Madeline--I wish you to do me a favour?’
‘And that is, Monsieur------?’
‘To wear to-night the satin dress and the pearl ornaments which I gave
to you three weeks ago.’
Belleisle was standing before his wife, buttoning the kid gloves which
reached almost to her elbow; for she was ready to take her usual morning
drive with Madame de Fontenay. The girl allowed him to finish his task,
then she spoke.
‘Why is it you wish me to wear that dress, Monsieur?’
‘Because, _chérie_, we shall have a new guest.’
‘Indeed?’
‘A young French nobleman--whom, if we wish to stand well in society, it
is our interest to fascinate.’
‘To fascinate!’
The ejaculation made Belleisle look sharply into his wife’s face. He was
by no means pleased by what he saw there. He opened his lips to speak,
but was prevented by the entrance of Madame de Fontenay.
The widow, dressed as usual in rich widow’s mourning, came quickly into
the room, and took Madeline’s gloved hand in hers.
‘A thousand apologies for having kept you waiting,’ she said. ‘Come,
my child--Emile, be good enough to see us to the carriage, which has
already waited some minutes at the door.’
Belleisle, obedient to the command, conducted the ladies down the oak
staircase of the hotel, handed them into the carriage which waited to
receive them, and stood bare-headed at the door to see it roll away. He
smiled, waved his hand and kissed the tips of his fingers--but Madeline,
to whom these blandishments were cast, had already sunk back into the
carriage, and relapsed into a gloomy dream.
She had a good deal to think about--much to try and explain to
herself--and she had chosen this time as the best for what she had to
do.
They had been located in Paris for three months now, and during
that time she had led a life which puzzled even herself. Gentle and
confiding, guided wholly by her husband and his accomplice, she had
carried out their wishes in every respect. She had dressed herself in
the fine dresses which were brought to her--driven about in a carriage
by the side of her _soi-disant_ mother, and behaved as she had been
taught to the guests whom she met at her husband’s table.
It was the behaviour of these guests which troubled her and first set
her speculating as to the kind of life into which she had unwittingly
been led. She was not astonished that they should court her favours,
for when she announced herself single she laid herself open to the
admiration of single men--what astonished her was that after these
gentlemen had ceased to grace with their presence the hospitable board
of the Vicomte de Belleisle, they would acknowledge with a stony stare
the graceful salute of the widow if she happened to meet them during any
of her daily drives about the city.
It was curious, Madeline thought, and on the impulse of the moment she
mentioned the fact to her husband and Madame. They looked significantly
towards each other, gave some slight explanation, and turned the
conversation to other things.
But Madeline was not satisfied; she had noted the look which had passed
between the pair, and it made her more curious than she had been before.
What could it mean? There was some dark mystery about their life which
she must discover, ere it led her into serious harm.
But how to discover it? After long pondering she resolved to pick out
from the innumerable guests who frequented her husband’s table some man
to whom she could speak freely, and to question him.
The resolve made, she endeavoured to carry it out. Every night
when, attired in clinging satin or velvet, she entered the luxurious
dining-room by Madame de Fontenay’s side, her eye travelled from
one place to another, timidly looking for sympathy which never came.
Although the guests would flatter and flirt with her, there was not one
among them whom she felt she could really trust.
So the days and weeks wore on, hopelessly, sadly, despite the glitter
and gaudy show. Hope died within her heart; but suddenly it was revived.
‘Madeline, dearest, you did not tell me this morning whether or not you
would do me the favour I asked of you?’ said Belleisle again that day
after her drive was over.
Madeline looked at him quietly.
‘You wish me to look well to-night?’
‘My charming little one, you do always look well,’ retorted the polite
Frenchman. ‘I wish you to look second to no lady in Paris.’
‘Very well, Monsieur. I will try.’
A new guest to dress for; some new flatteries to listen to. The
announcement was not novel, and yet Madeline felt that night as she had
never felt before. She had a pleasure in dressing, a delight in watching
herself grow more beautiful under the busy hands of her maid, and,
when at length her toilet was complete, she sat with beating heart and
heightened colour, as if awaiting the consummation of some great event.
She entered the dining-room, as she had done hundreds of times before,
by Madame de Fontenay’s side. She bowed, and shook hands with all she
knew, and then was introduced to the stranger.
‘Monsieur le Marquis de Vaux--Mademoiselle de Fontenay.’
Madeline inclined her head for a moment, then raising her eyes she saw
that she was receiving a low bow and a deep blush from the stranger.
A tall fair young fellow, of some two- or three-and-twenty, looking more
like an English lad than a French Marquis. Perhaps it was this English
look which touched Madeline’s heart and made her feel that glow of
sympathy which she had waited for so long and thought would never come.
How the dinner passed off that night Madeline never knew. She sat as
one in a dream, eating little, listening to the busy hum of conversation
about her, and ever conscious that a pair of feeble blue eyes were fixed
upon her face.
Dinner over, Madame de Fontenay rose, and Madeline, taking the hint,
followed her from the room. She did not see any of the gentlemen again
that night, and the widow did not leave her until it was time to retire
to rest.
Several days passed. Every day she met the Marquis at dinner, and each
time she met him his manner seemed to change. Whenever he shook hands he
gave her fingers a slight pressure; sometimes his eyes, after diligently
trying to meet hers, would fix upon her face a look full of strange
inquiry, which she, not comprehending, could not reply to. Ere long
his easy freshness wore off--his manner grew nervous and changeful, his
cheeks pale and haggard; he seemed to become the slave of Belleisle, and
at times glanced with almost terror-stricken eyes at Madeline.
What could it all mean? Every day Madeline grew more troubled, more sick
at heart.
She had resolved to elicit an explanation from the nobleman, but
she soon found that to be impossible. Now that she watched for an
opportunity she saw that she had none. Although apparently a free agent,
she was, in reality, a prisoner--guarded and carefully watched either by
her husband or Madame de Fontenay. What was to be done? Speak to him she
must and would; stratagem must be employed--but how?
After long pondering and much thought, Madeline hit upon a plan which
she thought might possibly succeed. Having got dressed for dinner one
night, she dismissed her maid, and, before the widow could come for her,
hurriedly wrote down the following lines:--
_Monsieur,--I would like to see you and speak with you alone. Please
meet me to-morrow night at nine o’clock in the lobby of the Hôtel
Bellevue._
_Madeline de Fontenay._
That evening when dinner was over and Madeline rose to follow Madame de
Fontenay from the room, she deliberately shook hands with the Marquis.
‘Good-night, Monsieur,’ she said softly; then her hand was timidly
withdrawn, and the Marquis, with a bow, let his arm drop by his side.
Madeline retired early that night; the next morning she went her usual
drive with her companion.
The air was bitterly cold, for winter had set in, and Madeline, wrapped
in furs, lay back in the carriage with flushed cheeks and feverishly
sparkling eyes, and inhaled the chilly air with quick and feverish
sigh*.
‘God only knows,’ she was thinking, ‘what trouble this evening may
bring; a few hours hence and I shall meet the Marquis, and, having met
him, what can I say or do? I will throw myself upon his mercy--I will
tell him the truth, and, in return, demand it of him.’
To her amazement the Marquis did not appear at dinner that night. She
saw that Monsieur Belleisle was worried by his absence, and that Madame
de Fontenay, too, seemed strangely ill at ease. Dinner was hurried
over quickly, and the ladies retired. Having reached the drawing-room,
Madeline threw herself into an easy chair and closed her eyes.
‘I have a headache,’ she said, in answer to Madame de Fontenay’s anxious
inquiries. ‘I am feverish to-night, Madame, and I think I shall soon
retire.’ And the widow, secretly glad of the opportunity of being alone
that evening, kissed the girl on both her cheeks, and soon withdrew.
Madeline was feverish. Now that the time was passing so quickly, the
thought of her coming interview weighed upon her; but, having made the
appointment, she was bound to keep it, or gravely compromise herself.
She drew aside her window curtain and looked out. It was a fair still
night, but growing every hour still colder. She rang for her maid, and
with her assistance took off her dinner dress, and clad herself in one
of the plainest costumes she possessed. When she was dressed, ready to
depart, she said--
‘Remember, Augustine, my going out to-night is a secret both from my
mother and Monsieur Belleisle. If they ask for me, say that I am still
unwell, and have retired early to rest.’
Before the girl, who was doubtless in Belleisle’s confidence, could
reply or interfere, Madeline had hurried from the room, and was in the
open street.
The place of meeting was only a few minutes distant from the hotel where
she was dwelling; she reached it just as the clock struck nine. As she
entered the door she saw a gentleman standing with his back towards
her--the only other living being in the great vestibule.
Madeline approached him, questioningly.
‘Monsieur?’
He turned with an exclamation--she recoiled. The eyes looking so
steadily into hers belonged to a face which she remembered well. She was
face to lace with the young Englishman whom she had met on the night of
her elopement from school.