"Who lives on the fourth floor?"

"A lady, monsieur."

"Nobody else?"

"No, monsieur."

"Is she a widow?"

"I don't know, monsieur. She calls herself Madame Luceval, that is all I

can tell you."

"But you must understand that if I am to give you a hundred sous, I

expect you to tell me something."

"One can tell only what one knows, monsieur."

"Of course, that is understood. But now answer me frankly. What do the

people in the house think of this lady--this Madame--What did you call

her?"

"Madame Luceval, monsieur. A person would have to be very spiteful to

gossip about her, for nobody ever sees her."

"What?"

"She always goes out at four o'clock in the morning, summer and winter,

and though I never get to bed before midnight, I always hear her come in

after I do."

"Impossible!" exclaimed the man with the cigar, manifesting quite as

much astonishment as the lady in mourning had done on hearing of M.

Renaud's early hours. "The lady goes out at four o'clock every morning,

you say?"

"Yes, monsieur. I hear her close her door."

"It passes my comprehension," muttered the man with the cigar. Then,

after a moment's reflection, he added:

"What does this lady do to take her out so early?"

"I have no idea, monsieur."

"But what do the people in the house think of it?"

"Nothing, monsieur."

"Nothing! Do you mean that they see nothing remarkable about a lady

going out at four o'clock in the morning?"

"When Madame Luceval first came here, about four years ago, her manner

of living did seem rather peculiar, but people soon ceased to trouble

themselves about it; for, as I told you just now, nobody ever sees her,

so people forget all about her, though she is wonderfully pretty."

"If she is so pretty, she must have a lover, of course," said the

stranger, with a sarcastic smile, but as if the words, somehow, burned

his tongue.

"I have heard persons say that this lady never has a visitor, monsieur."

"But when she returns home so late at night, she does not return alone,

I fancy."

"I cannot say whether any one accompanies her to the house or not, but I

do know that no man ever crosses her threshold."

"She is really a paragon of virtue, then?"

"She certainly seems to be, and I am sure that everybody in the house

will tell you the same thing that I do."

"Do you know what her resources are? What she lives on, in short?"

"I haven't the slightest idea, though it is not at all likely that she

lives on her income, monsieur. Rich people don't get up at that hour,

especially on a morning like this, when the cold cuts you like a knife,

and the clock in the Luxembourg was striking half-past three when I

heard the lady leave her room this morning."

"It is strange, passing strange! It seems to me I must be dreaming,"

muttered the gentleman. Then--

"Is that all you know?" he asked aloud.

"That is all, monsieur. But I can vouch for it that nobody in the house

knows any more."

The man with the cigar remained silent and thoughtful for a few minutes,

during which he sipped his second glass of absinthe abstractedly, then,

throwing a foreign gold coin on the table, he said:

"Take out the amount of my bill, and keep one hundred sous for yourself.

Your money was very easily earned, it strikes me."

"I did not ask you for the money, monsieur, and if you--"

"I mean what I say. Pay yourself, and don't talk any more about it."

After he had received the change due him the stranger left the cafe.

Almost at the same instant, the lady dressed in mourning came out of the

adjoining house, and started down the street in the opposite direction

from that which the gentleman had taken.

As they passed each other, their eyes met. The man paused for an

instant, as if the sight of this woman aroused some vague recollection,

then, thinking his memory must have deceived him, he walked on up the

street.

CHAPTER IX.

A STRANGE MEETING.

But before the man with the cigar had gone a dozen yards, his first

impression reasserted itself so vividly that he turned, almost

involuntarily, to take another look at the lady in mourning.

She, too, turned almost simultaneously, but seeing that the man she had

noticed had done the same thing, she hastily turned her head and walked

on at a rather more rapid pace. Nevertheless, as she crossed the street

to enter the garden of the Luxembourg, she could not resist the

temptation to cast another quick glance behind her, and, as she did so,

she saw that the man with the cigar was still standing in the same place

watching her. Angry at having been caught in the act of thus violating

the rules of good breeding a second time, she hastily lowered her black

veil, and, quickening her pace still more, entered the garden. The man

with the cigar, after a moment's hesitation, hurriedly retraced his

steps, and, on reaching the entrance to the garden, saw the young woman

some distance ahead of him in the broad path leading to the Observatory.

One of those peculiar instincts which often apprise us of things that we

cannot see made the young woman feel almost certain that she was

followed. She hesitated a long time before she could make up her mind to

again satisfy herself of the fact, however; but she was about to yield

to the temptation when she heard hurried footsteps behind her, then some

one passed her.

It was the man with the cigar. He walked on until he was about twenty

yards ahead of her, then turned, resolutely approached the young woman,

and raising his hat, said, with perfect politeness:

"Madame, I ask a thousand pardons for thus accosting you."

"I have not the honour of knowing you, monsieur."

"Permit me to ask a single question, madame?"

"Really, monsieur--"

"I should not be under the necessity of asking you this question if I

could be fortunate enough to see your veil lifted."

"Monsieur--"

"Pray do not think that I am actuated by any impertinent curiosity,

madame. I am incapable of such rudeness; but as I passed you on the Rue

de Vaugirard, a few minutes ago, it seemed to me that I had met you

before, and under very peculiar circumstances."

"And I must confess that I, too, thought--"

"You had met me before?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"In Chili, was it not?"

"About eight months ago?"

"A few miles from Valparaiso?"

"About nightfall?"

"On the borders of a lake. A party of bandits had attacked your

carriage, madame."

"The approach of a party of travellers mounted upon mules, whose bells

could be heard a long distance off, frightened the scoundrels away. This

party which had just left Valparaiso met us--"

"Precisely as I met you on the Rue de Vaugirard, a few minutes ago,

madame," said the man, smiling; "and to ensure your safety, one of the

gentlemen of the party, with three of his escort, decided to accompany

your carriage as far as the nearest village."

"And this traveller was you, monsieur. I remember you perfectly now,

though I had the pleasure of seeing you only for a few moments, and in

the dusk, as night comes on so quickly in Chili."

"And it was very dark by the time we reached the village of--of

Balameda, if my memory does not play me false, madame."

"I do not remember the name of the village, monsieur, but what I do, and

what I always shall remember, is your extreme kindness; for after you

had escorted us to the village, you had to make great haste to overtake

your party, which was travelling northward, it seems to me."

"Yes, madame."

"And you overtook your friends without any unpleasant accident, I trust?

We felt very uneasy on that score, the roads along those precipices are

so dangerous; besides, those same bandits might still be lurking behind

the rocks."

"My return was made in the most peaceful manner. My mule only had to

quicken his pace a little, that is all."

"You must admit, monsieur, that it is very singular that an acquaintance

made in the wilds of Chili should be renewed in the garden of the

Luxembourg."

"It is, indeed, madame. But I see that it is beginning to snow. Will you

permit me to offer you my arm and a shelter under my umbrella, until we

can reach the nearest cab-stand?"

"I really fear that I am trespassing too much on your kindness," replied

the lady, accepting the proffered courtesy, nevertheless.

Arm in arm, they accordingly directed their steps towards the cab-stand

near the Odeon. They found but one vehicle there. The young woman

entered it, but her companion, from delicacy, seemed in doubt as to

whether he should or should not follow her.

"What are you waiting for, monsieur?" the lady asked, affably. "There

are no other carriages here; will you not make use of this one?"

"I scarcely dared to ask such a favour," replied the gentleman, eagerly

availing himself of the permission thus accorded. Then--

"What address shall I give the coachman?" he added.

"Ask him to take me where the Rue de Rivoli intersects the Place de la

Concorde," replied the lady, with some slight embarrassment. "I will

wait under the arcade there until it stops snowing, as I have some

business to attend to in that locality."

This order given, the coachman turned his horses' heads towards the

right bank of the Seine.

"Do you know, I think our meeting more and more marvellous," remarked

the young woman.

"While I admit that the meeting is singular, it seems to me even more

agreeable than singular."

"No compliments, if you please, monsieur. They do very well for people

who have nothing else to say to each other; and I confess that if you

are inclined to gratify my curiosity, you will not have answered half

the questions I want to put to you, when the time comes for us to

separate."

"You should not tell me that; I shall be sure to become very diffuse in

my style of conversation, in the hope that your curiosity--"

"Will inspire me with the desire to meet you a second time, if you do

not tell me all to-day. Is that what you mean?"

"Yes, madame."

The lady smiled faintly, then she continued:

"But in order that we may take things in their natural course, tell me

first what you were going to do in the northern part of Chili. I was

returning from there myself, when I met you, eight months ago, and, as I

know it is a region little frequented by travellers, you will understand

and excuse a question which might otherwise sound too inquisitive,

perhaps."

"Before answering this question, madame, it is absolutely necessary that

I should give you some insight into my character; otherwise, you might

mistake me for a madman."

"And why, monsieur?"

"Because I am possessed--devoured, perhaps, would be a better word--by

such a continual desire to be moving, that for several years past,

especially, I have not been able to remain a month in the same place. In

short, I have a passion, perhaps I ought rather to say a positive mania,

for travel."

"Strange to say, I, too, experience the same unconquerable restlessness,

the same longing to be continually on the go, the same intense aversion

to repose, and, like you, I, myself, have found a most welcome diversion

in travel, for several years past," the young woman responded,

smothering a sigh.

"So you, too, madame, have a horror of the dull, lethargic, monotonous

life which reminds one of that of an oyster on his bank, or of a snail

in his shell?"

"To me torpor and immobility are death itself, yes, worse than death,

for, unfortunately, one must be conscious of this apathy of mind and

body."

"And yet, there are persons--one can scarcely call them living

beings--who would gladly remain for months, and even years, in the same

place, lost in a sort of dreamy ecstasy, and enjoying what they style

the charm of _dolce far niente_."

"Yes, monsieur, yes; there are such people, as I know only too well."

"So you have had a like experience, madame? So you, too, have seen how

hopelessly intractable such persons are,--how they will eventually

triumph over the strongest wills?"

And the two gazed at each other in a sort of bewilderment, so astonished

were they by this strange similarity in their experiences.

CHAPTER X.

CONTRADICTIONS.

The young woman was the first to break the silence.

"Let us drop the subject, monsieur," she said, sighing heavily. "It

arouses too many painful recollections."

"Yes, let us drop it, madame, for I, too, am tortured by many painful

recollections from which I am ever striving to escape, for it is

cowardly and degrading to permit one's mind to dwell continually upon

persons one hates and despises. Ah, madame, I sincerely hope you may

never know that mixture of regret, aversion, and love, which renders

one's life for ever miserable."

The young woman listened to her companion with profound astonishment,

for, when he spoke of himself, it seemed as if he must also be speaking

of her, so identical had been their experience; but the reserve which

she must necessarily display in her intercourse with a comparative

stranger, prevented any such admission on her part; so, quite as much to

conceal her real feelings as to gratify her growing curiosity, she

remarked:

"You speak of mingled aversion and love, monsieur. How can one both love

and hate the same person or thing? Is such a strange contradiction

possible?"

"Ah, madame, is not the human heart the greatest of mysteries,--the

strangest of enigmas? Ever since the world began, the inexplicable

attraction which opposites have for each other has been admitted. How

often we see a person who is weak admire one who is strong, and one who

is violent and impetuous seek out one who is gentle and timid! What is

the cause of this? Is it the desire for a contrast? Or, is it the charm

of overcoming a certain difficulty? Nobody knows. The fact remains that

persons whose characters are diametrically opposed to our own exercise

an inexplicable attraction over us,--inexplicable, yes; for we curse

them, we pity them, we despise them, and we hate them; and yet, we can

not do without them; or, if they escape us, we regret them as much as we

hate them, and forthwith begin to dream of the impossible, that is to

say, of acquiring sufficient influence over them to transform them, to

imbue them with our own ideas and tastes. Dreams, idle dreams these are,

of course, which only serve to make us forget the sad reality for a

brief time."

"I, too, have often heard of these strange contradictions. They are the

more incomprehensible to me, as the only chance of happiness seems to me

to consist in perfect congeniality of temperament."

The young woman paused suddenly, and blushed, deeply regretting words

which might be construed as an advance made to a comparative stranger

(though this had really been furthest from her thoughts), especially

after both she and he had commented on the remarkable similarity in

their tastes. But this fear on her part was entirely unnecessary, as the

turn the conversation had taken seemed to have plunged her companion

into a profound reverie.

A few minutes afterwards, the carriage stopped at the corner of the Rue

de Rivoli, and the driver got down from the box to open the door.

"What! are we here already?" exclaimed the stranger, arousing himself;

then, motioning the coachman to close the door again, he said:

"I sincerely hope you will pardon me for having made such poor use of

the last few minutes of the interview you have been kind enough to grant

me, but I yielded almost unconsciously to the influence of certain

memories. You will not refuse, I trust, to indemnify me by permitting

me to see you again, and to have the honour of calling on you at your

own home."

"What you ask, monsieur, is impossible for quite a number of reasons."

"Do not refuse my request, I beg of you. There seem to be so many points

of similarity in our lot; besides, there are still many things I would

like to tell you in relation to my South American journey, and the cause

of it. Our meeting, too, has been so extraordinary, that I feel sure all

these reasons will decide you to grant the favour I ask, though I should

not dare to insist in the name of the very slight service which I was so

fortunate as to be able to render you, and which you are extremely kind

to even remember."

"I am not ungrateful, believe me, monsieur. I admit, too, that it would

give me great pleasure to see you again, and yet, I shall probably be

obliged to renounce this hope."

"Ah, madame--"

"Well, I will propose this, monsieur. To-day is Monday--"

"Yes, madame."

"Be here under the arcade at noon on Thursday."

"I will, madame, I will."

"If I am not here at the end of an hour,--which is more than

probable,--we shall never see each other again, monsieur."

"But why do you say that, madame?"

"It is impossible for me to explain now, monsieur; but, whatever

happens, you must rest assured that I have been very glad of an

opportunity to thank you for a service I shall always remember with

gratitude."

"What, madame, I may never see you again, yet I am leaving you without

even knowing your name."

"If we are never to meet again, monsieur, what is the use of knowing my

name? If, on the contrary, we do meet here again on Thursday I will

tell you who I am, and, if you still desire it, we will continue the

acquaintance begun in a different hemisphere, and renewed by an

unexpected meeting."

"I thank you for this hope, madame, uncertain though it be. I will not

insist further, so farewell,--until Thursday, madame."

"Until Thursday, monsieur."

And the two separated.

CHAPTER XI.

NEAR NEIGHBOURS.

The morning after this interview between these two travellers who had

met in Chili, the following scene occurred in the fourth story of house

Number 57, on the Rue de Vaugirard.

It was quarter of four, but a remarkably handsome young man was already

writing by the light of a shaded lamp.

Need we say that this young man was M. Michel Renaud, the model tenant

who left home regularly every morning at four o'clock and never returned

before midnight.

He was engaged in copying into one of those big leather-bound books,

used in business houses, a long row of figures and entries from some

carelessly kept day-books, and more than once this uninteresting,

monotonous work seemed to benumb both brain and hands, but he bravely

overcame the inclination to sleep, wrapped the blanket in which he had

enveloped his legs and feet more closely around him, blew on his fingers

to warm them, for there was not a spark of fire in the little room, and

then resumed his work.

In spite of this uncongenial employment, pursued amid such uncomfortable

surroundings, Michel's face was serene, even happy; but when the clock

in a neighbouring church rang out the third quarter of an hour, it was

with the smiling, affectionate expression of a person who is about to

bid a dear friend good morning that the young man rose from the table

and, hastening towards the fireplace, rapped twice with the handle of

his pocket-knife upon the party wall that separated the house in which

he lived from the adjoining house.

Two similar raps answered him almost instantly, and Michel smiled with a

satisfied air, as if the most agreeable remark conceivable had been

addressed to him. He was preparing to reply, doubtless, in fact he had

already lifted the handle of his knife for that purpose, when a faint,

almost mysterious knock, followed by two louder ones, reached his ear.

Michel's face flushed, and his eyes brightened. One would have supposed

that he had received a favour as precious as it was unexpected, and it

was with an expression of intense gratitude that he replied with a

series of quick, irregular raps, as hurried and feverish as the violent

throbbings of his own heart.

This rapping would doubtless have been prolonged several seconds with

ever increasing ardour, if it had not been suddenly checked by a single

incisive knock which resounded from the other side of the wall like an

imperative command. Michel obeyed this order respectfully, and

immediately suspended his rather too lively manifestation of delight.

A moment afterwards, four slow, distinct knocks, prolonged like the

striking of a clock, coming from the other side of the wall, put an end

to this singular conversation quite worthy of a lodge of freemasons.

"She is right," murmured Michel. "It is almost four o'clock."

And he immediately set to work to arrange his books and put his room in

order before leaving it for the day.

While he is engaged in these preparations for departure we will conduct

the reader up to the fourth floor of the adjoining house,--Number

59,--and into the apartment of Madame de Luceval, separated, as we have

before remarked, from that of Michel Renaud by a party wall.

That young lady is now about twenty-one years of age, and as charming as

ever, though not quite as stout. She, too, like her neighbour, was

busily engaged in her preparations for departure.

A lamp, like that used by engravers who work at night, stood on a large

table strewn with several partially coloured lithographs, boxes of

water-colour paints, pieces of embroidery and tapestry work, and a

number of those music-books into which orchestral scores are copied.

Several of these last were already filled. The plainly furnished room

was exquisitely neat, and Florence's hat and cloak were already laid out

on the carefully made bed.

More than once, as she deftly arranged her water-colours, music scores,

and needlework in their respective boxes, the young woman blew upon her

dainty rosy fingers, the cold in this room being quite as intense as in

her neighbour's, for in this room, too, there was no fire.

There was a great difference between this life and the life she had led

in her husband's luxurious home, where everything had combined to

encourage the indolence in which she so delighted; and yet, she looked

far more happy than when, half reclining in her comfortable armchair,

with her feet resting upon a big velvet cushion, she idly watched the

sunbeams rioting in her beautiful garden, and dreamily listened to the

soft murmur of the fountain. In short, this once indolent creature, who

thought a drive in a luxurious carriage entirely too fatiguing, did not

seem to regret her vanished splendour in the least, but blithely hummed

a merry tune as she drew on her overshoes and took a small umbrella from

the cupboard, ready to brave snow, wind, and cold without a murmur.

These preparations for departure concluded, Florence cast a hasty glance

in the mirror, passed her hand over the waves of golden hair,--hair

which was as smooth and glossy, in spite of her early toilet, as if a

maid had spent an hour over the young woman's coiffure; then, throwing

her body slightly backward, she stretched out her arms and allowed her

graceful head to sink languidly upon her left shoulder, giving at the

same time a little yawn that said as plainly as any words:

"Ah, how pleasant it would be to stay in a nice, comfortable bed,

instead of going out in the cold at four o'clock in the morning!"

But the next moment, as if reproaching herself for her weakness,

Florence hastily donned her hat and cloak, picked up her umbrella,

lighted her candle, extinguished the lamp, and went swiftly but lightly

down-stairs.

The clock in the Luxembourg was just striking four.

"Dear me! it is four o'clock already," she murmured, as she reached the

foot of the last flight of stairs; then, in her clear, young voice, she

called out:

"Pull the rope, please."

And in another moment the door of the house had closed behind her, and

she was in the street.

It was late in the month of December, and the night was very dark. A

cold wind was whistling through the deserted street, which was but dimly

lighted by an occasional street lamp.

As soon as she was out of the house, she gave a slight cough, apparently

as a sort of a signal.

A louder hum! hum! answered it.

But it was so dark that Florence could scarcely see Michel, who had come

out a few seconds before, and stationed himself on the other side of the

street, for it was he who had thus responded to his fair neighbour's

signal.

Then the two, without addressing so much as a word to each other,

started down the street,--he on the left side, she on the right.

About half an hour before Michel Renaud left his dwelling, a cab stopped

a short distance from Number 57. A lady, enveloped in a long pelisse,

was in this cab. She had said to the coachman:

"When you see a gentleman come out of that house, you are to follow him

until I tell you to stop."

The coachman, thanks to the light of his carriage lamps, saw Michel

leave the house, and at once started his horse down the middle of the

street at a walk. The occupant of the cab kept her eyes riveted on

Michel, and thus, engrossed in the movements on the left side of the

street, did not even see Madame de Luceval, who was on the opposite

pavement.

But Madame de Luceval had scarcely closed the door of her house behind

her when a man wrapped in a long cloak came rushing down the street, as

if afraid of being too late for something.

This man had consequently failed to hear the signal exchanged between

Florence and Michel, nor could he even see the latter, concealed as he

was by the cab that was moving slowly down the street.

So the man in the cloak began to follow Madame de Luceval, while the

lady in the cab did not once take her eyes off Michel.

CHAPTER XII.

A VAIN PURSUIT.

Michel and Florence, engrossed in each other, though separated by the

width of the street, paid no attention to the cab which was moving

slowly along in the same direction, it being a very common occurrence to

see such vehicles returning to the stable at that time in the morning.

As the two neighbours reached the corner of the Rue de Tournon, they met

a crowd of huckster wagons on their way to the market, and the lady in

the cab finding her progress thus impeded, and fearing she would lose

sight of the person she was following, ordered the driver to open the

door, paid him, alighted, and hastened on after Michel. She was half way

down the Rue de Tournon, when she noticed, for the first time, a man

wrapped in a cloak, walking only a short distance ahead of her. At first

this discovery did not disturb her, but subsequently, perceiving by the

light of a street lamp that a woman was walking a few yards in advance

of this man, and that this woman was pursuing the same route as Michel

Renaud, she began to think this very singular, and afterwards her

attention was naturally divided between Michel, Madame de Luceval, and

the man who was a short distance behind that lady.

Michel and Florence, whose heads were well muffled up as a protection

from the cold, had, as yet, no suspicion that they were being followed,

and walked briskly on towards the little square at the end of the Rue

Dauphine. The man in the cloak, who had been too much absorbed hitherto

to take much notice of what was going on around him, now observed for

the first time that a woman was following a man on the side of the

street opposite to that on which he was following Florence, and great

was his surprise when, as this woman passed the lighted windows of a

liquor shop, he fancied he recognised in her the same lady whom he had

escorted to the corner of the Rue de Rivoli the previous afternoon, and

whom he had met months before in one of the mountain passes of Chili.

The woman's tall stature and lithe tread, as well as her mourning garb,

corroborated these suspicions, and the fact of this double pursuit,

after their interview of the day before, was too extraordinary for the

man not to desire to solve this mystery at once, so, without losing

sight of Florence, he hastily crossed the street, and, approaching the

mysterious lady, said:

"One word, madame, if you please--"

"You, monsieur!" the lady exclaimed, "is it you?"

Both stood for an instant as if petrified.

The man was the first to recover himself.

"Madame, after what has occurred, and for our mutual benefit, we must

have a full explanation at once," he exclaimed, hastily.

"I think so, too, monsieur."

"Very well, then, madame. I--"

"Take care! Look out for that wagon!" exclaimed the lady, pointing to a

big milk wagon that was tearing down the street, almost grazing the

gutter in which the man in the cloak had stopped.

He sprang aside quickly, but, in the meantime, Florence and Michel had

reached the square, and disappeared from sight, thanks to the progress

they had made during this short colloquy between their pursuers.

The woman, noting Michel's disappearance, exclaimed, in accents of

intense dismay:

"I don't see him any longer! I have lost him!"

These words reminded her companion of the pursuit he, too, had

momentarily forgotten, and he, too, turned quickly, but could see

nothing of Florence.

"Let us hasten on to the square, madame; perhaps we can overtake them.

Here, take my arm."

"No, no, monsieur, let us run, let us run," cried the young woman.

So both ran towards the square at the top of their speed, but when they

reached it they did not see a living soul in either of the four or five

narrow streets that diverged from it. Realising how utterly useless it

would be to extend their search further, the two stood for a moment in

silence, resting after their run, and again thinking, perhaps, of the

singular _rapprochement_ between their destinies.

"Really, madame, it makes me wonder whether I am awake or dreaming,"

exclaimed the man in the cloak at last.

"What you say is perfectly true, monsieur. I really cannot believe what

I see with my own eyes," replied the lady.

"I feel, madame, that what has happened to us to-day is so inexplicable

that our mutual reserve should be maintained no longer."

"I agree with you, perfectly, monsieur. Will you give me your arm? I am

nearly frozen, and what with the surprise and excitement, I am feeling

far from well, but my indisposition will pass off if I walk a little

way, I think."

"Which way shall we go, madame?"

"It doesn't matter in the least,--towards the Pont Neuf, perhaps."

As they walked slowly on, the following conversation took place:

"I feel it obligatory upon me to first tell you my name, monsieur,"

remarked the lady. "It is not a matter of much consequence, perhaps,

but you ought to know who I am. I am a widow, and my name is Valentine

d'Infreville."

"Good God!" exclaimed the man in the cloak, stopping short in his

astonishment. "You Madame d'Infreville?"

"Why do you evince such astonishment, monsieur? My name is not unknown

to you."

"After all," remarked the man, recovering from the amazement this

announcement had caused, "it is not surprising that I did not recognise

you either here or in Chili, madame, for the first time I saw you, four

years ago, I could not distinguish your features; besides, the

indignation I felt--"

"What do you mean, monsieur? Do you mean that you had seen me before our

meeting in Chili?"

"Yes, madame."

"And where?"

"I scarcely dare to remind you."

"In whose house did you meet me, tell me, monsieur?"

"In my wife's house."

"Your wife's?"

"In the house of Madame de Luceval."

"What! You are--?"

"M. de Luceval."

Valentine d'Infreville stood as if petrified in her turn by this

allusion which awakened so many painful memories; but, after a moment,

she said, in tones of profound sadness:

"You speak the truth, monsieur. The first and only time we met at Madame

de Luceval's it must have been as impossible for you to distinguish my

features as it was for me to distinguish yours. Overcome with shame, I

concealed my face, and, even now," she added, turning away her head as

if to escape M. de Luceval's gaze, "I thank Heaven that it is dark."

"Believe me, madame, it is with deep regret that I remind you of a scene

that was so distressing to you, and to myself as well, for, influenced

by M. d'Infreville, I--"

But Valentine, interrupting him, inquired, with mingled curiosity,

uneasiness, and tender interest:

"And Florence; where is she?"

"It was Florence that I was following just now."

"What! That woman was--"

"Madame de Luceval; yes."

"But why were you following her?"

"You are not aware, then--"

"Speak, monsieur, speak!"

"That my wife and I have separated," replied M. de Luceval, smothering a

sigh.

"But where does Florence live?"

"On the Rue de Vaugirard."

"Great Heavens! How strange!" exclaimed Valentine, starting violently.

"What is the matter, madame?"

"Florence lives in the Rue de Vaugirard, you say. At what number?"

"Number 59."

"And Michel lives at Number 57!" exclaimed Valentine.

"Michel!" exclaimed M. de Luceval, in his turn. "Michel Renaud?"

"Yes, your cousin. He has a room on the fourth floor, at Number 57. I

had just satisfied myself of that fact yesterday when I met you."

"And my wife lives on the same floor in the adjoining house," said M. de

Luceval.

Then, feeling Valentine's arm tremble convulsively, he added:

"What is the matter, madame? Are you faint?"

"Pardon me, monsieur,--but it--it is the cold, I think,--that--that

makes me feel so strangely. I can scarcely stand,--and my head seems to

be going around and around."

"Have a little courage, madame. Let us try to reach that shop there at

the corner of the quay."

"I'll try, monsieur," replied Valentine, faintly.

She did manage to drag herself to the store designated, which proved to

be a grocery store. There was a woman behind the counter, the wife of

the proprietor, and she took Madame d'Infreville into a room back of the

store, and gave her every possible attention.

* * * * *

An hour afterwards, when daylight had come, a carriage was sent for, and

M. de Luceval took Madame d'Infreville to her home.

CHAPTER XIII.

TRAVEL UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

The events of the morning had upset Madame d'Infreville so completely,

and she felt so incapable of coherent thought, that she asked M. de

Luceval to return that evening at eight o'clock, so she could have a

full explanation with him; so at eight o'clock M. de Luceval sent up his

card to Valentine, who had taken a suite of furnished rooms on the

Chaussee d'Antin.

"How are you feeling this evening, madame?" he inquired, with great

interest, when he was admitted into that lady's presence.

"Better, much better, monsieur, and I sincerely trust you will pardon my

absurd weakness this morning."

"Was it not very natural, madame, after so many startling revelations

and occurrences?"

"Possibly, monsieur; at all events, I felt so bewildered that I was

obliged to ask you to return this evening, that we might have the

explanation which is now indispensable."

"I am at your service, madame."

"Will you first permit me to ask you a few questions. I will afterwards

answer yours. You told me that you and Florence were divorced, did you

not? I was not aware of it before."

"That is not strange, for since that unfortunate evening when I met you

in my house, neither my wife nor I have heard anything in relation to

you."

"I will tell you why, monsieur."

"I must first explain that, after the terrible scene in which you and M.

d'Infreville, and my wife and I, took part, I very naturally felt deeply

incensed with you. After your departure, Florence and I had a violent

quarrel. She declared that she would not live with me any longer, and

that she intended to make her home with you and your mother, that is, of

course, if you and M. d'Infreville separated."

"Did Florence really intend to do that?"

"Yes, madame, for she always seemed to feel the tenderest affection for

you. As you may suppose, I told her that such an idea was madness; but

she, nevertheless, declared that she should leave me, whether or no. I

shrugged my shoulders, but the separation took place, nevertheless."

"Such firmness of will on Florence's part surprises me very much; it

accords so little with her habitual indolence."

"Ah, madame, how little you know her! How little I knew her myself! You

have no idea how the inertia of such a character makes itself felt.

Prior to the scene in which you were a participant, my wife and I had

had a slight disagreement. As I have told you, I have a passion for

travel. It was the desire of my life to make Florence share this

fondness, for I was very much in love with her, and to explore foreign

lands in company with a beloved wife was my ideal of happiness. But

Florence, with her incurable indolence, would not listen to the idea for

a moment. I was wrong, undoubtedly; I realise it now that it is too

late. I treated her too much as if she were a child and I the master;

and though I loved her to idolatry, I thought her best interests and my

dignity demanded that I should be imperious and severe; besides,--shall

I confess it?--nervous, quick-tempered, and energetic as I am, her

mocking indifference drove me almost crazy. The day after I met you in

her room, she went to your house, but your servants told her that you

had left in the night with your mother and M. d'Infreville. As time

passed, and she could discover no clue to your whereabouts, her chagrin

and grief became intense. I pitied her so much that for some time I said

nothing about a journey I had contemplated for many months, but finally,

resolved to overcome my wife's opposition on this subject, I announced

my intention of visiting Switzerland. I anticipated a lively resistance

on her part, but I was wrong."

"She consented?"

"'You insist upon my travelling,' she said to me. 'So be it. You have a

right to do so, you claim. Very well, try it,' she added, with a most

nonchalant air, 'but I warn you that you will bring me back to Paris

within a week.'"

"And within a week, monsieur--?"

"I had brought her back to Paris."

"But how did she manage to compel you to do so?"

"In the simplest way in the world," said M. de Luceval, bitterly. "We

started. At our first stopping-place--I forgot to tell you that we did

not start until nine in the morning, so she would not be obliged to rise

too early--"

"Well?"

"She remained in bed forty-eight hours on the pretext that she was

overcome with fatigue, remarking to me with an insolent calmness that

exasperated me beyond measure, 'The law gives you the right to compel me

to accompany you, but the law does not limit the hours I am to remain in

bed.' What could one say in reply to this? Besides, how was one to while

away forty-eight hours in a dingy inn? Picture, if you can, madame, my

wrath and impatience all that time, unable to extort another word from

my wife. Nevertheless, I would not yield. 'I can stand it as long as she

can,' I said to myself; 'she loves her comfort, and two or three such

sojourns in dingy post-stations will cure her of her obstinacy.'"

"And were these expectations on your part realised?"

"I will tell you, madame. At the end of these two days, we set out

again, and about three o'clock in the afternoon we stopped in a

miserable little village for fresh horses. The road had been rather

dusty, and Florence got out of the carriage and ordered her maid to come

and brush the dust out of her hair. My wife was conducted to a dingy

room. The bed was so untidy and uninviting that she would not lie down

on it, so she made them bring in an old armchair. She established

herself in that, declaring that, as she was even more fatigued this

time, she would not stir out of that room for four days. I thought she

was jesting, but such, alas! was not the case."

"What, monsieur, do you really mean that for four days--"

"I did not lose courage until the end of the third day. Then I could

stand it no longer! Three days, madame, three whole days in that dingy

hole, trying in vain to devise some means of overcoming my wife's

resistance. To resort to force, and pick her up and put her in the

carriage was out of the question. What a scandal it would create!

Besides, the same thing would undoubtedly have to be done over again at

the next post-station. Threats and entreaties proved equally futile! And

we started back to Paris exactly six days after we left it. Bad news

awaited us. My wife's entire fortune had been left in the hands of her

guardian, a well-known banker. He had failed and fled the country. I

experienced a feeling of secret joy. Deprived of her fortune, my wife,

finding herself entirely dependent upon me, would perhaps be more

tractable."

"I know Florence, monsieur, and unless I am very much deceived, you were

disappointed in your expectations."

"That is only too true, madame. On hearing of her loss of fortune,

Florence, far from manifesting any regret, seemed much pleased. Her

first words were:

"'I hope you will no longer refuse to consent to a separation now.'

"'Less than ever,' I replied; 'for I pity you, and cannot bear the

thought of your being exposed to want.'

"'Before I lost my property,' she replied, 'I was rather loath to leave

you, for I have given up all hope of finding Valentine. That being the

case, I was fairly content to live on quietly after my own fashion; but

now, every hour spent in this house is torture to me, and I will endure

it no longer, so consent to give me back my freedom, and accept your

own.'

"'But how will you live,--you who have all your life been accustomed to

ease and luxury?'

"'I asked for ten thousand francs of my dowry when I married,' she

answered. 'Part of this sum is still in my possession, and it will

suffice.'

"'But this small amount spent, what will you live on?'

"'That is a matter which does not concern you in the least,' she

retorted.

"'On the contrary, it does concern me to such an extent that I shall

save you in spite of yourself, for whatever you may do, I will never

consent to a separation.'

"'Listen, monsieur,' she said, earnestly; 'your intentions are most

generous, and I thank you for them. You have many very excellent traits.

You are the most honourable man that ever lived, but our characters,

dispositions, and tastes are, and always will be, so entirely

incompatible that life would soon become intolerable to both of us.

Besides, this is a matter for me to decide, for, having lost my fortune,

I should be a burden to you, pecuniarily. Understand then, once for all,

that there is no power on earth that can force me to live with you

under such conditions. I consequently beseech you to let us part quietly

and amicably.'"

"This refusal, painful as it must have been to you, monsieur, really had

its origin in the noblest sentiments."

"I agree with you, madame, and the generosity Florence evinced, as well

as the firmness of character and brave resignation which she displayed,

only increased the love which I had always felt for her even when we

differed most; so, in the hope that reflection and the fear of a life of

poverty might yet restore her to me, I protested more energetically than

ever against a separation, even promising that I would endeavour to

mould my tastes by hers, but she replied: 'Such self-constraint as you

propose to inflict upon yourself would transform you into a hypocrite.

You have your own peculiar temperament; I have mine. All the resolutions

and reasoning in the world will not change them any more than they would

transform me into a brunette and you into a blond. The same

incompatibility of temperament would still exist; besides, on no account

will I consent to be an expense to you. If I loved you, it would be

entirely different; so once more, and for the last time, I implore you

to let us part as friends.' I refused."

"And yet you are separated you say?"

"The separation took place. Florence forced it upon me."

"In what way?"

"Oh, in the simplest way in the world, and one that suited her indolent

nature perfectly. Would you believe it, madame? for three whole months

she never addressed a single word to me, or answered a single question I

put to her. For three whole months, in short, she never once looked at

me, or evinced the slightest consciousness of my existence. It is

impossible to give you any conception of what I suffered,--the anger,

despair, and positive fury which her mute obstinacy caused me. Prayers,

tears, bribes, threats, none of these could extort so much as a word

from her; one might as well have addressed them to a statue. Many a

time, madame, it seemed to me that my brain would give way, and that I

should go raving mad in the presence of this obdurate woman. My health

became greatly impaired. A slow fever set in. This weakened my energy,

and at last, convinced of the utter hopelessness of further resistance,

I yielded."

"Good Heavens, how you must have suffered! But you were right. To

struggle longer against such odds would have been useless."

"Consequently, I accepted the situation; but wishing to avoid scandal as

much as possible, I consulted my lawyer. He informed me that one of the

least objectionable grounds for a legal separation was an absolute

refusal on the part of the wife to live with her husband; so Florence

left my house and took up her abode in furnished apartments. I

subsequently had the customary legal summons, demanding her return,

served upon her. Her lawyer responded to it. The case was brought before

the court, a decision was promptly rendered, and a legal separation was

thus effected. My health had become so greatly impaired that my

physicians thought a long journey my only chance of recovery. Before my

departure, I gave one hundred thousand francs to my notary, charging him

to compel my wife to accept the money. In case of refusal, he was to

inform her that it would always be at her disposal; but this sum of

money is still in his hands. I left France, hoping to find forgetfulness

in travel. Far from it, I only realised, more deeply than ever, how much

I missed my wife. I travelled through Egypt and Turkey, returning

through the Illyrian provinces, and afterwards sailed from Venice for

Cadiz, from which port I reembarked for Chili, where I met you, madame.

After an extended tour through the West Indies, I sailed for Havre,

where I landed only a few days ago. From inquiries concerning Florence,

instituted as soon as I reached Paris, I learned that she was living on

the Rue de Vaugirard. And yesterday when we met, I had just been

endeavouring to obtain more definite information in relation to her,

through a person who lives in the same house."

"And did you succeed, monsieur?"

"She must be in very straitened circumstances financially, for she has

only one room on the fourth floor, and keeps no servant. Besides, her

conduct is irreproachable. I am told that she has never been known to

receive a visitor, but from some strange whim, which seems doubly

incomprehensible when I remember her former indolent habits and love of

ease, she goes out every morning before four o'clock, and never returns

until midnight."

"Exactly like Michel!" exclaimed Valentine, unable to conceal her

surprise and growing uneasiness. "How strange!"

"What do you mean, madame?"

"Why, yesterday, I discovered that M. Michel Renaud lives on the fourth

floor, in Number 57, and that, like Florence, he goes out at four

o'clock every morning, and never returns before midnight."

"What can this mean?" exclaimed M. de Luceval. "Michel and my wife

living on the same floor in adjoining houses, and going out and

returning home at the same hour?"

"Does Florence know Michel?"

"M. Renaud is my cousin, and now I think of it, shortly after you left

Paris, madame, he came and asked me to introduce him to my wife, upon

whom he afterwards called a number of times. But now I think of it, you

must know M. Michel Renaud very well yourself, as you feel sufficient

interest in him to follow him."

"I will tell you all, monsieur," replied Valentine, blushing, "for I am

as deeply interested in solving this mystery as you can possibly be."

"Ah, madame," exclaimed M. de Luceval, gloomily, "more than once, during

my long absence, I experienced all the tortures of jealousy when I

thought of Florence, free! Free! oh, no, in spite of our separation, the

law gives me the right to avenge the wrong, if the woman who still bears

my name is guilty, and this man--this man! Oh, if I were sure of his

guilt, I would challenge him before another hour had passed, and either

he or I--"

"Pray calm yourself, monsieur," said Madame d'Infreville, "strange as

all this seems, there is really nothing that implicates Florence in the

least. This morning she left home at the same hour Michel did, it is

true; but though it was still dark, and the street was deserted, they

did not exchange a single word, and held themselves sedulously aloof

from each other."

"Still they leave home and return at the same hour! Where do they go?

How do they spend all this time? They undoubtedly meet each other, but

where?"

"We will solve this mystery. We must and shall. I am as anxious to do it

as you can possibly be; and in order that you may understand the cause

of this deep anxiety on my part, I will tell you as briefly as possible

what my life has been since the day you saw me overwhelmed with shame

under M. d'Infreville's just reproaches."

CHAPTER XIV.

VALENTINE'S STORY.

After a brief silence, caused by her embarrassment and confusion, Madame

d'Infreville, recovering her courage, said:

"When the falsehood, to which Florence's affection for me had made her a

willing accomplice, was discovered in your presence, four years ago, my

husband, on leaving your house, took me to his home. I found my mother

there.

"'We shall leave Paris in an hour in company with your mother, madame,'

M. d'Infreville said to me. 'I shall take you to one of my farms in

Poitou, where you will live henceforth with your mother. If you refuse,

I shall apply for a divorce, and make your disgrace public. I have

abundant proof of it in the shape of two or three very significant

letters which I found in your desk. If you give me the slightest

trouble, I will prosecute you for adultery: I will drag you and your

lover into the courts, and you shall be forced to drink the cup of

degradation to the dregs. You will be sent to prison with the lowest of

your sex, and your mother shall be turned into the street to starve. If

you wish to escape all this, leave for Poitou without a word. It is not

from any feeling of generosity or compassion that I make you this offer,

but simply because I dislike the public scandal such a trial is sure to

create, but if you refuse I will brave this scandal and ridicule. The

infamy with which it will cover you will console me for that.'"

"I do not wonder that your husband felt very bitter resentment towards

you," exclaimed M. de Luceval, "but such language was atrocious."

"I was compelled to listen to it, nevertheless, monsieur, and also to

accept his terms. I was guilty, and I had an invalid mother, who was

very poor. We started that same night for Poitou, where my husband left

me. The farmhouse in which we lived--my mother and I--stood in the

middle of a forest, beyond the boundaries of which we were never allowed

to go. I spent eighteen months in this prison, without being permitted

to write a single letter or hold the slightest communication with the

outer world. At the end of that time death set me free, I was a widow.

M. d'Infreville, justly incensed against me, had not left me a sou, and

my mother and I became terribly poor. I could not earn enough to support

my mother in any sort of comfort with my needle, and, after a long

struggle with poverty, she, too, died."

Here Valentine's emotion overcame her, and she was obliged to pause for

a moment; then, drying her tears, she continued:

"As soon as we returned to Paris, I made inquiries about Florence. I

could learn nothing definite, but hearing that you had left on an

extended journey through foreign lands, I thought it probable that your

wife had accompanied you. A short time afterwards, when hope had almost

deserted me, I had the good fortune to meet one of my old schoolmates,

who offered me the position of governess in the family of her sister,

whose husband had just been appointed consul at Valparaiso. It is

needless to say that this offer was gladly accepted, and I sailed with

the family the following week. It was while returning with them from a

trip to the north of Chili that I met you, monsieur. Shortly after my

return to Valparaiso, I received letters from Europe informing me that a

distant relative of my father, an old lady I had never even seen, had

died and left me a modest fortune. I returned to France to claim it, and

landed in Bordeaux only ten days ago. Now, monsieur, there is another

confession I have to make,--one that is very embarrassing to me, but the

frankness you have displayed makes it incumbent upon me."

And after a moment of painful embarrassment, Valentine, lowering her

eyes, and blushing deeply, added:

"My companion in--in wrong doing--was--was your cousin, Michel Renaud."

"Some words that escaped you a short time ago led me to suspect as much,

madame."

"I loved Michel, I loved him dearly, and this love has survived all the

terrible trials I have undergone. The pleasant excitement of travel

through an entirely new country served to divert my mind for a time from

this foolish passion, and to alleviate my sufferings to some extent; but

my affection for Michel is as profound now as it was four years ago,

consequently you can realise how thoroughly I must understand and

sympathise with your regret and chagrin, and how fully I must appreciate

what you said yesterday about the inexplicable charm which characters

that are diametrically opposed to our own exert over us."

"It is true, madame, that my somewhat limited acquaintance with my

cousin, as well as everything I have ever heard about him, convinces me

that he is one of the most indolent persons that ever lived. In fact, in

the early days of my married life I used to try to make Florence ashamed

of her indolence by holding Michel up to ridicule."

"I know them both well, monsieur, and it is impossible to conceive of

two persons nearer alike."

"And it is this very fact that attracted them to each other, probably,

though I saw nothing in my wife's conduct to excite the slightest

suspicion. But they love each other now, madame, they love each other,

I am positive of it. My natural jealousy does not deceive me."

"Perhaps I ought to share your misgivings, monsieur, but I do not. I

still doubt the justice of your suspicions, for if I believed that

Michel had forgotten me, I certainly should not make any effort to see

him again. But permit me to remind you, monsieur, that both Florence and

Michel are free, perfectly free. Is she not legally divorced from you?

What right have you to interfere with her actions?"

"The right of revenge."

"And what good will this revenge do you? If they love each other,

persecution will only increase their love, without improving your

chances in the least! No, no, you are too generous to wish to return

evil for evil."

"But I have suffered so much, madame."

"I, too, have suffered, and perhaps even greater trials are in store for

me; yet I would rather die than mar Michel's and Florence's happiness,

if I knew for a certainty that they were happy."

"I cannot boast of an equal amount of resignation, madame. If I find

that they love each other I will kill this man or he will kill me!"

"If I thought you capable of persisting in this resolve, I tell you

frankly that I should immediately warn Florence and Michel of the danger

that threatens them."

"You are wonderfully generous, madame!" retorted M. de Luceval,

bitterly.

"And you, too, are generous, monsieur, when your resentment does not get

the upper hand of you. Yes, you, too, are generous. I need no other

proof than the touching solicitude which you manifested for Florence's

welfare before your departure from France."

"That was a lamentable display of weakness on my part. Things are very

different now."

"All I can say, monsieur, is that if you hope to find in me an

accomplice in the perpetration of a futile and wicked act of vengeance,

we will end this interview here and now. If, on the contrary, you are

desirous of discovering the truth in order that you may know whether you

have or have not any reason to hope, you can count upon me, for, by

aiding each other, we are almost certain to discover the truth with very

little delay."

"And if the truth should prove to be that they love each other--"

"Before we go any further, monsieur, give me your word as a man of

honour that, however painful the discovery may prove to be, you will

renounce all idea of vengeance and even of seeing Florence again."

"Never, madame, never!"

"So be it, monsieur," said Valentine, rising. "In that case we will

proceed, henceforth, entirely independent of each other--"

"But, madame--"

"You are perfectly free, of course, to act as you see fit in the

matter--"

"But pray, madame--"

"It is useless to say any more on the subject, monsieur."

CHAPTER XV.

TIDINGS FROM FLORENCE.

Monsieur de Luceval was silent for a moment. A fierce struggle between

jealousy, his natural curiosity, and his fear that Madame d'Infreville

might warn Florence as she had threatened, was going on in his breast.

At last his better nature, aided a little perhaps by this last

consideration, triumphed, and he replied:

"You have my promise, madame."

"Thank you, thank you, monsieur. A presentiment tells me that this good

resolution will bring us happiness. Besides, reasoning entirely from

what we now know--"

"Good Heavens, madame, I should be only too thankful to be able to

hope!"

"And I think we have good reason to hope. In the first place, if Michel

and Florence loved each other,--it is useless to mince words,--if they

were lovers, there is nothing to prevent them from living as man and

wife in some quiet country village, or even here in Paris, the place of

all others in which one can live in seclusion, and according to one's

liking."

"But these adjoining apartments, is it not more than likely that they

communicate with each other?"

"But what possible object could there be in this secrecy,--these

precautions so utterly foreign to Michel's and Florence's character?"

"Why, to prevent scandal, madame."

"But if they changed their names and declared themselves man and wife,

how could there be any scandal? Who would discover the truth? Who would

have any interest in ferreting it out?"

"Why, sooner or later, you or I, madame."

"All the more reason that they would have changed their names if they

had felt that they had anything to fear, for so long as they kept their

names, was it not comparatively easy to find out their whereabouts, as

we have discovered for ourselves? Besides, monsieur, if they had wished

to conceal themselves effectually, couldn't they have done it just as

easily as they have managed to conceal the greater part of their

existence,--for they spend most of the time away from home, you know."

"And it is that very thing that puzzles me so! Where do they spend this

time? Where were they going this morning? Florence, who could seldom be

induced to leave her bed by noon, has been getting up before four

o'clock in the morning for four years. Think of it!"

"And Michel, too. It is certainly astonishing."

"To what can we attribute this change?"

"I do not know, but the change itself is a very favourable indication.

It leads me to think that Michel has at last overcome the apathy and

indolence which were so fatal to his welfare, and which have caused me

so much suffering."

"You reason very sensibly, madame. If Florence is no longer the indolent

creature who regarded a drive as entirely too fatiguing, and the

slightest pleasure trip as positive martyrdom, if the life of privation

which she has led for the last four years has transformed her, how

gladly will I forget and ignore the past! How happy my life may still

be! But, hold, madame, what I fear above all things now, is that I shall

be such a fool as to hope at all."

"Why do you say that?"

"You have some reason to hope, madame; for you, at least, have been

loved, while Florence has never known a spark of love for me."

"Because there was such an utter lack of congeniality between her

character and yours; but if, as we have good reason to believe, her

character has been transformed by the very exigencies of the life she

has been leading for the last four years, perhaps what she most disliked

in you prior to that time will please her most now. Did she not tell

you, in the heat of your quarrel, that she considered you one of the

most generous and honourable of men?"

"Nevertheless, I dare not cherish the slightest hope, madame.

Disappointment would be too hard to bear."

"Hope on, hope ever, monsieur! Disappointment, if it comes at all, will

come only too soon. But to change hope into certainty, we must first

penetrate the veil of mystery in which Florence and Michel have

enveloped themselves. The nature of the relations existing between them

once fathomed, we shall know exactly where we stand."

"I agree with you perfectly, madame, but how are we to do that?"

"By resorting to the same expedient we employed this morning; by

following them, though not without exercising much greater precautions.

The hour at which they leave home makes this comparatively easy, but if

this mode of procedure proves a failure, we shall have to devise some

other."

"Possibly it would be less likely to excite their suspicions if I

followed them alone."

"Very well, monsieur, and if you do not succeed, I will see what I can

do."

Here an apologetic rap at the door interrupted the conversation.

"Come in," said Madame d'Infreville.

A servant entered with a letter in his hand.

"A messenger just left this for madame," he explained.

"From whom?"

"He did not say, madame. He left as soon as he handed me the letter."

"You may go," said Valentine; then, turning to M. de Luceval, "Will you

permit me?" she asked.

He bowed his assent. Valentine broke the seal, glanced at the signature,

and exclaimed:

"Florence? Why, it is a letter from Florence!"

"From my wife?" exclaimed M. de Luceval.

They gazed at each other in utter amazement.

"But how did she discover your address, madame?"

"I have no idea."

"Read it, madame, read it, in Heaven's name!"

Madame d'Infreville read as follows:

"MY DEAR VALENTINE:--I have learned that you are in Paris, and I

can not tell you what happiness it would give me to embrace you,

but it is absolutely necessary for me to defer that pleasure for

nearly three months, that is, until early in June.

"If you care to see your old friend at that time,--and I have the

assurance to believe that you will,--you must go to M. Duval,

notary, at Number 17 Rue Montmartre, and tell him who you are. He

will then give you a letter containing my address. He will not

receive this letter until the last of May, however; and at this

present time he does not even know me by name.

"I am so certain of your affection, my dear Valentine, that I shall

count upon a visit from you. The journey may seem a little long to

you, but you can remain with me and rest, and we shall have so much

to say to each other.

"Your best friend, who loves you with all her heart,

"FLORENCE DE L."

The intense surprise this letter excited can be readily understood.

Valentine and her companion remained silent for a moment. M. de Luceval

was the first to speak.

"They must have seen us following them this morning," he exclaimed.

"But how did Florence discover where I am?" said Valentine,

thoughtfully. "I have met nobody I know in Paris except you, monsieur,

and one of our old servants, with whose assistance I succeeded in

ascertaining Michel's address. The man of whom I speak has a sister who

was Michel's nurse and afterwards his housekeeper."

"But why did Florence write to you, madame, and not to me, if she

suspected that I was following her?"

"You are mistaken in that supposition, perhaps, monsieur. She may have

written to me without knowing that you are in Paris."

"But in that case, why does she postpone your visit to her, and why this

indirect request that you make no attempt to discover her whereabouts

before the last of May, as she warns you that the person who is to give

you her address will not know it himself until that time."

"Yes, it is very evident that Florence does not wish to see me until

after three months have elapsed, and that she has taken measures

accordingly. Do you suppose that Michel can have had any hand in the

sending of this letter?"

"It is my opinion that we haven't a minute to lose," said M. de Luceval.

"Let us take a cab and go to the Rue de Vaugirard at once. If my wife's

suspicions have been aroused, it is more than likely that she returned

home during the day and gave some order that may enlighten us."

"You are right, monsieur; let us go at once."

An hour afterwards Valentine and M. de Luceval rejoined each other in

the cab which had deposited them a short distance from the two

adjoining houses where their search was to be conducted.

"Ah, well, monsieur, what news?" asked Madame d'Infreville, who, pale

and agitated, had been the first to return to the vehicle.

"There can no longer be any doubt that my wife suspects the truth,

madame. I told the porter that I wished to see Madame de Luceval on very

important business. 'That lady no longer resides here, monsieur,' the

man replied. 'She came in a carriage about eleven o'clock and took away

several bundles and packages, at the same time informing me that she had

no intention of returning again. Madame de Luceval has paid her rent six

months in advance ever since she came here, and some time ago she gave

notice of her intention to leave on the first of June. As for the few

articles of furniture that she owns, she is to let us know what disposal

we are to make of them.' It was impossible to get anything more out of

the man. And you, madame, what did you find out?"

"Almost the very same thing that you did, monsieur," replied Valentine,

despondently. "Michel returned home about eleven o'clock. He, too,

informed the porter of his intention of leaving the house, and promised

to let him know what disposition to make of his furniture. He, too, had

notified the landlord of his intention of giving up his rooms on the

first of June."

"Then it is on the first of June that they are to be united?"

"But in that case why do they make an appointment with me for the same

date?"

"Whatever they may say, and whatever they may do, I am determined to

solve this mystery!" exclaimed M. de Luceval.

Madame d'Infreville's only response was a melancholy shake of the head.

CHAPTER XVI.

AN IDLER'S PARADISE.

It was about three months after M. de Luceval and Madame d'Infreville

met in Paris, when the events we are about to relate occurred at a

modest villa near the town of Hyeres, in Provence.

This villa, which was decidedly bright and cheerful rather than

pretentious in appearance, stood at the foot of a small hill, not more

than five hundred yards from the sea. The small garden, half an acre, at

the most, in extent, and shaded with tall maples and sycamores, was

traversed by a rapid stream that had its source in a neighbouring

mountain, and that flowed into the sea, after diffusing a refreshing

moisture and coolness through the garden. The villa itself, which was a

pretty white house with green shutters, was embowered in a thick grove

of immense orange-trees, now in full bloom, which protected it from the

scorching rays of the sun. A hawthorn hedge enclosed the garden, which

was entered through a small gate set in posts of rough masonry.

About three o'clock in the afternoon, while the sun was shining with a

splendour rivalling that of Italy, a travelling carriage, coming from

the direction of Hyeres, stopped upon the brow of the hill overlooking

the little country-seat, and M. de Luceval, his face pale, and his

features drawn with anxiety, got out of the vehicle, and assisted Madame

d'Infreville to alight. That lady, after having paused for an instant to

look around her, caught sight of the little villa half hidden in the

grove of orange-trees, and, pointing to it, exclaimed, in a voice that

trembled with emotion:

"That is the house, M. de Luceval."

"Yes, judging from the directions given us, this must be the place. The

momentous hour has come. Go, madame. I will wait for you here, though I

do not know but it requires more courage to remain here in this agony of

suspense than it does to accompany you."

"Still, remember your promise, I entreat you, monsieur. Let me

accomplish this painful mission alone. You might not be able to control

yourself, and, in spite of the solemn pledge you have given me, you

might--But I can not finish. The mere thought of such a thing makes me

shudder."

"Do not be alarmed, madame, I shall keep my word, unless--unless--"

"But, monsieur, you have sworn--"

"I shall not forget my oath, madame."

"Let us hope for the best, monsieur. The day for which we have been

waiting with so much anxiety for three months has come at last. In an

hour the mystery will be solved. We shall know all, and our fate will be

decided."

"Yes, yes, our fate will be decided," responded M. de Luceval, gloomily.

"And now _au revoir_. Perhaps I shall not return alone."

But M. de Luceval shook his head gloomily, as Valentine, with a gesture

of encouragement, started down a narrow footpath that led straight to

the garden gate of the villa.

M. de Luceval, left alone, paced restlessly to and fro, turning every

now and then, in spite of himself, to gaze at the pretty dwelling below.

Suddenly he paused, his face turned livid, and his eyes gleamed like

coals of fire. He had just seen, a little way from the hedge that

surrounded the garden, a man clad in a white duck suit, and wearing a

big straw hat. In another moment, this man had disappeared among the

rocks that bordered the shore.

Running to the carriage, M. de Luceval drew out from under the seat,

where he had concealed it from Madame d'Infreville's eyes, a box

containing a pair of duelling pistols, and with this box in his hand

started in pursuit of the man.

But before he had gone ten yards M. de Luceval paused, reflected a

moment, then slowly returned to the carriage, and replaced the box,

saying to himself:

"There will be time enough for that by and by. I will keep my oath

unless rage and despair should carry me beyond all the bounds of reason

and honour."

Then, with his eyes riveted upon the house, M. de Luceval, too,

descended the path.

In the meantime, Valentine had reached the gate of the enclosure, and

knocked.

A moment afterwards the gate opened, and a woman about fifty years of

age, neatly dressed in the Provencal fashion, appeared.

On seeing her, Valentine could not conceal her astonishment.

"What, Madame Reine, you here!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, madame," replied the woman, with a strong Southern accent, and

apparently not at all surprised at Valentine's visit. "Will you be good

enough to come in?"

Valentine, seeming to repress a question that had risen to her lips,

blushed slightly, and stepped inside. The old woman (Madame Reine had

been Michel Renaud's nurse, and his only servant, even in his palmy day)

closed the gate, and conducted Madame d'Infreville into the dense shade

formed by the quincunx of orange-trees, in the centre of which the

little white villa stood.

"Is Madame de Luceval here?" inquired Valentine, in a slightly husky

voice.

The old nurse paused suddenly, placed her finger on her lip, as if

recommending silence on the part of Madame d'Infreville, then motioned

her to look a little to the left, in front of her.

Valentine stood as if petrified.

She saw before her two bright-coloured hammocks fastened to the gnarled

trunks of some orange-trees. One of the hammocks was empty. Florence was

lying in the other. A blue and white striped canopy, suspended over the

hammock, swelled like a sail in the fresh sea-breeze and imparted a

gentle swinging motion to this airy couch.

Florence, clad in a thin white gown that left her throat and arms bare,

was slumbering in an attitude of graceful _abandon_, her pretty head

resting upon one dimpled arm, while the gentle breeze toyed caressingly

with the soft ringlets that shaded her white brow. Her left arm was

hanging out of the hammock, and in the same hand was a big green fan

which she had evidently been using when sleep overtook her.

Never had Valentine seen Florence look so beautiful and fresh and young.

Her scarlet lips were half parted, her breathing was as gentle and

regular as that of an infant, and her features, in their perfect repose,

wore an expression of ineffable contentment and happiness.

[Illustration: "FLORENCE WAS SLUMBERING IN GRACEFUL ABANDON."]

In the clear waters of the little stream that flowed through the little

lawn stood a big basket filled with watermelons, purple figs, and early

grapes cooling in the icy flood, in which two carafes, one filled with

lemonade of a pale amber hue, the other with ruby-tinted pomegranate

juice, were also submerged. Upon the soft grass, near the edge of the

stream, and in the shade, were two big armchairs, several straw mats, a

number of cushions, and sundry other aids to comfort and _dolce far

niente_; and lastly, within easy reach of the armchairs, stood a

table upon which a number of books and papers, a Turkish pipe, a number

of glasses, and a plate of the small wheaten cakes peculiar to that

province were heaped in picturesque confusion. To complete the picture,

one could discern through two vistas in the quincunx, on one side, the

still, blue waters of the Mediterranean; on the other, the summits of

the distant mountains, whose majestic outlines stood out in bold relief

against the azure sky.

Valentine, charmed by the scene before her, stood as if spellbound.

A moment more, and Florence's little hand opened slowly. The fan

dropped, and, in escaping from the fingers of the sleeper, woke her.

CHAPTER XVII.

IN CHANGE, UNCHANGED.

On seeing Madame d'Infreville, Florence uttered a cry of joy, and,

springing from the hammock, threw her arms around her friend's neck.

"Ah," she exclaimed, kissing Valentine tenderly, her eyes filling with

tears, "I was sure that you would come. I have been expecting you for

two days, and you know the proverb, 'Happiness comes while one sleeps,'"

she added, smiling and casting a glance at the hammock which she had

just quitted, "the proverb of the slothful, but a true one,

nevertheless, as you see. But let me take a good look at you," she

continued, still holding her friend's hands, but drawing back a step or

two. "As beautiful, yes, even more beautiful than ever, I see! Kiss me

again, my dear Valentine. Think of it, four years have passed since we

last saw each other, and what a terrible day that was! But each thing in

its own proper time! And first," added Florence, taking her friend by

the hand and leading her to the brookside, "as the heat is so

overpowering, here are some of the fruits of my garden which I have been

cooling for you."

"Thanks, Florence, but I would rather not eat anything now. But now, let

me, in my turn, take a good look at you, and tell you--I am no

flatterer, though, as you know--how much prettier you have grown. What a

colour you have! and how young and, above all, how happy you look!"

"Do you really think so? So much the better, for I should be ungrateful,

indeed, if I did not look happy. But I understand your impatience. You

want to talk, and so do I--in fact, I am just dying to! So let us talk,

but first sit down--here, in this armchair. Now put this ottoman under

your feet, and take this cushion to lean against. One can not make

oneself too comfortable, you know."

"You seem to me to have made great progress in your search for comfort,

Florence," remarked Valentine, with a constrained smile, more and more

surprised at her friend's careless air, though their interview, by

reason of existing circumstances, was really of such a grave nature.

"I have, my dear Valentine. Do you see that little strap attached to the

back of the chair?"

"I see it, but have no idea what it is for."

"It is to support the head if one wishes."

And adding example to precept, this nonchalant young woman added:

"Don't you see how comfortable it is? But what is the matter? You are

gazing at me with such a surprised, almost chagrined air," said the

young woman, suddenly becoming serious. "Well, you are right. You think

me indifferent to all your past, and I trust now partially forgotten,

trials," added Florence, in a tone of deep feeling. "Far from it! I have

sympathised with you in every grief, but this is such a happy, blissful

day to me that I do not want to mar it by any unpleasant recollections."

"What, you know--"

"Yes, I have known for more than a year of your imprisonment at Poitou,

your subsequent widowhood and poverty, from which you suffered more on

your mother's account than on your own. I know, too, how courageously

you struggled against adversity. But dear me! this is exactly what I was

afraid of!" half sobbed, half laughed the young woman, dashing the

tears from her eyes. "And to-day of all days in the world!"

"Florence, my dear friend, I never once doubted your sincere affection."

"Is that really true?"

"It is, indeed. But how did you learn all these particulars in regard to

me?"

"Oh, some from this person, some from that! I have been leading such a

busy, active life it has brought me in contact with all sorts of

people."

"You?"

"Yes, I," responded Florence, with a joyous, almost triumphant air.

"Tell me all about yourself. I know nothing about your life for the past

four years, or at least since your separation from M. de Luceval."

"True, M. de Luceval must have told you all about that, and about the

strange way in which I managed to make my husband abandon the idea of

forcing me to travel against my will, and insisting upon my remaining

his wife whether or no."

"And especially how you insisted upon a separation after you learned of

your financial ruin. Yes, M. de Luceval told me all about that. He does

full justice to your delicacy of feeling."

"The real generosity was on his part. Poor Alexandre! but for his

unceasing peregrinations and his Wandering Jew temperament he would be a

very nice sort of a man, eh, Valentine?" added Florence, with a

mischievous smile. "How fortunate that you met him and that you have

seen so much of him during the past three months. You must have learned

to appreciate him as he deserves."

"What do you mean?" asked Valentine, looking at her friend with

astonishment, and colouring slightly. "Really, Florence, you must be

mad."

"I am mad--with happiness. But come, Valentine, let us be as frank with

each other now as we have always been in the past. There is a name that

you have been impatient and yet afraid to utter ever since your arrival.

It is Michel's name."

"You are right, Florence."

"Well, Valentine, to set your mind at rest, once for all, I beg leave to

inform you that Michel is not, and never has been, my lover."

A gleam of hope shone in Valentine's eyes, but an instant afterwards she

exclaimed, incredulously:

"But, Florence--"

"You know me. I have never lied to any one in my life. Why should I

deceive you? Is not Michel free? Am I not free, also? I repeat that he

is not, and that he never has been, my lover. I do not know what may

happen in the future, but I am telling you the truth about the present

as well as the past. Is it possible, Valentine, that you, who are

delicacy itself, do not understand that if I was, or if I had been,

Michel's mistress, nothing could be more painful and embarrassing to

both you and me than this interview, to which I, at least, have looked

forward with such delight?"

"Ah, now I can breathe freely again!" cried Valentine, springing up and

embracing her friend effusively. "In spite of the joy I felt at seeing

you again, I was conscious of such a dreadful feeling of constraint. I

am relieved of a terrible anxiety now."

"A just punishment for having doubted me, my dear. But you ask me to be

frank, so I will add that, though Michel and I are not lovers, we adore

each other, as much, at least, as two such indolent creatures as

ourselves can adore any one."

"So Michel loves me no longer," said Madame d'Infreville, looking

searchingly at Florence. "He has forgotten me entirely, then?"

"I think the best way to answer that question is to tell you our story,

and--"

"Good Heavens! what was that?" exclaimed Valentine, interrupting her

friend.

"What do you mean?" asked Florence, turning her head in the direction in

which her friend was looking. "What did you hear?"

"Listen."

The two friends listened breathlessly for several seconds, but the

profound stillness was broken by no sound.

"I must have been mistaken, but I thought I heard a crackling sound in

the shrubbery."

"It was the wind swaying the branches of that old cedar you see over

there. Did you never notice what a peculiar sound evergreens make when

the wind blows?" responded Florence, carelessly. Then she added: "And

now I have explained this strange phenomenon, Valentine, listen to

Michel's story and mine."

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE STRONGEST OF INCENTIVES.

Madame d'Infreville, recovering from the alarm she had felt for a

moment, again turned to her friend, and said:

"Go on, Florence, I need not tell you with what curiosity, or rather

with what intense interest, I am waiting."

"Ah, well then, my dear Valentine, one thing my husband cannot have told

you, as he was not aware of the fact, is that I received a letter from

Michel two days after your departure."

"And the object of this letter?"

"Knowing that you intended asking me to write a note to you conveying

the impression that we had been spending a good deal of time together,

Michel, hearing nothing from you, naturally became very uneasy, and,

discovering you had left Paris in company with your mother, was anxious

to ascertain where you had gone."

"Indeed. So my disappearance really disturbed him to that extent?" said

Valentine, with mingled bitterness and incredulity.

"Yes, it did, and thinking I might be able to give him some information

on the subject, he wrote asking permission to call on me, which, as he

was my husband's cousin, seemed so natural that I consented."

"But your husband?"

"Oh, he, being ignorant that Michel was the object of the passion which

had been your ruin, made no objection."

"Yes; M. de Luceval was not aware of that fact until I told him."

"So Michel called, and I told him of the distressing scene that I had

witnessed. His grief touched me, and we both resolved to make every

possible effort to find you; a resolution which, on his part, at least,

showed no little courage, for you can understand what all this

prospective trouble and effort meant to a nature like his;

nevertheless--"

"Well?"

"Nevertheless, he exclaimed, naively: 'Ah, whether I find her or not,

this is the last love affair I ever intend to have!' A feeling which

corresponded exactly with that which I once expressed to you in relation

to the misery of having a lover, so I must say that I considered this

resolve a mark of good sense on his part, though I encouraged him in his

determination to find you if possible."

"And did he really make any efforts in that direction?"

"He did, with an energy that amazed me. He kept me fully advised of his

progress, but, unfortunately, the precautions your husband had taken

rendered all our efforts unavailing; besides, neither of us received any

letter or message from you."

"Alas! Florence, no prisoner on a desert island was ever more completely

isolated than I. Surrounded by M. d'Infreville's devoted henchmen, the

sending of any letter was an impossibility."

"Well, at last we were compelled to abandon all hope of finding you."

"But while you two were thus occupied, you saw Michel quite often,

doubtless."

"Necessarily."

"And what did you think of him?"

"If I said all the nice things I think of him, I should feel that I was

sounding my own praises very loudly, for every day I became more and

more amazed at the marvellous resemblance which existed between his

character, ideas, and tastes and my own. Still, as I was never

particularly modest so far as my own virtues and attractions are

concerned, I frankly admit that I thought we were both charming."

"It was about this time that you became so firmly resolved to separate

from your husband, was it not?"

"Fie, fie!" exclaimed Florence, shaking her finger at her friend. "No,

madame, the real cause of such a determination on my part was something

entirely different. Michel and I were both so faithful to our true

characters, that in speaking of you, and consequently in speaking of all

the tumults and commotions and worries and agitation which such liaisons

always cause, we always said to each other in perfect good faith:

"'This is what love leads to, you see, monsieur. One knows no peace, but

lives ever on the _qui vive_, with one eye and ear to the keyhole, so to

speak.'

"'And there are bothersome duels with all their attendant scandals,

madame.'

"'And all the tortures of jealousy, monsieur, and drives in rickety cabs

in which one is jostled about until one's bones positively ache.'

"'Yes, all this trouble and fatigue, and for what, madame?'

"'You are right, monsieur. I, too, ask for what?'

"In short, if any one could have listened to our moral reflections on

this subject, he would have been vastly amused. At last came the time

when M. de Luceval attempted to force me to travel against my will, but

he finally abandoned that idea."

"Yes, he told me the means you adopted to circumvent him. They were

peculiar, but certainly very efficacious."

"What I most desired at that time was repose, both mental and physical,

for though my husband had acted very brutally towards me in that scene

about your letter, my poor Valentine,--so brutally, in fact, that I had

threatened to leave him,--I changed my mind after reflecting on the

subject, for I couldn't bear the idea of living alone, that is to say,

of having to attend to the thousand and one things my husband or my

agent had always attended to for me; so I confined my demands to the

following: I was never to be asked to travel, though I intended to

encourage my husband to do so as often as possible, so I wouldn't be

continually worried by his restlessness."

"And so you could see Michel whenever you pleased, I suppose."

"Of course, and without the slightest bother or secrecy,--without any

concealment, in short, for there was really nothing in our relations to

conceal."

"But your determination to separate from your husband, at least so he

told me, was ostensibly due to your loss of fortune. Was that the real

cause?"

"Yes. You see, Valentine, I could not bear the idea of being henceforth

in my husband's power,--of accepting wages from him, so to speak! No; I

remembered too well the humiliation you, a penniless girl, had suffered

from having married a rich man, and the mere thought of such a life was

revolting alike to my delicacy and my natural indolence."

"Your indolence? What on earth do you mean, Florence? Did not a

separation from your husband necessitate the renunciation of the wealth

and luxury that would permit you to lead a life of ease?"

"But you forget, Valentine, that if I accepted M. de Luceval's

wages,--if I remained in his employ, in other words,--I would be obliged

to sacrifice my tastes to his, to plunge into the feverish maelstrom of

society, in which he delighted,--to go to the Caucasus with him, in

short, if the whim seized him, and I preferred death to a life like

that."

"But your husband loved you so, why did you not endeavour to make him

sacrifice his wishes and tastes to yours?"

"He loved me, oh, yes, he loved me as I love strawberries,--to eat them.

Besides, I knew him too well; he could no more change his character than

I could change mine, and our life would have become a hell. It was much

better for us to part at once."

"Did you inform Michel of your determination?"

"Yes, and he approved unreservedly. It was about this time that we first

formed some vague plans for the future,--plans which were always

subordinate to you, however."

"To me?"

"Yes, certainly. Michel knew his duty, and would have done it, if we had

succeeded in finding you. While he was making a final attempt in that

direction, I, on my side, was endeavouring to secure the separation I

desired. At the end of four months I was legally divorced from M. de

Luceval, and he started on his travels. Then, and not until then, did I

see Michel again, as I had requested him to cease his visits until I was

free. Neither of us had anything from you, so, being forced to renounce

all hope of seeing you again, we began to consider our plans for the

future. I alluded a short time ago, my dear Valentine, to the prodigies

indolence can achieve; I will tell you some of them.

"The point of departure that we took, or, rather, our declaration of

principles was this," said Florence, with the most solemn but comical

air imaginable: "'We have but one desire and object in life,--perfect

rest and peace of mind and body,--all mental and physical effort being

positively restricted to dreaming, reading, talking, and gazing at the

heavens, the trees, the streams, the fields and mountains that God has

made; to keeping cool in summer, and warm in winter. We are too devoutly

idle to be ambitious, vain, or avaricious, to desire the burden of

sumptuous living or the fatigue and excitement of a gay social life. The

requisites for the life of indolence of which we dream are a small house

that is warm in winter and cool in summer, a nice garden, and a few

comfortable armchairs, hammocks, and couches, several pleasing views

within our range of vision so we shall not be obliged to take the

trouble to go in search of them, an equable climate, frugal

fare,--neither of us are gourmands,--and a servant. It is also essential

that the means to lead such a life may be assured beyond the shadow of a

doubt, so we may never be troubled by any anxiety in regard to pecuniary

matters.' How were these ambitions to be realised? Prodigies of courage

and industry must be performed to bring about this much desired

consummation. Listen and admire, my dear Valentine."

"I am listening, Florence, and I am beginning to admire, too, for it

seems to me I divine everything now."

"Oh, do not do that, I beg of you; let me have the pleasure of

surprising you. Well, to resume my story, Michel's old nurse was a

Provencale, a native of Hyeres. She often spoke of the beauty of her

native province, where one could live upon almost nothing, as she

declared, often asserting that ten or twelve thousand francs would

purchase a pretty little cottage on the coast, with a fine orange grove.

One of Michel's friends had just gone to Hyeres for his health; we asked

him to make some inquiries, and he confirmed all Michel's nurse had

said. He even told us of such a property a few miles from Hyeres, which

could be purchased for eleven thousand francs; but it was leased for

three years, and the purchaser could not obtain possession until the

expiration of that time. Having great confidence in this friend's

judgment, we begged him to purchase the property, but now a serious

difficulty presented itself. To purchase the house, and also an annuity

of two thousand francs a year, an amount that would prove sufficient

for our wants, we would need about sixty thousand francs."

"But how could you hope to obtain so large an amount?"

"Why, by working for it, my dear," said Florence with a valiant air,

"working like lions!"

"You, Florence, you work?" exclaimed Valentine, in astonishment. "And

Michel, too?"

"And Michel, too, my dear Valentine. Yes, we have worked night and day

at all sorts of avocations for several years. I had six thousand francs

left out of the ten thousand I had asked for when I married. A friend of

Michel's undertook to straighten out his affairs, and managed to save

fifteen thousand francs out of the wreck. Both amounts were carefully

invested, as we were resolved not to touch a penny of either principal

or interest, so we might gain the forty thousand francs needed to secure

our paradise the sooner."

"To think that you and Michel should be capable of anything like this!"

"What, it surprises you?"

"Of course it does."

"But you must remember how terribly indolent Michel and I are!"

"That is the very reason it astonishes me so much."

"But that is the very reason it should not."

"Should not?"

"Certainly. Think what a powerful incentive, what a sharp spur, our

indolence was!"

"Your indolence?"

"Yes; think what courage and energy and ardour it must excite in your

breast, when you say to yourself at the close of each day, however

harassed one may have been, and whatever privations one may have had to

endure: 'I am one step nearer liberty, independence, rest, and the bliss

of doing nothing.' Yes, Valentine, yes; and the more fatigued one

feels, the more eagerly he looks forward to the ineffable happiness he

hopes to enjoy some day. We are told, you know, that celestial happiness

must be gained by trials and tribulations here below. The same rule

holds good in this case, only,--strictly _entre nous_ of course,--I

would rather enjoy my little paradise here on earth than wait for the

other."

Madame d'Infreville was so astonished at what she had heard, and she

gazed at her friend with such a bewildered air, that Florence, wishing

to give her time to recover from her surprise, paused for a moment.

CHAPTER XIX.

PAST STRUGGLES.

Recovering from her amazement at last, Madame d'Infreville said:

"Really, Florence, I hardly know whether I am awake or dreaming. Once

more, I ask, is it possible that a person as indolent and fond of ease

as you have always been could evince such wonderful courage and energy?"

"Ah, I shall be obliged to go into particulars, I see. Have you any idea

of the kind of life we have led for the last four years,--Michel and I,

I mean?"

"I was told that you both went out every morning before light, and did

not return until late at night."

"Oh, dear!" cried Florence, with a merry laugh, "when I remember all

these things now, how amusing they seem, but there wasn't much fun in

them then, I assure you. I'll give you the order of exercises of one of

the last days of my purgatory, as I call it. You can form a pretty

correct idea of the others from that. I got up at three o'clock in the

morning, and devoted an hour either to copying music or colouring some

large lithograph. You ought not to be very much surprised at this last

exhibition of talent on my part, for you know that, at the convent,

colouring engravings of the saints and copying music were almost the

only things I did at all creditably."

"Yes, and it was very clever in you to think of putting these

accomplishments to some practical use."

"I think so myself, particularly as I often made, in that way, four or

five francs a day, or rather a night, over and above my other earnings."

"Your other earnings, and what were they, pray?"

"Well, to resume the account of my day: At four o'clock, I started for

the market."

"Great Heavens! for the market? You? And what took you there, pray?"

"I tended the stall of a dairywoman, who was too fine a lady to get up

so early. Can you imagine anything more pastoral than a traffic in cream

and butter and eggs? I received a small commission on my sales, in

addition to my regular salary, so every year I derived an income of two

hundred francs, more or less, from this source."

"You, Florence, the Marquise de Luceval, in such a role?"

"But how about Michel?"

"Michel? What did he do?"

"Oh, he had all sorts of avocations, one of them being the office of

inspector of goods at the market. In return for his services, he

received a salary of fifteen hundred francs, and the profound respect

and consideration of all the market women and hucksters. His duties were

over at nine o'clock, after which he went to his office, and I to my

store."

"Your store?"

"Yes, on the Rue de l'Arbre-Sec, at the sign of the Corbeille d'Or, I

was forewoman in that large and well-known lingerie establishment, and

as I can, with reason, boast of both taste and skill in such matters,

and haven't a peer in the confection of dressing sacks, bathing suits,

peignoirs, etc., I demanded a good price for my services,--it is never

well to undervalue oneself,--fifteen hundred francs a year, and

found,--'you can take me or not, as you please, at that figure.' It was

also understood that I was never to enter the salesroom. I was afraid,

you see, of being recognised by some customer, and that might have

prevented me from securing employment for the rest of the day."

"What! wasn't your day's work ended when you left the store?"

"Ended at eight o'clock in the evening! What are you thinking of?--for I

had stipulated that I was to be free at eight o'clock so I could utilise

the rest of the time. For a year I worked at home in the evening, on

tapestry work or on my water-colours, or copying music, but after that a

friend of Michel's recommended me to a very aristocratic, but rather

misanthropical, blind lady, who, being unable to go into society,

preferred to pass her evenings in listening to reading; so, for three

years, I acted as reader for her at a salary of eight hundred francs a

year. I went to her house at nine o'clock, I read to her awhile, and

then we talked and drank tea by turn. This lady lived on the Rue de

Tournon, so Michel could call for me about midnight, on his return from

his theatre."

"From his theatre?"

"Yes, from the Odeon."

"Good Heavens! has he turned actor?"

"You are mad!" cried Florence, laughing heartily. "Nothing of the sort.

I told you that we both did anything we could find to do, and Michel was

controller at the Odeon, performing his duties there after he had left

his desk, where he earned two thousand four hundred francs a year as an

entry clerk."

"Michel, who was so indolent that he would not pay the slightest

attention to his own business affairs, in years gone by!"

"And take notice that, after he returned home at night, he used to post

books and straighten up people's accounts, thus adding considerably to

his earnings in the course of a year. In this fashion, my dear

Valentine, and by living with the most rigid economy, going without a

fire in winter, waiting on ourselves, and even working on Sunday, we

accumulated the amount we needed in four years. Well, was I wrong when I

boasted of the wonders indolence could accomplish?"

"I can't get over my astonishment. This seems incredible."

"Ah, but Valentine, as Michel says, 'A love of idleness is often the

real cause of some of the most laborious lives. Why do so many persons,

who are neither ambitious nor avaricious, toil with such untiring

ardour? In order that they may cease work as soon as possible, is it

not?'"

"You are right, perhaps. At least, I see now that the love of idleness

may impart wonderful energy to one's efforts, at least for a time. But

tell me, Florence, why were your rooms and Michel's so close together

and yet separated?"

"Oh, that arrangement was convincing proof of the most sublime and

heroic wisdom on our part!" exclaimed Florence, triumphantly. We said to

ourselves, 'What is our object? To accumulate as quickly as possible the

amount of money needed to enable us to lead an idle life. That being the

case, time is money, so the less time we waste the more money we shall

earn, and the surest way of losing a great deal of time is for us to be

together. Nor is this all. We used, it is true, to hold in holy horror

all love that caused one trouble and pain; but now that we are free, and

there would be no cause for anxiety or self-reproach in our love, who

knows,--the devil is very cunning, and we might succumb. Then what would

become of our good resolutions, and all the work we are planning to do?

All that time, that is to say all that money, lost! For how could we

hope to muster up the necessary courage to tear ourselves from

indolence, and from love as well? No, no, we must be inexorable towards

ourselves, so as not to imperil our future, and swear, in the name of

Indolence, our divinity, not to speak a word, a single word, to each

other until our little fortune has been made.'"

"What, during these four years--"

"We have kept our oath."

"Not one word?"

"Not one word from the day we began to work."

"Florence, you must be exaggerating. Such self-restraint is an

impossibility."

"I promised to tell you the truth, and I am telling it. We have never

spoken a word to each other during these four years. When any important

matter or any question affecting our interests was to be decided, we

wrote to each other; that is all. I must also admit that we invented a

way to communicate with each other through the wall between our rooms.

It was a very brief telegraphic code, however. Only extensive enough to

permit us to say to each other, 'Good night, Michel'--'Good night,

Florence;' and in the morning, 'Good morning, Michel'--'Good morning,

Florence;' or, 'It is time to start,' or now and then: 'Courage,

Michel'--'Courage, Florence; let us think of paradise, and endure

purgatory as cheerfully as possible!' But even this mode of

correspondence had to be strictly tabooed now and then; for would you

believe it? Michel sometimes wasted so much time in tapping upon the

wall with the handle of his pocket-knife that I was obliged to silence

the hot-headed creature in the most peremptory manner."

"And did this meagre correspondence satisfy you?"

"Perfectly. Did we not have a life in common, in spite of the wall that

separated us? Were not our minds concentrated upon the same aim, and was

not our pursuance of this aim exactly the same thing as always thinking

of each other? Besides, we saw each other every morning and evening. As

we were not lovers, that sufficed. If we had been, a single look might

have been enough to destroy all our good resolutions. Well, a fortnight

ago, our object was accomplished. In four years we had accumulated

forty-two thousand eight hundred francs! We might have 'retired,' as

merchants say, several months earlier; but we said, or, rather, we wrote

to each other, 'It is not well for persons to crave any more than is

required to provide them with the necessaries of life; still, we ought

to have enough to supply the needs of any poor and hungry stranger who

may knock at our door. Nothing gives greater peace to the soul than the

consciousness of having always been kind and humane.' This being the

case, we prolonged our purgatory a little. And now, Valentine, confess

that there is nothing like well-directed indolence to imbue persons with

energy, courage, and virtue."

* * * * *

"Farewell, Florence," said Madame d'Infreville, in a voice husky with

tears, and throwing herself in her friend's arms, "farewell for ever!"

"What do you mean, Valentine?"

"A vague hope impelled me to come here,--a foolish, senseless hope. Once

more, farewell! Be happy with Michel. Heaven created you for each other,

and your happiness has been nobly earned."

The garden gate closed noisily.

"Madame, madame," cried the old nurse, hastening towards them with an

unsealed letter, which she handed to Valentine, "the gentleman that

remained in the carriage told me to give this to you at once. He came

from over there," added the old woman, pointing to the same clump of

shrubbery in which Valentine had fancied that she heard a suspicious

sound, some time before.

Florence watched her friend with great surprise, as Valentine opened the

missive, which contained another note, and read the following words,

hastily scrawled in pencil:

"Give the enclosed to Florence, and rejoin me immediately. There is no

hope. Let us depart at once."

Involuntarily Madame d'Infreville turned as if to comply with the

request.

"Where are you going, Valentine?" cried Florence, hastily seizing her

friend by the hand.

"Wait for me a moment," replied Madame d'Infreville, pressing her

friend's hands convulsively, "wait for me, and read this."

Then giving the note to Florence, she darted away, while her friend,

more and more astonished as she perceived that the writing was her

husband's, read these lines:

"Concealed behind a clump of shrubbery, I have heard all. A vague

hope brought me here, and I confess that, when I saw this hope

blighted, my first thought was of revenge. But I renounce both the

hope and the revenge. Be happy, Florence! I can feel for you

henceforth only esteem and respect.

"My only regret is that I am unable to give you your entire

liberty. The law prevents that, so you must resign yourself to

bearing my name.

"Once more farewell, Florence; you will never see me again, but,

from this day on, remember me as your most sincere and devoted

friend,

A. DE LUCEVAL."

Madame de Luceval was deeply touched by this letter, which she had

scarcely finished when she heard the sound of carriage wheels becoming

fainter and fainter in the distance.

Florence felt that Valentine would never return, and when, just before

nightfall, Michel came in search of Madame de Luceval, she handed him

her husband's letter.

Michel, like Florence, was deeply touched by this letter, but after a

little he remarked, with a smile:

"Fortunately, Valentine is free."

CHAPTER XX.

CONCLUSION.

About two years after these events, the following paragraphs appeared in

a number of the journals of the times:

"A correspondent, writing from Symarkellil, says that the ascent of

one of the highest peaks of the Caucasus was made late in May by

two intrepid French tourists, M. and Madame M----. The latter, a

tall and remarkably handsome brunette, donned male attire and

shared all the dangers of this dangerous expedition. The guides

could not say enough in praise of her courage, coolness, and

gaiety. It is said that these two untiring travellers afterwards

started across the steppes to Saint Petersburg in order to reach

there in time to join Captain Moradoff's expedition to the North

Pole. The numerous letters from influential persons which they took

with them to the court of Russia lead them to hope that they will

obtain the favour they ask, and that they will be allowed to take

part in this perilous expedition to the polar seas."

"A correspondent, writing from Hyeres under date of December 29th, says:

"A singular instance of extraordinary vegetation lately presented itself

in this neighbourhood. Rumours of an orange-tree in full bloom at this

season of the year were current, and as we seemed to doubt these

reports, a friend, to convince us, took us to a small country-seat on

the coast a few miles from here. There, in a quincunx of orange-trees,

we saw, with our own eyes, a superb tree literally covered with buds and

blossoms which perfumed the air for hundreds of yards around. We were

more than repaid for the trouble of our journey by the sight of this

freak of nature, and the cordial welcome given us by the master and

mistress of the house,--M. and Madame Michel."

THE END.

[Illustration: image of the book's back cover]