by Eugène Sue
“This refusal, painful as it must have been to you, monsieur, really had its origin in the noblest sentiments.”
“I agree with you, madame, and the generosity Florence evinced, as well as the firmness of character and brave resignation which she displayed, only increased the love which I had always felt for her even when we differed most; so, in the hope that reflection and the fear of a life of poverty might yet restore her to me, I protested more energetically than ever against a separation, even promising that I would endeavour to mould my tastes by hers, but she replied: ‘Such self-constraint as you propose to inflict upon yourself would transform you into a hypocrite. You have your own peculiar temperament; I have mine. All the resolutions and reasoning in the world will not change them any more than they would transform me into a brunette and you into a blond. The same incompatibility of temperament would still exist; besides, on no account will I consent to be an expense to you. If I loved you, it would be entirely different; so once more, and for the last time, I implore you to let us part as friends.’ I refused.”
“And yet you are separated you say?”
“The separation took place. Florence forced it upon me.”
“In what way?”
“Oh, in the simplest way in the world, and one that suited her indolent nature perfectly. Would you believe it, madame? for three whole months she never addressed a single word to me, or answered a single question I put to her. For three whole months, in short, she never once looked at me, or evinced the slightest consciousness of my existence. It is impossible to give you any conception of what I suffered, — the anger, despair, and positive fury which her mute obstinacy caused me. Prayers, tears, bribes, threats, none of these could extort so much as a word from her; one might as well have addressed them to a statue. Many a time, madame, it seemed to me that my brain would give way, and that I should go raving mad in the presence of this obdurate woman. My health became greatly impaired. A slow fever set in. This weakened my energy, and at last, convinced of the utter hopelessness of further resistance, I yielded.”
“Good Heavens, how you must have suffered! But you were right. To struggle longer against such odds would have been useless.”
“Consequently, I accepted the situation; but wishing to avoid scandal as much as possible, I consulted my lawyer. He informed me that one of the least objectionable grounds for a legal separation was an absolute refusal on the part of the wife to live with her husband; so Florence left my house and took up her abode in furnished apartments. I subsequently had the customary legal summons, demanding her return, served upon her. Her lawyer responded to it. The case was brought before the court, a decision was promptly rendered, and a legal separation was thus effected. My health had become so greatly impaired that my physicians thought a long journey my only chance of recovery. Before my departure, I gave one hundred thousand francs to my notary, charging him to compel my wife to accept the money. In case of refusal, he was to inform her that it would always be at her disposal; but this sum of money is still in his hands. I left France, hoping to find forgetfulness in travel. Far from it, I only realised, more deeply than ever, how much I missed my wife. I travelled through Egypt and Turkey, returning through the Illyrian provinces, and afterwards sailed from Venice for Cadiz, from which port I reëmbarked for Chili, where I met you, madame. After an extended tour through the West Indies, I sailed for Havre, where I landed only a few days ago. From inquiries concerning Florence, instituted as soon as I reached Paris, I learned that she was living on the Rue de Vaugirard. And yesterday when we met, I had just been endeavouring to obtain more definite information in relation to her, through a person who lives in the same house.”
“And did you succeed, monsieur?”
“She must be in very straitened circumstances financially, for she has only one room on the fourth floor, and keeps no servant. Besides, her conduct is irreproachable. I am told that she has never been known to receive a visitor, but from some strange whim, which seems doubly incomprehensible when I remember her former indolent habits and love of ease, she goes out every morning before four o’clock, and never returns until midnight.”
“Exactly like Michel!” exclaimed Valentine, unable to conceal her surprise and growing uneasiness. “How strange!”
“What do you mean, madame?”
“Why, yesterday, I discovered that M. Michel Renaud lives on the fourth floor, in Number 57, and that, like Florence, he goes out at four o’clock every morning, and never returns before midnight.”
“What can this mean?” exclaimed M. de Luceval. “Michel and my wife living on the same floor in adjoining houses, and going out and returning home at the same hour?”
“Does Florence know Michel?”
“M. Renaud is my cousin, and now I think of it, shortly after you left Paris, madame, he came and asked me to introduce him to my wife, upon whom he afterwards called a number of times. But now I think of it, you must know M. Michel Renaud very well yourself, as you feel sufficient interest in him to follow him.”
“I will tell you all, monsieur,” replied Valentine, blushing, “for I am as deeply interested in solving this mystery as you can possibly be.”
“Ah, madame,” exclaimed M. de Luceval, gloomily, “more than once, during my long absence, I experienced all the tortures of jealousy when I thought of Florence, free! Free! oh, no, in spite of our separation, the law gives me the right to avenge the wrong, if the woman who still bears my name is guilty, and this man — this man! Oh, if I were sure of his guilt, I would challenge him before another hour had passed, and either he or I—”
“Pray calm yourself, monsieur,” said Madame d’Infreville, “strange as all this seems, there is really nothing that implicates Florence in the least. This morning she left home at the same hour Michel did, it is true; but though it was still dark, and the street was deserted, they did not exchange a single word, and held themselves sedulously aloof from each other.”
“Still they leave home and return at the same hour! Where do they go? How do they spend all this time? They undoubtedly meet each other, but where?”
“We will solve this mystery. We must and shall. I am as anxious to do it as you can possibly be; and in order that you may understand the cause of this deep anxiety on my part, I will tell you as briefly as possible what my life has been since the day you saw me overwhelmed with shame under M. d’Infreville’s just reproaches.”
CHAPTER XIV.
VALENTINE’S STORY.
AFTER A BRIEF silence, caused by her embarrassment and confusion, Madame d’Infreville, recovering her courage, said:
“When the falsehood, to which Florence’s affection for me had made her a willing accomplice, was discovered in your presence, four years ago, my husband, on leaving your house, took me to his home. I found my mother there.
“‘We shall leave Paris in an hour in company with your mother, madame,’ M. d’Infreville said to me. ‘I shall take you to one of my farms in Poitou, where you will live henceforth with your mother. If you refuse, I shall apply for a divorce, and make your disgrace public. I have abundant proof of it in the shape of two or three very significant letters which I found in your desk. If you give me the slightest trouble, I will prosecute you for adultery: I will drag you and your lover into the courts, and you shall be forced to drink the cup of degradation to the dregs. You will be sent to prison with the lowest of your sex, and your mother shall be turned into the street to starve. If you wish to escape all this, leave for Poitou without a word. It is not from any feeling of generosity or compassion that I make you this offer, but simply because I dislike the public scandal such a trial is sure to create, but if you refuse I will brave this scandal and ridicule. The infamy with which it will cover you will console me for that.’”
“I do not wonder that your husband felt very bitter resentment towards you,” exclaimed M. de Luceval, “but such language was atrocious.”
“I was compelled to listen to it, nevertheless, monsieur, an
d also to accept his terms. I was guilty, and I had an invalid mother, who was very poor. We started that same night for Poitou, where my husband left me. The farmhouse in which we lived — my mother and I — stood in the middle of a forest, beyond the boundaries of which we were never allowed to go. I spent eighteen months in this prison, without being permitted to write a single letter or hold the slightest communication with the outer world. At the end of that time death set me free, I was a widow. M. d’Infreville, justly incensed against me, had not left me a sou, and my mother and I became terribly poor. I could not earn enough to support my mother in any sort of comfort with my needle, and, after a long struggle with poverty, she, too, died.”
Here Valentine’s emotion overcame her, and she was obliged to pause for a moment; then, drying her tears, she continued:
“As soon as we returned to Paris, I made inquiries about Florence. I could learn nothing definite, but hearing that you had left on an extended journey through foreign lands, I thought it probable that your wife had accompanied you. A short time afterwards, when hope had almost deserted me, I had the good fortune to meet one of my old schoolmates, who offered me the position of governess in the family of her sister, whose husband had just been appointed consul at Valparaiso. It is needless to say that this offer was gladly accepted, and I sailed with the family the following week. It was while returning with them from a trip to the north of Chili that I met you, monsieur. Shortly after my return to Valparaiso, I received letters from Europe informing me that a distant relative of my father, an old lady I had never even seen, had died and left me a modest fortune. I returned to France to claim it, and landed in Bordeaux only ten days ago. Now, monsieur, there is another confession I have to make, — one that is very embarrassing to me, but the frankness you have displayed makes it incumbent upon me.”
And after a moment of painful embarrassment, Valentine, lowering her eyes, and blushing deeply, added:
“My companion in — in wrong doing — was — was your cousin, Michel Renaud.”
“Some words that escaped you a short time ago led me to suspect as much, madame.”
“I loved Michel, I loved him dearly, and this love has survived all the terrible trials I have undergone. The pleasant excitement of travel through an entirely new country served to divert my mind for a time from this foolish passion, and to alleviate my sufferings to some extent; but my affection for Michel is as profound now as it was four years ago, consequently you can realise how thoroughly I must understand and sympathise with your regret and chagrin, and how fully I must appreciate what you said yesterday about the inexplicable charm which characters that are diametrically opposed to our own exert over us.”
“It is true, madame, that my somewhat limited acquaintance with my cousin, as well as everything I have ever heard about him, convinces me that he is one of the most indolent persons that ever lived. In fact, in the early days of my married life I used to try to make Florence ashamed of her indolence by holding Michel up to ridicule.”
“I know them both well, monsieur, and it is impossible to conceive of two persons nearer alike.”
“And it is this very fact that attracted them to each other, probably, though I saw nothing in my wife’s conduct to excite the slightest suspicion. But they love each other now, madame, they love each other, I am positive of it. My natural jealousy does not deceive me.”
“Perhaps I ought to share your misgivings, monsieur, but I do not. I still doubt the justice of your suspicions, for if I believed that Michel had forgotten me, I certainly should not make any effort to see him again. But permit me to remind you, monsieur, that both Florence and Michel are free, perfectly free. Is she not legally divorced from you? What right have you to interfere with her actions?”
“The right of revenge.”
“And what good will this revenge do you? If they love each other, persecution will only increase their love, without improving your chances in the least! No, no, you are too generous to wish to return evil for evil.”
“But I have suffered so much, madame.”
“I, too, have suffered, and perhaps even greater trials are in store for me; yet I would rather die than mar Michel’s and Florence’s happiness, if I knew for a certainty that they were happy.”
“I cannot boast of an equal amount of resignation, madame. If I find that they love each other I will kill this man or he will kill me!”
“If I thought you capable of persisting in this resolve, I tell you frankly that I should immediately warn Florence and Michel of the danger that threatens them.”
“You are wonderfully generous, madame!” retorted M. de Luceval, bitterly.
“And you, too, are generous, monsieur, when your resentment does not get the upper hand of you. Yes, you, too, are generous. I need no other proof than the touching solicitude which you manifested for Florence’s welfare before your departure from France.”
“That was a lamentable display of weakness on my part. Things are very different now.”
“All I can say, monsieur, is that if you hope to find in me an accomplice in the perpetration of a futile and wicked act of vengeance, we will end this interview here and now. If, on the contrary, you are desirous of discovering the truth in order that you may know whether you have or have not any reason to hope, you can count upon me, for, by aiding each other, we are almost certain to discover the truth with very little delay.”
“And if the truth should prove to be that they love each other—”
“Before we go any further, monsieur, give me your word as a man of honour that, however painful the discovery may prove to be, you will renounce all idea of vengeance and even of seeing Florence again.”
“Never, madame, never!”
“So be it, monsieur,” said Valentine, rising. “In that case we will proceed, henceforth, entirely independent of each other—”
“But, madame—”
“You are perfectly free, of course, to act as you see fit in the matter—”
“But pray, madame—”
“It is useless to say any more on the subject, monsieur.”
CHAPTER XV.
TIDINGS FROM FLORENCE.
MONSIEUR DE LUCEVAL was silent for a moment. A fierce struggle between jealousy, his natural curiosity, and his fear that Madame d’Infreville might warn Florence as she had threatened, was going on in his breast. At last his better nature, aided a little perhaps by this last consideration, triumphed, and he replied:
“You have my promise, madame.”
“Thank you, thank you, monsieur. A presentiment tells me that this good resolution will bring us happiness. Besides, reasoning entirely from what we now know—”
“Good Heavens, madame, I should be only too thankful to be able to hope!”
“And I think we have good reason to hope. In the first place, if Michel and Florence loved each other, — it is useless to mince words, — if they were lovers, there is nothing to prevent them from living as man and wife in some quiet country village, or even here in Paris, the place of all others in which one can live in seclusion, and according to one’s liking.”
“But these adjoining apartments, is it not more than likely that they communicate with each other?”
“But what possible object could there be in this secrecy, — these precautions so utterly foreign to Michel’s and Florence’s character?”
“Why, to prevent scandal, madame.”
“But if they changed their names and declared themselves man and wife, how could there be any scandal? Who would discover the truth? Who would have any interest in ferreting it out?”
“Why, sooner or later, you or I, madame.”
“All the more reason that they would have changed their names if they had felt that they had anything to fear, for so long as they kept their names, was it not comparatively easy to find out their whereabouts, as we have discovered for ourselves? Besides, monsieur, if they had wished to conceal themselves effectually, couldn’t they have done it ju
st as easily as they have managed to conceal the greater part of their existence, — for they spend most of the time away from home, you know.”
“And it is that very thing that puzzles me so! Where do they spend this time? Where were they going this morning? Florence, who could seldom be induced to leave her bed by noon, has been getting up before four o’clock in the morning for four years. Think of it!”
“And Michel, too. It is certainly astonishing.”
“To what can we attribute this change?”
“I do not know, but the change itself is a very favourable indication. It leads me to think that Michel has at last overcome the apathy and indolence which were so fatal to his welfare, and which have caused me so much suffering.”
“You reason very sensibly, madame. If Florence is no longer the indolent creature who regarded a drive as entirely too fatiguing, and the slightest pleasure trip as positive martyrdom, if the life of privation which she has led for the last four years has transformed her, how gladly will I forget and ignore the past! How happy my life may still be! But, hold, madame, what I fear above all things now, is that I shall be such a fool as to hope at all.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You have some reason to hope, madame; for you, at least, have been loved, while Florence has never known a spark of love for me.”
“Because there was such an utter lack of congeniality between her character and yours; but if, as we have good reason to believe, her character has been transformed by the very exigencies of the life she has been leading for the last four years, perhaps what she most disliked in you prior to that time will please her most now. Did she not tell you, in the heat of your quarrel, that she considered you one of the most generous and honourable of men?”
