At the sight of Madeleine, who was no other than the Marquise de
Miranda, the happiness of Madame Dutertre was so great that for a moment
all her sorrows and all her terrors for the future were forgotten; her
sweet and gracious countenance beamed with joy, she could only pronounce
these words in broken accents:
"Madeleine, dear Madeleine! after such a long absence, at last you have
come!"
After the two young women had embraced each other Sophie said to her
friend as she looked at her husband and the old man:
"Madeleine, my husband and his father,--our father, as he calls me his
daughter."
The marquise, entering suddenly, had thrown herself upon Sophie's neck
with such impetuous affection that Charles Dutertre could not
distinguish the features of the stranger, but when, at Madame Dutertre's
last words, the newly arrived friend turned toward him, he felt a sudden
strange impression,--an impression so positive that, for a few minutes,
he, like his wife, forgot the vindictive speech of M. Pascal.
What Charles Dutertre felt at the sight of Madeleine was a singular
mixture of surprise, admiration, and almost distress, for he experienced
a sort of indefinable remorse at the thought of being in that critical
moment accessible to any emotion except that which pertained to the ruin
which threatened him and his family.
The Marquise de Miranda would hardly, at first sight, seem capable of
making so sudden and so deep an impression. Quite tall in stature, her
form and waist were completely hidden under a large mantle of spring
material which matched that of her dress, whose long, trailing folds
scarcely permitted a view of the extremity of her little boot. It was
the same with her hands, which were almost entirely concealed by the
sleeves of her dress, which she wore, as was her custom, long and
floating. A little hood made of crape, as white as snow, formed a
framework for her distinctly oval face, and set off the tint of her
complexion, for Madeleine had that dull, pale flesh-colour so often
found in brunettes of a pronounced type, with large, expressive blue
eyes fringed with lashes as black as her eyebrows of jet, while, by a
bewitching contrast, her hair, arranged in a mass of little curls, à la
Sevigné, was of that charming and delicate ash-blonde which Rubens makes
flow like waves upon the shoulders of his fair naiads.
This pallid complexion, these blue eyes, these black eyebrows and blonde
hair, gave to Madeleine's physiognomy a very fetching attraction; her
ebony lashes were so thick, so closely set, that one might have
said--like the women of the East, who by this means impart a passionate
and at the same time an enervated expression to their faces--she painted
with black the under part of her eyelids, almost always partially closed
over their large azure-coloured pupils; her pink nostrils, changing and
nervous, dilated on each side of a Greek nose exquisite in its contour;
while her lips, of so warm a red that one might almost see the blood
circulate under their delicate epidermis, were full but clear cut, and a
little prominent, like those of an antique Erigone, and sometimes under
their bright coloured edges one could see the beautiful enamel of her
teeth.
But why continue this portrait? Will there not be always, however
faithful our description, however highly coloured it may be, as
immeasurable a distance between that and the reality as exists between a
painting and a living being? It would be impossible to make perceptible
that atmosphere of irresistible attraction, that magnetism, we might
say, which emanated from this singular creature. That which in others
would have produced a neutralising effect, seemed in her to increase her
fascinations a hundredfold. The very length and amplitude of her
garments, which, without revealing the contour of her figure, allowed
only a sight of the end of her fingers and the extremity of her boot,
added a charm to her. In a word, if the chaste drapery which falls at
the feet of an antique muse, of severe and thoughtful face, enhances the
dignity of her aspect, a veil thrown over the beautiful form of the
Venus Aphrodite only serves to excite and inflame the imagination.
Such was the impression which Madeleine had produced on Charles
Dutertre, who, speechless and troubled, stood for some moments gazing at
her.
Sophie, not suspecting the cause of her husband's silence and emotion,
supposed him to be absorbed in thought of the imminent danger which
threatened him, and this idea bringing her back to the position she had
for a moment forgotten, she said to the marquise, trying to force a
smile:
"My dear Madeleine, you must excuse the preoccupation of Charles. At the
moment you entered we were talking of business, and business of a very
serious nature indeed."
"Yes, really, madame, you must excuse me," said Dutertre, starting, and
reproaching himself for the strange impression his wife's friend had
made upon him. "Fortunately, all that Sophie has told me of your
kindness encourages me to presume upon your indulgence."
"My indulgence? It is I who have need of yours, monsieur," replied the
marquise, smiling, "for in my overmastering desire to see my dear Sophie
again, running here unawares, I threw myself on her neck, without
dreaming of your presence or that of your father. But he will, I know,
pardon me for treating Sophie like a sister, since he treats her as a
daughter."
With these words, Madeleine turned to the old man.
"Alas! madame," exclaimed he, involuntarily, "never did my poor children
have greater need of the fidelity of their friends. Perhaps it is Heaven
that sends you--"
"Take care, father," said Dutertre, in a low voice to the old man, as if
he would reproach him tenderly for making a stranger acquainted with
their domestic troubles, for Madeleine had suddenly directed a surprised
and interrogative glance toward Sophie.
The old man comprehended his son's thought, and whispered:
"You are right. I ought to keep silent, but grief is so indiscreet! Come
now, Charles, take me back to my room. I feel very much overcome."
And he took his son's arm. As Dutertre was about to leave the parlour
the marquise approached him, and said:
"I shall see you soon, M. Dutertre, I warn you, for I am resolved during
my sojourn in Paris to come often, oh! very often, to see my dear
Sophie. Besides, I wish to make a request of you, and, in order to be
certain of your consent, I shall charge Sophie to ask it. You see, I act
without ceremony, as a friend, an old friend, for my friendship for you,
M. Dutertre, dates from the happiness Sophie owes you. I shall see you,
then, soon!" added the marquise, extending her hand to Dutertre with
gracious cordiality.
For the first time in his life Sophie's husband felt ashamed of the
hands blackened by toil; he hardly dared touch the rosy little fingers
of Madeleine; he trembled slightly at the contact; a burning blush
mounted to his forehead, and, to dissimulate his mortification and
embarrassment, he bowed profoundly before the marquise, and went out
with his father.
From the commencement of this scene Sophie's two little children,
holding each other's hands, and hiding now and then behind their mother,
near whom they were standing, opened their eyes wide in silent and
curious contemplation of the great lady.
The marquise, perceiving them, exclaimed, as she looked at her friend:
"Your children? My God, how pretty they are! How proud you must be!" And
she dropped on her knees before them, putting herself, so to speak, on a
level with them; then, dispersing with one hand the blond curls which
hid the brow and eyes of the little girl, she lifted the chin of the
child's half-bent head with the other hand, looked a moment at the
charming little face so rosy and fresh, and kissed the cheeks and eyes
and brow and hair and neck of the little one with maternal tenderness.
"And you, little cherub, you must not be jealous," added she, and,
holding the brown head of the little boy and the blond curls of the
little girl together, she divided her caresses between them.
Sophie Dutertre, moved to tears, smiled sadly at this picture, when the
marquise, still on her knees, looked up at her and said, holding both
children in her embrace:
"You would not believe, Sophie, that, in embracing these little angels,
I comprehend, I feel almost the happiness that you experience when you
devour them with kisses and caresses, and it seems to me that I love you
even more to know that you are so happy, so perfectly happy."
As she heard her happiness thus extolled, Sophie, brought back to the
painful present a moment forgotten, dropped her head, turned pale, and
showed in her countenance such intense agony, that Madeleine rose
immediately, and exclaimed:
"My God, Sophie, how pale you are! What is the matter?"
Madame Dutertre stifled a sigh, lifted her head sadly, and replied:
"Nothing is the matter, Madeleine; the excitement, the joy of seeing you
again after such a long separation,--that is all."
"Excitement, joy?" answered the marquise, with an air of painful doubt.
"No, no! A few moments ago it was excitement and joy, but now you seem
to be heart-broken, Sophie."
Madame Dutertre said nothing, hid her tears, embraced her children, and
then whispered to them:
"Go find your nurse, my darlings."
Madeleine and Augustus obeyed and left the parlour, not, however,
without turning many times to look at the great lady whom they thought
so charming.