"Fais ce que dois, advienne que pourra!"
Louis was thunderstruck at seeing Madeleine. He had not spoken a word
to her for several days, and intended to maintain a reserve full of
circumspection towards her. His connection with the family had twice
given rise to the most malevolent interpretations, and he by no means
wished a similar vexation to be repeated. He received the young girl
with a coldness that was almost rude.
"What do you wish?" said he.
"To speak with you, monsieur. But I fear I have come at the wrong time.
I will return at a later hour."
"Not later, but elsewhere."
"Why?" asked Madeleine, with _naïveté_.
"But what have you so urgent to tell me?..."
"Nothing concerning you, monsieur; it only relates to myself. I am so
unhappy.... If I ventured to come here at this hour, it is because I
feared being seen talking with you. I have a secret to confide to you
which my parents alone are aware of. If they knew I told you, I do not
know what they would do to me."
"Where are your parents now?"
"At my cousin's, a league off. They will not be back for several hours."
Madeleine was so overwhelmed with grief and anxiety that Louis was
filled with compassion. He motioned for her to be seated on a lounge
before his desk, and then said:
"Well, my good Madeleine, what has happened? Tell me your troubles. If
in my power to remove them, it shall soon be done. What can I do for
you?"
"You know Durand, the overseer?"
"Yes, yes!..." said Louis, frowning with the air of a man who knows
more than he expresses.
"He and my father have become intimate, I know not how or why, within a
few weeks--since you stopped coming to our house. He often came before
the inundation, and paid me a thousand absurd compliments. I made no
reply to his silly speeches, but they seemed to please my parents. The
first moment I set eyes on that man, he inspired me with fear. He looks
so bold--so false! And besides...."
"Besides what? Madeleine, I insist on your telling me everything."
"Well, he tried every way to make us believe you are.... I dare not
tell you...."
"Go on, child. Nothing would astonish me from Durand. I know he hates
me."
"He says you are a hypocrite, a--Jesuit, a dangerous man. He told my
father you were going to leave the mill, and seemed to boast of being
the cause of it."
"I suspected it," said Louis to himself. "Adams was only Durand's tool.
Oh! what deceit!"
"Is it true, then, that you are going away?" asked Madeleine anxiously.
"Quite true, my child."
"Oh! what a hateful man! I was right in detesting him! Since we have
been here living in the same house with him, he has tormented me more
than ever. He says he wishes to marry me...."
"Has he dared go that far?"
"Yes; and, what is worse, my parents have given their consent. Durand
tells them he has money laid up; that he is earning a good deal here,
and is willing to live with them and provide for the support of the
whole family.... But I--I have a horror of that man! There is nothing
disagreeable I do not say to him. I have told him plainly I would never
consent to marry him. My parents were terribly angry at this; my father
beat me, and my mother loaded me with abuse. They ended by saying, if I
persisted in refusing Durand, they would find a way of making me change
my mind. This scene took place last evening. What shall I do? O God!
what shall I do?..." So saying, Madeleine burst into tears.
Louis remained silent. He was reflecting. Self whispered: "Leave this
girl to her unhappy fate. Do not embark in another undertaking that
will get you into fresh trouble and may endanger everything--both
Eugénie's love for you, and your reputation itself. This unfortunate
girl has already been the cause of more than one sad moment; take care
she does not at last ruin you, and likewise compromise herself...."
But such selfish promptings had no power over a heart so generous
and upright as that of Louis. Besides, he had learned such shocking
things about Durand that, if he did not reveal them in order to save
Madeleine, he would regard himself guilty of a crime, and not without
reason. After some moments of silent reflection, all incertitude
ceased. He had decided on the course to pursue.
"How old are you, my child?" said he.
"I am in my twenty-first year."
"Well, you have hitherto devoted yourself generously to the interests
of your parents. They have now made this impossible. There is no choice
in the matter. You must leave them."
"I have thought of it. But where could I go? I have no place of refuge,
now my aunt is dead."
"I will give you a note to a lady who lives in the city. I may as well
say at once it is my sister. She will take care of you, and get you a
place as a chamber-maid, if she does not keep you herself."
"Oh! how kind you are!... You revive my courage. When can I go?"
"When you please."
"To-morrow?"
"Yes, to-morrow morning."
"And who will inform my parents?"
"You yourself. Write a line, and leave it with some one you can
trust, to be delivered a few hours after you are gone. You can tell
your parents you are going to seek a situation in the city in order
to escape from Durand. Promise to be a credit to them, to love them
always, and even to render them assistance; and I will say more to them
when the proper time comes. Above all, I will tell them what Durand
really is.... Thank God, my child, that he enables you to escape that
man's snares...."
Everything was done as agreed upon by Louis and Madeleine. The latter
left for town the next morning. Her parents were not informed of her
departure till about noon. They immediately notified Durand.
"The engineer has had a hand in this," said he to Vinceneau and his
wife. "He shall pay for it."
"What makes you think he had anything to do with it?" asked Vinceneau.
"Your daughter went to see him last evening.... My police told me."
"How shall we be revenged?"
"By telling everybody what this Tartuffe is. I will see to it. Ah! he
induces young girls to run away without any one's knowing where they
are gone! That is rather too bold!"
Durand watched for an opportunity of speaking to Albert, with whom he
kept up daily communication. He told him what had occurred, adding
calumnious suppositions that may be imagined. Albert, delighted at
the news, went at once to tell his aunt. It was near dinnertime. Mme.
Smithson said to her nephew: "Wait till we are at table, then relate
this story without appearing to attach any importance to it. If I am
not very much mistaken, this will be a death-blow to that troublesome
creature. Only be prudent, and do not begin till I make a sign. There
are times when your uncle takes no interest in the conversation, no
matter what is said. Poor Eugénie will blush well to hear of such
infamous conduct, for she loves him. It is horrible to say, but so it
is. Since I caught them talking together the other day, I have had
no doubt about it. Besides, as you have remarked, she grows more and
more reserved toward us, while, on the contrary, she has redoubled her
amiability towards her father. I really believe, if the foolish fellow
had not compromised himself, she would in the end have got the better
of us. Her father is so indulgent to her!... But after what has taken
place, there can be no more illusion! She will perceive the worth
of her hero!... It must be acknowledged there is no alternative! Her
romance has ended in a way to make her ashamed of it for ever.... You
will see, Albert, she will end by thinking it too great an honor to be
your wife."
"Too great an honor! Hum! hum! It will be well if she consents.
Eugénie has more pride than any girl I ever saw. Humbled, she will
be unapproachable. Believe me, aunt, we must be cautious in availing
ourselves of this advantage."
They took seats at table at six o'clock as usual. Mr. Smithson appeared
thoughtful and out of humor, but that often happened. Eugénie was no
less serious. Very little was said till the dessert. Albert evidently
longed to let fly the shaft he held in reserve against Louis. Mme.
Smithson was quite as impatient as he, but could not find a propitious
opportunity. However, her bitterness against Louis prevailed. Towards
the end of dinner, she made Albert an imperceptible sign, as much as to
say: "Proceed, but be prudent!"
Albert assumed as indifferent an air as possible, and in an off-hand
way began his attack after this manner:
"There is trouble in the refugees' quarter to-day."
Mme. Smithson looked up with an air of surprise at the news. Mr.
Smithson and Eugénie remained impassible.
"The Vinceneaus are in great commotion," continued Albert. "Their
daughter has run away."
"A poor set--those Vinceneaus," muttered Mr. Smithson.
"Yes," replied Albert, "a poor set indeed! But this time I pity them.
Their daughter has gone off, and no one knows where she has gone."
"Why did she leave them?" asked Eugénie.
"She and her parents had a violent quarrel day before yesterday, but
not the first; they say this Madeleine is more amiable in appearance
than in reality. Anyhow, there is something inexplicable about her. It
seems she was to have been married; then she refused to be. Result:
anger of the parents, obstinacy of the daughter. All that is known
besides this is that she went all alone to consult the engineer last
evening. Durand and another workman saw her go to his room. This
morning she disappeared, leaving word she intended to get a situation,
no one knows where; she has not thought it proper to leave her
address...."
While listening to this account, Eugénie turned pale, then red, and
finally almost fainted. Mr. Smithson perceived the sad effect of the
story on her, and was filled with inexpressible sorrow. Heretofore
he had refused to believe in the possibility of her loving Louis;
but now he could no longer doubt it. For the first time in his life,
he acknowledged his wife had shown more penetration than he--more
prudence. The look that rested on Eugénie was not of anger, however,
but full of affection and anxiety. He loved her too much not to pity
her, even though he blamed her.
Eugénie, with characteristic energy, recovered her self-possession in a
few moments. Suspicions of a stronger and more painful character than
any she had yet had struggled with the love in this proud girl's heart.
Albert was overjoyed, but concealed his satisfaction under a
hypocritical air of compassion. Continuing the subject, he said the
workmen were all indignant at Madeleine's flight. "The engineer has
done well not to show himself since the girl's departure was known,"
he added. "He would have exposed himself to a public manifestation of
rather a disagreeable nature. And I do not see who could defend him...."
"He could defend himself, if he is innocent," thought Eugénie....
Then another idea occurred to her: "But if he has plans he cannot yet
acknowledge, ... if he loves this Madeleine, ... ah! how he will have
deceived me!... No! it is impossible!... And yet it is true he has
disappeared: I have not seen him to-day...."
By an unfortunate coincidence, Louis had been obliged to come to see me
that day. I had been taken with a terrible pain in all my limbs--the
first symptoms of my paralytic seizure. My mother, frightened beyond
all expression, sent a messenger to our poor friend, conjuring him to
come with all possible speed.
"Enough!" said Mr. Smithson. "The subject does not please me. I do not
like to be deceived, as I have so often been before. It seems to me
there is some mistake here. I shall ascertain the truth. But this shall
be my care. Let it be understood that no one but myself is to make any
inquiries about the affair. No tittle-tattle!"
They retired to the _salon_ a few moments after. Albert offered Eugénie
his arm. She refused it, as if to show him, if Louis were driven
from her heart, he, Albert, should never have a place there. She
seated herself at the piano, and played a succession of pieces with
great effect. Her ardent nature required the relief of some outward
manifestation. For the first time in her life, she blushed before her
parents--before the cousin she despised. But the torture she suffered
from her wounded pride was not the most painful. She had loved
Louis--she loved him still, as a woman of her intelligence and energy
alone could love--that is to say, to excess. And now she is forced to
ask herself: is an affection so pure met only with hypocrisy, or at
least an indifference but too easy to understand. Swayed between love
and contempt; by turns ashamed of herself, then drawing herself up with
pride, she would have given ten years of her life to be able at once to
solve the doubt that caused her so much suffering.
While the poor girl was thus abandoning herself to the most distressing
anxiety, without any consolation, Mme. Smithson and Albert were talking
in a low tone near the fireplace. They appeared dissatisfied.
"The affair has begun badly," said Albert. "One would think my uncle
resolved to thwart me in everything.... Why could he not intimate to
that fellow that there is no necessity of his remaining any longer?...
That is what I hoped and what I expected! He has certainly done enough
to deserve being treated in such a way.... Instead of that, my uncle is
going to undertake an investigation!... I wager this arrant piece of
craft will find some way of making himself out innocent."
"That would be rather too much!" said Mme. Smithson. "You are right: we
must despatch business, or all is lost. I will talk to your uncle this
very evening, and make every effort to prevent their meeting...."