by Eugène Sue
“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?”<
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“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.
CHAPTER IX.
A STRANGE MEETING.
BUT BEFORE THE man with the cigar had gone a dozen yards, his first impression reasserted itself so vividly that he turned, almost involuntarily, to take another look at the lady in mourning.
She, too, turned almost simultaneously, but seeing that the man she had noticed had done the same thing, she hastily turned her head and walked on at a rather more rapid pace. Nevertheless, as she crossed the street to enter the garden of the Luxembourg, she could not resist the temptation to cast another quick glance behind her, and, as she did so, she saw that the man with the cigar was still standing in the same place watching her. Angry at having been caught in the act of thus violating the rules of good breeding a second time, she hastily lowered her black veil, and, quickening her pace still more, entered the garden. The man with the cigar, after a moment’s hesitation, hurriedly retraced his steps, and, on reaching the entrance to the garden, saw the young woman some distance ahead of him in the broad path leading to the Observatory.
One of those peculiar instincts which often apprise us of things that we cannot see made the young woman feel almost certain that she was followed. She hesitated a long time before she could make up her mind to again satisfy herself of the fact, however; but she was about to yield to the temptation when she heard hurried footsteps behind her, then some one passed her.
It was the man with the cigar. He walked on until he was about twenty yards ahead of her, then turned, resolutely approached the young woman, and raising his hat, said, with perfect politeness:
“Madame, I ask a thousand pardons for thus accosting you.”
“I have not the honour of knowing you, monsieur.”
“Permit me to ask a single question, madame?”
“Really, monsieur—”
“I should not be under the necessity of asking you this question if I could be fortunate enough to see your veil lifted.”