XXVIII
For about a minute Maxence remained stupefied at this suddendenouement; and, when he had recovered his presence of mind and hisvoice, Mlle. Lucienne had disappeared, and he could hear her boltingher door, and striking a match against the wall.
He might also have thought that he was awaking from a dream, had henot had, to attest the reality, the vague perfume which filled hisroom, and the light shawl, which Mlle. Lucienne wore as she came in,and which she had forgotten, on a chair.
The night was almost ended: six o'clock had just struck. Still hedid not feel in the least sleepy. His head was heavy, his templesthrobbing, his eyes smarting. Opening his window, he leaned out tobreathe the morning air. The day was dawning pale and cold. Afurtive and livid light glanced along the damp walls of the narrowcourt of the Hotel des Folies, as at the bottom of a well. Alreadyarose those confused noises which announce the waking of Paris, andabove which can be heard the sonorous rolling of the milkmen's carts,the loud slamming of doors, and the sharp sound of hurrying steps onthe hard pavement.
But soon Maxence felt a chill coming over him. He closed the window,threw some wood in the chimney, and stretched himself on his chair,his feet towards the fire. It was a most serious event which hadjust occurred in his existence; and, as much as he could, heendeavored to measure its bearings, and to calculate its consequencesin the future.
He kept thinking of the story of that strange girl, her haughtyfrankness when unrolling certain phases of her life, of herwonderful impassibility, and of the implacable contempt for humanitywhich her every word betrayed. Where had she learned that dignity,so simple and so noble, that measured speech, that admirable respectof herself, which had enabled her to pass through so much filthwithout receiving a stain?
"What a woman!" he thought.
Before knowing her, he loved her. Now he was convulsed by one ofthose exclusive passions which master the whole being. Already hefelt himself so much under the charm, subjugated, dominated,fascinated; he understood so well that he was going to cease beinghis own master; that his free will was about escaping from him;that he would be in Mlle. Lucienne's hands like wax under themodeler's fingers; he saw himself so thoroughly at the discretionof an energy superior to his own, that he was almost frightened.
"It's my whole future that I am going to risk," he thought.
And there was no middle path. Either he must fly at once, withoutwaiting for Mlle. Lucienne to awake, fly without looking behind, orelse stay, and then accept all the chances of an incurable passionfor a woman who, perhaps, might never care for him. And he remainedwavering, like the traveler who finds himself at the intersectionof two roads, and, knowing that one leads to the goal, and the otherto an abyss, hesitates which to take.
With this difference, however, that if the traveler errs, anddiscovers his error, he is always free to retrace his steps; whereasman, in life, can never return to his starting-point. Every step hetakes is final; and if he has erred, if he has taken the fatal road,there is no remedy.
"Well, no matter!" exclaimed Maxence. "It shall not be said thatthrough cowardice I have allowed that happiness to escape whichpasses within my reach. I shall stay." And at once he began toexamine what reasonably he might expect; for there was no mistakingMlle. Lucienne's intentions. When she had said, "Do you wish to befriends?" she had meant exactly that, and nothing else,--friends,and only friends.
"And yet," thought Maxence, "if I had not inspired her with a realinterest, would she have so wholly confided unto me? She is notignorant of the fact that I love her; and she knows life too wellto suppose that I will cease to love her when she has allowed me acertain amount of intimacy."
His heart filled with hope at the idea.
"My mistress," he thought, "never, evidently, but my wife. Why not?"
But the very next moment he became a prey to the bitterestdiscouragement. He thought that perhaps Mlle. Lucienne might havesome capital interest in thus making a confidant of him. She hadnot told him the explanation given her by the peace-officer. Hadshe not, perhaps, succeeded in lifting a corner of the veil whichcovered the secret of her birth? Was she on the track of herenemies? and had she discovered the motive of their animosity?
"Is it possible," thought Maxence, "that I should be but one of thepowers in the game she is playing? How do I know, that, if she wins,she will not cast me off?"
In the midst of these thoughts, he had gradually fallen asleep,murmuring to the last the name of Lucienne.
The creaking of his opening door woke him up suddenly. He startedto his feet, and met Mlle. Lucienne coming in.
"How is this?" said she. "You did not go to bed?"
"You recommended me to reflect," he replied. "I've been reflecting."
He looked at his watch: it was twelve o'clock.
"Which, however," he added, "did not keep me from going to sleep."
All the doubts that besieged him at the moment when he had beenovercome by sleep now came back to his mind with painful vividness.
"And not only have I been sleeping," he went on, "but I have beendreaming too."
Mlle. Lucienne fixed upon him her great black eyes.
"Can you tell me your dream?" she asked.
He hesitated. Had he had but one minute to reflect, perhaps hewould not have spoken; but he was taken unawares.
"I dreamed," he replied, "that we were friends in the noblest andpurest acceptance of that word. Intelligence, heart, will, all thatI am, and all that I can,--I laid every thing at your feet. Youaccepted the most entire devotion, the most respectful and the mosttender that man is capable of. Yes, we were friends indeed; andupon a glimpse of love, never expressed, I planned a whole futureof love." He stopped.
"Well?" she asked.
"Well, when my hopes seemed on the point of being realized, ithappened that the mystery of your birth was suddenly revealed toyou. You found a noble, powerful, and wealthy family. You resumedthe illustrious name of which you had been robbed; your enemies werecrushed; and your rights were restored to you. It was no longerVan Klopen's hired carriage that stopped in front of the Hotel desFolies, but a carriage bearing a gorgeous coat of arms. Thatcarriage was yours; and it came to take you to your own residencein the Faubourg St. Germain, or to your ancestral manor."
"And yourself?" inquired the girl.
Maxence repressed one of those nervous spasms which frequently breakout in tears, and, with a gloomy look,
"I," he answered, "standing on the edge of the pavement, I waitedfor a word or a look from you. You had forgotten my very existence.Your coachman whipped his horses; they started at a gallop; and soonI lost sight of you. And then a voice, the inexorable voice of fate,cried to me, 'Never more shalt thou see her!'"
With a superb gesture Mlle. Lucienne drew herself up.
"It is not with your heart, I trust, that you judgeme, M. Maxence Favoral," she uttered.
He trembled lest he had offended her.
"I beseech you," he began.
But she went on in a voice vibrating with emotion,
"I am not of those who basely deny their past. Your dream willnever be realized. Those things are only seen on the stage. Ifit did realize itself, however, if the carriage with thecoat-of-arms did come to the door, the companion of the evil days,the friend who offered me his month's salary to pay my debt, wouldhave a seat by my side."
That was more happiness than Maxence would have dared to hope for.He tried, in order to express his gratitude, to find some of thosewords which always seem to be lacking at the most critical moments.But he was suffocating; and the tears, accumulated by so manysuccessive emotions, were rising to his eyes.
With a passionate impulse, he seized Mlle. Lucienne's hand, and,taking it to his lips, he covered it with kisses. Gently butresolutely she withdrew her hand, and, fixing upon him her beautifulclear gaze,
"Friends," she uttered.
Her accent alone would have been sufficient to dissipate thepresumptuous illusi
ons of Maxence, had he had any. But he had none.
"Friends only," he replied, "until the day when you shall be my wife.You cannot forbid me to hope. You love no one?"
"No one."
"Well since we are going to tread the path of life, let me thinkthat we may find love at some turn of the road."
She made no answer. And thus was sealed between them a treaty offriendship, to which they were to remain so strictly faithful, thatthe word "love" never once rose to their lips.
In appearance there was no change in their mode of life.
Every morning, at seven o'clock, Mlle. Lucienne went to M. VanKlopen's, and an hour later Maxence started for his office. Theyreturned home at night, and spent their evenings together by thefireside.
But what was easy to foresee now took place.
Weak and undecided by nature, Maxence began very soon to feel theinfluence of the obstinate and energetic character of the girl.She infused, as it were, in his veins, a warmer and more generousblood. Gradually she imbued him with her ideas, and from her ownwill gave him one.
He had told her in all sincerity his history, the miseries of hishome, M. Favoral's parsimony and exaggerated severity, his mother'sresigned timidity, and Mlle. Gilberte's resolute nature.
He had concealed nothing of his past life, of his errors and hisfollies, confessing even the worst of his actions; as, for instance,having abused his mother's and sister's affection to extort fromthem all the money they earned.
He had admitted to her that it was only with great reluctance andunder pressure of necessity, that he worked at all; that he was farfrom being rich; that although he took his dinner with his parents,his salary barely sufficed for his wants; and that he had debts.
He hoped, however, he added, that it would not be always thus, andthat, sooner or later, he would see the termination of all thismisery and privation; for his father had at least fifty thousandfrancs a year and some day he must be rich.
Far from smiling, Mlle. Lucienne frowned at such a prospect.
"Ah! your father is a millionaire, is he?" she interrupted. "Well,I understand now how, at twenty-five, after refusing all thepositions which have been offered to you, you have no position. Yourelied on your father, instead of relying on yourself. Judging thathe worked hard enough for two, you bravely folded your arms, waitingfor the fortune which he is amassing, and which you seem to consideryours."
Such morality seemed a little steep to Maxence. "I think," he began,"that, if one is the son of a rich man--"
"One has the right to be useless, I suppose?" added the girl.
"I do not mean that; but--"
"There is no but about it. And the proof that your views are wrong,is that they have brought you where you are, and deprived you of yourown free will. To place one's self at the mercy of another, be thatother your own father, is always silly; and one is always at themercy of the man from whom he expects money that he has not earned.Your father would never have been so harsh, had he not believed thatyou could not do without him."
He wanted to discuss: she stopped him.
"Do you wish the proof that you are at M. Favoral's mercy?" she said."Very well. You spoke of marrying me."
"Ah, if you were willing!"
"Very well. Go and speak of it to your father."
"I suppose--"
"You don't suppose any thing at all: you are absolutely certain thathe will refuse you his consent."
"I could do without it."
"I admit that you could. But do you know what he would do then?He would arrange things in such a way that you would never get acentime of his fortune."
Maxence had never thought of that.
"Therefore," the young girl went on gayly, "though there is as yetno question of marriage, learn to secure your independence; thatis, the means of living. And to that effect let us work."
It was from that moment, that Mme. Favoral had noticed in her sonthe change that had surprised her so much.
Under the inspiration, under the impulsion, of Mlle. Lucienne,Maxence had been suddenly taken with a zeal for work, and a desireto earn money, of which he could not have been suspected.
He was no longer late at his office, and had not, at the end of eachmonth, ten or fifteen francs' fines to pay.
Every morning, as soon as she was up, Mlle. Lucienne came to knockat his door. "Come, get up!" she cried to him.
And quick he jumped out of bed and dressed, so that he might bidher good-morning before she left.
In the evening, the last mouthful of his dinner was hardly swallowed,before he began copying the documents which he procured from M.Chapelain's successor.
And often he worked quite late in the night whilst by his side Mlle.Lucienne applied herself to some work of embroidery.
The girl was the cashier of the association; and she administeredthe common capital with such skillful and such scrupulous economy,that Maxence soon succeeded in paying off his creditors.
"Do you know," she was saying at the end of December, "that, betweenus, we have earned over six hundred francs this month?"
On Sundays only, after a week of which not a minute had been lost,they indulged in some little recreation.
If the weather was not too bad, they went out together, dined insome modest restaurant, and finished the day at the theatre.
Having thus a common existence, both young, free, and having theirrooms divided only by a narrow passage it was difficult that peopleshould believe in the innocence of their intercourse. Theproprietors of the Hotel des Folies believed nothing of the kind;and they were not alone in that opinion.
Mlle. Lucienne having continued to show herself in the Bois on theafternoons when the weather was fine, the number of fools who annoyedher with their attentions had greatly increased. Among the mostobstinate could be numbered M. Costeclar, who was pleased todeclare, upon his word of honor, that he had lost his sleep, andhis taste for business, since the day when, together with M. SaintPavin, he had first seen Mlle. Lucienne.
The efforts of his valet, and the letters which he had written,having proved useless, M. Costeclar had made up his mind to act inperson; and gallantly he had come to put himself on guard in frontof the Hotel des Folies.
Great was his surprise, when he saw Mlle. Lucienne coming out armin arm with Maxence; and greater still was his spite.
"That girl is a fool," he thought, "to prefer to me a fellow whohas not two hundred francs a month to spend. But never mind! Helaughs best who laughs last."
And, as he was a man fertile in expedients, he went the next dayto take a walk in the neighborhood of the Mutual Credit; and, havingmet M. Favoral by chance, he told him how his son Maxence was ruininghimself for a young lady whose toilets were a scandal, insinuatingdelicately that it was his duty, as the head of the family, to put astop to such a thing.
This was precisely the time when Maxence was endeavoring to obtaina situation in the office of the Mutual Credit.
It is true that the idea was not original with him, and that he hadeven vehemently rejected it, when, for the first time, Mlle.Lucienne had suggested it.
"What!" had he exclaimed, "be employed in the same establishment asmy father? Suffer at the office the same intolerable despotism asat home? I'd rather break stones on the roads."
But Mlle. Lucienne was not the girl to give up so easily a projectconceived and carefully matured by herself.
She returned to the charge with that infinite art of women, whounderstand so marvelously well how to turn a position which theycannot carry in front. She kept the matter so well before him, shespoke of it so often and so much, on every occasion, and under allpretexts, that he ended by persuading himself that it was the onlyreasonable and practical thing he could do, the only way in whichhe had any chance of making his fortune; and so, one eveningovercoming his last hesitations,
"I am going to speak about it to my father," he said to Mlle.Lucienne.
But whether he had been influenced by M. Costeclar's insinuation
s,or for some other reason, M. Favoral had rejected indignantly hisson's request, saying that it was impossible to trust a young manwho was ruining himself for the sake of a miserable creature.
Maxence had become crimson with rage on hearing the woman spoken ofthus, whom he loved to madness, and who, far from ruining him, wasmaking him.
He returned to the Hotel des Folies in an indescribable state ofexasperation.
"There's the result," he said to Mlle. Lucienne, "of the step whichyou have urged me so strongly to take."
She seemed neither surprised nor irritated.
"Very well," she replied simply.
But Maxence could not resign himself so quietly to such a crueldisappointment; and, not having the slightest suspicion ofCosteclar's doings,
"And such is," he added, "the result of all the gossip of thesestupid shop-keepers who run to see you every time you go out inthe carriage."
The girl shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. "I expected it,"she said, "the day when I accepted M. Van Klopen's offers."
"Everybody believes that you are my mistress."
"What matters it, since it is not so?"
Maxence did not dare to confess that this was precisely what madehim doubly angry; and he shuddered at the thought of the ridiculethat would certainly be heaped upon him, if the true state of thecase was known.
"We ought to move," he suggested.
"What's the use? Wherever we should go, it would be the same thing.Besides, I don't want to leave this neighborhood."
"And I am too much your friend not to tell you, that your reputationin it is absolutely lost."
"I have no accounts to render to any one."
"Except to your friend the commissary of police, however."
A pale smile flitted upon her lips. "Ah!" she uttered, "he knowsthe truth."
"You have seen him again, then?"
"Several times."
"Since we have known each other?"
"Yes."
"And you never told me anything about it?"
"I did not think it necessary."
Maxence insisted no more; but, by the sharp pang that he felt, herealized how dear Mlle. Lucienne had become to him.
"She has secrets from me," thought he,--"from me who would deem ita crime to have any from her."
What secrets? Had she concealed from him that she was pursuing anobject which had become, as it were, that of her whole life. Hadshe not told him, that with the assistance of her friend thepeace-officer, who had now become commissary of police of thedistrict, she hoped to penetrate the mystery of her birth, and torevenge herself on the villains, who, three times, had attempted todo away with her?
She had never mentioned her projects again; but it was evident thatshe had not abandoned them, for she would at the same time havegiven up her rides to the bois, which were to her an abominabletorment.
But passion can neither reason nor discuss.
"She mistrusts me, who would give my life for hers," repeated Maxence.
And the idea was so painful to him, that he resolved to clear hisdoubts at any cost, preferring the worst misery to the anxiety whichwas gnawing at his heart.
And as soon as he found himself alone with Mlle. Lucienne, arminghimself with all his courage, and looking her straight in the eyes,
"You never speak to me any more of your enemies?" he said.
She doubtless understood what was passing within him.
"It's because I don't hear any thing of them myself," she answeredgently.
"Then you have given up your purpose?"
"Not at all."
"What are your hopes, then, and what are your prospects?"
"Extraordinary as it may seem to you, I must confess that I knownothing about it. My friend the commissary has his plan, I amcertain; and he is following it with an indefatigable obstinacy.I am but an instrument in his hands. I never do any thing withoutconsulting him; and what he advises me to do I do."
Maxence started upon his chair.
"Was it he, then," he said in a tone of bitter irony, "who suggestedto you the idea of our fraternal association?"
A frown appeared upon the girl's countenance. She evidently felthurt by the tone of this species of interrogatory.
"At least he did not disapprove of it," she replied.
But that answer was just evasive enough to excite Maxence's anxiety.
"Was it from him too," he went on, "that came the lovely idea ofhaving me enter the Mutual Credit?"
"Yes, it was from him."
"For what purpose?"
"He did not explain."
"Why did you not tell me?"
"Because he requested me not to do so."
From being red at the start, Maxence had now become very pale.
"And so," he resumed, "it is that man, that police-agent, who isthe real arbiter of my fate; and if to-morrow he commanded you tobreak off with me--"
Mlle. Lucienne drew herself up.
"Enough!" she interrupted in a brief tone, "enough! There is notin my whole existence a single act which would give to my bitterestenemy the right to suspect my loyalty; and now you accuse me ofthe basest treason. What have you to reproach me with? Have Inot been faithful to the pact sworn between us. Have I not alwaysbeen for you the best of comrades and the most devoted of friends?I remained silent, because the man in whom I have the fullestconfidence requested me to do so; but he knew, that, if youquestioned me, I would speak. Did you question me? And now whatmore do you want? That I should stoop to quiet the suspicions ofyour morbid mind? That I do not mean to do."
She was not, perhaps, entirely right; but Maxence was certainlywrong. He acknowledged it, wept, implored her pardon, which wasgranted; and this explanation only served to rivet more closelythe fetters that bound him.
It is true, that, availing himself of the permission that had beengranted him, he kept himself constantly informed of Mlle. Lucienne'sdoings. He learnt from her that her friend the commissary had helda most minute investigation at Louveciennes, and that the footmanwho went to the bois with her was now, in reality, a detective.And at last, one day,
"My friend the commissary," she said, "thinks he is on the righttrack now."