“Have I brought about this catastrophe?”
“Well then yes! One day I was imprudent and indiscreet. I was young; I
knew nothing of life; the world worshipped me; and you, my husband, my
guide, gave yourself up to your ambition, and left me to myself. I could
not foresee the consequences of a very inoffensive piece of coquetry.”
“You see, then, now these consequences. After thirty years, I disown the
child that bears my name; and I say, that, if he is innocent, he suffers
for his mother’s sins. Fate would have it that your son should covet his
neighbor’s wife, and, having taken her, it is but justice that he should
die the death of the adulterer.”
“But you know very well that I have never forgotten my duty.”
“I know nothing.”
“You have acknowledged it, because you refused to hear the explanation
which would have justified me.”
“True, I did shrink from an explanation, which, with your unbearable
pride, would necessarily have led to a rupture, and thus to a fearful
scandal.”
The marchioness might have told her husband, that, by refusing to hear
her explanation, he had forfeited all right to utter a reproach; but she
felt it would be useless, and thus he went on,--
“All I do know is, that there is somewhere in this world a man whom I
wanted to kill. Gossiping people betrayed his name to me. I went to him,
and told him that I demanded satisfaction, and that I hoped he would
conceal the real reason for our encounter even from our seconds. He
refused to give me satisfaction, on the ground that he did not owe me
any, that you had been calumniated, and that he would meet me only if I
should insult him publicly.”
“Well?”
“What could I do after that? Investigate the matter? You had no doubt
taken your precautions, and it would have amounted to nothing. Watch
you? I should only have demeaned myself uselessly; for you were no doubt
on your guard. Should I ask for a divorce? The law afforded me that
remedy. I might have dragged you into court, held you up to the sarcasms
of my counsel, and exposed you to the jests of your own. I had a right
to humble you, to dishonor my name, to proclaim your disgrace, to
publish it in the newspapers. Ah, I would have died rather!”
The marchioness seemed to be puzzled.
“That was the explanation of your conduct?”
“Yes, that was my reason for giving up public life, ambitious as I
was. That was the reason why I withdrew from the world; for I thought
everybody smiled as I passed. That is why I gave up to you the
management of our house and the education of your son, why I became a
passionate collector, a half-mad original. And you find out only to-day
that you have ruined my life?”
There was more compassion than resentment in the manner in which the
marchioness looked at her husband.
“You had mentioned to me your unjust suspicions,” she replied; “but I
felt strong in my innocence, and I was in hope that time and my conduct
would efface them.”
“Faith once lost never comes back again.”
“The fearful idea that you could doubt of your paternity had never even
occurred to me.”
The marquis shook his head.
“Still it was so,” he replied. “I have suffered terribly. I loved
Jacques. Yes, in spite of all, in spite of myself, I loved him. Had he
not all the qualities which are the pride and the joy of a family?
Was he not generous and noble-hearted, open to all lofty sentiments,
affectionate, and always anxious to please me? I never had to complain
of him. And even lately, during this abominable war, has he not again
shown his courage, and valiantly earned the cross which they gave him?
At all times, and from all sides, I have been congratulated on his
account. They praised his talents and his assiduity. Alas! at the very
moment when they told me what a happy father I was, I was the most
wretched of men. How many times would I have drawn him to my heart! But
immediately that terrible doubt rose within me, if he should not be my
son; and I pushed him back, and looked in his features for a trace of
another man’s features.”
His wrath had cooled down, perhaps by its very excess.
He felt a certain tenderness in his heart, and sinking into his chair,
and hiding his face in his hands, he murmured,--
“If he should be my son, however; if he should be innocent! Ah, this
doubt is intolerable! And I who would not move from here,--I who have
done nothing for him,--I might have done every thing at first. It would
have been easy for me to obtain a change of venue to free him from this
Galpin, formerly his friend, and now his enemy.”
M. de Boiscoran was right when he said that his wife’s pride was
unmanageable. And still, as cruelly wounded as woman well could be, she
now suppressed her pride, and, thinking only of her son, remained quite
humble. Drawing from her bosom the letter which Jacques had sent to
her the day before she left Sauveterre, she handed it to her husband,
saying,--
“Will you read what our son says?”
The marquis’s hand trembled as he took the letter; and, when he had torn
it open, he read,--
“Do you forsake me too, father, when everybody forsakes me? And yet I
have never needed your love as much as now. The peril is imminent. Every
thing is against me. Never has such a combination of fatal circumstances
been seen before. I may not be able to prove my innocence; but you,--you
surely cannot think your son guilty of such an absurd and heinous crime!
Oh, no! surely not. My mind is made up. I shall fight to the bitter end.
To my last breath I shall defend, not my life, but my honor. Ah, if you
but knew! But there are things which cannot be written, and which only
a father can be told. I beseech you come to me, let me see you, let me
hold your hand in mine. Do not refuse this last and greatest comfort to
your unhappy son.”
The marquis had started up.
“Oh, yes, very unhappy indeed!” he cried.