During the twenty years of her married life, Valentine had experienced but one real sorrow; and this was one which, in the course of nature, must happen sooner or later.
In 1859 her mother caught a violent cold during one of her frequent journeys to Paris, and, in spite of every attention which money could procure, she became worse, and died.
The countess preserved her faculties to the last, and with her dying breath said to her daughter:
"Ah, well! was I not wise in prevailing upon you to bury the past? Your silence has made my old age peaceful and happy, and I now thank you for having done your duty to yourself and to me. You will be rewarded on earth and in heaven, my dear daughter."
Mme. Fauvel constantly said that, since the loss of her mother, she had never had cause to shed a tear.
And what more could she wish for? As years rolled on, Andre's love remained steadfast; he was as devoted a husband as the most exacting woman could wish. To his great love was added that sweet intimacy which results from long conformity of ideas and unbounded confidence.
Everything prospered with this happy couple. Andre was twice as wealthy as he had ever hoped to be even in his wildest visions; every wish of Valentine was anticipated by Andre; their two sons, Lucien and Abel, were handsome, intelligent young men, whose honorable characters and graceful bearing reflected credit upon their parents, who had so carefully watched over their education.
Nothing seemed wanting to insure Valentine's felicity. When her husband and sons were at their business, her solitude was cheered by the intelligent, affectionate companionship of a young girl whom she loved as her own daughter, and who in return filled the place of a devoted child.
Madeleine was M. Fauvel's niece, and when an infant had lost both parents, who were poor but very worthy people. Valentine begged to adopt the babe, thinking she could thus, in a measure, atone for the desertion of the poor little creature whom she had abandoned to strangers.
She hoped that this good work would bring down the blessings of God upon her.
The day of the little orphan's arrival, M. Fauvel invested for her ten thousand francs, which he presented to Madeleine as her dowry.
The banker amused himself by increasing this ten thousand francs in the most marvellous ways. He, who never ventured upon a rash speculation with his own money, always invested it in the most hazardous schemes, and was always so successful, that at the end of fifteen years the ten thousand francs had become half a million.
People were right when they said that the Fauvel family were to be envied.
Time had dulled the remorse and anxiety of Valentine. In the genial atmosphere of a happy home, she had found rest, and almost forgetfulness. She had suffered so much at being compelled to deceive Andre that she hoped she was now at quits with fate.
She began to look forward to the future, and her youth seemed buried in an impenetrable mist, and was, as it were, the memory of a painful dream.
Yes, she believed herself saved, and her very feeling of security made the impending danger more fearful in its shock.
One rainy November day, her husband had gone to Provence on business. She was sitting, gazing into the bright fire, and thankfully meditating upon her present happiness, when the servant brought her a letter, which had been left by a stranger, who refused to give his name.
Without the faintest presentiment of evil, she carelessly broke the seal, and in an instant was almost petrified by the words which met her terrified eye:
"MADAME--Would it be relying too much upon the memories of the past to hope for half an hour of your time?
"To-morrow, between two and three, I will do myself the honor of calling upon you.
"THE MARQUIS OF CLAMERAN."
Fortunately, Mme. Fauvel was alone.
Trembling like a leaf, she read the letter over and over again, as if to convince herself that she was not the victim of a horrible hallucination.
Half a dozen times, with a sort of terror, she whispered that name once so dear-Clameran! spelling it aloud as if it were a strange name which she could not pronounce. And the eight letters forming the name seemed to shine like the lightning which precedes a clap of thunder.
Ah! she had hoped and believed that the fatal past was atoned for, and buried in oblivion; and now it stood before her, pitiless and threatening.
Poor woman! As if all human will could prevent what was fated to be!
It was in this hour of security, when she imagined herself pardoned, that the storm was to burst upon the fragile edifice of her happiness, and destroy her every hope.
A long time passed before she could collect her scattered thoughts sufficiently to decide upon a course of conduct.
Then she began to think she was foolish to be so frightened. This letter was written by Gaston, of course; therefore she need feel no apprehension. Gaston had returned to France, and wished to see her. She could understand this desire, and she knew too well this man, upon whom she had lavished her young affection, to attribute any bad motives to his visit.
He would come; and finding her the wife of another, the mother of grown sons, they would exchange thoughts of the past, perhaps a few regrets; she would restore the jewels which she had faithfully kept for him; he would assure her of his lifelong friendship, and -that would be all.
But one distressing doubt beset her agitated mind. Should she conceal from Gaston the birth of his son?
To confess was to expose herself to many dangers. It was placing herself at the mercy of a man--a loyal, honorable man to be sure-- confiding to him not only her own peace, honor, and happiness, but the honor and happiness of her family, of her noble husband and loving sons.
Still silence would be a crime. She had abandoned her child, denied him the cares and affection of a mother; and now should she add to her sin by depriving him of the name and fortune of his father?
She was still undecided when the servant announced dinner.
But she had not the courage to meet the glance of her sons. She sent word that she was not well, and would not be down to dinner. For the first time in her life she rejoiced at her husband's absence.
Madeleine came hurrying into her aunt's room to see what was the matter; but Valentine dismissed her, saying she would try to sleep off her indisposition.
She wished to be alone in her trouble, and see if she could decide upon some plan for warding off this impending ruin.
The dreaded morrow came.
She counted the hours until two o'clock. After that, she counted the minutes.
At half-past two the servant announced:
"M. the Marquis of Clameran."
Mme. Fauvel had promised herself to be calm, even cold. During a long, sleepless night, she had mentally arranged beforehand every detail of this painful meeting. She had even decided upon what she should say. She would reply this, and ask that; her words were all selected, and her speech ready.
But, at the dreaded moment, her strength gave way; she turned as cold as marble, and could not rise from her seat; she was speechless, and, with a frightened look, silently gazed upon the man who respectfully bowed, and stood in the middle of the room.
Her visitor was about fifty years of age, with iron-gray hair and mustache, and a cold, severe cast of countenance; his expression was one of haughty severity as he stood there in his full suit of black.
The agitated woman tried to discover in his face some traces of the man whom she had so madly loved, who had pressed her to his heart, and besought her to remain faithful until he should return from a foreign land, and lay his fortune at her feet--the father of her son.
She was surprised to discover no resemblance to the youth whose memory had haunted her life; no, never would she have recognized this stranger as Gaston.
As he continued to stand motionless before her, she faintly murmured:
"Gaston!"
He sadly shook his head, and replied:
"I am not Gaston, madame. My brother succumbed to the misery and suffering of exile: I am Louis de Clameran."
What! it was not Gaston, then, who had written to her; it was not Gaston who stood before her!
She trembled with terror; her head whirled, and her eyes grew dim.
It was not he! And she had committed herself, betrayed her secret by calling him "Gaston."
What could this man want?--this brother in whom Gaston had never confided? What did he know of the past?
A thousand probabilities, each one more terrible than the other, flashed across her brain.
Yet she succeeded in overcoming her weakness so that Louis scarcely perceived it.
The fearful strangeness of her situation, the very imminence of peril, inspired her with coolness and self-possession.
Haughtily pointing to a chair, she said to Louis with affected indifference:
"Will you be kind enough, monsieur, to explain the object of this unexpected visit?"
The marquis, seeming not to notice this sudden change of manner, took a seat without removing his eyes from Mme. Fauvel's face.
"First of all, madame," he began, "I must ask if we can be overheard by anyone?"
"Why this question? You can have nothing to say to me that my husband and children should not hear."
Louis shrugged his shoulders, and said:
"Be good enough to answer me, madame; not for my sake, but for your own."
"Speak, then, monsieur; you will not be heard."
In spite of this assurance, the marquis drew his chair close to the sofa where Mme. Fauvel sat, so as to speak in a very low tone, as if almost afraid to hear his own voice.
"As I told you, madame, Gaston is dead; and it was I who closed his eyes, and received his last wishes. Do you understand?"
The poor woman understood only too well, but was racking her brain to discover what could be the purpose of this fatal visit. Perhaps it was only to claim Gaston's jewels.
"It is unnecessary to recall," continued Louis, "the painful circumstances which blasted my brother's life. However happy your own lot has been, you must sometimes have thought of this friend of your youth, who unhesitatingly sacrificed himself in defence of your honor."
Not a muscle of Mme. Fauvel's face moved; she appeared to be trying to recall the circumstances to which Louis alluded.
"Have you forgotten, madame?" he asked with bitterness: "then I must explain more clearly. A long, long time ago you loved my unfortunate brother."
"Monsieur!"
"Ah, it is useless to deny it, madame: I told you that Gaston confided everything to me-everything," he added significantly.
But Mme. Fauvel was not frightened by this information. This "everything" could not be of any importance, for Gaston had gone abroad in total ignorance of her secret.
She rose, and said with an apparent assurance she was far from feeling:
"You forget, monsieur, that you are speaking to a woman who is now advanced in life, who is married, and who has grown sons. If your brother loved me, it was his affair, and not yours. If, young and ignorant, I was led into imprudence, it is not your place to remind me of it. This past which you evoke I buried in oblivion twenty years ago."
"Thus you have forgotten all that happened?"
"Absolutely all; everything." "Even your child, madame?"
This question, uttered in a sneer of triumph, fell upon Mme. Fauvel like a thunder-clap. She dropped tremblingly into her seat, murmuring:
"My God! How did he discover it?"
Had her own happiness alone been at stake, she would have instantly thrown herself upon a Clameran's mercy. But she had her family to defend, and the consciousness of this gave her strength to resist him.
"Do you wish to insult me, monsieur?" she asked.
"Do you pretend to say you have forgotten Valentin-Raoul?"
She saw that this man did indeed know all. How? It little mattered. He certainly knew; but she determined to deny everything, even the most positive proofs, if he should produce them.
For an instant she had an idea of ordering the Marquis of Clameran to leave the house; but prudence stayed her. She thought it best to discover how much he really knew.
"Well," she said with a forced laugh, "will you be kind enough to state what you wish with me?"
"Certainly, madame. Two years ago the vicissitudes of exile took my brother to London. There, at the house of a friend, he met a young man by the name of Raoul. Gaston was so struck by the youth's appearance and intelligence, that he inquired who he was, and discovered that beyond a doubt this boy was his son, and your son, madame."
"This is quite a romance you are relating."
"Yes, madame, a romance the denouement of which is in your hands. Your mother certainly used every precaution to conceal your secret; but the best-laid plans always have some weak point. After your marriage, one of your mother's London friends came to Tarascon, and spread the report of what had taken place at the English village. This lady also revealed your true name to the nurse who was bringing up the child. Thus everything was discovered by my brother, who had no difficulty in obtaining the most positive proofs of the boy's parentage."
Louis closely watched Mme. Fauvel's face to see the effect of his words.
To his astonishment she betrayed not the slightest agitation or alarm; she was smiling as if entertained by the recital of his romance.
"Well, what next?" she asked carelessly.
"Then, madame, Gaston acknowledged the child. But the Clamerans are poor; my brother died on a pallet in a lodging-house; and I have only an income of twelve hundred francs to live upon. What is to become of Raoul, alone with no relations or friends to assist him? My brother's last moments were embittered by anxiety for the welfare of his child."
"Really, monsieur----"
"Allow me to finish," interrupted Louis. "In that supreme hour Gaston opened his heart to me. He told me to apply to you. 'Valentine,' said he, 'Valentine will remember the past, and will not let our son want for anything; she is wealthy, she is just and generous; I die with my mind at rest.'"
Mme. Fauvel rose from her seat, and stood, evidently waiting for her visitor to retire.
"You must confess, monsieur," she said, "that I have shown great patience."
This imperturbable assurance amazed Louis.
"I do not deny," she continued, "that I at one time possessed the confidence of M. Gaston de Clameran. I will prove it by restoring to you your mother's jewels, with which he intrusted me on his departure."
While speaking she took from beneath the sofa-cushion the purse of jewels, and handed it to Louis.
"These jewels would have been given to the owner the instant they were called for, monsieur, and I am surprised that your brother never reclaimed them."
Louis betrayed his astonishment at the sight of the jewels. He tried to cover his embarrassment by boldly saying:
"I was told not to mention this sacred trust."
Mme. Fauvel, without making any reply, laid her hand on the bell-rope and quietly said:
"You will allow me to end this interview, monsieur, which was only granted for the purpose of placing in your hands these precious jewels."
Thus dismissed, M. de Clameran was obliged to take his leave without attaining his object.
"As you will, madame," he said, "I leave you; but before doing so I must tell you the rest of my brother's dying injunctions: 'If Valentine disregards the past, and refuses to provide for our son, I enjoin it upon you to compel her to do her duty.' Meditate upon these words, madame, for what I have sworn to do, upon my honor, shall be done!"
At last Mme. Fauvel was alone. She could give vent to her despair.
Exhausted at her efforts at self-restraint during the presence of Clameran, she felt weary and crushed in body and spirit.
She had scarcely strength to drag herself up to her chamber, and lock the door.
Now there was no room for doubt; her fears had become realities. She could fathom the abyss into which she was about to be hurled, and knew that in her fall she would drag her family with her.
God alone, in this hour of danger, could help her, could save her from destruction. She prayed.
"Oh, my God!" she cried, "punish me for my great sin, and I will evermore adore thy chastising hand! I have been a bad daughter, an unworthy mother, and a perfidious wife. Smite me, oh, God, and only me! In thy just anger spare the innocent, have pity upon my husband and my children!"
What were her twenty years of happiness compared to this hour of misery? A bitter remorse; nothing more. Ah, why did she listen to her mother? Why had she committed moral suicide?
Hope had fled; despair had come.
This man who had left her presence with a threat upon his lips would return to torture her now. How could she escape him?
To-day she had succeeded in subduing her heart and conscience; would she again have the strength to master her feelings?
She well knew that her calmness and courage were entirely due to the inaptness of Clameran.
Why did he not use entreaties instead of threats?
When Louis spoke of Raoul, she could scarcely conceal her emotion; her maternal heart yearned toward the innocent child who was expiating his mother's faults.
A chill of horror passed over her at the idea of his enduring the pangs of hunger.
Her child wanting bread, when she, his mother, was rolling in wealth!
Ah, why could she not lay all her possessions at his feet? With what delight would she undergo the greatest privations for his sake! If she could but send him enough money to support him comfortably!
But no; she could not take this step without compromising herself and her family.
Prudence forbade her acceptance of the intervention of Louis de Clameran.
To confide in him, was placing herself, and all she held dear, at his mercy--at the mercy of a man who inspired her with instinctive terror.
Then she began to ask herself if he had spoken the truth, or had trumped up this story to frighten her?
In thinking over Louis's story, it seemed improbable and disconnected.
If Gaston had been living in Paris, in the poverty described by his brother, why had he not demanded of the married woman the deposit intrusted to the maiden?
Why, when anxious about the future of their child, had he not come to her, if he had such confidence in her generosity? If he intrusted her on his death-bed, why had he not shown this trust while living?
A thousand vague apprehensions beset her mind; she felt suspicion and distrust of everyone and everything.
She was aware that the time had come for her to take a decisive step, and upon this step depended her whole future peace and happiness. If she once yielded, what would not be exacted of her in the future? She would certainly be made to suffer if she refused to yield. If she had only some wise friend to advise her!
For a moment she thought of throwing herself at her husband's feet and confessing all.
Unfortunately, she thrust aside this means of salvation. She pictured to herself the mortification and sorrow that her noble-hearted husband would suffer upon discovering, after a lapse of twenty years, how shamefully he had been deceived, how his confidence and love had been betrayed.
Having been once deceived, would he ever trust her again? Would he believe in her fidelity as a wife, when he discovered that she had uttered her marriage vows to love and honor him, when her heart was already given to another?
She knew Andre was too magnanimous to ever allude to her horrible fault, and would use every means to conceal it. But his domestic happiness would be gone forever. His chair at the fireside would be left empty; his sons would shun her presence, and every family bond would be severed.
Then again, would peace be preserved by her silence? Would not Clameran end by betraying her to Andre?
She thought of ending her doubts by suicide; but her death would not silence her implacable enemy, who, not being able to disgrace her while alive, would dishonor her memory.
Fortunately, the banker was still absent; and, during the two days succeeding Louis's visit, Mme. Fauvel could keep her room under pretence of sickness.
But Madeleine, with her feminine instinct, saw that her aunt was troubled by something worse than nervous headache, for which the physician was prescribing all sorts of remedies, with no beneficial effect.
She remembered that this sudden illness dated from the visit of the melancholy looking stranger, who had been closeted for a long time with her aunt.
Madeleine supposed something was weighing upon the miserable woman's mind, and the second day of her sickness ventured to say:
"What makes you so sad, dear aunt? If you will not tell me, do let me bring our good cure to see you."
With a sharpness foreign to her nature, which was gentleness itself, Mme. Fauvel refused to assent to her niece's proposition.
What Louis calculated upon happened.
After long reflection, not seeing any issue to her deplorable situation, Mme. Fauvel determined to yield.
By consenting to everything demanded of her, she had a chance of saving her husband from suffering and disgrace.
She well knew that to act thus was to prepare a life of torture for herself; but she alone would be the victim, and, at any rate, she would be gaining time. Heaven might at last interpose, and save her from ruin.
In the meantime, M. Fauvel had returned home, and Valentine resumed her accustomed duties.
But she was no longer the happy mother and devoted wife, whose smiling presence was wont to fill the house with sunshine and comfort. She was melancholy, anxious, and at times irritable.
Hearing nothing of Clameran, she expected to see him appear at any moment; trembling at every knock, and turning pale when a strange step was heard to enter, she dared not leave the house, for fear he should come during her absence.
Her agony was like that of a condemned man, who, each day as he wakes from his uneasy slumber, asks himself, "Am I to die to-day?"
Clameran did not come; he wrote, or rather, as he was too prudent to furnish arms which could be used against him, he had a note written, which Mme. Fauvel alone might understand, in which he said that he was quite ill, and unable to call upon her; and hoped she would be so good as to come to his room the next day; she had only to ask for 317, Hotel du Louvre.
The letter was almost a relief for Mme. Fauvel. Anything was preferable to suspense. She was ready to consent to everything.
She burned the letter, and said, "I shall go." The next day at the appointed hour, she dressed herself in a plain black silk, a large bonnet which concealed her face, and, putting a thick veil in her pocket to be used if she found it necessary, started forth.
After hurriedly walking several squares, she thought she might, without fear of being recognized, call a coach. In a few minutes she was set down at the Hotel du Louvre. Here her uneasiness increased. Her circle of acquaintances being large, she was in terror of being recognized. What would her friends think if they saw her at the Hotel du Louvre disguised in this old dress?
Anyone would naturally suspect an intrigue, a rendezvous; and her character would be ruined forever.
This was the first time since her marriage that she had had occasion for mystery; and her efforts to escape notice were in every way calculated to attract attention.
The porter said that the Marquis of Clameran's rooms were on the third floor.
She hurried up the stairs, glad to escape the scrutinizing glances of several men standing near; but, in spite of the minute directions given by the porter, she lost her way in one of the long corridors of the hotel.
Finally, after wandering about for some time, she found a door bearing the number sought--317.
She stood leaning against the wall with her hand pressed to her throbbing heart, which seemed bursting.
Now, at the moment of risking this decisive step, she felt paralyzed with fright. She would have given all she possessed to find herself safe in her own home.
The sight of a stranger entering the corridor ended her hesitation.
With a trembling hand she knocked at the door.
"Come in," said a voice from within.
She entered the room.
It was not the Marquis of Clameran who stood in the middle of the room, but a young man, almost a youth, who bowed to Mme. Fauvel with a singular expression on his handsome face.
Mme. Fauvel thought that she had mistaken the room.
"Excuse me, monsieur," she said, blushing deeply. "I thought that this was the Marquis of Clameran's room."
"It is his room, madame," replied the young man; then, seeing she was silent and about to leave, he added:
"I presume I have the honor of addressing Mme. Fauvel?"
She bowed affirmatively, shuddering at the sound of her own name, frightened at this proof of Clameran's betrayal of her secret to a stranger.
With visible anxiety she awaited an explanation.
"Reassure yourself, madame," said the young man: "you are as safe here as if you were in your own house. M. de Clameran desired me to make his excuses; he will not have the honor of seeing you to-day."
"But, monsieur, from an urgent letter sent by him yesterday, I was led to suppose--to infer--that he----"
"When he wrote to you, madame, he had projects in view which he has since renounced."
Mme. Fauvel was too agitated and troubled to think clearly. Beyond the present she could see nothing.
"Do you mean," she asked with distrust, "that he has changed his intentions?"
The young man's face was expressive of sad compassion, as if he shared the sufferings of the unhappy woman before him.
"The marquis has renounced," he said, in a melancholy tone, "what he wrongly considered a sacred duty. Believe me, he hesitated a long time before he could decide to apply to you on a subject painful to you both. When he began to explain his apparent intrusion upon your private affairs, you refused to hear him, and dismissed him with indignant contempt. He knew not what imperious reasons dictated your conduct. Blinded by unjust anger, he swore to obtain by threats what you refused to give voluntarily. Resolved to attack your domestic happiness, he had collected overwhelming proofs against you. Pardon him: an oath given to his dying brother bound him.
"These convincing proofs," he continued, as he tapped his finger on a bundle of papers which he had taken from the mantel, "this evidence that cannot be denied, I now hold in my hand. This is the certificate of the Rev. Dr. Sedley; this is the declaration of Mrs. Dobbin, the farmer's wife; and these others are the statements of the physician and of several persons of high social position who were acquainted with Mme. de la Verberie during her stay in London. Not a single link is missing. I had great difficulty in getting these papers away from M. de Clameran. Had he anticipated my intention of thus disposing of them, they would never have been surrendered to my keeping."
As he finished speaking, the young man threw the bundle of papers into the fire where they blazed up; and in a moment nothing remained of them but a little heap of ashes. "All is now destroyed, madame," he said, with a satisfied air. "The past, if you desire it, is as completely annihilated as those papers. If anyone, thereafter, dares accuse you of having had a son before your marriage, treat him as a vile calumniator. No proof against you can be produced; none exists. You are free."
Mme. Fauvel began to understand the sense of this scene; the truth dawned upon her bewildered mind.
This noble youth, who protected her from the anger of De Clameran, who restored her peace of mind and the exercise of her own free will, by destroying all proofs of her past, was, must be, the child whom she had abandoned: Valentin-Raoul.
In an instant, all was forgotten save the present. Maternal tenderness, so long restrained, now welled up and overflowed as with intense emotion she murmured:
"Raoul!"
At this name, uttered in so thrilling a tone, the youth started and tottered, as if overcome by an unhoped-for happiness.
"Yes, Raoul," he cried, "Raoul, who would a thousand times rather die than cause his mother a moment's pain; Raoul, who would shed his life's blood to spare her one tear."
She made no attempt to struggle against nature's yearnings; her longing to clasp to her heart this long-pined-for first-born must be gratified at all costs.
She opened her arms, and Raoul sprang forward with a cry of joy:
"Mother! my blessed mother! Thanks be to God for this first kiss!"
Alas! this was the sad truth. The deserted child had never been blest by a mother's kiss. This dear son whom she had never seen before, had been taken from her, despite her prayers and tears, without a mother's blessing, a mother's embrace. After twenty years waiting, should it be denied him now?
But joy so great, following upon so many contending emotions, was more than the excited mother could bear; sh