THEmorning after this interview between these two travellers who had met in Chili, the following scene occurred in the fourth story of house Number 57, on the Rue de Vaugirard.
It was quarter of four, but a remarkably handsome young man was already writing by the light of a shaded lamp.
Need we say that this young man was M. Michel Renaud, the model tenant who left home regularly every morning at four o'clock and never returned before midnight.
He was engaged in copying into one of those big leather-bound books, used in business houses, a long row of figures and entries from some carelessly kept day-books, and more than once this uninteresting, monotonous work seemed to benumb both brain and hands, but he bravely overcame the inclination to sleep, wrapped the blanket in which he had enveloped his legs and feet more closely around him, blew on his fingers to warm them, for there was not a spark of fire in the little room, and then resumed his work.
In spite of this uncongenial employment, pursued amid such uncomfortable surroundings, Michel's face was serene, even happy; but when the clock in a neighbouring church rang out the third quarter of an hour, it was with the smiling, affectionate expression of a person who is about to bid a dear friend good morning that the young man rose from the table and, hastening towards the fireplace, rapped twice with the handle of his pocket-knife upon the party wall that separated the house in which he lived from the adjoining house.
Two similar raps answered him almost instantly, and Michel smiled with a satisfied air, as if the most agreeable remark conceivable had been addressed to him. He was preparing to reply, doubtless, in fact he had already lifted the handle of his knife for that purpose, when a faint, almost mysterious knock, followed by two louder ones, reached his ear.
Michel's face flushed, and his eyes brightened. One would have supposed that he had received a favour as precious as it was unexpected, and it was with an expression of intense gratitude that he replied with a series of quick, irregular raps, as hurried and feverish as the violent throbbings of his own heart.
This rapping would doubtless have been prolonged several seconds with ever increasing ardour, if it had not been suddenly checked by a single incisive knock which resounded from the other side of the wall like an imperative command. Michel obeyed this order respectfully, and immediately suspended his rather too lively manifestation of delight.
A moment afterwards, four slow, distinct knocks, prolonged like the striking of a clock, coming from the other side of the wall, put an end to this singular conversation quite worthy of a lodge of freemasons.
"She is right," murmured Michel. "It is almost four o'clock."
And he immediately set to work to arrange his books and put his room in order before leaving it for the day.
While he is engaged in these preparations for departure we will conduct the reader up to the fourth floor of the adjoining house,—Number 59,—and into the apartment of Madame de Luceval, separated, as we have before remarked, from that of Michel Renaud by a party wall.
That young lady is now about twenty-one years of age, and as charming as ever, though not quite as stout. She, too, like her neighbour, was busily engaged in her preparations for departure.
A lamp, like that used by engravers who work at night, stood on a large table strewn with several partially coloured lithographs, boxes of water-colour paints, pieces of embroidery and tapestry work, and a number of those music-books into which orchestral scores are copied. Several of these last were already filled. The plainly furnished room was exquisitely neat, and Florence's hat and cloak were already laid out on the carefully made bed.
More than once, as she deftly arranged her water-colours, music scores, and needlework in their respective boxes, the young woman blew upon her dainty rosy fingers, the cold in this room being quite as intense as in her neighbour's, for in this room, too, there was no fire.
There was a great difference between this life and the life she had led in her husband's luxurious home, where everything had combined to encourage the indolence in which she so delighted; and yet, she looked far more happy than when, half reclining in her comfortable armchair, with her feet resting upon a big velvet cushion, she idly watched the sunbeams rioting in her beautiful garden, and dreamily listened to the soft murmur of the fountain. In short, this once indolent creature, who thought a drive in a luxurious carriage entirely too fatiguing, did not seem to regret her vanished splendour in the least, but blithely hummed a merry tune as she drew on her overshoes and took a small umbrella from the cupboard, ready to brave snow, wind, and cold without a murmur.
These preparations for departure concluded, Florence cast a hasty glance in the mirror, passed her hand over the waves of golden hair,—hair which was as smooth and glossy, in spite of her early toilet, as if a maid had spent an hour over the young woman's coiffure; then, throwing her body slightly backward, she stretched out her arms and allowed her graceful head to sink languidly upon her left shoulder, giving at the same time a little yawn that said as plainly as any words:
"Ah, how pleasant it would be to stay in a nice, comfortable bed, instead of going out in the cold at four o'clock in the morning!"
But the next moment, as if reproaching herself for her weakness, Florence hastily donned her hat and cloak, picked up her umbrella, lighted her candle, extinguished the lamp, and went swiftly but lightly down-stairs.
The clock in the Luxembourg was just striking four.
"Dear me! it is four o'clock already," she murmured, as she reached the foot of the last flight of stairs; then, in her clear, young voice, she called out:
"Pull the rope, please."
And in another moment the door of the house had closed behind her, and she was in the street.
It was late in the month of December, and the night was very dark. A cold wind was whistling through the deserted street, which was but dimly lighted by an occasional street lamp.
As soon as she was out of the house, she gave a slight cough, apparently as a sort of a signal.
A louder hum! hum! answered it.
But it was so dark that Florence could scarcely see Michel, who had come out a few seconds before, and stationed himself on the other side of the street, for it was he who had thus responded to his fair neighbour's signal.
Then the two, without addressing so much as a word to each other, started down the street,—he on the left side, she on the right.
About half an hour before Michel Renaud left his dwelling, a cab stopped a short distance from Number 57. A lady, enveloped in a long pelisse, was in this cab. She had said to the coachman:
"When you see a gentleman come out of that house, you are to follow him until I tell you to stop."
The coachman, thanks to the light of his carriage lamps, saw Michel leave the house, and at once started his horse down the middle of the street at a walk. The occupant of the cab kept her eyes riveted on Michel, and thus, engrossed in the movements on the left side of the street, did not even see Madame de Luceval, who was on the opposite pavement.
But Madame de Luceval had scarcely closed the door of her house behind her when a man wrapped in a long cloak came rushing down the street, as if afraid of being too late for something.
This man had consequently failed to hear the signal exchanged between Florence and Michel, nor could he even see the latter, concealed as he was by the cab that was moving slowly down the street.
So the man in the cloak began to follow Madame de Luceval, while the lady in the cab did not once take her eyes off Michel.
MICHELand Florence, engrossed in each other, though separated by the width of the street, paid no attention to the cab which was moving slowly along in the same direction, it being a very common occurrence to see such vehicles returning to the stable at that time in the morning.
As the two neighbours reached the corner of the Rue de Tournon, they met a crowd of huckster wagons on their way to the market, and the lady in the cab finding her progress thus impeded, and fearing she would lose sight of the person she was following, ordered the driver to open the door, paid him, alighted, and hastened on after Michel. She was half way down the Rue de Tournon, when she noticed, for the first time, a man wrapped in a cloak, walking only a short distance ahead of her. At first this discovery did not disturb her, but subsequently, perceiving by the light of a street lamp that a woman was walking a few yards in advance of this man, and that this woman was pursuing the same route as Michel Renaud, she began to think this very singular, and afterwards her attention was naturally divided between Michel, Madame de Luceval, and the man who was a short distance behind that lady.
Michel and Florence, whose heads were well muffled up as a protection from the cold, had, as yet, no suspicion that they were being followed, and walked briskly on towards the little square at the end of the Rue Dauphine. The man in the cloak, who had been too much absorbed hitherto to take much notice of what was going on around him, now observed for the first time that a woman was following a man on the side of the street opposite to that on which he was following Florence, and great was his surprise when, as this woman passed the lighted windows of a liquor shop, he fancied he recognised in her the same lady whom he had escorted to the corner of the Rue de Rivoli the previous afternoon, and whom he had met months before in one of the mountain passes of Chili.
The woman's tall stature and lithe tread, as well as her mourning garb, corroborated these suspicions, and the fact of this double pursuit, after their interview of the day before, was too extraordinary for the man not to desire to solve this mystery at once, so, without losing sight of Florence, he hastily crossed the street, and, approaching the mysterious lady, said:
"One word, madame, if you please—"
"You, monsieur!" the lady exclaimed, "is it you?"
Both stood for an instant as if petrified.
The man was the first to recover himself.
"Madame, after what has occurred, and for our mutual benefit, we must have a full explanation at once," he exclaimed, hastily.
"I think so, too, monsieur."
"Very well, then, madame. I—"
"Take care! Look out for that wagon!" exclaimed the lady, pointing to a big milk wagon that was tearing down the street, almost grazing the gutter in which the man in the cloak had stopped.
He sprang aside quickly, but, in the meantime, Florence and Michel had reached the square, and disappeared from sight, thanks to the progress they had made during this short colloquy between their pursuers.
The woman, noting Michel's disappearance, exclaimed, in accents of intense dismay:
"I don't see him any longer! I have lost him!"
These words reminded her companion of the pursuit he, too, had momentarily forgotten, and he, too, turned quickly, but could see nothing of Florence.
"Let us hasten on to the square, madame; perhaps we can overtake them. Here, take my arm."
"No, no, monsieur, let us run, let us run," cried the young woman.
So both ran towards the square at the top of their speed, but when they reached it they did not see a living soul in either of the four or five narrow streets that diverged from it. Realising how utterly useless it would be to extend their search further, the two stood for a moment in silence, resting after their run, and again thinking, perhaps, of the singularrapprochementbetween their destinies.
"Really, madame, it makes me wonder whether I am awake or dreaming," exclaimed the man in the cloak at last.
"What you say is perfectly true, monsieur. I really cannot believe what I see with my own eyes," replied the lady.
"I feel, madame, that what has happened to us to-day is so inexplicable that our mutual reserve should be maintained no longer."
"I agree with you, perfectly, monsieur. Will you give me your arm? I am nearly frozen, and what with the surprise and excitement, I am feeling far from well, but my indisposition will pass off if I walk a little way, I think."
"Which way shall we go, madame?"
"It doesn't matter in the least,—towards the Pont Neuf, perhaps."
As they walked slowly on, the following conversation took place:
"I feel it obligatory upon me to first tell you my name, monsieur," remarked the lady. "It is not a matter of much consequence, perhaps, but you ought to know who I am. I am a widow, and my name is Valentine d'Infreville."
"Good God!" exclaimed the man in the cloak, stopping short in his astonishment. "You Madame d'Infreville?"
"Why do you evince such astonishment, monsieur? My name is not unknown to you."
"After all," remarked the man, recovering from the amazement this announcement had caused, "it is not surprising that I did not recognise you either here or in Chili, madame, for the first time I saw you, four years ago, I could not distinguish your features; besides, the indignation I felt—"
"What do you mean, monsieur? Do you mean that you had seen me before our meeting in Chili?"
"Yes, madame."
"And where?"
"I scarcely dare to remind you."
"In whose house did you meet me, tell me, monsieur?"
"In my wife's house."
"Your wife's?"
"In the house of Madame de Luceval."
"What! You are—?"
"M. de Luceval."
Valentine d'Infreville stood as if petrified in her turn by this allusion which awakened so many painful memories; but, after a moment, she said, in tones of profound sadness:
"You speak the truth, monsieur. The first and only time we met at Madame de Luceval's it must have been as impossible for you to distinguish my features as it was for me to distinguish yours. Overcome with shame, I concealed my face, and, even now," she added, turning away her head as if to escape M. de Luceval's gaze, "I thank Heaven that it is dark."
"Believe me, madame, it is with deep regret that I remind you of a scene that was so distressing to you, and to myself as well, for, influenced by M. d'Infreville, I—"
But Valentine, interrupting him, inquired, with mingled curiosity, uneasiness, and tender interest:
"And Florence; where is she?"
"It was Florence that I was following just now."
"What! That woman was—"
"Madame de Luceval; yes."
"But why were you following her?"
"You are not aware, then—"
"Speak, monsieur, speak!"
"That my wife and I have separated," replied M. de Luceval, smothering a sigh.
"But where does Florence live?"
"On the Rue de Vaugirard."
"Great Heavens! How strange!" exclaimed Valentine, starting violently.
"What is the matter, madame?"
"Florence lives in the Rue de Vaugirard, you say. At what number?"
"Number 59."
"And Michel lives at Number 57!" exclaimed Valentine.
"Michel!" exclaimed M. de Luceval, in his turn. "Michel Renaud?"
"Yes, your cousin. He has a room on the fourth floor, at Number 57. I had just satisfied myself of that fact yesterday when I met you."
"And my wife lives on the same floor in the adjoining house," said M. de Luceval.
Then, feeling Valentine's arm tremble convulsively, he added:
"What is the matter, madame? Are you faint?"
"Pardon me, monsieur,—but it—it is the cold, I think,—that—that makes me feel so strangely. I can scarcely stand,—and my head seems to be going around and around."
"Have a little courage, madame. Let us try to reach that shop there at the corner of the quay."
"I'll try, monsieur," replied Valentine, faintly.
She did manage to drag herself to the store designated, which proved to be a grocery store. There was a woman behind the counter, the wife of the proprietor, and she took Madame d'Infreville into a room back of the store, and gave her every possible attention.
An hour afterwards, when daylight had come, a carriage was sent for, and M. de Luceval took Madame d'Infreville to her home.
THEevents of the morning had upset Madame d'Infreville so completely, and she felt so incapable of coherent thought, that she asked M. de Luceval to return that evening at eight o'clock, so she could have a full explanation with him; so at eight o'clock M. de Luceval sent up his card to Valentine, who had taken a suite of furnished rooms on the Chaussée d'Antin.
"How are you feeling this evening, madame?" he inquired, with great interest, when he was admitted into that lady's presence.
"Better, much better, monsieur, and I sincerely trust you will pardon my absurd weakness this morning."
"Was it not very natural, madame, after so many startling revelations and occurrences?"
"Possibly, monsieur; at all events, I felt so bewildered that I was obliged to ask you to return this evening, that we might have the explanation which is now indispensable."
"I am at your service, madame."
"Will you first permit me to ask you a few questions. I will afterwards answer yours. You told me that you and Florence were divorced, did you not? I was not aware of it before."
"That is not strange, for since that unfortunate evening when I met you in my house, neither my wife nor I have heard anything in relation to you."
"I will tell you why, monsieur."
"I must first explain that, after the terrible scene in which you and M. d'Infreville, and my wife and I, took part, I very naturally felt deeply incensed with you. After your departure, Florence and I had a violent quarrel. She declared that she would not live with me any longer, and that she intended to make her home with you and your mother, that is, of course, if you and M. d'Infreville separated."
"Did Florence really intend to do that?"
"Yes, madame, for she always seemed to feel the tenderest affection for you. As you may suppose, I told her that such an idea was madness; but she, nevertheless, declared that she should leave me, whether or no. I shrugged my shoulders, but the separation took place, nevertheless."
"Such firmness of will on Florence's part surprises me very much; it accords so little with her habitual indolence."
"Ah, madame, how little you know her! How little I knew her myself! You have no idea how the inertia of such a character makes itself felt. Prior to the scene in which you were a participant, my wife and I had had a slight disagreement. As I have told you, I have a passion for travel. It was the desire of my life to make Florence share this fondness, for I was very much in love with her, and to explore foreign lands in company with a beloved wife was my ideal of happiness. But Florence, with her incurable indolence, would not listen to the idea for a moment. I was wrong, undoubtedly; I realise it now that it is too late. I treated her too much as if she were a child and I the master; and though I loved her to idolatry, I thought her best interests and my dignity demanded that I should be imperious and severe; besides,—shall I confess it?—nervous, quick-tempered, and energetic as I am, her mocking indifference drove me almost crazy. The day after I met you in her room, she went to your house, but your servants told her that you had left in the night with your mother and M. d'Infreville. As time passed, and she could discover no clue to your whereabouts, her chagrin and grief became intense. I pitied her so much that for some time I said nothing about a journey I had contemplated for many months, but finally, resolved to overcome my wife's opposition on this subject, I announced my intention of visiting Switzerland. I anticipated a lively resistance on her part, but I was wrong."
"She consented?"
"'You insist upon my travelling,' she said to me. 'So be it. You have a right to do so, you claim. Very well, try it,' she added, with a most nonchalant air, 'but I warn you that you will bring me back to Paris within a week.'"
"And within a week, monsieur—?"
"I had brought her back to Paris."
"But how did she manage to compel you to do so?"
"In the simplest way in the world," said M. de Luceval, bitterly. "We started. At our first stopping-place—I forgot to tell you that we did not start until nine in the morning, so she would not be obliged to rise too early—"
"Well?"
"She remained in bed forty-eight hours on the pretext that she was overcome with fatigue, remarking to me with an insolent calmness that exasperated me beyond measure, 'The law gives you the right to compel me to accompany you, but the law does not limit the hours I am to remain in bed.' What could one say in reply to this? Besides, how was one to while away forty-eight hours in a dingy inn? Picture, if you can, madame, my wrath and impatience all that time, unable to extort another word from my wife. Nevertheless, I would not yield. 'I can stand it as long as she can,' I said to myself; 'she loves her comfort, and two or three such sojourns in dingy post-stations will cure her of her obstinacy.'"
"And were these expectations on your part realised?"
"I will tell you, madame. At the end of these two days, we set out again, and about three o'clock in the afternoon we stopped in a miserable little village for fresh horses. The road had been rather dusty, and Florence got out of the carriage and ordered her maid to come and brush the dust out of her hair. My wife was conducted to a dingy room. The bed was so untidy and uninviting that she would not lie down on it, so she made them bring in an old armchair. She established herself in that, declaring that, as she was even more fatigued this time, she would not stir out of that room for four days. I thought she was jesting, but such, alas! was not the case."
"What, monsieur, do you really mean that for four days—"
"I did not lose courage until the end of the third day. Then I could stand it no longer! Three days, madame, three whole days in that dingy hole, trying in vain to devise some means of overcoming my wife's resistance. To resort to force, and pick her up and put her in the carriage was out of the question. What a scandal it would create! Besides, the same thing would undoubtedly have to be done over again at the next post-station. Threats and entreaties proved equally futile! And we started back to Paris exactly six days after we left it. Bad news awaited us. My wife's entire fortune had been left in the hands of her guardian, a well-known banker. He had failed and fled the country. I experienced a feeling of secret joy. Deprived of her fortune, my wife, finding herself entirely dependent upon me, would perhaps be more tractable."
"I know Florence, monsieur, and unless I am very much deceived, you were disappointed in your expectations."
"That is only too true, madame. On hearing of her loss of fortune, Florence, far from manifesting any regret, seemed much pleased. Her first words were:
"'I hope you will no longer refuse to consent to a separation now.'
"'Less than ever,' I replied; 'for I pity you, and cannot bear the thought of your being exposed to want.'
"'Before I lost my property,' she replied, 'I was rather loath to leave you, for I have given up all hope of finding Valentine. That being the case, I was fairly content to live on quietly after my own fashion; but now, every hour spent in this house is torture to me, and I will endure it no longer, so consent to give me back my freedom, and accept your own.'
"'But how will you live,—you who have all your life been accustomed to ease and luxury?'
"'I asked for ten thousand francs of my dowry when I married,' she answered. 'Part of this sum is still in my possession, and it will suffice.'
"'But this small amount spent, what will you live on?'
"'That is a matter which does not concern you in the least,' she retorted.
"'On the contrary, it does concern me to such an extent that I shall save you in spite of yourself, for whatever you may do, I will never consent to a separation.'
"'Listen, monsieur,' she said, earnestly; 'your intentions are most generous, and I thank you for them. You have many very excellent traits. You are the most honourable man that ever lived, but our characters, dispositions, and tastes are, and always will be, so entirely incompatible that life would soon become intolerable to both of us. Besides, this is a matter for me to decide, for, having lost my fortune, I should be a burden to you, pecuniarily. Understand then, once for all, that there is no power on earth that can force me to live with you under such conditions. I consequently beseech you to let us part quietly and amicably.'"
"This refusal, painful as it must have been to you, monsieur, really had its origin in the noblest sentiments."
"I agree with you, madame, and the generosity Florence evinced, as well as the firmness of character and brave resignation which she displayed, only increased the love which I had always felt for her even when we differed most; so, in the hope that reflection and the fear of a life of poverty might yet restore her to me, I protested more energetically than ever against a separation, even promising that I would endeavour to mould my tastes by hers, but she replied: 'Such self-constraint as you propose to inflict upon yourself would transform you into a hypocrite. You have your own peculiar temperament; I have mine. All the resolutions and reasoning in the world will not change them any more than they would transform me into a brunette and you into a blond. The same incompatibility of temperament would still exist; besides, on no account will I consent to be an expense to you. If I loved you, it would be entirely different; so once more, and for the last time, I implore you to let us part as friends.' I refused."
"And yet you are separated you say?"
"The separation took place. Florence forced it upon me."
"In what way?"
"Oh, in the simplest way in the world, and one that suited her indolent nature perfectly. Would you believe it, madame? for three whole months she never addressed a single word to me, or answered a single question I put to her. For three whole months, in short, she never once looked at me, or evinced the slightest consciousness of my existence. It is impossible to give you any conception of what I suffered,—the anger, despair, and positive fury which her mute obstinacy caused me. Prayers, tears, bribes, threats, none of these could extort so much as a word from her; one might as well have addressed them to a statue. Many a time, madame, it seemed to me that my brain would give way, and that I should go raving mad in the presence of this obdurate woman. My health became greatly impaired. A slow fever set in. This weakened my energy, and at last, convinced of the utter hopelessness of further resistance, I yielded."
"Good Heavens, how you must have suffered! But you were right. To struggle longer against such odds would have been useless."
"Consequently, I accepted the situation; but wishing to avoid scandal as much as possible, I consulted my lawyer. He informed me that one of the least objectionable grounds for a legal separation was an absolute refusal on the part of the wife to live with her husband; so Florence left my house and took up her abode in furnished apartments. I subsequently had the customary legal summons, demanding her return, served upon her. Her lawyer responded to it. The case was brought before the court, a decision was promptly rendered, and a legal separation was thus effected. My health had become so greatly impaired that my physicians thought a long journey my only chance of recovery. Before my departure, I gave one hundred thousand francs to my notary, charging him to compel my wife to accept the money. In case of refusal, he was to inform her that it would always be at her disposal; but this sum of money is still in his hands. I left France, hoping to find forgetfulness in travel. Far from it, I only realised, more deeply than ever, how much I missed my wife. I travelled through Egypt and Turkey, returning through the Illyrian provinces, and afterwards sailed from Venice for Cadiz, from which port I reëmbarked for Chili, where I met you, madame. After an extended tour through the West Indies, I sailed for Havre, where I landed only a few days ago. From inquiries concerning Florence, instituted as soon as I reached Paris, I learned that she was living on the Rue de Vaugirard. And yesterday when we met, I had just been endeavouring to obtain more definite information in relation to her, through a person who lives in the same house."
"And did you succeed, monsieur?"
"She must be in very straitened circumstances financially, for she has only one room on the fourth floor, and keeps no servant. Besides, her conduct is irreproachable. I am told that she has never been known to receive a visitor, but from some strange whim, which seems doubly incomprehensible when I remember her former indolent habits and love of ease, she goes out every morning before four o'clock, and never returns until midnight."
"Exactly like Michel!" exclaimed Valentine, unable to conceal her surprise and growing uneasiness. "How strange!"
"What do you mean, madame?"
"Why, yesterday, I discovered that M. Michel Renaud lives on the fourth floor, in Number 57, and that, like Florence, he goes out at four o'clock every morning, and never returns before midnight."
"What can this mean?" exclaimed M. de Luceval. "Michel and my wife living on the same floor in adjoining houses, and going out and returning home at the same hour?"
"Does Florence know Michel?"
"M. Renaud is my cousin, and now I think of it, shortly after you left Paris, madame, he came and asked me to introduce him to my wife, upon whom he afterwards called a number of times. But now I think of it, you must know M. Michel Renaud very well yourself, as you feel sufficient interest in him to follow him."
"I will tell you all, monsieur," replied Valentine, blushing, "for I am as deeply interested in solving this mystery as you can possibly be."
"Ah, madame," exclaimed M. de Luceval, gloomily, "more than once, during my long absence, I experienced all the tortures of jealousy when I thought of Florence, free! Free! oh, no, in spite of our separation, the law gives me the right to avenge the wrong, if the woman who still bears my name is guilty, and this man—this man! Oh, if I were sure of his guilt, I would challenge him before another hour had passed, and either he or I—"
"Pray calm yourself, monsieur," said Madame d'Infreville, "strange as all this seems, there is really nothing that implicates Florence in the least. This morning she left home at the same hour Michel did, it is true; but though it was still dark, and the street was deserted, they did not exchange a single word, and held themselves sedulously aloof from each other."
"Still they leave home and return at the same hour! Where do they go? How do they spend all this time? They undoubtedly meet each other, but where?"
"We will solve this mystery. We must and shall. I am as anxious to do it as you can possibly be; and in order that you may understand the cause of this deep anxiety on my part, I will tell you as briefly as possible what my life has been since the day you saw me overwhelmed with shame under M. d'Infreville's just reproaches."
AFTERa brief silence, caused by her embarrassment and confusion, Madame d'Infreville, recovering her courage, said:
"When the falsehood, to which Florence's affection for me had made her a willing accomplice, was discovered in your presence, four years ago, my husband, on leaving your house, took me to his home. I found my mother there.
"'We shall leave Paris in an hour in company with your mother, madame,' M. d'Infreville said to me. 'I shall take you to one of my farms in Poitou, where you will live henceforth with your mother. If you refuse, I shall apply for a divorce, and make your disgrace public. I have abundant proof of it in the shape of two or three very significant letters which I found in your desk. If you give me the slightest trouble, I will prosecute you for adultery: I will drag you and your lover into the courts, and you shall be forced to drink the cup of degradation to the dregs. You will be sent to prison with the lowest of your sex, and your mother shall be turned into the street to starve. If you wish to escape all this, leave for Poitou without a word. It is not from any feeling of generosity or compassion that I make you this offer, but simply because I dislike the public scandal such a trial is sure to create, but if you refuse I will brave this scandal and ridicule. The infamy with which it will cover you will console me for that.'"
"I do not wonder that your husband felt very bitter resentment towards you," exclaimed M. de Luceval, "but such language was atrocious."
"I was compelled to listen to it, nevertheless, monsieur, and also to accept his terms. I was guilty, and I had an invalid mother, who was very poor. We started that same night for Poitou, where my husband left me. The farmhouse in which we lived—my mother and I—stood in the middle of a forest, beyond the boundaries of which we were never allowed to go. I spent eighteen months in this prison, without being permitted to write a single letter or hold the slightest communication with the outer world. At the end of that time death set me free, I was a widow. M. d'Infreville, justly incensed against me, had not left me a sou, and my mother and I became terribly poor. I could not earn enough to support my mother in any sort of comfort with my needle, and, after a long struggle with poverty, she, too, died."
Here Valentine's emotion overcame her, and she was obliged to pause for a moment; then, drying her tears, she continued:
"As soon as we returned to Paris, I made inquiries about Florence. I could learn nothing definite, but hearing that you had left on an extended journey through foreign lands, I thought it probable that your wife had accompanied you. A short time afterwards, when hope had almost deserted me, I had the good fortune to meet one of my old schoolmates, who offered me the position of governess in the family of her sister, whose husband had just been appointed consul at Valparaiso. It is needless to say that this offer was gladly accepted, and I sailed with the family the following week. It was while returning with them from a trip to the north of Chili that I met you, monsieur. Shortly after my return to Valparaiso, I received letters from Europe informing me that a distant relative of my father, an old lady I had never even seen, had died and left me a modest fortune. I returned to France to claim it, and landed in Bordeaux only ten days ago. Now, monsieur, there is another confession I have to make,—one that is very embarrassing to me, but the frankness you have displayed makes it incumbent upon me."
And after a moment of painful embarrassment, Valentine, lowering her eyes, and blushing deeply, added:
"My companion in—in wrong doing—was—was your cousin, Michel Renaud."
"Some words that escaped you a short time ago led me to suspect as much, madame."
"I loved Michel, I loved him dearly, and this love has survived all the terrible trials I have undergone. The pleasant excitement of travel through an entirely new country served to divert my mind for a time from this foolish passion, and to alleviate my sufferings to some extent; but my affection for Michel is as profound now as it was four years ago, consequently you can realise how thoroughly I must understand and sympathise with your regret and chagrin, and how fully I must appreciate what you said yesterday about the inexplicable charm which characters that are diametrically opposed to our own exert over us."
"It is true, madame, that my somewhat limited acquaintance with my cousin, as well as everything I have ever heard about him, convinces me that he is one of the most indolent persons that ever lived. In fact, in the early days of my married life I used to try to make Florence ashamed of her indolence by holding Michel up to ridicule."
"I know them both well, monsieur, and it is impossible to conceive of two persons nearer alike."
"And it is this very fact that attracted them to each other, probably, though I saw nothing in my wife's conduct to excite the slightest suspicion. But they love each other now, madame, they love each other, I am positive of it. My natural jealousy does not deceive me."
"Perhaps I ought to share your misgivings, monsieur, but I do not. I still doubt the justice of your suspicions, for if I believed that Michel had forgotten me, I certainly should not make any effort to see him again. But permit me to remind you, monsieur, that both Florence and Michel are free, perfectly free. Is she not legally divorced from you? What right have you to interfere with her actions?"
"The right of revenge."
"And what good will this revenge do you? If they love each other, persecution will only increase their love, without improving your chances in the least! No, no, you are too generous to wish to return evil for evil."
"But I have suffered so much, madame."
"I, too, have suffered, and perhaps even greater trials are in store for me; yet I would rather die than mar Michel's and Florence's happiness, if I knew for a certainty that they were happy."
"I cannot boast of an equal amount of resignation, madame. If I find that they love each other I will kill this man or he will kill me!"
"If I thought you capable of persisting in this resolve, I tell you frankly that I should immediately warn Florence and Michel of the danger that threatens them."
"You are wonderfully generous, madame!" retorted M. de Luceval, bitterly.
"And you, too, are generous, monsieur, when your resentment does not get the upper hand of you. Yes, you, too, are generous. I need no other proof than the touching solicitude which you manifested for Florence's welfare before your departure from France."
"That was a lamentable display of weakness on my part. Things are very different now."
"All I can say, monsieur, is that if you hope to find in me an accomplice in the perpetration of a futile and wicked act of vengeance, we will end this interview here and now. If, on the contrary, you are desirous of discovering the truth in order that you may know whether you have or have not any reason to hope, you can count upon me, for, by aiding each other, we are almost certain to discover the truth with very little delay."
"And if the truth should prove to be that they love each other—"
"Before we go any further, monsieur, give me your word as a man of honour that, however painful the discovery may prove to be, you will renounce all idea of vengeance and even of seeing Florence again."
"Never, madame, never!"
"So be it, monsieur," said Valentine, rising. "In that case we will proceed, henceforth, entirely independent of each other—"
"But, madame—"
"You are perfectly free, of course, to act as you see fit in the matter—"
"But pray, madame—"
"It is useless to say any more on the subject, monsieur."
MONSIEUR DELUCEVALwas silent for a moment. A fierce struggle between jealousy, his natural curiosity, and his fear that Madame d'Infreville might warn Florence as she had threatened, was going on in his breast. At last his better nature, aided a little perhaps by this last consideration, triumphed, and he replied:
"You have my promise, madame."
"Thank you, thank you, monsieur. A presentiment tells me that this good resolution will bring us happiness. Besides, reasoning entirely from what we now know—"
"Good Heavens, madame, I should be only too thankful to be able to hope!"
"And I think we have good reason to hope. In the first place, if Michel and Florence loved each other,—it is useless to mince words,—if they were lovers, there is nothing to prevent them from living as man and wife in some quiet country village, or even here in Paris, the place of all others in which one can live in seclusion, and according to one's liking."
"But these adjoining apartments, is it not more than likely that they communicate with each other?"
"But what possible object could there be in this secrecy,—these precautions so utterly foreign to Michel's and Florence's character?"
"Why, to prevent scandal, madame."
"But if they changed their names and declared themselves man and wife, how could there be any scandal? Who would discover the truth? Who would have any interest in ferreting it out?"
"Why, sooner or later, you or I, madame."
"All the more reason that they would have changed their names if they had felt that they had anything to fear, for so long as they kept their names, was it not comparatively easy to find out their whereabouts, as we have discovered for ourselves? Besides, monsieur, if they had wished to conceal themselves effectually, couldn't they have done it just as easily as they have managed to conceal the greater part of their existence,—for they spend most of the time away from home, you know."
"And it is that very thing that puzzles me so! Where do they spend this time? Where were they going this morning? Florence, who could seldom be induced to leave her bed by noon, has been getting up before four o'clock in the morning for four years. Think of it!"
"And Michel, too. It is certainly astonishing."
"To what can we attribute this change?"
"I do not know, but the change itself is a very favourable indication. It leads me to think that Michel has at last overcome the apathy and indolence which were so fatal to his welfare, and which have caused me so much suffering."
"You reason very sensibly, madame. If Florence is no longer the indolent creature who regarded a drive as entirely too fatiguing, and the slightest pleasure trip as positive martyrdom, if the life of privation which she has led for the last four years has transformed her, how gladly will I forget and ignore the past! How happy my life may still be! But, hold, madame, what I fear above all things now, is that I shall be such a fool as to hope at all."
"Why do you say that?"
"You have some reason to hope, madame; for you, at least, have been loved, while Florence has never known a spark of love for me."
"Because there was such an utter lack of congeniality between her character and yours; but if, as we have good reason to believe, her character has been transformed by the very exigencies of the life she has been leading for the last four years, perhaps what she most disliked in you prior to that time will please her most now. Did she not tell you, in the heat of your quarrel, that she considered you one of the most generous and honourable of men?"
"Nevertheless, I dare not cherish the slightest hope, madame. Disappointment would be too hard to bear."
"Hope on, hope ever, monsieur! Disappointment, if it comes at all, will come only too soon. But to change hope into certainty, we must first penetrate the veil of mystery in which Florence and Michel have enveloped themselves. The nature of the relations existing between them once fathomed, we shall know exactly where we stand."
"I agree with you perfectly, madame, but how are we to do that?"
"By resorting to the same expedient we employed this morning; by following them, though not without exercising much greater precautions. The hour at which they leave home makes this comparatively easy, but if this mode of procedure proves a failure, we shall have to devise some other."
"Possibly it would be less likely to excite their suspicions if I followed them alone."
"Very well, monsieur, and if you do not succeed, I will see what I can do."
Here an apologetic rap at the door interrupted the conversation.
"Come in," said Madame d'Infreville.
A servant entered with a letter in his hand.
"A messenger just left this for madame," he explained.
"From whom?"
"He did not say, madame. He left as soon as he handed me the letter."
"You may go," said Valentine; then, turning to M. de Luceval, "Will you permit me?" she asked.
He bowed his assent. Valentine broke the seal, glanced at the signature, and exclaimed:
"Florence? Why, it is a letter from Florence!"
"From my wife?" exclaimed M. de Luceval.
They gazed at each other in utter amazement.
"But how did she discover your address, madame?"
"I have no idea."
"Read it, madame, read it, in Heaven's name!"
Madame d'Infreville read as follows: