spend several hours and sometimes even an entire day with him, I am

obliged to tell falsehood after falsehood, to place myself almost at the

mercy of my servants, and to devise new pretexts for my frequent

absences. And when I return, ah, Florence, when I return,--if you knew

what a terrible load I have on my heart when, after a long absence, I

place my hand on the knocker, saying to myself all the while, 'What if

everything has been discovered!' And when I find myself face to face

with my husband, I am even more miserable. To meet his gaze, to try to

discover if he has the slightest suspicion of the truth, to tremble

inwardly at his most trivial question, to appear calm and indifferent

when I am half crazed with fear and anxiety,--all this is torture. And

to add to my misery and degradation, I must be assiduous in my

attentions to a husband I loathe; I must even stoop to flattery to keep

him in good humour, so terribly am I afraid of him, and so eager am I to

drive away his suspicions by a bright and cheerful manner. Sometimes,

Florence, I must even be gay, do you hear me? Gay, when I have death in

my soul. Ah, Florence, such a life is nothing more or less than a hell

upon earth, and yet it is impossible for me to abandon it."

"Oh, Valentine," exclaimed Madame de Luceval, throwing herself in her

friend's arms, "I thank you, my dear, dear friend, I thank you! You have

saved me!"

CHAPTER VI.

CONNUBIAL INFELICITIES.

Madame de Luceval had been listening to her friend with rapidly

increasing interest and curiosity for several minutes; then, apparently

unable to control her emotion any longer, she had thrown herself in

Valentine's arms, exclaiming:

"I thank you, my dear, dear friend, I thank you. You have saved me!"

"Good Heavens! Florence, why do you thank me? Explain, I beg of you,"

said Madame d'Infreville, gazing at her friend with the utmost

astonishment.

"You think I have lost my senses, I suppose," responded Madame de

Luceval, smiling faintly. "You little know what a great service you have

rendered me."

"I?"

"Yes; a great, an immense service," replied Florence, with a strange

mixture of emotion, mirth, and mischievousness. "Would you believe it,

when you first told me that you had a lover, I envied you as I envied

you at the convent when you left it to be married. And then--why should

I try to conceal it from you?--Cousin Michel's tastes and his manner of

life seemed so entirely congenial to me, that I said to myself: 'This is

just my idea of love. That which annoys my poor Valentine so much would,

on the contrary, delight me, and I believe I should love to have a

Michel myself.'"

"Florence, what are you saying?"

"Let me finish, please. I am not disposed to conceal anything from you,

so I may as well tell you that, as I see stormy times ahead, and as my

husband is becoming more and more insupportable, I thought it quite

possible that I should require consolation for such an ill-assorted

union myself at some future day."

"Oh, Florence, take care," exclaimed Valentine, in evident alarm, "if

you knew--"

"If I knew?" retorted Madame de Luceval, interrupting her friend; "if I

knew? Why, thanks to you, I do know, and after what you have just told

me, nothing on earth could induce me to have a lover. And I verily

believe, Heaven forgive me! that I would rather go to the North Pole or

to the Caucasus with my husband, than subject myself to all the misery

and trials and torments your lover has cost you. A lover! Great Heavens!

How wearing it would be! My natural indolence will serve in place of

virtue in this instance. Each person is virtuous according to his or her

ability, and provided one is virtuous, that is the essential thing,

isn't it, Valentine?"

As Florence uttered these words, her expression was at once so serious

and so droll, that, in spite of her own troubles, her friend could not

help smiling as Madame de Luceval added:

"Ah, my poor Valentine, I do pity you, for such a life must be a hell

upon earth, as you say."

"Yes, Florence, so take my advice. Persist in your resolve, and remain

faithful to your duties, no matter how onerous they may seem. Profit by

my experience, I entreat you," added Valentine, tenderly. "I shall

reproach myself all my life if I feel that I have put sinful ideas into

your head, or encouraged you to follow my example. So promise me,

Florence, my friend, my dear friend, that I shall be spared this sorrow,

promise me--"

"You need have no fears on that score, Valentine. Think what it would be

for a person who loves her ease as I do, to attempt to deceive a

husband who is rushing in and out of my room a dozen times a day. Why,

it makes my brain reel, merely to think of it. No, no; the lesson you

have taught me is a good one. It will bear fruit, I assure you. But to

return to the subject of your troubles. Your husband's suspicions do not

seem to have been aroused as yet."

"You are mistaken about that, I fear, though I am not positive of it."

"Why do you think so?"

"As I told you, my husband spends very little time at home. He leaves

the house in the morning, directly after breakfast, and is not only in

the habit of dining with his mistress, but of receiving his friends at

her house. Afterwards, he takes her to the theatre, returning to her

home with her afterwards, where there is pretty heavy playing, people

say. At all events, he seldom returns home before three or four o'clock

in the morning."

"A nice life for a married man!"

"Either because he has confidence in me, or is indifferent on the

subject, he seldom questions me about the way in which I spend my time;

but a couple of days ago, not feeling as well as usual, he returned home

about three o'clock in the afternoon. I supposed that he would be absent

all day, as he told me in the morning that he would not dine at home, so

I did not return from Michel's until ten in the evening."

"_Mon Dieu!_ How frightened you must have been when you heard of your

husband's return. It makes me shudder to think of it!"

"I was so terrified that I at first thought I would not even go up to my

own room, but run out of the house and never come back."

"That is what I should have done, I am sure. Still, I don't know--"

"At last I summoned up all my courage, and went up-stairs. The doctor

was there, and M. d'Infreville was suffering so much that he scarcely

addressed a word to me. I nursed him all night with hypocritical zeal.

When he became easier, he asked me why I had absented myself from home

so long, and where I had been. I had been preparing an answer, for I

knew the question would come sooner or later, so I told him I had been

spending the day with you, as I did quite frequently, since he had left

me so much of the time alone. He seemed to believe me, and even

pretended to approve, remarking that he knew M. de Luceval by

reputation, and was glad to hear of my intimacy with his wife. I thought

I was saved, but last night I learned, through my maid, that my husband

had questioned her very adroitly, evidently for the purpose of finding

out if I was often absent from home. My apprehensions became so grave

that, resolved to escape from such an intolerable position at any cost,

I went to Michel this morning, and said: 'I am going to confess all to

my mother; tell her that my husband has grave suspicions, and that there

is nothing left for me but to flee. I shall not return to my husband's

house. My mother and I will leave Paris this evening for Brussels. You

can join us there if you wish, and the remains of your fortune, and what

I can earn by my needle, will suffice for our support. However poor and

laborious our life may be, I shall be spared the terrible necessity of

lying every day, and of living in a state of continual suspense and

terror."

"And he consented?"

"He!" exclaimed Valentine, bitterly. "What a fool I was to count upon

any such display of firmness on his part! He gazed at me a moment as if

stupefied, then assured me that my resolution was absurd in the extreme;

that persons resorted to such extreme measures only when they were

absolutely compelled to do so; that it would probably be a comparatively

easy matter to allay my husband's suspicions, and he finally suggested

my asking you to write that letter."

"Perhaps he was right, after all, in advising you not to flee, as much

for your sake as his own, for you are not in such very desperate

straits, after all, it seems to me."

"Florence, I feel a presentiment that--"

But Madame d'Infreville never finished the sentence.

The door of the room was suddenly burst open, and M. de Luceval and M.

d'Infreville presented themselves to the astonished gaze of Florence and

Valentine.

"I am lost!" the latter exclaimed, overwhelmed with terror. Then,

covered with shame at the sight of M. de Luceval, she buried her face in

her hands.

Florence hastily sprang to her friend's side as if to protect her, and

said to M. de Luceval, imperiously:

"What is your business here?"

"I have come to convict you of falsehood, and of a disgraceful

complicity with an evil-doer, madame," responded M. de Luceval,

threateningly.

"I have discovered that Madame d'Infreville has been absenting herself

from her home for entire days for some time past, madame," added the

other husband, turning to Florence. "Yesterday I asked Madame

d'Infreville where she had spent the day. She told me she had spent it

at your house. This letter of yours, madame (he held it up as he spoke),

written at the instigation of my wife and with the intention of making

me the dupe of an infamous falsehood, happened to fall into M. de

Luceval's hands. He has sworn, and I believe him, that he has never once

seen Madame d'Infreville here. Under such circumstances, madame, I can

hardly believe that you will insist any longer that the contrary is the

truth."

"Yes, madame," exclaimed M. de Luceval, "such an admission on your part

will not only convict a guilty woman, but at the same time serve as a

just punishment for your own shameless complicity."

"All I have to say, monsieur, is that Madame d'Infreville is, and always

will be, my best friend," responded Florence, resolutely; "and the more

unhappy she is, the more she can count upon my devoted affection."

"What, madame!" exclaimed M. de Luceval; "is it possible that you

dare--"

"Yes; and I also dare to tell M. d'Infreville that his conduct towards

his wife has been both disgraceful and heartless."

"Enough, madame, enough!" cried M. de Luceval, deeply exasperated.

"No, monsieur, it is not enough," retorted Florence. "I still have to

remind M. d'Infreville that he is in my house, and that as he knows now

what I think of him, he must realise that his presence is an intrusion

here."

"You are right, madame; I have heard too much already," retorted M.

d'Infreville, with a sardonic smile.

Then taking his wife roughly by the arm, he said:

"Come with me, madame."

The terrified woman, crushed by the burden of her shame, rose

mechanically, with her face still buried in her hands.

"My mother, oh, my mother!" she murmured, despairingly.

"I will not desert you, Valentine!" exclaimed Florence, springing

towards her friend.

But M. de Luceval, who was evidently very angry, seized his wife around

the waist and held her as in a vice, saying as he did so:

"You dare to defy me in this fashion, do you, madame?"

M. d'Infreville took advantage of this opportunity to drag Valentine

away, the unfortunate woman offering no resistance, but exclaiming, in a

voice broken with sobs, as she disappeared from sight:

"Farewell, Florence, farewell!"

Madame de Luceval, pale with grief and indignation, remained perfectly

motionless for a moment in the grasp of her husband, who did not relax

his hold upon her until after Valentine had left the room.

The young woman then said, in a perfectly calm voice:

"M. de Luceval, you have laid violent hands upon me. From this time on,

all is over between us."

"Madame!"

"You have had your way, monsieur; now I shall have mine, as I will prove

to you."

"Will you have the goodness to make your wishes known, madame,"

responded H. de Luceval, with a sardonic smile.

"Certainly."

"Go on, madame."

"In the first place, we are to separate, quietly, peaceably, and without

the slightest scandal."

"Ah, indeed!"

"It is a thing that is often done, I have heard."

"And at seventeen madame expects to roam about the world as she

pleases."

"Roam about the world! Heaven preserve me from that. Travelling is not

at all to my taste, as you know, monsieur."

"This is no subject for jesting," exclaimed M. de Luceval, hotly. "Are

you really insane enough to imagine that you can live alone and exactly

as you please, when your husband has you completely in his power?"

"I have no intention of living alone, monsieur."

"And with whom does madame expect to live, may I ask?"

"Valentine is very unhappy. I intend to live with her and her mother. My

fortune is entirely independent of yours, thank Heaven!"

"You intend to live with that woman,--a woman who has had a lover, a

woman that her husband will drive out of his house this very night--and

he is perfectly right!--a woman who deserves the contempt of all decent

people. It is with a creature like that you propose to live. The mere

announcement of such an intention on your part is quite enough to put

you in a madhouse, madame."

"M. de Luceval, the extremely disagreeable events of the day have

fatigued me very much, and you will oblige me by not annoying me

further. I shall merely add that if any one deserves the contempt of all

decent people, it is M. d'Infreville, for it was his shameful treatment

of his wife that drove her to ruin. As for Valentine, what she deserves,

and will always be sure of from me, is the tenderest compassion."

"Why, this is outrageous! It is enough to put you in a madhouse, I tell

you!"

"Understand me once for all, M. de Luceval. No one will shut me up in a

madhouse. I shall have my liberty, and you will have yours; and I shall

make such use of mine as I think proper."

"We will see about that, madame!"

"Or rather, you will see, monsieur."

CHAPTER VII.

FOUR YEARS LATER.

Four years have elapsed since the events we have just related.

It is a winter's day; the cold is intense, the sky gray and lowering. A

woman is walking down the Rue de Vaugirard, pausing now and then to

glance at the numbers on the houses, as if in search of some particular

one.

This woman, who is dressed in mourning, seems to be about twenty-three

years of age. She is tall and slender, a decided brunette, with large

black eyes, full of expression. Her features are regular, though a

little haggard, and her mobile face reveals, in turn, a bitter sadness

or a mingled anxiety and impatience. Her quick, somewhat irregular tread

also betrays deep agitation.

When this young woman had walked nearly half way down the street, she

paused again to study the numbers, and finding herself opposite Number

57, she gave a quick start, and pressed her hand upon her heart, as if

to quiet its throbbings; then, after standing a moment perfectly

motionless, she directed her steps towards the porte-cochere, then

paused again in evident hesitation, but having seen several notices

announcing that there were apartments to rent in the house, she

resolutely entered the courtyard and walked straight to the porter's

lodge.

"You have several apartments to rent, I see, monsieur," she said to the

concierge.

"Yes, madame. The first and the third floor, and two separate rooms."

"The first floor would be too dear for me, I fear. The third would

probably suit me better. What do you ask for it?"

"Six hundred francs, madame. That is the lowest, for it has just been

freshly done up."

"How many rooms are there?"

"A kitchen, a small dining-room, a parlour, a large bedchamber with a

big dressing-room, and another small room that would do for a servant.

If madame will go up-stairs, she can see for herself."

"I would first like to know who lives in the house. I am a widow and

live alone, so you can understand why I ask this question."

"Certainly, madame. The house is very respectable and extremely quiet.

The first floor is not occupied, as I told you. A professor in the law

school, a highly respectable man, lives on the second floor. He has a

wife but no children. The third floor is the one I offered to madame. On

the fourth floor there are two small rooms which are occupied by a young

man. When I say a young man I don't exactly mean that, however, for M.

Michel Renaud must be about thirty."

On hearing the name of Michel Renaud, the young woman, in spite of her

self-control, turned first red and then pale, a sad smile flitted across

her lips, and her large black eyes gleamed more brightly under their

long lashes; but, conquering her emotion, she replied calmly and with a

well-feigned air of indifference:

"And the rooms on the third floor are directly under those occupied by

this gentleman, I suppose?"

"Yes, madame."

"Is the gentleman married?"

"No, madame."

"I hope you will not be surprised at the questions I put to you, but I

have such a horror of a noise over my head, and of bad company, that I

should like to be sure that my future neighbour is not boisterous like

so many young men, and that his acquaintances are not such persons as it

would be disagreeable for me to meet on the stairways as I go and come."

"M. Michel Renaud have any such company as that! Oh, no, madame; oh,

no!" exclaimed the concierge, indignantly.

An expression of hope and joy irradiated the lady's sad face for an

instant, and she replied, with a smile:

"I had no intention of maligning the gentleman, and the evident

astonishment my question causes you is very reassuring."

"M. Renaud is one of the steadiest of men. Every day of the

world--Sundays and holidays as well--he leaves his rooms at half-past

three or four o'clock in the morning at the very latest, and never

returns until midnight, so he has no visitors."

"They would certainly have to be remarkably early ones, in that case,"

remarked the young woman, who seemed to take a deep interest in these

details. "But does the gentleman leave as early as that every morning?"

"Yes, madame, in winter as well as summer. Nothing keeps him."

"But what business does the gentleman follow that it is necessary for

him to leave home by four o'clock in the morning, and remain away until

midnight?"

"That is more than I know, madame; but this much is certain, this tenant

is not likely to annoy you in any way."

"I believe I could not find a house that would suit me better, judging

from what you say. But is it really true that you have no idea what

business your tenant follows?"

"How should I know, madame? During the three years that M. Renaud has

lived here he has received only one letter. That was merely addressed

to M. Michel Renaud, and no living soul ever comes to see him."

"But he is not dumb, I suppose?"

"He might almost as well be. When he goes out in the morning, I am in

bed; when he returns, it is just the same. In the morning, he says, 'The

door, please;' in the evening, when he takes his candle, 'Good night, M.

Landre' (that is my name). That is the extent of our conversation."

"But doesn't he keep a servant?"

"No, madame, he does all his own housework. That is to say, he makes his

own bed, blacks his shoes, brushes his clothes, and sweeps his room."

"He!" exclaimed the young woman, in accents of the most profound

astonishment.

Then bethinking herself, she added:

"It seems so strange that a gentleman should do all those things for

himself."

"Oh, I don't know," replied the concierge, who seemed surprised at the

lady's evident astonishment; "everybody hasn't an income of fifty

thousand francs a year, and when one hasn't the money to pay a servant,

one must serve oneself."

"That is very true, monsieur."

"And now would madame like to see the third floor?"

"Yes, for, after all, I think it would be difficult for me to find a

house that would suit me better."

CHAPTER VIII.

ANOTHER SEARCH.

As the prospective tenant began her ascent, close upon the heels of the

concierge, another rather peculiar scene was occurring in the adjoining

house, the lower floor of which was used as a cafe.

This establishment, which was not very extensively patronised at any

time, could now boast of but a single guest. He was seated at a table,

on which stood a carafe of water, a bowl of sugar, and a glass of

absinthe.

This patron, who had entered the cafe only a few minutes before, was a

slender, nervous, sunburnt man about thirty years of age. He had

strongly marked features, and was exceedingly quick in his movements. He

picked up several newspapers in swift succession, and pretended to

glance over them as he smoked his cigar, but his mind was evidently not

upon what he was reading, that is, if he was reading at all, and at

last, flinging the journal violently down upon the table, he called the

waiter in a curt, peremptory tone.

The waiter, a gray-haired man, hastened to respond to the summons.

"Bring me a glass of absinthe, waiter," said the man with the cigar.

"But your glass is still full, monsieur."

"True."

The man drained the glass, and the waiter refilled it.

"Would you like to make a hundred sous?" asked the man with the cigar.

And seeing the waiter gaze at him in astonishment, he repeated, in an

even more brusque fashion:

"I ask you if you want to make a hundred sous?"

"But, monsieur--"

"Do you or do you not? Answer me."

"I should like to very much, but what am I to do, monsieur?"

"Answer the questions I am going to put to you. Have you been here

long?"

"Ever since the cafe opened, about ten years ago."

"Do you live here in the house?"

"Yes, monsieur. I have a room in the fifth story."

"Do you know all the inmates of the house?"

"Either by name, or by sight, yes, monsieur, but that is all. I am the

only waiter here, and I have no time to visit."

After a moment of painful hesitation, during which the stranger's

features betrayed the most poignant anxiety, he said to the waiter, in a

slightly husky voice: