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
