A GATHERING STORM.
After a night of sleeplessness and anguish, Valerie arose to a day of
duplicity and terror.
The anticipation of the evening was intolerable to her; the prospect of
sitting down at her own table between the Duke of Hereward and the Count
de Volaski overwhelmed her with a sense of horror and loathing.
Faint, pale, and trembling, she descended to the breakfast-room, where
she found the duke already awaiting her.
Shocked at her aspect, he hastened to meet her and lead her to an
easy-chair on the right of the breakfast-table.
"You are not able to be out of your bed, Valerie. You should not have
attempted to rise," he said, as he carefully seated her.
"I told you last night that I was very ill," she answered coldly, as she
sank wearily back on the cushion.
"That infernal dinner party! It has prostrated you quite. I am so
grieved; I will not suffer you to be so severely tried again!" said the
duke, vehemently.
"And you will write this morning and put off the count's visit," pleaded
Valerie.
"No, my dear, I cannot," answered the duke, regretfully.
"Then I cannot come down to dinner. That is all," she said, sullenly
closing her eyes.
"I shall be sorry for that; but we must do the best we can without you
for the count, having been invited, must be permitted to come."
She languidly drew up to the table, and touched the bell that summoned
the footman with the breakfast-tray.
When it was placed upon the table, she poured out two cups of coffee,
handed one to the duke, and took the other herself.
When she had drained it, she arose, excused herself, and went back to her
own room.
She closed and locked the door, and threw herself upon the bed, groaning:
"Oh! how could Waldemar accept that invitation? How can he bear to sit
down with me at the Duke of Hereward's table? Has he no delicacy? No
pity? Ah, mercy, what a state is mine! And yet I was not to blame for
_this_! I have not deserved it! I have not deserved it! One of us
three must die; I, or Waldemar, or the Duke of Hereward; and I am the
one; for, _I hate myself_ for the position I am in! I _hate,_
LOATHE and utterly ABHOR myself! I do. I do. I wish the
lightning would strike me dead! dead, before I have to meet one of them
again!" she moaned, rolling and grovelling on the bed.
There came a soft rap at the door, followed by the kind voice of the
duke, saying:
"Valerie, Valerie, my love! How are you? Do you want anything? May I come
in?"
"No! I want rest! I do not want you!" she answered, so sharply as to
astonish the duke, who spoke again however, deprecatingly and soothingly.
"Is there anything that I can do for you outside, then, my dear?"
"You can go away and let me alone, or you can stand there chattering
until you drive me crazy!" she answered, ungratefully.
"Good morning, my love; I will not trouble you again soon," muttered the
duke, as he walked away from the duchess' door.
"I never knew such a change as this that has come over her. She is as
cross as a catamount! There may be a cause for it. There may--I will send
for a physician," he added, as he went down stairs.
Valerie kept her room all day.
Count de Volaski came to dinner at eight o'clock and was received by the
duke alone.
He smiled grimly when his host apologized for the absence of the duchess,
by explaining the delicate condition of her health since the death of her
parents, and the injury she had received from the fatigue and excitement
of the dinner-party on the preceding evening.
The duke and the count dined _tete-a-tete_, and sat long over their
wine, although they drank but little. After dinner they played chess
together all the evening, and then parted, apparently the best of friends
on both sides, really good friends on the duke's.
The next morning a letter was handed Valerie, while she sat at breakfast
with the duke.
She recognized the handwriting of Count de Volaski, and put it in her
pocket to read when she was alone.
The duke was not suspicious or inquisitive. He asked no questions.
As soon as the duchess found herself alone in her chamber, she locked the
door to keep out intruders, and sat down and opened the letter.
Its contents were sufficiently startling. They were as follows:
"RUSSIAN LEGATION, RUE ST. HONORE.
"VALERIE: You avoid me in vain! You cannot shake me off. I
accepted the duke's invitation to dinner last evening for the sake of
seeing you again, and for the chance of having a final explanation with
you; but you kept away from the dinner. Such expedients will not avail
you.
"I write now to assure you that I must and will see you, to make an
arrangement with you. I write openly, at the risk of having this letter
fall into the hands of the duke; for I do not care if it does so fall.
I would just as willingly say to him what I now say to you. I am quite
willing to provoke a crisis. The present state of things maddens me. I
wonder it does not _kill_ you! When you married the Duke of Hereward
within six months after my supposed death by the hands of your father,
you acted cruelly, but not criminally; now that you know I am living, you
must also know that every hour you continue to live under the roof of the
Duke of Hereward you are a criminal. I do not require you to come to
_me_. I do not wish to live with you again, although I love you;
but I _do_ require you to leave the Duke of Hereward and go away by
yourself. I know you now, Valerie. You are as weak as water. You cannot
go to the noble gentleman who has been so deeply deceived by you and your
parents and tell him the secret that you have kept from him so long. You
have not the moral courage to do so. But you can leave him. It is to
arrange for your flight and for your future safety that I now demand and
_insist_ upon a private interview with you.
"Write to me at the _poste-restante_, and tell me when and where I
can see you alone. Should you refuse to grant me this interview, I will
myself go to the Duke of Hereward and tell him the whole story. He may
not resent your former marriage; but he will never forgive you, living,
or your parents in their graves, for the deception that has been
practiced upon him. I will wait twenty-four hours for your answer, and
then if I fail to receive it, or fail to get a favorable one, I shall
come immediately to the Hotel de la Motte and seek an explanation with
the duke. I shall direct this letter by the name and title you now bear,
so as to prevent mistakes; but it is the last time I shall so address
you. And I sign myself, for all eternity,
"Your true husband, WALDEMAR DE VOLASKI."
Valerie read the cruel letter to its close, then dropped it on her lap,
and sank back in her chair, helpless, breathless, almost lifeless.
Minutes crept into hours, and still she sat there in the same position,
without motion, thought, or feeling--stricken, spell-bound, entranced.
She was aroused at length by a rap at her chamber-door.
She started, shuddering, to her feet, and spasm after spasm shook her
galvanized frame, as she picked up her letter, found a match, drew it,
set fire to the paper, threw it, blazing, down upon the marble hearth,
and watched it until it was consumed to a little heap of light ashes.
"There! That can never fall into the Duke of Hereward's hands
_now_!" she said with a bitter laugh.
Meanwhile the rapping continued.
"Well! well! well! well! Can't you be patient!" she exclaimed, very
_im_patiently, as she tottered tremblingly across the room and
opened the door.
Her dressing-maid, Mademoiselle Desiree, was there.
"_Pardonnez moi, madame_; but you ordered me to come to dress you
for a drive at twelve. The clock has just struck, madame," said the girl
deprecatingly.
Valerie put her hand to her head in a bewildered way, and stared at the
speaker a full minute before she could recollect herself sufficiently to
reply.
"Yes--yes--yes--yes--I believe so. You can come in."
The girl entered and stood waiting for orders. Receiving none, she
ventured to inquire:
"What dress shall madame wear?"
"My--my writing desk! Bring it here to me," answered the lady, as she
sank into a chair, and drew a little ivory stand before her.
"I wonder if madame indulges in absinthe in the morning?" was the secret
thought of the discreet Mademoiselle Desiree, as she brought the elegant
little malachite writing-desk, and placed it before her mistress.
Valerie opened it, took out a piece of note-paper and wrote:
"I cannot write much. I am stricken. I am dying. I hope you are right
in what you say. Come here tomorrow at twelve, noon. I will give you the
interview you seek."
* * * * *
This note was without date, address or signature, or any word to guide a
strange reader to its true meaning. She put it into a sealed envelope,
and directed it to _Count de Volaski, Poste Restante_.
Then she sat back in her chair, exhausted from the slight exertion.
The maid watched her mistress for a little while, and then said:
"Pardon, madame; but it is half-past twelve."
"Yes! I must dress," said Valerie rising.
"What costume will madame wear?"
"Any. It does not signify."
The maid indulged in an imperceptible shrug of her shoulders, and laid
out an elegant black rep silk, heavily trimmed with black crape and jet,
with mantle, bonnet and vail to match.
"White or black gloves, madame?"
"Black, of course. It is not a wedding reception."
"Pardon, madame," said the girl; and she added the black gloves to the
costume.
Valerie was soon dressed, and then the maid said:
"The carriage waits, madame."
Valerie took the note she had prepared and went down stairs, entered her
barouche, and ordered the coachman to drive to the British Legation,
Hotel Borghese, Rue Faubourg St. Honore.
When the carriage rolled through the archway into the courtyard, and drew
up before the magnificent palace, interesting from having been built for
and occupied by the beautiful Princess Pauline Bonaparte, Valerie
alighted and handed her letter to the footman, with directions to go
and post it while she was making her call.
The man knocked at the door for his mistress, and then hurried away to do
her errand.
It was the conventional "dinner call" that brought Valerie to the Hotel
Borghese.
An English footman admitted the visitor, conducted her to the private
drawing-room of Lady C., and announced her.
Several other ladies, whom Valerie had met at the dinner party, were
there on the same duty as herself.
Lady C. advanced from among them to receive the new comer, kissed her on
both cheeks, inquired affectionately after her health and then made her
sit down in the most comfortable of the easy-chairs at hand.
After courteously saluting the ladies present, Valerie subsided into a
dull silence, from which she could not arouse herself; but her voice was
not missed, since every visitor seemed anxious to talk rather than
listen, and therefore kept up a chattering that would have carried off
the palm in a contest with a village sewing-circle or aviary full of
excited magpies.
Valerie, the last to enter, was also the first to rise, but Lady C.
detained her by a slight signal, and she sat down again, and relapsed
into dullness and silence.
One by one the visitors arose and took leave, chattering to the very
last.
As soon as the two ladies were left alone together, Lady C. took
Valerie's hand, and gazing earnestly in her face, said:
"What is the matter with you, my child? You look pale and ill. Although
I am so glad to see you, under any circumstances, I am half inclined to
scold you for coming out at all."
For a moment Valerie felt inclined to open her oppressed and suffering
heart to this sweet, matronly friend, and tell her the whole, bitter
truth, and seek her wise counsel; but again the want of moral courage,
which had always been so fatal to her welfare, sealed her lips.
"Well," said Lady C., after a short pause for that answer that never
came, "I will not press the question. 'The heart knoweth its own
bitterness.'"
"Yes," murmured Valerie, in a very low voice. Then, not to seem
indifferent or unsocial, and also, if the truth must be told of her,
to gratify a gnawing curiosity, she inquired:
"How goes the expected marriage of your niece, madame?"
"I cannot tell you dear. I have been daily expecting some communication
on the subject from de Volaski: but as yet he has made none. After coming
to Paris for the purpose, (for of course his office in the embassy is a
mere sinecure and a plausible excuse,) he betrays the bashfulness of a
girl in pressing his suit; but some men, some of the best and purest of
men, are just that way--in love affairs as shy women," said her ladyship.
Valerie smiled bitterly. She thought she understood the reason why the
Count de Volaski was in no hurry to press the suit for marriage with a
dreaming girl, to whom he had been arbitrarily contracted when he was a
boy of fifteen, and she a child of twelve.
"I shall, however, write again to her father. I will not have my sister's
daughter wasting her youth in a convent, while waiting for a tardy
suitor."
Valerie smiled again, and then arose to take her leave.
Lady C. kissed her affectionately, and promised soon to visit her at the
Hotel de la Motte.
"But--how long will you remain there?" inquired her ladyship.
"I do not know. Until some business connected with my father's will shall
be arranged, I think. We are there on sufferance only. My cousin, Louis,
the present baron, wrote from Algiers, very kindly asking us to occupy
the Hotel de la Motte at any time when business or pleasure should call
us to Paris. The house was the home of my childhood, and I prefer to live
in it as long as I may. The duke, though he would rather live at the
'_Trois Freres_,' yields to my whim, and so we occupy the Hotel de
la Motte, but I do not know for how long a time."
"Until you leave Paris, I presume?"
"Yes, probably," answered Valerie, as with another kiss, she took leave
of her kind friend.
"Shall I ever see her sweet face, hear her sweet voice again?" murmured
the young duchess, as she passed out to her carriage.
"You posted my letter?" she inquired of the footman who opened the
carriage-door.
"Yes, your grace."
"That will do. Home."
The footman repeated the order to the coachman, who drove back to the
Hotel de la Motte.
As Valerie entered her morning-room after laying off her bonnet and
wrappings, she found the Duke of Hereward there, reading the papers.
He arose and placed a chair for her, saying kindly:
"I hope your drive has done you good, dear; if it has not been so long as
to fatigue you."
"I have only been to the Hotel Borghese to call on Lady C.," replied
Valerie, sinking into the chair and leaning back.
"Now that I look well at you, I see that you are tired. A very little
exertion seems to fatigue you now, Valerie. I do not understand your
condition. It makes me anxious. I have asked Velpeau to call and see you.
He will look in this afternoon."
"Thanks, you are very kind--too kind to me, as fretful and miserable as
I am," replied Valerie, with a momentary compunction--only a momentary
one, for the deep fear, horror and despair which had seized her soul
left her little sensibility to comparative trifles.
"My poor child," said the duke, looking compassionately on her pale, worn
face, "do you not know that I can make all allowance for you? You are
suffering very much. I hope Velpeau will be able to do something for you.
You know he stands at the head of the medical profession in Paris, which
is as much as to say, in the world."
"Yes, I know," said Valerie, indifferently. Then, with sudden
earnestness, she exclaimed: "I wish _you_ would do something for
me."
"Why, my poor girl, I would do anything in the world for you. Tell me
what you want me to do."
"I know you cannot leave Paris now, and so you cannot, yourself, take
me to England; but I wish to go there; I wish you to send me there to
Hereward Hold, where we passed so many peaceful months."
"To send you there _alone_, Valerie?" inquired the duke, in surprise.
"No, but with my personal attendants, and with any discreet old lady you
may choose to appoint as my companion, if, like an old Spanish husband,
you think your young wife may require watching when she is out of your
sight," she added, with a relapse into her irritable mood.
"Valerie! you wrong me and yourself by such a thought," said the duke,
gravely.
"I know I do, and I know I am a wretch! but I want to go to England.
I want to get away from everybody, and be by myself. You promised to do
what I wanted done. That is what I want done."
"Do you wish 'to get away' from _me_, Valerie?"
"Yes, from you and from _everybody_, except from my servants, who
are not my companions, and therefore don't bore me."
"It must be as I thought," said the duke to himself; "all this
eccentricity, this nervous irritability has a natural cause, and not
an alarming one, and it must be humored."
"Will you keep your promise?" she testily inquired.
"Certainly, my dear child. Anything to please you. You will see Velpeau
this afternoon. If after consulting him you still think it necessary to
leave Paris for Hereward Hold, I will send you there under proper
protection. By the by, you succeed very well in getting away from your
friends I think. The Count de Volaski called here while you were away
this forenoon. He seemed disappointed in not seeing you. He looks ill.
I never saw a man change so within the last few days. I should not wonder
if he were on the very verge of a bad fever. I wish you had seen him. He
was quite a friend of yours in St. Petersburg, I believe."
"I used to see him every day in the public assemblies to which we were
always going. I wish you wouldn't talk about him," gasped Valerie, with
a nervous shudder, as she arose and left the room.
"What a little misanthrope she has grown to be; but it is only a
temporary affliction. She will get over it in a few weeks," said the
duke to himself, as he resumed the reading of his newspaper.
The next day Valerie arose at her usual hour, and breakfasted
_tete-a-tete_ with the duke. She knew that this day must decide her
fate, and she tried to nerve herself to bear all that it might bring her,
even as the frailest women sometimes brace themselves to bear torture and
death.
At eleven in the forenoon, the duke left the house to go to the Hotel de
Ville to keep an appointment that would detain him until three in the
afternoon.
Valerie knew all about this appointment, and had therefore fixed the hour
of noon as the safest time for her interview with the count.
Twelve o'clock, therefore, found her dressed in her deepest mourning, and
seated in her private drawing-room, awaiting the advent of her most
dreaded visitor, Waldemar de Volaski.