Arthur

CHAPTER XXV

A WOMAN IN POLITICS

Here come to an end the fragments of the journal I formerly wrote at the Grove.

During the four months which followed Catherine's confession of her love, and which we passed in this total isolation, my life was so engrossed by the delights of our ever growing love that I had neither time nor inclination to make a record of emotions so entrancing.

Catherine confessed to me that she had felt greatly attracted to me ever since our departure from Khios.

I asked her why she had treated me so harshly on one occasion, when she had requested me not to see her little girl any more. She answered that her despair at feeling herself at the mercy of the affection I inspired, added to her jealousy and grief when she saw me smitten by so giddy a woman as Madame de V——, had alone decided her to put an end to the mysterious intimacy of which Irene was the bond, however painful to her was this determination.

Later on, when she learned of the termination of my supposed intrigue with Madame de V——, and finding that absence, instead of diminishing, only increased the power I had gained over her, she endeavoured to renew our former relations. Moreover, Irene commenced to be seriously affected by my absence. "Love is so inexplicable in its contrasts and its sensitiveness," said Catherine to me, "that this very reason, added to your seeming coldness and disdain, made me hesitate frankly to come to you, fearing that this step might have appeared to you simply dictated by my anxiety for my child's health.

"The condition of that poor child became so much worse that I resolved to conquer my timidity and tell you all at that ball at the Tuileries, but your greeting was so freezing, your departure so abrupt, that it became impossible for me. The next day I wrote to you; you did not answer. It was not, alas! until Irene's life was despaired of that I dared once more to write to you at Havre! God only knows with what admirable generosity you responded."

After the first bitterness of her remorse, Catherine's love for me became calm, dignified, almost serene.

One felt that, having exercised all her might to resist an unconquerable passion, this woman was prepared to endure with courageous resignation the consequences of her weakness.

The four months we spent at the Grove were for me, for her, the ideal of happiness.

But wherefore speak of happiness? This is now but Dead Sea ashes!

What matter, alas! Let me continue the sad task I have imposed upon myself.

When I was able to snatch some moments from the love which engrossed me, I wrote to M. de Sérigny to thank him for his good intentions towards me, which I had learned from the article in the official newspaper, and informed him that I would be absent for some months yet, that I was unable to disclose to him my place of abode, but begged him, in case any one inquired of him for me, to answer in such a way as might lead people to infer that I was in a foreign country.

In the month of September Catherine heard that her husband would return towards the close of the year, and informed me that she intended returning to Paris.

Catherine's intention surprised and grieved me.

We had considerably discussed whether or not I should resume the duties I had taken upon me with M. de Sérigny.

Catherine had persistently urged me to do so.

I vainly represented to her that those hours devoted to uncongenial work would be stolen from our love, and that I should find very tedious an occupation which I had sought simply as a distraction to my grief. In vain I told her that all the correspondence with which I was entrusted treated of the most futile subjects, and in no way interested me.

To this she replied that at no distant period questions of the greatest importance would necessarily be discussed in high political spheres, and that I would then regret having abandoned that position. She felt so proud, so happy, of the distinction drawn upon me by the king's recognition of my merits, she said, she so gloried in my success, that I ended by promising to do as she wished.

It was therefore decided between us that I should resume my position with M. de Sérigny.

To avoid returning to Paris at the same time as Madame de Fersen, and in order that people might suppose I had been travelling for some time, I left the Grove for London, and came back to Paris, where I found Catherine on my arrival, after fourteen days' sojourn in London.

M. de Sérigny had ably fulfilled my wishes, and in society it was generally supposed that an important foreign mission had been the cause of my absence from home.

The minister seemed quite pleased at having me once more sharing his labours; for the king, he told me, had frequently inquired as to the period of my return, expressing his regret that the briefing of despatches was no longer made by me.

To the eyes of the world, I did not at first visit Madame de Fersen more assiduously than before our sojourn at the Grove; but little by little my visits became more frequent without being so noticeably.

My character as an ambitious man, wholly absorbed by state affairs, and Madame de Fersen's high reputation were too firmly established in public opinion for society, so constant to its routine habits, not to accept this situation; and appearances very contrary to these ideas would have been needed to make it change its point of view towards us.

The impenetrable mystery surrounding our love redoubled it.

I frequently regretted our radiant days at the Grove,—days so calmly happy, so peaceful,—but on the other hand, in Paris, when I exchanged with Catherine a tender glance, unperceived by all, I felt that joyful pride which one always experiences when in possession of a secret at once formidable and enticing, from which depends the honour, the existence, and the future of the woman beloved.

Some time before his departure, M. de Fersen had confided to me that his wife had become indifferent to political matters, which until then had engaged her attention to a great extent.

After returning to Paris I noticed, with astonishment, that Catherine by degrees resumed her former relations.

Her salon, where I visited assiduously, was, as formerly, the habitual meeting-place of the corps diplomatique. Before long, subjects which were spoken of daily became so serious that, with the exception of the ministers and some influential speakers of the two chambers, the elegant and frivolous French society disappeared almost entirely from the gatherings at Madame de Fersen's.

Although serious, these discussions had no true importance; either they rose so high as to become abstract and impracticable theories, or they descended to such paltry and positive interests that they became frivolous and narrow.

The discussions were as infinite and barren as ever on this well-worn theme: "Would the Restoration resist or yield to democratic influence?" etc.

Catherine always surprised me by the subtlety of her intellect and the liberal tendencies of her convictions. One of her great triumphs was in demonstrating the advantages which France would derive by preferring the Russian to the English alliance. When I complimented her on this subject, she laughingly told me that I was France, and that the sole secret of her eloquence was that.

I might as well have answered that she was my diplomacy; for to please her I conquered my profound aversion to the European gossip of the diplomats who habitually met at her house, and I persevered with my work under M. de Sérigny. Perhaps, also, I remained in this position from a feeling of pride, which I would not acknowledge, and which, no doubt, the marked distinction with which the king honoured me had given rise to, as well as from the sort of importance which it gave me in the world. Thanks also to my duties, my assiduous presence at Madame de Fersen's might be attributed to purely political associations.

What charmed me in Catherine was, perhaps, less the influence which she possessed over those surrounding her, than the exquisite grace with which she renounced this highly esteemed influence with me. This woman, with a strong, lofty, even judicial mind, who was listened to with rare deference, whose least words were heard with respect, showed herself in our intimacy what she had been at the Grove,—kindly, simple, and gay, of an effusive tenderness, I might almost say of a submission full of grace and consideration, always placing her triumphs at my feet, and laughing with me at their conceit.

Then, for the sake of our love, I would implore her to abandon this life so uselessly employed.

On this subject alone, did I find Catherine ever intractable. She would set forth that M. de Fersen would return to Paris; that she had been guilty of a fault, a grave fault, and that she should at least atone for it by devoting herself to her husband's wishes. Before his departure he had bid her most expressly to maintain, and even to extend, the relations which she had established; and she was obeying his injunctions more to satisfy her conscience than for her own pleasure.

As much as I, she regretted the former conversations of the saloon on board the frigate, and, above all, the four months spent at the Grove: this period of the heart's paradise, as she called it, those priceless days which shine but once, and never return in life,—no more than youth returns.

There is nothing more exclusive, more madly absolute than passion. While acknowledging the truth of Catherine's observations, I could not avoid feeling wretched at these obligations imposed upon her by remorse for a fault which I had caused her to commit.

Catherine, however, showed herself so tender, so considerate! With an incredible tact, she found means to speak to me covertly of ourselves, even in the midst of apparently serious conversations, and thus won me to bear in patience the obstacles to our love.

There is nothing, in fact, so delightful as this conventional talk, by means of which lovers can speak of themselves, their hopes, and their memories, in the midst of the gravest company. Nothing amused me more than to see the most solemn men innocently taking part in our ambiguous conversations.

But these people often made me pay cruelly for these mysterious joys. They robbed me almost entirely of Catherine's society of an evening, for they generally met at her house; and frequently of a morning a letter from one or the other, asking for an interview with Madame de Fersen, disarranged all our plans.

Catherine suffered from these obstacles as much as I, but how could it be avoided? Under what pretext could she refuse the request for an interview? I, who had carried to the most scrupulous sensitiveness the fear of compromising in the slightest degree her reputation, could I encourage her in so perilous a step?

No, certainly not; but I suffered cruelly from the thousand obstacles ever recurring which continually irritated the jealous impatience of my heart.

Our happiness at the Grove had been so perfect! Enchanting season, lovely country, complete isolation, mysterious and extreme freedom, everything had been so beautifully arranged by chance that the comparison of that past with the present was a continuous source of irritation.

These regrets did not prevent my enjoying the delightful moments that remained to us. I had perfect faith in Madame de Fersen's love; my attacks of distrust of myself and others yielded to the influence of her noble character, and the conviction that I had this time conducted myself towards Catherine as few men would have conducted themselves in my place, and that I, therefore, was deserving of all her tenderness.

I felt so sure of myself that I ventured on certain analytical thoughts which I would formerly have dreaded. In a word, I had fruitlessly sought the hidden motives of Madame de Fersen's love; and I confess that, seeing her high rank, her great influence, her wealth and position, I could not, in spite of my inventive shrewdness and the resources of my suspicious mind, I could not, I say, discover what interest Catherine could have in pretending to love me.

CHAPTER XXVI

SOCIETY GOSSIP

We were at the beginning of November, a Friday, ominous day for me.

For some time, Madame de Fersen, informed of her husband's approaching return, desirous of dispelling suspicion, had thought best to be at home at all times, and accessible to every one. Still, she had pledged herself to give me a few hours to myself.

Our private meetings had become so rare, so difficult to arrange, on account of the crowd which beset her, that we both attached great value to this day of happiness. Catherine had been preparing for some time for this blissful meeting by postponing or putting an end to a thousand trifling engagements which are like invisible fetters in which a woman of society, however free she may appear, is daily entangled. The previous evening, at tea-time, Catherine had renewed her promise, in the presence of her wonted circle, by telling me, in accordance with the understanding between us, that she hoped it would be fine weather for her walk on the morrow.

I remember that Baron de ——, a walking encyclopedia, thereupon opened a learned meteorologic and astronomic parenthesis, and a lively discussion ensued upon planetary influences and atmospheric causes.

Several times Catherine and I could scarcely suppress a smile, as we thought of the mysterious and bewitching cause which served as a basis for the learned lucubrations of so many wise people. We had to exercise the greatest control over ourselves to refrain from laughing aloud at the excellent reasons the papal nuncio gave as a proof that the next day the weather would be splendid. I was so strongly of this opinion, that I wildly launched myself on his side, and between us we got the better of a devilish chargé d'affaires of the United States, who rabidly predicted, envious republican that he was, execrable weather.

I therefore left Catherine in a state of hopeful excitement, and as impatient as in the first days of our love.

It seemed to me that my love was greater this day than other days. I had a thousand golden dreams regarding this meeting, and my heart overflowed with love and hope.

That evening Catherine had seemed to me even more beautiful and witty. She had been more admired and more deferred to than usual; and, to our shame be it said, the praise or censure of the indifferent or envious invariably cause love to fluctuate between fervour and coldness.

The next morning I was on the point of leaving home, when I received a line from her. Our meeting could not take place. She had learned that a discussion of the highest importance, which had been supposed adjourned, was to take place that very day in the Chamber of Deputies, and that she was to go there with M. P. de B——, the Russian ambassador.

My regrets, my vexation, my anger and sorrow, were excessive.

The hour for the opening of the debate had not arrived, so I went at once to Madame de Fersen's.

The footman, instead of announcing me, told me that the princess had denied herself to every one, as she was then in conference with the Prussian minister.

If all the ancestors of the Marquis de Brandebourg had been in the drawing-room I would have entered. I therefore ordered the footman to announce me.

As a culmination to my despair, Catherine had never been more lovely, and my vexation, my ill temper, increased still more.

She seemed amazed at my entrance, and the aged Comte de W—— was visibly annoyed, which, however, was quite immaterial to me.

He took his departure, saying to the princess that they would resume their conversation later.

"How miserable I am at this disappointment!" said Catherine, sadly, "but it is nearly one o'clock; the meeting begins at two, and our ambassador—"

"Eh, madame!" I exclaimed, interrupting her, and violently stamping my foot, "say no more about Chambers and ambassadors; it is a question of choosing between my love and the interests of countries to which you devote yourself. The connection is ridiculous, I admit, but your unreasonable ways provoke it."

Madame de Fersen gazed at me in profound and pained astonishment, for I had never accustomed her to such acrimonious methods.

I continued:

"I am moreover delighted to find this opportunity of telling you, once for all, that your parleys and continual verbiage with these tiresome and self-sufficient persons are very displeasing to me, and make me impatient beyond all expression. I never find you alone. You are for ever surrounded by these people, who find it very convenient to make your parlours an annex to their legations. I would infinitely prefer that you should be surrounded by a bevy of the most elegant and the wittiest young men, and that you showed yourself towards them as great a coquette as Madame de V——! At least I could be jealous of somebody, I could vie with some rival in attentions and tenderness for you. But here, against whom can I struggle? Whom shall I call to account?—the various nations? I declare to you that I find nothing more humiliating, more abject, than being reduced to feel jealous of Europe, or to contest for the heart of the woman I love with orators in the Chambers, as I am doing this day."

"My dearest, are you speaking seriously?" said Madame de Fersen, with a timid, shrinking, and yet bantering uncertainty, which would have enraptured me if Catherine had been less desperately beautiful, and if certain vexations did not drive you senseless as well as wicked. Madame de Fersen's question, moreover, exasperated me, for it showed me that my exhibition of anger approached the comic.

"Loving hearts and generous minds divine the impressions, and do not question. If you are reduced to asking me what I feel, I pity you. As for me, I am more clear-sighted, and understand but too well that you no longer love me."

"I not love you!" exclaimed Madame de Fersen, clasping her hands in distressed amazement; then she repeated: "I not love you! You say that—to me?"

"If you loved me, you would for my sake sacrifice all this following which I detest, because it hampers me, because it is useless, because it warps your mind. If you loved me, you would sacrifice the gratification of your vanity to my happiness."

"The gratification of my vanity! It is then from vanity that I preserve, that I cultivate these relations! Mon Dieu! Must I then repeat to you, Arthur, what I never say without sorrow and shame? I have been guilty, let me, at least, do all I can not to aggravate my error."

"Now you are beginning with your remorse," said I, harshly; "a rupture is not far distant, but, let me tell you, you might be anticipated."

"Ah, what are you saying? It is dreadful,—have I deserved it?" cried Catherine, her eyes filling with tears.

"His Excellency the Russian ambassador," announced the footman.

Madame de Fersen had barely time to disappear behind the portière which concealed the door between the parlour and her bedchamber.

"I am, like you, waiting for Madame de Fersen," I said to M. P. de B——, "she is doubtless finishing her toilet. You are going to the Chambers, I believe?"

"Yes; it will be a most brilliant and interesting sitting; they say that Benjamin Constant, Foy, and Casimir Perier are going to speak, and that M. de Villèle will answer."

Catherine entered, calm and composed, as if nothing had passed between us.

Her control over herself angered me.

After a few unmeaning words M. P. de B—— remarked that it was getting late, and it was best to start at once in order to find places in the diplomatic gallery. He offered his arm to Madame de Fersen, who suggested that I should go with them, accompanying the proposal with an imploring glance to which I was insensible.

I left Madame de Fersen in a state of irritation, dissatisfied with her and with myself.

My carriage drove me to the Tuileries, where I got down for a walk.

By chance I met Pommerive.

I had not seen him since I left Paris in the spring.

I felt so sad, so gloomy, that I was not sorry to find some distraction for my thoughts.

"Where do you come from, M. de Pommerive?" I inquired.

"Don't speak of it! I have been for three months in Franche-Comté, at St. Prix, with the D'Aranceys. Don't speak of it, it is disgusting!"

"They are certainly rich enough to give you some of those excellent dinners you are so fond of, and for which you show yourself so grateful, M. de Pommerive."

"The only way to show one's gratitude for a good dinner is to eat it with pleasure," said the cynic. "I don't complain of the table at D'Arancey's, they have first-rate fare. The father of D'Arancey has stolen enough by his contracts and otherwise; he has brought about enough fraudulent bankruptcies to enable his son to display all that luxury. By the bye, do you know that he has as much right to call himself D'Arancey, as I have to call myself Jeroboam! His name is simply something like Polimard; now, this common, low name is not pleasing to this fine gentleman, so, by means of a slight change, skilfully substituting D'Aran for Poli, and cey for mard, he has changed the distinguished name of Polimard into D'Arancey. He likes that better. You may tell me that this bankrupt's son had no reason to cling to his name, since he had none at all, for he had never been acknowledged by old Polimard, who died the victim of an epizooty, which made havoc in his district. This, however, is not a reason for him to take the name of the D'Aranceys, and what is worse, their arms, which that vulgar and impudent little creature, forsooth, calls her arms, and which she displays, I believe, even on her scullery maids' kitchen aprons. This is certainly very nice for the escutcheon of the D'Aranceys, whose name unfortunately is extinct; without that, the Polimards, male and female, should be whipped and branded, as ought to have been done to old Polimard, the first of the name."

This time I did not have the courage to censure Pommerive; these people were, in fact, such low-bred parvenus, their effrontery was so plebeian, their back-stairs insolence so ridiculous, that I freely and willingly relinquished them to his tender mercies. "But what has made you so indignant with your excellent friends, M. de Pommerive?"

"Everything; because everything is first-class, and that their presence spoils all. Surrounded by this household of common folks, it seemed to me all the time that I was being entertained by the steward and housekeeper of some absent lord, who were having fine sport in the absence of their master. But that is not all. Would you believe it? This Polimard-d'Arancey gets a fancy to set up a hunting retinue, and he has dared, actually dared, to engage as his first huntsman the famous La Brisée, who had just left the kennels of his Highness the Duke of Bourbon. Of course you will understand that I made La Brisée feel so ashamed at being chief huntsman to a M. Polimard, that I made him desert, giving him, however, a recommendation to the Marquis D. H——, where, at least, he will have an honourable position and be appreciated."

"I see, M. de Pommerive, that you are not much changed; you are as ever the most amiable of men."

"But you,—what are you doing? Still a statesman! A diplomat? Ah, by the bye, talking of diplomats, do you still go to that idiot of a Russian prince, that bad substitute for Potier and Brunet? I never set my foot now inside his door, or rather inside his wife's door, for happily for us he has taken himself away."

"And for what reason is the Princesse de Fersen deprived of the honour of seeing you, M. de Pommerive?"

"Why? Because I generally do like every one else; and, excepting diplomats and a few strangers, nobody in society sets a foot inside the princess's door."

"And why is this?" I inquired, almost mechanically, of M. de Pommerive.

"Forsooth! It is no secret, everybody knows it. The beautiful Muscovite is just simply a spy in high life."

CHAPTER XXVII

THE LAST EVENING

One more effort, and this cruel task will be at an end.

In vain I call upon my memory; I cannot remember what I said to Pommerive, and believe I made no reply.

I only remember that I felt neither indignant nor angry, as I would have been had this man uttered a calumny or an insult; on the contrary, I was utterly overwhelmed in the presence of this terrible accusation! It suddenly illumined the past with a sinister light, it abruptly aroused those implacable suspicions, of which I at once felt the sharp sting.

My grief was such that my brain was frenzied.

Mechanically I returned home, finding my way by instinct.

By degrees, I regained the thread of my ideas.

I had already suffered so much from similar causes that I endeavoured to struggle with all my might against this new suspicion.

I hoped to sift truth from falsehood, by submitting the past to the horrible interpretation given to Madame de Fersen's life.

Armed with this infamous accusation, cold and calm, like a man about to stake his life and honour on a chance, I set myself to this work of hateful analysis.

This time, also, I cleared my thoughts, by writing them down, and I find these notes. They contrast cruelly with the preceding radiant pages, with those days of sunlight written formerly at the Grove.

PARIS, 13th December, 18—.

Let us examine the facts.

Madame de Fersen is accused of being a spy.

What credit does her conduct give to these infamous suspicions?

I meet Catherine at Khios. After several days of intercourse, I attempt a declaration, which she severely repulses; then I surround her with the most respectful attentions, I give her counsels the most delicate and disinterested. If I do not utter the word love, everything in my tender and eager attentions reveals this sentiment.

She remains cold, and offers me her friendship.

I again meet Catherine in Paris. In spite of my blind submission to Irene's painful whims, in spite of the numberless proofs of the deepest and most noble passion, one day, without cause, without hesitation, under the most frivolous pretext, Catherine cruelly breaks with me.

Later, it is true, she tells me that jealousy alone was responsible for her conduct.

She said that; but I remember the harshness of her accent, her steely glance, which struck me to the heart.

She was doubtless feigning; she can, therefore, dissimulate; she is false. I did not believe it.

The mysterious affection of which Irene was the bond is now broken. Catherine loves me no more! She shows herself even ungrateful, as a friend. I see her no more.

In despair, I seek distraction in work. I accept a position of apparent importance with the minister; public opinion attributes to me an exaggerated share in state affairs. From this time, Madame de Fersen, until now so inflexible towards me, by degrees becomes less cold when she meets me in society; her looks, the tone of her voice, do not harmonise with the conventional trifling of her conversation; and, at last, at a ball at the château, she comes resolutely towards me, with the view of renewing our interrupted relations. I meet coldly these advances, and the next morning she writes to me.

This she has confessed to me. This sudden change in her affections she attributes to her joy at my breaking with Madame de V—— and to the alarming condition in which her child had once more fallen.

I wish to believe her, for it would be odious to think that the abrupt change from disdain to tenderness should have been brought about by the hope of securing to herself a tool in the very heart of the French cabinet.

I leave for Havre. Irene is at death's door; her mother recalls me. I hasten, I save her.

During a whole month that I am by the child's bedside, does Catherine utter one word of gratitude, one word of tenderness?

No.

We go to the Grove; she shows the same calm, cold feeling towards me.

But one day an official publication announces that I am to be called to a high post, where state secrets culminate.

The evening of that very day, this woman, until then so austere, so reserved, so chaste, throws herself suddenly into my arms.

It is true, she says she was drawn by her grateful admiration for a sacrifice unknown to her until then.

If she is to be believed, what is her heart made of?

I have saved her child's life, and Catherine remains insensible.

I sustain a financial loss, and Catherine forgets all for my sake.

And yet I prefer to believe Catherine more sensitive to material sacrifices, and almost indifferent to the soul's devotion, than to believe she unblushingly gave herself to the future confidant of the Minister of Foreign Affairs.

Those four months passed at the Grove were radiant, oh, very radiant for me, whose happiness was pure, and not tinged with shame.

Only, at this moment, circumstances strike me which I had not previously observed.

At the Grove, Catherine plied me with questions as to my labours with M. de Sérigny; she interrogated me minutely as to the impressions or memories which I retained. When I confessed frankly their insignificance, and chose rather to speak of our love, she was annoyed and pouted, she reproached me with being either too discreet or too frivolous.

When I wished to abandon the ungrateful career which I had adopted in idleness, Catherine employed all the resources of her mind, all her influence, all her power over me to deter me from resigning my position.

It is true that these questions and this persuasion were alike used in the name of the profound interest which she felt for me.

I believe it, for it would be outrageous to suppose that her reluctance to see me abandon my career was prompted by her reluctance to forfeit the price of her long premeditated error.

Since her return to Paris, what has her life been? Did she sacrifice at my request her accustomed social relations? On the contrary, she increased them, and her drawing-room has become a centre of diplomatic intrigue.

Our long days of tender affection have given place to occupations which are not those of a woman dominated by love.

If I sadly reproach her for this unhappy change, her answer is that she must obey her husband's expressed wishes,—wishes that are all the more sacred to her since she has been guilty of so censurable an error.

I believe her in this case, without hesitation. I believe her very anxious to please the prince.

But I also have some rights.

I saved her child's life.

And what did she give me in return?

Herself, yes, she gave me herself.

This sacrifice of her honour, of her duties, has been either terrible and intoxicating, or it has only been an infamous, an odious calculation!

If this proof of love has been for her what it ever is for a virtuous, passionate woman, a most agonising sacrifice, why did she then refuse to abandon interests that were of the utmost insignificance in comparison with the irreparable fault she had committed?

Are these interests dearer to her than her love? Is her love only secondary to them?

It is, then, only a means, a pretext?

So be it; I have been the puppet of an intriguing woman, but she is very beautiful, and I am only half her dupe.

Such was the abominable theme I developed with the diabolical power of paradoxes.

I was so incensed that I firmly believed I had wrestled against these frightful suspicions; and I became convinced of these horrors with the same bitter satisfaction of the man who discovers the vile snare into which he has fallen.

As an executioner I struck pitilessly, as a victim I moaned bitterly.

The remembrance of Hélène, of Marguerite, of Falmouth,—nothing could bring me to my senses.

From the confirmation of so much infamy to the hate and scorn it inspired, there was but one step for my fierce monomania.

From this point of view, all that was noble and generous in my conduct seemed to me shamefully ridiculous.

I was oppressed by these reflections when this letter from Catherine was handed to me:

"A sad, unhappy petitioner asks you to be kind and indulgent towards her; she wants you to pardon all that she has suffered to-day; she hopes to be alone this evening, and will expect you. Come; she is, moreover, resolved that Europe shall no longer be your rival."

In my state of mind, this letter so tenderly imploring, this simple allusion to my reproaches, seemed to me so humbly offensive, so coldly insulting, that I was on the point of writing to Madame de Fersen that I would never again see her.

But I changed my mind.

I wrote to her that I would call on her that evening.

I waited for the hour with frightful anxiety.

I had laid my plan.

At ten o'clock I went to Madame de Fersen's, expecting to find her alone.

A thousand confused thoughts were rushing through my mind. Anger, hate, love, a remorseful anticipation of the wrong I was about to commit, a vague instinct of the injustice of my suspicions, all combined to put me in a feverish exasperated condition, the consequences of which I could not foresee.

Contrary to my expectations, Catherine had several persons with her.

This new proof of what I called her falsehood incensed me; for a moment I was on the point of turning back and abandoning my purpose, but an irresistible force drove me, and I entered.

The sight of people, and the control which I had always possessed over myself, at once changed my violent anger into a polished, cold, and biting irony.

This scene is still present to me. Catherine, seated near the fireplace, was chatting with a friend.

My first look was doubtless very terrible, for Madame de Fersen, bewildered, suddenly turned pale.

The conversation continued; I shared in it with the greatest calmness, even asserting my superiority, for I was gay, almost brilliant.

For those who were unacquainted with the circumstances, there was nothing extraordinary; it was a pleasant evening of friendly conversation, like a thousand other evenings; but between Catherine and me, a mute, mysterious, tragic scene was being enacted.

Our way of understanding each other by half words, of seeking and divining the value of an inflection of the voice, of a gesture, or a smile, enabled me now to make Catherine undergo the reaction of my odious thoughts.

At my entrance, Catherine was amazed.

She endeavoured, however, to recover herself, and, to show me that she had received people against her will, she graciously thanked M. de —— for having forced an entrance to acquaint her with the result of the vote which had been taken at a very late hour. "Without that," continued Catherine, "I would have been deprived of the pleasure of seeing several of my friends, who took advantage of the breach you made to invade my solitude."

An imploring glance at me accompanied these words. While continuing my conversation with M. de ——, my neighbour, I replied by so scornful a smile that Catherine all but betrayed herself.

What shall I say? All these attempts which she indirectly made to calm me, or to grasp at the cause of so deep a resentment, were thus cruelly repulsed.

She knew too well the various expressions of my countenance, her heart was too much in unison with mine, she was of too sensitive a nature, not to divine that it was not a question of a lover's quarrel, but that a great danger menaced her love.

She had a presentiment of this danger; in despair she sought its cause, and was obliged to smile, and to follow an indifferent conversation.

This torture lasted one hour.

By degrees, her strength and self-control abandoned her; two or three times her absent-mindedness had been noticed; and, at last, there was such a change in her features that M. de —— inquired if she were not well.

This question confused her; she answered she was well, and rang the bell for tea.

It was eleven o'clock.

She took advantage of the momentary disturbance caused by the preparations for tea to come near me, saying:

"Will you come and see a picture which is offered me for sale? It is there in the small parlour."

"I am not much of a connoisseur," I replied, "but if I cannot venture on advising you, madame, I promise to give you truthfully my impressions."

I followed her into the next room.

At the risk of being seen, she took my hand, and in a voice almost extinct she said: "Arthur, have pity on me! What I am suffering is beyond my strength, beyond my courage!"

At this moment, M. de —— also entered the parlour to see the picture.

Madame de Fersen had so completely lost her head, that I had abruptly to withdraw my hand from hers.

I believe M. de —— noticed the movement, for he appeared confused.

"This picture is very good," I said to Catherine, "the expression is charming. Art has never more closely approached to nature."

Madame de Fersen was so weak that she leaned upon an easy chair.

M. de —— admired the picture complacently. The servant announced to the princess that tea was ready.

We returned to the drawing-room. Catherine could scarcely stand.

According to her custom, she stood near the table pouring out the tea; she offered me a cup, and was gazing at me almost wildly, when the cracking of a whip and the jingling of bells were heard in the courtyard.

Struck by a terrible presentiment, Catherine allowed the cup to slip from her fingers just as I was about to take hold of it, and cried, in a strangled voice: "What is that?"

"A thousand pardons for my awkwardness, madame, and for the noise those wretches are making. As I take my departure to-night, I have taken the liberty to order my travelling carriage to come for me here, not wishing to lose one moment of the precious time I might enjoy your society."

Catherine could not resist this last shock; she forgot herself completely, and, in a smothered voice, resting her trembling hands upon my arm, she cried: "It is impossible, you are not leaving, you shall not leave! I will not allow you to leave!"

At the movement of general consternation, at the confused, embarrassed expression of the spectators of this scene, I could see that Madame de Fersen's reputation, hitherto unassailed, was now for ever lost.

I remained inflexible.

Gently disengaging my arm from her hands, I said:

"I feel so happy and proud, madame, at the regret my departure seems to give you, that I would already be thinking of my return, were it not unfortunately impossible to predict it." Then in saluting her I added: "Here, madame, are the particulars you asked of me."

And I handed her a duplicate of the commentary I had written on her love.

Catherine no longer heard me; she had fallen prostrated into an armchair, mechanically holding in her hands the notes I had left her.

I took my departure.

The next evening I was here,—at Serval.

Three months ago I heard that Irene was dead,—dead, doubtless, of grief at seeing me no more.

Madame de Fersen has returned to Russia with her husband.

To put the crowning stroke to my remorse and despair, I also learned that the Prince de Fersen had been on the point of obtaining the post of Russian ambassador to France, but that suddenly he had withdrawn.

This explained Catherine's persistence in her diplomatic relations.

She wanted to assist her husband in obtaining an important post, in order that they might remain in France, and be with me.

Since the day following that terrible evening I reside at Serval, this old and gloomy ancestral château.

When I heard of Irene's death, I became almost insane.

I loathe myself as her murderer.

My life here is isolated and desolate.

For the last six months I have seen no one, not a soul.

Each day I meditate for hours before my father's portrait.

I had charged myself with the task of writing this journal.

My task is now accomplished.

I have been the cause of suffering to some innocent creatures, but I, also, have suffered much. Ah, mon Dieu! am I not still suffering?

What is my future?

Before me life is dark and gloomy; I am pursued by remorse for the past.

What is my fate?

Am I to perish by suicide? Am I to die the violent death Irene predicted for me?

What thoughts!

And this very day I am twenty-eight.

CHAPTER XXVIII

MARIE BELMONT

SERVAL, January 20, 18—.

Who would have said six months ago that I would ever take up this journal again, or, rather, that I would ever recover from the apathy of heart and mind into which I had been thrown by my rupture with Madame de Fersen, by the death of Irene?

Such, though, is the case.

And yet my despair was frightful!

To-day, though the remembrance of that time gives me sore pain, a distant hope, new sensations mitigate that soreness.

I smile, sadly when I read in my journal, which I have just been looking over, these words repeated so often:

"Never was there greater sorrow—"

"Never was there more happiness—"

"Never can I forget—"

And now new joys have obliterated those sorrows; new troubles have faded those joys. Thus day after day, forgetfulness, that dark, cold tide, creeps up higher, higher, and swallows up in the black abyss of the past the souvenirs that time has discoloured.

My mother! my father! Hélène! Marguerite! Catherine! you to whom I owe so much sorrow and so much felicity! Space or the tomb now separates you all from me; and I scarcely think of you at all!

Perhaps, alas! it will be even so with the feelings and impressions that fill my mind at the present time.

In spite of which I cannot help believing that they will last for ever.

Ah, my father! my father! you told me a very dreadful, a very dangerous truth, when you affirmed that forgetfulness was the only reality of our lives.

Thus, then, will I open this journal that I believed was closed for ever.

I believed, too, that my heart was closed to all tender and happy impressions.

But since I can still suffer, I will continue to write:

Three months ago on a cloudy autumn morning I went out early. A cold, thick fog was falling. I followed the edge of the forest, and was walking dreamily along, while behind me came an old black pony, the venerable Black that my cousin Hélène used to ride so often in the old days.

As I went along thus, with my head bowed towards the ground, I saw the newly made tracks of a great wild boar.

Having lately been seeking to divert myself by violent exercise, I had brought thirty fox-hounds over from London, and begun to hunt in fairly good style, to the great delight of old Lefort, one of my father's "whippers-in," whom I had retained as head keeper.

In following, out of curiosity, the trace of the boar, whose presence in the forest had been unknown up to this time, I left the edge of the woods and plunged deep into the undergrowth. After walking about three leagues I arrived at a little farm, called the ferme des Prés, which was situated on the confines of immense fields. Here I lost trace of the wild boar.

This farm had recently been leased to a widow, named Madame Kerouët. My superintendent had spoken to me of the great activity of this woman, who came from the neighbourhood of Nantes, the death of her husband having caused her to quit the place that she helped him to farm in Brittany. I thought I would profit by the chance that had led me to the farm to make the acquaintance of my new tenant.

La ferme des Prés was in a very picturesque situation. Its principal building, surrounded by a vast courtyard, backed up on the edge of the forest. This habitation, which had formerly been a hunting lodge, was built in the form of a little castle, flanked by two towers. An arched doorway, surmounted by a coat-of-arms, led in to the ground floor. Time had given a gray colouring to these old walls, which were built with antique solidity. The tiles of the roof were all covered with moss, and clouds of pigeons swarmed around the pointed cone of one of the towers which had been changed into a pigeon-house.

Contrary to the custom of most of our farmers, the courtyard of the farm, instead of being littered with rubbish, was extremely clean and well kept. The ploughs, the harrows, the drills, were all newly painted of a fine olive-green colour, and were symmetrically arranged under a vast shed, along with the harness of the workhorses and yokes of the oxen.

A thick trellis divided the courtyard in its entire length, and separated it into two parts, one of which was given up to fowls of every kind, while the other was well sprinkled sand the colour of yellow ochre, and led up to the arched door of the little manor-house, on each side of which were great clumps of hollyhocks and sunflowers.

I was examining with satisfaction the exterior of the farmhouse, when I heard with the greatest surprise the harmonious warbling of a sweet, clear voice.

These sounds seemed to come from a little window. It was high and narrow, and was placed near the middle of one of the towers, where it was curtained by the thick vines of the morning-glory and nasturtiums.

After preluding thus, the voice was silent for awhile, but soon broke out again, singing the romance of the willow from Rossini's "Othello."

The voice was of remarkable quality, and showed high cultivation. It was very expressive, and full of sweetness and sadness.

I was greatly astonished. The song had ceased and I was still listening, when I saw a woman of fifty or thereabouts appear on the sill of the little arched doorway. She wore a black dress and a cap which was as white as the snow.

When she noticed me, she gave me a look of uneasy interrogation.

She was of medium height, sturdy, brown-eyed, and sunburnt. Her face had a remarkable expression of frankness and good temper.

"What can I do to serve you, monsieur?" she asked, with a half courtesy, which was no doubt due to my poor old pony, and my costume of gentleman-farmer, as the English say.

"It is beginning to rain, madame. Will you permit me to wait here awhile under shelter, and tell me if I am very far from the village of Blémur?"

This question was nothing but a pretext to gain time, and try to discover the Desdemona.

"The village of Blémur, blessed Virgin! but you will never get there before the black night, monsieur, though you have got a famous little horse there," said the fermière, as she examined Black with the eye of a connoisseur.

"Must I follow the highroad of the forest to go to Blémur?"

"Straight ahead, monsieur; one way you go to Blémur, and the other way to the château de Serval, and it is three good leagues, they say so at least, for I haven't been very long in this part of the country."

"Then you will allow me, madame, to wait here under the shed until the shower is over?"

"I can do better than that, monsieur; you will be much better off here in the house, come in if you please."

"I will be very glad to accept your offer, madame, though seeing such a beautifully kept shed, I could easily fancy myself in a salon."

This compliment pleased Madame Kerouët immensely, for she said, in an important way:

"Ah, dame! that is the way we always keep our farms in our Brittany."

All the while I was talking with the fermière I had not taken my eyes off the little window in the tower; several times I fancied I saw a white hand cautiously push aside some branches of the verdure which covered the window.

Madame Kerouët preceded me into the farmhouse. I tied up Black, and followed the good woman into her home.

To the left of the entrance door was a kitchen ornamented with all its accessories of copper and tin, which two strong peasant girls were busily scouring and which shone like gold and silver.

On the right we entered a great chamber, where there were two beds with twisted columns hung with curtains of green serge which were embroidered in red. These two beds were separated by a high chimneypiece where a good fire of pine cones was flaming. On the mantelpiece the only ornaments were an old looking-glass with its frame of red lacquer, and two wax statuettes under glass shades,—a St. John with his lamb, and a St. Genevieve with her fawn.

Between the two windows with their little diamond panes there hung on the wall an antique clock called a cuckoo; it was of gray wood painted with pink and blue flowers, and its two weights hung down on two cords of unequal length.

There was a spinning-wheel, a great armchair covered with tapestry, which was sacred to the mistress, a chair for Desdemona, two stools for the servant-maids, and a dresser loaded with faience. These articles, with a round, well-waxed walnut table, completed the furniture of the room, which served as a parlour, dining-room, and bedroom.

From the diamond window-panes to the floor everything shone with cleanliness. From the brown beams which crossed the ceiling were hanging long garlands of grapes dried for use in winter, and the whitewashed walls were ornamented with a set of coloured engravings framed in black wood, which illustrated the story of the Prodigal Son.

The mistress received my compliments on the neatness of her house with evident pride. While I was speaking the door opened, and the young woman who sang so well came in. When she saw me, she blushed, and started out again.

"Stay with us, Marie," Madame Kerouët said to her, affectionately.

I could not look on the enchanting beauty of that face without thinking of the Holy Virgins of Raphaël.

My admiration was so marked, my astonishment so great, on finding such beauty hidden in a farmhouse,—and I took no pains to conceal my feelings,—that Marie was quite taken back.

"This is my niece, monsieur," said the fermière, who neither noticed my surprise nor Desdemona's trouble. "She is the daughter of my poor brother, lieutenant in the Old Guard, who was killed at Waterloo. Thanks to the protection of Monseigneur the Bishop of Nantes, we were permitted to send Marie to St. Denis, where she was educated like a demoiselle. She remained there until her marriage, which took place at Nantes about a year ago." Madame Kerouët said this with a sigh. Then she continued: "But sit down, monsieur; and thou, Marie, go get a bottle of wine and a bit of warm galette."

"A thousand thanks, madame," said I, "I would rather not take anything. As soon as the rain is over I will continue on my journey."

To keep herself in countenance, Marie sat down to her aunt's spinning-wheel.

"Perhaps you are on your way to the château de Serval?"

"Non, madame; I told you I was going to Blémur."

"Ah, yes, to be sure, to Blémur; pardon, monsieur,—so much the better for you."

"How is that, madame? Is the master of Serval inhospitable?"

"I don't know anything about that, monsieur; but they do say that he has no more wish to see human faces than human faces have to see him," replied Madame Kerouët.

"And why is that? Does he wish to live alone?"

"Hum, hum!" said the fermière, shaking her head, "I have only just come to these parts, and don't know the truth of the ugly stories they tell about him; besides, monsieur, the count is our master, and a very good master, they say; so I won't speak of what is none of my business. But, Marie, you are tangling all my flax again," she called out to the young woman. "Never wilt thou know how to use a distaff; hand it to me."

"And you, madame," I said to Marie, "have you any more certain information than madame your aunt as to the redoubtable inhabitant of Serval?"

"No, monsieur, I have only heard them say that M. the count lived a very retired life; and as I love solitude myself, I can understand that others care for it as well."

"You have so many means of charming your retreat, madame, that I can readily believe it must be attractive; in the first place, you are an excellent musician. I can say so, because I have just been fortunate enough to hear you sing."

"And she can draw and paint, too," added Madame Kerouët, admiringly.

"Then, madame," said I to Marie, "I must beg you, in the name of the cherished occupation which we share in common, to ask your aunt to grant me the permission of making some sketches of this farm whose situation I find so charming."

"You have no need of asking Marie's aid for that," said Madame Kerouët; "you can make as many sketches as you wish, it can do nobody any harm." I thanked the fermière; and, not wishing to make too long a first visit, I mounted my pony and started off.

Through caprice, I desired to keep up my incognito, which would be easy enough for awhile at least, for the Field Farm was quite a distance from Serval, and the tenants and farm hands from the one place hardly ever came over to the other.

The day after my first interview with Marie I furnished myself with the complete outfit of an artist; for since my return to Serval, I, too, had sought distraction in painting, and, mounted on good old Black, I started for the Field Farm.

Thanks to my frequent visits, a certain amount of friendliness was established between Marie, her aunt, and myself.

As I never saw any M. Belmont, I supposed him to be on a journey, and asked no questions about him. I drew the farm from every point of view, and I gave two or three of the sketches to Madame Kerouët, who was enchanted with them. Very often Marie came out and sketched with me. She had a great deal of talent.

Contrary to the habit of most young girls, Marie had profited by the excellent education that is afforded in such establishments as St. Denis. Fond of learning, she had neglected none of her studies, none of the useful or agreeable arts that were taught in that institution; so that, being naturally gifted, she had cultivated her talents to the utmost. To a solid, extended, and varied instruction, she added a real vocation for art. But Marie was quite unconscious of the rarity of such an assemblage of delightful talents. She never showed the least vanity in her superiority, but would often, with a schoolgirl's satisfaction, tell me of her former successes in history, painting, or music, as I had heard other women tell of their triumphs in coquetry.

Marie was only eighteen, and had the happy and fanciful imagination of a child. When she was in a confidential mood, I found her to be simple, sweet-tempered, and gay. She possessed that innocent gaiety which is the outcome of a serene soul and a life of intelligent and noble occupation. The more I studied her guileless nature, the more attached to her I became.

I did not feel for Marie a violent and wild passion, but when she was near me I was so perfectly and entirely happy that I had no desire for anything further, nor any regret for the turmoil of a passionate love. Strangely, though Marie was so angelically beautiful, though her form was charming, I was more interested in her wit, her candour, and the thousand aspirations of her young soul, than in her physical perfections. I had never made her the least compliment on her beauty, but I had never made any secret of the interest I felt in her talents and her exquisite natural gifts.

Although she was a married woman, she possessed such a mysterious and virginal charm that my behaviour towards her was respectful and even singularly timid.

Madame Kerouët, Marie's aunt, was a woman of rare good sense. She was high-minded and kind-hearted. Her piety, which was sweet and fervent, inspired her to do the most charitable actions. No poor person ever left the farm without having received, besides a trifling sum of money, some of those words of encouragement more precious than alms.

Little by little I discovered in this good woman a very treasure-house of kindness and practical virtue. Her conversations were always interesting to me, for she could tell me many curious facts concerning agriculture. Sometimes her perfect faith gave an elevation to her thoughts that surprised me, and I would say to myself, "What is the secret of a religion that can so illuminate a simple mind?"

I had been visiting the farm assiduously for two months when one day Madame Kerouët said to me:

"It must astonish you to see Marie thus living the life of a widow. As you are our friend I am going to tell you the whole sad story. Figure to yourself, monsieur, that my husband and I had the lease of a farm at Thouars near Nantes. The farm belonged to M. Duvallon, a rich ship-owner of the town, who owed the beginning of his fortune to having sailed as a pirate during the war with England.

"Though he was surly, M. Duvallon was kind; he was very fond of my husband. One day Kerouët told him about our niece, who was soon to come home from St. Denis. With her fine education, that dear child could not marry a peasant, and we were not rich enough to marry her to a monsieur. Seeing our state of embarrassment, M. Duvallon said to Kerouët: 'If your niece is reasonable I will take it upon myself to settle her in life.'

"'With whom?' asked my husband.

"'With one of my old comrades, a sea captain who wishes to give up the sea and live as a good bourgeois. He has just come here. He is rich. He is not a dandy, but he is as good as gold and as true as steel, and I am sure he will make your niece perfectly happy.'

"Kerouët came home and told me all this. It was a rare piece of good luck for us and, above all, for Marie, the poor orphan.

"This was in the month of October last year. Marie being now eighteen years old could no longer remain at St. Denis. So we sent for her to come to the farm, and arranged for a day on which M. Duvallon should bring his friend, M. Belmont, to see our niece before coming to any conclusion, you understand.

"That day, it was a Sunday, our farm was as clean as a pin. Kerouët, Marie, and I were all decked out in our best, when M. Duvallon arrives in a cabriolet with his friend. What could we do, monsieur? Without doubt his friend was not what you call a joli garçon, but he had the cross of honour, the look of a brave man, and he seemed very well preserved for his age, which might be from forty-five to fifty.

"This monsieur was very amiable to us. From time to time I would look at Marie; she did not seem to be particularly taken with M. Belmont, but I knew she was reasonable, and then, monsieur, with her education I felt that what she needed above all things was a certain amount of means, and that we ought to sacrifice a great many things to that end. It was a misfortune, no doubt, but we were not in a position to choose. When those messieurs were gone, we told Marie frankly what it was all about.

"Dame! monsieur, we all shed a lot of tears, she and I and my poor Kerouët, for our poor dear child was very young, and M. Belmont was very old for her, but at least Marie would be provided for in the future and we could die in peace and tranquillity.

"She understood all that and was resigned, so the next day when M. Duvallon came back we gave him our word.

"For a fortnight M. Belmont came to see us every day. Folks say that sailors are rough and surly. He was very polite, very kind, very complaisant to Marie, so she ended by seeing him without dislike and was touched by the proofs of affection that he showed her.

"Then what was more pleasing to us was that Marie was not to be separated from us, for he meant to buy a little country place near Thouars, and so we should be able to see each other every day.

"Well, at last she got so used to seeing M. Belmont that she consented to paint his portrait. She keeps it up there in her study in the tower, where she doesn't permit any one to enter. It is as like as like can be.

"About the last of December, M. Belmont told us that he was going to Paris to buy the wedding presents, the marriage was to take place at Nantes during the month of January.

"At the end of a fortnight, M. Belmont came back with splendid things for Marie.

"Since the sad event which has separated us, I have remembered that after his return from Paris M. Belmont often seemed to be very much depressed; but he was always good and kind to us; only he insisted that instead of waiting until the first of February, the date fixed for the marriage, the wedding should take place sooner.

"We consented to this, and they were married on the seventeenth of January; it was a Friday. In the morning we signed the contract. M. Belmont settled on Marie six thousand francs a year. For folks like us it was very fine, was it not, monsieur?

"After signing the contract we went to the mairie, and then to the church, and we all came back to dinner to the country house of M. Duvallon, who was M. Belmont's best man.

"We were all seated at the table and had got as far as dessert. M. Belmont had just begun to sing some verses he had composed on his marriage, the poor dear man, when all of a sudden there arrived from Nantes one of M. Duvallon's servants. He hands a letter to his master. M. Duvallon turns pale, gets up from the table and cries out, 'Belmont! listen!' I remember that poor Belmont was singing at that moment a verse that began like this: 'Hymen waves his torch.'

"M. Belmont gets up, but he has hardly read the letter which Duvallon shows him when he makes a face,—ah, monsieur, such a terrible face, that I have yet to understand how a man who had ordinarily such a kind look could ever take on such an expression of ferocity.

"Then, controlling himself, he goes up to Marie, kisses her, and says: 'Don't worry about me, my petite femme, thou shalt have news of me very soon;' then he disappeared with Duvallon, who said to us, as he went out: 'Belmont is compromised in a political affair like—carbonaro.' Yes, that is the word, carbonaro," added Madame Kerouët, in recalling her souvenirs. "'He must escape, his life depends on it. If they come here to arrest him, try and keep the commissaire here as long as possible.'

"They had hardly been gone a quarter of an hour when an officer of the gendarmerie arrives in a carriage with a commissaire of police, as they had foreseen. They ask for M. Belmont, sea captain.

"You know very well that we said never a word. They seek everywhere, but find no one, and they keep that up for at least two hours.

"The commissaire was about to give it up when some one of the company, having by accident spoken of the three-master La Belle Alexandrine, which was to sail that day from Nantes, the brigadier of gendarmerie cried out: 'And the tide is high at three o'clock! And now it is five! Before we can get back to Nantes it will be seven o'clock. If our man means to get away on that ship, he will be out of the mouth of the river by seven o'clock this evening, and beyond our reach.'

"Thereupon they all get into the carriage with the commissaire, and start back for Nantes at a gallop; but they got there too late. That poor dear Belmont had been lucky enough to embark on La Belle Alexandrine, and was off to Havana. M. Duvallon came the next day to tell us all about it.

"Alas! monsieur, misfortunes never come alone. Two months after all these events, my poor Kerouët died of lung fever.

"M. Duvallon sold the farm he owned at Thouars, and I should have been without resources if the superintendent of the château of Serval, who was acquainted with Kerouët, and knew that I was capable of managing a farm, had not proposed that I should rent this one, where I am very contented, but alas, I regret every day my poor Kerouët, and am still very uneasy as to the fate of M. Belmont, who has only written to us once by a vessel from Nantes which La Belle Alexandrine met at sea.

"In his letter, Belmont told us not to worry, and that one of these days he would return and surprise us. As for Marie, I cannot say that she grieves very much for M. Belmont, the poor dear child, she knew him too little for that; but, monsieur, I am sorry for all this on her account, for should I die to-morrow what would become of her?

"To complete all, she is so scrupulous that it is impossible to get her to decide to touch a cent of the six thousand francs which M. Belmont settled on her, and which M. Duvallon sends her every three months. We take the money to a notary at Nantes, and there it will stay until Belmont comes back again, and that will be the Lord knows when."

Such was the recital of Madame Kerouët.

In fact, about the time of M. Belmont's departure, the police had discovered several Liberal plots. It was a time when secret societies were organising on a formidable scale; therefore, it was quite possible that he had been seriously mixed up in a conspiracy against the government.