“This is, at least, what the countess told me in her first hours of
enthusiasm. But she told it to me calmly, coldly, like a thing that was
perfectly natural. ‘Certainly,’ she said, ‘Count Claudieuse has never
had to regret the bargain he made. If he has been generous, I have been
faithful. My father owes his life to him; but I have given him years of
happiness to which he was not entitled. If he has received no love, he
has had all the appearance of it, and an appearance far more pleasant
than the reality.’
“When I could not conceal my astonishment, she added, laughing
heartily,--
“‘Only I brought to the bargain a mental reservation. I reserved to
myself the right to claim my share of earthly happiness whenever it
should come within my reach. That share is yours, Jacques; and do not
fancy that I am troubled by remorse. As long as my husband thinks he is
happy, I am within the terms of the contract.’
“That was the way she spoke at that time, Magloire; and a man of more
experience would have been frightened. But I was a child; I loved her
with all my heart. I admired her genius; I was overcome by her sophisms.
“A letter from Count Claudieuse aroused us from our dreams.
“The countess had committed the only and the last imprudence of her
whole life: she had remained three weeks longer in Paris than was agreed
upon; and her impatient husband threatened to come for her.
“‘I must go back to Valpinson,’ she said; ‘for there is nothing I would
not do to keep up the reputation I have managed to make for myself.
My life, your life, my daughter’s life--I would give them all, without
hesitation, to protect my reputation.”
“This happened--ah! the dates have remained fixed in my mind as if
engraven on bronze--on the 12th October.
“‘I cannot remain longer than a month,’ she said to me, ‘without seeing
you. A month from to-day, that is to say, on 12th November, at three
o’clock precisely, you must be in the forest of Rochepommier, at the Red
Men’s Cross-roads. I will be there.’
“And she left Paris. I was in such a state of depression, that I
scarcely felt the pain of parting. The thought of being loved by such a
woman filled me with extreme pride, and, no doubt, saved me from many
an excess. Ambition was rising within me whenever I thought of her. I
wanted to work, to distinguish myself, to become eminent in some way.
“‘I want her to be proud of me,’ I said to myself, ashamed at being
nothing at my age but the son of a rich father.”
Ten times, at least, M. Magloire had risen from his chair, and moved his
lips, as if about to make some objection. But he had pledged himself, in
his own mind, not to interrupt Jacques, and he did his best to keep his
pledge.
“In the meantime,” Jacques went on, “the day fixed by the countess was
drawing near. I went down to Boiscoran; and on the appointed day, at the
precise hour, I was in the forest at the Red Men’s Cross-roads. I was
somewhat behind time, and I was extremely sorry for it: but I did not
know the forest very well, and the place chosen by the countess for the
rendezvous is in the very thickest part of the old wood. The weather
was unusually severe for the season. The night before, a heavy snow had
fallen: the paths were all white; and a sharp wind blew the flakes
from the heavily-loaded branches. From afar off, I distinguished
the countess, as she was walking, up and down in a kind of feverish
excitement, confining herself to a narrow space, where the ground was
dry, and where she was sheltered from the wind by enormous masses of
stone. She wore a dress of dark-red silk, very long, a cloak trimmed
with fur, and a velvet hat to match her dress. In three minutes I was by
her side. But she did not draw her hand from her muff to offer it to me;
and, without giving me time to apologize for the delay, she said in a
dry tone,--
“‘When did you reach Boiscoran?’
“‘Last night.’
“‘How childish you are!’ she exclaimed, stamping her foot. ‘Last night!
And on what pretext?’
“‘I need no pretext to visit my uncle.’
“‘And was he not surprised to see you drop from the clouds at this time
of the year?’
“‘Why, yes, a little,’ I answered foolishly, incapable as I was of
concealing the truth.
“Her dissatisfaction increased visibly.
“‘And how did you get here?’ she commenced again. ‘Did you know this
cross-road?’
“‘No, I inquired about it.’
“‘From whom?’
“‘From one of my uncle’s servants; but his information was so
imperfect, that I lost my way.’
“She looked at me with such a bitter, ironical smile, that I stopped.
“‘And all that, you think, is very simple,’ she broke in. ‘Do you
really imagine people will think it very natural that you should thus
fall like a bombshell upon Boiscoran, and immediately set out for
the Red Men’s Cross-roads in the forest? Who knows but you have been
followed? Who knows but behind one of these trees there may be eyes even
now watching us?’
“And as she looked around with all the signs of genuine fear, I
answered,--
“‘And what do you fear? Am I not here?’
“I think I can even now see the look in her eyes as she said,--
“‘I fear nothing in the world--do you hear me? nothing in the world,
except being suspected; for I cannot be compromised. I like to do as I
do; I like to have a lover. But I do not want it to be known; because,
if it became known, there would be mischief. Between my reputation and
my life I have no choice. If I were to be surprised here by any one, I
would rather it should be my husband than a stranger. I have no love for
the count, and I shall never forgive him for having married me; but
he has saved my father’s honor, and I owe it to him to keep his honor
unimpaired. He is my husband, besides, and the father of my child: I
bear his name, and I want it to be respected. I should die with grief
and shame and rage, if I had to give my arm to a man at whom people
might look and smile. Wives are absurdly stupid when they do not feel
that all the scorn with which their unfortunate husbands are received
in the great world falls back upon them. No. I do not love the count,
Jacques, and I love you. But remember, that, between him and you, I
should not hesitate a moment, and that I should sacrifice your life and
your honor, with a smile on my lips, even though my heart should break,
if I could, by doing so, spare him the shadow of a suspicion.’
“I was about to reply; but she said,--
“‘No more! Every minute we stay here increases the danger. What pretext
will you plead for your sudden appearance at Boiscoran?’
“‘I do not know,’ I replied.
“‘You must borrow some money from your uncle, a considerable sum, to
pay your debts. He will be angry, perhaps; but that will explain your
sudden fancy for travelling in the month of November. Good-by, good-by!’
“All amazed, I cried,--
“‘What! You will not let me see you again, at least from afar?’
“‘During this visit that would be the height of imprudence. But, stop!
Stay at Boiscoran till Sunday. Your uncle never stays away from high
mass: go with him to church. But be careful, control yourself. A single
imprudence, one blunder, and I should despise you. Now we must part. You
will find in Paris a letter from me.’”
Jacques paused here, looking to read in M. Magloire’s face what
impression his recital had produced so far. But the famous lawyer
remained impassive. He sighed, and continued,--
“I have entered into all these details, Magloire, because I want you to
know what kind of a woman the countess is, so that you may understand
her conduct. You see that she did not treat me like a traitor: she had
given me fair warning, and shown me the abyss into which I was going
to fall. Alas! so far from being terrified, these dark sides of her
character only attracted me the more. I admired her imperious air,
her courage, and her prudence, even her total lack of principle, which
contrasted so strangely with her fear of public opinion. I said to
myself with foolish pride,--
“‘She certainly is a superior woman!’
“She must have been pleased with my obedience at church; for I managed
to check even a slight trembling which seized me when I saw her and
bowed to her as she passed so close to me that my hand touched her
dress. I obeyed her in other ways also. I asked my uncle for six
thousand francs, and he gave them to me, laughing; for he was the most
generous man on earth: but he said at the same time,--
“‘I thought you had not come to Boiscoran merely for the purpose of
exploring the forest of Rochepommier.’
“This trifling circumstance increased my admiration for the Countess
Claudieuse. How well she had foreseen my uncle’s astonishment, when I
had not even dreamed of it!
“‘She has a genius for prudence,’ I thought.
“Yes, indeed she had a genius for it, and a genius for calculation also,
as I soon found out. When I reached Paris, I found a letter from her
waiting for me; but it was nothing more than a repetition of all she
had told me at our meeting. This letter was followed by several others,
which she begged me to keep for her sake, and which all had a number in
the upper corner.
“The first time I saw her again, I asked her,--
“‘What are these numbers?’
“‘My dear Jacques,’ she replied, ‘a woman ought always to know how
many letters she has written to her lover. Up to now, you must have had
nine.’
“This occurred in May, 1867, at Rochefort, where she had gone to be
present at the launching of a frigate, and where I had followed her,
at her suggestion, with a view to spending a few hours in each
other’s company. Like a fool, I laughed at the idea of this epistolary
responsibility, and then I thought no more of it. I was at that time too
busy otherwise. She had recalled to me the fact that time was passing,
in spite of the sadness of our separation, and that the month of
September, the month of her freedom, was drawing near. Should we be
compelled again, like the year before, to resort to these perilous trips
to Fontainebleau? Why not get a house in a remote quarter of town?
“Every wish of hers was an order for me. My uncle’s liberality knew no
end. I bought a house.”
At last in the midst of all of Jacques’s perplexities, there appeared a
circumstance which might furnish tangible evidence.