by Eugène Sue
“With what object?”
“I don’t know, I am sure. But why don’t you have an explanation with her? You will know exactly how you stand, then.”
“But she implored me, both for the sake of her peace of mind and her future, to make no attempt to see her again.”
“On the contrary, see her again, and at once, for the sake of her future, now you are a prospective millionaire.”
“You are right, Florestan, I will see her, and at once; and if this cruel mystery can be satisfactorily explained, if I find her as loving and devoted as in the past, I shall be the happiest man in the world. Poor child, her life up to this time has been one of toil and privation. She shall know rest and comfort now, for I cannot doubt that my father will consent. My God!”
“What is the matter?”
“All this has made me entirely forget something that will surprise you very much. My father insists that I shall marry your cousin.”
“What cousin?”
“Mlle. Ramon. A short time ago I went to Dreux; in fact, I have just returned from there. I had not the slightest suspicion of my father’s plans, when I first saw the young lady, but, even if I had not been in love with Mariette, your uncle’s daughter impressed me so unfavourably that nothing in the world—”
“So my uncle is not ruined, as he pretended he was several years ago,” said Florestan, interrupting his friend. “No, evidently not, for if your father wishes you to marry my cousin, it is because he thinks such an alliance would be to your advantage. Doubtless my uncle’s pretended failure was only a subterfuge.”
“My father resorted to the same expedient, I think, though he has always given me to understand that extreme poverty was the cause of the parsimonious manner in which we lived.”
“Ah, Uncle Ramon, I knew that you were sulky, ill-tempered, and detestable generally, but I did not believe you capable of such cleverness of conception. From this day on I shall admire and revere you. I am not your heir, it is true, but it is always delightful to know that one has a millionaire uncle. It is such a comforting thought in one’s financial difficulties; one can indulge in all sorts of delightful hypotheses, in which apoplexy and even cholera present themselves to the mind in the guise of guardian angels.”
“Without going quite as far as that, and without wishing for any one’s death,” said Louis, smiling, “I must admit that I would much rather see your uncle’s fortune pass into your hands than into those of his odious daughter. You would at least enjoy the possession of it, and, with all that wealth, I feel sure that you would—”
“Contract debts without number,” Saint-Herem interrupted, majestically.
“What, Florestan, with a fortune like that—”
“I should contract debts without number, I tell you. Yes, of course I should.”
“What, with a fortune of two or three million francs?”
“With ten, even twenty millions, I should still contract debts. My theory is that of the government, — the larger a country’s debt, the better that country’s credit is. But I will expound my financial theories some other time. Don’t lose a moment now in hastening to Mariette, and be sure and tell me what success you meet with. Here it is nearly noon, and I promised the little perfumer — who amuses me immensely — that she should try a new saddle-horse to-day, the handsomest hack in Paris, — it cost me a nice price, by the way, — and she wrote me this morning to remind me that I had promised to take her to the Bois. So hasten to your Mariette. I feel confident that your love affair will end happily after all. But write to me, or else come and see me as soon as possible, for I shall be so anxious to hear the result of your interview.”
“You shall hear from me, my dear Florestan, whatever happens.”
“Farewell then, my dear Louis, it is agreed that I shall see or hear from you before to-morrow.”
As he spoke, M. de Saint-Herem stepped into the handsomely appointed brougham which was waiting for him at the usurer’s door, and Louis Richard wended his way on foot to Mariette’s home.
CHAPTER X.
THE MYSTERY EXPLAINED.
WHEN LOUIS RICHARD entered the room occupied by Mariette and her godmother, he paused a moment on the threshold, overwhelmed with grief and despair at the affecting scene that presented itself to his gaze.
Mariette was lying to all appearance lifeless on a mattress on the floor. Her features, which were overspread with a death-like pallor, contracted convulsively from time to time. Her eyes were closed, and there were still traces of tears on her marble cheeks, while in one of the clenched hands crossed upon her breast was the envelope containing the fragments of the letter she had received from Louis.
Madame Lacombe’s usually grim and sardonic face showed that she was a prey to the most poignant grief and distress. Kneeling beside the mattress on which her goddaughter was lying, she was supporting Mariette’s head upon her mutilated arm, and holding a glass of water to the girl’s inanimate lips with the other.
Hearing a sound, Madame Lacombe turned hastily, and her features resumed their usually hard and irascible expression, as she saw Louis standing motionless in the doorway.
“What do you want?” she demanded, brusquely. “Why do you come in without knocking? I don’t know you. Who are you?”
“My God! in what a terrible condition I find her!” exclaimed Louis.
And without paying any attention to Madame Lacombe’s question, he sprang forward, and, throwing himself on his knees beside the pallet, exclaimed, imploringly:
“What is the matter, Mariette? Answer me, I beseech you.”
Madame Lacombe, who had been as much surprised as annoyed at the young man’s intrusion, now scrutinised his features closely, and, after a moment’s reflection, said, sullenly:
“You are Louis Richard, I suppose?”
“Yes, madame, but in Heaven’s name what has happened to Mariette?”
“You have killed her, that is all!”
“I? Great God! But, madame, something must be done. Let me run for a doctor. Her hands are like ice. Mariette, Mariette! Oh, my God! my God! she does not hear me.”
“She has been in this state ever since last night, and it was your letter that caused it.”
“My letter! What letter?”
“Oh, you intend to deny it now, I suppose. You needn’t, for last night the poor child couldn’t bear it any longer, and told me all.”
“Great Heavens! What did she tell you?”
“That you never wanted to lay eyes on her again, and that you had deserted her for another. That is always the way with you men!”
“On the contrary, I wrote to Mariette that—”
“You lie!” exclaimed the old woman, more and more incensed. “She told me what was in the letter. She has it here in her hand. I haven’t been able to get it away from her. Hadn’t she enough to bear without your treating her in this way? Get out of this house, you scoundrel! Mariette was a fool, and so was I, to refuse the offer made us, and I told her so at the time. ‘See how we shall be rewarded for our honesty,’ I said to her. And my words have come true. She is dying, and I shall be turned out into the street, for we are behind in our rent, and the little furniture we have will be taken from us. Fortunately, I have a quarter of a bushel of charcoal left,” she added, with a grim smile, “and charcoal is the friend and deliverer of the poor.”
“This is horrible!” cried Louis, unable to restrain his tears; “but I swear to you that we are all the victims of a most deplorable mistake. Mariette, Mariette, arouse yourself! It is I — I, Louis!”
“You are determined to kill her, I see!” exclaimed Madame Lacombe, making a desperate effort to push the young man away. “If she recovers consciousness, the sight of you will finish her!”
“Thank God!” exclaimed Louis, resisting Madame Lacombe’s efforts, and again bending over Mariette; “she is moving a little. See! her hands are relaxing; her eyelids are quivering. Mariette, darling, can’t you hear me? It is Louis who speaks to you.
”
The girl was, in fact, gradually recovering consciousness, and her tear-stained eyes, after having slowly opened and wandered aimlessly around for a moment, fixed themselves upon Louis. Soon, an expression of joyful surprise irradiated her features, and she murmured, faintly:
“Louis, is it really you? Ah, I never expected—”
Then, the sad reality gradually forcing itself upon her mind, she averted her face, and, letting her head again fall upon Madame Lacombe’s bosom, she said, with a deep sigh:
“Ah, godmother, it is for the last time! All is over between us!”
“Didn’t I tell you how it would be?” exclaimed Madame Lacombe. “Go, I tell you, go! Oh, the misery of being so weak and infirm that one cannot turn a scoundrel out of one’s house!”
“Mariette,” cried Louis, imploringly, “Mariette, in pity, listen to me. I do not come to bid you farewell; on the contrary, I come to tell you that I love you better than ever!”
“Good God!” exclaimed the young girl, starting up as if she had received an electric shock; “what does he say?”
“I say that we are both the victims of a terrible mistake, Mariette. I have never for one moment ceased to love you, no, never! and all the time I have been away I have had but one thought and desire, — to see you again and make all the necessary arrangements for our speedy marriage, as I told you in my letter.”
“Your letter!” exclaimed Mariette, in heart-broken tones, “he has forgotten. Here, Louis, here is your letter.”
And, as she spoke, she handed the young man the crumpled, tear-blurred fragments of the letter.
“He will deny his own writing, see if he don’t,” muttered Madame Lacombe, as Louis hastily put the torn pieces together. “And you will be fool enough to believe him.”
“This is what I wrote, Mariette,” said Louis, after he had put the letter together:
“‘My Dearest Mariette: — I shall be with you again the day after you receive this letter. The short absence, from which I have suffered so much, has convinced me that it is impossible for me to live separated from you. Thank God! the day of our union is near at hand. To-morrow will be the sixth of May, and as soon as I return I shall tell my father of our intentions, and I do not doubt his consent.
“‘Farewell, then, until day after to-morrow, my beloved Mariette. I love you madly, or rather wisely, for what greater wisdom could a man show than in having sought and found happiness in a love like yours.
“‘Yours devotedly, Louis.
“‘I write only these few lines because I shall reach Paris almost as soon as my letter, and because it is always painful to me to think that another must read what I write to you. But for that, how many things I would say to you.
Yours for ever.
“‘L.’”
Mariette had listened to the letter with such profound astonishment that she had been unable to utter a word.
“That, Mariette, is what I wrote,” remarked Louis. “What was there in my letter to make you so wretched?”
“Is that really what was in the letter, M. Louis?” asked Madame Lacombe.
“See for yourself, madame,” said Louis, handing her the scraps of paper.
“Do you suppose I know how to read?” was the surly response. “How was it that the letter was read so differently to Mariette, then?”
“Who read my letter to you, Mariette?” asked Louis.
“A scrivener.”
“A scrivener!” repeated Louis, assailed by a sudden suspicion. “Explain, Mariette, I beg of you.”
“The explanation is very simple, M. Louis. I asked a scrivener on the Charnier des Innocents to write a letter to you. He wrote it, and just as he was about to put your address on it he overturned his inkstand on the letter, and was obliged to write it all over again. On my return home, I found your letter waiting for me; but having no one to read it to me in Augustine’s absence, I went back to the scrivener, a very kind and respectable old man, and asked him to read what you had written to me. He read it, or at least pretended to read it, for, according to him, you said that we must never meet again, that your future and that of your father demanded it, and for that reason you entreated me—”
But the poor girl’s emotion overcame her, and she burst into tears.
Louis understood now that chance had led Mariette to his father for assistance, that the pretended accident had been merely a stratagem that enabled the scrivener to write a second letter of an entirely different import from the first, and to address it, not to Dreux, but to Paris, so Louis would find it on his arrival in that city. He understood, too, his father’s object in thus deceiving Mariette in regard to the real contents of the second letter, when she again applied to him. The discovery of this breach of confidence on the part of his father — the reason of which was only too apparent — overwhelmed Louis with sorrow and shame. He dared not confess to his sweetheart the relation that existed between him and the scrivener, but, wishing to give the two women some plausible explanation of the deception that had been practised upon them, he said:
“In spite of this scrivener’s apparent kindness of heart, he must have taken a malicious pleasure in playing a joke upon you, my poor Mariette, for he read you the exact opposite of what I had written.”
“How shameful!” cried the girl. “How could he have had the heart to deceive me so? He had such a benevolent air, and spoke so feelingly of the sympathy he always felt for those unfortunate persons who, like myself, could neither read nor write.”
“But you can see for yourself that he did deceive you shamefully? Still, what does it matter, now?” added Louis, anxious to put an end to such a painful topic. “We understand each other’s feelings now, Mariette, and—”
“One moment,” interposed Madame Lacombe; “you may feel satisfied and reassured, Mariette, but I do not.”
“What do you mean, godmother?”
“I mean that I strongly disapprove of this marriage.”
“But listen, madame,” pleaded Louis.
“As you are the son of a public scrivener, you haven’t a sou to your name. Mariette hasn’t, either, and two people in such circumstances as that have no right to marry. My goddaughter has me to take care of. She would be sure, too, to have a lot of children, and a nice fix we should all be in!”
“But, godmother—”
“Don’t talk to me. I know what you intend to do. The first thing you’ll try for is to get rid of the old woman. There won’t be bread enough for us all, and I shall be turned out into the street to be arrested as a public vagabond. I shall be sent to the workhouse, so you won’t be troubled with me any more. Oh, yes, I understand your scheme.”
“Oh, godmother, how can you imagine such a thing as that?”
“Dismiss all such fears from your mind, I beg of you, madame,” Louis made haste to say, “This very day I made a most unexpected discovery. My father, for reasons which I must respect, has concealed from me the fact that we are rich, very rich.”
Mariette manifested much more astonishment than delight on hearing this startling announcement, but turning to Madame Lacombe after a moment, she said:
“You see you need be troubled by no more of these terrible misgivings in regard to my future, godmother.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed Madame Lacombe, sardonically; “so she really believes it—”
“But, godmother—”
“Nonsense, child, can’t you see that he has invented this story so I will consent to your marriage?”
“But I swear, madame—”
“I tell you it is all a lie,” exclaimed Madame Lacombe; “for if you were as rich as you say, you wouldn’t want Mariette any longer. Would the son of a rich man be fool enough to marry a poor working girl who can neither read nor write?”
Though she did not exactly share her godmother’s doubts, Mariette gazed at Louis a little sadly and uneasily, as she thought of the great change in his fortunes.
The young man must have understood the meaning
of the look, for he said:
“You are very much mistaken, Madame Lacombe; the son of a rich man keeps the promise he made as a poor man when the happiness of his life depends upon that promise.”
“Bah! that is all talk!” interrupted the invalid, in surly tones; “but rich or poor, you won’t get Mariette without I am sure of a living. I don’t ask much, — six hundred francs a year will do, — but the money must be deposited in the hands of a reliable notary before the marriage contract is signed.”
“Oh, godmother, have you no more confidence in Louis than that?”
“A nice fix you’ll find yourself in if you place confidence in any man,” exclaimed the poor creature. “Oh, I know all about it. Before marriage they’ll promise anything you ask; afterward, they’ll take the old woman by the arm, and drag her off to the poorhouse without saying so much as by your leave. I’m not afraid that Mariette would turn me into the street. I’ve been a sad burden to her, and she has had quite enough of me, I know, but she is a kind-hearted little thing; besides, she’s afraid of me; but once married, she will side with her husband, and out I shall have to go. No, there sha’n’t be any marriage unless I’m sure of six hundred francs a year.”
While Madame Lacombe was indulging in these recriminations, Mariette and Louis exchanged sadly significant glances.
“You hear her, Louis,” the girl seemed to say. “Was I not right when I told you that she had been hopelessly embittered by her many misfortunes?”
“Poor Mariette,” the young man seemed to say in reply, “how much you must have suffered! And how hard it is to see such tender and saint-like devotion as yours rewarded in such a way!”
“Madame,” replied Louis, when the sick woman had ended her tirade, “you may rest assured that you shall be well provided for. Mariette and I will never forget that you took her in when she had no other home, and whether you prefer to live with us, or to live alone, you shall be made comfortable for life.”