"MYDEARVALENTINE:—I have learned that you are in Paris, and I can not tell you what happiness it would give me to embrace you, but it is absolutely necessary for me to defer that pleasure for nearly three months, that is, until early in June."If you care to see your old friend at that time,—and I have the assurance to believe that you will,—you must go to M. Duval, notary, at Number 17 Rue Montmartre, and tell him who you are. He will then give you a letter containing my address. He will not receive this letter until the last of May, however; and at this present time he does not even know me by name."I am so certain of your affection, my dear Valentine, that I shall count upon a visit from you. The journey may seem a little long to you, but you can remain with me and rest, and we shall have so much to say to each other."Your best friend, who loves you with all her heart,"FLORENCE DEL."
"MYDEARVALENTINE:—I have learned that you are in Paris, and I can not tell you what happiness it would give me to embrace you, but it is absolutely necessary for me to defer that pleasure for nearly three months, that is, until early in June.
"If you care to see your old friend at that time,—and I have the assurance to believe that you will,—you must go to M. Duval, notary, at Number 17 Rue Montmartre, and tell him who you are. He will then give you a letter containing my address. He will not receive this letter until the last of May, however; and at this present time he does not even know me by name.
"I am so certain of your affection, my dear Valentine, that I shall count upon a visit from you. The journey may seem a little long to you, but you can remain with me and rest, and we shall have so much to say to each other.
"Your best friend, who loves you with all her heart,
"FLORENCE DEL."
The intense surprise this letter excited can be readily understood. Valentine and her companion remained silent for a moment. M. de Luceval was the first to speak.
"They must have seen us following them this morning," he exclaimed.
"But how did Florence discover where I am?" said Valentine, thoughtfully. "I have met nobody I know in Paris except you, monsieur, and one of our old servants, with whose assistance I succeeded in ascertaining Michel's address. The man of whom I speak has a sister who was Michel's nurse and afterwards his housekeeper."
"But why did Florence write to you, madame, and not to me, if she suspected that I was following her?"
"You are mistaken in that supposition, perhaps, monsieur. She may have written to me without knowing that you are in Paris."
"But in that case, why does she postpone your visit to her, and why this indirect request that you make no attempt to discover her whereabouts before the last of May, as she warns you that the person who is to give you her address will not know it himself until that time."
"Yes, it is very evident that Florence does not wish to see me until after three months have elapsed, and that she has taken measures accordingly. Do you suppose that Michel can have had any hand in the sending of this letter?"
"It is my opinion that we haven't a minute to lose," said M. de Luceval. "Let us take a cab and go to the Rue de Vaugirard at once. If my wife's suspicions have been aroused, it is more than likely that she returned home during the day and gave some order that may enlighten us."
"You are right, monsieur; let us go at once."
An hour afterwards Valentine and M. de Luceval rejoined each other in the cab which had deposited them a short distance from the two adjoining houses where their search was to be conducted.
"Ah, well, monsieur, what news?" asked Madame d'Infreville, who, pale and agitated, had been the first to return to the vehicle.
"There can no longer be any doubt that my wife suspects the truth, madame. I told the porter that I wished to see Madame de Luceval on very important business. 'That lady no longer resides here, monsieur,' the man replied. 'She came in a carriage about eleven o'clock and took away several bundles and packages, at the same time informing me that she had no intention of returning again. Madame de Luceval has paid her rent six months in advance ever since she came here, and some time ago she gave notice of her intention to leave on the first of June. As for the few articles of furniture that she owns, she is to let us know what disposal we are to make of them.' It was impossible to get anything more out of the man. And you, madame, what did you find out?"
"Almost the very same thing that you did, monsieur," replied Valentine, despondently. "Michel returned home about eleven o'clock. He, too, informed the porter of his intention of leaving the house, and promised to let him know what disposition to make of his furniture. He, too, had notified the landlord of his intention of giving up his rooms on the first of June."
"Then it is on the first of June that they are to be united?"
"But in that case why do they make an appointment with me for the same date?"
"Whatever they may say, and whatever they may do, I am determined to solve this mystery!" exclaimed M. de Luceval.
Madame d'Infreville's only response was a melancholy shake of the head.
ITwas about three months after M. de Luceval and Madame d'Infreville met in Paris, when the events we are about to relate occurred at a modest villa near the town of Hyères, in Provence.
This villa, which was decidedly bright and cheerful rather than pretentious in appearance, stood at the foot of a small hill, not more than five hundred yards from the sea. The small garden, half an acre, at the most, in extent, and shaded with tall maples and sycamores, was traversed by a rapid stream that had its source in a neighbouring mountain, and that flowed into the sea, after diffusing a refreshing moisture and coolness through the garden. The villa itself, which was a pretty white house with green shutters, was embowered in a thick grove of immense orange-trees, now in full bloom, which protected it from the scorching rays of the sun. A hawthorn hedge enclosed the garden, which was entered through a small gate set in posts of rough masonry.
About three o'clock in the afternoon, while the sun was shining with a splendour rivalling that of Italy, a travelling carriage, coming from the direction of Hyères, stopped upon the brow of the hill overlooking the little country-seat, and M. de Luceval, his face pale, and his features drawn with anxiety, got out of the vehicle, and assisted Madame d'Infreville to alight. That lady, after having paused for an instant to look around her, caught sight of the little villa half hidden in the grove of orange-trees, and, pointing to it, exclaimed, in a voice that trembled with emotion:
"That is the house, M. de Luceval."
"Yes, judging from the directions given us, this must be the place. The momentous hour has come. Go, madame. I will wait for you here, though I do not know but it requires more courage to remain here in this agony of suspense than it does to accompany you."
"Still, remember your promise, I entreat you, monsieur. Let me accomplish this painful mission alone. You might not be able to control yourself, and, in spite of the solemn pledge you have given me, you might—But I can not finish. The mere thought of such a thing makes me shudder."
"Do not be alarmed, madame, I shall keep my word, unless—unless—"
"But, monsieur, you have sworn—"
"I shall not forget my oath, madame."
"Let us hope for the best, monsieur. The day for which we have been waiting with so much anxiety for three months has come at last. In an hour the mystery will be solved. We shall know all, and our fate will be decided."
"Yes, yes, our fate will be decided," responded M. de Luceval, gloomily.
"And nowau revoir. Perhaps I shall not return alone."
But M. de Luceval shook his head gloomily, as Valentine, with a gesture of encouragement, started down a narrow footpath that led straight to the garden gate of the villa.
M. de Luceval, left alone, paced restlessly to and fro, turning every now and then, in spite of himself, to gaze at the pretty dwelling below. Suddenly he paused, his face turned livid, and his eyes gleamed like coals of fire. He had just seen, a little way from the hedge that surrounded the garden, a man clad in a white duck suit, and wearing a big straw hat. In another moment, this man had disappeared among the rocks that bordered the shore.
Running to the carriage, M. de Luceval drew out from under the seat, where he had concealed it from Madame d'Infreville's eyes, a box containing a pair of duelling pistols, and with this box in his hand started in pursuit of the man.
But before he had gone ten yards M. de Luceval paused, reflected a moment, then slowly returned to the carriage, and replaced the box, saying to himself:
"There will be time enough for that by and by. I will keep my oath unless rage and despair should carry me beyond all the bounds of reason and honour."
Then, with his eyes riveted upon the house, M. de Luceval, too, descended the path.
In the meantime, Valentine had reached the gate of the enclosure, and knocked.
A moment afterwards the gate opened, and a woman about fifty years of age, neatly dressed in the Provençal fashion, appeared.
On seeing her, Valentine could not conceal her astonishment.
"What, Madame Reine, you here!" she exclaimed.
"Yes, madame," replied the woman, with a strong Southern accent, and apparently not at all surprised at Valentine's visit. "Will you be good enough to come in?"
Valentine, seeming to repress a question that had risen to her lips, blushed slightly, and stepped inside. The old woman (Madame Reine had been Michel Renaud's nurse, and his only servant, even in his palmy day) closed the gate, and conducted Madame d'Infreville into the dense shade formed by the quincunx of orange-trees, in the centre of which the little white villa stood.
"Is Madame de Luceval here?" inquired Valentine, in a slightly husky voice.
The old nurse paused suddenly, placed her finger on her lip, as if recommending silence on the part of Madame d'Infreville, then motioned her to look a little to the left, in front of her.
Valentine stood as if petrified.
She saw before her two bright-coloured hammocks fastened to the gnarled trunks of some orange-trees. One of the hammocks was empty. Florence was lying in the other. A blue and white striped canopy, suspended over the hammock, swelled like a sail in the fresh sea-breeze and imparted a gentle swinging motion to this airy couch.
Florence, clad in a thin white gown that left her throat and arms bare, was slumbering in an attitude of gracefulabandon, her pretty head resting upon one dimpled arm, while the gentle breeze toyed caressingly with the soft ringlets that shaded her white brow. Her left arm was hanging out of the hammock, and in the same hand was a big green fan which she had evidently been using when sleep overtook her.
Never had Valentine seen Florence look so beautiful and fresh and young. Her scarlet lips were half parted, her breathing was as gentle and regular as that of an infant, and her features, in their perfect repose, wore an expression of ineffable contentment and happiness.
"FLORENCE WAS SLUMBERING IN GRACEFUL ABANDON.""FLORENCE WAS SLUMBERING IN GRACEFUL ABANDON."
In the clear waters of the little stream that flowed through the little lawn stood a big basket filled with watermelons, purple figs, and early grapes cooling in the icy flood, in which two carafes, one filled with lemonade of a pale amber hue, the other with ruby-tinted pomegranate juice, were also submerged. Upon the soft grass, near the edge of the stream, and in the shade, were two big armchairs, several straw mats, a number of cushions, and sundry other aids to comfort anddolce far niente; and lastly, within easy reach of the armchairs, stood a table upon which a number of books and papers, a Turkish pipe, a number of glasses, and a plate of the small wheaten cakes peculiar to that province were heaped in picturesque confusion. To complete the picture, one could discern through two vistas in the quincunx, on one side, the still, blue waters of the Mediterranean; on the other, the summits of the distant mountains, whose majestic outlines stood out in bold relief against the azure sky.
Valentine, charmed by the scene before her, stood as if spellbound.
A moment more, and Florence's little hand opened slowly. The fan dropped, and, in escaping from the fingers of the sleeper, woke her.
ONseeing Madame d'Infreville, Florence uttered a cry of joy, and, springing from the hammock, threw her arms around her friend's neck.
"Ah," she exclaimed, kissing Valentine tenderly, her eyes filling with tears, "I was sure that you would come. I have been expecting you for two days, and you know the proverb, 'Happiness comes while one sleeps,'" she added, smiling and casting a glance at the hammock which she had just quitted, "the proverb of the slothful, but a true one, nevertheless, as you see. But let me take a good look at you," she continued, still holding her friend's hands, but drawing back a step or two. "As beautiful, yes, even more beautiful than ever, I see! Kiss me again, my dear Valentine. Think of it, four years have passed since we last saw each other, and what a terrible day that was! But each thing in its own proper time! And first," added Florence, taking her friend by the hand and leading her to the brookside, "as the heat is so overpowering, here are some of the fruits of my garden which I have been cooling for you."
"Thanks, Florence, but I would rather not eat anything now. But now, let me, in my turn, take a good look at you, and tell you—I am no flatterer, though, as you know—how much prettier you have grown. What a colour you have! and how young and, above all, how happy you look!"
"Do you really think so? So much the better, for I should be ungrateful, indeed, if I did not look happy. But I understand your impatience. You want to talk, and so do I—in fact, I am just dying to! So let us talk, but first sit down—here, in this armchair. Now put this ottoman under your feet, and take this cushion to lean against. One can not make oneself too comfortable, you know."
"You seem to me to have made great progress in your search for comfort, Florence," remarked Valentine, with a constrained smile, more and more surprised at her friend's careless air, though their interview, by reason of existing circumstances, was really of such a grave nature.
"I have, my dear Valentine. Do you see that little strap attached to the back of the chair?"
"I see it, but have no idea what it is for."
"It is to support the head if one wishes."
And adding example to precept, this nonchalant young woman added:
"Don't you see how comfortable it is? But what is the matter? You are gazing at me with such a surprised, almost chagrined air," said the young woman, suddenly becoming serious. "Well, you are right. You think me indifferent to all your past, and I trust now partially forgotten, trials," added Florence, in a tone of deep feeling. "Far from it! I have sympathised with you in every grief, but this is such a happy, blissful day to me that I do not want to mar it by any unpleasant recollections."
"What, you know—"
"Yes, I have known for more than a year of your imprisonment at Poitou, your subsequent widowhood and poverty, from which you suffered more on your mother's account than on your own. I know, too, how courageously you struggled against adversity. But dear me! this is exactly what I was afraid of!" half sobbed, half laughed the young woman, dashing the tears from her eyes. "And to-day of all days in the world!"
"Florence, my dear friend, I never once doubted your sincere affection."
"Is that really true?"
"It is, indeed. But how did you learn all these particulars in regard to me?"
"Oh, some from this person, some from that! I have been leading such a busy, active life it has brought me in contact with all sorts of people."
"You?"
"Yes, I," responded Florence, with a joyous, almost triumphant air.
"Tell me all about yourself. I know nothing about your life for the past four years, or at least since your separation from M. de Luceval."
"True, M. de Luceval must have told you all about that, and about the strange way in which I managed to make my husband abandon the idea of forcing me to travel against my will, and insisting upon my remaining his wife whether or no."
"And especially how you insisted upon a separation after you learned of your financial ruin. Yes, M. de Luceval told me all about that. He does full justice to your delicacy of feeling."
"The real generosity was on his part. Poor Alexandre! but for his unceasing peregrinations and his Wandering Jew temperament he would be a very nice sort of a man, eh, Valentine?" added Florence, with a mischievous smile. "How fortunate that you met him and that you have seen so much of him during the past three months. You must have learned to appreciate him as he deserves."
"What do you mean?" asked Valentine, looking at her friend with astonishment, and colouring slightly. "Really, Florence, you must be mad."
"I am mad—with happiness. But come, Valentine, let us be as frank with each other now as we have always been in the past. There is a name that you have been impatient and yet afraid to utter ever since your arrival. It is Michel's name."
"You are right, Florence."
"Well, Valentine, to set your mind at rest, once for all, I beg leave to inform you that Michel is not, and never has been, my lover."
A gleam of hope shone in Valentine's eyes, but an instant afterwards she exclaimed, incredulously:
"But, Florence—"
"You know me. I have never lied to any one in my life. Why should I deceive you? Is not Michel free? Am I not free, also? I repeat that he is not, and that he never has been, my lover. I do not know what may happen in the future, but I am telling you the truth about the present as well as the past. Is it possible, Valentine, that you, who are delicacy itself, do not understand that if I was, or if I had been, Michel's mistress, nothing could be more painful and embarrassing to both you and me than this interview, to which I, at least, have looked forward with such delight?"
"Ah, now I can breathe freely again!" cried Valentine, springing up and embracing her friend effusively. "In spite of the joy I felt at seeing you again, I was conscious of such a dreadful feeling of constraint. I am relieved of a terrible anxiety now."
"A just punishment for having doubted me, my dear. But you ask me to be frank, so I will add that, though Michel and I are not lovers, we adore each other, as much, at least, as two such indolent creatures as ourselves can adore any one."
"So Michel loves me no longer," said Madame d'Infreville, looking searchingly at Florence. "He has forgotten me entirely, then?"
"I think the best way to answer that question is to tell you our story, and—"
"Good Heavens! what was that?" exclaimed Valentine, interrupting her friend.
"What do you mean?" asked Florence, turning her head in the direction in which her friend was looking. "What did you hear?"
"Listen."
The two friends listened breathlessly for several seconds, but the profound stillness was broken by no sound.
"I must have been mistaken, but I thought I heard a crackling sound in the shrubbery."
"It was the wind swaying the branches of that old cedar you see over there. Did you never notice what a peculiar sound evergreens make when the wind blows?" responded Florence, carelessly. Then she added: "And now I have explained this strange phenomenon, Valentine, listen to Michel's story and mine."
MADAME D'INFREVILLE, recovering from the alarm she had felt for a moment, again turned to her friend, and said:
"Go on, Florence, I need not tell you with what curiosity, or rather with what intense interest, I am waiting."
"Ah, well then, my dear Valentine, one thing my husband cannot have told you, as he was not aware of the fact, is that I received a letter from Michel two days after your departure."
"And the object of this letter?"
"Knowing that you intended asking me to write a note to you conveying the impression that we had been spending a good deal of time together, Michel, hearing nothing from you, naturally became very uneasy, and, discovering you had left Paris in company with your mother, was anxious to ascertain where you had gone."
"Indeed. So my disappearance really disturbed him to that extent?" said Valentine, with mingled bitterness and incredulity.
"Yes, it did, and thinking I might be able to give him some information on the subject, he wrote asking permission to call on me, which, as he was my husband's cousin, seemed so natural that I consented."
"But your husband?"
"Oh, he, being ignorant that Michel was the object of the passion which had been your ruin, made no objection."
"Yes; M. de Luceval was not aware of that fact until I told him."
"So Michel called, and I told him of the distressing scene that I had witnessed. His grief touched me, and we both resolved to make every possible effort to find you; a resolution which, on his part, at least, showed no little courage, for you can understand what all this prospective trouble and effort meant to a nature like his; nevertheless—"
"Well?"
"Nevertheless, he exclaimed, naïvely: 'Ah, whether I find her or not, this is the last love affair I ever intend to have!' A feeling which corresponded exactly with that which I once expressed to you in relation to the misery of having a lover, so I must say that I considered this resolve a mark of good sense on his part, though I encouraged him in his determination to find you if possible."
"And did he really make any efforts in that direction?"
"He did, with an energy that amazed me. He kept me fully advised of his progress, but, unfortunately, the precautions your husband had taken rendered all our efforts unavailing; besides, neither of us received any letter or message from you."
"Alas! Florence, no prisoner on a desert island was ever more completely isolated than I. Surrounded by M. d'Infreville's devoted henchmen, the sending of any letter was an impossibility."
"Well, at last we were compelled to abandon all hope of finding you."
"But while you two were thus occupied, you saw Michel quite often, doubtless."
"Necessarily."
"And what did you think of him?"
"If I said all the nice things I think of him, I should feel that I was sounding my own praises very loudly, for every day I became more and more amazed at the marvellous resemblance which existed between his character, ideas, and tastes and my own. Still, as I was never particularly modest so far as my own virtues and attractions are concerned, I frankly admit that I thought we were both charming."
"It was about this time that you became so firmly resolved to separate from your husband, was it not?"
"Fie, fie!" exclaimed Florence, shaking her finger at her friend. "No, madame, the real cause of such a determination on my part was something entirely different. Michel and I were both so faithful to our true characters, that in speaking of you, and consequently in speaking of all the tumults and commotions and worries and agitation which such liaisons always cause, we always said to each other in perfect good faith:
"'This is what love leads to, you see, monsieur. One knows no peace, but lives ever on thequi vive, with one eye and ear to the keyhole, so to speak.'
"'And there are bothersome duels with all their attendant scandals, madame.'
"'And all the tortures of jealousy, monsieur, and drives in rickety cabs in which one is jostled about until one's bones positively ache.'
"'Yes, all this trouble and fatigue, and for what, madame?'
"'You are right, monsieur. I, too, ask for what?'
"In short, if any one could have listened to our moral reflections on this subject, he would have been vastly amused. At last came the time when M. de Luceval attempted to force me to travel against my will, but he finally abandoned that idea."
"Yes, he told me the means you adopted to circumvent him. They were peculiar, but certainly very efficacious."
"What I most desired at that time was repose, both mental and physical, for though my husband had acted very brutally towards me in that scene about your letter, my poor Valentine,—so brutally, in fact, that I had threatened to leave him,—I changed my mind after reflecting on the subject, for I couldn't bear the idea of living alone, that is to say, of having to attend to the thousand and one things my husband or my agent had always attended to for me; so I confined my demands to the following: I was never to be asked to travel, though I intended to encourage my husband to do so as often as possible, so I wouldn't be continually worried by his restlessness."
"And so you could see Michel whenever you pleased, I suppose."
"Of course, and without the slightest bother or secrecy,—without any concealment, in short, for there was really nothing in our relations to conceal."
"But your determination to separate from your husband, at least so he told me, was ostensibly due to your loss of fortune. Was that the real cause?"
"Yes. You see, Valentine, I could not bear the idea of being henceforth in my husband's power,—of accepting wages from him, so to speak! No; I remembered too well the humiliation you, a penniless girl, had suffered from having married a rich man, and the mere thought of such a life was revolting alike to my delicacy and my natural indolence."
"Your indolence? What on earth do you mean, Florence? Did not a separation from your husband necessitate the renunciation of the wealth and luxury that would permit you to lead a life of ease?"
"But you forget, Valentine, that if I accepted M. de Luceval's wages,—if I remained in his employ, in other words,—I would be obliged to sacrifice my tastes to his, to plunge into the feverish maelstrom of society, in which he delighted,—to go to the Caucasus with him, in short, if the whim seized him, and I preferred death to a life like that."
"But your husband loved you so, why did you not endeavour to make him sacrifice his wishes and tastes to yours?"
"He loved me, oh, yes, he loved me as I love strawberries,—to eat them. Besides, I knew him too well; he could no more change his character than I could change mine, and our life would have become a hell. It was much better for us to part at once."
"Did you inform Michel of your determination?"
"Yes, and he approved unreservedly. It was about this time that we first formed some vague plans for the future,—plans which were always subordinate to you, however."
"To me?"
"Yes, certainly. Michel knew his duty, and would have done it, if we had succeeded in finding you. While he was making a final attempt in that direction, I, on my side, was endeavouring to secure the separation I desired. At the end of four months I was legally divorced from M. de Luceval, and he started on his travels. Then, and not until then, did I see Michel again, as I had requested him to cease his visits until I was free. Neither of us had anything from you, so, being forced to renounce all hope of seeing you again, we began to consider our plans for the future. I alluded a short time ago, my dear Valentine, to the prodigies indolence can achieve; I will tell you some of them.
"The point of departure that we took, or, rather, our declaration of principles was this," said Florence, with the most solemn but comical air imaginable: "'We have but one desire and object in life,—perfect rest and peace of mind and body,—all mental and physical effort being positively restricted to dreaming, reading, talking, and gazing at the heavens, the trees, the streams, the fields and mountains that God has made; to keeping cool in summer, and warm in winter. We are too devoutly idle to be ambitious, vain, or avaricious, to desire the burden of sumptuous living or the fatigue and excitement of a gay social life. The requisites for the life of indolence of which we dream are a small house that is warm in winter and cool in summer, a nice garden, and a few comfortable armchairs, hammocks, and couches, several pleasing views within our range of vision so we shall not be obliged to take the trouble to go in search of them, an equable climate, frugal fare,—neither of us are gourmands,—and a servant. It is also essential that the means to lead such a life may be assured beyond the shadow of a doubt, so we may never be troubled by any anxiety in regard to pecuniary matters.' How were these ambitions to be realised? Prodigies of courage and industry must be performed to bring about this much desired consummation. Listen and admire, my dear Valentine."
"I am listening, Florence, and I am beginning to admire, too, for it seems to me I divine everything now."
"Oh, do not do that, I beg of you; let me have the pleasure of surprising you. Well, to resume my story, Michel's old nurse was a Provençale, a native of Hyères. She often spoke of the beauty of her native province, where one could live upon almost nothing, as she declared, often asserting that ten or twelve thousand francs would purchase a pretty little cottage on the coast, with a fine orange grove. One of Michel's friends had just gone to Hyères for his health; we asked him to make some inquiries, and he confirmed all Michel's nurse had said. He even told us of such a property a few miles from Hyères, which could be purchased for eleven thousand francs; but it was leased for three years, and the purchaser could not obtain possession until the expiration of that time. Having great confidence in this friend's judgment, we begged him to purchase the property, but now a serious difficulty presented itself. To purchase the house, and also an annuity of two thousand francs a year, an amount that would prove sufficient for our wants, we would need about sixty thousand francs."
"But how could you hope to obtain so large an amount?"
"Why, by working for it, my dear," said Florence with a valiant air, "working like lions!"
"You, Florence, you work?" exclaimed Valentine, in astonishment. "And Michel, too?"
"And Michel, too, my dear Valentine. Yes, we have worked night and day at all sorts of avocations for several years. I had six thousand francs left out of the ten thousand I had asked for when I married. A friend of Michel's undertook to straighten out his affairs, and managed to save fifteen thousand francs out of the wreck. Both amounts were carefully invested, as we were resolved not to touch a penny of either principal or interest, so we might gain the forty thousand francs needed to secure our paradise the sooner."
"To think that you and Michel should be capable of anything like this!"
"What, it surprises you?"
"Of course it does."
"But you must remember how terribly indolent Michel and I are!"
"That is the very reason it astonishes me so much."
"But that is the very reason it should not."
"Should not?"
"Certainly. Think what a powerful incentive, what a sharp spur, our indolence was!"
"Your indolence?"
"Yes; think what courage and energy and ardour it must excite in your breast, when you say to yourself at the close of each day, however harassed one may have been, and whatever privations one may have had to endure: 'I am one step nearer liberty, independence, rest, and the bliss of doing nothing.' Yes, Valentine, yes; and the more fatigued one feels, the more eagerly he looks forward to the ineffable happiness he hopes to enjoy some day. We are told, you know, that celestial happiness must be gained by trials and tribulations here below. The same rule holds good in this case, only,—strictlyentre nousof course,—I would rather enjoy my little paradise here on earth than wait for the other."
Madame d'Infreville was so astonished at what she had heard, and she gazed at her friend with such a bewildered air, that Florence, wishing to give her time to recover from her surprise, paused for a moment.
RECOVERINGfrom her amazement at last, Madame d'Infreville said:
"Really, Florence, I hardly know whether I am awake or dreaming. Once more, I ask, is it possible that a person as indolent and fond of ease as you have always been could evince such wonderful courage and energy?"
"Ah, I shall be obliged to go into particulars, I see. Have you any idea of the kind of life we have led for the last four years,—Michel and I, I mean?"
"I was told that you both went out every morning before light, and did not return until late at night."
"Oh, dear!" cried Florence, with a merry laugh, "when I remember all these things now, how amusing they seem, but there wasn't much fun in them then, I assure you. I'll give you the order of exercises of one of the last days of my purgatory, as I call it. You can form a pretty correct idea of the others from that. I got up at three o'clock in the morning, and devoted an hour either to copying music or colouring some large lithograph. You ought not to be very much surprised at this last exhibition of talent on my part, for you know that, at the convent, colouring engravings of the saints and copying music were almost the only things I did at all creditably."
"Yes, and it was very clever in you to think of putting these accomplishments to some practical use."
"I think so myself, particularly as I often made, in that way, four or five francs a day, or rather a night, over and above my other earnings."
"Your other earnings, and what were they, pray?"
"Well, to resume the account of my day: At four o'clock, I started for the market."
"Great Heavens! for the market? You? And what took you there, pray?"
"I tended the stall of a dairywoman, who was too fine a lady to get up so early. Can you imagine anything more pastoral than a traffic in cream and butter and eggs? I received a small commission on my sales, in addition to my regular salary, so every year I derived an income of two hundred francs, more or less, from this source."
"You, Florence, the Marquise de Luceval, in such a rôle?"
"But how about Michel?"
"Michel? What did he do?"
"Oh, he had all sorts of avocations, one of them being the office of inspector of goods at the market. In return for his services, he received a salary of fifteen hundred francs, and the profound respect and consideration of all the market women and hucksters. His duties were over at nine o'clock, after which he went to his office, and I to my store."
"Your store?"
"Yes, on the Rue de l'Arbre-Sec, at the sign of the Corbeille d'Or, I was forewoman in that large and well-known lingerie establishment, and as I can, with reason, boast of both taste and skill in such matters, and haven't a peer in the confection of dressing sacks, bathing suits, peignoirs, etc., I demanded a good price for my services,—it is never well to undervalue oneself,—fifteen hundred francs a year, and found,—'you can take me or not, as you please, at that figure.' It was also understood that I was never to enter the salesroom. I was afraid, you see, of being recognised by some customer, and that might have prevented me from securing employment for the rest of the day."
"What! wasn't your day's work ended when you left the store?"
"Ended at eight o'clock in the evening! What are you thinking of?—for I had stipulated that I was to be free at eight o'clock so I could utilise the rest of the time. For a year I worked at home in the evening, on tapestry work or on my water-colours, or copying music, but after that a friend of Michel's recommended me to a very aristocratic, but rather misanthropical, blind lady, who, being unable to go into society, preferred to pass her evenings in listening to reading; so, for three years, I acted as reader for her at a salary of eight hundred francs a year. I went to her house at nine o'clock, I read to her awhile, and then we talked and drank tea by turn. This lady lived on the Rue de Tournon, so Michel could call for me about midnight, on his return from his theatre."
"From his theatre?"
"Yes, from the Odéon."
"Good Heavens! has he turned actor?"
"You are mad!" cried Florence, laughing heartily. "Nothing of the sort. I told you that we both did anything we could find to do, and Michel was controller at the Odéon, performing his duties there after he had left his desk, where he earned two thousand four hundred francs a year as an entry clerk."
"Michel, who was so indolent that he would not pay the slightest attention to his own business affairs, in years gone by!"
"And take notice that, after he returned home at night, he used to post books and straighten up people's accounts, thus adding considerably to his earnings in the course of a year. In this fashion, my dear Valentine, and by living with the most rigid economy, going without a fire in winter, waiting on ourselves, and even working on Sunday, we accumulated the amount we needed in four years. Well, was I wrong when I boasted of the wonders indolence could accomplish?"
"I can't get over my astonishment. This seems incredible."
"Ah, but Valentine, as Michel says, 'A love of idleness is often the real cause of some of the most laborious lives. Why do so many persons, who are neither ambitious nor avaricious, toil with such untiring ardour? In order that they may cease work as soon as possible, is it not?'"
"You are right, perhaps. At least, I see now that the love of idleness may impart wonderful energy to one's efforts, at least for a time. But tell me, Florence, why were your rooms and Michel's so close together and yet separated?"
"Oh, that arrangement was convincing proof of the most sublime and heroic wisdom on our part!" exclaimed Florence, triumphantly. We said to ourselves, 'What is our object? To accumulate as quickly as possible the amount of money needed to enable us to lead an idle life. That being the case, time is money, so the less time we waste the more money we shall earn, and the surest way of losing a great deal of time is for us to be together. Nor is this all. We used, it is true, to hold in holy horror all love that caused one trouble and pain; but now that we are free, and there would be no cause for anxiety or self-reproach in our love, who knows,—the devil is very cunning, and we might succumb. Then what would become of our good resolutions, and all the work we are planning to do? All that time, that is to say all that money, lost! For how could we hope to muster up the necessary courage to tear ourselves from indolence, and from love as well? No, no, we must be inexorable towards ourselves, so as not to imperil our future, and swear, in the name of Indolence, our divinity, not to speak a word, a single word, to each other until our little fortune has been made.'"
"What, during these four years—"
"We have kept our oath."
"Not one word?"
"Not one word from the day we began to work."
"Florence, you must be exaggerating. Such self-restraint is an impossibility."
"I promised to tell you the truth, and I am telling it. We have never spoken a word to each other during these four years. When any important matter or any question affecting our interests was to be decided, we wrote to each other; that is all. I must also admit that we invented a way to communicate with each other through the wall between our rooms. It was a very brief telegraphic code, however. Only extensive enough to permit us to say to each other, 'Good night, Michel'—'Good night, Florence;' and in the morning, 'Good morning, Michel'—'Good morning, Florence;' or, 'It is time to start,' or now and then: 'Courage, Michel'—'Courage, Florence; let us think of paradise, and endure purgatory as cheerfully as possible!' But even this mode of correspondence had to be strictly tabooed now and then; for would you believe it? Michel sometimes wasted so much time in tapping upon the wall with the handle of his pocket-knife that I was obliged to silence the hot-headed creature in the most peremptory manner."
"And did this meagre correspondence satisfy you?"
"Perfectly. Did we not have a life in common, in spite of the wall that separated us? Were not our minds concentrated upon the same aim, and was not our pursuance of this aim exactly the same thing as always thinking of each other? Besides, we saw each other every morning and evening. As we were not lovers, that sufficed. If we had been, a single look might have been enough to destroy all our good resolutions. Well, a fortnight ago, our object was accomplished. In four years we had accumulated forty-two thousand eight hundred francs! We might have 'retired,' as merchants say, several months earlier; but we said, or, rather, we wrote to each other, 'It is not well for persons to crave any more than is required to provide them with the necessaries of life; still, we ought to have enough to supply the needs of any poor and hungry stranger who may knock at our door. Nothing gives greater peace to the soul than the consciousness of having always been kind and humane.' This being the case, we prolonged our purgatory a little. And now, Valentine, confess that there is nothing like well-directed indolence to imbue persons with energy, courage, and virtue."
"Farewell, Florence," said Madame d'Infreville, in a voice husky with tears, and throwing herself in her friend's arms, "farewell for ever!"
"What do you mean, Valentine?"
"A vague hope impelled me to come here,—a foolish, senseless hope. Once more, farewell! Be happy with Michel. Heaven created you for each other, and your happiness has been nobly earned."
The garden gate closed noisily.
"Madame, madame," cried the old nurse, hastening towards them with an unsealed letter, which she handed to Valentine, "the gentleman that remained in the carriage told me to give this to you at once. He came from over there," added the old woman, pointing to the same clump of shrubbery in which Valentine had fancied that she heard a suspicious sound, some time before.
Florence watched her friend with great surprise, as Valentine opened the missive, which contained another note, and read the following words, hastily scrawled in pencil:
"Give the enclosed to Florence, and rejoin me immediately. There is no hope. Let us depart at once."
Involuntarily Madame d'Infreville turned as if to comply with the request.
"Where are you going, Valentine?" cried Florence, hastily seizing her friend by the hand.
"Wait for me a moment," replied Madame d'Infreville, pressing her friend's hands convulsively, "wait for me, and read this."
Then giving the note to Florence, she darted away, while her friend, more and more astonished as she perceived that the writing was her husband's, read these lines: