by Eugène Sue
Then the two, without addressing so much as a word to each other, started down the street, — he on the left side, she on the right.
About half an hour before Michel Renaud left his dwelling, a cab stopped a short distance from Number 57. A lady, enveloped in a long pelisse, was in this cab. She had said to the coachman:
“When you see a gentleman come out of that house, you are to follow him until I tell you to stop.”
The coachman, thanks to the light of his carriage lamps, saw Michel leave the house, and at once started his horse down the middle of the street at a walk. The occupant of the cab kept her eyes riveted on Michel, and thus, engrossed in the movements on the left side of the street, did not even see Madame de Luceval, who was on the opposite pavement.
But Madame de Luceval had scarcely closed the door of her house behind her when a man wrapped in a long cloak came rushing down the street, as if afraid of being too late for something.
This man had consequently failed to hear the signal exchanged between Florence and Michel, nor could he even see the latter, concealed as he was by the cab that was moving slowly down the street.
So the man in the cloak began to follow Madame de Luceval, while the lady in the cab did not once take her eyes off Michel.
CHAPTER XII.
A VAIN PURSUIT.
MICHEL AND FLORENCE, engrossed in each other, though separated by the width of the street, paid no attention to the cab which was moving slowly along in the same direction, it being a very common occurrence to see such vehicles returning to the stable at that time in the morning.
As the two neighbours reached the corner of the Rue de Tournon, they met a crowd of huckster wagons on their way to the market, and the lady in the cab finding her progress thus impeded, and fearing she would lose sight of the person she was following, ordered the driver to open the door, paid him, alighted, and hastened on after Michel. She was half way down the Rue de Tournon, when she noticed, for the first time, a man wrapped in a cloak, walking only a short distance ahead of her. At first this discovery did not disturb her, but subsequently, perceiving by the light of a street lamp that a woman was walking a few yards in advance of this man, and that this woman was pursuing the same route as Michel Renaud, she began to think this very singular, and afterwards her attention was naturally divided between Michel, Madame de Luceval, and the man who was a short distance behind that lady.
Michel and Florence, whose heads were well muffled up as a protection from the cold, had, as yet, no suspicion that they were being followed, and walked briskly on towards the little square at the end of the Rue Dauphine. The man in the cloak, who had been too much absorbed hitherto to take much notice of what was going on around him, now observed for the first time that a woman was following a man on the side of the street opposite to that on which he was following Florence, and great was his surprise when, as this woman passed the lighted windows of a liquor shop, he fancied he recognised in her the same lady whom he had escorted to the corner of the Rue de Rivoli the previous afternoon, and whom he had met months before in one of the mountain passes of Chili.
The woman’s tall stature and lithe tread, as well as her mourning garb, corroborated these suspicions, and the fact of this double pursuit, after their interview of the day before, was too extraordinary for the man not to desire to solve this mystery at once, so, without losing sight of Florence, he hastily crossed the street, and, approaching the mysterious lady, said:
“One word, madame, if you please—”
“You, monsieur!” the lady exclaimed, “is it you?”
Both stood for an instant as if petrified.
The man was the first to recover himself.
“Madame, after what has occurred, and for our mutual benefit, we must have a full explanation at once,” he exclaimed, hastily.
“I think so, too, monsieur.”
“Very well, then, madame. I—”
“Take care! Look out for that wagon!” exclaimed the lady, pointing to a big milk wagon that was tearing down the street, almost grazing the gutter in which the man in the cloak had stopped.
He sprang aside quickly, but, in the meantime, Florence and Michel had reached the square, and disappeared from sight, thanks to the progress they had made during this short colloquy between their pursuers.
The woman, noting Michel’s disappearance, exclaimed, in accents of intense dismay:
“I don’t see him any longer! I have lost him!”
These words reminded her companion of the pursuit he, too, had momentarily forgotten, and he, too, turned quickly, but could see nothing of Florence.
“Let us hasten on to the square, madame; perhaps we can overtake them. Here, take my arm.”
“No, no, monsieur, let us run, let us run,” cried the young woman.
So both ran towards the square at the top of their speed, but when they reached it they did not see a living soul in either of the four or five narrow streets that diverged from it. Realising how utterly useless it would be to extend their search further, the two stood for a moment in silence, resting after their run, and again thinking, perhaps, of the singular rapprochement between their destinies.
“Really, madame, it makes me wonder whether I am awake or dreaming,” exclaimed the man in the cloak at last.
“What you say is perfectly true, monsieur. I really cannot believe what I see with my own eyes,” replied the lady.
“I feel, madame, that what has happened to us to-day is so inexplicable that our mutual reserve should be maintained no longer.”
“I agree with you, perfectly, monsieur. Will you give me your arm? I am nearly frozen, and what with the surprise and excitement, I am feeling far from well, but my indisposition will pass off if I walk a little way, I think.”
“Which way shall we go, madame?”
“It doesn’t matter in the least, — towards the Pont Neuf, perhaps.”
As they walked slowly on, the following conversation took place:
“I feel it obligatory upon me to first tell you my name, monsieur,” remarked the lady. “It is not a matter of much consequence, perhaps, but you ought to know who I am. I am a widow, and my name is Valentine d’Infreville.”
“Good God!” exclaimed the man in the cloak, stopping short in his astonishment. “You Madame d’Infreville?”
“Why do you evince such astonishment, monsieur? My name is not unknown to you.”
“After all,” remarked the man, recovering from the amazement this announcement had caused, “it is not surprising that I did not recognise you either here or in Chili, madame, for the first time I saw you, four years ago, I could not distinguish your features; besides, the indignation I felt—”
“What do you mean, monsieur? Do you mean that you had seen me before our meeting in Chili?”
“Yes, madame.”
“And where?”
“I scarcely dare to remind you.”
“In whose house did you meet me, tell me, monsieur?”
“In my wife’s house.”
“Your wife’s?”
“In the house of Madame de Luceval.”
“What! You are — ?”
“M. de Luceval.”
Valentine d’Infreville stood as if petrified in her turn by this allusion which awakened so many painful memories; but, after a moment, she said, in tones of profound sadness:
“You speak the truth, monsieur. The first and only time we met at Madame de Luceval’s it must have been as impossible for you to distinguish my features as it was for me to distinguish yours. Overcome with shame, I concealed my face, and, even now,” she added, turning away her head as if to escape M. de Luceval’s gaze, “I thank Heaven that it is dark.”
“Believe me, madame, it is with deep regret that I remind you of a scene that was so distressing to you, and to myself as well, for, influenced by M. d’Infreville, I—”
But Valentine, interrupting him, inquired, with mingled curiosity, uneasiness, and tender interest:
/> “And Florence; where is she?”
“It was Florence that I was following just now.”
“What! That woman was—”
“Madame de Luceval; yes.”
“But why were you following her?”
“You are not aware, then—”
“Speak, monsieur, speak!”
“That my wife and I have separated,” replied M. de Luceval, smothering a sigh.
“But where does Florence live?”
“On the Rue de Vaugirard.”
“Great Heavens! How strange!” exclaimed Valentine, starting violently.
“What is the matter, madame?”
“Florence lives in the Rue de Vaugirard, you say. At what number?”
“Number 59.”
“And Michel lives at Number 57!” exclaimed Valentine.
“Michel!” exclaimed M. de Luceval, in his turn. “Michel Renaud?”
“Yes, your cousin. He has a room on the fourth floor, at Number 57. I had just satisfied myself of that fact yesterday when I met you.”
“And my wife lives on the same floor in the adjoining house,” said M. de Luceval.
Then, feeling Valentine’s arm tremble convulsively, he added:
“What is the matter, madame? Are you faint?”
“Pardon me, monsieur, — but it — it is the cold, I think, — that — that makes me feel so strangely. I can scarcely stand, — and my head seems to be going around and around.”
“Have a little courage, madame. Let us try to reach that shop there at the corner of the quay.”
“I’ll try, monsieur,” replied Valentine, faintly.
She did manage to drag herself to the store designated, which proved to be a grocery store. There was a woman behind the counter, the wife of the proprietor, and she took Madame d’Infreville into a room back of the store, and gave her every possible attention.
An hour afterwards, when daylight had come, a carriage was sent for, and M. de Luceval took Madame d’Infreville to her home.
CHAPTER XIII.
TRAVEL UNDER DIFFICULTIES.
THE EVENTS OF the morning had upset Madame d’Infreville so completely, and she felt so incapable of coherent thought, that she asked M. de Luceval to return that evening at eight o’clock, so she could have a full explanation with him; so at eight o’clock M. de Luceval sent up his card to Valentine, who had taken a suite of furnished rooms on the Chaussée d’Antin.
“How are you feeling this evening, madame?” he inquired, with great interest, when he was admitted into that lady’s presence.
“Better, much better, monsieur, and I sincerely trust you will pardon my absurd weakness this morning.”
“Was it not very natural, madame, after so many startling revelations and occurrences?”
“Possibly, monsieur; at all events, I felt so bewildered that I was obliged to ask you to return this evening, that we might have the explanation which is now indispensable.”
“I am at your service, madame.”
“Will you first permit me to ask you a few questions. I will afterwards answer yours. You told me that you and Florence were divorced, did you not? I was not aware of it before.”
“That is not strange, for since that unfortunate evening when I met you in my house, neither my wife nor I have heard anything in relation to you.”
“I will tell you why, monsieur.”
“I must first explain that, after the terrible scene in which you and M. d’Infreville, and my wife and I, took part, I very naturally felt deeply incensed with you. After your departure, Florence and I had a violent quarrel. She declared that she would not live with me any longer, and that she intended to make her home with you and your mother, that is, of course, if you and M. d’Infreville separated.”
“Did Florence really intend to do that?”
“Yes, madame, for she always seemed to feel the tenderest affection for you. As you may suppose, I told her that such an idea was madness; but she, nevertheless, declared that she should leave me, whether or no. I shrugged my shoulders, but the separation took place, nevertheless.”
“Such firmness of will on Florence’s part surprises me very much; it accords so little with her habitual indolence.”
“Ah, madame, how little you know her! How little I knew her myself! You have no idea how the inertia of such a character makes itself felt. Prior to the scene in which you were a participant, my wife and I had had a slight disagreement. As I have told you, I have a passion for travel. It was the desire of my life to make Florence share this fondness, for I was very much in love with her, and to explore foreign lands in company with a beloved wife was my ideal of happiness. But Florence, with her incurable indolence, would not listen to the idea for a moment. I was wrong, undoubtedly; I realise it now that it is too late. I treated her too much as if she were a child and I the master; and though I loved her to idolatry, I thought her best interests and my dignity demanded that I should be imperious and severe; besides, — shall I confess it? — nervous, quick-tempered, and energetic as I am, her mocking indifference drove me almost crazy. The day after I met you in her room, she went to your house, but your servants told her that you had left in the night with your mother and M. d’Infreville. As time passed, and she could discover no clue to your whereabouts, her chagrin and grief became intense. I pitied her so much that for some time I said nothing about a journey I had contemplated for many months, but finally, resolved to overcome my wife’s opposition on this subject, I announced my intention of visiting Switzerland. I anticipated a lively resistance on her part, but I was wrong.”
“She consented?”
“‘You insist upon my travelling,’ she said to me. ‘So be it. You have a right to do so, you claim. Very well, try it,’ she added, with a most nonchalant air, ‘but I warn you that you will bring me back to Paris within a week.’”
“And within a week, monsieur — ?”
“I had brought her back to Paris.”
“But how did she manage to compel you to do so?”
“In the simplest way in the world,” said M. de Luceval, bitterly. “We started. At our first stopping-place — I forgot to tell you that we did not start until nine in the morning, so she would not be obliged to rise too early—”
“Well?”
“She remained in bed forty-eight hours on the pretext that she was overcome with fatigue, remarking to me with an insolent calmness that exasperated me beyond measure, ‘The law gives you the right to compel me to accompany you, but the law does not limit the hours I am to remain in bed.’ What could one say in reply to this? Besides, how was one to while away forty-eight hours in a dingy inn? Picture, if you can, madame, my wrath and impatience all that time, unable to extort another word from my wife. Nevertheless, I would not yield. ‘I can stand it as long as she can,’ I said to myself; ‘she loves her comfort, and two or three such sojourns in dingy post-stations will cure her of her obstinacy.’”
“And were these expectations on your part realised?”
“I will tell you, madame. At the end of these two days, we set out again, and about three o’clock in the afternoon we stopped in a miserable little village for fresh horses. The road had been rather dusty, and Florence got out of the carriage and ordered her maid to come and brush the dust out of her hair. My wife was conducted to a dingy room. The bed was so untidy and uninviting that she would not lie down on it, so she made them bring in an old armchair. She established herself in that, declaring that, as she was even more fatigued this time, she would not stir out of that room for four days. I thought she was jesting, but such, alas! was not the case.”
“What, monsieur, do you really mean that for four days—”
“I did not lose courage until the end of the third day. Then I could stand it no longer! Three days, madame, three whole days in that dingy hole, trying in vain to devise some means of overcoming my wife’s resistance. To resort to force, and pick her up and put her in the carriage was out of the question. What a
scandal it would create! Besides, the same thing would undoubtedly have to be done over again at the next post-station. Threats and entreaties proved equally futile! And we started back to Paris exactly six days after we left it. Bad news awaited us. My wife’s entire fortune had been left in the hands of her guardian, a well-known banker. He had failed and fled the country. I experienced a feeling of secret joy. Deprived of her fortune, my wife, finding herself entirely dependent upon me, would perhaps be more tractable.”
“I know Florence, monsieur, and unless I am very much deceived, you were disappointed in your expectations.”
“That is only too true, madame. On hearing of her loss of fortune, Florence, far from manifesting any regret, seemed much pleased. Her first words were:
“‘I hope you will no longer refuse to consent to a separation now.’
“‘Less than ever,’ I replied; ‘for I pity you, and cannot bear the thought of your being exposed to want.’
“‘Before I lost my property,’ she replied, ‘I was rather loath to leave you, for I have given up all hope of finding Valentine. That being the case, I was fairly content to live on quietly after my own fashion; but now, every hour spent in this house is torture to me, and I will endure it no longer, so consent to give me back my freedom, and accept your own.’
“‘But how will you live, — you who have all your life been accustomed to ease and luxury?’
“‘I asked for ten thousand francs of my dowry when I married,’ she answered. ‘Part of this sum is still in my possession, and it will suffice.’
“‘But this small amount spent, what will you live on?’
“‘That is a matter which does not concern you in the least,’ she retorted.
“‘On the contrary, it does concern me to such an extent that I shall save you in spite of yourself, for whatever you may do, I will never consent to a separation.’
“‘Listen, monsieur,’ she said, earnestly; ‘your intentions are most generous, and I thank you for them. You have many very excellent traits. You are the most honourable man that ever lived, but our characters, dispositions, and tastes are, and always will be, so entirely incompatible that life would soon become intolerable to both of us. Besides, this is a matter for me to decide, for, having lost my fortune, I should be a burden to you, pecuniarily. Understand then, once for all, that there is no power on earth that can force me to live with you under such conditions. I consequently beseech you to let us part quietly and amicably.’”
