Assuredly there is something very exhilarating in the air of Paris, when
compared with our heavier, smoky atmosphere; this, and a complete
removal from painful scenes, were all sufficient causes for the change
in Tremenhere and Minnie. They seemed indeed to have commenced a new
life; all annoyances had ceased, her colour had returned, the frown had
quitted his brow, the past seemed like a dream, as his confidence was
restored, and not unfrequently he laughed with her, over those
reasonless fears which had once agonized him so much. Many of their
mornings were passed in the Louvre together, he copying the old masters,
or the glowing sunset pictures in the Spanish gallery; whilst she sat
beside him, either talking, reading, or working, and thus two very happy
months passed, and Christmas drew nigh. They were residing in an
apartment, not far from the Louvre, in one of the principal streets, _Au
Troisième_, where he found a room admirably adapted for him, having been
used as a studio. _Au Troisième_ seems a frightful height to English
ears; nevertheless, to the many who are acquainted with Paris, it has
nothing extraordinary.
All suspicion even seemed lulled to rest on his part; for frequently
Minnie went alone to visit Mary, who was, at all events, peaceful, if
not happy, in her present successful path. Tremenhere talked of being
obliged, very shortly, to revisit England, consequent on some paintings
he was completing to order. A shudder crept over Minnie at the thought;
she had almost hoped never to see it again, except perhaps some day to
revisit Gatestone, but certainly not London; however, the patient loving
wife said nothing, she was contented to go whither he went. They had not
received any communication from Lady Dora, in short from no one but
Dorcas and Skaife--all else was in quiet oblivion around them; and they,
not the less happy, though sometimes Minnie would sigh when she thought
of her cousin's unkindness. Marmaduke Burton, too, was lost to them,
almost in thought; the truth was, he had made a tour to Italy, and so
bitter had been his disgrace, consequent upon Miles's discovery of his
wickedness, that he resolved to leave them in peace, despairing of
success in separating them. In good, as unfortunately often in bad, when
all human power has failed, fate steps in, and accomplishes in an
instant that which years might else not have matured. Poor Minnie was
one of those kindly-disposed creatures, full of thoughtfulness to
surprise those she loved by some great joy--nothing had changed, or
could chill her heart; and frequently some little quiet secret of her's
to please Miles, tortured him once again into dormant, but not
eradicated suspicion, until the perfection of her plot enabled her to
give it to the light, and thus remove a weight from his mind, which had
oppressed it for days perhaps. She never saw this,--she was a very child
at heart, forgetting in her present happiness her past bitter suffering.
For some days she had been in a state of much excitement, and her visits
had been more frequent than usual to Mary's. Other friends she had in
Paris; but though there existed a certain constraint and distance
between herself and this unfortunate girl, still we often cling more
kindly to the person we have served, whatever their station, than to the
one who has obliged ourselves,--a noble nature loves better giving, than
receiving. Thus Minnie delighted in watching her _protégée's_ progress
towards honest prosperity, for Mary was so humble and grateful. Miles
noticed her frequent visits to Mary, her distraction of manner, followed
by sudden lightness of heart, as of hidden joy. Then, too, she often
made a plea of laziness to remain at home, and he went alone to the
Louvre. This worried him; nevertheless he said nothing, but he was not
at ease. Suspicions arose; but he chid them down--he _would_ be happy.
Sometimes Minnie looked sad and disappointed, still she said nothing;
and he forebore questioning, though not a glance of her's escaped him.
The cause of all this was as follows:--One day Mary Burns drew Minnie
into the little quiet back room adjoining the shop, and exclaimed, "Dear
Mrs. Tremenhere! I have been so anxiously looking for your arrival the
last two days; I did not like calling, or I should have done so."
"Why not, Mary? we should have been glad to see you."
"I know, dear madam, you are always so kind; but I wished to see you
alone--my motive is this. You must have heard from Mr. Tremenhere, of
his meeting me one night at his cousin's?" She looked down, and spoke
with difficulty and pain. "I am forced to allude to this, to explain how
I became possessed of what I now wish to speak of. Have you ever," she
cried, changing her tone, "heard Mr. Tremenhere mention any one named
d'Estrées?"
"Never," answered Minnie, after a moment's pause.
"On that evening in question," continued Mary, "there were several torn
papers scattered about the floor,--a sudden impulse induced me, unseen,
to secure one--and here it is. I found it only to-day; for I shame to
say, in my own selfish troubles, I had forgotten it sooner," and she
placed the torn piece of letter, which we have seen in the first volume,
in Minnie's hand.
"Oh!" exclaimed she, after carefully perusing it, "this must have been
written by Miles's father, before his birth. Oh, Mary! how may we
discover this man? he must have been the person who married them," and
the delighted wife almost danced with joy, to think of Miles's
rejoicing. "Shall we tell him yet?" asked she after a pause, "or
wait--search every thing ourselves? Poor dear Miles will suffer so
keenly should he be disappointed; and then, too, he is seriously
occupied now with a painting which engages all his attention. Let us
work unknown to him, Mary; and, oh! think of our joy if we can, some
day, place the proof in his hands!"
"I think your idea will be the better one to pursue," said Mary
quietly, after a moment's thought--she was less sanguine, and more
cautious than warm-hearted Minnie; "but we must not too soon reckon upon
success, we may not succeed--he may be dead. Oh! how I wish I had
secured the remainder of the letter! we might then have told Mr.
Tremenhere, and he could have directed us how to act, we are so
powerless alone."
"Do not say that; we will inquire how we had better commence our
research. I do not like telling dear Miles yet; it would be so happy a
surprise!"
And this it was which caused a mystery in Minnie's manner, which raised
the demon suspicion once more in Tremenhere. All her energies were
exerted in this anxious search, and in consequence she became thoughtful
and pre-occupied. Mary had some acquaintances, from whom she inquired
which would be the better way of discovering a lost address, and she was
told to search the passport-office at the _Prefecture_.
The most timid woman will find energy and resolution for all, when the
happiness of one she loves is at stake. In the first instance, the two
women employed a man to go to the office for them; but this did not
satisfy Minnie when he proclaimed his want of success.
"How can we be quite certain he went, or searched as we should have
done?" asked she. "I will go myself."
"You cannot do so alone!" cried Mary, "and I am unable to leave my
shop."
"Why not? Oh, but I can! Miles will be all day to-morrow at the Louvre;
I will not accompany him, and putting on a close bonnet and veil, lest
I should meet any one, take a _fiacre_ and go."
Mary tried to dissuade her for some short time, and then she
relinquished the task herself, convinced that it would be the most
secure and satisfactory thing to do. Minnie had no one to advise or
assist her, and on Mary she almost looked as upon a sister, from the
circumstances of her childhood passed with Miles and his mother; then
again, they were mutually interested in this affair, and Mary was so
humble and contrite in manner, it would have been impossible for the
other not to love her. All this intimacy, however, did not pass without
censure on Miles's part, not that he doubted Mary then; but he deemed,
in worldly wisdom, that where Minnie's name had been in question,
however innocent she had proved, too much caution could not be observed;
then, too, the one dark spot in his happiness ever arose before him--her
imprudence in flying with himself, which would ever leave one place in
her fame open to animadversion; but he spoke to the least worldly woman
ever created, and then at this moment she had so strong a motive in
seeking Mary, that all his arguments terminated in a tacit consent on
his part, however unwillingly given, when Minnie's arms encircled his
neck, and her smiling cheek pressed itself like a child's to his, as she
coaxed him into good temper; then, too, there was a fonder hope in his
heart than any he had ever yet known, whatever he had once said of being
even jealous of his own child.
Thus weeks crept on, and as disappointment followed disappointment in
their search, Minnie grew saddened and uneasy; still, every day she
rejoiced that she bore her trouble alone, and that Miles was exempt.
Poor creature! she did not perceive that her unexplained, altered
manner, was making him once again most unhappy. Doubts, fears,
suspicions of all, arose in his mind, and he began to ask himself,
"Could Burton be in Paris, and at some fiendish plot?" He resolved to
verify this doubt by inquiry. He went to several of the principal
hotels, without success. No such name was on their books; then, as a man
perfectly acquainted with Paris and its habits, he went to the passport
office, and searched; he was on the point of leaving, perfectly assured
no Burton was in Paris, consequently it must be something else preying
upon her mind and directing her actions, when a woman's figure flitted
through the office, closely enveloped and veiled. But it was Minnie, and
none other; for the second time, she had come to the prefecture to seek
d'Estrées. Miles stood transfixed with surprise. Whom could she be
seeking? Quietly he stole after her; without turning, she entered a
_fiacre_ and drove away. This was a day on which he was supposed to be
engaged at the Louvre. He stood irresolute a moment, then, walking
composedly back again, commenced a search after another passport and
name--the act was the offspring of a moment's thought. "Yes, monsieur,"
answered the functionary, rather more civilly than these men generally
speak in all public offices in France; "the gentleman, _ce milord_, is
in Paris, I know--I remember the name--ah! here's the passport, and
address, _Rue Castiglione_ 7," and he gave the shuddering Tremenhere
_his own address_.
This method of seeking persons is most common in France, where, within
twenty-four hours of your arrival, your passport and address have to be
left at the prefecture's, under the penalty of a fine, should it not be
done. It is needless to say that Minnie had not been inquiring for Lord
Randolph, but following up what she had hoped might prove a trace of her
all-absorbing thought, d'Estrées. Tremenhere said nothing; but, calmly
thanking the official, walked forth. There was no cloud on his
brow--nothing of anger or sorrow--but a cold, stern, desolation, far
more dreadful to behold. At last the blow had fallen; there could be no
longer any doubt, still less hope, of reclaiming her. She must be
wickedly, wilfully bad, and false as the falsest thing that ever
breathed. His brain, nevertheless, was in a chaos of perplexity. For
whom could she have been inquiring? No one, perhaps; but why there? The
residence of Lord Randolph, even in his own hotel, in nowise astonished
him after a moment's thought,--it was a part of her unparalleled
audacity. Those who have resided in France will know, how easily
families may live for months in the same hotel or house, and never meet.
Lord Randolph had come to Paris for a short time, and, disliking a
regular hotel, had taken an _entresol_ in this most popular and
fashionable street, without having an idea of meeting with the
Tremenheres in any way. And thus an event, the most likely and
commonplace, did more for Marmaduke Burton's revenge, than all his own
plotting and scheming. Tremenhere returned home--he stopped carelessly
in the _loge de concièrge_, and inquired, "If Lord Randolph Gray resided
there?"
"Yes," answered the man, "_milord_ has been here several days; but he
does not go out much--he is not in good health, I think."
"Thank you," was the calm reply, and Tremenhere turned from his door,
and entered the gardens of the Tuileries. Here he proceeded to the
loneliest part, and, relaxing his quick pace, reviewed all the events of
this fatal day. Not for an instant did he doubt Minnie's perfect
knowledge of Lord Randolph's being in their hotel. Here was no
Burton--no Dalby to entangle their victims in a snare. How he laughed
aloud at his own folly and blindness, in having been so long deceived.
"In the very house with me!" he cried--"O, fool!--mad, blind fool! And
O, woman!--falsest, basest! what a shrine, too, hath the devil chosen
for his abode! so much seeming candour and lovely purity--even in the
look. I could find it in my heart to shed tears of blood for this
perverted creature, on whom I have lavished my soul's love, for I can
never love again."
People may laugh and say, "'Tis very well for fiction," but there are
many circumstances in everyday life far more extraordinary, far more
fatally organized by a genius of good or evil, than any things the mind
could conjure up. Are they sent as trials? as punishments? or the mighty
Hand directing all, though through pain and suffering, for our ultimate
benefit? or is it, that there are moments in every one's life, wherein
the spirit of evil has permitted sway? Who may divine this?
As Tremenhere turned again through the gardens, near the centre alley,
half hidden by the trees, he saw two persons; they were shaking hands
and parting: these were Minnie and Lord Randolph! She had quitted her
_fiacre_ on the Quay, and was hastening home across the gardens, when
she most unexpectedly met this, to her, fatal man. Only a few words
passed, and they parted, he in indifference and calm, she in almost
terror at the meeting--but it was enough Tremenhere saw not hearts, but
acts. He turned back again; a cold bolt of iron entered his soul; no
anger was there, no passionate desire for revenge--nothing but calm
resolution, which only became more intense, when he reflected on
Minnie's position. At one instant he thought of returning to London, and
suing for a divorce; then a bitterer feeling crossed his heart. "No!" he
cried, "she has branded me for ever with infamy; _she_ shall never
become his wife, nor _their_ child legitimate; this shall be my
revenge--let her bear my name, blast it, degrade it, what care I? Name!"
he exclaimed after a moment's pause, "I have no name; what am I? the
castaway offspring of Helena Nunoz! All women are false; I believe in
none, I am the blasted child of an impure woman--Nunoz--Nunoz--only
this, and Marmaduke Burton has right, to carry him onward!" and the
wretched man laughed aloud--laughed in the bitterness of a holy thought
of childhood, and dream of manhood, desecrated--his mother. His last
hope was gone; he could believe none pure, proving Minnie false. He was
not a man to sit down, and pine, and regret over his fate; but one to
act vigorously, a resolution once taken. His heart had turned to stone,
there was no "if" in it--not for an instant did he pause to think, or
hope, but sped away to act. He was determined to inquire into nothing,
in this last hopeless affair; he felt some demoniacal artifice would be
employed to persuade him against all reason; he would not degrade his
reason farther by listening--guilty she must be. Her presence at the
prefecture had something in it in connection with Lord Randolph, he
scarcely cared to inquire how, for assuredly she must, before that day,
have been privy to his residence under the same roof with herself; Mary,
too, was a party to it! What a web had been, and was around him!--he
shuddered as he thought of his deceived heart, for so long a time. When
his mind had compassed all coolly and deliberately, he proceeded to the
apartment of a friend, a brother artist, unfortunately not a Skaife, to
breathe justice or patience to him, but a man to whom woman had ever
been a merely beautiful creation for art to copy, soulless, and unworthy
a higher place in man's thought. To him Tremenhere told all, coolly,
dispassionately from the first, not to seek counsel, but to act for, and
with him. His listener shrugged his shoulder and smiled.
"Well," he said, "'tis better thus, perhaps; for with your genius, you
will rise to high things _alone_. Hampered with a wife and children, you
would possibly have remained stationary, a good father of a family, fit
only to paint a _bonne mère_ and her _bambins_!--leave such positions
to others--soar, _mon ami_--soar!"
Alas! he overlooked the fact, that to every one possessing real heart
and soul--soaring is sorry work when there is no loving eye to mark our
flight.
"Now, what can I do for you? command me," said his friend.
"See her!" answered Tremenhere sternly. "I would not leave that woman
unprovided for; arrange how and where she will receive it; you will have
tears and prayers--_I_ have had them; disregard them, be firm, tell her
_we never meet again_; do not say where I am; remove all my
paintings--all--I will give you written authority to do so. Arrange
every thing; and then I have other work for you. Stay, I will write one
line to her; and that will be a warrant for all you may do."
And with a calmness, amazing to himself, he sat down and wrote coldly,
dispassionately, to her; merely saying he knew all. He did not
condescend even to tell her his accusations, adding, "of course, what I
_know_, will reach you from another quarter. 'Tis vain to seek an
interview; nothing shall induce me to see you--throw off all disguise,
'twill suit you better than this audacious duplicity. Farewell."
Minnie read this letter, and it did not kill her! yet her life seemed
awhile to stand still. There was but one idea in her mind, that by that
fatality which seemed to hang over her, Miles had witnessed her
accidental meeting with Lord Randolph. A more than mortal fear oppressed
her. There arose in her mind a belief in spiritual agency--spirits of
evil around her. She became almost lifeless with this strange fear. She
sat like a statue; and saw one after another, the paintings, depart,
which had been commenced beneath her eye, her caresses, her love. She
was totally speechless, thoughtless; all stood still, even to her very
blood, for she was cold as marble. At last the easel was taken past her;
then the man stood still, as if awaiting some questioning from her; but
though she had watched every action of his with intense gaze, idea of
what was passing--she had none. So he went forth, and closed the door of
the outer apartment, mentally ejaculating, "What a cold, heartless
creature! Evidently she is glad to be released from Tremenhere, for this
_freluquet de milord_! What a blessing for her husband to lose such a
woman!" And this man, so talented in portraying the human face, was
powerless _on it_ to read the breaking heart! When the door closed,
Minnie fell back on the ottoman, not fainting; but the lifeless blood
was insufficient to bid the heart beat above mere existence. She was
living, but lifeless to the touch, or memory--and thus she lay for hours
alone!