XVI
During the twenty years of her married life, Valentine had experiencedbut one real sorrow; and this was one which, in the course of nature,must happen sooner or later.
In 1859 her mother caught a violent cold during one of her frequentjourneys to Paris, and, in spite of every attention which money couldprocure, she became worse, and died.
The countess preserved her faculties to the last, and with her dyingbreath said to her daughter:
"Ah, well! was I not wise in prevailing upon you to bury the past? Yoursilence has made my old age peaceful and happy, and I now thank you forhaving done your duty to yourself and to me. You will be rewarded onearth and in heaven, my dear daughter."
Mme. Fauvel constantly said that, since the loss of her mother, she hadnever had cause to shed a tear.
And what more could she wish for? As years rolled on, Andre's loveremained steadfast; he was as devoted a husband as the most exactingwoman could wish. To his great love was added that sweet intimacy whichresults from long conformity of ideas and unbounded confidence.
Everything prospered with this happy couple. Andre was twice as wealthyas he had ever hoped to be even in his wildest visions; every wish ofValentine was anticipated by Andre; their two sons, Lucien and Abel,were handsome, intelligent young men, whose honorable charactersand graceful bearing reflected credit upon their parents, who had socarefully watched over their education.
Nothing seemed wanting to insure Valentine's felicity. When her husbandand sons were at their business, her solitude was cheered by theintelligent, affectionate companionship of a young girl whom she lovedas her own daughter, and who in return filled the place of a devotedchild.
Madeleine was M. Fauvel's niece, and when an infant had lost bothparents, who were poor but very worthy people. Valentine begged to adoptthe babe, thinking she could thus, in a measure, atone for the desertionof the poor little creature whom she had abandoned to strangers.
She hoped that this good work would bring down the blessings of God uponher.
The day of the little orphan's arrival, M. Fauvel invested for her tenthousand francs, which he presented to Madeleine as her dowry.
The banker amused himself by increasing this ten thousand francs in themost marvellous ways. He, who never ventured upon a rash speculationwith his own money, always invested it in the most hazardous schemes,and was always so successful, that at the end of fifteen years the tenthousand francs had become half a million.
People were right when they said that the Fauvel family were to beenvied.
Time had dulled the remorse and anxiety of Valentine. In thegenial atmosphere of a happy home, she had found rest, and almostforgetfulness. She had suffered so much at being compelled to deceiveAndre that she hoped she was now at quits with fate.
She began to look forward to the future, and her youth seemed buriedin an impenetrable mist, and was, as it were, the memory of a painfuldream.
Yes, she believed herself saved, and her very feeling of security madethe impending danger more fearful in its shock.
One rainy November day, her husband had gone to Provence on business.She was sitting, gazing into the bright fire, and thankfully meditatingupon her present happiness, when the servant brought her a letter, whichhad been left by a stranger, who refused to give his name.
Without the faintest presentiment of evil, she carelessly broke theseal, and in an instant was almost petrified by the words which met herterrified eye:
"MADAME--Would it be relying too much upon the memories of the past tohope for half an hour of your time?
"To-morrow, between two and three, I will do myself the honor of callingupon you.
"THE MARQUIS OF CLAMERAN."
Fortunately, Mme. Fauvel was alone.
Trembling like a leaf, she read the letter over and over again, as ifto convince herself that she was not the victim of a horriblehallucination.
Half a dozen times, with a sort of terror, she whispered that name onceso dear--Clameran! spelling it aloud as if it were a strange name whichshe could not pronounce. And the eight letters forming the name seemedto shine like the lightning which precedes a clap of thunder.
Ah! she had hoped and believed that the fatal past was atoned for,and buried in oblivion; and now it stood before her, pitiless andthreatening.
Poor woman! As if all human will could prevent what was fated to be!
It was in this hour of security, when she imagined herself pardoned,that the storm was to burst upon the fragile edifice of her happiness,and destroy her every hope.
A long time passed before she could collect her scattered thoughtssufficiently to decide upon a course of conduct.
Then she began to think she was foolish to be so frightened. Thisletter was written by Gaston, of course; therefore she need feel noapprehension. Gaston had returned to France, and wished to see her. Shecould understand this desire, and she knew too well this man, upon whomshe had lavished her young affection, to attribute any bad motives tohis visit.
He would come; and finding her the wife of another, the mother of grownsons, they would exchange thoughts of the past, perhaps a few regrets;she would restore the jewels which she had faithfully kept for him; hewould assure her of his lifelong friendship, and--that would be all.
But one distressing doubt beset her agitated mind. Should she concealfrom Gaston the birth of his son?
To confess was to expose herself to many dangers. It was placing herselfat the mercy of a man--a loyal, honorable man to be sure--confidingto him not only her own peace, honor, and happiness, but the honor andhappiness of her family, of her noble husband and loving sons.
Still silence would be a crime. She had abandoned her child, denied himthe cares and affection of a mother; and now should she add to her sinby depriving him of the name and fortune of his father?
She was still undecided when the servant announced dinner.
But she had not the courage to meet the glance of her sons. She sentword that she was not well, and would not be down to dinner. For thefirst time in her life she rejoiced at her husband's absence.
Madeleine came hurrying into her aunt's room to see what was the matter;but Valentine dismissed her, saying she would try to sleep off herindisposition.
She wished to be alone in her trouble, and see if she could decide uponsome plan for warding off this impending ruin.
The dreaded morrow came.
She counted the hours until two o'clock. After that, she counted theminutes.
At half-past two the servant announced:
"M. the Marquis of Clameran."
Mme. Fauvel had promised herself to be calm, even cold. During a long,sleepless night, she had mentally arranged beforehand every detail ofthis painful meeting. She had even decided upon what she should say.She would reply this, and ask that; her words were all selected, and herspeech ready.
But, at the dreaded moment, her strength gave way; she turned as cold asmarble, and could not rise from her seat; she was speechless, and, witha frightened look, silently gazed upon the man who respectfully bowed,and stood in the middle of the room.
Her visitor was about fifty years of age, with iron-gray hair andmustache, and a cold, severe cast of countenance; his expression was oneof haughty severity as he stood there in his full suit of black.
The agitated woman tried to discover in his face some traces of theman whom she had so madly loved, who had pressed her to his heart, andbesought her to remain faithful until he should return from a foreignland, and lay his fortune at her feet--the father of her son.
She was surprised to discover no resemblance to the youth whose memoryhad haunted her life; no, never would she have recognized this strangeras Gaston.
As he continued to stand motionless before her, she faintly murmured:
"Gaston!"
He sadly shook his head, and replied:
"I am not Gaston, madame. My brother succumbed to the misery andsuffering of exile: I am Louis de Clameran."
What! it was
not Gaston, then, who had written to her; it was not Gastonwho stood before her!
She trembled with terror; her head whirled, and her eyes grew dim.
It was not he! And she had committed herself, betrayed her secret bycalling him "Gaston."
What could this man want?--this brother in whom Gaston had neverconfided? What did he know of the past?
A thousand probabilities, each one more terrible than the other, flashedacross her brain.
Yet she succeeded in overcoming her weakness so that Louis scarcelyperceived it.
The fearful strangeness of her situation, the very imminence of peril,inspired her with coolness and self-possession.
Haughtily pointing to a chair, she said to Louis with affectedindifference:
"Will you be kind enough, monsieur, to explain the object of thisunexpected visit?"
The marquis, seeming not to notice this sudden change of manner, took aseat without removing his eyes from Mme. Fauvel's face.
"First of all, madame," he began, "I must ask if we can be overheard byanyone?"
"Why this question? You can have nothing to say to me that my husbandand children should not hear."
Louis shrugged his shoulders, and said:
"Be good enough to answer me, madame; not for my sake, but for yourown."
"Speak, then, monsieur; you will not be heard."
In spite of this assurance, the marquis drew his chair close to the sofawhere Mme. Fauvel sat, so as to speak in a very low tone, as if almostafraid to hear his own voice.
"As I told you, madame, Gaston is dead; and it was I who closed hiseyes, and received his last wishes. Do you understand?"
The poor woman understood only too well, but was racking her brain todiscover what could be the purpose of this fatal visit. Perhaps it wasonly to claim Gaston's jewels.
"It is unnecessary to recall," continued Louis, "the painfulcircumstances which blasted my brother's life. However happy your ownlot has been, you must sometimes have thought of this friend of youryouth, who unhesitatingly sacrificed himself in defence of your honor."
Not a muscle of Mme. Fauvel's face moved; she appeared to be trying torecall the circumstances to which Louis alluded.
"Have you forgotten, madame?" he asked with bitterness: "then I mustexplain more clearly. A long, long time ago you loved my unfortunatebrother."
"Monsieur!"
"Ah, it is useless to deny it, madame: I told you that Gaston confidedeverything to me--everything," he added significantly.
But Mme. Fauvel was not frightened by this information. This"everything" could not be of any importance, for Gaston had gone abroadin total ignorance of her secret.
She rose, and said with an apparent assurance she was far from feeling:
"You forget, monsieur, that you are speaking to a woman who is nowadvanced in life, who is married, and who has grown sons. If yourbrother loved me, it was his affair, and not yours. If, young andignorant, I was led into imprudence, it is not your place to remind meof it. This past which you evoke I buried in oblivion twenty years ago."
"Thus you have forgotten all that happened?"
"Absolutely all; everything."
"Even your child, madame?"
This question, uttered in a sneer of triumph, fell upon Mme. Fauvel likea thunder-clap. She dropped tremblingly into her seat, murmuring:
"My God! How did he discover it?"
Had her own happiness alone been at stake, she would have instantlythrown herself upon a Clameran's mercy. But she had her family todefend, and the consciousness of this gave her strength to resist him.
"Do you wish to insult me, monsieur?" she asked.
"Do you pretend to say you have forgotten Valentin-Raoul?"
She saw that this man did indeed know all. How? It little mattered. Hecertainly knew; but she determined to deny everything, even the mostpositive proofs, if he should produce them.
For an instant she had an idea of ordering the Marquis of Clameranto leave the house; but prudence stayed her. She thought it best todiscover how much he really knew.
"Well," she said with a forced laugh, "will you be kind enough to statewhat you wish with me?"
"Certainly, madame. Two years ago the vicissitudes of exile took mybrother to London. There, at the house of a friend, he met a young manby the name of Raoul. Gaston was so struck by the youth's appearance andintelligence, that he inquired who he was, and discovered that beyond adoubt this boy was his son, and your son, madame."
"This is quite a romance you are relating."
"Yes, madame, a romance the denouement of which is in your hands. Yourmother certainly used every precaution to conceal your secret; but thebest-laid plans always have some weak point. After your marriage, one ofyour mother's London friends came to Tarascon, and spread the reportof what had taken place at the English village. This lady also revealedyour true name to the nurse who was bringing up the child. Thuseverything was discovered by my brother, who had no difficulty inobtaining the most positive proofs of the boy's parentage."
Louis closely watched Mme. Fauvel's face to see the effect of his words.
To his astonishment she betrayed not the slightest agitation or alarm;she was smiling as if entertained by the recital of his romance.
"Well, what next?" she asked carelessly.
"Then, madame, Gaston acknowledged the child. But the Clamerans arepoor; my brother died on a pallet in a lodging-house; and I have onlyan income of twelve hundred francs to live upon. What is to become ofRaoul, alone with no relations or friends to assist him? My brother'slast moments were embittered by anxiety for the welfare of his child."
"Really, monsieur----"
"Allow me to finish," interrupted Louis. "In that supreme hour Gastonopened his heart to me. He told me to apply to you. 'Valentine,' saidhe, 'Valentine will remember the past, and will not let our son want foranything; she is wealthy, she is just and generous; I die with my mindat rest.'"
Mme. Fauvel rose from her seat, and stood, evidently waiting for hervisitor to retire.
"You must confess, monsieur," she said, "that I have shown greatpatience."
This imperturbable assurance amazed Louis.
"I do not deny," she continued, "that I at one time possessed theconfidence of M. Gaston de Clameran. I will prove it by restoring to youyour mother's jewels, with which he intrusted me on his departure."
While speaking she took from beneath the sofa-cushion the purse ofjewels, and handed it to Louis.
"These jewels would have been given to the owner the instant theywere called for, monsieur, and I am surprised that your brother neverreclaimed them."
Louis betrayed his astonishment at the sight of the jewels. He tried tocover his embarrassment by boldly saying:
"I was told not to mention this sacred trust."
Mme. Fauvel, without making any reply, laid her hand on the bell-ropeand quietly said:
"You will allow me to end this interview, monsieur, which was onlygranted for the purpose of placing in your hands these precious jewels."
Thus dismissed, M. de Clameran was obliged to take his leave withoutattaining his object.
"As you will, madame," he said, "I leave you; but before doing so Imust tell you the rest of my brother's dying injunctions: 'If Valentinedisregards the past, and refuses to provide for our son, I enjoin itupon you to compel her to do her duty.' Meditate upon these words,madame, for what I have sworn to do, upon my honor, shall be done!"
At last Mme. Fauvel was alone. She could give vent to her despair.
Exhausted at her efforts at self-restraint during the presence ofClameran, she felt weary and crushed in body and spirit.
She had scarcely strength to drag herself up to her chamber, and lockthe door.
Now there was no room for doubt; her fears had become realities. Shecould fathom the abyss into which she was about to be hurled, and knewthat in her fall she would drag her family with her.
God alone, in this hour of danger, could help her, could save her
fromdestruction. She prayed.
"Oh, my God!" she cried, "punish me for my great sin, and I willevermore adore thy chastising hand! I have been a bad daughter, anunworthy mother, and a perfidious wife. Smite me, oh, God, and only me!In thy just anger spare the innocent, have pity upon my husband and mychildren!"
What were her twenty years of happiness compared to this hour of misery?A bitter remorse; nothing more. Ah, why did she listen to her mother?Why had she committed moral suicide?
Hope had fled; despair had come.
This man who had left her presence with a threat upon his lips wouldreturn to torture her now. How could she escape him?
To-day she had succeeded in subduing her heart and conscience; would sheagain have the strength to master her feelings?
She well knew that her calmness and courage were entirely due to theinaptness of Clameran.
Why did he not use entreaties instead of threats?
When Louis spoke of Raoul, she could scarcely conceal her emotion; hermaternal heart yearned toward the innocent child who was expiating hismother's faults.
A chill of horror passed over her at the idea of his enduring the pangsof hunger.
Her child wanting bread, when she, his mother, was rolling in wealth!
Ah, why could she not lay all her possessions at his feet? With whatdelight would she undergo the greatest privations for his sake! If shecould but send him enough money to support him comfortably!
But no; she could not take this step without compromising herself andher family.
Prudence forbade her acceptance of the intervention of Louis deClameran.
To confide in him, was placing herself, and all she held dear, at hismercy--at the mercy of a man who inspired her with instinctive terror.
Then she began to ask herself if he had spoken the truth, or had trumpedup this story to frighten her?
In thinking over Louis's story, it seemed improbable and disconnected.
If Gaston had been living in Paris, in the poverty described by hisbrother, why had he not demanded of the married woman the depositintrusted to the maiden?
Why, when anxious about the future of their child, had he not come toher, if he had such confidence in her generosity? If he intrusted her onhis death-bed, why had he not shown this trust while living?
A thousand vague apprehensions beset her mind; she felt suspicion anddistrust of everyone and everything.
She was aware that the time had come for her to take a decisive step,and upon this step depended her whole future peace and happiness. If sheonce yielded, what would not be exacted of her in the future? She wouldcertainly be made to suffer if she refused to yield. If she had onlysome wise friend to advise her!
For a moment she thought of throwing herself at her husband's feet andconfessing all.
Unfortunately, she thrust aside this means of salvation. She picturedto herself the mortification and sorrow that her noble-hearted husbandwould suffer upon discovering, after a lapse of twenty years, howshamefully he had been deceived, how his confidence and love had beenbetrayed.
Having been once deceived, would he ever trust her again? Would hebelieve in her fidelity as a wife, when he discovered that she haduttered her marriage vows to love and honor him, when her heart wasalready given to another?
She knew Andre was too magnanimous to ever allude to her horrible fault,and would use every means to conceal it. But his domestic happinesswould be gone forever. His chair at the fireside would be left empty;his sons would shun her presence, and every family bond would besevered.
Then again, would peace be preserved by her silence? Would not Clameranend by betraying her to Andre?
She thought of ending her doubts by suicide; but her death would notsilence her implacable enemy, who, not being able to disgrace her whilealive, would dishonor her memory.
Fortunately, the banker was still absent; and, during the two dayssucceeding Louis's visit, Mme. Fauvel could keep her room under pretenceof sickness.
But Madeleine, with her feminine instinct, saw that her aunt wastroubled by something worse than nervous headache, for which thephysician was prescribing all sorts of remedies, with no beneficialeffect.
She remembered that this sudden illness dated from the visit of themelancholy looking stranger, who had been closeted for a long time withher aunt.
Madeleine supposed something was weighing upon the miserable woman'smind, and the second day of her sickness ventured to say:
"What makes you so sad, dear aunt? If you will not tell me, do let mebring our good cure to see you."
With a sharpness foreign to her nature, which was gentleness itself,Mme. Fauvel refused to assent to her niece's proposition.
What Louis calculated upon happened.
After long reflection, not seeing any issue to her deplorable situation,Mme. Fauvel determined to yield.
By consenting to everything demanded of her, she had a chance of savingher husband from suffering and disgrace.
She well knew that to act thus was to prepare a life of torture forherself; but she alone would be the victim, and, at any rate, she wouldbe gaining time. Heaven might at last interpose, and save her from ruin.
In the meantime, M. Fauvel had returned home, and Valentine resumed heraccustomed duties.
But she was no longer the happy mother and devoted wife, whose smilingpresence was wont to fill the house with sunshine and comfort. She wasmelancholy, anxious, and at times irritable.
Hearing nothing of Clameran, she expected to see him appear at anymoment; trembling at every knock, and turning pale when a strange stepwas heard to enter, she dared not leave the house, for fear he shouldcome during her absence.
Her agony was like that of a condemned man, who, each day as he wakesfrom his uneasy slumber, asks himself, "Am I to die to-day?"
Clameran did not come; he wrote, or rather, as he was too prudent tofurnish arms which could be used against him, he had a note written,which Mme. Fauvel alone might understand, in which he said that he wasquite ill, and unable to call upon her; and hoped she would be so goodas to come to his room the next day; she had only to ask for 317, Hoteldu Louvre.
The letter was almost a relief for Mme. Fauvel. Anything was preferableto suspense. She was ready to consent to everything.
She burned the letter, and said, "I shall go."
The next day at the appointed hour, she dressed herself in a plain blacksilk, a large bonnet which concealed her face, and, putting a thick veilin her pocket to be used if she found it necessary, started forth.
After hurriedly walking several squares, she thought she might, withoutfear of being recognized, call a coach. In a few minutes she was setdown at the Hotel du Louvre. Here her uneasiness increased. Her circleof acquaintances being large, she was in terror of being recognized.What would her friends think if they saw her at the Hotel du Louvredisguised in this old dress?
Anyone would naturally suspect an intrigue, a rendezvous; and hercharacter would be ruined forever.
This was the first time since her marriage that she had had occasion formystery; and her efforts to escape notice were in every way calculatedto attract attention.
The porter said that the Marquis of Clameran's rooms were on the thirdfloor.
She hurried up the stairs, glad to escape the scrutinizing glances ofseveral men standing near; but, in spite of the minute directions givenby the porter, she lost her way in one of the long corridors of thehotel.
Finally, after wandering about for some time, she found a door bearingthe number sought--317.
She stood leaning against the wall with her hand pressed to herthrobbing heart, which seemed bursting.
Now, at the moment of risking this decisive step, she felt paralyzedwith fright. She would have given all she possessed to find herself safein her own home.
The sight of a stranger entering the corridor ended her hesitation.
With a trembling hand she knocked at the door.
"Come in," said a voice from within.
She entered the room.
It was not the Marquis of Clameran who stood in the middle of theroom, but a young man, almost a youth, who bowed to Mme. Fauvel with asingular expression on his handsome face.
Mme. Fauvel thought that she had mistaken the room.
"Excuse me, monsieur," she said, blushing deeply. "I thought that thiswas the Marquis of Clameran's room."
"It is his room, madame," replied the young man; then, seeing she wassilent and about to leave, he added:
"I presume I have the honor of addressing Mme. Fauvel?"
She bowed affirmatively, shuddering at the sound of her own name,frightened at this proof of Clameran's betrayal of her secret to astranger.
With visible anxiety she awaited an explanation.
"Reassure yourself, madame," said the young man: "you are as safe hereas if you were in your own house. M. de Clameran desired me to make hisexcuses; he will not have the honor of seeing you to-day."
"But, monsieur, from an urgent letter sent by him yesterday, I was ledto suppose--to infer--that he----"
"When he wrote to you, madame, he had projects in view which he hassince renounced."
Mme. Fauvel was too agitated and troubled to think clearly. Beyond thepresent she could see nothing.
"Do you mean," she asked with distrust, "that he has changed hisintentions?"
The young man's face was expressive of sad compassion, as if he sharedthe sufferings of the unhappy woman before him.
"The marquis has renounced," he said, in a melancholy tone, "what hewrongly considered a sacred duty. Believe me, he hesitated a long timebefore he could decide to apply to you on a subject painful to youboth. When he began to explain his apparent intrusion upon your privateaffairs, you refused to hear him, and dismissed him with indignantcontempt. He knew not what imperious reasons dictated your conduct.Blinded by unjust anger, he swore to obtain by threats what you refusedto give voluntarily. Resolved to attack your domestic happiness, he hadcollected overwhelming proofs against you. Pardon him: an oath given tohis dying brother bound him.
"These convincing proofs," he continued, as he tapped his finger on abundle of papers which he had taken from the mantel, "this evidence thatcannot be denied, I now hold in my hand. This is the certificate of theRev. Dr. Sedley; this is the declaration of Mrs. Dobbin, the farmer'swife; and these others are the statements of the physician and ofseveral persons of high social position who were acquainted with Mme. dela Verberie during her stay in London. Not a single link is missing. Ihad great difficulty in getting these papers away from M. de Clameran.Had he anticipated my intention of thus disposing of them, they wouldnever have been surrendered to my keeping."
As he finished speaking, the young man threw the bundle of papers intothe fire where they blazed up; and in a moment nothing remained of thembut a little heap of ashes.
"All is now destroyed, madame," he said, with a satisfied air. "Thepast, if you desire it, is as completely annihilated as those papers.If anyone, thereafter, dares accuse you of having had a son before yourmarriage, treat him as a vile calumniator. No proof against you can beproduced; none exists. You are free."
Mme. Fauvel began to understand the sense of this scene; the truthdawned upon her bewildered mind.
This noble youth, who protected her from the anger of De Clameran, whorestored her peace of mind and the exercise of her own free will, bydestroying all proofs of her past, was, must be, the child whom she hadabandoned: Valentin-Raoul.
In an instant, all was forgotten save the present. Maternal tenderness,so long restrained, now welled up and overflowed as with intense emotionshe murmured:
"Raoul!"
At this name, uttered in so thrilling a tone, the youth started andtottered, as if overcome by an unhoped-for happiness.
"Yes, Raoul," he cried, "Raoul, who would a thousand times rather diethan cause his mother a moment's pain; Raoul, who would shed his life'sblood to spare her one tear."
She made no attempt to struggle against nature's yearnings; her longingto clasp to her heart this long-pined-for first-born must be gratifiedat all costs.
She opened her arms, and Raoul sprang forward with a cry of joy:
"Mother! my blessed mother! Thanks be to God for this first kiss!"
Alas! this was the sad truth. The deserted child had never been blest bya mother's kiss. This dear son whom she had never seen before, hadbeen taken from her, despite her prayers and tears, without a mother'sblessing, a mother's embrace. After twenty years waiting, should it bedenied him now?
But joy so great, following upon so many contending emotions, was morethan the excited mother could bear; she sank back in her chair almostfainting, and with distended eyes gazed in a bewildered, eager way uponher long-lost son, who was now kneeling at her feet.
With tenderness she stroked the soft chestnut curls, and drank in thetenderness of his soft dark eyes, and expressive mouth, as he murmuredwords of filial affection in her craving ear.
"Oh, mother!" he said, "words cannot describe my feelings of painand anguish upon hearing that my uncle had dared to threaten you. Hethreaten you! He repents already of his cruelty; he did not know you asI do. Yes, my mother, I have known you for a long, long time. Often havemy father and I hovered around your happy home to catch a glimpse of youthrough the window. When you passed by in your carriage, he would sayto me, 'There is your mother, Raoul!' To look upon you was our greatestjoy. When we knew you were going to a ball, we would wait near the doorto see you enter, in your satin and diamonds. How often have I followedyour fast horses to see you descend from the carriage and enter wealthydoors, which I could never hope to penetrate! And how my noble fatherloved you always! When he told his brother to apply to you in my behalf,he was unconscious of what he said; his mind was wandering."
Tears, the sweetest tears she had ever shed, coursed down Mme. Fauvel'scheeks, as she listened to the musical tones of Raoul's voice.
This voice was so like Gaston's, that she seemed once more to belistening to the lover of her almost forgotten youth.
She was living over again those stolen meetings, those long hours ofbliss, when Gaston was at her side, as they sat and watched the riverrippling beneath the trees.
It seemed only yesterday that Gaston had pressed her to his faithfulheart; she saw him still saying gently:
"In three years, Valentine! Wait for me!"
Andre, her two sons, Madeleine, all were forgotten in this new-foundaffection.
Raoul continued in tender tones:
"Only yesterday I discovered that my uncle had been to demand for me afew crumbs of your wealth. Why did he take such a step? I am poor, it istrue, very poor; but I am too familiar with poverty to bemoan it. I havea clear brain and willing hands: that is fortune enough for a young man.You are very rich. What is that to me? Keep all your fortune, my belovedmother; but do not repel my affection; let me love you. Promise methat this first kiss shall not be the last. No one will ever know ofmy new-found happiness; not by word or deed will I do aught to let theworld suspect that I possess this great joy."
And Mme. Fauvel had dreaded this son! Ah, how bitterly did she nowreproach herself for not having flown to meet him the instant she heardthat he was living!
She questioned him regarding the past; she wished to know how he hadlived, what he had been doing.
He replied that he had nothing to conceal; his existence had been thatof every poor boy, who had nothing to look forward to but a life oflabor and privation.
The farmer's wife who had brought him up was a kind-hearted woman,and had always treated him with affection. She had even given him aneducation superior to his condition in life, because, as she alwayssaid, he would make himself a great name, and attain to wealth, if hewere taught.
When about sixteen years of age, she procured him a situation in abanking-house; and he was getting a salary, which, though small, wasenough to support him and supply a few luxuries for his adopted mother.
One day a stranger came to him and said:
/> "I am your father: come with me."
Since then nothing was wanting to his happiness, save a mother'stenderness. He had suffered but one great sorrow, and that was the daywhen Gaston de Clameran, his father, had died in his arms.
"But now," he said, "all is forgotten, that one sorrow is forgotten inmy present happiness. Now that I see you and possess your love, I forgetthe past, and ask for nothing more."
Mme. Fauvel was oblivious of the lapse of time, and was startled whenRaoul exclaimed:
"Why, it is seven o'clock!"
Seven o'clock! What would her family think of this long absence? Herhusband must be even now awaiting dinner.
"Shall I see you again, mother?" asked Raoul in a beseeching tone, asthey were about to separate.
"Oh, yes!" she replied, fondly, "yes, often; every day, to-morrow."
But now, for the first time since her marriage, Mme. Fauvel perceivedthat she was not mistress of her actions. Never before had she hadoccasion to wish for uncontrolled liberty.
She left her heart and soul behind her in the Hotel du Louvre, where shehad just found her son. She was compelled to leave him, to undergo theintolerable agony of composing her face to conceal this great happiness,which had changed her whole life and being. She was angry with fatebecause she could not remain with her first-born son.
Having some difficulty in procuring a carriage, it was half-past sevenbefore she reached the Rue de Provence, when she found the familywaiting for her.
She thought her husband silly, and even vulgar, when he joked her uponletting her poor children starve to death, while she was promenading theboulevards.
So strange are the sudden effects of a new passion, that she regardedalmost with contempt this unbounded confidence reposed in her.
She replied to his jest with a forced calmness, as if her mind werereally as free and undisturbed as it had been before Clameran's visit.
So intoxicated had been her sensations while with Raoul, that in her joyshe was incapable of desiring anything else, of dreaming of aught savethe renewal of these delightful emotions.
No longer was she a devoted wife, an affectionate mother to thishousehold which looked up to her as though she were a superior being.She took no interest in the two sons who were a short while since herchief pride and joy. They had always been petted and indulged in everyway; they had a father, they were rich; whist the other, the other! oh,how much reparation was due to him!
She almost regarded her family as responsible for Raoul's sufferings, soblinded was she in her devotion to her martyr, as she called him.
Her folly was complete. No remorse for the past, no apprehensions forthe future, disturbed the satisfied present. To her the future wasto-morrow; eternity was the sixteen hours which must elapse beforeanother interview.
She seemed to think that Gaston's death absolved the past, and changedthe present.
Her sole regret was her marriage. Free, with no family ties, she couldhave consecrated herself exclusively to Raoul. How gladly would she havesacrificed her affluence to enjoy poverty with him!
She felt no fear that her husband and sons would suspect the thoughtswhich absorbed her mind; but she dreaded her niece.
She imagined that Madeleine looked at her strangely on her return fromthe Hotel du Louvre. She must suspect something; but did she suspect thetruth?
For several days she asked embarrassing questions, as to where her auntwent, and with whom she had been during these long absences from home.
This disquietude and seeming curiosity changed the affection which Mme.Fauvel had hitherto felt for her adopted daughter into positive dislike.
She regretted having placed over herself a vigilant spy from whom shecould not escape. She pondered what means she could take to avoid thepenetrating watchfulness of a girl who was accustomed to read in herface every thought that crossed her mind.
With unspeakable satisfaction she solved the difficulty in a way whichshe thought would please all parties.
During the last two years the banker's cashier and _protege_, ProsperBertomy, had been devoted in his attentions to Madeleine. Mme. Fauveldecided to do all in her power to hasten matters, so that, Madeleineonce married and out of the house, there would be no one to criticiseher own movements. She could then spend most of her time with Raoulwithout fear of detection.
That evening, with a duplicity of which she would have been incapable afew weeks before, she began to question Madeleine about her sentimentstoward Prosper:
"Ah, ha, mademoiselle," she said, gayly, "I have discovered your secret.You are going on at a pretty rate! The idea of your choosing a husbandwithout my permission!"
"Why, aunt! I thought you----"
"Yes, I know; you thought I had suspected the true state of affairs!That is precisely what I have done."
Then, in a serious tone, she said:
"Therefore nothing remains to be done except to obtain the consent ofMaster Prosper. Do you think he will grant it?"
"Oh, Aunt Valentine! he would be too happy."
"Ah, indeed! you seem to know all about it; perhaps you do not care forany assistance in carrying out your wishes?"
Madeleine, blushing and confused, hung her head, and said nothing. Mme.Fauvel drew her toward her, and continued affectionately:
"My dear child, do not be distressed: you have done nothing wrong, andneed fear no opposition to your wishes. Is it possible that a person ofyour penetration supposed us to be in ignorance of your secret? Did youthink that Prosper would have been so warmly welcomed by your uncle andmyself, had we not approved of him in every respect?"
Madeleine threw her arms around her aunt's neck, and said:
"Oh, my dear aunt, you make me so happy! I am very grateful for yourlove and kindness. I am very glad that you are pleased with my choice."
Mme. Fauvel said to herself:
"I will make Andre speak to Prosper, and before two months are over themarriage must take place. Madeleine once married, I shall have nothingto fear."
Unfortunately, Mme. Fauvel was so engrossed by her new passion that sheput off from day to day her project of hastening the marriage, until itwas too late. Spending a portion of each day at the Hotel du Louvre withRaoul, and, when separated from him, devoting her thoughts to insuringhim an independent fortune and a good position, she could think ofnothing else.
She had not yet spoken to him of money or business.
She imagined that she had discovered in him his father's noblequalities; that the sensitiveness which is so easily wounded wasexpressed in his every word and action.
She anxiously wondered if he would ever accept the least assistance fromher. The Marquis of Clameran quieted her doubts on this point.
She had frequently met him since the day on which he had so frightenedher, and to her first aversion had succeeded a secret sympathy. She feltkindly toward him for the affection he lavished on her son.
If Raoul, with the heedlessness of youth, mocked at the future, Louis,the man of the world, looked upon it with different eyes. He was anxiousfor the welfare of his nephew, and constantly complained of the idlelife he was now leading.
One day, after praising the attractive qualities of Raoul, he said:
"This pleasant life is very well, as long as it lasts; but people cannotlive upon air, and, as my handsome nephew has no fortune, it would beonly prudent for us to procure him some employment."
"Ah, my dear uncle, do let me enjoy my present happiness. What is theuse of any change? What do I want?"
"You want for nothing at present, Raoul; but when your resources areexhausted, and mine, too--which will be in a short time--what willbecome of you?"
"_Bast!_ I will enter the army. All the Clamerans are born soldiers; andif a war comes----"
Mme. Fauvel laid her hand upon his lips, and said in a tone ofreproachful tenderness:
"Cruel boy, become a soldier? would you, then, deprive me of the joy ofseeing you?"
"No, my mother; no."
"You must
agree to whatever plans we make for your good," said Louis;"and not be talking of any wild schemes of your own."
"I am ready to obey; but not yet. One of these days I will go to work,and make a fortune."
"How, poor, foolish boy? What can you do?"
"_Dame!_ I don't know now; but set your mind at rest, I will find away."
Finding it impossible to make this self-sufficient youth listen toreason, Louis and Mme. Fauvel, after discussing the matter fully,decided that assistance must be forced upon him, and his path in lifemarked out for him.
It was difficult, however, to choose a profession; and Clameran thoughtit prudent to wait awhile, and study the bent of the young man's mind.In the meanwhile it was decided that Mme. Fauvel should place funds atClameran's disposal for Raoul's support.
Regarding Gaston's brother in the light of a father to her child, Mme.Fauvel soon found him indispensable. She continually longed to seehim, either to consult him concerning some step to be taken for Raoul'sbenefit, or to impress upon him some good advice to be given.
Thus she was well pleased, when one day he requested the honor of beingallowed to call upon her at her own house.
Nothing was easier than to introduce the Marquis of Clameran to herhusband as an old friend of her family; and, after once being admitted,he might come as often as he chose.
Mme. Fauvel congratulated herself upon this arrangement.
Afraid to go to Raoul every day, and in constant terror lest her lettersto him should be discovered, and his replies fall into her husband'shands, she was delighted at the prospect of having news of him fromClameran.
For a month, things went on very smoothly, when one day the marquisconfessed that Raoul was giving him a great deal of trouble. Hishesitating, embarrassed manner frightened Mme. Fauvel. She thoughtsomething dreadful had happened, and that he was trying to break the badnews gently.
"What is the matter?" she said, turning pale.
"I am sorry to say," replied Clameran, "that this young man hasinherited all the pride and passions of his ancestors. He is oneof those natures who stop at nothing, who only find incitement inopposition; and I can think of no way of checking him in his madcareer."
"Merciful Heaven! what has he been doing?"
"Nothing especially censurable; that is, nothing irreparable, thus far;but I am afraid of the future. He is unaware of the liberal allowancewhich you have placed in my hands for his benefit; and, although hethinks that I support him, there is not a single indulgence whichhe denies himself; he throws away money as if he were the son of amillionaire."
Like all mothers, Mme. Fauvel attempted to excuse her son.
"Perhaps you are a little severe," she said. "Poor child, he hassuffered so much! He has undergone so many privations during hischildhood, that this sudden happiness and wealth has turned his head;he seizes it as a starving man seizes a piece of bread. Is it surprisingthat he should refuse to listen to reason until hungry nature shall havebeen gratified? Ah, only have patience, and he will soon return tothe path of sober duty. He has too noble a heart to do anything reallywrong."
"He has suffered so much!" was Mme. Fauvel's constant excuse for Raoul.This was her invariable reply to M. de Clameran's complaints of hisnephew's conduct.
And, having once commenced, he was now constant in his accusationsagainst Raoul.
"Nothing restrains his extravagance and dissipation," Louis would say ina mournful voice; "the instant a piece of folly enters his head, it iscarried out, no matter at what cost."
Mme. Fauvel saw no reason why her son should be thus harshly judged.
"You must remember," she said in an aggrieved tone, "that from infancyhe has been left to his own unguided impulses. The unfortunate boy neverhad a mother to tend and counsel him. You must remember, too, that hehas never known a father's guidance."
"There is some excuse for him, to be sure; but nevertheless he mustchange his present course. Could you not speak seriously to him, madame?You have more influence over him than I."
She promised, but forgot her good resolution when with Raoul. She hadso little time to devote to him, that it seemed cruel to spend it inreprimands. Sometimes she would hurry from home for the purpose offollowing the marquis's advice; but, the instant she saw Raoul, hercourage failed; a pleading look from his soft, dark eyes silenced therebuke upon her lips; the sound of his voice banished every anxiousthought, and lulled her mind to the present happiness.
But Clameran was not a man to lose sight of the main object, in what heconsidered a sentimental wasting of time. He would have no compromise ofduty.
His brother had bequeathed to him, as a precious trust, his son Raoul;he regarded himself, he said, as his guardian, and would be heldresponsible in another world for his welfare.
He entreated Mme. Fauvel to use her influence, when he found himselfpowerless in trying to check the heedless youth in his headlong career.She ought, for the sake of her child, to see more of him, study hisdisposition, and daily admonish him in his duty to himself and to her.
"Alas," the poor woman replied, "that would be my heart's desire. Buthow can I do it? Have I the right to ruin myself? I have other children,for whom I must be careful of my reputation."
This answer appeared to astonish Clameran. A fortnight before, Mme.Fauvel would not have alluded to her other sons.
"I will think the matter over," said Louis, "And perhaps when I seeyou next I shall be able to submit to you a plan which will reconcileeverything."
The reflections of a man of so much experience could not be fruitless.He had a relieved, satisfied look, when he called to see Mme. Fauvel onthe following week.
"I think I have solved the problem," he said.
"What problem?"
"The means of saving Raoul."
He explained himself by saying, that as Mme. Fauvel could not, withoutarousing her husband's suspicions, continue her daily visits to Raoul,she must receive him at her own house.
This proposition shocked Mme. Fauvel; for though she had been imprudent,even culpable, she was the soul of honor, and naturally shrank from theidea of introducing Raoul into the midst of her family, and seeing himwelcomed by her husband, and perhaps become the friend of his sons.Her instinctive sense of justice made her declare that she would neverconsent to such an infamous step.
"Yes," said the marquis, thoughtfully, "there is some risk; but then, itis the only chance of saving your child."
She resisted with so much firmness and indignation that Louis wasastonished, and for a time nonplussed; though he by no means let thesubject drop, but seized every opportunity of impressing upon hertortured mind that Raoul's salvation depended entirely upon her.
"No," she would always reply, "no! Never will I be so base andperfidious to my husband!"
Unfortunate woman! little did she know of the pitfalls which stand everready to swallow up wanderers from the path of virtue.
Before a week had passed, she listened to this project, which at firsthad filled her with horror, with a willing ear, and even began to devisemeans for its speedy execution.
Yes, after a cruel struggle, she finally yielded to the pressure ofClameran's politely uttered threats and Raoul's wheedling entreaties.
"But how," she asked, "upon what pretext can I receive Raoul?"
"It would be the easiest thing in the world," replied Clameran, "toadmit him as an ordinary acquaintance, and, indeed, to place him onthe same footing which I myself occupy--that of an intimate friend andhabitue of your drawing-rooms. But Raoul must have more than this; heneeds your constant care."
After torturing Mme. Fauvel for a long time, he finally revealed hisscheme.
"We have in our hands," he said, "the solution of this problem, whichmay be so easily reached that I regard it as an inspiration."
Mme. Fauvel eagerly scanned his face as she listened with the pitiableresignation of a martyr.
"Have you not a cousin, a widow lady, who had two daughters, living atSt. Remy?" asked Louis.
"
Yes, Mme. de Lagors."
"Precisely so. What fortune has she?"
"She is poor, monsieur, very poor."
"And, but for the assistance you render her secretly, she would bethrown upon the charity of the world."
Mme. Fauvel was bewildered at finding the marquis so well informed ofher private affairs.
"How could you have discovered this?" she asked.
"Oh, I know all about this affair, and many others besides. I know, forexample, that your husband has never met any of your relatives, and thathe is not even aware of the existence of your cousin De Lagors. Do youbegin to comprehend my plan?"
She not only understood it, but also knew that she would end by being aparty to it.
"All will succeed if you follow my instructions," said Louis. "To-morrowor next day, you will receive a letter from your cousin at St. Remy,telling you that she has sent her son to Paris on a visit, and begs youto receive and watch over him. Naturally you show this letter to yourhusband; and a few days afterward he warmly welcomes your nephew, Raoulde Lagors, a handsome, rich, attractive young man, who does everythinghe can to please you both."
"Monsieur," replied Mme. Fauvel, "my cousin is a pious, honorable woman,and nothing would induce her to countenance so shameful a transaction."
The marquis smiled scornfully, and said:
"Who told you that I intended to confide in her?"
"But you would be obliged to do so! How else?"
"You are very simple, madame. The letter which you will receive, andshow to your husband, will be dictated by me, and posted at St. Remyby a friend of mine. If I spoke of the obligations under which you haveplaced your cousin, it was merely to show you that, in case of accident,her own interest would make her serve you. Do you see any obstacle tothis plan, madame?"
Mme. Fauvel's eyes flashed with indignation.
"Is my will of no account?" she exclaimed. "You seem to have made yourarrangements without consulting me at all."
"Excuse me," said the marquis, with ironical politeness, "but I knewthat you would take the same view of the matter as myself. Your goodsense would convince you of the necessity of using every possible meansof rescuing your child from destruction."
"But it is a crime, monsieur, that you propose--an abominable crime! Mymind revolts at the very idea of it!"
This speech seemed to arouse all the bad passions slumbering inClameran's bosom; and his pale face had a fiendish expression as hefiercely replied:
"We had better end this humbuggery, and come to a clear understanding atonce. Before you begin to talk about crime, think over your past life.You were not so timid and scrupulous when you gave yourself up to yourlover; neither did you hesitate to faithlessly refuse to share hisexile, although for your sake he had just jeopardized his life bykilling two men. You felt no scruples at abandoning your child inLondon; although rolling in wealth, you never even inquired if this poorwaif had bread to eat. You felt no scruples about marrying M. Fauvel.Did you tell your confiding husband of the lines of shame concealedbeneath that orange wreath? Did you hesitate to confirm and strengthenhis happy delusion, that his lips had pressed the first kiss upon yourbrow? No! All these crimes you indulged in; and, when in Gaston's nameI demand reparation, you indignantly refuse. But, mark my words, madame,it is too late! You ruined the father; but you shall save the son, or,by all the saints in heaven, I swear you shall no longer cheat the worldof its esteem."
"I will obey you, monsieur," murmured the trembling, frightened woman.
The following week Raoul, now Raoul de Lagors, was seated at thebanker's dinner-table, between Mme. Fauvel and Madeleine.