darling, who made no response.
At last I told him that I would see him when my eyes were less red and my voice was steady again.
My formal words drove him from the house. But by the time I had bathed my eyes in iced water and cooled my face, I found him in our room, the door into which was open, though I had heard no steps. He begged me to tell him what was wrong.
“Nothing,” I said; “I saw the mud of Paris on Fedelta’s trembling legs; it seemed strange that you should go there without telling me; but, of course, you are free.”
“I shall punish you for such wicked thoughts by not giving any explanation till to-morrow,” he replied.
“Look at me,” I said.
My eyes met his; deep answered to deep. No, not a trace of the cloud of disloyalty which, rising from the soul, must dim the clearness of the eye. I feigned satisfaction, though really unconvinced. It is not women only who can lie and dissemble!
The whole of the day we spent together. Ever and again, as I looked at him, I realized how fast my heart-strings were bound to him. How I trembled and fluttered within when, after a moment’s absence, he reappeared. I live in him, not in myself. My cruel sufferings gave the lie to your unkind letter. Did I ever feel my life thus bound up in the noble Spaniard, who adored me, as I adore this heartless boy? I hate that mare! Fool that I was to keep horses! But the next thing would have been to lame Gaston or imprison him in the cottage. Wild thoughts like these filled my brain; you see how near I was to madness! If love be not the cage, what power on earth can hold back the man who wants to be free?
I asked him point-blank, “Do I bore you?”
“What needless torture you give yourself!” was his reply, while he looked at me with tender, pitying eyes. “Never have I loved you so deeply.”
“If that is true, my beloved, let me sell Fedelta,” I answered.
“Sell her, by all means!”
The reply crushed me. Was it not a covert taunt at my wealth and his own nothingness in the house? This may never have occurred to him, but I thought it had, and once more I left him. It was night, and I would go to bed.
Oh! Renee, to be alone with a harrowing thought drives one to thoughts of death. These charming gardens, the starry night, the cool air, laden with incense from our wealth of flowers, our valley, our hills– all seemed to me gloomy, black, and desolate. It was as though I lay at the foot of a precipice, surrounded by serpents and poisonous plants, and saw no God in the sky. Such a night ages a woman.
Next morning I said:
“Take Fedelta and be off to Paris! Don’t sell her; I love her. Does she not carry you?”
But he was not deceived; my tone betrayed the storm of feeling which I strove to conceal.
“Trust me!” he replied; and the gesture with which he held out his hand, the glance of his eye, were so full of loyalty that I was overcome.
“What petty creatures women are!” I exclaimed.
“No, you love me, that is all,” he said, pressing me to his heart.
“Go to Paris without me,” I said, and this time I made him understand that my suspicions were laid aside.
He went; I thought he would have stayed. I won’t attempt to tell you what I suffered. I found a second self within, quite strange to me. A crisis like this has, for the woman who loves, a tragic solemnity that baffles words; the whole of life rises before you then, and you search in vain for any horizon to it; the veriest trifle is big with meaning, a glance contains a volume, icicles drift on uttered words, and the death sentence is read in a movement of the lips.
I thought he would have paid me back in kind; had I not been magnanimous? I climbed to the top of the chalet, and my eyes followed him on the road. Ah! my dear Renee, he vanished from my sight with an appalling swiftness.
“How keen he is to go!” was the thought that sprang of itself.
Once more alone, I fell back into the hell of possibilities, the maelstrom of mistrust. There were moments when I would have welcomed any certainty, even the worst, as a relief from the torture of suspense. Suspense is a duel carried on in the heart, and we give no quarter to ourselves.
I paced up and down the walks. I returned to the house, only to tear out again, like a mad woman. Gaston, who left at seven o’clock, did not return till eleven. Now, as it only takes half an hour to reach Paris through the park of St. Cloud and the Bois de Boulogne, it is plain that he must have spent three hours in town. He came back radiant, with a whip in his hand for me, an india-rubber whip with a gold handle.
For a fortnight I had been without a whip, my old one being worn and broken.
“Was it for this you tortured me?” I said, as I admired the workmanship of this beautiful ornament, which contains a little scent- box at one end.
Then it flashed on me that the present was a fresh artifice. Nevertheless I threw myself at once on his neck, not without reproaching him gently for having caused me so much pain for the sake of a trifle. He was greatly pleased with his ingenuity; his eyes and his whole bearing plainly showed the restrained triumph of the successful plotter; for there is a radiance of the soul which is reflected in every feature and turn of the body. While still examining the beauties of this work of art, I asked him at a moment when we happened to be looking each other in the face:
“Who is the artist?”
“A friend of mine.”
“Ah! I see it has been mounted by Verdier,” and I read the name of the shop printed on the handle.
Gaston is nothing but a child yet. He blushed, and I made much of him as a reward for the shame he felt in deceiving me. I pretended to notice nothing, and he may well have thought the incident was over.
May 25th.
The next morning I was in my riding-habit by six o’clock, and by seven landed at Verdier’s, where several whips of the same pattern were shown to me. One of the men serving recognized mine when I pointed it out to him.
“We sold that yesterday to a young gentleman,” he said. And from the description I gave him of my traitor Gaston, not a doubt was left of his identity. I will spare you the palpitations which rent my heart during that journey to Paris and the little scene there, which marked the turning-point of my life.
By half-seven I was home again, and Gaston found me, fresh and blooming, in my morning dress, sauntering about with a make-believe nonchalance. I felt confident that old Philippe, who had been taken into my confidence, would not have betrayed my absence.
“Gaston,” I said, as we walked by the side of the lake, “you cannot blind me to the difference between a work of art inspired by friendship and something which has been cast in a mould.”
He turned white, and fixed his eyes on me rather than on the damaging piece of evidence I thrust before them.
“My dear,” I went on, “this is not a whip; it is a screen behind which you are hiding something from me.”
Thereupon I gave myself the gratification of watching his hopeless entanglement in the coverts and labyrinths of deceit and the desperate efforts he made to find some wall he might scale and thus escape. In vain; he had perforce to remain upon the field, face to face with an adversary, who at last laid down her arms in a feigned complacence. But it was too late. The fatal mistake, against which my mother had tried to warm me, was made. My jealousy, exposed in all its nakedness, had led to war and all its stratagems between Gaston and myself. Jealousy, dear, has neither sense nor decency.
I made up my mind now to suffer in silence, but to keep my eyes open, until my doubts were resolved one way or another. Then I would either break with Gaston or bow to my misfortune: no middle course is possible for a woman who respects herself.
What can he be concealing? For a secret there is, and the secret has to do with a woman. Is it some youthful escapade for which he still blushes? But if so, what? The word /what/ is written in letters of fire on all I see. I read it in the glassy water of my lake, in the shrubbery, in the clouds, on the ceilings, at table, in the flowers of the carpets. A voice cries to me /what?/ in my sleep. Dating from the morning of my discovery, a cruel interest has sprung into our lives, and I have become familiar with the bitterest thought that can corrode the heart–the thought of treachery in him one loves. Oh! my dear, there is heaven and hell together in such a life. Never had I felt this scorching flame, I to whom love had appeared only in the form of devoutest worship.
“So you wished to know the gloomy torture-chamber of pain!” I said to myself. Good, the spirits of evil have heard your prayer; go on your road, unhappy wretch!
May 30th.
Since that fatal day Gaston no longer works with the careless ease of the wealthy artist, whose work is merely pastime; he sets himself tasks like a professional writer. Four hours a day he devotes to finishing his two plays.
“He wants money!”
A voice within whispered the thought. But why? He spends next to nothing; we have absolutely no secrets from each other; there is not a corner of his study which my eyes and my fingers may not explore. His yearly expenditure does not amount to two thousand francs, and I know that he has thirty thousand, I can hardly say laid by, but scattered loose in a drawer. You can guess what is coming. At midnight, while he was sleeping, I went to see if the money was still there. An icy shiver ran through me. The drawer was empty.
That same week I discovered that he went to Sevres to fetch his letters, and these letters he must tear up immediately; for though I am a very Figaro in contrivances, I have never yet seen a trace of one. Alas! my sweet, despite the fine promises and vows by which I bound myself after the scene of the whip, an impulse, which I can only call madness, drove me to follow him in one of his rapid rides to the post-office. Gaston was appalled to be thus discovered on horseback, paying the postage of a letter which he held in his hand. He looked fixedly at me, and then put spurs to Fedelta. The pace was so hard that I felt shaken to bits when I reached the lodge gate, though my mental agony was such at the time that it might well have dulled all consciousness of bodily pain. Arrived at the gate, Gaston said nothing; he rang the bell and waited without a word. I was more dead than alive. I might be mistaken or I might not, but in neither case was it fitting for Armande-Louise-Marie de Chaulieu to play the spy. I had sunk to the level of the gutter, by the side of courtesans, opera- dancers, mere creatures of instinct; even the vulgar shop-girl or humble seamstress might look down on me.
What a moment! At last the door opened; he handed his horse to the groom, and I also dismounted, but into his arms, which were stretched out to receive me. I threw my skirt over my left arm, gave him my right, and we walked on–still in silence. The few steps we thus took might be reckoned to me for a hundred years of purgatory. A swarm of thoughts beset me as I walked, now seeming to take visible form in tongues of fire before my eyes, now assailing my mind, each with its own poisoned dart. When the groom and the horses were far away, I stopped Gaston, and, looking him in the face, said, as I pointed, with a gesture that you should have seen, to the fatal letter still in his right hand:
“May I read it?”
He gave it to me. I opened it and found a letter from Nathan, the dramatic author, informing Gaston that a play of his had been accepted, learned, rehearsed, and would be produced the following Saturday. He also enclosed a box ticket.
Though for me this was the opening of heaven’s gates to the martyr, yet the fiend would not leave me in peace, but kept crying, “Where are the thirty thousand francs?” It was a question which self-respect, dignity, all my old self in fact, prevented me from uttering. If my thought became speech, I might as well throw myself into the lake at once, and yet I could hardly keep the words down. Dear friend, was not this a trial passing the strength of woman?
I returned the letter, saying:
“My poor Gaston, you are getting bored down here. Let us go back to Paris, won’t you?”
“To Paris?” he said. “But why? I only wanted to find out if I had any gift, to taste the flowing bowl of success!”
Nothing would be easier than for me to ransack the drawer sometime while he is working and pretend great surprise at finding the money gone. But that would be going half-way to meet the answer, “Oh! my friend So-and-So was hard up!” etc., which a man of Gaston’s quick wit would not have far to seek.
The moral, my dear, is that the brilliant success of this play, which all Paris is crowding to see, is due to us, though the whole credit goes to Nathan. I am represented by one of the two stars in the legend: Et M * *. I saw the first night from the depths of one of the stage boxes.
July 1st.
Gaston’s work and his visits to Paris shall continue. He is preparing new plays, partly because he wants a pretext for going to Paris, partly in order to make money. Three plays have been accepted, and two more are commissioned.
Oh! my dear, I am lost, all is darkness around me. I would set fire to the house in a moment if that would bring light. What does it all mean? Is he ashamed of taking money from me? He is too high-minded for so trumpery a matter to weigh with him. Besides, scruples of the kind could only be the outcome of some love affair. A man would take anything from his wife, but from the woman he has ceased to care for, or is thinking of deserting, it is different. If he needs such large sums, it must be to spend them on a woman. For himself, why should he hesitate to draw from my purse? Our savings amount to one hundred thousand francs!
In short, my sweetheart, I have explored a whole continent of possibilities, and after carefully weighing all the evidence, am convinced I have a rival. I am deserted–for whom? At all costs I must see the unknown.
July 10th.
Light has come, and it is all over with me. Yes, Renee, at the age of thirty, in the perfection of my beauty, with all the resources of a ready wit and the seductive charms of dress at my command, I am betrayed–and for whom? A large-boned Englishwoman, with big feet and thick waist–a regular British cow! There is no longer room for doubt. I will tell you the history of the last few days.
Worn out with suspicions, which were fed by Gaston’s guilty silence (for, if he had helped a friend, why keep it a secret from me?), his insatiable desire for money, and his frequent journeys to Paris; jealous too of the work from which he seemed unable to tear himself, I at last made up my mind to take certain steps, of such a degrading nature that I cannot tell you about them. Suffice it to say that three days ago I ascertained that Gaston, when in Paris, visits a house in the Rue de la Ville l’Eveque, where he guards his mistress with jealous mystery, unexampled in Paris. The porter was surly, and I could get little out of him, but that little was enough to put an end to any lingering hope, and with hope to life. On this point my mind was resolved, and I only waited to learn the whole truth first.
With this object I went to Paris and took rooms in a house exactly opposite the one which Gaston visits. Thence I saw him with my own eyes enter the courtyard on horseback. Too soon a ghastly fact forced itself on me. This Englishwoman, who seems to me about thirty-six, is known as Mme. Gaston. This discovery was my deathblow.
I saw him next walking to the Tuileries with a couple of children. Oh! my dear, two children, the living images of Gaston! The likeness is so strong that it bears scandal on the face of it. And what pretty children! in their handsome English costumes! She is the mother of his children. Here is the key to the whole mystery.
The woman herself might be a Greek statue, stepped down from some monument. Cold and white as marble, she moves sedately with a mother’s pride. She is undeniably beautiful but heavy as a man-of-war. There is no breeding or distinction about her; nothing of the English lady. Probably she is a farmer’s daughter from some wretched and remote country village, or, it may be, the eleventh child of some poor clergyman!
I reached home, after a miserable journey, during which all sorts of fiendish thoughts had me at their mercy, with hardly any life left in me. Was she married? Did he know her before our marriage? Had she been deserted by some rich man, whose mistress she was, and thus thrown back upon Gaston’s hands? Conjectures without end flitted through my brain, as though conjecture were needed in the presence of the children.
The next day I returned to Paris, and by a free use of my purse extracted from the porter the information that Mme. Gaston was legally married.
His reply to my question took the form, “Yes, /Miss/.”
July 15th.
My dear, my love for Gaston is stronger than ever since that morning, and he has every appearance of being still more deeply in love. He is so young! A score of times it has been on my lips, when we rise in the morning, to say, “Then you love me better than the lady of the Rue de la Ville l’Eveque?” But I dare not explain to myself why the words are checked on my tongue.
“Are you very fond of children?” I asked.
“Oh, yes!” was his reply; “but children will come!”
“What makes you think so?”
“I have consulted the best doctors, and they agree in advising me to travel for a couple of months.”
“Gaston,” I said, “if love in absence had been possible for me, do you suppose I should ever have left the convent?”
He laughed; but as for me, dear, the word “travel” pierced my heart. Rather, far rather, would I leap from the top of the house than be rolled down the staircase, step by step.–Farewell, my sweetheart. I have arranged for my death to be easy and without horrors, but certain. I made my will yesterday. You can come to me now, the prohibition is removed. Come, then, and receive my last farewell. I will not die by inches; my death, like my life, shall bear the impress of dignity and grace.
Good-bye, dear sister soul, whose affection has never wavered nor grown weary, but has been the constant tender moonlight of my soul. If the intensity of passion has not been ours, at least we have been spared its venomous bitterness. How rightly you have judged of life! Farewell.
LV
THE COMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE TO MME. GASTON July 16th.
My dear Louise,–I send this letter by an express before hastening to the chalet myself. Take courage. Your last letter seemed to me so frantic, that I thought myself justified, under the circumstances, in confiding all to Louis; it was a question of saving you from yourself. If the means we have employed have been, like yours, repulsive, yet the result is so satisfactory that I am certain you will approve. I went so far as to set the police to work, but the whole thing remains a secret between the prefect, ourselves and you.
In one word, Gaston is a jewel! But here are the facts. His brother, Louis Gaston, died at Calcutta, while in the service of a mercantile company, when he was on the very point of returning to France, a rich, prosperous, married man, having received a very large fortune with his wife, who was the widow of an English merchant. For ten years he had worked hard that he might be able to send home enough to support his brother, to whom he was devotedly attached, and from whom his letters generously concealed all his trials and disappointments.
Then came the failure of the great Halmer house; the widow was ruined, and the sudden shock affected Louis Gaston’s brain. He had no mental energy left to resist the disease which attacked him, and he died in Bengal, whither he had gone to try and realize the remnants of his wife’s property. The dear, good fellow had deposited with a banker a first sum of three hundred thousand francs, which was to go to his brother, but the banker was involved in the Halmer crash, and thus their last resource failed them.
Louis’ widow, the handsome woman whom you took for your rival, arrived in Paris with two children–your nephews–and an empty purse, her mother’s jewels having barely sufficed to pay for bringing them over. The instructions which Louis Gaston had given the banker for sending the money to his brother enabled the widow to find your husband’s former home. As Gaston had disappeared without leaving any address, Mme. Louis Gaston was directed to d’Arthez, the only person who could give any information about him.
D’Arthez was the more ready to relieve the young woman’s pressing needs, because Louis Gaston, at the time of his marriage four years before, had written to make inquiries about his brother from the famous author, whom he knew to be one of his friends. The Captain had consulted d’Arthez as to the best means of getting the money safely transferred to Marie, and d’Arthez had replied, telling him that Gaston was now a rich man through his marriage with the Baronne de Macumer. The personal beauty, which was the mother’s rich heritage to her sons, had saved them both–one in India, the other in Paris–from destitution. A touching story, is it not?
D’Arthez naturally wrote, after a time, to tell your husband of the condition of his sister-in-law and her children, informing him, at the same time, of the generous intentions of the Indian Gaston towards his Paris brother, which an unhappy chance had frustrated. Gaston, as you may imagine, hurried off to Paris. Here is the first ride accounted for. During the last five years he had saved fifty thousand francs out of the income you forced him to accept, and this sum he invested in the public funds under the names of his two nephews, securing them each, in this way, an income of twelve hundred francs. Next he furnished his sister-in-law’s rooms, and promised her a quarterly allowance of three thousand francs. Here you see the meaning of his dramatic labors and the pleasure caused him by the success of his first play.
Mme. Gaston, therefore, is no rival of yours, and has every right to your name. A man of Gaston’s sensitive delicacy was bound to keep the affair secret from you, knowing as he did, your generous nature. Nor does he look on what you give him as his own. D’Arthez read me the letter he had from your husband, asking him to be one of the witnesses at his marriage. Gaston in this declares that his happiness would have been perfect but for the one drawback of his poverty and indebtedness to you. A virgin soul is at the mercy of such scruples. Either they make themselves felt or they do not; and when they do, it is easy to imagine the conflict of feeling and embarrassment to which they give rise. Nothing is more natural than Gaston’s wish to provide in secret a suitable maintenance for the woman who is his brother’s widow, and who had herself set aside one hundred thousand francs for him from her own fortune. She is a handsome woman, warm-hearted, and extremely well-bred, but not clever. She is a mother; and, you may be sure, I lost my heart to her at first sight when I found her with one child in her arms, and the other dressed like a little lord. The children first! is written in every detail of her house.
Far from being angry, therefore, with your beloved husband, you should find in all this fresh reason for loving him. I have met him, and think him the most delightful young fellow in Paris. Yes! dear child, when I saw him, I had no difficulty in understanding that a woman might lose her head about him; his soul is mirrored in his countenance. If I were you, I should settle the widow and her children at the chalet, in a pretty little cottage which you could have built for them, and adopt the boys!
Be at peace, then, dear soul, and plan this little surprise, in your turn, for Gaston.
LVI
MME. GASTON TO THE COMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE
Ah! my dear friend, what can I say in answer except the cruel /”It is too late”/ of that fool Lafayette to his royal master? Oh! my life, my sweet life, what physician will give it back to me. My own hand has dealt the deathblow. Alas! have I not been a mere will-o’-the-wisp, whose twinkling spark was fated to perish before it reached a flame? My eyes rain torrents of tears–and yet they must not fall when I am with him. I fly to him, and he seeks me. My despair is all within. This torture Dante forgot to place in his /Inferno./ Come to see me die!
LVII
THE COMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE TO THE COMTE DE L’ESTORADE THE CHALET, August 7th.
My love,–Take the children away to Provence without me; I remain with Louise, who has only a few days yet to live. I cannot leave either her or her husband, for whose reason I fear.
You know the scrap of letter which sent me flying to Ville d’Avray, picking up the doctors on my way. Since then I have not left my darling friend, and it has been impossible to write to you, for I have sat up every night for a fortnight.
When I arrived, I found her with Gaston, in full dress, beautiful, laughing, happy. It was a heroic falsehood! They were like two lovely children together in their restored confidence. For a moment I was deceived, like Gaston, by the effontery; but Louise pressed my hand, whispering:
“He must not know; I am dying.”
An icy chill fell over me as I felt her burning hand and saw the red spots on her cheeks. I congratulated myself on my prudence in leaving the doctors in the wood till they should be sent for.
“Leave us for a little,” she said to Gaston. “Two women who have not met for five years have plenty of secrets to talk over, and Renee, I have no doubt, has things to confide in me.”
Directly we were alone, she flung herself into my arms, unable longer to restrain her tears.
“Tell me about it,” I said. “I have brought with me, in case of need, the best surgeon and the best physician from the hospital, and Bianchon as well; there are four altogether.”
“Ah!” she cried, “have them in at once if they can save me, if there is still time. The passion which hurried me to death now cries for life!”
“But what have you done to yourself?”
“I have in a few days brought myself to the last stage of consumption.”
“But how?”
“I got myself into a profuse perspiration in the night, and then ran out and lay down by the side of the lake in the dew. Gaston thinks I have a cold, and I am dying!”
“Send him to Paris; I will fetch the doctors myself,” I said, as I rushed out wildly to the spot where I had left them.
Alas! my love, after the consultation was over, not one of the doctors gave me the least hope; they all believe that Louise will die with the fall of the leaves. The dear child’s constitution has wonderfully helped the success of her plan. It seems she has a predisposition to this complaint; and though, in the ordinary course, she might have lived a long time, a few days’ folly has made the case desperate.
I cannot tell you what I felt on hearing this sentence, based on such clear explanations. You know that I have lived in Louise as much as in my own life. I was simply crushed, and could not stir to escort to the door these harbingers of evil. I don’t know how long I remained lost in bitter thoughts, the tears running down my cheeks, when I was roused from my stupor by the words:
“So there is no hope for me!” in a clear, angelic voice.
It was Louise, with her hand on my shoulder. She made me get up, and carried me off to her small drawing-room. With a beseeching glance, she went on:
“Stay with me to the end; I won’t have doleful faces round me. Above all, I must keep the truth from /him/. I know that I have the strength to do it. I am full of youth and spirit, and can die standing! For myself, I have no regrets. I am dying as I wished to die, still young and beautiful, in the perfection of my womanhood.
“As for him, I can see very well now that I should have made his life miserable. Passion has me in its grips, like a struggling fawn, impatient of the toils. My groundless jealousy has already wounded him sorely. When the day came that my suspicions met only indifference– which in the long run is the rightful meed of all jealousy–well, that would have been my death. I have had my share of life. There are people whose names on the muster-roll of the world show sixty years of service, and yet in all that time they have not had two years of real life, whilst my record of thirty is doubled by the intensity of my love.
“Thus for him, as well as for me, the close is a happy one. But between us, dear Renee, it is different. You lose a loving sister, and that is a loss which nothing can repair. You alone here have the right to mourn my death.”
After a long pause, during which I could only see her through a mist of tears, she continued:
“The moral of my death is a cruel one. My dear doctor in petticoats was right; marriage cannot rest upon passion as its foundation, nor even upon love. How fine and noble is your life! keeping always to the one safe road, you give your husband an ever-growing affection; while the passionate eagerness with which I threw myself into wedded life was bound in nature to diminish. Twice have I gone astray, and twice has Death stretched forth his bony hand to strike my happiness. The first time, he robbed me of the noblest and most devoted of men; now it is my turn, the grinning monster tears me from the arms of my poet husband, with all his beauty and his grace.
“Yet I would not complain. Have I not known in turn two men, each the very pattern of nobility–one in mind, the other in outward form? In Felipe, the soul dominated and transformed the body; in Gaston, one could not say which was supreme–heart, mind, or grace of form. I die adored–what more could I wish for? Time, perhaps, in which to draw near the God of whom I may have too little thought. My spirit will take its flight towards Him, full of love, and with the prayer that some day, in the world above, He will unite me once more to the two who made a heaven of my life below. Without them, paradise would be a desert to me.
“To others, my example would be fatal, for mine was no common lot. To meet a Felipe or a Gaston is more than mortals can expect, and therefore the doctrine of society in regard to marriage accords with the natural law. Woman is weak, and in marrying she ought to make an entire sacrifice of her will to the man who, in return, should lay his selfishness at her feet. The stir which women of late years have created by their whining and insubordination is ridiculous, and only shows how well we deserve the epithet of children, bestowed by philosophers on our sex.”
She continued talking thus in the gentle voice you know so well, uttering the gravest truths in the prettiest manner, until Gaston entered, bringing with him his sister-in-law, the two children, and the English nurse, whom, at Louise’s request, he had been to fetch from Paris.
“Here are the pretty instruments of my torture,” she said, as her nephews approached. “Was not the mistake excusable? What a wonderful likeness to their uncle!”
She was most friendly to Mme. Gaston the elder and begged that she would look upon the chalet as her home; in short, she played the hostess to her in her best de Chaulieu manner, in which no one can rival her.
I wrote at once to the Duc and Duchesse de Chaulieu, the Duc de Rhetore, and the Duc de Lenoncourt-Givry, as well as to Madeleine. It was time. Next day, Louise, worn out with so much exertion, was unable to go out; indeed, she only got up for dinner. In the course of the evening, Madeleine de Lenoncourt, her two brothers, and her mother arrived. The coolness which Louise’s second marriage had caused between herself and her family disappeared. Every day since that evening, Louise’s father and both her brothers have ridden over in the morning, and the two duchesses spend all their evenings at the chalet. Death unites as well as separates; it silences all paltry feeling.
Louise is perfection in her charm, her grace, her good sense, her wit, and her tenderness. She has retained to the last that perfect tact for which she has been so famous, and she lavishes on us the treasures of her brilliant mind, which made her one of the queens of Paris.
“I should like to look well even in my coffin,” she said with her matchless smile, as she lay down on the bed where she was to linger for a fortnight.
Her room has nothing of the sick-chamber in it; medicines, ointments, the whole apparatus of nursing, is carefully concealed.
“Is not my deathbed pretty!” she said to the Sevres priest who came to confess her.
We gloated over her like misers. All this anxiety, and the terrible truths which dawned on him, have prepared Gaston for the worst. He is full of courage, but the blow has gone home. It would not surprise me to see him follow his wife in the natural course. Yesterday, as we were walking round the lake, he said to me:
“I must be a father to those two children,” and he pointed to his sister-in-law, who was taking the boys for a walk. “But though I shall do nothing to hasten my end, I want your promise that you will be a second mother to them, and will persuade your husband to accept the office of guardian, which I shall depute to him in conjunction with my sister-in-law.”
He said this quite simply, like a man who knows he is not long for this world. He has smiles on his face to meet Louise’s, and it is only I whom he does not deceive. He is a mate for her in courage.
Louise has expressed a wish to see her godson, but I am not sorry he should be in Provence; she might want to remember him generously, and I should be in a great difficulty.
Good-bye, my love.
August 25th (her birthday).
Yesterday evening Louise was delirious for a short time; but her delirium was the prettiest babbling, which shows that even the madness of gifted people is not that of fools or nobodies. In a mere thread of a voice she sang some Italian airs from /I Puritani, La Sonnambula, Moise/, while we stood round the bed in silence. Not one of us, not even the Duc de Rhetore, had dry eyes, so clear was it to us all that her soul was in this fashion passing from us. She could no longer see us! Yet she was there still in the charm of the faint melody, with its sweetness not of this earth.
During the night the death agony began. It is now seven in the morning, and I have just myself raised her from bed. Some flicker of strength revived; she wished to sit by her window, and asked for Gaston’s hand. And then, my love, the sweetest spirit whom we shall ever see on this earth departed, leaving us the empty shell.
The last sacrament had been administered the evening before, unknown to Gaston, who was taking a snatch of sleep during this agonizing ceremony; and after she was moved to the window, she asked me to read her the /De Profundis/ in French, while she was thus face to face with the lovely scene, which was her handiwork. She repeated the words after me to herself, and pressed the hands of her husband, who knelt on the other side of the chair.
August 26th.
My heart is broken. I have just seen her in her winding-sheet; her face is quite pale now with purple shadows. Oh! I want my children! my children! Bring me my children!
THE END
ADDENDUM
The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy.
Arthez, Daniel d’
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris The Member for Arcis
The Secrets of a Princess
Beauseant, Marquise de
The Deserted Woman
Bianchon, Horace
Father Goriot
The Atheist’s Mass
Cesar Birotteau
The Commission in Lunacy
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris A Bachelor’s Establishment
The Secrets of a Princess
The Government Clerks
Pierrette
A Study of Woman
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
Honorine
The Seamy Side of History
The Magic Skin
A Second Home
A Prince of Bohemia
The Muse of the Department
The Imaginary Mistress
The Middle Classes
Cousin Betty
The Country Parson
In addition, M. Bianchon narrated the following: Another Study of Woman
La Grande Breteche
Bridau, Joseph
The Purse
A Bachelor’s Establishment
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris A Start in Life
Modeste Mignon
Another Study of Woman
Pierre Grassou
Cousin Betty
The Member for Arcis
Bruel, Claudine Chaffaroux, Madame du A Bachelor’s Establishment
A Prince of Bohemia
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris The Middle Classes
Canalis, Constant-Cyr-Melchior, Baron de A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
Modeste Mignon
The Magic Skin
Another Study of Woman
A Start in Life
Beatrix
The Unconscious Humorists
The Member for Arcis
Chaulieu, Henri, Duc de
Modeste Mignon
A Bachelor’s Establishment
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
The Thirteen
Chaulieu, Eleonore, Duchesse de
Eugenie Grandet
Dudley, Lady Arabella
The Lily of the Valley
The Ball at Sceaux
The Magic Skin
The Secrets of a Princess
A Daughter of Eve
Esgrignon, Victurnien, Comte (then Marquis d’) Jealousies of a Country Town
A Man of Business
The Secrets of a Princess
Cousin Betty
Espard, Jeanne-Clementine-Athenais de Blamont-Chauvry, Marquise d’ The Commission in Lunacy
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
Another Study of Woman
The Gondreville Mystery
The Secrets of a Princess
A Daughter of Eve
Beatrix
Estorade, Louis, Chevalier, then Vicomte and Comte de l’ The Member for Arcis
Estorade, Madame de l’
The Member for Arcis
Ursule Mirouet
Estorade, Armand de l’
The Member for Arcis
Gaston, Louis
La Grenadiere
Gaston, Marie
La Grenadiere
The Member for Arcis
Givry
The Lily of the Valley
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
Lenoncourt-Givry, Duc de
Cousin Betty
The Member for Arcis
Lenoncourt-Givry, Duchesse de
The Lily of the Valley
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
Marsay, Henri de
The Thirteen
The Unconscious Humorists
Another Study of Woman
The Lily of the Valley
Father Goriot
Jealousies of a Country Town
Ursule Mirouet
A Marriage Settlement
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris The Ball at Sceaux
Modeste Mignon
The Secrets of a Princess
The Gondreville Mystery
A Daughter of Eve
Mary
The Member for Arcis
Maucombe, Comte de
Lost Illusions
Maufrigneuse, Duchesse de
The Secrets of a Princess
Modeste Mignon
Jealousies of a Country Town
The Muse of the Department
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
Another Study of Woman
The Gondreville Mystery
The Member for Arcis
Mirbel, Madame de
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
The Secrets of a Princess
Nathan, Raoul
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
The Secrets of a Princess
A Daughter of Eve
The Seamy Side of History
The Muse of the Department
A Prince of Bohemia
A Man of Business
The Unconscious Humorists
Rhetore, Duc Alphonse de
A Bachelor’s Establishment
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
Albert Savarus
The Member for Arcis
Sallenauve, Comtesse de
The Member for Arcis
Stael-Holstein (Anne-Louise-Germaine Necker, Baronne de The Chouans
Louis Lambert
Talleyrand-Perigord, Charles-Maurice de The Chouans
The Gondreville Mystery
The Thirteen
Gaudissart II.
Vandenesse, Comte Felix de
The Lily of the Valley
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris Cesar Birotteau
A Start in Life
The Marriage Settlement
The Secrets of a Princess
Another Study of Woman
The Gondreville Mystery
A Daughter of Eve
Victorine
Massimilla Doni
Lost Illusions
Gaudissart II