The Widow Lerouge Part 24

"Does she recognise her friends?" he murmured.

"No, sir. Since last evening, however, there has been a great change. She was very uneasy all last night: she had moments of fierce delirium. About an hour ago, we thought she was recovering her senses, and we sent for M. l'Abbe."

"Very needlessly, though," put in the priest, "and it is a sad misfortune. Her reason is quite gone. Poor woman! I have known her ten years. I have been to see her nearly every week; I never knew a more worthy person."

"She must suffer dreadfully," said the doctor.

Almost at the same instant, and as if to bear out the doctor's words, they heard stifled cries from the next room, the door of which was slightly open.

"Do you hear?" exclaimed the count, trembling from head to foot.

Claire understood nothing of this strange scene. Dark presentiments oppressed her; she felt as though she were enveloped in an atmosphere of evil. She grew frightened, rose from her chair, and drew near the count.

"She is, I presume, in there?" asked M. de Commarin.

"Yes, sir," harshly answered the old soldier, who had also drawn near.

At any other time, the count would have noticed the soldier's tone, and have resented it. Now, he did not even raise his eyes. He remained insensible to everything. Was she not there, close to him? His thoughts were in the past; it seemed to him but yesterday that he had quitted her for the last time.

"I should very much like to see her," he said timidly.

"That is impossible." replied the old soldier.

"Why?" stammered the count.

"At least, M. de Commarin," replied the soldier, "let her die in peace."

The count started, as if he had been struck. His eyes encountered the officer's; he lowered them like a criminal before his judge.

"Nothing need prevent the count's entering Madame Gerdy's room," put in the doctor, who purposely saw nothing of all this. "She would probably not notice his presence; and if-"

"Oh, she would perceive nothing!" said the priest. "I have just spoken to her, taken her hand, she remained quite insensible."

The old soldier reflected deeply.

"Enter," said he at last to the count; "perhaps it is G.o.d's will."

The count tottered so that the doctor offered to a.s.sist him. He gently motioned him away.

The doctor and the priest entered with him; Claire and the old soldier remained at the threshold of the door, facing the bed.

The count took three or four steps, and was obliged to stop. He wished to, but could not go further.

Could this dying woman really be Valerie?

He taxed his memory severely; nothing in those withered features, nothing in that distorted face, recalled the beautiful, the adored Valerie of his youth. He did not recognise her.

But she knew him, or rather divined his presence. With supernatural strength, she raised herself, exposing her shoulders and emaciated arms; then pus.h.i.+ng away the ice from her forehead, and throwing back her still plentiful hair, bathed with water and perspiration, she cried, "Guy! Guy!"

The count trembled all over.

He did not perceive that which immediately struck all the other persons present-the transformation in the sick woman. Her contracted features relaxed, a celestial joy spread over her face, and her eyes, sunken by disease, a.s.sumed an expression of infinite tenderness.

"Guy," said she in a voice heartrending by its sweetness, "you have come at last! How long, O my G.o.d! I have waited for you! You cannot think what I have suffered by your absence. I should have died of grief, had it not been for the hope of seeing you again. Who kept you from me? Your parents again? How cruel of them! Did you not tell them that no one could love you here below as I do? No, that is not it; I remember. You were angry when you left me. Your friends wished to separate us; they said that I was deceiving you with another. Who have I injured that I should have so many enemies! They envied my happiness; and we were so happy! But you did not believe the wicked calumny, you scorned it, for are you not here?"

The nun, who had risen on seeing so many persons enter the sick room, opened her eyes with astonishment.

"I deceive you?" continued the dying woman; "only a madman would believe it. Am I not yours, your very own, heart and soul? To me you are everything: and there is nothing I could expect or hope for from another which you have not already given me. Was I not yours, alone, from the very first? I never hesitated to give myself entirely to you; I felt that I was born for you, Guy, do you remember? I was working for a lace maker, and was barely earning a living. You told me you were a poor student; I thought you were depriving yourself for me. You insisted on having our little apartment on the Quai Saint-Michel done up. It was lovely, with the new paper all covered with flowers, which we hung ourselves. How delightful it was! From the window, we could see the great trees of the Tuileries gardens; and by leaning out a little we could see the sun set through the arches of the bridges. Oh, those happy days! The first time that we went into the country together, one Sunday, you brought me a more beautiful dress than I had ever dreamed of, and such darling little boots, that it was a shame to walk out in them! But you had deceived me! You were not a poor student. One day, when taking my work home, I met you in an elegant carriage, with tall footmen, dressed in liveries covered with gold lace, behind. I could not believe my eyes. That evening you told me the truth, that you were a n.o.bleman and immensely rich. O my darling, why did you tell me?"

Had she her reason, or was this a mere delirium?

Great tears rolled down the Count de Commarin's wrinkled face, and the doctor and the priest were touched by the sad spectacle of an old man weeping like a child.

Only the previous evening, the count had thought his heart dead; and now this penetrating voice was sufficient to regain the fresh and powerful feelings of his youth. Yet, how many years had pa.s.sed away since then!

"After that," continued Madame Gerdy, "we left the Quai Saint-Michel. You wished it; and I obeyed, in spite of my apprehensions. You told me, that, to please you, I ought to look like a great lady. You provided teachers for me, for I was so ignorant that I scarcely knew how to sign my name. Do you remember the queer spelling in my first letter? Ah, Guy, if you had really only been a poor student! When I knew that you were so rich, I lost my simplicity, my thoughtlessness, my gaiety. I feared that you would think me covetous, that you would imagine that your fortune influenced my love. Men who, like you, have millions, must be unhappy! They must be always doubting and full of suspicions, they can never be sure whether it is themselves or their gold which is loved, and this awful doubt makes them mistrustful, jealous, and cruel. Oh my dearest, why did we leave our dear little room? There, we were happy. Why did you not leave me always where you first found me? Did you not know that the sight of happiness irritates mankind? If we had been wise, we would have hid ours like a crime. You thought to raise me, but you only sunk me lower. You were proud of our love; you published it abroad. Vainly I asked you in mercy to leave me in obscurity, and unknown. Soon the whole town knew that I was your mistress. Every one was talking of the money you spent on me. How I blushed at the flaunting luxury you thrust upon me! You were satisfied, because my beauty became celebrated; I wept, because my shame became so too. People talked about me, as those women who make their lovers commit the greatest follies. Was not my name in the papers? And it was through the same papers that I heard of your approaching marriage. Unhappy woman! I should have fled from you, but I had not the courage. I resigned myself, without an effort, to the most humiliating, the most shameful of positions. You were married; and I remained your mistress. Oh, what anguish I suffered during that terrible evening. I was alone in my own home, in that room so a.s.sociated with you; and you were marrying another! I said to myself, 'At this moment, a pure, n.o.ble young girl is giving herself to him.' I said again, 'What oaths is that mouth, which has so often pressed my lips, now taking?' Often since that dreadful misfortune, I have asked heaven what crime I had committed that I should be so terribly punished? This was the crime. I remained your mistress, and your wife died. I only saw her once, and then scarcely for a minute, but she looked at you, and I knew that she loved you as only I could. Ah, Guy, it was our love that killed her!"

She stopped exhausted, but none of the bystanders moved. They listened breathlessly, and waited with feverish emotion for her to resume.

Mademoiselle d'Arlange had not the strength to remain standing; she had fallen upon her knees, and was pressing her handkerchief to her mouth to keep back her sobs. Was not this woman Albert's mother?

The worthy nun was alone unmoved; she had seen, she said to herself, many such deliriums before. She understood absolutely nothing of what was pa.s.sing.

"These people are very foolish," she muttered, "to pay so much attention to the ramblings of a person out of her mind."

She thought she had more sense than the others, so, approaching the bed, she began to cover up the sick woman.

"Come, madame," said she, "cover yourself, or you will catch cold."

"Sister!" remonstrated the doctor and priest at the same moment.

"For G.o.d's sake!" exclaimed the soldier, "let her speak."

"Who," continued the sick woman, unconscious of all that was pa.s.sing about her, "who told you I was deceiving you? Oh, the wretches! They set spies upon me; they discovered that an officer came frequently to see me. But that officer was my brother, my dear Louis! When he was eighteen years old, and being unable to obtain work, he enlisted, saying to my mother, that there would then be one mouth the less in the family. He was a good soldier, and his officers always liked him. He worked whilst with his regiment; he taught himself, and he quickly rose in rank. He was promoted a lieutenant, then captain, and finally became major. Louis always loved me; had he remained in Paris I should not have fallen. But our mother died, and I was left all alone in this great city. He was a non-commissioned officer when he first knew that I had a lover; and he was so enraged that I feared he would never forgive me. But he did forgive me, saying that my constancy in my error was its only excuse. Ah, my friend, he was more jealous of your honour than you yourself! He came to see me in secret, because I placed him in the unhappy position of blus.h.i.+ng for his sister. I had condemned myself never to speak of him, never to mention his name. Could a brave soldier confess that his sister was the mistress of a count? That it might not be known, I took the utmost precautions, but alas! only to make you doubt me. When Louis knew what was said, he wished in his blind rage to challenge you; and then I was obliged to make him think that he had no right to defend me. What misery! Ah, I have paid dearly for my years of stolen happiness! But you are here, and all is forgotten. For you do believe me, do you not, Guy? I will write to Louis; he will come, he will tell you that I do not lie, and you cannot doubt his, a soldier's word."

"Yes, on my honour," said the old soldier, "what my sister says is the truth."

The dying woman did not hear him; she continued in a voice panting from weariness: "How your presence revives me. I feel that I am growing stronger. I have nearly been very ill. I am afraid I am not very pretty today; but never mind, kiss me!"

She opened her arms, and thrust out her lips as if to kiss him.

"But it is on one condition, Guy, that you will leave me my child? Oh! I beg of you, I entreat you not to take him from me; leave him to me. What is a mother without her child? You are anxious to give him an ill.u.s.trious name, an immense fortune. No! You tell me that this sacrifice will be for his good. No! My child is mine; I will keep him. The world has no honours, no riches, which can replace a mother's love. You wish to give me in exchange, that other woman's child. Never! What! you would have that woman embrace my boy! It is impossible. Take away this strange child from me; he fills me with horror; I want my own! Ah, do not insist, do not threaten me with anger, do not leave me. I should give in, and then, I should die. Guy, forget this fatal project, the thought of it alone is a crime. Cannot my prayers, my tears, can nothing move you? Ah, well, G.o.d will punish us. All will be discovered. The day will come when these children will demand a fearful reckoning. Guy, I foresee the future; I see my son coming towards me, justly angered. What does he say, great heaven! Oh, those letters, those letters, sweet memories of our love! My son, he threatens me! He strikes me! Ah, help! A son strike his mother. Tell no one of it, though. O my G.o.d, what torture! Yet he knows well that I am his mother. He pretends not to believe me. Lord, this is too much! Guy! pardon! oh, my only friend! I have neither the power to resist, nor the courage to obey you."

At this moment the door opening on to the landing opened, and Noel appeared, pale as usual, but calm and composed. The dying woman saw him, and the sight affected her like an electric shock. A terrible shudder shook her frame; her eyes grew inordinately large, her hair seemed to stand on end. She raised herself on her pillows, stretched out her arm in the direction where Noel stood, and in a loud voice exclaimed, "a.s.sa.s.sin!"

She fell back convulsively on the bed. Some one hastened forward: she was dead.

A deep silence prevailed.

Such is the majesty of death, and the terror which accompanies it, that, in its presence, even the strongest and most sceptical bow their heads.

For a time, pa.s.sions and interests are forgotten. Involuntarily we are drawn together, when some mutual friend breathes his last in our presence.

All the bystanders were deeply moved by this painful scene, this last confession, wrested so to say from the delirium.

And the last word uttered by Madame Gerdy, "a.s.sa.s.sin," surprised no one.

All, excepting the nun, knew of the awful accusation which had been made against Albert.

To him they applied the unfortunate mother's malediction.

Noel seemed quite broken hearted. Kneeling by the bedside of her who had been as a mother to him, he took one of her hands, and pressed it close to his lips.

"Dead!" he groaned, "she is dead!"

The nun and the priest knelt beside him, and repeated in a low voice the prayers for the dead.

They implored G.o.d to shed his peace and mercy on the departed soul.

They begged for a little happiness in heaven for her who had suffered so much on earth.

Fallen into a chair, his head thrown back, the Count de Commarin was more overwhelmed and more livid than this dead woman, his old love, once so beautiful.

Claire and the doctor hastened to a.s.sist him.

They undid his cravat, and took off his s.h.i.+rt collar, for he was suffocating. With the help of the old soldier, whose red, tearful eyes, told of suppressed grief, they moved the count's chair to the half-opened window to give him a little air. Three days before, this scene would have killed him. But the heart hardens by misfortune, like hands by labour.

"His tears have saved him," whispered the doctor to Claire.

M. de Commarin gradually recovered, and, as his thoughts became clearer, his sufferings returned.

Prostration follows great mental shocks. Nature seems to collect her strength to sustain the misfortune. We do not feel all its intensity at once; it is only afterwards that we realize the extent and profundity of the evil.

The count's gaze was fixed upon the bed where lay Valerie's body. There, then, was all that remained of her. The soul, that soul so devoted and so tender, had flown.

What would he not have given if G.o.d would have restored that unfortunate woman to life for a day, or even for an hour? With what transports of repentance he would have cast himself at her feet, to implore her pardon, to tell her how much he detested his past conduct! How had he acknowledged the inexhaustible love of that angel? Upon a mere suspicion, without deigning to inquire, without giving her a hearing, he had treated her with the coldest contempt. Why had he not seen her again? He would have spared himself twenty years of doubt as to Albert's birth. Instead of an isolated existence, he would have led a happy, joyous life.

Then he remembered the countess's death. She also had loved him, and had died of her love.

He had not understood them; he had killed them both.

The hour of expiation had come; and he could not say: "Lord, the punishment is too great."

And yet, what punishment, what misfortunes, during the last five days!

"Yes," he stammered, "she predicted it. Why did I not listen to her?"

Madame Gerdy's brother pitied the old man, so severely tried. He held out his hand.

"M. de Commarin," he said, in a grave, sad voice, "my sister forgave you long ago, even if she ever had any ill feeling against you. It is my turn to-day; I forgive you sincerely."

"Thank you, sir," murmured the count, "thank you!" and then he added: "What a death!"

"Yes," murmured Claire, "she breathed her last in the idea that her son was guilty of a crime. And we were not able to undeceive her."

"At least," cried the count, "her son should be free to render her his last duties; yes, he must be. Noel!"

The advocate had approached his father, and heard all.

"I have promised, father," he replied, "to save him."

For the first time, Mademoiselle d'Arlange was face to face with Noel. Their eyes met, and she could not restrain a movement of repugnance, which the advocate perceived.

"Albert is already saved," she said proudly. "What we ask is, that prompt justice shall be done him; that he shall be immediately set at liberty. The magistrate now knows the truth."

"The truth?" exclaimed the advocate.

"Yes; Albert pa.s.sed at my house, with me, the evening the crime was committed."

Noel looked at her surprised; so singular a confession from such a mouth, without explanation, might well surprise him.

She drew herself up haughtily.

"I am Mademoiselle Claire d'Arlange, sir," said she.

M. de Commarin now quickly ran over all the incidents reported by Claire.

When he had finished, Noel replied: "You see, sir, my position at this moment, to-morrow-"

"To-morrow?" interrupted the count, "you said, I believe, to-morrow! Honour demands, sir, that we act to-day, at this moment. You can show your love for this poor woman much better by delivering her son than by praying for her."

Noel bowed low.

"To hear your wish, sir, is to obey it," he said; "I go. This evening, at your house, I shall have the honour of giving you an account of my proceedings. Perhaps I shall be able to bring Albert with me."

He spoke, and, again embracing the dead woman, went out.

Soon the count and Mademoiselle d'Arlange also retired.

The old soldier went to the Mayor, to give notice of the death, and to fulfil the necessary formalities.

The nun alone remained, awaiting the priest, which the cure had promised to send to watch the corpse.

The daughter of St. Vincent felt neither fear nor embarra.s.sment, she had been so many times in a similar position. Her prayers said, she arose and went about the room, arranging everything as it should be in the presence of death. She removed all traces of the illness, put away the medicine bottles, burnt some sugar upon the fire shovel, and, on a table covered with a white cloth at the head of the bed, placed some lighted candles, a crucifix with holy water, and a branch of palm.