Madame de Camors had closed her eyes to conceal her tears. She opened them at the instant Vautrot seized her hand and called her “Poor angel!”
Seeing the man on his knees, she could not comprehend it, and only exclaimed, simply:
“Are you mad, Vautrot?”
“Yes, I am mad!” Vautrot threw his hair back with a romantic gesture common to him, and, as he believed, to the poets-“Yes, I am mad with love and with pity, for I see your sufferings, pure and noble victim!”
The Countess only stared in blank astonishment.
“Repose yourself with confidence,” he continued, “on a heart that will be devoted to you until death—a heart into which your tears now penetrate to its most sacred depths!”
The Countess did not wish her tears to penetrate to such a distance, so she dried them.
A man on his knees before a woman he adores must appear to her either sublime or ridiculous. Unfortunately, the attitude of Vautrot, at once theatrical and awkward, did not seem sublime to the Countess. To her lively imagination it was irresistibly ludicrous. A bright gleam of amusement illumined her charming countenance; she bit her lip to conceal it, but it shone out of her eyes nevertheless.
A man never should kneel unless sure of rising a conqueror. Otherwise, like Vautrot, he exposes himself to be laughed at.
“Rise, my good Vautrot,” the Countess said, gravely. “This book has evidently bewildered you. Go and take some rest and we will forget this; only you must never forget yourself again in this manner.”
Vautrot rose. He was livid.
“Madame la Comtesse,” he said, bitterly, “the love of a great heart never can be an offence. Mine at least would have been sincere; mine would have been faithful: mine would not have been an infamous snare!”
The emphasis of these words displayed so evident an intention, the countenance of the young woman changed immediately. She moved uneasily on her fauteuil.
“What do you mean, Monsieur Vautrot?”
“Nothing, Madame, which you do not know, I think,” he replied, meaningly.
She rose.
“You shall explain your meaning immediately to me, Monsieur!” she exclaimed; “or later, to my husband.”
“But your sadness, your tears,” cried the secretary, in a tone of admirable sincerity—“these made me sure you were not ignorant of it!”
“Of what? You hesitate! Speak, man!”
“I am not a wretch! I love you and pity you!—that is all;” and Vautrot sighed deeply.
“And why do you pity me?” She spoke haughtily; and though Vautrot had never suspected this imperiousness of manner or of language, he reflected hurriedly on the point at which he had arrived. More sure than ever of success, after a moment he took from his pocket a folded letter. It was one with which he had provided himself to confirm the suspicions of the Countess, now awakened for the first time.
In profound silence he unfolded and handed it to her. She hesitated a moment, then seized it. A single glance recognized the writing, for she had often exchanged notes with the Marquise de Campvallon.
Words of the most burning passion terminated thus:
“—Always a little jealous of Mary; half vexed at having given her to you. For—she is pretty and—but I! I am beautiful, am I not, my beloved?—and, above all, I adore you!”
At the first word the Countess became fearfully pale. Finishing, she uttered a deep groan; then she reread the letter and returned it to Vautrot, as if unconscious of what she was doing.
For a few seconds she remained motionless—petrified—her eyes fixed on vacancy. A world seemed rolling down and crushing her heart.
Suddenly she turned, passed with rapid steps into her boudoir; and Vautrot heard the sound of opening and shutting drawers. A moment after she reappeared with bonnet and cloak, and crossed the boudoir with the same strong and rapid step.
Vautrot, greatly terrified, rushed to stop her.
“Madame!” he cried, throwing himself before her.
She waved him aside with an imperious gesture of her hand; he trembled and obeyed, and she left the boudoir. A moment later she was in the Avenue des Champs Elysees, going toward Paris.
It was now near midnight; cold, damp April weather, with the rain falling in great drops. The few pedestrians still on the broad pavement turned to follow with their eyes this majestic young woman, whose gait seemed hastened by some errand of life or death.
But in Paris nothing is surprising, for people witness all manner of things there. Therefore the strange appearance of Madame de Camors did not excite any extraordinary attention. A few men smiled and nodded; others threw a few words of raillery at her—both were unheeded alike. She traversed the Place de la Concorde with the same convulsive haste, and passed toward the bridge. Arriving on it, the sound of the swollen Seine rushing under the arches and against the pillars, caught her ear; she stopped, leaned against the parapet, and gazed into the angry water; then bowing her head she uttered a deep sigh, and resumed her rapid walk.
In the Rue Vanneau she stopped before a brilliantly lighted mansion, isolated from the adjoining houses by a garden wall. It was the dwelling of the Marquise de Campvallon: Arrived there, the unfortunate child knew not what to do, nor even why she had come. She had some vague design of assuring herself palpably of her misfortune; to touch it with her finger; or perhaps to find some reason, some pretext to doubt it.
She dropped down on a stone bench against the garden wall, and hid her face in both her hands, vainly striving to think. It was past midnight. The streets were deserted: a shower of rain was falling over Paris, and she was chilled to numbness.
A sergent-de-ville passed, enveloped in his cape. He turned and stared at the young woman; then took her roughly by the arm.
“What are you doing here?” he said, brutally.
She looked up at him with wondering eyes.
“I do not know myself,” she answered.
The man looked more closely at her, discovered through all her confusion a nameless refinement and the subtle perfume of purity. He took pity on her.
“But, Madame, you can not stay here,” he rejoined in a softer voice.
“No?”
“You must have some great sorrow?”
“Very great.”
“What is your name?”
“The Comtesse de Camors,” she said, simply.
The man looked bewildered.
“Will you tell me where you live, Madame?”
She gave the address with perfect simplicity and perfect indifference. She seemed to be thinking nothing of what she was saying. The man took a few steps, then stopped and listened to the sound of wheels approaching. The carriage was empty. He stopped it, opened the door, and requested the Countess to get in. She did so quietly, and he placed himself beside the driver.
The Comte de Camors had just reached his house and heard with surprise, from the lips of his wife’s maid, the details of the Countess’s mysterious disappearance, when the bell rang violently.
He rushed out and met his wife on the stairs. She had somewhat recovered her calmness on the road, and as he interrogated her with a searching glance, she made a ghastly effort to smile.
“I was slightly ill and went out a little,” she said. “I do not know the streets and lost my way.”
Notwithstanding the improbability of the explanation, he did not hesitate. He murmured a few soft words of reproach and placed her in the hands of her maid, who removed her wet garments.
During that time he called the sergent-de-ville, who remained in the vestibule, and closely interrogated him. On learning in what street and what precise spot he had found the Countess, her husband knew at once and fully the whole truth.
He went directly to his wife. She had retired and was trembling in every limb. One of her hands was resting outside the coverlet. He rushed to take it, but she withdrew it gently, with sad and resolute dignity.
The simple gesture told him they were separated forever.
By a tacit agreement, arranged by her and as tacitly accepted by him, Madame de Camors became virtually a widow.
He remained for some seconds immovable, his expression lost in the shadow of the bed-hangings; then walked slowly across the chamber. The idea of lying to defend himself never occurred to him.
His line of conduct was already arranged—calmly, methodically. But two blue circles had sunk around his eyes, and his face wore a waxen pallor. His hands, joined behind his back, were clenched; and the ring he wore sparkled with their tremulous movement. At intervals he seemed to cease breathing, as he listened to the chattering teeth of his young wife.
After half an hour he approached the bed.
“Marie!” he said in a low voice. She turned upon him her eyes gleaming with fever.
“Marie, I am ignorant of what you know, and I shall not ask,” he continued. “I have been very criminal toward you, but perhaps less so than you think. Terrible circumstances bound me with iron bands. Fate ruled me! But I seek no palliation. Judge me as severely as you wish; but I beg of you to calm yourself—preserve yourself! You spoke to me this morning of your presentiments—of your maternal hopes. Attach yourself to those thoughts, and you will always be mistress of your life. As for myself, I shall be whatever you will—a stranger or a friend. But now I feel that my presence makes you ill. I would leave you for the present, but not alone. Do you wish Madame Jaubert to come to you tonight?”
“Yes!” she murmured, faintly.
“I shall go for her; but it is not necessary to tell you that there are confidences one must reserve even from one’s dearest friends.”
“Except a mother?” She murmured the question with a supplicating agony very painful to see.
He grew still paler. After an instant, “Except a mother!” he said. “Be it so!”
She turned her face and buried it in the pillow.
“Your mother arrives to-morrow, does she not?” She made an affirmative motion of her head. “You can make your arrangements with her. I shall accept everything.”
“Thank you,” she replied, feebly.
He left the room and went to find Madame Jaubert, whom he awakened, and briefly told her that his wife had been seized with a severe nervous attack—the effect of a chill. The amiable little woman ran hastily to her friend and spent the night with her.
But she was not the dupe of the explanation Camors had given her. Women quickly understand one another in their grief. Nevertheless she asked no confidences and received none; but her tenderness to her friend redoubled. During the silence of that terrible night, the only service she could render her was to make her weep.
Nor did those laggard hours pass less bitterly for M. de Camors. He tried to take no rest, but walked up and down his apartment until daylight in a sort of frenzy. The distress of this poor child wounded him to the heart. The souvenirs of the past rose before him and passed in sad procession. Then the morrow would show him the crushed daughter with her mother—and such a mother! Mortally stricken in all her best illusions, in all her dearest beliefs, in all connected with the happiness of life!
He found that he still had in his heart lively feelings of pity; still some remorse in his conscience.
This weakness irritated him, and he denounced it to himself. Who had betrayed him? This question agitated him to an equal degree; but from the first instant he had not been deceived in this matter.
The sudden grief and half-crazed conviction of his wife, her despairing attitude and her silence, could only be explained by strong assurance and certain revelation. After turning the matter over and over in his own mind, he arrived at the conclusion that nothing could have thrown such clear light into his life save the letters of Madame de Campvallon.
He never wrote the Marquise, but could not prevent her writing to him; for to her, as to all women, love without letters was incomplete.
But the fault of the Count—inexcusable in a man of his tact—was in preserving these letters. No one, however, is perfect, and he was an artist. He delighted in these the ‘chefs-d’oeuvre’ of passionate eloquence, was proud of inspiring them, and could not make up his mind to burn or destroy them. He examined at once the secret drawer where he had concealed them and, by certain signs, discovered the lock had been tampered with. Nevertheless no letter was missing; the arrangement of them alone had been disturbed.
His suspicions at once reverted to Vautrot, whose scruples he suspected were slight; and in the morning they were confirmed beyond doubt by a letter from the secretary. In fact Vautrot, after passing on his part a most wretched night, did not feel his nerves equal in the morning to meeting the reception the Count possibly had in waiting for him. His letter was skilfully penned to put suspicion to sleep if it had not been fully roused, and if the Countess had not betrayed him.
It announced his acceptance of a lucrative situation suddenly offered him in a commercial house in London. He was obliged to decide at once, and to sail that same morning for fear of losing an opportunity which could not occur again. It concluded with expressions of the liveliest gratitude and regret.
Camors could not reach his secretary to strangle him; so he resolved to pay him. He not only sent him all arrears of salary, but a large sum in addition as a testimonial of his sympathy and good wishes.
This, however, was a simple precaution; for the Count apprehended nothing more from the venomous reptile so far beneath him, after he had once shaken it off. Seeing him deprived of the only weapon he could use against him, he felt safe. Besides, he had lost the only interest he could desire to subserve, for he knew M. Vautrot had done him the compliment of courting his Wife.
And he really esteemed him a little less low, after discovering this gentlemanly taste!
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