He spoke quietly enough, but she recoiled as if he had struck her.
‘Your wife!’ she exclaimed. ‘_Your wife_, monsieur!’
A dark look passed over the Frenchman’s face. He bowed profoundly.
‘It is an honour which has been coveted by many, madame,’ he returned,
‘to be the wife of your humble _serviteur_; but I am proud to say it has
been reserved for one who is truly worthy of it. Yes, Madeline, I will
own it--at one time I thought the position too elevated for you; but
when I saw you nobly rising to fame, I said to myself, “After all, I was
wrong. She is a splendid creature; she will adorn our world of Art; at
the right moment I will reveal the truth, and claim her”--and so, my
dear Madeline, I claim you _now!_’
He smiled, he held forth his hand; but Madeline recoiled again.
‘Do not touch me,’ she cried wildly.
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘_Eh bien_--I have no wish to touch you, _chère amie_--but if you play
the tragedy queen in the park you will gather a crowd about you, and
that would not be pleasant for _you._
He spoke with quiet malignity; nevertheless Madeline knew that he spoke
truly. She was utterly in his power, and for her own sake she dared
not make a scene; whatever she said must be said quietly for fear of
attracting attention. She cast a fearful glance around her, then, pale
and trembling with disgust and shame, she turned again to the Frenchman.
‘This is another of your falsehoods. Why have you chosen to tell me it
to-day?’
‘_Mon Dieu!_ what a question! I do not choose to tell you a story. I
came to claim my wife.’
‘It is false. I am not your wife.’
‘No? Then this little writing lies.’
As he spoke he drew forth a paper and waved it carelessly in the air.
‘Ah, my dear Madeline, there was once a time when you would joyfully
have received the news I bring you to-day. You did not always scorn the
thought of being madame my lady!’
‘You are right, monsieur,’ answered Madeline. ‘There was once a time
when the news which you bring me today would have been welcome to me,
but thank God that time has gone, and I am changed!’
‘Yes,’ he returned quietly, ‘you are changed, as you say; so also am I.
At that period of my career to which you allude I was not perfect, and,
pardon me for saying so, Madeline, neither were you. I confess with all
humility that I told lies, and we both showed temper, but--_nous avons
changé tout cela!_ I come to-day to tell you the truth, and to offer you
your rightful home.’
Again he moved as if to approach her. Again she shrank away.
‘It is not the truth,’ she returned vehemently; ‘I refuse to believe
you! You told me the truth once, but you are lying to me to-day!’
Again his face darkened, but when he spoke his voice was as sweet as it
had been before.
‘Your judgment is harsh, _chérie_, but I have without doubt deserved
it--that being so, I bear it with patience. I say to you that I lied to
you before; therefore I must not expect you to believe me now. Before
I could not prove the truth of my statement, but that is all changed at
last!’
Again he produced his slip of paper; this time he held it out before
Madeline’s eyes. In a dazed, troubled way she looked at it. She saw at
a glance that it was the certificate, real or forged, of the marriage
between Auguste Belleisle and Madeline Hazel mere. Therefore she
completely lost her self control, and did what, under the circumstances,
it was most injudicious that she should do--she allowed the Frenchman to
see that she was afraid.
‘I will not--I cannot--believe it,’ she cried. ‘If it is so, why did you
tell me that wicked falsehood, when I did not know you well enough to
doubt your word?’
‘I will tell you, dearest. When I induced you to fly with me from the
school I was poor--miserably poor, and I believed I was eloping with a
lady who would become possessed of a fortune when she was of age. Ah!
forgive me, but I was wicked, corrupt! Then I said to myself, “She is
a charming girl; she will become the victim of fortune-hunters; she
evidently adores me, and I care for her; the fortune must be mine!”
Afterwards you repented of your mad folly. I knew you did so too
late--in spite of your wishes I married you. Shortly after our marriage
you yourself informed me, _chérie_, that you were poor. I felt that I
had been befooled, and I grew enraged. Still, as I could not easily rid
myself of my wife, I resolved to make her useful. I did so. You fell
into my plans until you discovered them; then you showed temper, and
threatened to become dangerous. I wondered for a second time what I
should do with you. I determined to try a bold stroke, and succeed or
fail. I succeeded. I told you a lie, _mon ange_, and in your charming
innocence you believed it to be the truth. You asked for no proofs,
which was lucky for me, since I could produce none. You believed that
you had been my mistress. I knew that you were bound to me by a nearer
and a dearer tie.’
He paused and looked at her. Her face was ghastly, her eyes wildly
fixed; she shivered through all her frame.
‘Madame, you are not well.’
Again she shrank away. He smiled and nodded.
‘_Mon ange_, I know I have done wrong, but you must forget and forgive.
I came to make amends. Since those days of which I have spoken I also
have changed. I am no longer a penniless, nameless Frenchman. I have
risen to a position which henceforth I hope to adorn. The divine Muse
has entered into my soul. Art is now my adored mistress; the great men
and women of the land are pleased, so to speak, to prostrate themselves
before me. I offer you a position which thousands would give their lives
to fill. _Bien!_ I care nothing for them. I accept their adulation, but
I am willing to place you beside me and say to the world, “This charming
creature is my wife!”’
What wonderful self-sacrifice!--what condescension!
He stood as if expecting her to fall in ecstasy at his feet. She
simply stared at him in dumb amazement, till, disgusted at her silence,
Gavrolles, who had all his wits about him, spoke again.
‘_Mon Dieu_, but am I not generous!’ he said. ‘I say to you, “Come to
me, my wife;” while you think, “Alas! it is too late. I have taken to
myself another husband.” Well, that shall make no difference to me.
I take the blame of that, since it was I who deceived you. Yes, _mon
ange_, I forgive you from my soul! *
She looked at him in deepening horror, while she said in a hollow
voice--
‘What of my husband, monsieur?’
‘_Parbleu_, I had no thought of him. What is he?--a common tradesman, I
believe; a dull creature, incapable of comprehending the splendours of
a nature like mine; there is no poetry in his soul. He adds up his
accounts now; he will add them up when you are gone--that is all!’
Madeline’s face grew even whiter, but her eyes flashed fire.
‘Take care,’ she cried, ‘take care. Say what you like of me, do what you
can to me, but don’t dare to put a slight on _him_.’
It was now the Frenchman’s turn to be astonished. For a moment the
lackadaisical look of condescension passed completely from his eyes.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked sharply.
‘Only this, monsieur, that the gentleman whom you are pleased to
denounce as commonplace is as far above you as the sun is above the
earth. That after you had tried to destroy me it was he who nobly put
out his hand to save me. That sooner than let you bring disgrace and
sorrow to him I will make a sacrifice of myself, perhaps of you!’
‘_Parbleu_, but you are heroic,’ sneered the Frenchman.
‘What I am,’ continued Madeline, ‘I am; thanks to you, and you only.
I have been dragged as low almost as the women who nightly walk
the streets. Now you come to me and ask me to return to shame and
degradation. Your wife I may be, as you say, but sooner than return to
you and live with you--in honourable wedlock, as the world would call
it--I would destroy myself. I expect no mercy from you. Well, you may do
you worst--what that may be I neither know nor care.’
And before the Frenchman could utter a word she turned from him and
walked swiftly away.
He did not attempt to follow her. This sudden and unexpected onslaught
of his victim had found him quite unprepared, and he gazed after her
with eyes full of perplexity and amazement. Then he, too, turned and
walked away. He strolled slowly through the park in the direction of the
Serpentine; having reached it, he paused on one of the bridges, leant
over the parapet, and watched the swans. He felt in his pocket, threw
them some broken biscuits, and watched them eat.
While so watching, he soliloquised. ‘As I suspected,’ he murmured,
‘she still possesses a spirit and a temper---_eh bien_, it is for me to
manage both. If this little piece of paper (touching the certificate)
were genuine, if that spirited creature were indeed my wife, I should
find my work easy. The law would give her to me, and there would be an
end to the whole matter. I would place her again upon the stage; she
would make me a rich man, while I could pursue my dream, mount rapidly
up the ladder of fame, become the idol of mankind, and make my name
immortal. But, alas! that cannot be. The charming creature detests
me, and means to resist me. I dare not appeal to the law, for it would
require more proofs of my sagacity than my charming Madeline does.
_Parbleu!_ what must I do _now?_’
He ran his thin fingers through his long hair; he gazed again
meditatively at the water; he threw some more biscuits to the swans.
Suddenly the perplexed look passed away from his face, which lit up into
positive ecstasy.
‘The husband! 5 he cried. ‘_Mon Dieu!_ but she adores the husband even
more cordially than she detests me. Let me think of him; let my plans
involve him, and my success is tolerably sure.’