Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “Has madame any other commissions?”

  “No.”

  So Baptiste departed.

  Madame d’Infreville understood and appreciated her friend’s generosity in thus making herself an accessory to the deed.

  “Thank you, thank you, my dearest Florence,” she exclaimed, gratefully. “Heaven grant that your kindness may not prove unavailing.”

  “I hope it may not, indeed, but—”

  “Florence, listen to me. The only way I can prove my gratitude for the great service you have just rendered me is to place myself at your mercy, — in other words, to conceal nothing from you. I ought to have done that at first, and then explained the object of this letter, instead of exacting this proof of your devotion and friendship; but I admit that I was afraid you would refuse my request and blame me when you learned that—”

  Then, after a moment’s hesitation, Valentine said, resolutely, though she blushed deeply up to her very eyes:

  “Florence, I have a lover.”

  “I suspected as much, Valentine.”

  “Do not condemn me without a hearing, I beseech you.”

  “My poor Valentine, I remember only one thing, — the confidence you have shown in me.”

  “Ah, but for my mother, I would not have stooped to this trickery and falsehood. I would have borne all the consequences of my wrong-doing, for I, at least, have the courage of my actions, but in my mother’s present precarious condition of health, a scandal would kill her. Oh, Florence, though I am culpable, I am also very miserable,” exclaimed Madame d’Infreville, bursting into tears, and throwing herself in her friend’s arms.

  “Calm yourself, I beseech you, Valentine,” said the young marquise, though she shared her companion’s emotion. “Trust to my sincere affection, and open your heart to your friend. It will at least be some consolation to you.”

  “My only hope is in your affection. Yes, Florence, I feel and know that you love me; that conviction alone gives me courage to make this painful confession. But, stay, there is another confession which I wish to have off my mind first. If I have come, after a long estrangement, to ask this great favour of you, it is not only because I counted blindly upon your friendship, but because, of all the women of my acquaintance, you are the only one my husband never visits. Now, listen to me: When I married M. d’Infreville, you were still in the convent. You were still a young girl, and my natural reserve prevented me from telling you many things, — among them, the fact that I married without love.”

  “Like myself,” murmured Florence.

  “The marriage pleased my mother, and assured me a large fortune, consequently I unfortunately yielded to my mother’s persuasions all the more readily as I, too, was dazzled by the advantages of such a position; so I married M. d’Infreville, without realising, alas! what grievous obligations I was incurring, and at what a price I was selling my liberty. Though I have abundant cause to complain of my husband, my own wrong-doing prevents any recrimination on my part. Without trying to excuse my own weakness, I will endeavour to state the facts of the case, clearly and impartially. M. d’Infreville, though he should be in his prime, is a valetudinarian, because, in his youth, he plunged into all sorts of excesses. He is morose, because he regrets the past; imperious and stern, because he has no heart. In his eyes, I have never been anything but a penniless young girl, whom he condescended to marry in order to make a sort of nurse out of me, and for a long time I accepted this rôle, and performed the duties it involved religiously, — this rôle which was not only so trying but also so humiliating and disgraceful, because the attentions I paid my husband were not from the heart; and too late, alas! I realised how vile my conduct had been.”

  “Valentine—”

  “No, Florence, no, the term is none too severe. I married M. d’Infreville without love. I married him because he was rich. I sold myself to him, body and soul, and such conduct is vile and disgraceful, I tell you.”

  “You blame yourself too much, Valentine. You were not thinking as much about yourself as you were about your mother, I am sure.”

  “And my mother was less solicitous about herself than about me. M. d’Infreville’s wealth made filial deference on my part only too easy. At first, I was resigned to my fate, at least in a measure. After our marriage, my husband’s health was so poor as to confine him to the house most of the time; but after a few months had elapsed, a marked change for the better became apparent in his condition, thanks to my nursing, perhaps; but from that time his habits, too, underwent an entire change. I saw him but seldom; he was scarcely ever at home, and I soon heard that he had a mistress.”

  “Poor Valentine!”

  “A woman known to all Paris. My husband gave her a magnificent establishment, and made so little effort to conceal his relations with her that I learned all the particulars of the scandalous affair through public hearsay. I ventured to remonstrate with M. d’Infreville, not from any feeling of jealousy, Heaven knows! but I begged him, out of consideration for me, to have a little more regard for appearances. Even these very temperate reproaches irritated my husband, and he asked me, in the most insolent and disdainful manner, what right I had to meddle in this matter. He reminded me that I was indebted to him for a lot to which I could not otherwise have aspired, and that, as he had married me without a dowry, I had no right to make the slightest complaint.”

  “Why, this conduct was shameful, infamous!”

  “‘But, as you so flagrantly fail in your duty, monsieur, what would you say if I should forget mine?’ I asked.”

  “‘There is no comparison to be made between you and me,’ he replied. ‘I am the master; it is your duty to obey. You owe everything to me; I owe you nothing. Fail in your duty, and I will turn you out into the street, — you and your mother, who lives upon my charity.’”

  “Such insolence and cruelty are inconceivable!”

  “A wise and commendable inspiration seized me. I went to my mother, resolved to separate from my husband, and never to return to his house. ‘But what will become of me?’ said my mother. ‘Sick and infirm as I am, poverty means death to me. Besides, my poor child, a separation is impossible. Your husband has a right to do this, so long as he does not bring this woman where you are; and as the law is on his side, and as he needs you, and is accustomed to your care and attentions when he is ill, he will not hear of a separation, and you will be obliged to remain with him. So make the best of it, my poor child. His infatuation for this creature will not last long. Sooner or later, your husband will return to you. Your patience and resignation will touch him; besides, he is in such poor health that this unfortunate affair is sure to be his last, so go on doing exactly as you have done in the past. In such cases, believe me, my child, a good woman suffers and waits and hopes.’”

  “What! your mother dared to—”

  “Do not censure her too severely, Florence. She has such a horror of poverty, quite as much on my account as on her own. Besides, does not her advice conform in every respect with reason, the law, and the opinion of the world in general?”

  “What you say is only too true, alas!”

  “Ah, well, so be it, I said to myself bitterly. All possibility of a self-respecting, rightful revolt against this disgraceful state of things being denied me, marriage becomes only a degrading servitude henceforth. I accept it. I shall experience all the degradation of a slave, but I will also practise a slave’s perfidy and trickery. After all, degradation of soul has one advantage. It annihilates all remorse; it banishes every scruple. From this on, I will shut my eyes, and instead of struggling against the tide which is sweeping me on to ruin, I will yield myself to it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It is now, Florence, that I need all your friendly indulgence. Up to this time I have deserved some interest and sympathy, perhaps, but now—”

  The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of Madame de Luceval’s maid.

  “What do you want?” asked Florence,
impatiently.

  “Here is a letter a messenger just brought from M. de Luceval, madame.”

  “Give it to me.”

  After having read it, Florence turned to her friend and said: “M. de Luceval informs me that he will not dine at home, so can you not spend the afternoon and take dinner with me?”

  “I accept your invitation with pleasure, my dear Florence,” Madame d’Infreville replied, after a moment’s reflection.

  “Madame d’Infreville will dine with me,” said Madame de Luceval, turning to her maid. “Give the servants to understand that I am at home to no one, — absolutely no one.”

  “Yes, madame,” replied Mlle. Lise, quitting the room.

  CHAPTER III.

  A CONFERENCE.

  WE WILL LEAVE the two ladies for a time and give our attention to M. de Luceval. This gentleman, as we have just learned through his message to his wife, did not intend to dine at home that day.

  The reason was this:

  He had, as we know, left Madame de Luceval in a towering rage. He was also firmly resolved to insist upon his rights, and to force her to submit to his will, as well as to his mania for travelling.

  He had gone only a few steps from his house before he was accosted by a rather distinguished looking man about forty-five years of age, whose worn and haggard features bore the lines and the impress of a premature old age. As M. de Luceval approached, this gentleman’s stern, arrogant face took on an expression of formal courtesy, and, bowing with great politeness, he inquired:

  “Is it to M. de Luceval that I have the honour of speaking?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  “I was on my way to your house to tender you both my apologies and my thanks.”

  “Before accepting either, may I not at least know, monsieur—”

  “Who I am? Pardon me, monsieur, for not having told you sooner. I am M. d’Infreville, so my name is not unknown to you, I think.”

  “We have several mutual friends, I think,” replied M. de Luceval, “and I congratulate myself upon my good fortune in meeting you personally, monsieur. But we are only a short distance from my house, and if you will return with me—”

  “I could not think of giving you that trouble, monsieur. Besides, to tell the truth, I should be almost afraid to meet Madame de Luceval.”

  “And why, monsieur?”

  “The fact is, I have wronged madame so deeply, monsieur, that I must beg you to make my excuses to her before I have the honour to be presented to her.”

  “Pardon me,” said Florence’s husband, more and more mystified, “but I really do not understand—”

  “I will explain more clearly, monsieur. But we are almost at the Champs Élysées. If agreeable to you, suppose we have a little chat together as we walk along.”

  “Certainly, if you prefer that.”

  And M. de Luceval, who manifested the same energy in his walk that he did in everything else, began to stride along, accompanied, or rather followed, by M. d’Infreville, who found it extremely difficult to keep up with his more agile companion. Nevertheless, continuing the conversation, he said, in a rather panting fashion:

  “Just now, monsieur, when I had the honour to tell you my name, and to add that it was probably not unknown to you, you replied that we had mutual friends, and I — But pardon me, I have a favour to ask of you, monsieur,” said M. d’Infreville, entirely out of breath now.

  “What is it, monsieur?”

  “I must ask you to walk a little more slowly. My lungs are not very strong, and I get out of breath very quickly, as you see.”

  “On the contrary, monsieur, it is I who should beg you to excuse me for walking so fast. It is a bad habit of which I find it very difficult to break myself; besides, if you prefer it, we can sit down. Here are some chairs.”

  “I accept the proposition with pleasure, monsieur,” said M. d’Infreville, sinking into a chair, “with very great pleasure.”

  The two gentlemen having established themselves comfortably, M. d’Infreville remarked:

  “Permit me to say, monsieur, that you must also have heard of me through some other intermediary than mutual friends.”

  “To what intermediary do you refer, monsieur?”

  “To Madame de Luceval.”

  “My wife?”

  “Certainly, monsieur, for though I have not yet had the honour of an introduction to her, — as I remarked a few minutes ago, — my wife is so intimate with your wife that you and I cannot be strangers to each other. The friendship of the ladies began at the convent, and still continues, as they see each other almost daily, and—”

  “Pardon me, monsieur, but I think there must be some mistake—”

  “Some mistake?”

  “Or rather, some misunderstanding in regard to names.”

  “And why, monsieur?”

  “I seldom leave Madame de Luceval. She receives very few people, and I have never had the pleasure of seeing Madame d’Infreville in my house.”

  It seemed as if Valentine’s husband could not believe his own ears, for, turning to his companion, he exclaimed, hoarsely:

  “Do you mean to say, monsieur — ?”

  “That I have never had the honour of seeing Madame d’Infreville in my house.”

  “But that is impossible, monsieur. My wife is with your wife almost constantly.”

  “But I repeat that I have never seen Madame d’Infreville in my house, monsieur.”

  “Never?” exclaimed Valentine’s husband, so completely stupefied that M. de Luceval gazed at him in astonishment, and said:

  “So, as I remarked a short time ago, there must be some mistake in regard to the name, as you tell me that your wife visits my wife every day.”

  M. d’Infreville’s face had become livid. Big drops of sweat stood out upon his forehead, and a bitter smile contracted his bluish lips, but controlling himself, — for he was resolved to act the part of a gentleman in the presence of this stranger, — he responded in a sardonic tone:

  “Fortunately, all this is between husbands, my dear sir; and we ought to feel a little compassion for each other, for, after all, each has his turn at it, as one never knows what may happen.”

  “What do you mean, monsieur?”

  “Ah, my vague distrust was only too well founded,” murmured M. d’Infreville, in a sort of sullen rage. “Why did I not discover the truth sooner? Oh, these women, these miserable women!”

  “Once more, may I beg you to explain, monsieur.”

  “You are an honourable man, monsieur,” replied M. d’Infreville, in an almost solemn tone, “and I trust to your loyalty, sure that you will not refuse to aid me in my efforts to ferret out and punish an infamous crime, for now I understand everything. Oh, these women, these women!”

  M. de Luceval, fearing his companion’s exclamations would attract the attention of several persons who were sitting a little distance from them, was endeavouring to calm him, when it so chanced that he caught sight of the footman Florence had sent out to mail her letter.

  Seeing this man sauntering along with a letter which had, doubtless, been written by Florence immediately after the lively altercation with her husband, M. de Luceval, yielding to an almost irresistible impulse, called the servant to him, and asked:

  “Where are you going?”

  “I am going to buy some violets for madame la marquise, and post this letter,” he replied, showing the missive to his master as he spoke.

  That gentleman took it, and could not repress a movement of surprise as his eye fell upon the address, then, recovering himself, he dismissed the servant by a gesture, saying at the same time:

  “You can go. I will take charge of the letter.”

  The footman having taken his departure, M. de Luceval turned to Valentine’s husband, and remarked:

  “A strange presentiment, but one which did not deceive me, I find, impelled me to secure this letter. It proves to be one which my wife has written to Madame d’Infreville.”


  “Why, in that case, my wife and your wife must at least keep up a correspondence,” exclaimed Valentine’s husband, more hopefully.

  “True, but I discover this fact to-day for the first time, monsieur.”

  “Monsieur, I implore you, I adjure you, to open this letter. It is addressed to my wife. I will assume the whole responsibility.”

  “Here is the letter; read it, monsieur,” responded M. de Luceval, quite as eager to know the contents of the missive as M. d’Infreville.

  The latter gentleman, after hastily perusing the note, exclaimed:

  “Read it, monsieur. It is surely enough to drive one mad, for in this letter your wife reminds my wife of the delightful day they spent together yesterday, as well as last Wednesday, and begs her to come again on Sunday.”

  “‘HERE IS THE LETTER; READ IT, MONSIEUR.’”

  “And I assure you, upon my word of honour, monsieur,” responded M. de Luceval, after having perused the note in his turn, “that yesterday my wife did not get up until noon, that about three o’clock, I, with no little difficulty, succeeded in persuading her to take a drive with me. We returned a short time before dinner, and after dinner two friends of ours spent the evening with us. As regards Wednesday, I remember perfectly that I was in and out of my wife’s room a number of times, and I again assure you, upon my word of honour, that Madame d’Infreville did not spend the day at our house.”

  “Then, how do you explain this letter, monsieur?”

  “I do not explain it, monsieur. I merely confine myself to a plain statement of the facts of the case. I am as much interested in clearing up this mystery as you can possibly be.”

  “Oh, I will have my revenge!” exclaimed M. d’Infreville, his long repressed rage bursting forth at last. “I can doubt no longer now. The discovery that my wife has been absenting herself from home for days at a time naturally aroused my suspicions. I inquired the cause of these frequent and prolonged absences; she replied that she often went to spend the day with a former schoolmate, named Madame de Luceval. The name was so widely known and respected, the excuse so plausible, my wife’s manner so sincere, that I, like a fool, believed her. Now, I know that it was an instinctive distrust that impelled me to seek you out. You see what I have discovered. Oh, the infamous wretch!”