That one exciting evening over, Madeline’s life in the place became
even more monotonous than it had been before. Every morning she was
taken out, either by Monsieur Belleisle or Madame de Fontenay; but her
walks were made in sequestered places, not amongst the gay throng of
tourists who daily dipped themselves into the sea. Her evenings were
spent quietly at home. But she was always met with the promise that the
dulness of her present life was transitory, that there were brighter
days in store.
That some mysterious work was going on Madeline knew from the strange
behaviour of her husband and the widow. Sometimes he himself would
disappear for several days together, leaving his wife in the care of
Madame; then the lady would disappear, and for several days
Madeline would be left alone with her husband; then, just as she was
congratulating herself upon the relief, the widow would return--looking
more benign than ever--and adding to Madeline’s wonder by endless secret
interviews with Belleisle.
Had the girl’s mind been occupied with this pair alone she would
certainly have thought their conduct more suspicious still, but she had
other things to interest and trouble her. Since that night when, dressed
in diamonds and lace, she had been taken to dine in public, she had
written to her guardian three times, and had waited eagerly for
the reply, which, she now began to fear, would never come. The only
explanation she could give of the affair was that Mr. White, on hearing
of her elopement, had gone over to the school to look into the matter,
and that the investigation and journey had kept him a long time from
home, so that the letters written from time to time by his penitent
ward were lying unopened in his studio in St. John’s Wood. Madeline
had arrived at this impotent conclusion, and was deriving some sad
consolation from it, when her little spell of peace was brought to an
end.
She was seated in the sitting-room one night, silently working at some
embroidery; Belleisle reclining in an easy-chair oy the window, scanning
the columns of ‘Le Journal pour Rire,’ when the postman arrived and
letters were brought in--two for Belleisle and one for his wife. The
Frenchman took his, read them, returned them to their envelopes, threw
them carelessly on to a little table at his side, and again concentrated
his attention on the more amusing contents of the paper, or rather he
tried to do so, for by this time it did not seem so easy for him to
concentrate his thoughts at all. His eyes, which had hitherto travelled
from line to line, now wandered from column to column--then his hands
fell slightly, lowering the paper, and his eyes looked over the top at
Madeline.
She had not moved from her seat; her work lay in her lap; and her hands,
now trembling violently, held the open letter, upon which her eyes were
fixed. Belleisle threw the paper aside, and walked towards her.
‘Madeline, what is the matter?’
The girl turned her white face towards him, gave him the letter, then
burst into a violent flood of tears. He took the letter, and read as
follows:--
_Madame Belleisle,--When you eloped from school with your beggarly
French tutor you brought disgrace upon yourself and me. Remain with your
husband--be true to him, if you can--as for me, I never wish either to
see or hear of you again._
_M. White._
No sooner had Belleisle read the letter than he tore it into fragments
and threw them into the grate.
‘The man is a villain and a coward,’ he exclaimed; then, as Madeline
rose to protest, he threw his arms around her and kissed her
tear-stained cheek.
‘Forgive me, _chérie_,’ he said, ‘the man may say what he likes of me,
but I cannot bear that he shall insult my wife. Listen, Madeline,’ he
continued, drawing her down upon a seat beside him, ‘I will correct your
bad news with good news, though I did not intend to tell you so soon;
well, my wife, after all you did not marry a poor man. I have had a good
sum of money left to me and a fine house in Paris--and I am going to
dress you in a fashion becoming to a rich man’s wife, and take you to
Paris for the season. You understand me?’
For the girl was looking at him as if she comprehended nothing, and now
she only said--
‘Leave me a few minutes alone.’
He kissed her and led her to the door, as if his only wish in life was
to bow to her will.
A few hours after, when husband and wife met again, Madeline seemed to
be transformed into a different being. She walked straight up to her
husband, put her hand into his, and said--
‘When are we going to Paris, Monsieur?’
He smiled strangely.
‘You are eager to be gone?’
‘Yes, I could not bear to continue this quiet life _now_.’
‘Madeline!’
‘Yes.’
‘You were not yourself this morning, so I did not tell you all my news.
Are you composed enough to listen to me now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then, there is a condition attached to the will which left me
all the money--a condition to which I fear you will not be inclined to
accede, _chérie_.’
Madeline raised her eyes to his.
‘You have told me the news at a proper time then, Monsieur; I feel
inclined to accede to anything to-day.’
‘My wife,’ said the Frenchman gravely, ‘I would not ask you to accede
to anything wrong. Well, the words in the will are these: “Five thousand
pounds to my dear nephew, Emile Belleisle, if he is unwed. If he remain
unwed for one year after my decease, the sum of three thousand pounds to
be paid to him annually during his life. If he marries within the year
the said three thousand pounds per annum to be paid to the State.” Now
when my beloved relative died I was a single man--when the news came to
me I had been married two days. Perhaps it was avaricious of me; but as
I was so wretchedly poor I could not bear the thought of three thousand
pounds per annum being taken from me and given to the State; so I
thought, “I will say nothing of being married; I will take my Madeline
to the seaside, and live quietly with her until the year is expired, and
then the money will be mine to pour at her feet.”’
‘And what has induced you to change your mind?’
‘My beloved one, you shall hear. I made a confidante of my good aunt,
Madame de Fontenay, and, though she loves you not as I do, her woman’s
heart did you more justice. She said, “Why should the child suffer
because you have come into a fortune? She has a good heart and generous
impulses. Tell her--throw yourself upon her mercy--and let her enjoy
your good fortune to the full.”’
Again he paused; and again Madeline looked at him inquiringly. What
did it all mean? He was evidently afraid to speak on without some
encouragement from her; and the encouragement was given.
Her curiosity being aroused, she argued within herself it could do her
no possible harm just to hear what he had to propose.
‘Well, M’sieur?* she cried, and Belleisle spoke on. His demand was
simple in itself and easily acceded to. He would take his Madeline to
Paris in a few days, he said; deck her in silks, satins, and jewels;
give her a season of genuine Parisian life--if she would but consent to
remove that frail band of gold from the third finger of her left
hand; call her husband “Cousin,” Madame de Fontenay “Maman,” until the
prescribed year had come to an end.
Madeline heard him without comment, and remained silent after he had
ceased to speak. What could she do? Her conscience urged her not to
accept. The man had deceived her infamously already, and would not
scruple to do so again; but then she remembered the letter which she had
received that morning, and the voice within her was hushed. After all,
she said to herself, what harm could come of it; she was secure against
calumny, for she was in reality Madame Belleisle--so that should the
worst come, and her relationship to the man be discovered, no one could
possibly blame her. And if she refused, what was the alternative? To
live alone by the sea during all the long, weary winter months, with
such a past to reflect on--and not a soul either to share her sorrows or
her moments of calmness and peace. The prospect was so dismal that the
girl shuddered, and, looking into her husband’s face, said hurriedly, as
if she had strange misgivings of herself--
‘I consent, Monsieur, I consent--only let us get away from this place,
and perhaps the excitement of the journey will take away this load from
my heart.’
Just a week from that day three travellers were journeying towards the
gay French capital; their names were--the Vicomte de Belleisle, for
the Frenchman professed to inherit a title with his fortune; Madame and
Mademoiselle de Fontenay.