During the twenty years of her married life, Valentine had experienced but 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 frequent journeys to Paris, and, in spite of every attention which money could procure, she became worse, and died.
The countess preserved her faculties to the last, and with her dying breath said to her daughter:
“Ah, well! was I not wise in prevailing upon you to bury the past? Your silence has made my old age peaceful and happy, and I now thank you for having done your duty to yourself and to me. You will be rewarded on earth and in heaven, my dear daughter.”
Mme. Fauvel constantly said that, since the loss of her mother, she had never had cause to shed a tear.
And what more could she wish for? As years rolled on, Andre’s love remained steadfast; he was as devoted a husband as the most exacting woman could wish. To his great love was added that sweet intimacy which results from long conformity of ideas and unbounded confidence.
Everything prospered with this happy couple. Andre was twice as wealthy as he had ever hoped to be even in his wildest visions; every wish of Valentine was anticipated by Andre; their two sons, Lucien and Abel, were handsome, intelligent young men, whose honorable characters and graceful bearing reflected credit upon their parents, who had so carefully watched over their education.
Nothing seemed wanting to insure Valentine’s felicity. When her husband and sons were at their business, her solitude was cheered by the intelligent, affectionate companionship of a young girl whom she loved as her own daughter, and who in return filled the place of a devoted child.
Madeleine was M. Fauvel’s niece, and when an infant had lost both parents, who were poor but very worthy people. Valentine begged to adopt the babe, thinking she could thus, in a measure, atone for the desertion of the poor little creature whom she had abandoned to strangers.
She hoped that this good work would bring down the blessings of God upon her.
The day of the little orphan’s arrival, M. Fauvel invested for her ten thousand francs, which he presented to Madeleine as her dowry.
The banker amused himself by increasing this ten thousand francs in the most marvellous ways. He, who never ventured upon a rash speculation with his own money, always invested it in the most hazardous schemes, and was always so successful, that at the end of fifteen years the ten thousand francs had become half a million.
People were right when they said that the Fauvel family were to be envied.
Time had dulled the remorse and anxiety of Valentine. In the genial atmosphere of a happy home, she had found rest, and almost forgetfulness. She had suffered so much at being compelled to deceive Andre that she hoped she was now at quits with fate.
She began to look forward to the future, and her youth seemed buried in an impenetrable mist, and was, as it were, the memory of a painful dream.
Yes, she believed herself saved, and her very feeling of security made the 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 meditating upon her present happiness, when the servant brought her a letter, which had been left by a stranger, who refused to give his name.
Without the faintest presentiment of evil, she carelessly broke the seal, and in an instant was almost petrified by the words which met her terrified eye:
“MADAME—Would it be relying too much upon the memories of the past to hope for half an hour of your time?
“To-morrow, between two and three, I will do myself the honor of calling upon you.
“THE MARQUIS OF CLAMERAN.”
Fortunately, Mme. Fauvel was alone.
Trembling like a leaf, she read the letter over and over again, as if to convince herself that she was not the victim of a horrible hallucination.
Half a dozen times, with a sort of terror, she whispered that name once so dear—Clameran! spelling it aloud as if it were a strange name which she could not pronounce. And the eight letters forming the name seemed to 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 and threatening.
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 thoughts sufficiently to decide upon a course of conduct.
Then she began to think she was foolish to be so frightened. This letter was written by Gaston, of course; therefore she need feel no apprehension. Gaston had returned to France, and wished to see her. She could understand this desire, and she knew too well this man, upon whom she had lavished her young affection, to attribute any bad motives to his visit.
He would come; and finding her the wife of another, the mother of grown sons, they would exchange thoughts of the past, perhaps a few regrets; she would restore the jewels which she had faithfully kept for him; he would assure her of his lifelong friendship, and—that would be all.
But one distressing doubt beset her agitated mind. Should she conceal from Gaston the birth of his son?
To confess was to expose herself to many dangers. It was placing herself at the mercy of a man—a loyal, honorable man to be sure—confiding to him not only her own peace, honor, and happiness, but the honor and happiness of her family, of her noble husband and loving sons.
Still silence would be a crime. She had abandoned her child, denied him the cares and affection of a mother; and now should she add to her sin by 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 sent word that she was not well, and would not be down to dinner. For the first 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 her indisposition.
She wished to be alone in her trouble, and see if she could decide upon some plan for warding off this impending ruin.
The dreaded morrow came.
She counted the hours until two o’clock. After that, she counted the minutes.
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 of this painful meeting. She had even decided upon what she should say. She would reply this, and ask that; her words were all selected, and her speech ready.
But, at the dreaded moment, her strength gave way; she turned as cold as marble, and could not rise from her seat; she was speechless, and, with a 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 and mustache, and a cold, severe cast of countenance; his expression was one of haughty severity as he stood there in his full suit of black.
The agitated woman tried to discover in his face some traces of the man whom she had so madly loved, who had pressed her to his heart, and besought her to remain faithful until he should return from a foreign land, and lay his fortune at her feet—the father of her son.
She was surprised to discover no resemblance to the youth whose memory had haunted her life; no, never would she have recognized this stranger as 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 and suffering of exile: I am Louis de Clameran.”
What! it was not Gaston, then, who had written to her; it was not Gaston who 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 by calling him “Gaston.”
What could this man want?—this brother in whom Gaston had never confided? What did he know of the past?
A thousand probabilities, each one more terrible than the other, flashed across her brain.
Yet she succeeded in overcoming her weakness so that Louis scarcely perceived 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 affected indifference:
“Will you be kind enough, monsieur, to explain the object of this unexpected visit?”
The marquis, seeming not to notice this sudden change of manner, took a seat without removing his eyes from Mme. Fauvel’s face.
“First of all, madame,” he began, “I must ask if we can be overheard by anyone?”
“Why this question? You can have nothing to say to me that my husband and children should not hear.”
Louis shrugged his shoulders, and said:
“Be good enough to answer me, madame; not for my sake, but for your own.”
“Speak, then, monsieur; you will not be heard.”
In spite of this assurance, the marquis drew his chair close to the sofa where Mme. Fauvel sat, so as to speak in a very low tone, as if almost afraid to hear his own voice.
“As I told you, madame, Gaston is dead; and it was I who closed his eyes, and received his last wishes. Do you understand?”
The poor woman understood only too well, but was racking her brain to discover what could be the purpose of this fatal visit. Perhaps it was only to claim Gaston’s jewels.
“It is unnecessary to recall,” continued Louis, “the painful circumstances which blasted my brother’s life. However happy your own lot has been, you must sometimes have thought of this friend of your youth, who unhesitatingly sacrificed himself in defence of your honor.”
Not a muscle of Mme. Fauvel’s face moved; she appeared to be trying to recall the circumstances to which Louis alluded.
“Have you forgotten, madame?” he asked with bitterness: “then I must explain more clearly. A long, long time ago you loved my unfortunate brother.”
“Monsieur!”
“Ah, it is useless to deny it, madame: I told you that Gaston confided everything 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 abroad in 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 now advanced in life, who is married, and who has grown sons. If your brother loved me, it was his affair, and not yours. If, young and ignorant, I was led into imprudence, it is not your place to remind me of 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 like a 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 instantly thrown herself upon a Clameran’s mercy. But she had her family to defend, 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. He certainly knew; but she determined to deny everything, even the most positive proofs, if he should produce them.
For an instant she had an idea of ordering the Marquis of Clameran to leave the house; but prudence stayed her. She thought it best to discover how much he really knew.
“Well,” she said with a forced laugh, “will you be kind enough to state what you wish with me?”
“Certainly, madame. Two years ago the vicissitudes of exile took my brother to London. There, at the house of a friend, he met a young man by the name of Raoul. Gaston was so struck by the youth’s appearance and intelligence, that he inquired who he was, and discovered that beyond a doubt 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. Your mother certainly used every precaution to conceal your secret; but the best-laid plans always have some weak point. After your marriage, one of your mother’s London friends came to Tarascon, and spread the report of what had taken place at the English village. This lady also revealed your true name to the nurse who was bringing up the child. Thus everything was discovered by my brother, who had no difficulty in obtaining 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 are poor; my brother died on a pallet in a lodging-house; and I have only an income of twelve hundred francs to live upon. What is to become of Raoul, alone with no relations or friends to assist him? My brother’s last moments were embittered by anxiety for the welfare of his child.”
“Really, monsieur——”
“Allow me to finish,” interrupted Louis. “In that supreme hour Gaston opened his heart to me. He told me to apply to you. ‘Valentine,’ said he, ‘Valentine will remember the past, and will not let our son want for anything; she is wealthy, she is just and generous; I die with my mind at rest.’”
Mme. Fauvel rose from her seat, and stood, evidently waiting for her visitor to retire.
“You must confess, monsieur,” she said, “that I have shown great patience.”
This imperturbable assurance amazed Louis.
“I do not deny,” she continued, “that I at one time possessed the confidence of M. Gaston de Clameran. I will prove it by restoring to you your mother’s jewels, with which he intrusted me on his departure.”
While speaking she took from beneath the sofa-cushion the purse of jewels, and handed it to Louis.
“These jewels would have been given to the owner the instant they were called for, monsieur, and I am surprised that your brother never reclaimed them.”
Louis betrayed his astonishment at the sight of the jewels. He tried to cover 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-rope and quietly said:
“You will allow me to end this interview, monsieur, which was only granted for the purpose of placing in your hands these precious jewels.”
Thus dismissed, M. de Clameran was obliged to take his leave without attaining his object.
“As you will, madame,” he said, “I leave you; but before doing so I must tell you the rest of my brother’s dying injunctions: ‘If Valentine disregards the past, and refuses to provide for our son, I enjoin it upon 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 of Clameran, she felt weary and crushed in body and spirit.
She had scarcely strength to drag herself up to her chamber, and lock the door.
Now there was no room for doubt; her fears had become realities. She could fathom the abyss into which she was about to be hurled, and knew that in her fall she would drag her family with her.
God alone, in this hour of danger, could help her, could save her from destruction. She prayed.
“Oh, my God!” she cried, “punish me for my great sin, and I will evermore adore thy chastising hand! I have been a bad daughter, an unworthy 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 my children!”
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 would return to torture her now. How could she escape him?
To-day she had succeeded in subduing her heart and conscience; would she again have the strength to master her feelings?
She well knew that her calmness and courage were entirely due to the inaptness of Clameran.
Why did he not use entreaties instead of threats?
When Louis spoke of Raoul, she could scarcely conceal her emotion; her maternal heart yearned toward the innocent child who was expiating his mother’s faults.
A chill of horror passed over her at the idea of his enduring the pangs of 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 what delight would she undergo the greatest privations for his sake! If she could but send him enough money to support him comfortably!
But no; she could not take this step without compromising herself and her family.
Prudence forbade her acceptance of the intervention of Louis de Clameran.
To confide in him, was placing herself, and all she held dear, at his mercy—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 trumped up 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 his brother, why had he not demanded of the married woman the deposit intrusted to the maiden?
Why, when anxious about the future of their child, had he not come to her, if he had such confidence in her generosity? If he intrusted her on his death-bed, why had he not shown this trust while living?
A thousand vague apprehensions beset her mind; she felt suspicion and distrust 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 she once yielded, what would not be exacted of her in the future? She would certainly be made to suffer if she refused to yield. If she had only some wise friend to advise her!
For a moment she thought of throwing herself at her husband’s feet and confessing all.
Unfortunately, she thrust aside this means of salvation. She pictured to herself the mortification and sorrow that her noble-hearted husband would suffer upon discovering, after a lapse of twenty years, how shamefully he had been deceived, how his confidence and love had been betrayed.
Having been once deceived, would he ever trust her again? Would he believe in her fidelity as a wife, when he discovered that she had uttered her marriage vows to love and honor him, when her heart was already 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 happiness would be gone forever. His chair at the fireside would be left empty; his sons would shun her presence, and every family bond would be severed.
Then again, would peace be preserved by her silence? Would not Clameran end by betraying her to Andre?
She thought of ending her doubts by suicide; but her death would not silence her implacable enemy, who, not being able to disgrace her while alive, would dishonor her memory.
Fortunately, the banker was still absent; and, during the two days succeeding Louis’s visit, Mme. Fauvel could keep her room under pretence of sickness.
But Madeleine, with her feminine instinct, saw that her aunt was troubled by something worse than nervous headache, for which the physician was prescribing all sorts of remedies, with no beneficial effect.
She remembered that this sudden illness dated from the visit of the melancholy looking stranger, who had been closeted for a long time with her aunt.
Madeleine supposed something was weighing upon the miserable woman’s mind, 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 me bring 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 saving her husband from suffering and disgrace.
She well knew that to act thus was to prepare a life of torture for herself; but she alone would be the victim, and, at any rate, she would be gaining time. Heaven might at last interpose, and save her from ruin.
In the meantime, M. Fauvel had returned home, and Valentine resumed her accustomed duties.
But she was no longer the happy mother and devoted wife, whose smiling presence was wont to fill the house with sunshine and comfort. She was melancholy, anxious, and at times irritable.
Hearing nothing of Clameran, she expected to see him appear at any moment; trembling at every knock, and turning pale when a strange step was heard to enter, she dared not leave the house, for fear he should come during her absence.
Her agony was like that of a condemned man, who, each day as he wakes from his uneasy slumber, asks himself, “Am I to die to-day?”
Clameran did not come; he wrote, or rather, as he was too prudent to furnish arms which could be used against him, he had a note written, which Mme. Fauvel alone might understand, in which he said that he was quite ill, and unable to call upon her; and hoped she would be so good as to come to his room the next day; she had only to ask for 317, Hotel du Louvre.
The letter was almost a relief for Mme. Fauvel. Anything was preferable to 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 black silk, a large bonnet which concealed her face, and, putting a thick veil in her pocket to be used if she found it necessary, started forth.
After hurriedly walking several squares, she thought she might, without fear of being recognized, call a coach. In a few minutes she was set down at the Hotel du Louvre. Here her uneasiness increased. Her circle of acquaintances being large, she was in terror of being recognized. What would her friends think if they saw her at the Hotel du Louvre disguised in this old dress?
Anyone would naturally suspect an intrigue, a rendezvous; and her character would be ruined forever.
This was the first time since her marriage that she had had occasion for mystery; and her efforts to escape notice were in every way calculated to attract attention.
The porter said that the Marquis of Clameran’s rooms were on the third floor.
She hurried up the stairs, glad to escape the scrutinizing glances of several men standing near; but, in spite of the minute directions given by the porter, she lost her way in one of the long corridors of the hotel.
Finally, after wandering about for some time, she found a door bearing the number sought—317.
She stood leaning against the wall with her hand pressed to her throbbing heart, which seemed bursting.
Now, at the moment of risking this decisive step, she felt paralyzed with fright. She would have given all she possessed to find herself safe in 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 the room, but a young man, almost a youth, who bowed to Mme. Fauvel with a singular expression on his handsome face.
Mme. Fauvel thought that she had mistaken the room.
“Excuse me, monsieur,” she said, blushing deeply. “I thought that this was the Marquis of Clameran’s room.”
“It is his room, madame,” replied the young man; then, seeing she was silent 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 a stranger.
With visible anxiety she awaited an explanation.
“Reassure yourself, madame,” said the young man: “you are as safe here as if you were in your own house. M. de Clameran desired me to make his excuses; he will not have the honor of seeing you to-day.”
“But, monsieur, from an urgent letter sent by him yesterday, I was led to suppose—to infer—that he——”
“When he wrote to you, madame, he had projects in view which he has since renounced.”
Mme. Fauvel was too agitated and troubled to think clearly. Beyond the present she could see nothing.
“Do you mean,” she asked with distrust, “that he has changed his intentions?”
The young man’s face was expressive of sad compassion, as if he shared the sufferings of the unhappy woman before him.
“The marquis has renounced,” he said, in a melancholy tone, “what he wrongly considered a sacred duty. Believe me, he hesitated a long time before he could decide to apply to you on a subject painful to you both. When he began to explain his apparent intrusion upon your private affairs, you refused to hear him, and dismissed him with indignant contempt. He knew not what imperious reasons dictated your conduct. Blinded by unjust anger, he swore to obtain by threats what you refused to give voluntarily. Resolved to attack your domestic happiness, he had collected overwhelming proofs against you. Pardon him: an oath given to his dying brother bound him.
“These convincing proofs,” he continued, as he tapped his finger on a bundle of papers which he had taken from the mantel, “this evidence that cannot be denied, I now hold in my hand. This is the certificate of the Rev. Dr. Sedley; this is the declaration of Mrs. Dobbin, the farmer’s wife; and these others are the statements of the physician and of several persons of high social position who were acquainted with Mme. de la Verberie during her stay in London. Not a single link is missing. I had great difficulty in getting these papers away from M. de Clameran. Had he anticipated my intention of thus disposing of them, they would never have been surrendered to my keeping.”
As he finished speaking, the young man threw the bundle of papers into the fire where they blazed up; and in a moment nothing remained of them but a little heap of ashes.
“All is now destroyed, madame,” he said, with a satisfied air. “The past, if you desire it, is as completely annihilated as those papers. If anyone, thereafter, dares accuse you of having had a son before your marriage, treat him as a vile calumniator. No proof against you can be produced; none exists. You are free.”
Mme. Fauvel began to understand the sense of this scene; the truth dawned upon her bewildered mind.
This noble youth, who protected her from the anger of De Clameran, who restored her peace of mind and the exercise of her own free will, by destroying all proofs of her past, was, must be, the child whom she had abandoned: Valentin-Raoul.
In an instant, all was forgotten save the present. Maternal tenderness, so long restrained, now welled up and overflowed as with intense emotion she murmured:
“Raoul!”
At this name, uttered in so thrilling a tone, the youth started and tottered, as if overcome by an unhoped-for happiness.
“Yes, Raoul,” he cried, “Raoul, who would a thousand times rather die than cause his mother a moment’s pain; Raoul, who would shed his life’s blood to spare her one tear.”
She made no attempt to struggle against nature’s yearnings; her longing to clasp to her heart this long-pined-for first-born must be gratified at 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 by a mother’s kiss. This dear son whom she had never seen before, had been taken from her, despite her prayers and tears, without a mother’s blessing, a mother’s embrace. After twenty years waiting, should it be denied him now?
But joy so great, following upon so many contending emotions, was more than the excited mother could bear; she sank back in her chair almost fainting, and with distended eyes gazed in a bewildered, eager way upon her long-lost son, who was now kneeling at her feet.
With tenderness she stroked the soft chestnut curls, and drank in the tenderness of his soft dark eyes, and expressive mouth, as he murmured words of filial affection in her craving ear.
“Oh, mother!” he said, “words cannot describe my feelings of pain and anguish upon hearing that my uncle had dared to threaten you. He threaten you! He repents already of his cruelty; he did not know you as I do. Yes, my mother, I have known you for a long, long time. Often have my father and I hovered around your happy home to catch a glimpse of you through the window. When you passed by in your carriage, he would say to me, ‘There is your mother, Raoul!’ To look upon you was our greatest joy. When we knew you were going to a ball, we would wait near the door to see you enter, in your satin and diamonds. How often have I followed your fast horses to see you descend from the carriage and enter wealthy doors, which I could never hope to penetrate! And how my noble father loved 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’s cheeks, as she listened to the musical tones of Raoul’s voice.
This voice was so like Gaston’s, that she seemed once more to be listening to the lover of her almost forgotten youth.
She was living over again those stolen meetings, those long hours of bliss, when Gaston was at her side, as they sat and watched the river rippling beneath the trees.
It seemed only yesterday that Gaston had pressed her to his faithful heart; she saw him still saying gently:
“In three years, Valentine! Wait for me!”
Andre, her two sons, Madeleine, all were forgotten in this new-found affection.
Raoul continued in tender tones:
“Only yesterday I discovered that my uncle had been to demand for me a few crumbs of your wealth. Why did he take such a step? I am poor, it is true, very poor; but I am too familiar with poverty to bemoan it. I have a 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 beloved mother; but do not repel my affection; let me love you. Promise me that this first kiss shall not be the last. No one will ever know of my new-found happiness; not by word or deed will I do aught to let the world suspect that I possess this great joy.”
And Mme. Fauvel had dreaded this son! Ah, how bitterly did she now reproach herself for not having flown to meet him the instant she heard that he was living!
She questioned him regarding the past; she wished to know how he had lived, what he had been doing.
He replied that he had nothing to conceal; his existence had been that of every poor boy, who had nothing to look forward to but a life of labor 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 an education superior to his condition in life, because, as she always said, he would make himself a great name, and attain to wealth, if he were taught.
When about sixteen years of age, she procured him a situation in a banking-house; and he was getting a salary, which, though small, was enough 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’s tenderness. He had suffered but one great sorrow, and that was the day when Gaston de Clameran, his father, had died in his arms.
“But now,” he said, “all is forgotten, that one sorrow is forgotten in my present happiness. Now that I see you and possess your love, I forget the past, and ask for nothing more.”
Mme. Fauvel was oblivious of the lapse of time, and was startled when Raoul exclaimed:
“Why, it is seven o’clock!”
Seven o’clock! What would her family think of this long absence? Her husband must be even now awaiting dinner.
“Shall I see you again, mother?” asked Raoul in a beseeching tone, as they 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 perceived that she was not mistress of her actions. Never before had she had occasion to wish for uncontrolled liberty.
She left her heart and soul behind her in the Hotel du Louvre, where she had just found her son. She was compelled to leave him, to undergo the intolerable agony of composing her face to conceal this great happiness, which had changed her whole life and being. She was angry with fate because she could not remain with her first-born son.
Having some difficulty in procuring a carriage, it was half-past seven before she reached the Rue de Provence, when she found the family waiting for her.
She thought her husband silly, and even vulgar, when he joked her upon letting her poor children starve to death, while she was promenading the boulevards.
So strange are the sudden effects of a new passion, that she regarded almost with contempt this unbounded confidence reposed in her.
She replied to his jest with a forced calmness, as if her mind were really as free and undisturbed as it had been before Clameran’s visit.
So intoxicated had been her sensations while with Raoul, that in her joy she was incapable of desiring anything else, of dreaming of aught save the renewal of these delightful emotions.
No longer was she a devoted wife, an affectionate mother to this household 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 her chief pride and joy. They had always been petted and indulged in every way; 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, so blinded was she in her devotion to her martyr, as she called him.
Her folly was complete. No remorse for the past, no apprehensions for the future, disturbed the satisfied present. To her the future was to-morrow; eternity was the sixteen hours which must elapse before another interview.
She seemed to think that Gaston’s death absolved the past, and changed the present.
Her sole regret was her marriage. Free, with no family ties, she could have consecrated herself exclusively to Raoul. How gladly would she have sacrificed her affluence to enjoy poverty with him!
She felt no fear that her husband and sons would suspect the thoughts which absorbed her mind; but she dreaded her niece.
She imagined that Madeleine looked at her strangely on her return from the Hotel du Louvre. She must suspect something; but did she suspect the truth?
For several days she asked embarrassing questions, as to where her aunt went, 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 she could not escape. She pondered what means she could take to avoid the penetrating watchfulness of a girl who was accustomed to read in her face every thought that crossed her mind.
With unspeakable satisfaction she solved the difficulty in a way which she thought would please all parties.
During the last two years the banker’s cashier and protege, Prosper Bertomy, had been devoted in his attentions to Madeleine. Mme. Fauvel decided to do all in her power to hasten matters, so that, Madeleine once married and out of the house, there would be no one to criticise her own movements. She could then spend most of her time with Raoul without fear of detection.
That evening, with a duplicity of which she would have been incapable a few weeks before, she began to question Madeleine about her sentiments toward 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 husband without 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 of Master 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 for any 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, and need fear no opposition to your wishes. Is it possible that a person of your penetration supposed us to be in ignorance of your secret? Did you think that Prosper would have been so warmly welcomed by your uncle and myself, 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 your love 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 the marriage must take place. Madeleine once married, I shall have nothing to fear.”
Unfortunately, Mme. Fauvel was so engrossed by her new passion that she put off from day to day her project of hastening the marriage, until it was too late. Spending a portion of each day at the Hotel du Louvre with Raoul, and, when separated from him, devoting her thoughts to insuring him an independent fortune and a good position, she could think of nothing else.
She had not yet spoken to him of money or business.
She imagined that she had discovered in him his father’s noble qualities; that the sensitiveness which is so easily wounded was expressed in his every word and action.
She anxiously wondered if he would ever accept the least assistance from her. The Marquis of Clameran quieted her doubts on this point.
She had frequently met him since the day on which he had so frightened her, and to her first aversion had succeeded a secret sympathy. She felt kindly 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 anxious for the welfare of his nephew, and constantly complained of the idle life 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 cannot live upon air, and, as my handsome nephew has no fortune, it would be only prudent for us to procure him some employment.”
“Ah, my dear uncle, do let me enjoy my present happiness. What is the use of any change? What do I want?”
“You want for nothing at present, Raoul; but when your resources are exhausted, and mine, too—which will be in a short time—what will become of you?”
“Bast! I will enter the army. All the Clamerans are born soldiers; and if a war comes——”
Mme. Fauvel laid her hand upon his lips, and said in a tone of reproachful tenderness:
“Cruel boy, become a soldier? would you, then, deprive me of the joy of seeing 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 a way.”
Finding it impossible to make this self-sufficient youth listen to reason, Louis and Mme. Fauvel, after discussing the matter fully, decided that assistance must be forced upon him, and his path in life marked out for him.
It was difficult, however, to choose a profession; and Clameran thought it 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 at Clameran’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 see him, either to consult him concerning some step to be taken for Raoul’s benefit, or to impress upon him some good advice to be given.
Thus she was well pleased, when one day he requested the honor of being allowed to call upon her at her own house.
Nothing was easier than to introduce the Marquis of Clameran to her husband 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 letters to him should be discovered, and his replies fall into her husband’s hands, she was delighted at the prospect of having news of him from Clameran.
For a month, things went on very smoothly, when one day the marquis confessed that Raoul was giving him a great deal of trouble. His hesitating, embarrassed manner frightened Mme. Fauvel. She thought something dreadful had happened, and that he was trying to break the bad news gently.
“What is the matter?” she said, turning pale.
“I am sorry to say,” replied Clameran, “that this young man has inherited all the pride and passions of his ancestors. He is one of those natures who stop at nothing, who only find incitement in opposition; and I can think of no way of checking him in his mad career.”
“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 allowance which you have placed in my hands for his benefit; and, although he thinks that I support him, there is not a single indulgence which he denies himself; he throws away money as if he were the son of a millionaire.”
Like all mothers, Mme. Fauvel attempted to excuse her son.
“Perhaps you are a little severe,” she said. “Poor child, he has suffered so much! He has undergone so many privations during his childhood, that this sudden happiness and wealth has turned his head; he seizes it as a starving man seizes a piece of bread. Is it surprising that he should refuse to listen to reason until hungry nature shall have been gratified? Ah, only have patience, and he will soon return to the path of sober duty. He has too noble a heart to do anything really wrong.”
“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 his nephew’s conduct.
And, having once commenced, he was now constant in his accusations against Raoul.
“Nothing restrains his extravagance and dissipation,” Louis would say in a mournful voice; “the instant a piece of folly enters his head, it is carried 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 infancy he has been left to his own unguided impulses. The unfortunate boy never had a mother to tend and counsel him. You must remember, too, that he has never known a father’s guidance.”
“There is some excuse for him, to be sure; but nevertheless he must change 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 had so little time to devote to him, that it seemed cruel to spend it in reprimands. Sometimes she would hurry from home for the purpose of following the marquis’s advice; but, the instant she saw Raoul, her courage failed; a pleading look from his soft, dark eyes silenced the rebuke upon her lips; the sound of his voice banished every anxious thought, and lulled her mind to the present happiness.
But Clameran was not a man to lose sight of the main object, in what he considered a sentimental wasting of time. He would have no compromise of duty.
His brother had bequeathed to him, as a precious trust, his son Raoul; he regarded himself, he said, as his guardian, and would be held responsible in another world for his welfare.
He entreated Mme. Fauvel to use her influence, when he found himself powerless 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 his disposition, and daily admonish him in his duty to himself and to her.
“Alas,” the poor woman replied, “that would be my heart’s desire. But how 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 see you next I shall be able to submit to you a plan which will reconcile everything.”
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 on the 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, without arousing 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 the idea of introducing Raoul into the midst of her family, and seeing him welcomed by her husband, and perhaps become the friend of his sons. Her instinctive sense of justice made her declare that she would never consent to such an infamous step.
“Yes,” said the marquis, thoughtfully, “there is some risk; but then, it is the only chance of saving your child.”
She resisted with so much firmness and indignation that Louis was astonished, and for a time nonplussed; though he by no means let the subject drop, but seized every opportunity of impressing upon her tortured mind that Raoul’s salvation depended entirely upon her.
“No,” she would always reply, “no! Never will I be so base and perfidious to my husband!”
Unfortunate woman! little did she know of the pitfalls which stand ever ready to swallow up wanderers from the path of virtue.
Before a week had passed, she listened to this project, which at first had filled her with horror, with a willing ear, and even began to devise means for its speedy execution.
Yes, after a cruel struggle, she finally yielded to the pressure of Clameran’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, “to admit him as an ordinary acquaintance, and, indeed, to place him on the same footing which I myself occupy—that of an intimate friend and habitue of your drawing-rooms. But Raoul must have more than this; he needs your constant care.”
After torturing Mme. Fauvel for a long time, he finally revealed his scheme.
“We have in our hands,” he said, “the solution of this problem, which may be so easily reached that I regard it as an inspiration.”
Mme. Fauvel eagerly scanned his face as she listened with the pitiable resignation of a martyr.
“Have you not a cousin, a widow lady, who had two daughters, living at St. 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 be thrown upon the charity of the world.”
Mme. Fauvel was bewildered at finding the marquis so well informed of her private affairs.
“How could you have discovered this?” she asked.
“Oh, I know all about this affair, and many others besides. I know, for example, that your husband has never met any of your relatives, and that he is not even aware of the existence of your cousin De Lagors. Do you begin to comprehend my plan?”
She not only understood it, but also knew that she would end by being a party to it.
“All will succeed if you follow my instructions,” said Louis. “To-morrow or 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 you to receive and watch over him. Naturally you show this letter to your husband; and a few days afterward he warmly welcomes your nephew, Raoul de Lagors, a handsome, rich, attractive young man, who does everything he 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, and show to your husband, will be dictated by me, and posted at St. Remy by a friend of mine. If I spoke of the obligations under which you have placed 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 to this plan, madame?”
Mme. Fauvel’s eyes flashed with indignation.
“Is my will of no account?” she exclaimed. “You seem to have made your arrangements without consulting me at all.”
“Excuse me,” said the marquis, with ironical politeness, “but I knew that you would take the same view of the matter as myself. Your good sense would convince you of the necessity of using every possible means of rescuing your child from destruction.”
“But it is a crime, monsieur, that you propose—an abominable crime! My mind revolts at the very idea of it!”
This speech seemed to arouse all the bad passions slumbering in Clameran’s bosom; and his pale face had a fiendish expression as he fiercely replied:
“We had better end this humbuggery, and come to a clear understanding at once. 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 your lover; neither did you hesitate to faithlessly refuse to share his exile, although for your sake he had just jeopardized his life by killing two men. You felt no scruples at abandoning your child in London; although rolling in wealth, you never even inquired if this poor waif had bread to eat. You felt no scruples about marrying M. Fauvel. Did you tell your confiding husband of the lines of shame concealed beneath that orange wreath? Did you hesitate to confirm and strengthen his happy delusion, that his lips had pressed the first kiss upon your brow? No! All these crimes you indulged in; and, when in Gaston’s name I 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 world of its esteem.”
“I will obey you, monsieur,” murmured the trembling, frightened woman.
The following week Raoul, now Raoul de Lagors, was seated at the banker’s dinner-table, between Mme. Fauvel and Madeleine.
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