by Eugène Sue
“What do you mean?” asked Valentine, looking at her friend with astonishment, and colouring slightly. “Really, Florence, you must be mad.”
“I am mad — with happiness. But come, Valentine, let us be as frank with each other now as we have always been in the past. There is a name that you have been impatient and yet afraid to utter ever since your arrival. It is Michel’s name.”
“You are right, Florence.”
“Well, Valentine, to set your mind at rest, once for all, I beg leave to inform you that Michel is not, and never has been, my lover.”
A gleam of hope shone in Valentine’s eyes, but an instant afterwards she exclaimed, incredulously:
“But, Florence—”
“You know me. I have never lied to any one in my life. Why should I deceive you? Is not Michel free? Am I not free, also? I repeat that he is not, and that he never has been, my lover. I do not know what may happen in the future, but I am telling you the truth about the present as well as the past. Is it possible, Valentine, that you, who are delicacy itself, do not understand that if I was, or if I had been, Michel’s mistress, nothing could be more painful and embarrassing to both you and me than this interview, to which I, at least, have looked forward with such delight?”
“Ah, now I can breathe freely again!” cried Valentine, springing up and embracing her friend effusively. “In spite of the joy I felt at seeing you again, I was conscious of such a dreadful feeling of constraint. I am relieved of a terrible anxiety now.”
“A just punishment for having doubted me, my dear. But you ask me to be frank, so I will add that, though Michel and I are not lovers, we adore each other, as much, at least, as two such indolent creatures as ourselves can adore any one.”
“So Michel loves me no longer,” said Madame d’Infreville, looking searchingly at Florence. “He has forgotten me entirely, then?”
“I think the best way to answer that question is to tell you our story, and—”
“Good Heavens! what was that?” exclaimed Valentine, interrupting her friend.
“What do you mean?” asked Florence, turning her head in the direction in which her friend was looking. “What did you hear?”
“Listen.”
The two friends listened breathlessly for several seconds, but the profound stillness was broken by no sound.
“I must have been mistaken, but I thought I heard a crackling sound in the shrubbery.”
“It was the wind swaying the branches of that old cedar you see over there. Did you never notice what a peculiar sound evergreens make when the wind blows?” responded Florence, carelessly. Then she added: “And now I have explained this strange phenomenon, Valentine, listen to Michel’s story and mine.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE STRONGEST OF INCENTIVES.
MADAME D’INFREVILLE, RECOVERING from the alarm she had felt for a moment, again turned to her friend, and said:
“Go on, Florence, I need not tell you with what curiosity, or rather with what intense interest, I am waiting.”
“Ah, well then, my dear Valentine, one thing my husband cannot have told you, as he was not aware of the fact, is that I received a letter from Michel two days after your departure.”
“And the object of this letter?”
“Knowing that you intended asking me to write a note to you conveying the impression that we had been spending a good deal of time together, Michel, hearing nothing from you, naturally became very uneasy, and, discovering you had left Paris in company with your mother, was anxious to ascertain where you had gone.”
“Indeed. So my disappearance really disturbed him to that extent?” said Valentine, with mingled bitterness and incredulity.
“Yes, it did, and thinking I might be able to give him some information on the subject, he wrote asking permission to call on me, which, as he was my husband’s cousin, seemed so natural that I consented.”
“But your husband?”
“Oh, he, being ignorant that Michel was the object of the passion which had been your ruin, made no objection.”
“Yes; M. de Luceval was not aware of that fact until I told him.”
“So Michel called, and I told him of the distressing scene that I had witnessed. His grief touched me, and we both resolved to make every possible effort to find you; a resolution which, on his part, at least, showed no little courage, for you can understand what all this prospective trouble and effort meant to a nature like his; nevertheless—”
“Well?”
“Nevertheless, he exclaimed, naïvely: ‘Ah, whether I find her or not, this is the last love affair I ever intend to have!’ A feeling which corresponded exactly with that which I once expressed to you in relation to the misery of having a lover, so I must say that I considered this resolve a mark of good sense on his part, though I encouraged him in his determination to find you if possible.”
“And did he really make any efforts in that direction?”
“He did, with an energy that amazed me. He kept me fully advised of his progress, but, unfortunately, the precautions your husband had taken rendered all our efforts unavailing; besides, neither of us received any letter or message from you.”
“Alas! Florence, no prisoner on a desert island was ever more completely isolated than I. Surrounded by M. d’Infreville’s devoted henchmen, the sending of any letter was an impossibility.”
“Well, at last we were compelled to abandon all hope of finding you.”
“But while you two were thus occupied, you saw Michel quite often, doubtless.”
“Necessarily.”
“And what did you think of him?”
“If I said all the nice things I think of him, I should feel that I was sounding my own praises very loudly, for every day I became more and more amazed at the marvellous resemblance which existed between his character, ideas, and tastes and my own. Still, as I was never particularly modest so far as my own virtues and attractions are concerned, I frankly admit that I thought we were both charming.”
“It was about this time that you became so firmly resolved to separate from your husband, was it not?”
“Fie, fie!” exclaimed Florence, shaking her finger at her friend. “No, madame, the real cause of such a determination on my part was something entirely different. Michel and I were both so faithful to our true characters, that in speaking of you, and consequently in speaking of all the tumults and commotions and worries and agitation which such liaisons always cause, we always said to each other in perfect good faith:
“‘This is what love leads to, you see, monsieur. One knows no peace, but lives ever on the qui vive, with one eye and ear to the keyhole, so to speak.’
“‘And there are bothersome duels with all their attendant scandals, madame.’
“‘And all the tortures of jealousy, monsieur, and drives in rickety cabs in which one is jostled about until one’s bones positively ache.’
“‘Yes, all this trouble and fatigue, and for what, madame?’
“‘You are right, monsieur. I, too, ask for what?’
“In short, if any one could have listened to our moral reflections on this subject, he would have been vastly amused. At last came the time when M. de Luceval attempted to force me to travel against my will, but he finally abandoned that idea.”
“Yes, he told me the means you adopted to circumvent him. They were peculiar, but certainly very efficacious.”
“What I most desired at that time was repose, both mental and physical, for though my husband had acted very brutally towards me in that scene about your letter, my poor Valentine, — so brutally, in fact, that I had threatened to leave him, — I changed my mind after reflecting on the subject, for I couldn’t bear the idea of living alone, that is to say, of having to attend to the thousand and one things my husband or my agent had always attended to for me; so I confined my demands to the following: I was never to be asked to travel, though I intended to encourage my husband to do so as often as possible, so I wouldn’t
be continually worried by his restlessness.”
“And so you could see Michel whenever you pleased, I suppose.”
“Of course, and without the slightest bother or secrecy, — without any concealment, in short, for there was really nothing in our relations to conceal.”
“But your determination to separate from your husband, at least so he told me, was ostensibly due to your loss of fortune. Was that the real cause?”
“Yes. You see, Valentine, I could not bear the idea of being henceforth in my husband’s power, — of accepting wages from him, so to speak! No; I remembered too well the humiliation you, a penniless girl, had suffered from having married a rich man, and the mere thought of such a life was revolting alike to my delicacy and my natural indolence.”
“Your indolence? What on earth do you mean, Florence? Did not a separation from your husband necessitate the renunciation of the wealth and luxury that would permit you to lead a life of ease?”
“But you forget, Valentine, that if I accepted M. de Luceval’s wages, — if I remained in his employ, in other words, — I would be obliged to sacrifice my tastes to his, to plunge into the feverish maelstrom of society, in which he delighted, — to go to the Caucasus with him, in short, if the whim seized him, and I preferred death to a life like that.”
“But your husband loved you so, why did you not endeavour to make him sacrifice his wishes and tastes to yours?”
“He loved me, oh, yes, he loved me as I love strawberries, — to eat them. Besides, I knew him too well; he could no more change his character than I could change mine, and our life would have become a hell. It was much better for us to part at once.”
“Did you inform Michel of your determination?”
“Yes, and he approved unreservedly. It was about this time that we first formed some vague plans for the future, — plans which were always subordinate to you, however.”
“To me?”
“Yes, certainly. Michel knew his duty, and would have done it, if we had succeeded in finding you. While he was making a final attempt in that direction, I, on my side, was endeavouring to secure the separation I desired. At the end of four months I was legally divorced from M. de Luceval, and he started on his travels. Then, and not until then, did I see Michel again, as I had requested him to cease his visits until I was free. Neither of us had anything from you, so, being forced to renounce all hope of seeing you again, we began to consider our plans for the future. I alluded a short time ago, my dear Valentine, to the prodigies indolence can achieve; I will tell you some of them.
“The point of departure that we took, or, rather, our declaration of principles was this,” said Florence, with the most solemn but comical air imaginable: “‘We have but one desire and object in life, — perfect rest and peace of mind and body, — all mental and physical effort being positively restricted to dreaming, reading, talking, and gazing at the heavens, the trees, the streams, the fields and mountains that God has made; to keeping cool in summer, and warm in winter. We are too devoutly idle to be ambitious, vain, or avaricious, to desire the burden of sumptuous living or the fatigue and excitement of a gay social life. The requisites for the life of indolence of which we dream are a small house that is warm in winter and cool in summer, a nice garden, and a few comfortable armchairs, hammocks, and couches, several pleasing views within our range of vision so we shall not be obliged to take the trouble to go in search of them, an equable climate, frugal fare, — neither of us are gourmands, — and a servant. It is also essential that the means to lead such a life may be assured beyond the shadow of a doubt, so we may never be troubled by any anxiety in regard to pecuniary matters.’ How were these ambitions to be realised? Prodigies of courage and industry must be performed to bring about this much desired consummation. Listen and admire, my dear Valentine.”
“I am listening, Florence, and I am beginning to admire, too, for it seems to me I divine everything now.”
“Oh, do not do that, I beg of you; let me have the pleasure of surprising you. Well, to resume my story, Michel’s old nurse was a Provençale, a native of Hyères. She often spoke of the beauty of her native province, where one could live upon almost nothing, as she declared, often asserting that ten or twelve thousand francs would purchase a pretty little cottage on the coast, with a fine orange grove. One of Michel’s friends had just gone to Hyères for his health; we asked him to make some inquiries, and he confirmed all Michel’s nurse had said. He even told us of such a property a few miles from Hyères, which could be purchased for eleven thousand francs; but it was leased for three years, and the purchaser could not obtain possession until the expiration of that time. Having great confidence in this friend’s judgment, we begged him to purchase the property, but now a serious difficulty presented itself. To purchase the house, and also an annuity of two thousand francs a year, an amount that would prove sufficient for our wants, we would need about sixty thousand francs.”
“But how could you hope to obtain so large an amount?”
“Why, by working for it, my dear,” said Florence with a valiant air, “working like lions!”
“You, Florence, you work?” exclaimed Valentine, in astonishment. “And Michel, too?”
“And Michel, too, my dear Valentine. Yes, we have worked night and day at all sorts of avocations for several years. I had six thousand francs left out of the ten thousand I had asked for when I married. A friend of Michel’s undertook to straighten out his affairs, and managed to save fifteen thousand francs out of the wreck. Both amounts were carefully invested, as we were resolved not to touch a penny of either principal or interest, so we might gain the forty thousand francs needed to secure our paradise the sooner.”
“To think that you and Michel should be capable of anything like this!”
“What, it surprises you?”
“Of course it does.”
“But you must remember how terribly indolent Michel and I are!”
“That is the very reason it astonishes me so much.”
“But that is the very reason it should not.”
“Should not?”
“Certainly. Think what a powerful incentive, what a sharp spur, our indolence was!”
“Your indolence?”
“Yes; think what courage and energy and ardour it must excite in your breast, when you say to yourself at the close of each day, however harassed one may have been, and whatever privations one may have had to endure: ‘I am one step nearer liberty, independence, rest, and the bliss of doing nothing.’ Yes, Valentine, yes; and the more fatigued one feels, the more eagerly he looks forward to the ineffable happiness he hopes to enjoy some day. We are told, you know, that celestial happiness must be gained by trials and tribulations here below. The same rule holds good in this case, only, — strictly entre nous of course, — I would rather enjoy my little paradise here on earth than wait for the other.”
Madame d’Infreville was so astonished at what she had heard, and she gazed at her friend with such a bewildered air, that Florence, wishing to give her time to recover from her surprise, paused for a moment.
CHAPTER XIX.
PAST STRUGGLES.
RECOVERING FROM HER amazement at last, Madame d’Infreville said:
“Really, Florence, I hardly know whether I am awake or dreaming. Once more, I ask, is it possible that a person as indolent and fond of ease as you have always been could evince such wonderful courage and energy?”
“Ah, I shall be obliged to go into particulars, I see. Have you any idea of the kind of life we have led for the last four years, — Michel and I, I mean?”
“I was told that you both went out every morning before light, and did not return until late at night.”
“Oh, dear!” cried Florence, with a merry laugh, “when I remember all these things now, how amusing they seem, but there wasn’t much fun in them then, I assure you. I’ll give you the order of exercises of one of the last days of my purgatory, as I call it. You can form a pretty correct id
ea of the others from that. I got up at three o’clock in the morning, and devoted an hour either to copying music or colouring some large lithograph. You ought not to be very much surprised at this last exhibition of talent on my part, for you know that, at the convent, colouring engravings of the saints and copying music were almost the only things I did at all creditably.”
“Yes, and it was very clever in you to think of putting these accomplishments to some practical use.”
“I think so myself, particularly as I often made, in that way, four or five francs a day, or rather a night, over and above my other earnings.”
“Your other earnings, and what were they, pray?”
“Well, to resume the account of my day: At four o’clock, I started for the market.”
“Great Heavens! for the market? You? And what took you there, pray?”
“I tended the stall of a dairywoman, who was too fine a lady to get up so early. Can you imagine anything more pastoral than a traffic in cream and butter and eggs? I received a small commission on my sales, in addition to my regular salary, so every year I derived an income of two hundred francs, more or less, from this source.”
“You, Florence, the Marquise de Luceval, in such a rôle?”
“But how about Michel?”
“Michel? What did he do?”
“Oh, he had all sorts of avocations, one of them being the office of inspector of goods at the market. In return for his services, he received a salary of fifteen hundred francs, and the profound respect and consideration of all the market women and hucksters. His duties were over at nine o’clock, after which he went to his office, and I to my store.”
“Your store?”
“Yes, on the Rue de l’Arbre-Sec, at the sign of the Corbeille d’Or, I was forewoman in that large and well-known lingerie establishment, and as I can, with reason, boast of both taste and skill in such matters, and haven’t a peer in the confection of dressing sacks, bathing suits, peignoirs, etc., I demanded a good price for my services, — it is never well to undervalue oneself, — fifteen hundred francs a year, and found,— ‘you can take me or not, as you please, at that figure.’ It was also understood that I was never to enter the salesroom. I was afraid, you see, of being recognised by some customer, and that might have prevented me from securing employment for the rest of the day.”
