No wonder there was fever in the town, I thought, as I picked my way
among the heaps of garbage and refuse lying out in the streets. The most
hideous old women I ever saw, wrinkled over every inch of their skin,
blear-eyed, and with eyelids reddened by smoke, met me at each turn.
Sallow weavers, in white caps, gazed out at me from their looms in
almost every house. There was scarcely a child to be seen about. The
whole district, undrained and unhealthy, bears the name of the
"Manufactory of Little Angels," from the number of children who die
there. And this was the place where Olivia had been spending a very hard
and severe winter!
There was going to be a large cattle-fair the next day, and all the town
was alive. Every inn in the place was crowded to overflowing. As I sat
at the window of my _café_, watching the picturesque groups which formed
in the street outside, I heard a vehement altercation going on in the
archway, under which was the entrance to my hotel.
"Grands Dieux!" cried the already familiar voice of my landlady, shrill
as the cackling of a hen--"grands Dieux! not a single soul from
Ville-en-bois can rest here, neither man nor woman! They have the fever
like a pest there. No, no, m'sieur, that is impossible; go away, you and
your beast. There is room at the Lion d'or. But the gensdarmes should
not let you enter the town. We have fever enough of our own."
"But my farm is a league from Ville-en-bois," was the answer, in the
slow, rugged accents of a Norman peasant.
"But I tell you it is impossible,'" she retorted; "I have an Englishman
here, very rich, a milor, and he will not hear of any person from
Ville-en-bois resting in the house. Go away to the Lion d'or, my good
friend, where there are no English. They are as afraid of the fever as
of the devil."
I laughed to myself at my landlady's ingenious excuses; but after this
the conversation fell into a lower key, and I heard no more of it.
I went out late in the evening to question each of the omnibus--drivers,
but in vain. Whether they were too busy to give me proper attention, or
too anxious to join the stir and mirth of the townspeople, they all
declared they knew nothing of any Englishwoman. As I returned dejectedly
to my inn, I heard a lamentable voice, evidently English, bemoaning in
doubtful French. The omnibus from Falaise had just come in, and under
the lamp in the entrance of the archway stood a lady before my hostess,
who was volubly asserting that there was no room left in her house. I
hastened to the assistance of my countrywoman, and the light of the lamp
falling full upon her face revealed to me who she was.
"Mrs. Foster!" I exclaimed, almost shouting her name in my astonishment.
She looked ready to faint with fatigue and dismay, and she laid her hand
heavily on my arm, as if to save herself from sinking to the ground.
"Have you found her?" she asked, involuntarily.
"Not a trace of her," I answered.
Mrs. Foster broke into an hysterical laugh, which was very quickly
followed by sobs. I had no great difficulty in persuading the landlady
to find some accommodation for her, and then I retired to my own room to
smoke in peace, and turn over the extraordinary meeting which had been
the last incident of the day.
It required very little keenness to come to the conclusion that the
Fosters had obtained their information concerning Miss Ellen Martineau,
where we had got ours, from Mrs. Wilkinson. Also that Mrs. Foster had
lost no time in following up the clew, for she was only twenty-four
hours behind me. She had looked thoroughly astonished and dismayed when
she saw me there; so she had had no idea that I was on the same track.
But nothing could be more convincing than this journey of hers that
neither she nor Foster really believed in Olivia's death. That was as
clear as day. But what explanation could I give to myself of those
letters, of Olivia's above all? Was it possible that she had caused them
to be written, and sent to her husband? I could not even admit such a
question, without a sharp sense of disappointment in her.
I saw Mrs. Foster early in the morning, somewhat as a truce-bearer may
meet another on neutral ground. She was grateful to me for my
interposition in her behalf the night before; and, as I knew Ellen
Martineau to be safely out of the way, I was inclined to be tolerant
toward her. I assured her, upon my honor, that I had failed in
discovering any trace of Olivia in Noireau, and I told her all I had
learned about the bankruptcy of Monsieur Perrier, and the scattering of
the school.
"But why should you undertake such a chase?" I asked; "if you and Foster
are satisfied that Olivia is dead, why should you be running after Ellen
Martineau? You show me the papers which seem to prove her death, and now
I find you in this remote part of Normandy, evidently in pursuit of her.
What does this mean?"
"You are doing the same thing yourself," she answered.
"Yes," I replied, "because I am not satisfied. But you have proved your
conviction by becoming Richard Foster's second wife."
"That is the very point," she said, shedding a few tears; "as soon as
ever Mrs. Wilkinson described Ellen Martineau to me, when she was
talking about her visitor who had come to inquire after her, in that cab
which was standing at the door the last time you visited Mr. Foster--and
I had no suspicion of it--I grew quite frightened lest he should ever be
charged with marrying me while she was alive. So I persuaded him to let
me come here and make sure of it, though the journey costs a great deal,
and we have very little money to spare. We did not know what tricks
Olivia might do, and it made me very miserable to think she might be
still alive, and I in her place."
I could not but acknowledge to myself that there was some reason in Mrs.
Foster's statement of the case.
"There is not the slightest chance of your finding her," I remarked.
"Isn't there?" she asked, with an evil gleam in her eyes, which I just
caught before she hid her face again in her handkerchief.
"At any rate," I said, "you would have no power over her if you found
her. You could not take her back with you by force. I do not know how
the French laws would regard Foster's authority, but you can have none
whatever, and he is quite unfit to take this long journey to claim her.
Really I do not see what you can do; and I should think your wisest
plan would be to go back and take care of him, leaving her alone. I am
here to protect her, and I shall stay until I see you fairly out of the
place."
She did not speak again for some minutes, but she was evidently
reflecting upon what I had just said.
"But what are we to live upon?" she asked at last; "there is her money
lying in the bank, and neither she nor Richard can touch it. It must be
paid to her personally or to her order; and she cannot prove her
identity herself without the papers Richard holds. It is aggravating. I
am at my wits' end about it."
"Listen to me," I said. "Why cannot we come to some arrangement,
supposing Ellen Martineau proves to be Olivia? It would be better for
you all to make some division of her property by mutual agreement. You
know best whether Olivia could insist upon a judicial separation. But in
any other case why should not Foster agree to receive half her income,
and leave her free, as free as she can be, with the other half? Surely
some mutual agreement could be made."
"He would never do it!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands round her
knees, and swaying to and fro passionately; "he never loses any power.
She belongs to him, and he never gives up any thing. He would torment
her almost to death, but he would never let her go free. No, no. You do
not know him, Dr. Martin."
"Then we will try to get a divorce," I said, looking at her steadily.
"On what grounds?" she asked, looking at me as steadily.