by Eugène Sue
“Nevertheless, I dare not cherish the slightest hope, madame. Disappointment would be too hard to bear.”
“Hope on, hope ever, monsieur! Disappointment, if it comes at all, will come only too soon. But to change hope into certainty, we must first penetrate the veil of mystery in which Florence and Michel have enveloped themselves. The nature of the relations existing between them once fathomed, we shall know exactly where we stand.”
“I agree with you perfectly, madame, but how are we to do that?”
“By resorting to the same expedient we employed this morning; by following them, though not without exercising much greater precautions. The hour at which they leave home makes this comparatively easy, but if this mode of procedure proves a failure, we shall have to devise some other.”
“Possibly it would be less likely to excite their suspicions if I followed them alone.”
“Very well, monsieur, and if you do not succeed, I will see what I can do.”
Here an apologetic rap at the door interrupted the conversation.
“Come in,” said Madame d’Infreville.
A servant entered with a letter in his hand.
“A messenger just left this for madame,” he explained.
“From whom?”
“He did not say, madame. He left as soon as he handed me the letter.”
“You may go,” said Valentine; then, turning to M. de Luceval, “Will you permit me?” she asked.
He bowed his assent. Valentine broke the seal, glanced at the signature, and exclaimed:
“Florence? Why, it is a letter from Florence!”
“From my wife?” exclaimed M. de Luceval.
They gazed at each other in utter amazement.
“But how did she discover your address, madame?”
“I have no idea.”
“Read it, madame, read it, in Heaven’s name!”
Madame d’Infreville read as follows:
“MY DEAR VALENTINE: — I have learned that you are in Paris, and I can not tell you what happiness it would give me to embrace you, but it is absolutely necessary for me to defer that pleasure for nearly three months, that is, until early in June.
“If you care to see your old friend at that time, — and I have the assurance to believe that you will, — you must go to M. Duval, notary, at Number 17 Rue Montmartre, and tell him who you are. He will then give you a letter containing my address. He will not receive this letter until the last of May, however; and at this present time he does not even know me by name.
“I am so certain of your affection, my dear Valentine, that I shall count upon a visit from you. The journey may seem a little long to you, but you can remain with me and rest, and we shall have so much to say to each other.
“Your best friend, who loves you with all her heart,
“FLORENCE DE L.”
The intense surprise this letter excited can be readily understood. Valentine and her companion remained silent for a moment. M. de Luceval was the first to speak.
“They must have seen us following them this morning,” he exclaimed.
“But how did Florence discover where I am?” said Valentine, thoughtfully. “I have met nobody I know in Paris except you, monsieur, and one of our old servants, with whose assistance I succeeded in ascertaining Michel’s address. The man of whom I speak has a sister who was Michel’s nurse and afterwards his housekeeper.”
“But why did Florence write to you, madame, and not to me, if she suspected that I was following her?”
“You are mistaken in that supposition, perhaps, monsieur. She may have written to me without knowing that you are in Paris.”
“But in that case, why does she postpone your visit to her, and why this indirect request that you make no attempt to discover her whereabouts before the last of May, as she warns you that the person who is to give you her address will not know it himself until that time.”
“Yes, it is very evident that Florence does not wish to see me until after three months have elapsed, and that she has taken measures accordingly. Do you suppose that Michel can have had any hand in the sending of this letter?”
“It is my opinion that we haven’t a minute to lose,” said M. de Luceval. “Let us take a cab and go to the Rue de Vaugirard at once. If my wife’s suspicions have been aroused, it is more than likely that she returned home during the day and gave some order that may enlighten us.”
“You are right, monsieur; let us go at once.”
An hour afterwards Valentine and M. de Luceval rejoined each other in the cab which had deposited them a short distance from the two adjoining houses where their search was to be conducted.
“Ah, well, monsieur, what news?” asked Madame d’Infreville, who, pale and agitated, had been the first to return to the vehicle.
“There can no longer be any doubt that my wife suspects the truth, madame. I told the porter that I wished to see Madame de Luceval on very important business. ‘That lady no longer resides here, monsieur,’ the man replied. ‘She came in a carriage about eleven o’clock and took away several bundles and packages, at the same time informing me that she had no intention of returning again. Madame de Luceval has paid her rent six months in advance ever since she came here, and some time ago she gave notice of her intention to leave on the first of June. As for the few articles of furniture that she owns, she is to let us know what disposal we are to make of them.’ It was impossible to get anything more out of the man. And you, madame, what did you find out?”
“Almost the very same thing that you did, monsieur,” replied Valentine, despondently. “Michel returned home about eleven o’clock. He, too, informed the porter of his intention of leaving the house, and promised to let him know what disposition to make of his furniture. He, too, had notified the landlord of his intention of giving up his rooms on the first of June.”
“Then it is on the first of June that they are to be united?”
“But in that case why do they make an appointment with me for the same date?”
“Whatever they may say, and whatever they may do, I am determined to solve this mystery!” exclaimed M. de Luceval.
Madame d’Infreville’s only response was a melancholy shake of the head.
CHAPTER XVI.
AN IDLER’S PARADISE.
IT WAS ABOUT three months after M. de Luceval and Madame d’Infreville met in Paris, when the events we are about to relate occurred at a modest villa near the town of Hyères, in Provence.
This villa, which was decidedly bright and cheerful rather than pretentious in appearance, stood at the foot of a small hill, not more than five hundred yards from the sea. The small garden, half an acre, at the most, in extent, and shaded with tall maples and sycamores, was traversed by a rapid stream that had its source in a neighbouring mountain, and that flowed into the sea, after diffusing a refreshing moisture and coolness through the garden. The villa itself, which was a pretty white house with green shutters, was embowered in a thick grove of immense orange-trees, now in full bloom, which protected it from the scorching rays of the sun. A hawthorn hedge enclosed the garden, which was entered through a small gate set in posts of rough masonry.
About three o’clock in the afternoon, while the sun was shining with a splendour rivalling that of Italy, a travelling carriage, coming from the direction of Hyères, stopped upon the brow of the hill overlooking the little country-seat, and M. de Luceval, his face pale, and his features drawn with anxiety, got out of the vehicle, and assisted Madame d’Infreville to alight. That lady, after having paused for an instant to look around her, caught sight of the little villa half hidden in the grove of orange-trees, and, pointing to it, exclaimed, in a voice that trembled with emotion:
“That is the house, M. de Luceval.”
“Yes, judging from the directions given us, this must be the place. The momentous hour has come. Go, madame. I will wait for you here, though I do not know but it requires more courage to remain here in this agony of suspense than it does
to accompany you.”
“Still, remember your promise, I entreat you, monsieur. Let me accomplish this painful mission alone. You might not be able to control yourself, and, in spite of the solemn pledge you have given me, you might — But I can not finish. The mere thought of such a thing makes me shudder.”
“Do not be alarmed, madame, I shall keep my word, unless — unless—”
“But, monsieur, you have sworn—”
“I shall not forget my oath, madame.”
“Let us hope for the best, monsieur. The day for which we have been waiting with so much anxiety for three months has come at last. In an hour the mystery will be solved. We shall know all, and our fate will be decided.”
“Yes, yes, our fate will be decided,” responded M. de Luceval, gloomily.
“And now au revoir. Perhaps I shall not return alone.”
But M. de Luceval shook his head gloomily, as Valentine, with a gesture of encouragement, started down a narrow footpath that led straight to the garden gate of the villa.
M. de Luceval, left alone, paced restlessly to and fro, turning every now and then, in spite of himself, to gaze at the pretty dwelling below. Suddenly he paused, his face turned livid, and his eyes gleamed like coals of fire. He had just seen, a little way from the hedge that surrounded the garden, a man clad in a white duck suit, and wearing a big straw hat. In another moment, this man had disappeared among the rocks that bordered the shore.
Running to the carriage, M. de Luceval drew out from under the seat, where he had concealed it from Madame d’Infreville’s eyes, a box containing a pair of duelling pistols, and with this box in his hand started in pursuit of the man.
But before he had gone ten yards M. de Luceval paused, reflected a moment, then slowly returned to the carriage, and replaced the box, saying to himself:
“There will be time enough for that by and by. I will keep my oath unless rage and despair should carry me beyond all the bounds of reason and honour.”
Then, with his eyes riveted upon the house, M. de Luceval, too, descended the path.
In the meantime, Valentine had reached the gate of the enclosure, and knocked.
A moment afterwards the gate opened, and a woman about fifty years of age, neatly dressed in the Provençal fashion, appeared.
On seeing her, Valentine could not conceal her astonishment.
“What, Madame Reine, you here!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, madame,” replied the woman, with a strong Southern accent, and apparently not at all surprised at Valentine’s visit. “Will you be good enough to come in?”
Valentine, seeming to repress a question that had risen to her lips, blushed slightly, and stepped inside. The old woman (Madame Reine had been Michel Renaud’s nurse, and his only servant, even in his palmy day) closed the gate, and conducted Madame d’Infreville into the dense shade formed by the quincunx of orange-trees, in the centre of which the little white villa stood.
“Is Madame de Luceval here?” inquired Valentine, in a slightly husky voice.
The old nurse paused suddenly, placed her finger on her lip, as if recommending silence on the part of Madame d’Infreville, then motioned her to look a little to the left, in front of her.
Valentine stood as if petrified.
She saw before her two bright-coloured hammocks fastened to the gnarled trunks of some orange-trees. One of the hammocks was empty. Florence was lying in the other. A blue and white striped canopy, suspended over the hammock, swelled like a sail in the fresh sea-breeze and imparted a gentle swinging motion to this airy couch.
Florence, clad in a thin white gown that left her throat and arms bare, was slumbering in an attitude of graceful abandon, her pretty head resting upon one dimpled arm, while the gentle breeze toyed caressingly with the soft ringlets that shaded her white brow. Her left arm was hanging out of the hammock, and in the same hand was a big green fan which she had evidently been using when sleep overtook her.
Never had Valentine seen Florence look so beautiful and fresh and young. Her scarlet lips were half parted, her breathing was as gentle and regular as that of an infant, and her features, in their perfect repose, wore an expression of ineffable contentment and happiness.
“FLORENCE WAS SLUMBERING IN GRACEFUL ABANDON.”
In the clear waters of the little stream that flowed through the little lawn stood a big basket filled with watermelons, purple figs, and early grapes cooling in the icy flood, in which two carafes, one filled with lemonade of a pale amber hue, the other with ruby-tinted pomegranate juice, were also submerged. Upon the soft grass, near the edge of the stream, and in the shade, were two big armchairs, several straw mats, a number of cushions, and sundry other aids to comfort and dolce far niente; and lastly, within easy reach of the armchairs, stood a table upon which a number of books and papers, a Turkish pipe, a number of glasses, and a plate of the small wheaten cakes peculiar to that province were heaped in picturesque confusion. To complete the picture, one could discern through two vistas in the quincunx, on one side, the still, blue waters of the Mediterranean; on the other, the summits of the distant mountains, whose majestic outlines stood out in bold relief against the azure sky.
Valentine, charmed by the scene before her, stood as if spellbound.
A moment more, and Florence’s little hand opened slowly. The fan dropped, and, in escaping from the fingers of the sleeper, woke her.
CHAPTER XVII.
IN CHANGE, UNCHANGED.
ON SEEING MADAME d’Infreville, Florence uttered a cry of joy, and, springing from the hammock, threw her arms around her friend’s neck.
“Ah,” she exclaimed, kissing Valentine tenderly, her eyes filling with tears, “I was sure that you would come. I have been expecting you for two days, and you know the proverb, ‘Happiness comes while one sleeps,’” she added, smiling and casting a glance at the hammock which she had just quitted, “the proverb of the slothful, but a true one, nevertheless, as you see. But let me take a good look at you,” she continued, still holding her friend’s hands, but drawing back a step or two. “As beautiful, yes, even more beautiful than ever, I see! Kiss me again, my dear Valentine. Think of it, four years have passed since we last saw each other, and what a terrible day that was! But each thing in its own proper time! And first,” added Florence, taking her friend by the hand and leading her to the brookside, “as the heat is so overpowering, here are some of the fruits of my garden which I have been cooling for you.”
“Thanks, Florence, but I would rather not eat anything now. But now, let me, in my turn, take a good look at you, and tell you — I am no flatterer, though, as you know — how much prettier you have grown. What a colour you have! and how young and, above all, how happy you look!”
“Do you really think so? So much the better, for I should be ungrateful, indeed, if I did not look happy. But I understand your impatience. You want to talk, and so do I — in fact, I am just dying to! So let us talk, but first sit down — here, in this armchair. Now put this ottoman under your feet, and take this cushion to lean against. One can not make oneself too comfortable, you know.”
“You seem to me to have made great progress in your search for comfort, Florence,” remarked Valentine, with a constrained smile, more and more surprised at her friend’s careless air, though their interview, by reason of existing circumstances, was really of such a grave nature.
“I have, my dear Valentine. Do you see that little strap attached to the back of the chair?”
“I see it, but have no idea what it is for.”
“It is to support the head if one wishes.”
And adding example to precept, this nonchalant young woman added:
“Don’t you see how comfortable it is? But what is the matter? You are gazing at me with such a surprised, almost chagrined air,” said the young woman, suddenly becoming serious. “Well, you are right. You think me indifferent to all your past, and I trust now partially forgotten, trials,” added Florence, in a tone of deep feeling. �
�Far from it! I have sympathised with you in every grief, but this is such a happy, blissful day to me that I do not want to mar it by any unpleasant recollections.”
“What, you know—”
“Yes, I have known for more than a year of your imprisonment at Poitou, your subsequent widowhood and poverty, from which you suffered more on your mother’s account than on your own. I know, too, how courageously you struggled against adversity. But dear me! this is exactly what I was afraid of!” half sobbed, half laughed the young woman, dashing the tears from her eyes. “And to-day of all days in the world!”
“Florence, my dear friend, I never once doubted your sincere affection.”
“Is that really true?”
“It is, indeed. But how did you learn all these particulars in regard to me?”
“Oh, some from this person, some from that! I have been leading such a busy, active life it has brought me in contact with all sorts of people.”
“You?”
“Yes, I,” responded Florence, with a joyous, almost triumphant air.
“Tell me all about yourself. I know nothing about your life for the past four years, or at least since your separation from M. de Luceval.”
“True, M. de Luceval must have told you all about that, and about the strange way in which I managed to make my husband abandon the idea of forcing me to travel against my will, and insisting upon my remaining his wife whether or no.”
“And especially how you insisted upon a separation after you learned of your financial ruin. Yes, M. de Luceval told me all about that. He does full justice to your delicacy of feeling.”
“The real generosity was on his part. Poor Alexandre! but for his unceasing peregrinations and his Wandering Jew temperament he would be a very nice sort of a man, eh, Valentine?” added Florence, with a mischievous smile. “How fortunate that you met him and that you have seen so much of him during the past three months. You must have learned to appreciate him as he deserves.”