THEmaid had no sooner quitted the apartment than Madame d'Infreville said to her friend:
"You proposed I should spend the rest of the day here, my dear Florence, and I accept your offer, so as to give a semblance of truth to my falsehood in case there should be any trouble."
"But my letter?"
"It will be supposed that the letter and I passed each other on the way, and that I reached here after the missive was sent."
"True."
"And now, my dear friend, grant me your indulgence, and perhaps, too, your compassion, while I tell you the rest of my sad story."
"Compassion, indulgence! Surely you feel that you can count upon both, my poor Valentine! But go on. I am listening."
"I have never told you that the windows of my bedroom, which is in the second story of M. d'Infreville's house, overlook a small garden which belongs to the ground floor of the adjoining house. About three months before I discovered that my husband had a mistress, and while he was still in a precarious state of health, the garden, as well as the apartments I speak of,—which had been vacant for a long time,—underwent numerous changes. I spent most of my time at home, my husband's ill health preventing me from going out at all. It was the beginning of summer. In order that I might enjoy more privacy when M. d'Infreville did not need my care, I often retired to my own room, and sewed or embroidered by the open window. The weather was delightful, and I began to notice with great interest the extensive improvements that were being made in the neighbouring garden. As I said a moment ago, they were peculiar changes, but they indicated so much originality, as well as good taste, that my curiosity gradually became much excited, especially as I saw all these changes effected without ever catching a glimpse of the new inmate of the neighbouringrez-de-chaussée. It was interesting to watch the transformation of this rather neglected, commonplace garden into a place of ravishing beauty. A conservatory filled with rare plants, and communicating with one of the rooms, was built along the south wall; the opposite wall was concealed from view by a grotto built of large rocks intermingled with shrubbery. A tiny waterfall trickled down one side of this rocky grotto into a big basin below, diffusing a refreshing coolness around; and finally, a sort of rustic summer-house, roofed with thatch and divided into arches, was constructed against the other side of the wall which enclosed this garden, which was soon so filled with flowers that, seen from my window, it resembled one gigantic bouquet. You will understand presently why I enter into these details."
"But this ravishing spot in the heart of Paris was a veritable paradise!"
"It was, indeed, a charming spot. A gilded aviary, filled with magnificent birds, was placed in the middle of the grass plot, and a sort of veranda or broad covered gallery was built in front of the windows, and furnished with rattan couches, Turkish divans, and costly rugs. A piano, too, was placed there, and this broad piazza, protected by Venetian blinds during the day, if necessary, made a delightfully cool and shady retreat in summer."
"Really, it seems to be a tale from the Arabian Nights that I am listening to! What a clever person it must have been who could gather together so many marvels of good taste and comfort in so small a space. But did the originator never show himself?"
"He did not appear until after all these arrangements had been completed."
"But hadn't you endeavoured to find out who this mysterious neighbour was? I confess that I couldn't have resisted the temptation to do so."
Valentine smiled sadly as she replied:
"It so happened that the sister of M. d'Infreville's steward was my mysterious neighbour's only servant. Informed by her brother, this woman had told her employer of this apartment and garden. One day, my curiosity so far got the better of me that I asked our steward if he knew who had just leased the ground floor in the next house, and he told me several things that excited my curiosity still more."
"Indeed, and what were these things, my dear Valentine?"
"He said that this new neighbour was the best and most generous-hearted man in the world,—for instance, when, after the death of an uncle who left him quite a handsome fortune, he wanted to hire several servants, and live in a rather more luxurious fashion, this same old woman whom I have spoken of, and who used to be his nurse, told him, with tears in her eyes, that she could not endure the thought of seeing other servants in his house. In vain he promised her that she should have authority over them all, act as a sort of confidential servant or housekeeper in short, but she would not listen to him. In his kindness of heart, he did not insist, so, in spite of his newly acquired wealth, he kept in his service only this old servant. This may seem a trivial incident to you, my dear Florence, but—"
"On the contrary, I think the delicate consideration he displayed extremely touching, and not unfrequently these apparent trifles enable one to judge very accurately of a person's character."
"I think so, too. In fact, from that time, I felt sure that my neighbour was both kind-hearted and generous. I soon discovered, too, that his name was Michel Renaud."
"Michel Renaud? Good Heavens!" exclaimed Madame de Luceval.
"Yes; but what is the matter, Florence?"
"How strange, how passing strange that—"
"Pray go on."
"Is he the son of General Renaud, who was killed in the last war of the Empire?"
"Yes. Do you know him?"
"He is M. de Luceval's cousin."
"Michel, M. de Luceval's cousin?"
"And hardly a day passes that my husband does not speak of him."
"Of Michel?"
"Yes, but I have never seen him. Possibly he took offence on account of M. de Luceval's marriage, like nearly all the members of the family, for he has never called to see us. That doesn't surprise me much, however, for my husband has never been on particularly friendly terms with any of his relatives."
"What you say amazes me! Michel, your husband's cousin? But how does M. de Luceval happen to speak of Michel so often?"
"Alas! my poor Valentine, it is on account of a grievous fault of which M. Michel Renaud and I are both guilty, it seems,—a fault which is my chief happiness, and, to speak plainly, my husband's greatest safeguard; but men are so blind!"
"Explain, I beg of you."
"You know I was considered incorrigibly indolent at the convent. How many remonstrances, how many punishments I received on account of that fault!"
"True."
"Well, this fault seems to increase with age,—it has attained truly colossal proportions now, so colossal, in fact, that it has become almost a virtue."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean that, far from experiencing any desire to imitate them, I feel only the greatest pity and compassion for those unfortunate women whom a mad love of society plunges into a whirlpool of gaiety and dissipation. The mere thought of the tiresome, unsatisfactory, wearing manner in which they enjoy themselves makes me shudder. Think of attending three or four balls or receptions every evening, to say nothing of the play; of rushing madly from one's dressmaker to one's milliner, and from there to one's florist; of dressing and undressing oneself, and of trying on gowns, and having one's hair arranged; of making three toilets a day, and dancing and riding and waltzing from morning till night. One must have nerves of steel, and the constitution of a prize-fighter to stand such a fatiguing life. How different all this is from the delightful rest I enjoy on this armchair, finding inexpressible enjoyment in my languid contemplation of earth and sky. When winter comes, I find myself equally happy half dozing in my armchair, or nestling under my eider-down quilt while the hail dashes against the window-panes. I thus enjoy all the varying charms ofdolce far nienteat all seasons of the year, thinking and dreaming, sometimes awake, sometimes half asleep. I am quite capable, I must admit, of spending an entire day stretched out on the grass, watching the passing clouds, listening to the sighing of the wind, the buzzing of the insects, and the soft murmur of the brooklet,—in short, my dear Valentine, no savage denizen of the forest ever appreciated the infinite delight of a free and idle life more keenly than I do, and never was there a person more devoutly grateful to Heaven who has provided such simple and innocent enjoyment for us. But what is the matter, Valentine?" asked Madame de Luceval, gazing at her friend in surprise. "What is the meaning of these troubled looks, this emotion which you cannot conceal, try as you will? Valentine, once more I entreat you, answer me."
A brief silence followed this appeal, after which Madame d'Infreville, passing her hand across her forehead, replied, in a slightly constrained voice:
"Listen to the conclusion of my story, Florence, and you will, perhaps, divine what I cannot and dare not tell you."
"Speak, then, I beg of you."
"The first time I saw Michel," Valentine continued, "he was on the veranda I told you about. He spent most of his time there during the summer. Concealed from view by my window-shutter, I could examine him at my leisure, and it would be difficult to conceive of a handsomer man. Half reclining on a Turkish divan, enveloped in a long robe of India silk, he was smoking a narghile in an attitude of Orientalabandon, with his eyes fixed upon his garden. After listening awhile with evident delight to the murmur of the waterfall, and the singing of the beautiful birds in his aviary, he picked up a book, which he laid down again now and then, as if to think over what he had just read. Soon two of his friends dropped in. One of them is justly considered one of the most eminent men of the day. It was M. M——"
"You are right. He is one of the most brilliant and famous men of his time. I know him by sight and by reputation, and his exalted position, as well as the great difference in age between Michel and himself, make his visit to a rather obscure young man certainly very extraordinary. Did M. Michel seem to be very much flattered by this visit?"
"On the contrary, Michel welcomed him with affectionate familiarity. It seemed to me that M. M—— treated him on a footing of perfect equality. A long conversation ensued, of which I, of course, could not hear a word. To compensate for this disappointment, I took an opera-glass, and from my place of concealment studied Michel's face closely during the interview. I could even watch the movements of his lips. I found a singular charm in this close scrutiny, and though I, of course, had no idea concerning the subject of the conversation, I could see that an animated discussion was going on between M—— and Michel. At first, M—— seemed to be arguing his point in the most energetic manner, but subsequently I saw, by the expression of his face, that he was gradually becoming a convert to Michel's opinion, though not without a stubborn resistance on his part. Nevertheless, an involuntary sign of assent occasionally testified to the advantage Michel was gaining, and he finally won a complete victory. I cannot describe the charm of your cousin's features during this long contest. By their mobility, as well as by the animation of his gestures, I could see that he was employing, in turn, fervid eloquence, keen raillery, and weighty arguments, to refute the statements of his guests and convert them to his way of thinking. The interview lasted a long time; when it was ended, Michel's friends took leave of him with even greater cordiality. He made a movement as if to rise and accompany them to the door, but they, laughingly, compelled him to retain his half recumbent attitude, apparently telling him that they knew what a terrible effort it would be for him to move. I learned afterwards that M——, being obliged to make a very important decision, had come—as he was frequently in the habit of doing—to consult Michel, whose tact is as unerring as his judgment is sound. From that day, my dear friend, though I had never even spoken to Michel, I felt a deep interest in him, which, alas, was fated to exert entirely too great an influence on my life."
The young woman remained silent for a moment.
As her friend proceeded, Florence had become more and more interested in the story and its hero, especially as she noted the many points of similarity between that gentleman's tastes and character and her own, for M. de Luceval, in reverting to his cousin Michel's incurable indolence, had never said anything that would serve to excuse it or imbue it with any romantic charm. And Florence also understood now the surprise, and, perhaps, even the feeling of involuntary jealousy that Valentine had not been able to entirely conceal when she, Florence, had expounded her ingenious theory on the subject of indolence and its delights.
Not that Madame d'Infreville was really jealous of Madame de Luceval; that would have been the height of folly. Florence did not even know Michel Renaud, and she was too sincere in her friendship to desire to make his acquaintance with the intention of alienating him from her friend.
Nevertheless, Madame d'Infreville experienced a sort of vague envy and uneasiness as she thought of all the elements of sympathy and happiness which were combined in the strange similarity of character which she now perceived in Florence and Michel Renaud.
MADAME DELUCEVAL, after having remained silent and thoughtful for a moment, remarked to her friend:
"I can easily understand the deep impression that the incidents of the day on which you saw Cousin Michel for the first time must have made upon you. You saw that he was remarkably handsome and that he was also highly gifted, as he seemed to exercise such an influence over one of the most famous men of our time, while the delicate consideration shown to his old nurse proved conclusively that his was a most generous heart. This, alas! was enough, and more than enough, my poor Valentine, to excite the interest and admiration of a person so unfortunately situated as yourself."
"Then, Florence, though you may not excuse, you can at least understand how such a passion as this was born in my heart."
"I can not only understand, but excuse it, in one so crushed with grief and disappointment. Your situation was so trying that it was only natural that you should endeavour to divert and console yourself."
"I scarcely need tell you, then, that I thought of Michel all that night in spite of myself. Early the next morning I ran to my window, and gazed eagerly out through the protecting blinds. The day was superb, and Michel spent it as he had spent the previous day, stretched out upon a couch on the veranda, smoking, reading, dreaming, and enjoying to the full the happiness of being alive, as he told me afterwards. During the day, a man dressed in black, and carrying a large portfolio under his arm, visited him. Thanks to my lorgnette I soon discovered that he was Michel's man of affairs. In fact, he drew several papers from his portfolio, apparently with the intention of reading them to Michel, but the latter took them and signed them without even taking the trouble to glance over them, after which the visitor drew from his pocket a roll of bank-notes, which he handed to your cousin, apparently with the request that he would count them, which he refused to do, thus showing his blind confidence in this man."
"All of which goes to prove that our dear cousin is very careless in business matters."
"Alas! that is only too true, unfortunately for him."
"What! is his fortune—?"
"You shall know all if you will give me your attention a few minutes longer. During the day, which was spent in complete idleness, like the one which had preceded it, Michel's nurse brought him a letter. He read it. Ah, Florence, never have I seen compassion so touchingly depicted upon any human face. He opened the desk in which he had placed the bank-notes, and handed one to his nurse. The good woman threw her arms around his neck, and you can not imagine with what delightful emotion he seemed to receive her almost maternal caresses.
"It was long after sunset," continued Valentine, "before I could again shut myself up in my own room, and return to my dear window. But I had scarcely looked out before I saw a young woman enter the gallery and hasten towards Michel. It was a terrible shock to me. It was both stupid and foolish in me, of course, for I had not the slightest claim upon Michel, but the feeling was not only involuntary but uncontrollable, and, darting away from the window, I threw myself in an armchair, and burying my face in my hands, wept long and bitterly. Subsequently, I fell into a deep reverie, from which I was aroused a couple of hours afterwards by a prelude upon the piano, and soon two voices that harmonised perfectly began to sing the impassioned duet of Mathilde and Arnold from the opera of 'Guillaume Tell.'"
"It was Michel?"
"Yes, Michel and that woman!"
It is impossible to describe the way in which Valentine uttered the words, "That woman."
After a moment of painful silence she continued:
"The night was clear and still, and the two vibrant, impassioned voices soared heavenward like a pæan of happiness and love. For awhile I listened in spite of myself, but towards the last it made me so utterly wretched, that, not having the courage to go away, I covered my ears with my hands; then, blushing for my absurd weakness, I tried to listen again, but the song had ended. I went back to the window; the air was heavy with the rich perfume of a thousand flowers; there was not a breath of wind; a soft, faint light like that from an alabaster lamp shone through the lowered blinds of the gallery. A profound silence reigned for a few moments, then I heard the gravel in the garden path crunch under the feet of Michel and that woman. They were walking slowly along; his arm was around her waist. I could bear no more, and I hastily closed the window. I passed a frightful night. What new and terrible passions had been aroused during the last two days! Love, desire, jealousy, hatred, remorse,—yes, remorse, for I felt now that an irresistible power was sweeping me on to ruin, and that I should succumb in the struggle. You know the energy and ardour of my character; the same attributes entered into this unfortunate love. I resisted bravely for a time; but when my husband's cruel and brutal conduct exasperated me so deeply, I felt released from all obligations to him, and blindly abandoned myself to the passion that was devouring me."
"But you have been happy, very happy, have you not, Valentine?"
"At first I experienced bliss unspeakable, though it was marred at times by the recollection of that woman from whom Michel had long been separated. She was a celebrated opera singer, celebrated even in Italy, I believe. I found Michel all I had dreamed,—talented, witty, refined, graceful, deferential, courteous,—all these attributes were united in him, together with a marvellous tenderness and delicacy of feeling, and a perfect disposition. And yet, this liaison had scarcely lasted two months before I became the most miserable of women, while adoring Michel as much as ever."
"But why, my poor Valentine? From what you have just told me, I should think that Michel possessed every attribute necessary to make you happy."
"Yes," sighed Valentine, "but all these attributes are nullified by an incurable fault, by—"
Madame d'Infreville gave a sudden start, then paused abruptly.
"Why do you stop so suddenly, Valentine?" asked Florence, in surprise. "Why this reticence? Go on, I beg of you. Haven't you perfect confidence in me?"
"Have I not just proved it by my confession?"
"Yes, oh, yes; but go on."
"You will understand my reticence, I think," continued Madame d'Infreville, after a moment's hesitation, "when I tell you that all that is kind and noble and tender and commendable in Michel is spoiled by an incurable apathy."
"My chief fault!" exclaimed Madame de Luceval, "so you were afraid to tell me that."
"No, no, Florence; your indolence is charming."
"M. de Luceval doesn't agree with you on that point," responded the young wife, smiling faintly.
"But your indolence has no such disastrous consequences, either so far as you, yourself, or your husband are concerned," replied Valentine. "You enjoy it, and no one really suffers from it. It is very different in Michel's case. He has paid no attention whatever to money matters, and his man of business, encouraged by this negligence, has not only stolen from him in the most shameful manner, but has also embarked in various business enterprises which have been profitable to him but ruinous to Michel, who has been too indolent to verify his accounts; and now, I am by no means sure that he has enough money left to live upon even in the most frugal manner."
"Poor fellow, how sad that is! But is not your influence sufficiently strong to overcome this unfortunate indolence?"
"My influence!" repeated Valentine, smiling bitterly. "What influence can one have over a character like his. Arguments, prayers, entreaties, and warnings do not disturb his serenity in the least. No harsh or unkind word ever falls from Michel's lips, oh, no, but he shrinks from anger and impatience, precisely as he shrinks from fatigue. Always calm, smiling, and affectionate, the most vehement remonstrances, the most despairing supplications, receive no other answer than a smile or a kiss. It is because he has thus completely ignored my advice and entreaties that he finds himself in his present alarming position, alarming at least to me, though not to him; for having led a perfectly indolent life up to the present time, he is not likely to find himself possessed of sufficient courage or energy to rescue himself from his deplorable position when his entire ruin is accomplished."
"You are right, Valentine; the situation is even graver than I thought."
"Yes, for one terrible fear haunts me continually."
"What do you mean?"
"Michel is endowed with too keen powers of discernment to deceive himself in regard to his future. He knows, too, that when his last louis is spent he has nothing to expect from any one, much less from himself."
"But what do you fear?"
"That he will kill himself," replied Valentine, shuddering.
"Good Heavens! has he hinted at anything of the kind?"
"Oh, no, he has taken good care not to do that. Any such intimation would be sure to lead to a distressing scene on my part, and he hates tears and complaints of any kind. No, he has never admitted that the thought of self-destruction has even occurred to him, but the fact escaped him one day, for he remarked, laughingly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world: 'Happy dead,—eternal idleness is their portion.'"
"But Valentine, this fear is terrible."
"And it never leaves me, even for an instant," replied the unfortunate woman, bursting into tears; "and yet I am obliged to conceal it in his presence, for whenever he sees me sad or preoccupied, he says to me, with that tender, gracious smile of his:
"'Why this sadness, my dear Valentine? Are we not young, and do we not love each other? Let us think only of our happiness. I love you as much as it is possible for me to love any one, so take me as I am, and if I have displeased you in any way, or if I no longer please you, leave me, find some one who suits you better, and let us remain friends only. In my opinion, love should be only joy and felicity, tenderness and repose. It should be like a beautiful lake, clear and calm, reflecting only the pleasant things of life. Why cast a gloom over it by useless anxiety? Let us enjoy our youth in peace, my angel! The person who has known during his whole life ten days of perfect, radiant happiness, should be content to thank God and die. We have had a hundred and more of such days, my Valentine, and whether we enjoy more of them depends only upon yourself, for I adore you. Am I not too indolent to be inconstant?'"
"Yes," added Valentine, with increasing earnestness, "yes, that is the way in which Michel regards love. Those alternations of hope and fear, the vague unrest, the foolish, but no less terrible fits of jealousy that lacerate one's heart, only excite Michel's derision. His indolence—I can not say his indifference, for, after all, he loves me as much as he can love any one, as he says himself—irritates me and makes my blood fairly boil sometimes; but I restrain myself, because, in spite of myself, I adore him just as he is. Nor is this all. Michel never seems to have the slightest suspicion of the remorse and anxiety and fears that assail me every day, for in order that I may be able to spend several hours and sometimes even an entire day with him, I am obliged to tell falsehood after falsehood, to place myself almost at the mercy of my servants, and to devise new pretexts for my frequent absences. And when I return, ah, Florence, when I return,—if you knew what a terrible load I have on my heart when, after a long absence, I place my hand on the knocker, saying to myself all the while, 'What if everything has been discovered!' And when I find myself face to face with my husband, I am even more miserable. To meet his gaze, to try to discover if he has the slightest suspicion of the truth, to tremble inwardly at his most trivial question, to appear calm and indifferent when I am half crazed with fear and anxiety,—all this is torture. And to add to my misery and degradation, I must be assiduous in my attentions to a husband I loathe; I must even stoop to flattery to keep him in good humour, so terribly am I afraid of him, and so eager am I to drive away his suspicions by a bright and cheerful manner. Sometimes, Florence, I must even be gay, do you hear me? Gay, when I have death in my soul. Ah, Florence, such a life is nothing more or less than a hell upon earth, and yet it is impossible for me to abandon it."
"Oh, Valentine," exclaimed Madame de Luceval, throwing herself in her friend's arms, "I thank you, my dear, dear friend, I thank you! You have saved me!"
MADAME DELUCEVALhad been listening to her friend with rapidly increasing interest and curiosity for several minutes; then, apparently unable to control her emotion any longer, she had thrown herself in Valentine's arms, exclaiming:
"I thank you, my dear, dear friend, I thank you. You have saved me!"
"Good Heavens! Florence, why do you thank me? Explain, I beg of you," said Madame d'Infreville, gazing at her friend with the utmost astonishment.
"You think I have lost my senses, I suppose," responded Madame de Luceval, smiling faintly. "You little know what a great service you have rendered me."
"I?"
"Yes; a great, an immense service," replied Florence, with a strange mixture of emotion, mirth, and mischievousness. "Would you believe it, when you first told me that you had a lover, I envied you as I envied you at the convent when you left it to be married. And then—why should I try to conceal it from you?—Cousin Michel's tastes and his manner of life seemed so entirely congenial to me, that I said to myself: 'This is just my idea of love. That which annoys my poor Valentine so much would, on the contrary, delight me, and I believe I should love to have a Michel myself.'"
"Florence, what are you saying?"
"Let me finish, please. I am not disposed to conceal anything from you, so I may as well tell you that, as I see stormy times ahead, and as my husband is becoming more and more insupportable, I thought it quite possible that I should require consolation for such an ill-assorted union myself at some future day."
"Oh, Florence, take care," exclaimed Valentine, in evident alarm, "if you knew—"
"If I knew?" retorted Madame de Luceval, interrupting her friend; "if I knew? Why, thanks to you, I do know, and after what you have just told me, nothing on earth could induce me to have a lover. And I verily believe, Heaven forgive me! that I would rather go to the North Pole or to the Caucasus with my husband, than subject myself to all the misery and trials and torments your lover has cost you. A lover! Great Heavens! How wearing it would be! My natural indolence will serve in place of virtue in this instance. Each person is virtuous according to his or her ability, and provided one is virtuous, that is the essential thing, isn't it, Valentine?"
As Florence uttered these words, her expression was at once so serious and so droll, that, in spite of her own troubles, her friend could not help smiling as Madame de Luceval added:
"Ah, my poor Valentine, I do pity you, for such a life must be a hell upon earth, as you say."
"Yes, Florence, so take my advice. Persist in your resolve, and remain faithful to your duties, no matter how onerous they may seem. Profit by my experience, I entreat you," added Valentine, tenderly. "I shall reproach myself all my life if I feel that I have put sinful ideas into your head, or encouraged you to follow my example. So promise me, Florence, my friend, my dear friend, that I shall be spared this sorrow, promise me—"
"You need have no fears on that score, Valentine. Think what it would be for a person who loves her ease as I do, to attempt to deceive a husband who is rushing in and out of my room a dozen times a day. Why, it makes my brain reel, merely to think of it. No, no; the lesson you have taught me is a good one. It will bear fruit, I assure you. But to return to the subject of your troubles. Your husband's suspicions do not seem to have been aroused as yet."
"You are mistaken about that, I fear, though I am not positive of it."
"Why do you think so?"
"As I told you, my husband spends very little time at home. He leaves the house in the morning, directly after breakfast, and is not only in the habit of dining with his mistress, but of receiving his friends at her house. Afterwards, he takes her to the theatre, returning to her home with her afterwards, where there is pretty heavy playing, people say. At all events, he seldom returns home before three or four o'clock in the morning."
"A nice life for a married man!"
"Either because he has confidence in me, or is indifferent on the subject, he seldom questions me about the way in which I spend my time; but a couple of days ago, not feeling as well as usual, he returned home about three o'clock in the afternoon. I supposed that he would be absent all day, as he told me in the morning that he would not dine at home, so I did not return from Michel's until ten in the evening."
"Mon Dieu!How frightened you must have been when you heard of your husband's return. It makes me shudder to think of it!"
"I was so terrified that I at first thought I would not even go up to my own room, but run out of the house and never come back."
"That is what I should have done, I am sure. Still, I don't know—"
"At last I summoned up all my courage, and went up-stairs. The doctor was there, and M. d'Infreville was suffering so much that he scarcely addressed a word to me. I nursed him all night with hypocritical zeal. When he became easier, he asked me why I had absented myself from home so long, and where I had been. I had been preparing an answer, for I knew the question would come sooner or later, so I told him I had been spending the day with you, as I did quite frequently, since he had left me so much of the time alone. He seemed to believe me, and even pretended to approve, remarking that he knew M. de Luceval by reputation, and was glad to hear of my intimacy with his wife. I thought I was saved, but last night I learned, through my maid, that my husband had questioned her very adroitly, evidently for the purpose of finding out if I was often absent from home. My apprehensions became so grave that, resolved to escape from such an intolerable position at any cost, I went to Michel this morning, and said: 'I am going to confess all to my mother; tell her that my husband has grave suspicions, and that there is nothing left for me but to flee. I shall not return to my husband's house. My mother and I will leave Paris this evening for Brussels. You can join us there if you wish, and the remains of your fortune, and what I can earn by my needle, will suffice for our support. However poor and laborious our life may be, I shall be spared the terrible necessity of lying every day, and of living in a state of continual suspense and terror."
"And he consented?"
"He!" exclaimed Valentine, bitterly. "What a fool I was to count upon any such display of firmness on his part! He gazed at me a moment as if stupefied, then assured me that my resolution was absurd in the extreme; that persons resorted to such extreme measures only when they were absolutely compelled to do so; that it would probably be a comparatively easy matter to allay my husband's suspicions, and he finally suggested my asking you to write that letter."
"Perhaps he was right, after all, in advising you not to flee, as much for your sake as his own, for you are not in such very desperate straits, after all, it seems to me."
"Florence, I feel a presentiment that—"
But Madame d'Infreville never finished the sentence.
The door of the room was suddenly burst open, and M. de Luceval and M. d'Infreville presented themselves to the astonished gaze of Florence and Valentine.
"I am lost!" the latter exclaimed, overwhelmed with terror. Then, covered with shame at the sight of M. de Luceval, she buried her face in her hands.
Florence hastily sprang to her friend's side as if to protect her, and said to M. de Luceval, imperiously:
"What is your business here?"
"I have come to convict you of falsehood, and of a disgraceful complicity with an evil-doer, madame," responded M. de Luceval, threateningly.
"I have discovered that Madame d'Infreville has been absenting herself from her home for entire days for some time past, madame," added the other husband, turning to Florence. "Yesterday I asked Madame d'Infreville where she had spent the day. She told me she had spent it at your house. This letter of yours, madame (he held it up as he spoke), written at the instigation of my wife and with the intention of making me the dupe of an infamous falsehood, happened to fall into M. de Luceval's hands. He has sworn, and I believe him, that he has never once seen Madame d'Infreville here. Under such circumstances, madame, I can hardly believe that you will insist any longer that the contrary is the truth."
"Yes, madame," exclaimed M. de Luceval, "such an admission on your part will not only convict a guilty woman, but at the same time serve as a just punishment for your own shameless complicity."
"All I have to say, monsieur, is that Madame d'Infreville is, and always will be, my best friend," responded Florence, resolutely; "and the more unhappy she is, the more she can count upon my devoted affection."
"What, madame!" exclaimed M. de Luceval; "is it possible that you dare—"
"Yes; and I also dare to tell M. d'Infreville that his conduct towards his wife has been both disgraceful and heartless."
"Enough, madame, enough!" cried M. de Luceval, deeply exasperated.
"No, monsieur, it is not enough," retorted Florence. "I still have to remind M. d'Infreville that he is in my house, and that as he knows now what I think of him, he must realise that his presence is an intrusion here."
"You are right, madame; I have heard too much already," retorted M. d'Infreville, with a sardonic smile.
Then taking his wife roughly by the arm, he said:
"Come with me, madame."
The terrified woman, crushed by the burden of her shame, rose mechanically, with her face still buried in her hands.
"My mother, oh, my mother!" she murmured, despairingly.
"I will not desert you, Valentine!" exclaimed Florence, springing towards her friend.
But M. de Luceval, who was evidently very angry, seized his wife around the waist and held her as in a vice, saying as he did so:
"You dare to defy me in this fashion, do you, madame?"
M. d'Infreville took advantage of this opportunity to drag Valentine away, the unfortunate woman offering no resistance, but exclaiming, in a voice broken with sobs, as she disappeared from sight:
"Farewell, Florence, farewell!"
Madame de Luceval, pale with grief and indignation, remained perfectly motionless for a moment in the grasp of her husband, who did not relax his hold upon her until after Valentine had left the room.
The young woman then said, in a perfectly calm voice:
"M. de Luceval, you have laid violent hands upon me. From this time on, all is over between us."
"Madame!"
"You have had your way, monsieur; now I shall have mine, as I will prove to you."
"Will you have the goodness to make your wishes known, madame," responded H. de Luceval, with a sardonic smile.
"Certainly."
"Go on, madame."
"In the first place, we are to separate, quietly, peaceably, and without the slightest scandal."
"Ah, indeed!"
"It is a thing that is often done, I have heard."
"And at seventeen madame expects to roam about the world as she pleases."
"Roam about the world! Heaven preserve me from that. Travelling is not at all to my taste, as you know, monsieur."
"This is no subject for jesting," exclaimed M. de Luceval, hotly. "Are you really insane enough to imagine that you can live alone and exactly as you please, when your husband has you completely in his power?"
"I have no intention of living alone, monsieur."
"And with whom does madame expect to live, may I ask?"
"Valentine is very unhappy. I intend to live with her and her mother. My fortune is entirely independent of yours, thank Heaven!"
"You intend to live with that woman,—a woman who has had a lover, a woman that her husband will drive out of his house this very night—and he is perfectly right!—a woman who deserves the contempt of all decent people. It is with a creature like that you propose to live. The mere announcement of such an intention on your part is quite enough to put you in a madhouse, madame."
"M. de Luceval, the extremely disagreeable events of the day have fatigued me very much, and you will oblige me by not annoying me further. I shall merely add that if any one deserves the contempt of all decent people, it is M. d'Infreville, for it was his shameful treatment of his wife that drove her to ruin. As for Valentine, what she deserves, and will always be sure of from me, is the tenderest compassion."
"Why, this is outrageous! It is enough to put you in a madhouse, I tell you!"
"Understand me once for all, M. de Luceval. No one will shut me up in a madhouse. I shall have my liberty, and you will have yours; and I shall make such use of mine as I think proper."
"We will see about that, madame!"
"Or rather, you will see, monsieur."
FOURyears have elapsed since the events we have just related.
It is a winter's day; the cold is intense, the sky gray and lowering. A woman is walking down the Rue de Vaugirard, pausing now and then to glance at the numbers on the houses, as if in search of some particular one.
This woman, who is dressed in mourning, seems to be about twenty-three years of age. She is tall and slender, a decided brunette, with large black eyes, full of expression. Her features are regular, though a little haggard, and her mobile face reveals, in turn, a bitter sadness or a mingled anxiety and impatience. Her quick, somewhat irregular tread also betrays deep agitation.
When this young woman had walked nearly half way down the street, she paused again to study the numbers, and finding herself opposite Number 57, she gave a quick start, and pressed her hand upon her heart, as if to quiet its throbbings; then, after standing a moment perfectly motionless, she directed her steps towards the porte-cochère, then paused again in evident hesitation, but having seen several notices announcing that there were apartments to rent in the house, she resolutely entered the courtyard and walked straight to the porter's lodge.
"You have several apartments to rent, I see, monsieur," she said to the concierge.
"Yes, madame. The first and the third floor, and two separate rooms."
"The first floor would be too dear for me, I fear. The third would probably suit me better. What do you ask for it?"
"Six hundred francs, madame. That is the lowest, for it has just been freshly done up."
"How many rooms are there?"
"A kitchen, a small dining-room, a parlour, a large bedchamber with a big dressing-room, and another small room that would do for a servant. If madame will go up-stairs, she can see for herself."
"I would first like to know who lives in the house. I am a widow and live alone, so you can understand why I ask this question."
"Certainly, madame. The house is very respectable and extremely quiet. The first floor is not occupied, as I told you. A professor in the law school, a highly respectable man, lives on the second floor. He has a wife but no children. The third floor is the one I offered to madame. On the fourth floor there are two small rooms which are occupied by a young man. When I say a young man I don't exactly mean that, however, for M. Michel Renaud must be about thirty."
On hearing the name of Michel Renaud, the young woman, in spite of her self-control, turned first red and then pale, a sad smile flitted across her lips, and her large black eyes gleamed more brightly under their long lashes; but, conquering her emotion, she replied calmly and with a well-feigned air of indifference:
"And the rooms on the third floor are directly under those occupied by this gentleman, I suppose?"
"Yes, madame."
"Is the gentleman married?"
"No, madame."
"I hope you will not be surprised at the questions I put to you, but I have such a horror of a noise over my head, and of bad company, that I should like to be sure that my future neighbour is not boisterous like so many young men, and that his acquaintances are not such persons as it would be disagreeable for me to meet on the stairways as I go and come."
"M. Michel Renaud have any such company as that! Oh, no, madame; oh, no!" exclaimed the concierge, indignantly.
An expression of hope and joy irradiated the lady's sad face for an instant, and she replied, with a smile:
"I had no intention of maligning the gentleman, and the evident astonishment my question causes you is very reassuring."
"M. Renaud is one of the steadiest of men. Every day of the world—Sundays and holidays as well—he leaves his rooms at half-past three or four o'clock in the morning at the very latest, and never returns until midnight, so he has no visitors."
"They would certainly have to be remarkably early ones, in that case," remarked the young woman, who seemed to take a deep interest in these details. "But does the gentleman leave as early as that every morning?"
"Yes, madame, in winter as well as summer. Nothing keeps him."
"But what business does the gentleman follow that it is necessary for him to leave home by four o'clock in the morning, and remain away until midnight?"
"That is more than I know, madame; but this much is certain, this tenant is not likely to annoy you in any way."
"I believe I could not find a house that would suit me better, judging from what you say. But is it really true that you have no idea what business your tenant follows?"
"How should I know, madame? During the three years that M. Renaud has lived here he has received only one letter. That was merely addressed to M. Michel Renaud, and no living soul ever comes to see him."
"But he is not dumb, I suppose?"
"He might almost as well be. When he goes out in the morning, I am in bed; when he returns, it is just the same. In the morning, he says, 'The door, please;' in the evening, when he takes his candle, 'Good night, M. Landré' (that is my name). That is the extent of our conversation."
"But doesn't he keep a servant?"
"No, madame, he does all his own housework. That is to say, he makes his own bed, blacks his shoes, brushes his clothes, and sweeps his room."
"He!" exclaimed the young woman, in accents of the most profound astonishment.
Then bethinking herself, she added:
"It seems so strange that a gentleman should do all those things for himself."
"Oh, I don't know," replied the concierge, who seemed surprised at the lady's evident astonishment; "everybody hasn't an income of fifty thousand francs a year, and when one hasn't the money to pay a servant, one must serve oneself."
"That is very true, monsieur."
"And now would madame like to see the third floor?"
"Yes, for, after all, I think it would be difficult for me to find a house that would suit me better."
ASthe prospective tenant began her ascent, close upon the heels of the concierge, another rather peculiar scene was occurring in the adjoining house, the lower floor of which was used as a café.
This establishment, which was not very extensively patronised at any time, could now boast of but a single guest. He was seated at a table, on which stood a carafe of water, a bowl of sugar, and a glass of absinthe.
This patron, who had entered the café only a few minutes before, was a slender, nervous, sunburnt man about thirty years of age. He had strongly marked features, and was exceedingly quick in his movements. He picked up several newspapers in swift succession, and pretended to glance over them as he smoked his cigar, but his mind was evidently not upon what he was reading, that is, if he was reading at all, and at last, flinging the journal violently down upon the table, he called the waiter in a curt, peremptory tone.
The waiter, a gray-haired man, hastened to respond to the summons.
"Bring me a glass of absinthe, waiter," said the man with the cigar.
"But your glass is still full, monsieur."
"True."
The man drained the glass, and the waiter refilled it.
"Would you like to make a hundred sous?" asked the man with the cigar.
And seeing the waiter gaze at him in astonishment, he repeated, in an even more brusque fashion:
"I ask you if you want to make a hundred sous?"
"But, monsieur—"
"Do you or do you not? Answer me."
"I should like to very much, but what am I to do, monsieur?"
"Answer the questions I am going to put to you. Have you been here long?"
"Ever since the café opened, about ten years ago."
"Do you live here in the house?"
"Yes, monsieur. I have a room in the fifth story."
"Do you know all the inmates of the house?"
"Either by name, or by sight, yes, monsieur, but that is all. I am the only waiter here, and I have no time to visit."
After a moment of painful hesitation, during which the stranger's features betrayed the most poignant anxiety, he said to the waiter, in a slightly husky voice:
"Who lives on the fourth floor?"
"A lady, monsieur."
"Nobody else?"
"No, monsieur."
"Is she a widow?"
"I don't know, monsieur. She calls herself Madame Luceval, that is all I can tell you."
"But you must understand that if I am to give you a hundred sous, I expect you to tell me something."
"One can tell only what one knows, monsieur."
"Of course, that is understood. But now answer me frankly. What do the people in the house think of this lady—this Madame—What did you call her?"
"Madame Luceval, monsieur. A person would have to be very spiteful to gossip about her, for nobody ever sees her."
"What?"
"She always goes out at four o'clock in the morning, summer and winter, and though I never get to bed before midnight, I always hear her come in after I do."
"Impossible!" exclaimed the man with the cigar, manifesting quite as much astonishment as the lady in mourning had done on hearing of M. Renaud's early hours. "The lady goes out at four o'clock every morning, you say?"
"Yes, monsieur. I hear her close her door."
"It passes my comprehension," muttered the man with the cigar. Then, after a moment's reflection, he added:
"What does this lady do to take her out so early?"
"I have no idea, monsieur."
"But what do the people in the house think of it?"
"Nothing, monsieur."
"Nothing! Do you mean that they see nothing remarkable about a lady going out at four o'clock in the morning?"
"When Madame Luceval first came here, about four years ago, her manner of living did seem rather peculiar, but people soon ceased to trouble themselves about it; for, as I told you just now, nobody ever sees her, so people forget all about her, though she is wonderfully pretty."
"If she is so pretty, she must have a lover, of course," said the stranger, with a sarcastic smile, but as if the words, somehow, burned his tongue.
"I have heard persons say that this lady never has a visitor, monsieur."
"But when she returns home so late at night, she does not return alone, I fancy."
"I cannot say whether any one accompanies her to the house or not, but I do know that no man ever crosses her threshold."
"She is really a paragon of virtue, then?"
"She certainly seems to be, and I am sure that everybody in the house will tell you the same thing that I do."
"Do you know what her resources are? What she lives on, in short?"
"I haven't the slightest idea, though it is not at all likely that she lives on her income, monsieur. Rich people don't get up at that hour, especially on a morning like this, when the cold cuts you like a knife, and the clock in the Luxembourg was striking half-past three when I heard the lady leave her room this morning."
"It is strange, passing strange! It seems to me I must be dreaming," muttered the gentleman. Then—
"Is that all you know?" he asked aloud.
"That is all, monsieur. But I can vouch for it that nobody in the house knows any more."
The man with the cigar remained silent and thoughtful for a few minutes, during which he sipped his second glass of absinthe abstractedly, then, throwing a foreign gold coin on the table, he said:
"Take out the amount of my bill, and keep one hundred sous for yourself. Your money was very easily earned, it strikes me."
"I did not ask you for the money, monsieur, and if you—"
"I mean what I say. Pay yourself, and don't talk any more about it."
After he had received the change due him the stranger left the café. Almost at the same instant, the lady dressed in mourning came out of the adjoining house, and started down the street in the opposite direction from that which the gentleman had taken.
As they passed each other, their eyes met. The man paused for an instant, as if the sight of this woman aroused some vague recollection, then, thinking his memory must have deceived him, he walked on up the street.
BUTbefore the man with the cigar had gone a dozen yards, his first impression reasserted itself so vividly that he turned, almost involuntarily, to take another look at the lady in mourning.
She, too, turned almost simultaneously, but seeing that the man she had noticed had done the same thing, she hastily turned her head and walked on at a rather more rapid pace. Nevertheless, as she crossed the street to enter the garden of the Luxembourg, she could not resist the temptation to cast another quick glance behind her, and, as she did so, she saw that the man with the cigar was still standing in the same place watching her. Angry at having been caught in the act of thus violating the rules of good breeding a second time, she hastily lowered her black veil, and, quickening her pace still more, entered the garden. The man with the cigar, after a moment's hesitation, hurriedly retraced his steps, and, on reaching the entrance to the garden, saw the young woman some distance ahead of him in the broad path leading to the Observatory.
One of those peculiar instincts which often apprise us of things that we cannot see made the young woman feel almost certain that she was followed. She hesitated a long time before she could make up her mind to again satisfy herself of the fact, however; but she was about to yield to the temptation when she heard hurried footsteps behind her, then some one passed her.
It was the man with the cigar. He walked on until he was about twenty yards ahead of her, then turned, resolutely approached the young woman, and raising his hat, said, with perfect politeness:
"Madame, I ask a thousand pardons for thus accosting you."
"I have not the honour of knowing you, monsieur."
"Permit me to ask a single question, madame?"
"Really, monsieur—"
"I should not be under the necessity of asking you this question if I could be fortunate enough to see your veil lifted."
"Monsieur—"
"Pray do not think that I am actuated by any impertinent curiosity, madame. I am incapable of such rudeness; but as I passed you on the Rue de Vaugirard, a few minutes ago, it seemed to me that I had met you before, and under very peculiar circumstances."
"And I must confess that I, too, thought—"
"You had met me before?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"In Chili, was it not?"
"About eight months ago?"
"A few miles from Valparaiso?"
"About nightfall?"
"On the borders of a lake. A party of bandits had attacked your carriage, madame."
"The approach of a party of travellers mounted upon mules, whose bells could be heard a long distance off, frightened the scoundrels away. This party which had just left Valparaiso met us—"
"Precisely as I met you on the Rue de Vaugirard, a few minutes ago, madame," said the man, smiling; "and to ensure your safety, one of the gentlemen of the party, with three of his escort, decided to accompany your carriage as far as the nearest village."
"And this traveller was you, monsieur. I remember you perfectly now, though I had the pleasure of seeing you only for a few moments, and in the dusk, as night comes on so quickly in Chili."
"And it was very dark by the time we reached the village of—of Balaméda, if my memory does not play me false, madame."
"I do not remember the name of the village, monsieur, but what I do, and what I always shall remember, is your extreme kindness; for after you had escorted us to the village, you had to make great haste to overtake your party, which was travelling northward, it seems to me."
"Yes, madame."
"And you overtook your friends without any unpleasant accident, I trust? We felt very uneasy on that score, the roads along those precipices are so dangerous; besides, those same bandits might still be lurking behind the rocks."
"My return was made in the most peaceful manner. My mule only had to quicken his pace a little, that is all."
"You must admit, monsieur, that it is very singular that an acquaintance made in the wilds of Chili should be renewed in the garden of the Luxembourg."
"It is, indeed, madame. But I see that it is beginning to snow. Will you permit me to offer you my arm and a shelter under my umbrella, until we can reach the nearest cab-stand?"
"I really fear that I am trespassing too much on your kindness," replied the lady, accepting the proffered courtesy, nevertheless.
Arm in arm, they accordingly directed their steps towards the cab-stand near the Odéon. They found but one vehicle there. The young woman entered it, but her companion, from delicacy, seemed in doubt as to whether he should or should not follow her.
"What are you waiting for, monsieur?" the lady asked, affably. "There are no other carriages here; will you not make use of this one?"
"I scarcely dared to ask such a favour," replied the gentleman, eagerly availing himself of the permission thus accorded. Then—
"What address shall I give the coachman?" he added.
"Ask him to take me where the Rue de Rivoli intersects the Place de la Concorde," replied the lady, with some slight embarrassment. "I will wait under the arcade there until it stops snowing, as I have some business to attend to in that locality."
This order given, the coachman turned his horses' heads towards the right bank of the Seine.
"Do you know, I think our meeting more and more marvellous," remarked the young woman.
"While I admit that the meeting is singular, it seems to me even more agreeable than singular."
"No compliments, if you please, monsieur. They do very well for people who have nothing else to say to each other; and I confess that if you are inclined to gratify my curiosity, you will not have answered half the questions I want to put to you, when the time comes for us to separate."
"You should not tell me that; I shall be sure to become very diffuse in my style of conversation, in the hope that your curiosity—"
"Will inspire me with the desire to meet you a second time, if you do not tell me all to-day. Is that what you mean?"
"Yes, madame."
The lady smiled faintly, then she continued:
"But in order that we may take things in their natural course, tell me first what you were going to do in the northern part of Chili. I was returning from there myself, when I met you, eight months ago, and, as I know it is a region little frequented by travellers, you will understand and excuse a question which might otherwise sound too inquisitive, perhaps."
"Before answering this question, madame, it is absolutely necessary that I should give you some insight into my character; otherwise, you might mistake me for a madman."
"And why, monsieur?"
"Because I am possessed—devoured, perhaps, would be a better word—by such a continual desire to be moving, that for several years past, especially, I have not been able to remain a month in the same place. In short, I have a passion, perhaps I ought rather to say a positive mania, for travel."
"Strange to say, I, too, experience the same unconquerable restlessness, the same longing to be continually on the go, the same intense aversion to repose, and, like you, I, myself, have found a most welcome diversion in travel, for several years past," the young woman responded, smothering a sigh.
"So you, too, madame, have a horror of the dull, lethargic, monotonous life which reminds one of that of an oyster on his bank, or of a snail in his shell?"
"To me torpor and immobility are death itself, yes, worse than death, for, unfortunately, one must be conscious of this apathy of mind and body."
"And yet, there are persons—one can scarcely call them living beings—who would gladly remain for months, and even years, in the same place, lost in a sort of dreamy ecstasy, and enjoying what they style the charm ofdolce far niente."
"Yes, monsieur, yes; there are such people, as I know only too well."
"So you have had a like experience, madame? So you, too, have seen how hopelessly intractable such persons are,—how they will eventually triumph over the strongest wills?"
And the two gazed at each other in a sort of bewilderment, so astonished were they by this strange similarity in their experiences.
THEyoung woman was the first to break the silence.
"Let us drop the subject, monsieur," she said, sighing heavily. "It arouses too many painful recollections."
"Yes, let us drop it, madame, for I, too, am tortured by many painful recollections from which I am ever striving to escape, for it is cowardly and degrading to permit one's mind to dwell continually upon persons one hates and despises. Ah, madame, I sincerely hope you may never know that mixture of regret, aversion, and love, which renders one's life for ever miserable."
The young woman listened to her companion with profound astonishment, for, when he spoke of himself, it seemed as if he must also be speaking of her, so identical had been their experience; but the reserve which she must necessarily display in her intercourse with a comparative stranger, prevented any such admission on her part; so, quite as much to conceal her real feelings as to gratify her growing curiosity, she remarked:
"You speak of mingled aversion and love, monsieur. How can one both love and hate the same person or thing? Is such a strange contradiction possible?"
"Ah, madame, is not the human heart the greatest of mysteries,—the strangest of enigmas? Ever since the world began, the inexplicable attraction which opposites have for each other has been admitted. How often we see a person who is weak admire one who is strong, and one who is violent and impetuous seek out one who is gentle and timid! What is the cause of this? Is it the desire for a contrast? Or, is it the charm of overcoming a certain difficulty? Nobody knows. The fact remains that persons whose characters are diametrically opposed to our own exercise an inexplicable attraction over us,—inexplicable, yes; for we curse them, we pity them, we despise them, and we hate them; and yet, we can not do without them; or, if they escape us, we regret them as much as we hate them, and forthwith begin to dream of the impossible, that is to say, of acquiring sufficient influence over them to transform them, to imbue them with our own ideas and tastes. Dreams, idle dreams these are, of course, which only serve to make us forget the sad reality for a brief time."
"I, too, have often heard of these strange contradictions. They are the more incomprehensible to me, as the only chance of happiness seems to me to consist in perfect congeniality of temperament."
The young woman paused suddenly, and blushed, deeply regretting words which might be construed as an advance made to a comparative stranger (though this had really been furthest from her thoughts), especially after both she and he had commented on the remarkable similarity in their tastes. But this fear on her part was entirely unnecessary, as the turn the conversation had taken seemed to have plunged her companion into a profound reverie.
A few minutes afterwards, the carriage stopped at the corner of the Rue de Rivoli, and the driver got down from the box to open the door.
"What! are we here already?" exclaimed the stranger, arousing himself; then, motioning the coachman to close the door again, he said:
"I sincerely hope you will pardon me for having made such poor use of the last few minutes of the interview you have been kind enough to grant me, but I yielded almost unconsciously to the influence of certain memories. You will not refuse, I trust, to indemnify me by permitting me to see you again, and to have the honour of calling on you at your own home."
"What you ask, monsieur, is impossible for quite a number of reasons."
"Do not refuse my request, I beg of you. There seem to be so many points of similarity in our lot; besides, there are still many things I would like to tell you in relation to my South American journey, and the cause of it. Our meeting, too, has been so extraordinary, that I feel sure all these reasons will decide you to grant the favour I ask, though I should not dare to insist in the name of the very slight service which I was so fortunate as to be able to render you, and which you are extremely kind to even remember."
"I am not ungrateful, believe me, monsieur. I admit, too, that it would give me great pleasure to see you again, and yet, I shall probably be obliged to renounce this hope."
"Ah, madame—"
"Well, I will propose this, monsieur. To-day is Monday—"
"Yes, madame."
"Be here under the arcade at noon on Thursday."
"I will, madame, I will."
"If I am not here at the end of an hour,—which is more than probable,—we shall never see each other again, monsieur."
"But why do you say that, madame?"
"It is impossible for me to explain now, monsieur; but, whatever happens, you must rest assured that I have been very glad of an opportunity to thank you for a service I shall always remember with gratitude."
"What, madame, I may never see you again, yet I am leaving you without even knowing your name."
"If we are never to meet again, monsieur, what is the use of knowing my name? If, on the contrary, we do meet here again on Thursday I will tell you who I am, and, if you still desire it, we will continue the acquaintance begun in a different hemisphere, and renewed by an unexpected meeting."
"I thank you for this hope, madame, uncertain though it be. I will not insist further, so farewell,—until Thursday, madame."
"Until Thursday, monsieur."
And the two separated.