As she talked, Madeleine had made a step toward Pascal, holding him fascinated, panting under her fixed, burning eyes, from which he could not remove his own.
The marquise continued:
"That is not all. As this lodging is large, Antonine, immediately after her marriage, and Frantz will come to live with me. I do not know, then, my poor M. Pascal, what will become of you."
"Oh, this woman is infernal," murmured the financier.
"Judge, then, the tortures of all sorts that you will have to endure. You must have been deeply smitten with Antonine to wish to marry her; you must have been deeply smitten with me to put your fortune at my feet. Ah, well, not only will you suffer an agonising martyrdom in seeing the two women you have madly desired possessed by others,—for I am a widow andwill remarry,—but you will curse your riches, for every moment of the day will tell you that they have been impotent, and that they will always be impotent to satisfy your ardent desires."
"Leave me!" stammered Pascal, recoiling before Madeleine, who kept him always under her eye. "Leave me! Truly this woman is a demon!"
"Stop, my poor M. Pascal," continued the marquise, "you see I pity you in spite of myself, when I think of your envious rage, your ferocious jealousy, exasperated to frenzy by the constant happiness of Antonine, for you will see us every day, and often in the night. Yes, the season is beautiful, the bright moon charming, and many times in the evening, very late, hidden in the shadow with your eyes fixed on our dwelling, you will see sometimes Antonine and sometimes me with our elbows on the balcony railing, enjoying the cool of the evening, and smiling often, I confess, at M. Pascal, then standing behind some window-blind or peeping from some casement, devouring us with his eyes; often Antonine and Frantz will talk of love by the light of the moon, often I and my future husband will be as delightfully occupied under your eyes."
"Curses!" cried Pascal, losing all control of himself, "she tortures me on burning coals."
"And that is not all," continued the marquise, in a low, almost panting, voice. "At a late hour of the night you will see our windows closed, our curtains discreetly drawn on the feeble light of our alabaster lamps, so sweet and propitious to the voluptuousness of the night." Then the marquise, bursting into peals of laughter, added: "And, my poor M. Pascal, I would not be astonished then if, in your rage and despair, you should become mad and blow your brains out."
"Not without having my revenge, at least," muttered Pascal, wrought to frenzy, and rushing to his desk where he had a loaded pistol.
But Madeleine, who knew she had everything to fear from this man, had, as she slowly approached him, kept him under her eye, and, step by step, had reached the chimney; at the threatening gesture of Pascal she pulled the bell-cord violently.
At the moment Pascal, livid and frightful, turned to face Madeleine, the servant entered hastily, surprised at the loud ringing of the bell.
At the sound of the opening door and the sight of his valet, Pascal came to himself, quickly thrust the hand which held the pistol behind him, and let it fall on the carpet.
The marquise had taken advantage of the interruption to approach the door left open by the servant, and to call in a loud voice to the notary, who, seated in the next room, had also quickly risen at the sudden sound of the bell:
"Monsieur, a thousand pardons for having made you wait so long; do me the favour to enter."
The notary entered.
"Go out," said Pascal, roughly, to his servant.
And the financier wiped his livid brow, which was bathed in a cold sweat.
Madeleine, alone with Pascal and the notary, said to the latter:
"You have, monsieur, prepared the deed relating to M. Charles Dutertre?"
"Yes, madame, there is nothing to do but to approve the document and sign."
"Very well," said the marquise; then, while Pascal, wholly overcome, was leaning on the armchair before his desk, she took a sheet of paper and a pen, and wrote what follows:
"Sign the deed, and, not only will I not live opposite your house, but this evening I will leave Paris, and will not return in a long time. What I promise I will keep."
Having written these lines, she handed the paper to Pascal, and said to the notary:
"I beg your pardon, sir; it concerned a condition relating to the deed that I desire to submit to M. Pascal."
"Certainly, madame," replied the notary, while the financier was reading.
He had hardly concluded his examination of the note, when he said to the notary, in a changed voice, as if he were eager to escape a great danger:
"Let us—finish—this—deed."
"I am going, monsieur, to give you a reading of it before signing," replied the notary, drawing the deed from his pocketbook, and slowly unfolding it.
But M. Pascal snatched it rudely from his hands and said, as if his sight were overcast:
"Where must I sign?"
"Here, monsieur, and approve the document first, but it is customary—"
Pascal wrote the approval of the document with a spasmodic and trembling hand, signed it, threw the pen on the desk, and inclined his head so as not to meet the glance of Madeleine.
"There is no flourish here," said the careful notary.
Pascal made the flourish; the notary took the deed with a surprised, almost frightened look, so sinister and dreadful was the expression of Pascal's face.
The marquise, perfectly cool, took up her letter of credit lying on the desk, and said to the financier:
"As I will have need of all my funds for my journey, monsieur, and as I leave this evening, I am going, if you please, to receive the whole amount of this letter of credit."
"Pass to the counting-room," replied Pascal, mechanically, his eyes wandering and bloodshot; his livid pallor had suddenly turned to a purplish red.
Madeleine preceding the notary, who made a pretext of saluting Pascal in order to look at him again, stillwith an air of alarm, went out of the office, shut the door, and said to the servant:
"Where is the counting-room, please?"
"The first door on the left in the court, madame."
The marquise left the parlour when a loud noise was heard in the office of M. Pascal.
It sounded like the fall of a body on the floor.
The servant, leaving Madeleine and the notary at once, ran to his master's room.
The marquise, after having received bank-bills to the amount of her letter of credit, was just about to enter her carriage, accompanied by the notary, when she saw the servant rush out of the gateway with a frightened air.
"What is the matter, my good friend?" asked the notary, "you seem to be alarmed."
"Ah, monsieur, what a pity! my master has just had an attack of apoplexy. I am running for the physician."
And he disappeared, running at the top of his speed.
"I thought," said the notary, addressing Madeleine, "this dear gentleman did not appear to be in his natural condition. Did you not observe the same thing, madame marquise?"
"I thought, like you, there was something peculiar in the countenance of M. Pascal."
"God grant this attack may be nothing serious, madame. So rich a man to die in the vigour of life, that would really be a pity!"
"A great pity indeed! But tell me, monsieur, if you wish, I can take you home in my carriage, and you can deliver to me the deed relating to M. Dutertre; I have need of it."
"Here it is, madame, but I shall not permit you to drive out of your way for me. I am going only two or three steps from here."
"Very well. Have the kindness, then, to take theseforty thousand francs. I wish to have ten thousand for my journey and a letter of credit on Vienna."
"I will attend to it immediately, madame. And when will you need this money?"
"This evening before six o'clock, if you please."
"I will be on time, madame."
The notary bowed respectfully, and Madeleine ordered the coachman to drive directly to the factory of Charles Dutertre.
Madeleine, as we have said, on leaving the house of M. Pascal, went directly to the home of Madame Dutertre, who was alone in her bedchamber when the servant announced the marquise. Sophie, seated in an armchair, seemed a prey to overwhelming despair. At the sight of her friend, she raised her head quickly; her sad face, bathed in tears, was of a deadly pallor.
"Take this, read it, and weep no longer," said Madeleine, tenderly, handing her the deed signed by M. Pascal. "Was I wrong to tell you yesterday to hope?"
"What is this paper?" asked Sophie Dutertre, in surprise, "explain it."
"Yours and your husband's deliverance—"
"Our deliverance?"
"M. Pascal has pledged himself to give your husband all the time needed to pay the debt."
"Can it be true! No, no, such a happiness—Oh, it is impossible!"
"Read, then, and see for yourself, unbeliever."
Sophie rapidly looked over the deed; then, staring at the marquise, she exclaimed:
"That seems like a miracle; I cannot believe my eyes. And how was it done? My God, it must be magic!"
"Perhaps," replied Madeleine, smiling, "who knows?"
"Ah, forgive me, my friend!" cried Sophie, throwing her arms around the neck of the marquise; "my surprise was so great that it paralysed my gratitude. You have rescued us from ruin; we and our children oweyou everything,—happiness, safety, fortune! Oh, you are our guardian angel!"
The expression of Sophie Dutertre's gratitude was sincere.
At the same time, the marquise observed a sort of constraint in the gestures and gaze of her friend. Her countenance did not seem as serene and radiant as she hoped to see it, at the announcement of such welcome news.
Another grief evidently weighed upon Madame Dutertre, so, after a moment's silence, Madeleine, who had been watching her closely, said:
"Sophie, you are hiding something from me; your sorrow is not at an end."
"Can you think so, when, thanks to you, Madeleine, our future is as bright, as assured, as yesterday it was desperate, when—"
"I tell you, my poor Sophie, you still suffer. Your face ought to be radiant with joy, and yet you cannot disguise your grief."
"Could you believe me ungrateful?"
"I believe your poor heart is wounded, yes, and this wound is so deep that it is not even ameliorated by the good news I brought you."
"Madeleine, I implore you, leave me; do not look at me that way! It pains me. Do not question me, but believe, oh, I beseech you, believe that never in all my life will I forget what we owe to you."
And with these words, Madame Dutertre hid her face in her hands and burst into tears.
The marquise reflected for some minutes, and then said, with hesitation.
"Sophie, where is your husband?"
The young woman started, blushed, and turned pale by turns, and exclaimed, impulsively, almost with fear:
"You wish to see him, then?"
"Yes."
"I do not know—if he is—this moment in the factory," replied Madame Dutertre, stammering. "But if you wish it, if you insist upon it, I will send for him, so that he may learn from you yourself all that we owe to you."
The marquise shook her head sadly and replied:
"It is not to receive your husband's thanks that I desire to see him, Sophie; it is only to say farewell to him as well as to you."
"Farewell?"
"This evening I leave Paris."
"You are going away!" cried Madame Dutertre, and her tone betrayed a singular mingling of surprise, sadness, and joy.
Neither one of these emotions escaped the penetration of Madeleine. She experienced at first a feeling of pain. Her eyes became moist; then, overcoming her emotion, she said to her friend, smiling, and taking both of Sophie's hands in her own:
"My poor Sophie, you are jealous."
"Madeleine!"
"You are jealous of me, confess it."
"I assure you—"
"Sophie, be frank; to deny it to me would make me think that you believe that I have been intentionally coquetting with your husband, and God knows I have never seen him but once, and in your presence—"
"Madeleine!" cried the young woman, with effusion, no longer able to restrain her tears, "forgive me! This feeling is shameful and unworthy, because I know the lofty nature of your heart, and at this time, too, when you have come to save us—but if you only knew!"
"Yes, my good Sophie, if I knew, but I know nothing. Come now, make me your confession to the end; perhaps it will give me a good idea."
"Madeleine, really I am ashamed; I would never dare."
"Come, what are you afraid of, since I am going away? I am going away this evening."
"Wait, it is that which wounds me and provokes me with myself. Your departure distresses me. I had hoped to see you here every day, for a long time, perhaps, and yet—"
"And yet my departure will deliver you from a cruel apprehension, will it not? But it is very simple, my good Sophie. What have you to reproach yourself for? Since this morning, before seeing you, I had resolved to depart."
"Yes, you say that, brave and generous as you always are."
"Sophie, I have not lied; I repeat to you that this morning, before seeing you, my departure was arranged; but, I beseech you, tell me what causes have aroused your jealousy? That is perhaps important for the tranquillity of your future!"
"Ah, well, yesterday evening Charles returned home worn out with fatigue and worry, and alarmed at the prompt measures threatened by M. Pascal. Notwithstanding these terrible afflictions, he spent the whole time talking of you. Then, I confess, the first suspicion entered my mind as to what degree you controlled his thought. Charles went to bed; I remained quietly seated by his pillow. Soon he fell asleep, exhausted by the painful events of the day. At the end of a few minutes, his sleep, at first tranquil, seemed disturbed; two or three times your name passed his lips, then his features would contract painfully, and he would murmur, as if oppressed by remorse, 'Forgive me, Sophie—forgive—and my children—oh, Sophie.' Then he uttered some unintelligible words, and his repose was no longer broken. That is all that has happened, Madeleine, your name was only uttered by my husband during his sleep, and yet I cannot tell you the frightful evil all this has done me; in vain I tried to learn the cause ofthis impression, so deep and so sudden, for Charles had seen you but once, and then hardly a quarter of an hour. No doubt you are beautiful, oh, very beautiful. I cannot be compared with you, I know, yet Charles has always loved me until now." And the young woman wept bitterly.
"Poor, dear Sophie!" said the marquise with tenderness, "calm your fears; he loves you, and will always love you, and you will soon make him forget me."
Madame Dutertre sighed and shook her head sadly. Madeleine continued:
"Believe me, Sophie; it will depend on you to make me forgotten, as it was entirely your own fault that your husband ever thought of me a single instant."
"What do you mean?"
"Just now I provoked your confidence by assuring you that, doubtless, some happy result to you and your husband would be the consequence of it. I was not mistaken."
"Explain, if you please."
"Let us see now. Imagine, dear Sophie, that you are in a confessional," replied Madeleine, smiling, "yes, in the confessional of that great fat abbé, Jolivet, you know, the chaplain of the boarding-school, who put such strange questions to us when we were young girls. So, since that time I have often asked myself why there were not abbesses to confess young girls; but as, without being an abbess, I am a woman," added the marquise, smiling again, "I am going to risk some questions which would have been very tempting to our old confessor. Now, tell me, and do not blush, your husband married you for love, did he not?"
"Alas! yes."
"Well, you need not groan at such a charming recollection."
"Ah, Madeleine, the sadder the present is, the more certain memories tear our hearts."
"The present and the future will all be what you would like to have it. But, answer me, during the first two or three years of your marriage, you loved each other as lovers, did you not? You understand me?"
The young woman looked downwards and blushed.
"Then by degrees, without any diminution of love, that passionate tenderness gave place to a calmer sentiment, that your love for your children has filled with charm and sweetness; and, finally, the two lovers were only two friends united by the dearest and most sacred duties. Is that true?"
"That is true, Madeleine, and if I must say it, sometimes I have regretted these days of first youth and love; but I reproached myself for these regrets, with the thought that perhaps they were incompatible with the serious duties imposed by motherhood."
"Poor Sophie! But, tell me, this coolness, or rather this transformation of married lovers to friends, if you choose, was not sudden, was it? It came insensibly and almost without your perceiving it."
"Practically, yes; but how do you know?"
"One more question, Sophie, dear. In the period of your early love, you and you husband were, I am certain of it, very anxious to please each other. Never could a toilet be fresh or pretty enough. You heightened by painstaking and agreeableness every charm you possessed; indeed, your only thought was to please your husband, to captivate him always, and to keep him always in love. Your Charles, no doubt, preferred some delicate perfume, and your beautiful hair, your garments, exhaled that sweet odour, which, in time of absence, materialises, so to speak, the memory of a beloved woman."
"That is true; we adored the odour of the violet and the iris. That perfume always recalls to me the happy days of our past."
"You see plainly, then. As to your husband, I donot doubt, he vied with you in the care and elegance and taste of the most trifling details of his toilet. In short, both of you, ardent and passionate, guarded with strictest attention all the delights of your young love. But, alas! from the bosom of this happiness, so easily, so naturally, issued by degrees habit,—that fatal precursor of familiarity, lack of ceremony, neglect of self, habit!—all the more dangerous because it resembles, even so as to be mistaken for it, a sweet and intimate confidence. So, one says: 'I am sure of being loved, what need of this constant care and painstaking? What are these trifles to true love?' So, my good Sophie, there came a day when, entirely absorbed by your tenderness for your children, you no longer occupied yourself in finding out if your hair were arranged becomingly, in a style suited to your pretty face, if your dress hung well or badly from your graceful waist, if your little foot were coquettishly dressed in the morning. Your husband, on his part, absorbed in his work as you were by the cares of maternity, neglected himself, too. Unconsciously, your eyes grew accustomed to the change, scarcely perceiving it; as in the same way, so to speak, people never see each other grow old when they live continually together. And it is true, dear Sophie, that if at this moment you should evoke, by memory, the care, the elegance, and the charms with which you and your husband surrounded yourselves in the beautiful time of your courtship, you would be startled with surprise in comparing the present with the past."
"It is only too true, Madeleine," replied Sophie, throwing a sad, embarrassed look on her careless attire and disordered hair. "Yes, by degrees I have forgotten the art, or, rather, the desire to please my husband. Alas! it is now too late to repent!"
"Too late!" exclaimed the marquise. "Too late! With your twenty-five years, that attractive face, too late! With that enchanting figure, that magnificent hair, thosepearly teeth, those large, tender eyes, that hand of a duchess, and those feet of a child, too late! Let me be your tirewoman for a half-hour, Sophie, and you will see if it is too late to make your husband as passionately in love with you as he ever was."
"Ah, Madeline, you are the only one in the world to give hope to those who have none; nevertheless, the truth of your words frightens me. Alas, alas! You are right. Charles loves me no longer."
"He loves you as much and perhaps even more than in the past, poor foolish child, because you are the wife whose fidelity has been tested, the tender mother of his children; but you are no longer the infatuating mistress of the past, nor has he that tender, passionate love for you he felt in the first days of your wedded bliss. What I say to you, my good Sophie, may be a little harsh, but the good God knows what he has made us. He has created us of immaterial essence. Neither are we all matter, but neither are we all mind. It is true, believe me, that there is something divine in pleasure, but we must guard it, purify it, idealise it. Now, pray pardon this excessive management on my part, as you see that a little appreciation of the sensuous is not too much to awaken a nature benumbed by habit, or else the seductive mistress always has an advantage over the wife; for, after all, Sophie, why should the duties of wife and mother be incompatible with the charms and enticements of the mistress? Why should the father, the husband, not be a charming lover? Yes, my good Sophie, I am going, in a few words, with my usual bluntness, to sum up your position and mine: your husband loves you, but desires you no longer; he does not love me, and he desires me."
Then the marquise, laughing immoderately, added:
"Is it not strange that I, a young lady, alas! with no experience in the question,—for I am like a gourmand without a stomach, who presumes to talk of good cheer,—is it not strange that I should be giving a lesson to a married woman?"
"Ah, Madeleine," exclaimed Sophie, with effusion, "you have saved us twice to-day, because what my husband feels for you he might have felt for a woman less generous than yourself; and then think of my sorrow, my tears! Oh, you are right, you are right. Charles must see again and find again in his wife the beloved mistress of the past."
The conversation of the two friends was interrupted by the arrival of Antonine.
The conversation of Madeleine and Sophie was interrupted by the arrival of Antonine, who, impetuous as joy, youth, and happiness, entered the room, saying:
"Sophie, I knew yesterday that Madeleine would be here this morning, and I ran in to tell you that—"
"Not a word more, little girl!" gaily replied the marquise, kissing Antonine on the forehead; "we have not a moment to lose; we must be to-day as we used to be in school, waiting-maids for Sophie."
"What do you mean?" said the young woman.
"But, Madeleine," replied Antonine, "I have come to inform you that my contract has been signed by the prince and my uncle, and that—"
"Your contract is signed, my child! That is important and I expected it. You can tell me the rest when we have made our dear Sophie the prettiest and most captivating toilet in the world. It is very important and very urgent."
Then the marquise whispered in the ear of Madame Dutertre:
"Your husband may come at any moment; he must be charmed, fascinated, and he will be."
Then turning to Antonine, Madeleine added:
"Quick, quick, my child; help me to place this table before the window, and we will first arrange Sophie's hair."
"But really, Madeleine," said Madame Dutertre, smiling, for she was awakening in spite of herself to hope and happiness, "you are silly."
"Not so silly," replied the marquise, making Sophie sit down before the toilet-table.
Uncoiling her friend's magnificent hair, she said:
"With such hair, if I were as ugly as a monster, I would make myself attractive in the highest degree; judge for yourself, Sophie. Here, help me, Antonine, this hair is so long and so thick, I cannot hold it all in my hand."
It was a charming sight to see the three friends of such diverse beauty, thus grouped together. The pure face of Antonine expressed an innocent astonishment at this improvised toilet; Sophie, touched, and distressed by the tender recollections of other days, felt under her veil of brown hair her lovely face, sad and pale up to that moment, colour with an involuntary blush; while Madeleine, handling her friend's superb hair with marvellous skill, was making a ravishing coiffure.
"Now," said the marquise to Sophie, "what gown are you going to wear? But now I think of it, they all fit you horribly, and all of them are cut on the same pattern."
"They are, unfortunately," said Sophie, smiling.
"Very well," replied the marquise, "and all are high-necked, I warrant."
"Yes, all are high-necked," replied poor Sophie.
"Better and better," said Madeleine, "so that these dimpled shoulders, these beautiful arms are condemned to perpetual burial! it is deplorable! Let us see, you have at least some elegant morning gown,—some coquettish dressing-gown,—have you not?"
"My morning gowns are all very simple. It is true that formerly—"
"Formerly?"
"I did have some beautiful ones."
"Well, where are they?"
"I thought they were too young for the mother of a family like me," said Sophie, smiling. "So I relegatedthem, I believe, to a shelf in that wardrobe with the glass door."
The marquise waited to hear no more; she ran to the wardrobe, which she ransacked, and found two or three very pretty morning gowns of striped taffeta of great beauty. She selected one of deep blue, with straw-coloured stripes; the sleeves open and floating exposed the arms to the elbow, and although it lapped over in front, the gown opened enough to show the neck in the most graceful manner possible.
"Admirable!" exclaimed Madeleine, "this gown is as fresh and beautiful as when it was new. Now I must have some white silk stockings to match these Cendrillon slippers I found in this wardrobe where you have buried your arms, Sophie, as they say of warriors who do not go to battle any more."
"But, my dear Madeleine," said Sophie, "I—"
"There are no 'buts,'" said the marquise, impatiently. "I wish and expect, when your husband enters here, he will think he has gone back five years."
In spite of a feeble resistance, Sophie Dutertre was docile and obedient to the advice and pretty attentions of her friend. Soon, half recumbent on an easy chair, in a languishing attitude, she consented that the marquise should give the finishing touch to the living picture. Finally Madeleine arranged a few curls of the rich brown hair around the neck of dazzling whiteness, lifted the sleeves so as to show the dimpled elbows, opened somewhat the neck of the gown, notwithstanding the chaste scruples of Sophie, and draped the skirt with provoking premeditation, so as to reveal the neatest ankle and prettiest little foot in the world.
It must be said that Sophie was charming,—emotion, hope, expectation, and a vague disquietude, colouring her sweet and attractive face, animated her appearance, and gave a bewitching expression to her features.
Antonine, struck with the wonderful metamorphosis, exclaimed, innocently, clapping her little hands:
"Why, Sophie, I did not know you were as pretty as that!"
"Nor did Sophie know it," replied Madeleine, shrugging her shoulders, "I have exhumed so many attractions."
Just then Madame Dutertre's servant, having knocked at the door, entered, and said to her mistress:
"Monsieur desires to speak to madame. He is in the shop, and wishes to know if madame is at home."
"He knows you are here," whispered Sophie to Madeleine, with a sigh.
"Make him come up," replied the marquise, softly.
"Tell M. Dutertre that I am at home," said Sophie to the servant, who went out.
Madeleine, addressing her friend in a voice full of emotion, as she extended her arms to her, said:
"And now, good-bye, Sophie; tell your husband that he is delivered from M. Pascal."
"You are going already?" said Sophie, with sadness; "when shall I see you again?"
"I do not know,—some day, perhaps. But I hear your husband's step. I leave you."
Then she added, smiling:
"Only I would like to hide behind that curtain and enjoy your triumph."
And making a sign to Antonine to accompany her, she retired behind the curtain which separated the room from the next chamber, just as M. Dutertre entered. For some moments the eyes of Charles wandered as if he were looking for some one he expected to meet; he had not discovered the change in Sophie, who said to him:
"Charles, we are saved, here is the non-suit of M. Pascal."
"Great God! can it be true?" cried Dutertre, looking over the paper his wife had just delivered to him; then,raising his eyes, he beheld Sophie in her bewitching, coquettish toilet. After a short silence produced by surprise and admiration, he exclaimed:
"Sophie! what do I see? This toilet so charming, so new! Is it to celebrate our day of deliverance?"
"Charles," replied Sophie, smiling and blushing by turns, "this toilet is not new; some years ago, if you remember, you admired me in it."
"If I remember!" cried Dutertre, feeling a thousand tender memories awaken in his mind. "Ah, it was the beautiful time of our ardent love, and this happy time is born again, it exists. I see you again as in the past; your beauty shines in my eyes with a new brilliancy. I do not know what this enchantment is; but this elegance, this grace, this coquetry, your blushes and the sweet perfume of the iris we used to love so much,—all transport me and intoxicate me! Never, no, never, have I seen you more beautiful!" added Dutertre, in a passionate voice, as he kissed Sophie's little hands. "Oh, yes, it is you, it is you, I have found you again, adored mistress of my first love!"
"Now, little girl, I think it is altogether proper that we should retire," whispered Madeleine to Antonine, unable to keep from laughing.
And both, stealing away on tiptoe, left the parlour, the door of which the marquise discreetly closed, and went into the study of M. Dutertre, which opened into the garden.
"Just now, Madeleine," said Antonine to the marquise, "you did not let me finish what I came to tell you."
"Very well, speak, my child."
"Count Frantz is here."
"He here!" said the marquise, starting with a feeling of sudden disappointment. "And why and how is Count Frantz here?"
"Knowing from me that you would be here this morning," said Antonine, "he has come to thank youfor all your kindness to us. He is waiting in the garden,—wait,—there he is!" With these words the young girl pointed to Frantz, who was seated on a bench in the garden.
Madeleine threw a long and last look on her blond archangel, nor could she restrain the tears which rose to her eyes; then, kissing Antonine on the brow, she said, in a slightly altered voice:
"Good-bye, my child."
"Why, Madeleine," exclaimed the young girl, astounded at so abrupt a departure, "will you go away without wishing to see Frantz? Why, that is impossible—but you will—"
The marquise put her finger on her lips as a sign to Antonine to keep silence; then walking away, turning her eyes only once to that side of the garden, she disappeared.
Two hours after, the Marquise de Miranda quit Paris, leaving this note for the archduke:
"Monseigneur:—I am going to wait for you in Vienna; come and complete your capture of me.
"Madeleine."
THE END.
Toward the end of the month of October, 18—, the following conversation occurred in the convent of St. Rosalie, between the mother superior, whose name was Sister Prudence, and a certain Abbé Ledoux, whom perhaps the readers of these recitals will remember.
The abbé had just entered the private parlour of Sister Prudence, a woman about fifty years old, with a pale and serious face and a sharp, penetrating eye.
"Well, dear abbé," said she, "what news from Dom Diégo? When will he arrive?"
"The canon has arrived, my dear sister."
"With his niece?"
"With his niece."
"God be praised! Now, my dear abbé, let us pray Heaven to bless our plans."
"Without doubt, my dear sister, we will pray, but, above all, let us play a sure game, for it will not be easy to win."
"What do you say?"
"The truth. This truth I have learned only this morning, and here it is; give me, I pray you, all your attention."
"I am listening, my dear brother."
"Moreover, that we may better agree, and clearly understandour position, let us first settle the condition of things in our minds. Two months ago, Rev. Father Benoit, who is engaged in foreign missions, and at present is in Cadiz, wrote to me recommending to my especial consideration Lord Dom Diégo, Canon of Alcantara, who was to sail from Cadiz to France with his niece, Dolores Salcedo."
"Very well, my brother."
"Father Benoit added that he was sufficiently acquainted with the character and disposition of Dolores Salcedo to feel sure that she could be easily persuaded to take the veil, a resolution which would have the approval of her uncle, Dom Diégo."
"And, as she is the only heir of the rich canon, the house which she will enter will be greatly benefited by the fortune she inherits."
"Exactly so, my dear sister. Naturally, I have thought of our convent of Ste. Rosalie for Senora Dolores, and I have spoken to you of these intentions."
"I have adopted them, my dear brother, because, having some experience with young girls, I feel almost sure that I can, by persuasion, guard this innocent dove from the snares of a seductive and corrupt world, and decide her to take the veil in our house. I shall be doing two good works: save a young girl, and turn to the good of the poor riches which, in other hands, would be used for evil; I cannot hesitate."
"Without doubt; but, now, my dear sister, the inconvenient thing is, that this innocent dove has a lover."
"What do you tell me, my brother? What horror! But then, our plans."
"I have just warned you that we must play a sure game."
"And how have you learned this shocking thing, my dear brother?"
"By the majordomo of Dom Diégo, a modest servantwho keeps me informed of everything he can learn about the canon and his niece."
"These instructions are indispensable, my brother, because they enable us to act with intelligence and security. But what ideas has this majordomo given you concerning this unfortunate love, my dear brother?"
"Hear, now, how things have happened. The canon and his niece embarked at Cadiz, on a three-master coming from the Indies, and sailing for Bordeaux. Really, now, how many strange fatalities do occur!"
"What fatalities?"
"In the first place, the name of this vessel on which they embarked was namedGastronome."
"Why, what a singular name for a vessel!"
"Less singular than it appears at first, my dear sister, because this vessel, after having carried to the Indies the best unfermented wines of Bordeaux and the south, hams from Bayonne, smoked tongues from Troyes, pastry from Amiens and Strasbourg, tunnies and olives from Marseilles, cheese from Switzerland, preserved fruits from Touraine and Montpellier, etc., came back by the Cape of Good Hope with a cargo of wines from Constance, pepper, cinnamon, cloves, tea, salted meats of Hachar, and other comestibles of the Indies. She was to add to her cargo by taking on at Cadiz a large quantity of Spanish wine, and afterward return to Bordeaux."
"Good God, my brother! what a quantity of wine and food! It is enough to make one shudder. I understand now why the vessel was named theGastronome."
"And you understand at the same time, my sister, why I spoke to you of strange fatalities, and why the Canon Dom Diégo preferred to embark on theGastronome, rather than on any other vessel, without any regard to her destination."
"Please explain yourself, my brother."
"As for that, I ought first to inform you that I myselfwas in ignorance before my secret conference with the majordomo on the subject of the canon; the fact is, he is a fabulous, unheard-of glutton."
"Oh, my brother, what a horrible sin!"
"Horrible sin it may be, but do not abuse this sin too much, my dear sister, for, thanks to it, we may perhaps be able to compass our praiseworthy end and win our game."
"And how is that, my brother?"
"I am going to tell you. The canon is an ideal glutton. All his faculties, all his thoughts, are concentrated upon one sole pleasure,—the table; and it seems that at Madrid and at Cadiz his table was absolutely marvellous, because now I remember that my physician, Doctor Gasterini—"
"An abominable atheist! a Sardanapalus!" exclaimed Sister Prudence, interrupting Abbé Ledoux, and raising both hands to heaven. "I have never understood why you receive the medical attentions of such a miscreant!"
"I will tell you that some day, my dear sister, but, believe me, I know what I am doing. Besides, notwithstanding his great age, Doctor Gasterini is still the first physician in Paris, as he is the first glutton in the world; but, as I was saying to you, my sister, I now remember having heard him speak of a Spanish canon's table,—a table which, according to one of the doctor's correspondents in Madrid, was truly remarkable. At that time I was far from suspecting that it was Dom Diégo who was the subject of their correspondence. However, the poor man is a fool,—a man of small ability, and influenced by all those absurd Southern superstitions. So, upon the authority of the majordomo, it will be easy to make this gluttonous canon see the devil in flesh and bones!"
"One moment, my brother. I am not altogether displeased with the canon's foolish superstition."
"Nor I, my sister; on the contrary, it suits meexactly. That is not all. The canon, thanks to his religion, is not deceived about the grossness of his ruling passion. He knows that gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins. He believes that his sin will send him to hell, yet he has not the courage to resist it; he eats with voluptuousness, and remorse comes only when he is no longer hungry."
"Instead of remorse, he ought to have indigestion, unhappy man!" said Sister Prudence. "That, perhaps, might cure him."
"True, my sister, but that is not the case. However, the canon's life is passed in enjoying and regretting that he has enjoyed; sometimes remorse, aided by superstition, leads him to expect some sudden and terrible punishment from heaven, but when appetite returns remorse is forgotten, and thus has it been a long time with the canon."
"After all, my brother, I think him far less culpable than this Sardanapalus, your Doctor Gasterini, who impudently indulges his appetite without compunction. The canon is, at least, conscious of his sin, and that is something."
"Since the character of the canon is now understood, you will not be astonished that, finding himself at Cadiz, and learning that a ship named theGastronomewas about to sail for France, Dom Diégo seized the opportunity to embark on a vessel so happily named, so as to be able, on his arrival at Bordeaux, to purchase several tons of the choicest wines."
"Certainly. I understand that, my dear brother."
"Well, then, Dom Diégo embarked with his niece on board theGastronome.It is impossible to imagine—so the majordomo told me—the quantity of stores, provisions, and refreshments of all sorts with which the canon encumbered the deck of this vessel,—obstructions invariably forbidden by all rules of navigation,—but the commander of this ship, a certain Captain Horace,miscreant that he is, had only too good reason for ignoring discipline and making himself agreeable to the canon."
"And this reason, my brother?"
"Fascinated by the beauty of the niece, when Dom Diégo came with her to stipulate the terms of his passage, this contemptible captain, suddenly enamoured of Dolores Salcedo, and expecting to profit by opportunities the voyage would offer, granted all that Dom Diégo demanded, in the hope of seeing him embark with his niece."
"What villainy on the part of this captain, my brother!"
"Fortunately, Heaven has punished him for it, and that can save us. Well, the canon and his niece embarked on board theGastronome, laden with all that could tempt or satisfy appetite. Just as they left port a terrible tempest arose, and the safety of the vessel required everything to be thrown into the sea, not only the canon's provisions, but cages of birds and beasts taken aboard for the sustenance of the passengers. This squall, which drove the vessel far from the coast of Bordeaux, lasted so long and with such fury that almost the entire voyage it was impossible to do any cooking, and passengers, sailors, and officers were reduced to the fare of dry biscuit and salt meat."
"Oh, the unhappy canon! what became of him?"
"He became furious, my sister, because this passage actually cost him his appetite."
"Ah, my brother, the finger of Providence was there!"
"In a word, whether by reason of the terror caused by the tempest, or a long deprivation of choice food, or whether the detestable nourishment he was compelled to take impaired his health, the canon, since he disembarked from theGastronome, has completely lost his appetite. The little that he eats to sustain him, the majordomo tells me, is insipid and unpalatable, no matterhow well prepared it may be; and more, he is tormented by the idea or superstition that Heaven has justly punished him for his inordinate indulgence. And, as Captain Horace is in his eyes the chief instrument of Heaven's anger, the canon has taken an unconquerable dislike to the miscreant, not forgetting, too, that all his luxuries were thrown into the sea by order of the captain. In vain has the captain tried to make him comprehend that his own salvation, as well as that of many others, depended on this sacrifice; Dom Diégo remains inflexible in his hatred. Well, my dear sister, would you believe that, notwithstanding that, the captain, upon his arrival at Bordeaux, had the audacity to ask of Dom Diégo the hand of his niece in marriage, assuming that this unhappy young girl was in love with him. You appreciate the fact, my sister, that two lovers do not remember bad cheer or terrible tempests, and that this miscreant has bewildered the innocent creature. I need not tell you of the fury of Dom Diégo at this insolent proposal from the captain, whom he regards as his mortal enemy, as the bad spirit sent to him by the anger of Heaven. So the canon has informed Dolores that, as a punishment for having dared to fall in love with such a scoundrel, he would put her in a convent upon his arrival in Paris, and that she should there take the veil."
"But, my brother, so far I see only success for our plans. Everything seems to favour them."
"Yes, my sister; but you are counting without the love of Dolores, and the resolute character of this damned captain."
"What audacity!"
"He followed on horseback, relay after relay, the carriage of the canon, galloping from Bordeaux to Paris like a state messenger. He must have a constitution of iron. He stopped at every inn where Dom Diégo stopped, and during the journey Dolores and thecaptain were ogling each other, in spite of the rage and resistance of Dom Diégo. Could he prevent this love-sick girl looking out of the window? Could he prevent this miscreant riding on the highway by the side of his carriage?"
"Such audacity seems incredible, does it not, my brother?"
"Which is the reason I tell you we must be on guard everywhere from this madman. He is not alone; one of his sailors, a veritable blackguard, accompanied him, riding behind in his train, and holding on to his horse like a monkey on a donkey, so the majordomo told me. But that did not matter, this demon of a sailor is capable of anything to help his captain, to whom he is devoted. And that is not all. Twenty times on the route Dolores positively told her uncle that she did not wish to become a religious, that she wished to marry the captain, and that he would know how to come to her if they constrained her,—he and his sailor would deliver her if they had to set fire to the convent."
"What a bandit!" cried Sister Prudence. "What a desperate villain!"
"You see, dear sister, how things were yesterday, when Dom Diégo took possession of the apartment I had previously engaged for him. This morning he desired me to visit him. I found him in bed and very much depressed. He told me that a sudden revolution had taken place in the mind of his niece; that now she seemed as submissive and resigned as she had been rebellious, that she had at last consented to go to the convent, and to-day if it was required."
"My brother, my brother, this is a very sudden and timely change."
"Such is my opinion, my sister, and, if I am not mistaken, this sudden change hides some snare. I have told you we must play a sure game. It is a great deal, no doubt, to have this love-sick girl in our hands; but wemust not forget the enemy, this detestable Captain Horace, who, accompanied by his sailor, will no doubt be prowling around the house, like the ravening wolf spoken of in the Scriptures."
"Quærens quem devoret," said Sister Prudence, who prided herself upon her Latin.
"Just so, my sister, seeking whom he may devour, but, fortunately, there's a good watch-dog for every good wolf, and we have intelligent and courageous servants. The strictest watchfulness must be established without and within. We will soon know where this miscreant of a captain lives; he will not take a step without being followed by one of our men. He will be very clever and very brave if he accomplishes anything."
"This watchfulness seems to me very necessary, my dear brother."
"Now my carriage is below, let us go to the canon's apartments, and in an hour his niece will be here."
"Never to go out of this house, if it pleases Heaven, my brother, because it is for the eternal happiness of this poor foolish girl."
Two hours after this conversation Senora Dolores Salcedo entered the Convent of Ste. Rosalie.
A few days after the entrance of Senora Dolores Salcedo in the house of Ste. Rosalie, and just at the close of the day, two men were slowly walking along the Boulevard de l'Hopital, one of the most deserted places in Paris.
The younger of these two individuals seemed to be about twenty-five or thirty years old. His face was frank and resolute, his complexion sunburnt, his figure tall and robust, his step decided, and his dress simple and of military severity.
His companion, a little shorter, but unusually square and thick-set, seemed to be about fifty-five years old, and presented that type of the sailor familiar to the eyes of Parisians. An oilcloth hat, low in shape, with a wide brim, placed on the back of his head, revealed a brow ornamented with five or six corkscrew curls, known as heart-catchers, while the rest of his hair was cut very close. This manner of wearing the hair, called the sailor style, was, if traditions are true, quite popular in 1825 among crews of the line sailing from the port of Brest.
A white shirt with a blue collar, embroidered in red, falling over his broad shoulders, permitted a view of the bull like neck of our sailor, whose skin was tanned until it resembled parchment, the colour of brick. A round vest of blue cloth, with buttons marked with an anchor, and wide trousers bound to his hips by a red woollen girdle, completed our man's apparel. Side-whiskers of brown, shaded with fawn colour, encased his square face,which expressed both good humour and decision of character. A superficial observer might have supposed the left cheek of the sailor to be considerably inflamed, but a more attentive examination would have disclosed the fact that an enormous quid of tobacco produced this one-sided tumefaction. Let us add, lastly, that the sailor carried on his back a bag, whose contents seemed quite bulky.
The two men had just reached a place in front of a high wall surrounding a garden. The top of the trees could scarcely be distinguished, for the night had fallen.
The young man said to his companion, as he stopped and turned his ear eastward:
"Sans-Plume, listen."
"Please God, what is it, captain?" said the man with the tobacco quid, in reply to this singular surname.
"I am not mistaken, it is certainly here."
"Yes, captain, it is in this made land between these two large trees. Here is the place where the wall is a little damaged. I noticed it yesterday evening at dusk, when we picked up the stone and the letter."
"That is so. Come quick, my old seaman," said the captain to his sailor, indicating with his eye one of the large trees of the boulevard, several of whose branches hung over the garden wall. "Up, Sans-Plume, while we are waiting the hour let us see if we can rig the thing."
"Captain, there is still a bit of twilight, and I see below a man who is coming this way."
"Then let us wait. Hide first your bag behind the trunk of this tree,—you have forgotten nothing?"
"No, captain, all my rigging is in there."
"Come, then, let us go. This man is coming; we must not look as if we were lying to before these walls."
"That's it, captain, we'll stand upon another tack so as to put him out of his way."
And the two sailors began, as Sans-Plume had said in his picturesque language, to stand the other tack in the path parallel to the public walk, after the sailor had prudently picked up the bag he had hidden between the trees of the boulevard and the wall.
"Sans-Plume," said the young man, as they walked along, "are you sure you recognise the spot where the hackney-coach awaits us?"
"Yes, captain—But, I say, captain."
"What?"
"That man looks as if he were following us."
"Bah!"
"And spying on us."
"Come along, Sans-Plume, you are foolish!"
"Captain, let us set the prow larboard and you go and see."
"So be it," replied the captain.
And, followed by his sailor, he left the walk on the right of the boulevard, crossed the pavement, and took the walk on the left.
"Well, captain," said Sans-Plume, in a low voice, "you see this lascar navigates in our waters."
"That is true, we are followed."
"It is not the first time it has happened to me," said Sans-Plume, with a shade of conceit, hiding one-half of his mouth with the back of his hand in order to eject the excess of tobacco juice produced by the mastication of his enormous quid. "One day, in Senegal, Gorée, I was followed a whole league, bowsprit on stern, captain, till I came to a plantation of sugar-cane, and—"
"The devil! that man is surely following us," said the captain, interrupting the indiscreet confidences of the sailor. "That annoys me!"
"Captain, do you wish me to drop my bag and flank this lascar with tobacco, in order to teach him to ply to our windward in spite of us?"
"Fine thing! but do you keep still and follow me."
The captain and his sailor, again crossing the pavement, regained the walk on the right.
"See, captain," said Sans-Plume, "he turns tack with us."
"Let him go, and let us watch his steps."
The man who followed the two sailors, a large, jolly-looking fellow in a blue blouse and cap, went beyond them a few steps, then stopped and looked up at the stars, for the night had fully come.
The captain, after saying a few words in a low tone to the sailor who had hidden himself behind the trunk of one of the large trees of the boulevard, advanced alone to meet his disagreeable observer, and said to him:
"Comrade, it is a fine evening."
"Very fine."
"You are waiting for some one here?"
"Yes."
"I, also."
"Ah!"
"Comrade, have you been waiting long?"
"For three hours at least."
"Comrade," replied the captain, after a moment's silence, "would you like to make double the sum they give you for following me and spying me?"
"I do not know what you mean. I do not follow you, sir. I am not spying you."
"Yes."
"No."
"Let us end this. I will give you what you want if you will go on your way,—stop, I have the gold in my pocket."
And the captain tingled the gold in his vest pocket, and said:
"I have twenty-five or thirty louis—"
"Hein!" said the man, with a singularly insinuating manner, "twenty-five or thirty louis?"
At this moment a distant clock sounded half-past seven o'clock. Almost at the same instant a guttural cry, resembling a call or a signal, was heard in the direction that the man in the blouse had first taken to join the two sailors. The spy made a movement as if he understood the significance of this cry, and for a moment seemed undecided.
"Half-past seven o'clock," said the captain to himself. "That beggar there is not alone."
Having made this reflection, he coughed.
Scarcely had the captain coughed, when the spy felt himself seized vigorously at the ankles by some one who had thrown himself suddenly between his legs. He fell backwards, but in falling he had time to cry with a loud voice:
"Here, John, run to the—"
He was not able to finish. Sans-Plume, after having thrown him down, had unceremoniously taken a seat on the breast of the spy, and, holding him by the throat, prevented his speaking.
"The devil! do not strangle him," said the captain, who, kneeling down, was binding securely with his silk handkerchief the two legs of the indiscreet busybody.
"The bag, captain," said Sans-Plume, keeping his grip on the throat of the spy, "the bag! it is large enough to wrap his head and arms; we will bind him tight around the loins and he will not budge any more than a roll of old canvas."
No sooner said than done. In a few seconds the spy, cowled like a monk in the bag to the middle of his body, with his legs bound, found himself unable to move. Sans-Plume had the courtesy to push his victim into one of the wide verdant slopes which separated the trees, and nothing more was heard from that quarter but an interrupted series of smothered bellowings.
"The alarm will be given at the convent! Half-pastseven has just struck," said the captain to his sailor. "We must risk all now or all is lost!"
"In twice three movements the thing is ready, captain," replied Sans-Plume, running with his companion toward the large trees which hung over the wall near which they had at first stood.
While these events were transpiring on the boulevard, and a little before half after seven had sounded, another scene was taking place in the interior of the convent garden. Sister Prudence, the mother superior, and Dolores Salcedo were walking in the garden, notwithstanding the advanced hour of the evening.
Dolores, a brunette of charming appearance, united in herself the rare and bewitching perfections of Spanish beauty. Hair of a blue black, which, when uncoiled, dragged upon the floor; a pale complexion warmed by the sun of the South; large eyes, by turns full of fire and languid sweetness; a little mouth as red as the bud of the pomegranate steeped in dew; a delicate and voluptuous form, tapering fingers, and an Andalusian foot and ankle, completed her list of charms. As to the exquisite grace of her figure and gait, one must, to have any idea of it, have seen the undulating movements of the beautiful senoras of Seville or Cadiz, when, speaking with their eyes or playing with their fans, they slowly promenade, a beautiful summer evening, on the marble floor of the Alameda.
Dolores accompanied Sister Prudence. Walking and talking, the two women approached the wall behind which Captain Horace and his sailor had stopped.
"You see, my dear daughter," said the mother superior to Dolores, "I grant you all you desire, and, although the rules of the house forbid promenades in the garden after nightfall, I have consented to stay hereuntil half-past seven o'clock, our supper hour, which will soon sound."
"I thank you, madame," said Dolores, with a slight Spanish accent, and in a voice deliciously resonant. "I feel that this promenade will do me good."
"You must call me mother and not madame, my dear daughter, I have already told you that it is the custom here."
"I will conform to it, if I can, madame."
"Again!"
"It is difficult to call a person mother who is not your mother," said Dolores, with a sigh.
"I am your spiritual mother, my dear daughter; your mother in God, as you are, as you will be, my daughter in God; because you will leave us no more, you will renounce the deceitful pleasures of a perverse and corrupt world, you will have here a heavenly foretaste of eternal peace."
"I begin to discover it, madame."
"You will live in prayer, silence, and meditation."
"I have no other desire, madame."
"Well, well, my dear daughter, after all, what will you sacrifice?"
"Oh, nothing, absolutely nothing!"
"I like that response, my dear daughter; really, it is nothing, less than nothing, these wicked and worldly passions which cause us so much sorrow and throw us in the way of perdition."
"Just Heaven! it makes me tremble to think of it, madame."
"The Lord inspires you to answer thus, my dear daughter, and I am sure now that you can hardly understand how you have been able to love this miscreant captain."
"It is true, madame, I was stupid enough to dream of happiness and the joys of family affection; criminal enough to find this happiness in mutual love and hopeto become, like many others, a devoted wife and tender mother; it was, as you have told me, an offence to Heaven. I repent my impious vows, I comprehend all that is odious in them; you must pardon me, madame, for having been wicked and silly to such a degree."
"It is not necessary to exaggerate, my dear daughter," said Sister Prudence, struck with the slightly ironical accent with which Dolores had uttered these last words. "But," added she, observing the direction taken by the young girl, "what is the good of returning to this walk? It will soon be the hour for supper; come, my dear daughter, let us go back to the house."
"Oh, madame, do you not perceive that sweet odour on this side of the grove?"
"Those are a few clusters of mignonette. But come, it is getting cool; I am not sixteen like you, my dear daughter, and I am afraid of catching cold."
"Just one moment, please, that I may gather a few of these flowers."
"Go on, then, you must do everything you wish, my dear daughter; stop, the night is clear enough for you to see this mignonette ten steps away; go and gather a few sprigs and return."
Dolores, letting go the arm of the mother superior, went rapidly toward the clusters of flowers.
At this moment half-past seven o'clock sounded.
"Half-past seven," murmured Dolores, trembling and turning her ear to listen, "he is there, he will come!"
"My dear daughter, it is the hour for supper," said the mother superior, walking on ahead of the canon's niece. "Stop, do you not hear the clock? Quick! quick! come, it will take ten minutes to reach the house, for we are at the bottom of the garden."
"Here I am, madame," replied the young girl, running before the mother superior, who said to her, with affected sweetness:
"Oh, you foolish little thing, you run like a frightened fawn."
Suddenly Dolores shrieked, and fell on her knees.
"Great God!" cried Sister Prudence, running up to her, "what is the matter, dear daughter? Why did you scream? What are you on your knees for?"
"Ah, madame!"
"But what is it?"
"What pain!"
"Where?"
"In my foot, madame, I have sprained my ankle. Oh, how I suffer! My God, how I suffer!"
"Try to get up, my dear child," said the mother, approaching Dolores with a vague distrust, for this sprain seemed to her quite unnatural.
"Oh, impossible, madame, I cannot make a movement."
"But try, at least."
"I wish I could."
And the young girl made a show of wishing to stand up, but she fell again on her knees, with a shriek that could be heard on the other side of the garden wall.
Then Dolores said, with a groan:
"You see, madame, it is impossible for me to move. I pray you return to the house, and tell some one to come for me with a chair or a litter. Oh, how I suffer! My God, how I suffer! For pity's sake, madame, go back quick to the house; it is so far, I shall never be able to drag myself there."
"Mademoiselle," cried the mother superior, "I am not your dupe! You have no more of a sprain than I have, it is an abominable falsehood! You wish, I know not for what reason, to send me away, and remain alone in the garden. Ah, indeed you make me repent of my condescension."
The light noise of a few pebbles falling across the boughs of the trees attracted the attention of themother superior and Dolores, who, radiant with delight, leaped up with a bound, exclaiming:
"There he is!"
"Of whom are you speaking, unhappy girl?"
"Of Captain Horace, madame," said Dolores, curtseying with mock reverence. "He is coming to carry me away."
"What impudence! Ah, you think that in spite of me—"
"We are at the bottom of the garden, madame; cry, call, nobody will hear you."
"Oh, what horrible treason!" cried the mother superior. "But it is impossible! The men on guard have not dared leave the boulevard since nightfall."
"Horatio!" cried Dolores, in a clear, silvery voice. "My Horatio!"
"Shameless creature!" cried Sister Prudence, in desperation, rushing forward to seize Dolores by the arm. But the Spanish girl, nimble as a gazelle, with two bounds was out of the reach of Sister Prudence, whose limbs, stiffened by age, refused to lend themselves to gymnastic exercise; and already overcome, she cried, wringing her hands:
"Oh, those miserable patrols! They have not been on guard. I would cry, but they would not hear me at the convent. To run there is to leave this wretched girl here alone! Ah, I understand too late why this serpent wished to prolong our walk."
"Horatio," cried Dolores a second time, holding herself at a distance from the mother superior, "my dear Horatio!"
"Descend!" cried a ringing male voice which seemed to come from the sky.
This celestial voice was no other than that of Captain Horace, giving the signal to his faithful Sans-Plume to descend something.
The mother superior and Dolores, notwithstandingthe difference of the emotions which agitated them, raised their eyes simultaneously when they heard the voice of Captain Horace.
But let us recall the situation of the walk and garden in order to explain the miracle about to be manifested to the sight of the recluse.
Two of the largest branches of the trees on the boulevard outside extended like a gibbet, so to speak, above and beyond the coping of the convent wall. The night was so clear that Dolores and the mother superior saw, slowly descending, sustained by cords, an Indian hammock in the bottom of which Captain Horace was extended, throwing with his hand a shower of kisses to Dolores.
When the hammock was within two feet of the earth, the captain called, in a ringing voice: "Stop!"
The hammock rested motionless. The captain leaped out of it, and said to the young girl:
"Quick, we have not a moment to lose! Dear Dolores, get into this hammock at once and do not be afraid."