CHAPTER VI
CONNUBIAL INFELICITIES
MADAME DE LUCEVAL had been listening to her friend with rapidly increasing interest and curiosity for several minutes; then, apparently unable to control her emotion any longer, she had thrown herself in Valentine's arms, exclaiming:
"I thank you, my dear, dear friend, I thank you. You have saved me!"
"Good Heavens! Florence, why do you thank me? Explain, I beg of you," said Madame d'Infreville, gazing at her friend with the utmost astonishment.
"You think I have lost my senses, I suppose," responded Madame de Luceval, smiling faintly. "You little know what a great service you have rendered me."
"I?"
"Yes; a great, an immense service," replied Florence, with a strange mixture of emotion, mirth, and mischievousness. "Would you believe it, when you first told me that you had a lover, I envied you as I envied you at the convent when you left it to be married. And then – why should I try to conceal it from you? – Cousin Michel's tastes and his manner of life seemed so entirely congenial to me, that I said to myself: 'This is just my idea of love. That which annoys my poor Valentine so much would, on the contrary, delight me, and I believe I should love to have a Michel myself.'"
"Florence, what are you saying?"
"Let me finish, please. I am not disposed to conceal anything from you, so I may as well tell you that, as I see stormy times ahead, and as my husband is becoming more and more insupportable, I thought it quite possible that I should require consolation for such an ill-assorted union myself at some future day."
"Oh, Florence, take care," exclaimed Valentine, in evident alarm, "if you knew – "
"If I knew?" retorted Madame de Luceval, interrupting her friend; "if I knew? Why, thanks to you, I do know, and after what you have just told me, nothing on earth could induce me to have a lover. And I verily believe, Heaven forgive me! that I would rather go to the North Pole or to the Caucasus with my husband, than subject myself to all the misery and trials and torments your lover has cost you. A lover! Great Heavens! How wearing it would be! My natural indolence will serve in place of virtue in this instance. Each person is virtuous according to his or her ability, and provided one is virtuous, that is the essential thing, isn't it, Valentine?"
As Florence uttered these words, her expression was at once so serious and so droll, that, in spite of her own troubles, her friend could not help smiling as Madame de Luceval added:
"Ah, my poor Valentine, I do pity you, for such a life must be a hell upon earth, as you say."
"Yes, Florence, so take my advice. Persist in your resolve, and remain faithful to your duties, no matter how onerous they may seem. Profit by my experience, I entreat you," added Valentine, tenderly. "I shall reproach myself all my life if I feel that I have put sinful ideas into your head, or encouraged you to follow my example. So promise me, Florence, my friend, my dear friend, that I shall be spared this sorrow, promise me – "
"You need have no fears on that score, Valentine. Think what it would be for a person who loves her ease as I do, to attempt to deceive a husband who is rushing in and out of my room a dozen times a day. Why, it makes my brain reel, merely to think of it. No, no; the lesson you have taught me is a good one. It will bear fruit, I assure you. But to return to the subject of your troubles. Your husband's suspicions do not seem to have been aroused as yet."
"You are mistaken about that, I fear, though I am not positive of it."
"Why do you think so?"
"As I told you, my husband spends very little time at home. He leaves the house in the morning, directly after breakfast, and is not only in the habit of dining with his mistress, but of receiving his friends at her house. Afterwards, he takes her to the theatre, returning to her home with her afterwards, where there is pretty heavy playing, people say. At all events, he seldom returns home before three or four o'clock in the morning."
"A nice life for a married man!"
"Either because he has confidence in me, or is indifferent on the subject, he seldom questions me about the way in which I spend my time; but a couple of days ago, not feeling as well as usual, he returned home about three o'clock in the afternoon. I supposed that he would be absent all day, as he told me in the morning that he would not dine at home, so I did not return from Michel's until ten in the evening."
"Mon Dieu! How frightened you must have been when you heard of your husband's return. It makes me shudder to think of it!"
"I was so terrified that I at first thought I would not even go up to my own room, but run out of the house and never come back."
"That is what I should have done, I am sure. Still, I don't know – "
"At last I summoned up all my courage, and went up-stairs. The doctor was there, and M. d'Infreville was suffering so much that he scarcely addressed a word to me. I nursed him all night with hypocritical zeal. When he became easier, he asked me why I had absented myself from home so long, and where I had been. I had been preparing an answer, for I knew the question would come sooner or later, so I told him I had been spending the day with you, as I did quite frequently, since he had left me so much of the time alone. He seemed to believe me, and even pretended to approve, remarking that he knew M. de Luceval by reputation, and was glad to hear of my intimacy with his wife. I thought I was saved, but last night I learned, through my maid, that my husband had questioned her very adroitly, evidently for the purpose of finding out if I was often absent from home. My apprehensions became so grave that, resolved to escape from such an intolerable position at any cost, I went to Michel this morning, and said: 'I am going to confess all to my mother; tell her that my husband has grave suspicions, and that there is nothing left for me but to flee. I shall not return to my husband's house. My mother and I will leave Paris this evening for Brussels. You can join us there if you wish, and the remains of your fortune, and what I can earn by my needle, will suffice for our support. However poor and laborious our life may be, I shall be spared the terrible necessity of lying every day, and of living in a state of continual suspense and terror."
"And he consented?"
"He!" exclaimed Valentine, bitterly. "What a fool I was to count upon any such display of firmness on his part! He gazed at me a moment as if stupefied, then assured me that my resolution was absurd in the extreme; that persons resorted to such extreme measures only when they were absolutely compelled to do so; that it would probably be a comparatively easy matter to allay my husband's suspicions, and he finally suggested my asking you to write that letter."
"Perhaps he was right, after all, in advising you not to flee, as much for your sake as his own, for you are not in such very desperate straits, after all, it seems to me."
"Florence, I feel a presentiment that – "
But Madame d'Infreville never finished the sentence.
The door of the room was suddenly burst open, and M. de Luceval and M. d'Infreville presented themselves to the astonished gaze of Florence and Valentine.
"I am lost!" the latter exclaimed, overwhelmed with terror. Then, covered with shame at the sight of M. de Luceval, she buried her face in her hands.
Florence hastily sprang to her friend's side as if to protect her, and said to M. de Luceval, imperiously:
"What is your business here?"
"I have come to convict you of falsehood, and of a disgraceful complicity with an evil-doer, madame," responded M. de Luceval, threateningly.
"I have discovered that Madame d'Infreville has been absenting herself from her home for entire days for some time past, madame," added the other husband, turning to Florence. "Yesterday I asked Madame d'Infreville where she had spent the day. She told me she had spent it at your house. This letter of yours, madame (he held it up as he spoke), written at the instigation of my wife and with the intention of making me the dupe of an infamous falsehood, happened to fall into M. de Luceval's hands. He has sworn, and I believe him, that he has never once seen Madame d'Infreville here. Under such circumstances, madame, I can hardly believe that you will insist any longer that the contrary is the truth."
"Yes, madame," exclaimed M. de Luceval, "such an admission on your part will not only convict a guilty woman, but at the same time serve as a just punishment for your own shameless complicity."
"All I have to say, monsieur, is that Madame d'Infreville is, and always will be, my best friend," responded Florence, resolutely; "and the more unhappy she is, the more she can count upon my devoted affection."
"What, madame!" exclaimed M. de Luceval; "is it possible that you dare – "
"Yes; and I also dare to tell M. d'Infreville that his conduct towards his wife has been both disgraceful and heartless."
"Enough, madame, enough!" cried M. de Luceval, deeply exasperated.
"No, monsieur, it is not enough," retorted Florence. "I still have to remind M. d'Infreville that he is in my house, and that as he knows now what I think of him, he must realise that his presence is an intrusion here."
"You are right, madame; I have heard too much already," retorted M. d'Infreville, with a sardonic smile.
Then taking his wife roughly by the arm, he said:
"Come with me, madame."
The terrified woman, crushed by the burden of her shame, rose mechanically, with her face still buried in her hands.
"My mother, oh, my mother!" she murmured, despairingly.
"I will not desert you, Valentine!" exclaimed Florence, springing towards her friend.
But M. de Luceval, who was evidently very angry, seized his wife around the waist and held her as in a vice, saying as he did so:
"You dare to defy me in this fashion, do you, madame?"
M. d'Infreville took advantage of this opportunity to drag Valentine away, the unfortunate woman offering no resistance, but exclaiming, in a voice broken with sobs, as she disappeared from sight:
"Farewell, Florence, farewell!"
Madame de Luceval, pale with grief and indignation, remained perfectly motionless for a moment in the grasp of her husband, who did not relax his hold upon her until after Valentine had left the room.
The young woman then said, in a perfectly calm voice:
"M. de Luceval, you have laid violent hands upon me. From this time on, all is over between us."
"Madame!"
"You have had your way, monsieur; now I shall have mine, as I will prove to you."
"Will you have the goodness to make your wishes known, madame," responded H. de Luceval, with a sardonic smile.
"Certainly."
"Go on, madame."
"In the first place, we are to separate, quietly, peaceably, and without the slightest scandal."
"Ah, indeed!"
"It is a thing that is often done, I have heard."
"And at seventeen madame expects to roam about the world as she pleases."
"Roam about the world! Heaven preserve me from that. Travelling is not at all to my taste, as you know, monsieur."
"This is no subject for jesting," exclaimed M. de Luceval, hotly. "Are you really insane enough to imagine that you can live alone and exactly as you please, when your husband has you completely in his power?"
"I have no intention of living alone, monsieur."
"And with whom does madame expect to live, may I ask?"
"Valentine is very unhappy. I intend to live with her and her mother. My fortune is entirely independent of yours, thank Heaven!"
"You intend to live with that woman, – a woman who has had a lover, a woman that her husband will drive out of his house this very night – and he is perfectly right! – a woman who deserves the contempt of all decent people. It is with a creature like that you propose to live. The mere announcement of such an intention on your part is quite enough to put you in a madhouse, madame."
"M. de Luceval, the extremely disagreeable events of the day have fatigued me very much, and you will oblige me by not annoying me further. I shall merely add that if any one deserves the contempt of all decent people, it is M. d'Infreville, for it was his shameful treatment of his wife that drove her to ruin. As for Valentine, what she deserves, and will always be sure of from me, is the tenderest compassion."
"Why, this is outrageous! It is enough to put you in a madhouse, I tell you!"
"Understand me once for all, M. de Luceval. No one will shut me up in a madhouse. I shall have my liberty, and you will have yours; and I shall make such use of mine as I think proper."
"We will see about that, madame!"
"Or rather, you will see, monsieur."
CHAPTER VII
FOUR YEARS LATER
FOUR years have elapsed since the events we have just related.
It is a winter's day; the cold is intense, the sky gray and lowering. A woman is walking down the Rue de Vaugirard, pausing now and then to glance at the numbers on the houses, as if in search of some particular one.
This woman, who is dressed in mourning, seems to be about twenty-three years of age. She is tall and slender, a decided brunette, with large black eyes, full of expression. Her features are regular, though a little haggard, and her mobile face reveals, in turn, a bitter sadness or a mingled anxiety and impatience. Her quick, somewhat irregular tread also betrays deep agitation.
When this young woman had walked nearly half way down the street, she paused again to study the numbers, and finding herself opposite Number 57, she gave a quick start, and pressed her hand upon her heart, as if to quiet its throbbings; then, after standing a moment perfectly motionless, she directed her steps towards the porte-cochère, then paused again in evident hesitation, but having seen several notices announcing that there were apartments to rent in the house, she resolutely entered the courtyard and walked straight to the porter's lodge.
"You have several apartments to rent, I see, monsieur," she said to the concierge.
"Yes, madame. The first and the third floor, and two separate rooms."
"The first floor would be too dear for me, I fear. The third would probably suit me better. What do you ask for it?"
"Six hundred francs, madame. That is the lowest, for it has just been freshly done up."
"How many rooms are there?"
"A kitchen, a small dining-room, a parlour, a large bedchamber with a big dressing-room, and another small room that would do for a servant. If madame will go up-stairs, she can see for herself."
"I would first like to know who lives in the house. I am a widow and live alone, so you can understand why I ask this question."
"Certainly, madame. The house is very respectable and extremely quiet. The first floor is not occupied, as I told you. A professor in the law school, a highly respectable man, lives on the second floor. He has a wife but no children. The third floor is the one I offered to madame. On the fourth floor there are two small rooms which are occupied by a young man. When I say a young man I don't exactly mean that, however, for M. Michel Renaud must be about thirty."
On hearing the name of Michel Renaud, the young woman, in spite of her self-control, turned first red and then pale, a sad smile flitted across her lips, and her large black eyes gleamed more brightly under their long lashes; but, conquering her emotion, she replied calmly and with a well-feigned air of indifference:
"And the rooms on the third floor are directly under those occupied by this gentleman, I suppose?"
"Yes, madame."
"Is the gentleman married?"
"No, madame."
"I hope you will not be surprised at the questions I put to you, but I have such a horror of a noise over my head, and of bad company, that I should like to be sure that my future neighbour is not boisterous like so many young men, and that his acquaintances are not such persons as it would be disagreeable for me to meet on the stairways as I go and come."
"M. Michel Renaud have any such company as that! Oh, no, madame; oh, no!" exclaimed the concierge, indignantly.
An expression of hope and joy irradiated the lady's sad face for an instant, and she replied, with a smile:
"I had no intention of maligning the gentleman, and the evident astonishment my question causes you is very reassuring."
"M. Renaud is one of the steadiest of men. Every day of the world – Sundays and holidays as well – he leaves his rooms at half-past three or four o'clock in the morning at the very latest, and never returns until midnight, so he has no visitors."
"They would certainly have to be remarkably early ones, in that case," remarked the young woman, who seemed to take a deep interest in these details. "But does the gentleman leave as early as that every morning?"
"Yes, madame, in winter as well as summer. Nothing keeps him."
"But what business does the gentleman follow that it is necessary for him to leave home by four o'clock in the morning, and remain away until midnight?"
"That is more than I know, madame; but this much is certain, this tenant is not likely to annoy you in any way."
"I believe I could not find a house that would suit me better, judging from what you say. But is it really true that you have no idea what business your tenant follows?"
"How should I know, madame? During the three years that M. Renaud has lived here he has received only one letter. That was merely addressed to M. Michel Renaud, and no living soul ever comes to see him."
"But he is not dumb, I suppose?"
"He might almost as well be. When he goes out in the morning, I am in bed; when he returns, it is just the same. In the morning, he says, 'The door, please;' in the evening, when he takes his candle, 'Good night, M. Landré' (that is my name). That is the extent of our conversation."
"But doesn't he keep a servant?"
"No, madame, he does all his own housework. That is to say, he makes his own bed, blacks his shoes, brushes his clothes, and sweeps his room."
"He!" exclaimed the young woman, in accents of the most profound astonishment.
Then bethinking herself, she added:
"It seems so strange that a gentleman should do all those things for himself."
"Oh, I don't know," replied the concierge, who seemed surprised at the lady's evident astonishment; "everybody hasn't an income of fifty thousand francs a year, and when one hasn't the money to pay a servant, one must serve oneself."
"That is very true, monsieur."
"And now would madame like to see the third floor?"
"Yes, for, after all, I think it would be difficult for me to find a house that would suit me better."
CHAPTER VIII
ANOTHER SEARCH
AS the prospective tenant began her ascent, close upon the heels of the concierge, another rather peculiar scene was occurring in the adjoining house, the lower floor of which was used as a café.
This establishment, which was not very extensively patronised at any time, could now boast of but a single guest. He was seated at a table, on which stood a carafe of water, a bowl of sugar, and a glass of absinthe.
This patron, who had entered the café only a few minutes before, was a slender, nervous, sunburnt man about thirty years of age. He had strongly marked features, and was exceedingly quick in his movements. He picked up several newspapers in swift succession, and pretended to glance over them as he smoked his cigar, but his mind was evidently not upon what he was reading, that is, if he was reading at all, and at last, flinging the journal violently down upon the table, he called the waiter in a curt, peremptory tone.
The waiter, a gray-haired man, hastened to respond to the summons.
"Bring me a glass of absinthe, waiter," said the man with the cigar.
"But your glass is still full, monsieur."
"True."
The man drained the glass, and the waiter refilled it.
"Would you like to make a hundred sous?" asked the man with the cigar.
And seeing the waiter gaze at him in astonishment, he repeated, in an even more brusque fashion:
"I ask you if you want to make a hundred sous?"
"But, monsieur – "
"Do you or do you not? Answer me."
"I should like to very much, but what am I to do, monsieur?"
"Answer the questions I am going to put to you. Have you been here long?"
"Ever since the café opened, about ten years ago."
"Do you live here in the house?"
"Yes, monsieur. I have a room in the fifth story."
"Do you know all the inmates of the house?"
"Either by name, or by sight, yes, monsieur, but that is all. I am the only waiter here, and I have no time to visit."
After a moment of painful hesitation, during which the stranger's features betrayed the most poignant anxiety, he said to the waiter, in a slightly husky voice:
"Who lives on the fourth floor?"
"A lady, monsieur."
"Nobody else?"
"No, monsieur."
"Is she a widow?"
"I don't know, monsieur. She calls herself Madame Luceval, that is all I can tell you."
"But you must understand that if I am to give you a hundred sous, I expect you to tell me something."
"One can tell only what one knows, monsieur."
"Of course, that is understood. But now answer me frankly. What do the people in the house think of this lady – this Madame – What did you call her?"
"Madame Luceval, monsieur. A person would have to be very spiteful to gossip about her, for nobody ever sees her."
"What?"
"She always goes out at four o'clock in the morning, summer and winter, and though I never get to bed before midnight, I always hear her come in after I do."
"Impossible!" exclaimed the man with the cigar, manifesting quite as much astonishment as the lady in mourning had done on hearing of M. Renaud's early hours. "The lady goes out at four o'clock every morning, you say?"
"Yes, monsieur. I hear her close her door."
"It passes my comprehension," muttered the man with the cigar. Then, after a moment's reflection, he added:
"What does this lady do to take her out so early?"
"I have no idea, monsieur."
"But what do the people in the house think of it?"
"Nothing, monsieur."
"Nothing! Do you mean that they see nothing remarkable about a lady going out at four o'clock in the morning?"
"When Madame Luceval first came here, about four years ago, her manner of living did seem rather peculiar, but people soon ceased to trouble themselves about it; for, as I told you just now, nobody ever sees her, so people forget all about her, though she is wonderfully pretty."
"If she is so pretty, she must have a lover, of course," said the stranger, with a sarcastic smile, but as if the words, somehow, burned his tongue.
"I have heard persons say that this lady never has a visitor, monsieur."
"But when she returns home so late at night, she does not return alone, I fancy."
"I cannot say whether any one accompanies her to the house or not, but I do know that no man ever crosses her threshold."
"She is really a paragon of virtue, then?"
"She certainly seems to be, and I am sure that everybody in the house will tell you the same thing that I do."
"Do you know what her resources are? What she lives on, in short?"
"I haven't the slightest idea, though it is not at all likely that she lives on her income, monsieur. Rich people don't get up at that hour, especially on a morning like this, when the cold cuts you like a knife, and the clock in the Luxembourg was striking half-past three when I heard the lady leave her room this morning."
"It is strange, passing strange! It seems to me I must be dreaming," muttered the gentleman. Then —
"Is that all you know?" he asked aloud.
"That is all, monsieur. But I can vouch for it that nobody in the house knows any more."
The man with the cigar remained silent and thoughtful for a few minutes, during which he sipped his second glass of absinthe abstractedly, then, throwing a foreign gold coin on the table, he said:
"Take out the amount of my bill, and keep one hundred sous for yourself. Your money was very easily earned, it strikes me."
"I did not ask you for the money, monsieur, and if you – "
"I mean what I say. Pay yourself, and don't talk any more about it."
After he had received the change due him the stranger left the café. Almost at the same instant, the lady dressed in mourning came out of the adjoining house, and started down the street in the opposite direction from that which the gentleman had taken.
As they passed each other, their eyes met. The man paused for an instant, as if the sight of this woman aroused some vague recollection, then, thinking his memory must have deceived him, he walked on up the street.
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