"All that I can tell you, my dear impatient and beautiful invalid, is that we have agreed that to-day is the day when you must make an attempt to walk alone for the first time, and that it is my duty, yes, madame, my duty to assist this exertion of your powers."
Scarcely had the doctor uttered these words, when they heard Marguerite cough with great affectation behind the door.
"Come, mother," said Frederick to his mother, tenderly, "have courage now, we are going to take a long walk in the house."
"Oh, I feel so strong that you will be astonished," replied Marie, smiling and trying to rise from her sick-chair, and succeeding with great difficulty, for she was very weak.
It was a beautiful and pathetic picture.
Marie, having risen, advanced with an uncertain step, David at her right, the doctor at her left, ready to sustain her if she fainted, while Frederick, in front of her, was slowly walking backward, holding out his arms, as one does to a child that is attempting his first steps.
"You see how strong I am!" said the young woman, stepping slowly toward her son, who smiled upon her with tenderness. "Where are you going to take me?"
"You are going to see, mother."
Frederick had scarcely uttered these words, when a fearful, terrible shriek sounded from behind the door.
"SHE SAW HER HUSBAND.""SHE SAW HER HUSBAND."
It was Marguerite. Then the door opened suddenly, and a bantering, ringing voice said at the same time:
"Make a note of it! The big old fellow is living yet!"
Marie, who was opposite the door, uttered a terror-stricken cry and fell backward.
She saw her husband Jacques Bastien.
ITwill be remembered, perhaps, that at the moment of departure for Blémur, Bridou put on Jacques Bastien's greatcoat, made of goatskin. Bastien, half drunk, had, in spite of old André's advice to the contrary, persisted in fording a place inundated by the pond as well as by the waters of the Loire; the horse lost his footing, and the carriage was dragged down the current. Bridou succeeded in getting out of the carriage, but was swept by the torrent under the wheels of the mill and crushed to death. A part of the goatskin coat was caught in one of the wheels. In the pocket of the garment were found several letters addressed to M. Bastien. Hence the fatal error. It was supposed that M. Bastien had been crushed under the wheels, and that the body of the bailiff had disappeared under the water.
Jacques Bastien, incommoded by his great corpulence, had not, in spite of his efforts, succeeded in getting out of the carriage; this circumstance saved him. The horse, after having been dragged some distance with the drift, regained his footing, but soon, exhausted by fatigue, and attempting to ascend a very steep hill, he tumbled down. Jacques, thrown forward, received a deep wound in the head, and lay insensible for some time, when, at the break of day, some labourers going to the fields found him, picked him up and carried him to an isolated farm quite distant from the scene of the disaster.
Jacques remained a long time in this farmhouse, seriously ill from the results of his wound, and a dangerous attack produced by fright and prolonged immersion in the ice-cold water. When he was in a condition to write to his wife, he intentionally neglected to do so, promising himself—as no doubt rumours of his death were current—to make his resurrection a stupid and brutal joke, for he well understood with what sentiments his household would receive the news of his tragic end.
In his project, Jacques, as we have seen, did not fail.
When, however, he saw his wife fall, overwhelmed at the sight of him, he thought he had killed her, and fled from his house in a terror which partook of the nature of frenzy.
Marie was not the only one overcome by this terrible blow.
Frederick was not less shocked by the sudden appearance of Bastien, and, seeing his mother fall dead as it were on the floor, fell fainting in the arms of Doctor Dufour.
The poor boy was not borne to his own chamber, but to the library, and a bed was there prepared for him, as Doctor Dufour feared, with reason, that the removal of Frederick to his own chamber, which opened into his mother's, might be followed by consequences disastrous to both.
The doctor could not give his attention to both at the same time, and occupied himself first with Marie, who, scarcely convalescent from her previous illness, was alas! struck with a mortal blow.
When Doctor Dufour returned to Frederick he found him prostrated by cerebral congestion, and soon his condition was desperate.
When Marie regained consciousness she realised that her end was approaching, and asked to see her son immediately.
The embarrassment of Marguerite, her pallor and tears, her look of despair, and the excuses and evasions she made to explain the absence of Frederick in that solemn moment were a revelation to the young mother.
She felt, so to speak, that, like herself, her son was about to die; then she asked to see David.
Marguerite ushered the preceptor into the room and left him alone with Madame Bastien, whose angelic features already bore the impress of death. With her cold white hand she made a sign to David to sit down at her bedside and said to him:
"How is my son?"
"Madame—"
"He is not in his chamber; they are hiding him from me."
"Do not think—"
"I understand all; he is in a desperate state I know, but as my end is near, too, I wish to say farewell to him, Henri."
For the first and the last time, alas! Marie called David by his baptismal name.
"Farewell!" repeated he, with a heartrending sob "you wish to say farewell!"
"But I cannot die without telling you how much I have loved you. You knew it, did you not, my friend?"
"And you say that you are going to die! No, no! Marie, the power of my love will give new life to you!" cried David, under a sort of aberration of mind. "Die! Oh, why will you die? We love each other so much."
"Yes, our love is great, my friend, and for me it began from the day you restored the life of my son's soul."
"Oh, woe! woe!"
"No, Henri, my death is not a woe for us. It seems to me, you understand, that, in the moment of leaving this life, my soul, freed from terrestrial ties, can read the future. Henri, do you know what would have been our fate?"
"You ask me to tell you that, when this morning our plans were so—"
"Listen to me, my friend; there are profound mysteries of maternal love which, perhaps, are never unveiled but in supreme moments. As long as I felt myself free, the future appeared radiant to me, as it did to you, Henri, and perhaps for a few months, you and my son and myself would have mingled our lives in the same bliss."
"Oh, that dream! that dream!"
"The dream was beautiful, Henri; perhaps the awakening would have been cruel."
"What do you mean?"
"You know how much my son loves me. You know that all passionate affection has its jealousy; sooner or later, he would have been jealous of my love for you, Henri."
"He, he jealous of me?"
"You can believe a mother's heart; I am not mistaken."
"Alas, you only wish to make my sorrow less grievous; brave and generous to the last!"
"Say I am a mother to the last. Listen to me still, Henri. In uniting myself to you, I would have lost my name, that humble name that my son wanted above everything to make illustrious, because that name was mine, because everything in the poor child had reference to me."
"Oh, yes, you were in all his thoughts; when he thought he was dying, he cried, 'My mother!' and his first cry, as he began his march to a glorious destiny, was still, 'My mother!'"
"My friend, let us not deceive ourselves. What would have been our grief, if, just when we were about to be united, the fear of arousing my son's jealousy, perhaps would have stopped me? And however painful to have renounced our love, think how much more horrible it would have been to see, perhaps, the development of Frederick's jealousy after our union. What could we have done then? What would have become of us?"
"No, no, Marie, do not believe that. Frederick loves me, too, and he would have sacrificed himself to your happiness and mine."
"Sacrificed? Yes, my friend, he would have sacrificed himself. Oh, I know it, not a word, not a complaint would have passed his lips. Always loving, always tender, he would have smiled on us sadly, and then by degrees, we would have seen him at last wasting away."
"Oh, my God, that is dreadful! Woe to me!" murmured David, with bitter lamentation. "Woe to me!"
"Joy to you, Henri, because you have been the most generous of men," cried Marie, with an exaltation which imparted a superhuman expression to her dying features, "Joy to you, Henri, for you have been loved, oh, passionately loved, without costing a tear or one moment of shame to the loyal heart which adores you. Yes, Henri, I have loved you without hesitation, without resistance. I have loved you with pride, with serenity, because my love for you, Henri, had all the sacred sweetness of duty. Courage, then, my friend, let the memory of Marie and Frederick Bastien sustain you and console you."
"What do you mean? Frederick! Oh, he at least will remain to me!"
"My son will not survive me."
"Frederick?"
"I feel it here, yes, Henri, here in my heart; I tell you he will die."
"But, a little while ago, Pierre came out of the chamber where your son is lying, and told me he had not given up all hope. No, no, for him to die, too, would be more than I could bear."
"Why do you say that, Henri?"
"Great God! you—you, his mother, ask that question!"
"I told you, my friend, there are profound mysteries in maternal love. I think it would be a dreadful evil to survive my son, and Frederick thinks as I do; he loves me as much as I love him, and he does not desire to survive me."
"Oh, what misery for me to lose you both!"
"Marie and Frederick cannot be separated; neither in this world nor in the other, my friend."
"Ah, you and he are happy!"
"Henri, my strength is gone, the chill of death is on me. Give me your hand, your dear and faithful hand."
David threw himself on his knees at the bedside of the young woman, covering her hand with tears and kisses; he burst into sobs.
Marie continued talking, her voice growing more and more feeble.
"One last request, Henri; you will grant it, if it is possible. M. Bastien has spoken to me of his desire to sell this house; I would not like to have strangers profane this home, where my life has been passed, as well as the life of my son; for my life dates from the day I became a mother. Doctor Dufour, your best friend, dwells near here, you would like to live near him some day. Hasten that day, Henri; you will find great consolation in a heart like his."
"Oh, Marie, this house will be the object of a religious care—but—"
"Thank you, Henri, oh, thank you, that thought consoles me. A last prayer: I do not wish to be separated from my son; you understand me, do you not?"
Scarcely had Marie uttered these words when a great noise was heard in the corridor.
Marguerite in terror called the doctor.
Suddenly Madame Bastien's door was thrown open violently. Frederick entered, livid as a corpse, dragging after him a piece of the bed linen, like a winding-sheet, while Marguerite was trying in vain to hold him back.
A last ray of intelligence, the filial instinct perhaps, led this child to die near his mother.
David, who was kneeling at the bedside of the young woman, rose, bewildered, as if he had seen a spectre.
"Mother! mother!" cried Frederick, in an agonising voice, throwing himself on Marie's bed, and enfolding her in his arms, as the doctor ran to them in dismay.
"Oh, come, my child, come!" murmured Marie, embracing her son in a last embrace with convulsive joy, "now it is for ever!"
These were the last words of the young mother.
Frederick and Marie breathed out their souls in a supreme embrace.
WEbegan this story supposing a tourist, going from the city of Pont Brillant to the castle of the same name, would pass the humble home of Marie Bastien.
We finish this story with a like supposition.
If this tourist had travelled from Pont Brillant to the castle eighteen months after the death of Frederick and Marie, he would have found nothing changed in the farm.
The same elegant simplicity reigned in this humble abode; the same wild flowers were carefully tended by old André; the same century-old grove shaded the verdant lawn through which the limpid brook wound its way.
But the tourist would not have seen without emotion, under the shade of the grove, and not far from the little murmuring cascade, a tombstone of white marble on which he could read the words: "Marie and Frederick Bastien."
Before this tomb, which was sheltered by a rustic porch, already covered with ivy and climbing flowers, was placed the little boat presented to Frederick at the time of the overflow, on which could be read the inscription: "The poor people of the valley to Frederick Bastien."
If the tourist had chanced to pass this grove at sunrise or at sunset, he would have seen a man tall of stature and clad in mourning, with hair as white as snow, although his face was young, approaching this tomb in religious meditation.
This man was David.
He had not failed in the mission entrusted to him by Marie.
Nothing was changed without or within the house. The chamber of the young mother, that of Frederick, and the library, filled with the uncompleted tasks left by the son of Madame Bastien, all remained as on the day of the death of the mother and child.
The chamber of Jacques Bastien was walled up.
David continued to inhabit the garret chamber which he occupied as preceptor. Marguerite was his only servant.
Doctor Dufour came every day to see David, near whom he wished to establish himself, when he could trust his patronage to a young physician newly arrived in Pont Brillant.
As a memorial to his young brother and to Frederick, David—that his grief might not be barren of result—transformed one of the barns on the farm into a schoolroom, and there, every day, he instructed the children of the neighbouring farmers. In order to assure the benefit of his instruction, the preceptor gave a small indemnity to the parents of the pupils, inasmuch as the children forced by the poverty of their families to go out to work could not avail themselves of public education.
We will suppose that our tourist, after having paused before the modest tomb of Marie and Frederick, would meet some inhabitant of the valley.
"My good man," the tourist might have said to him, "pray, whose is that tomb down there under those old oaks?"
"It is the tomb of the good saint of our country, monsieur."
"What is his name?"
"Frederick Bastien, monsieur, and his good angel of a mother is buried with him."
"You are weeping, my good man."
"Yes, monsieur, as all weep who knew that angel mother and her son."
"They were, then, much loved by the people of the country?"
"Wait, monsieur; do you see that tall fine castle down there?"
"The Castle of Pont Brillant?"
"The young marquis and his grandmother are richer than the king. Good year or bad year, they give a great deal of money to the poor, and yet, if the name of the young marquis is mentioned among the good people of the valley once, the names of Frederick Bastien and his mother are mentioned a hundred times."
"And why is that?"
"Because, instead of money, which they did not have, the mother gave the poor her kind heart, and the half of her bread, and the son, when it was necessary, his life to save the life of others, as I and mine can testify, without counting other families whom he rescued at the risk of his own life at the great overflow two years ago. So, you see, monsieur, the name of the good saint of the country will endure longer in the valley than the grand Castle of Pont Brillant. Castles crumble to the ground, while our children's children will learn from their fathers the name of Frederick Bastien."
SHOULDthere be any artist who desires to depictdolce far nientein its most attractive guise, we think we might offer him as a model,—
Florence de Luceval, six months married, but not quite seventeen, a blonde with a skin of dazzling whiteness, cheeks rivalling the wild rose in hue, and a wealth of golden hair. Though tall and beautifully formed, the young lady is a trifle stout, but the slight superabundance of flesh is so admirably distributed that it only adds to her attractiveness. Enveloped in a soft mull peignoir, profusely trimmed with lace, her attitude is careless but graceful in the extreme, as, half reclining in a luxurious armchair, with her head a little to one side, and her dainty slippered feet crossed upon a big velvet cushion, she toys with a magnificent rose that is lying on her lap.
Thus luxuriously established before an open window that overlooks a beautiful garden, she gazes out through her half closed eyelids upon the charming play of light and shade produced by the golden sunbeams as they pierce the dense shrubbery that borders the walk. At the farther end of this shady path is a fountain where the water in one marble shell overflows into the larger one below; and the faint murmur of the distant fountain, the twittering of the birds, the soft humidity of the atmosphere, the clearness of the sky, and the balmy fragrance from several beds of heliotrope and huge clumps of Japanese honeysuckle seem to have plunged the fair young creature into a sort of ecstatic trance, in which body and mind are alike held captive by the same delightful lethargy.
While this incorrigible idler is thus yielding to the charm of her habitual indolence, an entirely different scene is going on in an adjoining room.
M. Alexandre de Luceval had just entered his wife's bedchamber. He was a young man about twenty-five years of age, and dark complexioned. Quick, nervous, and lithe in his movements, the natural petulance of his disposition manifested itself in his every gesture. He belonged, in fact, to that class of individuals who are blessed, or afflicted, with a desire to be always on the go, and who are utterly unable to remain for more than a minute in one place, or without busying themselves about something or other. In short, he was a man who seemed to be not only in a dozen places at once, but to be engaged in solving two problems at the same time,—that of perpetual motion and ubiquity.
It was now two o'clock in the afternoon, and M. de Luceval, who had risen with the sun,—he never slept more than four or five hours,—had already traversed half of Paris, either on foot or on horseback. When he entered his wife's bedchamber, one of her women happened to be there, and her employer, in the quick, curt way which was habitual to him, exclaimed:
"Well, has madame returned? Is she dressed? Is she ready?"
"Madame la marquise has not been out this morning, monsieur," replied Mlle. Lise, the maid.
"What! Madame did not go out at eleven o'clock, as she intended?"
"No, monsieur, madame did not rise until half-past twelve."
"Another ride postponed!" muttered M. de Luceval, stamping his foot impatiently.
"But madame is dressed now, of course?" he said aloud.
"Oh, no, monsieur; madame is still in her dressing-gown. Madame told me she had no intention of going out to-day."
"Where is she?" demanded M. de Luceval, with another impatient stamp of the foot; "where is she?"
"In her boudoir, monsieur."
A few seconds afterwards M. de Luceval burst noisily into the room where his pretty wife lay stretched out in her armchair, too comfortable to even turn her head to see who the intruder was.
"Really, Florence, this is intolerable!" exclaimed M. de Luceval.
"What, my dear?" the lady asked, languidly, without moving, and with her eyes still fixed on the garden.
"You ask me that, when you know that we were to go out together at two o'clock!"
"It is entirely too hot."
"But the carriage is ready."
"They can take the horses out, then, I wouldn't move for a kingdom."
"But you will have to. You know perfectly well that it is absolutely necessary we should go out together to-day, particularly as you did not go out earlier, as you ought to have done."
"I really hadn't the courage to get up."
"You will at least have to summon up courage to dress yourself, and at once."
"Don't insist, my dear. It is not of the slightest use."
"You must be jesting."
"Nothing of the sort."
"But the purchases we have to make cannot be put off any longer. My niece'scorbeillemust be completed. It would have been a week ago, but for your indolence."
"You have excellent taste, my dear, attend to thecorbeilleyourself. The mere thought of rushing about from shop to shop, and going up and down stairs, and standing on one's feet for hours at a time, is really too appalling."
"Nonsense, madame! Such indolence in a girl of seventeen is monstrous, disgraceful! It positively amounts to a disease with you. I shall consult Doctor Gasterini about it to-morrow."
"An excellent idea!" said Florence, really arousing herself enough to laugh this time. "The dear doctor is so witty it is sure to be a very amusing consultation."
"I am in earnest, madame. Something must be done to cure you of this apathy."
"I sincerely hope it will prove incurable. You have no idea how much I was enjoying myself before you came in, lying here with half closed eyes, listening to the fountain, and not even taking the trouble to think."
"You dare to admit that?"
"And why not, pray?"
"I don't believe there is another person in the world who can compare with you so far as indolence is concerned."
"You forget your cousin Michel, who, judging from what you say, certainly rivals me in this respect. Possibly it is on this account that he has never taken the trouble to come and see you since your marriage."
"You two are certainly very much alike. I really believe you are more indolent than he is, though. But come, Florence, don't let us have any more nonsense. Dress at once, and let us be off, I beg of you."
"And I, in turn, beg that you will attend to this shopping yourself, my dear Alexandre. If you will, I'll promise to drive with you in the Bois this evening. We won't go until after dark, so I shall only have to put on a hat and mantle."
"But this is the day of Madame de Mirecourt's reception. She has called on you twice, and you have never set foot in her house, so you really must do me the favour to go there this evening."
"Make an evening toilet? Oh, no, indeed. It is entirely too much trouble."
"That is not the question. One must fulfil one's duties to society, so you will accompany me to Madame de Mirecourt's this evening."
"Society can do without me just as well as I can do without society. Society bores me. I shall not go to Madame de Mirecourt's."
"Yes, you will."
"When I say no, I mean no."
"Zounds, madame—"
"My dear, as I have told you very often, I married so I might get out of the convent, so I might lie in bed as late as I chose in the morning, so I might get rid of lessons, and so I might do nothing as long and as much as I pleased,—so I might be my own mistress, in short."
"You are talking and reasoning like a child,—and like an utterly spoiled child."
"That doesn't matter."
"Ah, your guardian warned me! Why did I not believe him? I had no idea that such a person as you could exist. I said to myself, 'This indolence on the part of a girl of seventeen is nothing but the ennui caused by the monotony of convent life. When she marries, the duties and pleasures of society, the care of her house, and improving travel will cure her of her indolence, and—'"
"Then that is the reason, I suppose, that you had the barbarity to propose a long journey to me only a day or two after our marriage," interrupted Madame de Luceval, in reproachful tones.
"But, madame, travelling—"
"Don't! The slightest allusion to it positively makes me shudder. A journey is the most fatiguing and disagreeable thing in the world. Think of nights spent in diligences or in horrid inns, and long walks and drives to see the pretended beauties or wonders of a country. I have asked you before, monsieur, not to even mention the subject of travelling to me. I have perfect horror of it."
"Ah, madame, had I foreseen this—"
"I understand; I should not have had the happiness of being Madame de Luceval."
"Say, rather, that I should not have had the misfortune to be your husband."
"A gallant speech after six months of married life, truly."
"But you exasperate me beyond endurance, madame. I am the most unhappy man alive. I can stand it no longer. I must say what I have to say."
"Do, by all means. But pray don't make such a fuss about it. I abhor a noise."
"Very well, then, madame. I tell you very plainly, though very quietly, that it is a woman's duty to attend to the affairs of her household, and you do not pay the slightest attention to yours. If it were not for me, I don't know what would become of the house."
"That is the steward's business, it seems to me. But you have energy enough for two, and you've got to expend it upon something."
"I tell you, again, madame, very quietly, understand, that I anticipated a very different and very delightful life. I had deferred exploring several of the most interesting countries until after my marriage, saying to myself, 'Instead of exploring them alone, I shall then have a charming and congenial companion; fatigue, adventures, even dangers,—we will share them all courageously together.'"
"Great Heavens!" murmured Florence, lifting her beautiful eyes heavenward, "he admits such an atrocious thing as that."
"'What happiness it will be,' I said to myself," continued M. de Luceval, quite carried away by the bitterness of his regret,—"'what happiness it will be to visit such extremely interesting countries as Egypt—'"
"Egypt!"
"Turkey—"
"Mon Dieu!Turkey!"
"And if you had been the woman I so fondly dreamed, we might even have pushed on to the Caucasus."
"The Caucasus!" exclaimed Florence, straightening herself up in her chair this time. "Is it possible you thought of such a thing as visiting the Caucasus?" she added, clasping her pretty hands in undisguised horror.
"But, madame, Lady Stanhope, and the Duchesse de Plaisance, and many others, have made similar journeys."
"The Caucasus! So that was what you reserved for me! That was what you were infamously plotting, when I so trustingly gave you my hand in the Chapel of the Assumption. Ah, I understand the cruel selfishness of your character now."
And sinking back in her armchair again, she repeated, in the same horrified tones:
"The Caucasus! Think of it, the Caucasus!"
"Oh, I know very well now that you are one of those women who are incapable of making the slightest concession to their husband's wishes," retorted M. de Luceval, bitterly.
"The slightest concession! Why don't you propose a voyage of discovery to Timbuctoo, or the North Pole, and be done with it?"
"Madame Biard, the brave-hearted wife of an eminent painter, had the courage to accompany her husband to the polar seas without a murmur; yes, even gladly, madame," answered M. de Luceval,—"to polar seas, do you hear, madame?"
"I hear only too well, monsieur. You are either the most wicked or the most insane of men!"
"Really, madame—"
"And what and who, in Heaven's name, is keeping you, monsieur? If you have a passion—a mania, I call it—for travelling, if repose is so irksome to you, why don't you travel? Go to the Caucasus! Go to the North Pole, if you like, start at once, make haste about it. We shall both be the gainers by it. I shall no longer distress you by the sight of my atrocious indolence, and you will cease to irritate my nerves by the restlessness that prevents you from remaining for a moment in one place or allowing others to do so. Twenty times a day you rush into my room merely for the sake of coming and going; or, even worse, marvellous as it may appear, you come and wake me at five o'clock in the morning to propose a horseback ride, or to take me to the natatorium. You have even gone so far as to insist upon my practising gymnastics a little. Gymnastics! Who but you would ever think of such a thing? So, monsieur, I repeat that your absurd ideas, your constant coming and going, the sort of perpetual motion you keep up, the spirit of unrest that seems to possess you, causes me quite as much annoyance as my indolence can possibly cause you. Consequently you need not suppose for one moment that you alone have cause to complain, and as we have both made up our minds to say our say to each other, I declare in my turn, monsieur, that such a life as this is intolerable to me, and, unless there is a change for the better, I do not intend to put up with it much longer."
"What do you mean by that, madame?"
"I mean that it would be very foolish for us to go on interfering with and annoying each other. You have your tastes, I have mine; you have your fortune, I have mine; then let us live as seems good to us, and, for Heaven's sake, let us, above all, live in quiet."
"I admire your assurance, really, madame. It is something marvellous! Do you suppose I married to lead a life that was not to my liking?"
"Oh,mon Dieu! live as you please, monsieur, but let me live as I please, as well."
"It pleases me, madame, to live with you. It was for that I married you, I think; so it is for you to accept my sort of life. Yes, madame, I have the right to expect it, ay, to demand it; and you may rest assured that I shall have the energy to enforce my demands."
"What you say is perfectly ridiculous, M. de Luceval."
"Ah, you think so, do you?" retorted the husband, with a sardonic smile.
"Yes, ridiculous in the highest degree."
"Then the Civil Code is ridiculous in the highest degree, I suppose?"
"Very possibly, monsieur, as you bring it into this discussion. I don't know enough about it to judge, however."
"Then understand, once for all, madame, that the Civil Code expressly states that a woman is expected, obliged, compelled to follow her husband."
"To the Caucasus?"
"Wherever he may see fit to take her."
"I am in no mood for jesting, monsieur. But for that, your interpretation of the Civil Code would amuse me immensely."
"I, too, am in earnest, madame,—very much in earnest."
"That is what makes the whole affair so irresistibly comical."
"Take care, madame, do not drive me to desperation."
"Oh, threaten me with the North Pole at once, and let that be the end of it."
"I have no intention of resorting to threats, madame. I merely wish to impress upon your mind the fact that the time for weakness is past, so when it suits me to start on a journey,—and that moment is, perhaps, nearer than you think,—I shall notify you one week in advance, so you may have time to make all needful preparations; then, willing or not, when the post-horses come, you will enter the carriage."
"If not, the magistrate, and a 'In the name of the law, follow your husband,' I suppose, monsieur."
"Yes, madame. You may sneer as much as you please, but you will follow me at the law's bidding, for you must realise that some guaranties in relation to such a serious and sacred thing as marriage must and do exist. After all, a man's happiness and peace of mind must not be at the mercy of the slightest caprice of a spoiled child."
"Caprice! that is ridiculous. I have a horror of travelling, the slightest fatigue is intolerable to me, and because you take it into your head to rival the Wandering Jew, I am to be compelled to follow you?"
"Yes, madame; and I will prove to you that—"
"M. de Luceval, I hate controversy. It is entirely too much trouble. So, to put an end to this discussion, I will merely say that I shall not accompany you on a single one of your journeys, even if it be merely from here to St. Cloud. You shall see if I do not keep my word."
And Florence threw herself back in her armchair again, crossed her little feet, and closed her eyes, as if completely exhausted.
"Madame," exclaimed M. de Luceval, "this is not to be borne. I will not permit this disdainful silence!"
All her husband's efforts to extort a word from her proved futile, however, and despairing, at last, of overcoming his wife's obstinacy, he departed, in high dudgeon.
M. de Luceval was perfectly sincere in saying what he did, for, being passionately fond of travel himself, he could not believe that his wife really loathed it, and he was the more incredulous on this point as, when he married Florence, he had persuaded himself that a child of sixteen, an orphan, who had spent her life in a convent, could not have much will of her own, and would be delighted to travel. In fact, he had felt certain that such a proposal would prove a delightful surprise to her.
His notary had told him of an orphan girl of sixteen, with a lovely face, an exquisite figure, and a fortune of more than a million francs, which, invested in the business of her guardian, a famous banker, yielded a yearly income of eighty thousand francs. M. de Luceval gave sincere thanks to Heaven and his notary. He saw the young girl, thought her ravishingly beautiful, fell in love with her, married her, and, when the awakening came, he had the simplicity to marvel at the loss of his illusions, and the credulity to believe that right, persistency, threats, force, and the law would have some effect upon the will of a woman who entrenches herself in a passive resistance.
A few minutes after M. de Luceval had taken his departure, Lise, the maid, entered the room with a rather frightened air, and said to her mistress:
"A lady, who says her name is Madame d'Infreville, is down at the door, in a carriage."
"Valentine!" exclaimed the young marquise, in accents of joyful surprise. "It is ages since I saw her. Ask her to come up at once."
"But that is impossible, madame."
"And why?"
"The lady sent, through the concierge, for madame's maid. Some one told me and I went down at once. When I got there, the lady, who was frightfully pale, said to me: 'Mademoiselle, go to Madame de Luceval and ask her to have the goodness to come down here for a moment. I want to speak to her on a very important matter. Tell her that my name is Madame d'Infreville,—Valentine d'Infreville.'"
Lise had scarcely uttered these words before a footman entered the room, after having knocked, and said to Florence:
"Will madame la marquise see Madame d'Infreville?"
"What!" exclaimed Florence, greatly surprised at this sudden change in her friend's resolution, "is Madame d'Infreville here?"
"Yes, madame."
"Then show her in at once," said Madame de Luceval, rising to meet her friend, whom she embraced affectionately, and with whom she was a moment afterwards left alone.
VALENTINE D'Infrevillewas three years older than Madame de Luceval, and a striking contrast to her in every way, though equally beautiful and attractive.
Tall, lithe, and slender, without being thin, and a decided brunette in colouring,—she had beautiful eyes, full of fire, and black as her long, luxuriant hair, and rich scarlet lips, shaded by the slightest suspicion of down, while her thin nostrils, which quivered and dilated with the slightest emotion, the excessive mobility of her features, her animated gestures, and even the rather virile timbre of her contralto voice, all indicated that she was the possessor of an ardent and impassioned nature. She had first met Florence at the Convent of the Sacred Heart, where they had become very intimate. Valentine had left the convent to be married a year before her friend, and though she afterwards came to see Florence several times at the convent, for several months prior to her marriage with M. de Luceval, Florence, to her great surprise, had seen nothing of her friend, and since that time their intercourse had been confined to a correspondence which had been very irregular on the part of Madame d'Infreville, who was, she declared, absorbed with household cares; so the two friends had not seen each other for more than six months.
Madame de Luceval, after having tenderly embraced her friend, noticed her unusual pallor as well as her extreme agitation, and asked, anxiously:
"Valentine, what is the matter? My maid told me first that you wished to see me, but that you did not want to come in."
"I seem to have lost my head completely, Florence. I am nearly mad, I believe."
"You frighten me. Explain, for pity's sake!"
"Florence, will you save me from a terrible misfortune?"
"Speak, speak! Am I not your friend, though you have deserted me for the last six months?"
"I did very wrong. I have been unkind and ungrateful, I know, and yet I appeal to you now."
"It is the only way to gain my forgiveness."
"Always the same generous Florence!"
"But now tell me, quick, what can I do for you?"
"Have you writing materials here?"
"Over there on that table."
"Then write what I dictate, I beg of you. It may save me."
"This paper has my initials on it. Does that make any difference?"
"On the contrary, it is all the better, as you are the person who is supposed to be writing to me."
"Go on, then, Valentine. I am ready."
So Madame d'Infreville dictated the following in a strangely altered voice, pausing now and then, so great was her emotion.
"'The recollection of the pleasant hours we spent together yesterday is so delightful, my dear Valentine,—though I really can not say that it was in any respect a more charming day than last Wednesday,—that at the risk of seeming both selfish and importunate, I am going to ask you to give me Sunday.'""Give me Sunday," repeated Florence, greatly surprised at this beginning."'Our programme shall be the same,'" continued
"'The recollection of the pleasant hours we spent together yesterday is so delightful, my dear Valentine,—though I really can not say that it was in any respect a more charming day than last Wednesday,—that at the risk of seeming both selfish and importunate, I am going to ask you to give me Sunday.'"
"Give me Sunday," repeated Florence, greatly surprised at this beginning.
"'Our programme shall be the same,'" continued
Madame d'Infreville. "Underline programme," she added, with a bitter smile, then resumed:
"'Ourprogrammeshall be the same: breakfast at eleven, a stroll in the garden, embroidery, music, and conversation until seven o'clock, then dinner and afterwards a drive in the Bois de Boulogne in an open carriage if the evening is fine, after which I shall take you home at ten o'clock as I did yesterday."'Answer me yes or no, but let it be a yes, and you will make very happy your devoted"'FLORENCE.'"
"'Ourprogrammeshall be the same: breakfast at eleven, a stroll in the garden, embroidery, music, and conversation until seven o'clock, then dinner and afterwards a drive in the Bois de Boulogne in an open carriage if the evening is fine, after which I shall take you home at ten o'clock as I did yesterday.
"'Answer me yes or no, but let it be a yes, and you will make very happy your devoted
"'FLORENCE.'"
"Your devoted Florence," repeated Madame de Luceval; then, with a half smile, she added: "It is certainly cruel in you, Valentine, to dictate such a programme to excite my envy and regret; but the time for reproaches or explanations will come presently. I will have my revenge then. Is that all, my dear Valentine?"
"Put my address on the note, seal it, and have it sent to my house at once."
Madame de Luceval was about to ring when she paused as if a new thought had suddenly struck her, and she said to her friend, with some slight embarrassment:
"Valentine, I do hope you will not take offence at what I am about to say to you."
"Go on."
"If I am not mistaken, the object of this letter is to make some one suppose that we have spent several days together recently."
"Yes, yes, that is it exactly. Well, what of it?"
"In that case, I think it advisable to tell you that my husband is unfortunately endowed with such a prodigious amount of energy and activity that, though he is almost always out of the house, he nevertheless finds a way to be almost always in my room; in fact, he rushes in and out about a dozen times a day, so if his testimony should be invoked, he would be sure to say that he had never seen you here."
"I foresaw this difficulty, but of two dangers, one must choose the least. Send this letter without delay, I beg of you, by one of your servants; but no, he might talk. You had better entrust it to the post. It will arrive in time, even then."
Madame de Luceval rang the bell.
A footman answered the summons.
His mistress was about to give him the letter, but she changed her mind and asked instead:
"Is Baptiste here?"
"Yes, madame la marquise."
"Send him to me at once."
"Why this servant instead of the other, Florence?" inquired Madame d'Infreville.
"The other man knows how to read. He is rather inquisitive, too, and he might think it singular that I wrote to you while you were here. The man I sent for cannot read, and is very stupid besides, so there is very little danger to apprehend from him."
"You are right, a thousand times right, Florence. In my excitement, I did not think of all this."
"Did madame la marquise send for me?" inquired Baptiste, appearing in the doorway.
"Do you know the flower girl that has a shop near the Chinese bath-house?" inquired Florence.
"Yes, madame la marquise."
"Go there at once, and buy me two large bunches of Parma violets."
"Yes, madame."
The man turned to go.
"Oh, I forgot," exclaimed Madame de Luceval, calling him back. "I want you to post this letter on your way."
"Has madame any other commissions?"
"No."
So Baptiste departed.
Madame d'Infreville understood and appreciated her friend's generosity in thus making herself an accessory to the deed.
"Thank you, thank you, my dearest Florence," she exclaimed, gratefully. "Heaven grant that your kindness may not prove unavailing."
"I hope it may not, indeed, but—"
"Florence, listen to me. The only way I can prove my gratitude for the great service you have just rendered me is to place myself at your mercy,—in other words, to conceal nothing from you. I ought to have done that at first, and then explained the object of this letter, instead of exacting this proof of your devotion and friendship; but I admit that I was afraid you would refuse my request and blame me when you learned that—"
Then, after a moment's hesitation, Valentine said, resolutely, though she blushed deeply up to her very eyes:
"Florence, I have a lover."
"I suspected as much, Valentine."
"Do not condemn me without a hearing, I beseech you."
"My poor Valentine, I remember only one thing,—the confidence you have shown in me."
"Ah, but for my mother, I would not have stooped to this trickery and falsehood. I would have borne all the consequences of my wrong-doing, for I, at least, have the courage of my actions, but in my mother's present precarious condition of health, a scandal would kill her. Oh, Florence, though I am culpable, I am also very miserable," exclaimed Madame d'Infreville, bursting into tears, and throwing herself in her friend's arms.
"Calm yourself, I beseech you, Valentine," said the young marquise, though she shared her companion's emotion. "Trust to my sincere affection, and open your heart to your friend. It will at least be some consolation to you."
"My only hope is in your affection. Yes, Florence, I feel and know that you love me; that conviction alone gives me courage to make this painful confession. But, stay, there is another confession which I wish to have off my mind first. If I have come, after a long estrangement, to ask this great favour of you, it is not only because I counted blindly upon your friendship, but because, of all the women of my acquaintance, you are the only one my husband never visits. Now, listen to me: When I married M. d'Infreville, you were still in the convent. You were still a young girl, and my natural reserve prevented me from telling you many things,—among them, the fact that I married without love."
"Like myself," murmured Florence.
"The marriage pleased my mother, and assured me a large fortune, consequently I unfortunately yielded to my mother's persuasions all the more readily as I, too, was dazzled by the advantages of such a position; so I married M. d'Infreville, without realising, alas! what grievous obligations I was incurring, and at what a price I was selling my liberty. Though I have abundant cause to complain of my husband, my own wrong-doing prevents any recrimination on my part. Without trying to excuse my own weakness, I will endeavour to state the facts of the case, clearly and impartially. M. d'Infreville, though he should be in his prime, is a valetudinarian, because, in his youth, he plunged into all sorts of excesses. He is morose, because he regrets the past; imperious and stern, because he has no heart. In his eyes, I have never been anything but a penniless young girl, whom he condescended to marry in order to make a sort of nurse out of me, and for a long time I accepted this rôle, and performed the duties it involved religiously,—this rôle which was not only so trying but also so humiliating and disgraceful, because the attentions I paid my husband were not from the heart; and too late, alas! I realised how vile my conduct had been."
"Valentine—"
"No, Florence, no, the term is none too severe. I married M. d'Infreville without love. I married him because he was rich. I sold myself to him, body and soul, and such conduct is vile and disgraceful, I tell you."
"You blame yourself too much, Valentine. You were not thinking as much about yourself as you were about your mother, I am sure."
"And my mother was less solicitous about herself than about me. M. d'Infreville's wealth made filial deference on my part only too easy. At first, I was resigned to my fate, at least in a measure. After our marriage, my husband's health was so poor as to confine him to the house most of the time; but after a few months had elapsed, a marked change for the better became apparent in his condition, thanks to my nursing, perhaps; but from that time his habits, too, underwent an entire change. I saw him but seldom; he was scarcely ever at home, and I soon heard that he had a mistress."
"Poor Valentine!"
"A woman known to all Paris. My husband gave her a magnificent establishment, and made so little effort to conceal his relations with her that I learned all the particulars of the scandalous affair through public hearsay. I ventured to remonstrate with M. d'Infreville, not from any feeling of jealousy, Heaven knows! but I begged him, out of consideration for me, to have a little more regard for appearances. Even these very temperate reproaches irritated my husband, and he asked me, in the most insolent and disdainful manner, what right I had to meddle in this matter. He reminded me that I was indebted to him for a lot to which I could not otherwise have aspired, and that, as he had married me without a dowry, I had no right to make the slightest complaint."
"Why, this conduct was shameful, infamous!"
"'But, as you so flagrantly fail in your duty, monsieur, what would you say if I should forget mine?' I asked."
"'There is no comparison to be made between you and me,' he replied. 'I am the master; it is your duty to obey. You owe everything to me; I owe you nothing. Fail in your duty, and I will turn you out into the street,—you and your mother, who lives upon my charity.'"
"Such insolence and cruelty are inconceivable!"
"A wise and commendable inspiration seized me. I went to my mother, resolved to separate from my husband, and never to return to his house. 'But what will become of me?' said my mother. 'Sick and infirm as I am, poverty means death to me. Besides, my poor child, a separation is impossible. Your husband has a right to do this, so long as he does not bring this woman where you are; and as the law is on his side, and as he needs you, and is accustomed to your care and attentions when he is ill, he will not hear of a separation, and you will be obliged to remain with him. So make the best of it, my poor child. His infatuation for this creature will not last long. Sooner or later, your husband will return to you. Your patience and resignation will touch him; besides, he is in such poor health that this unfortunate affair is sure to be his last, so go on doing exactly as you have done in the past. In such cases, believe me, my child, a good woman suffers and waits and hopes.'"
"What! your mother dared to—"
"Do not censure her too severely, Florence. She has such a horror of poverty, quite as much on my account as on her own. Besides, does not her advice conform in every respect with reason, the law, and the opinion of the world in general?"
"What you say is only too true, alas!"
"Ah, well, so be it, I said to myself bitterly. All possibility of a self-respecting, rightful revolt against this disgraceful state of things being denied me, marriage becomes only a degrading servitude henceforth. I accept it. I shall experience all the degradation of a slave, but I will also practise a slave's perfidy and trickery. After all, degradation of soul has one advantage. It annihilates all remorse; it banishes every scruple. From this on, I will shut my eyes, and instead of struggling against the tide which is sweeping me on to ruin, I will yield myself to it."
"What do you mean?"
"It is now, Florence, that I need all your friendly indulgence. Up to this time I have deserved some interest and sympathy, perhaps, but now—"
The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of Madame de Luceval's maid.
"What do you want?" asked Florence, impatiently.
"Here is a letter a messenger just brought from M. de Luceval, madame."
"Give it to me."
After having read it, Florence turned to her friend and said: "M. de Luceval informs me that he will not dine at home, so can you not spend the afternoon and take dinner with me?"
"I accept your invitation with pleasure, my dear Florence," Madame d'Infreville replied, after a moment's reflection.
"Madame d'Infreville will dine with me," said Madame de Luceval, turning to her maid. "Give the servants to understand that I am at home to no one,—absolutely no one."
"Yes, madame," replied Mlle. Lise, quitting the room.
WEwill leave the two ladies for a time and give our attention to M. de Luceval. This gentleman, as we have just learned through his message to his wife, did not intend to dine at home that day.
The reason was this:
He had, as we know, left Madame de Luceval in a towering rage. He was also firmly resolved to insist upon his rights, and to force her to submit to his will, as well as to his mania for travelling.
He had gone only a few steps from his house before he was accosted by a rather distinguished looking man about forty-five years of age, whose worn and haggard features bore the lines and the impress of a premature old age. As M. de Luceval approached, this gentleman's stern, arrogant face took on an expression of formal courtesy, and, bowing with great politeness, he inquired:
"Is it to M. de Luceval that I have the honour of speaking?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"I was on my way to your house to tender you both my apologies and my thanks."
"Before accepting either, may I not at least know, monsieur—"
"Who I am? Pardon me, monsieur, for not having told you sooner. I am M. d'Infreville, so my name is not unknown to you, I think."
"We have several mutual friends, I think," replied M. de Luceval, "and I congratulate myself upon my good fortune in meeting you personally, monsieur. But we are only a short distance from my house, and if you will return with me—"
"I could not think of giving you that trouble, monsieur. Besides, to tell the truth, I should be almost afraid to meet Madame de Luceval."
"And why, monsieur?"
"The fact is, I have wronged madame so deeply, monsieur, that I must beg you to make my excuses to her before I have the honour to be presented to her."
"Pardon me," said Florence's husband, more and more mystified, "but I really do not understand—"
"I will explain more clearly, monsieur. But we are almost at the Champs Élysées. If agreeable to you, suppose we have a little chat together as we walk along."
"Certainly, if you prefer that."
And M. de Luceval, who manifested the same energy in his walk that he did in everything else, began to stride along, accompanied, or rather followed, by M. d'Infreville, who found it extremely difficult to keep up with his more agile companion. Nevertheless, continuing the conversation, he said, in a rather panting fashion:
"Just now, monsieur, when I had the honour to tell you my name, and to add that it was probably not unknown to you, you replied that we had mutual friends, and I—But pardon me, I have a favour to ask of you, monsieur," said M. d'Infreville, entirely out of breath now.
"What is it, monsieur?"
"I must ask you to walk a little more slowly. My lungs are not very strong, and I get out of breath very quickly, as you see."
"On the contrary, monsieur, it is I who should beg you to excuse me for walking so fast. It is a bad habit of which I find it very difficult to break myself; besides, if you prefer it, we can sit down. Here are some chairs."
"I accept the proposition with pleasure, monsieur," said M. d'Infreville, sinking into a chair, "with very great pleasure."
The two gentlemen having established themselves comfortably, M. d'Infreville remarked:
"Permit me to say, monsieur, that you must also have heard of me through some other intermediary than mutual friends."
"To what intermediary do you refer, monsieur?"
"To Madame de Luceval."
"My wife?"
"Certainly, monsieur, for though I have not yet had the honour of an introduction to her,—as I remarked a few minutes ago,—my wife is so intimate with your wife that you and I cannot be strangers to each other. The friendship of the ladies began at the convent, and still continues, as they see each other almost daily, and—"
"Pardon me, monsieur, but I think there must be some mistake—"
"Some mistake?"
"Or rather, some misunderstanding in regard to names."
"And why, monsieur?"
"I seldom leave Madame de Luceval. She receives very few people, and I have never had the pleasure of seeing Madame d'Infreville in my house."
It seemed as if Valentine's husband could not believe his own ears, for, turning to his companion, he exclaimed, hoarsely:
"Do you mean to say, monsieur—?"
"That I have never had the honour of seeing Madame d'Infreville in my house."
"But that is impossible, monsieur. My wife is with your wife almost constantly."
"But I repeat that I have never seen Madame d'Infreville in my house, monsieur."
"Never?" exclaimed Valentine's husband, so completely stupefied that M. de Luceval gazed at him in astonishment, and said:
"So, as I remarked a short time ago, there must be some mistake in regard to the name, as you tell me that your wife visits my wife every day."
M. d'Infreville's face had become livid. Big drops of sweat stood out upon his forehead, and a bitter smile contracted his bluish lips, but controlling himself,—for he was resolved to act the part of a gentleman in the presence of this stranger,—he responded in a sardonic tone:
"Fortunately, all this is between husbands, my dear sir; and we ought to feel a little compassion for each other, for, after all, each has his turn at it, as one never knows what may happen."
"What do you mean, monsieur?"
"Ah, my vague distrust was only too well founded," murmured M. d'Infreville, in a sort of sullen rage. "Why did I not discover the truth sooner? Oh, these women, these miserable women!"
"Once more, may I beg you to explain, monsieur."
"You are an honourable man, monsieur," replied M. d'Infreville, in an almost solemn tone, "and I trust to your loyalty, sure that you will not refuse to aid me in my efforts to ferret out and punish an infamous crime, for now I understand everything. Oh, these women, these women!"
M. de Luceval, fearing his companion's exclamations would attract the attention of several persons who were sitting a little distance from them, was endeavouring to calm him, when it so chanced that he caught sight of the footman Florence had sent out to mail her letter.
Seeing this man sauntering along with a letter which had, doubtless, been written by Florence immediately after the lively altercation with her husband, M. de Luceval, yielding to an almost irresistible impulse, called the servant to him, and asked:
"Where are you going?"
"I am going to buy some violets for madame la marquise, and post this letter," he replied, showing the missive to his master as he spoke.
That gentleman took it, and could not repress a movement of surprise as his eye fell upon the address, then, recovering himself, he dismissed the servant by a gesture, saying at the same time:
"You can go. I will take charge of the letter."
The footman having taken his departure, M. de Luceval turned to Valentine's husband, and remarked:
"A strange presentiment, but one which did not deceive me, I find, impelled me to secure this letter. It proves to be one which my wife has written to Madame d'Infreville."
"Why, in that case, my wife and your wife must at least keep up a correspondence," exclaimed Valentine's husband, more hopefully.
"True, but I discover this fact to-day for the first time, monsieur."
"Monsieur, I implore you, I adjure you, to open this letter. It is addressed to my wife. I will assume the whole responsibility."
"Here is the letter; read it, monsieur," responded M. de Luceval, quite as eager to know the contents of the missive as M. d'Infreville.
The latter gentleman, after hastily perusing the note, exclaimed:
"Read it, monsieur. It is surely enough to drive one mad, for in this letter your wife reminds my wife of the delightful day they spent together yesterday, as well as last Wednesday, and begs her to come again on Sunday."
"'HERE IS THE LETTER; READ IT, MONSIEUR.'""'HERE IS THE LETTER; READ IT, MONSIEUR.'"
"And I assure you, upon my word of honour, monsieur," responded M. de Luceval, after having perused the note in his turn, "that yesterday my wife did not get up until noon, that about three o'clock, I, with no little difficulty, succeeded in persuading her to take a drive with me. We returned a short time before dinner, and after dinner two friends of ours spent the evening with us. As regards Wednesday, I remember perfectly that I was in and out of my wife's room a number of times, and I again assure you, upon my word of honour, that Madame d'Infreville did not spend the day at our house."
"Then, how do you explain this letter, monsieur?"
"I do not explain it, monsieur. I merely confine myself to a plain statement of the facts of the case. I am as much interested in clearing up this mystery as you can possibly be."
"Oh, I will have my revenge!" exclaimed M. d'Infreville, his long repressed rage bursting forth at last. "I can doubt no longer now. The discovery that my wife has been absenting herself from home for days at a time naturally aroused my suspicions. I inquired the cause of these frequent and prolonged absences; she replied that she often went to spend the day with a former schoolmate, named Madame de Luceval. The name was so widely known and respected, the excuse so plausible, my wife's manner so sincere, that I, like a fool, believed her. Now, I know that it was an instinctive distrust that impelled me to seek you out. You see what I have discovered. Oh, the infamous wretch!"
"Be calm, I beg of you," entreated M. de Luceval, "your excited manner is attracting attention. Let us take a cab, and drive to my house at once, monsieur, for this mystery must be cleared up. I shudder to think that my wife, impelled by a desire to protect her friend, has consented to become an accomplice in a shameful deception. Come, monsieur, come. I count upon you, and you, in turn, can count upon me. It is the duty of all honest men to aid and sustain each other under such distressing circumstances. Justice must be done, and the guilty must be punished."
"Yes, yes. I will have my revenge! You may be sure I will have my revenge!"
He was trembling with rage, and his excitement increased his weakness to such an extent that he was obliged to lean heavily upon his companion's supporting arm to reach the carriage.
It was about an hour after this chance meeting of the two gentlemen that Florence received the note from her husband announcing that he would not dine at home that day.
So while this matrimonial storm is becoming more and more threatening, we will return to the two ladies who were left alone together after the departure of the maid who had brought M. de Luceval's note.