Mad with his terrible forebodings, Andre hurried through the streets in the direction of the Hotel de Mussidan, caring little for the attention that his excited looks and gestures caused. He had no fixed plan as to what to do when he arrived there, and it was only on reaching the Rue de Matignon that he recovered sufficient coolness to deliberate and reflect.
He had arrived at the desired spot; how should he set to work to obtain the information that he required? The evening was a dark one, and the gas-lamps showed a feeble light through the dull February fog. There were no signs of life in the Rue de Matignon, and the silence was only broken by the continuous surge of carriage wheels in the Faubourg Saint Honore. This gloom, and the inclemency of the weather, added to the young painter’s depression. He saw his utter helplessness, and felt that he could not move a step without compromising the woman he so madly adored. He walked to the gate of the house, hoping to gain some information even from the exterior aspect of the house; for it seemed to him that if Sabine were dying, the very stones in the street would utter sounds of woe and lamentation; but the fog had closely enwrapped the house, and he could hardly see which of the windows were lighted. His reasoning faculties told him that there was no use in waiting, but an inner voice warned him to stay. Would Modeste, who had written to him, divine, by some means that he was there, in an agony of suspense, and come out to give him information and solace? All at once a thought darted across his mind, vivid as a flash of lightning.
“M. de Breulh will help me,” cried he; “for though I cannot go to the house, he will have no difficulty in doing so.”
By good luck, he had M. de Breulh’s card in his pocket, and hurried off to his address. M. de Breulh had a fine house in the Avenue de l’Imperatrice, which he had taken more for the commodiousness of the stables than for his own convenience.
“I wish to see M. de Breulh,” said Andre, as he stopped breathless at the door, where a couple of footmen were chatting.
The men looked at him with supreme contempt. “He is out,” one of them at last condescended to reply.
Andre had by this time recovered his coolness, and taking out De Breulh’s card, wrote these words on it in pencil: “One moment’s interview. ANDRE.”
“Give this to your master as soon as he comes in,” said he.
Then he descended the steps slowly. He was certain that M. de Breulh was in the house, and that he would send out after the person who had left the card almost at once. His conclusion proved right; in five minutes he was overtaken by the panting lackey, who, conducting him back to the house, showed him into a magnificently furnished library. De Breulh feared that some terrible event had taken place.
“What has happened?” said he.
“Sabine is dying;” and Andre at once proceeded to inform De Breulh of what had happened since his departure.
“But how can I help you?”
“You can go and make inquiries at the house.”
“Reflect; yesterday I wrote to the Count, and broke off a marriage, the preliminaries of which had been completely settled; and within twenty-four hours to send and inquire after his daughter’s health would be to be guilty of an act of inexcusable insolence; for it would look as if I fancied that Mademoiselle de Mussidan had been struck down by my rupture of the engagement.”
“You are right,” murmured Andre dejectedly.
“But,” continued De Breulh, after a moment’s reflection, “I have a distant relative, a lady who is also a connection of the Mussidan family, the Viscountess de Bois Arden, and she will be glad to be of service to me. She is young and giddy, but as true as steel. Come with me to her; my carriage is ready.”
The footmen were surprised at seeing their master on such terms of intimacy with the shabbily dressed young man, but ventured, of course, on no remarks.
Not a word was exchanged during the brief drive to Madame de Bois Arden’s house.
“Wait for me,” exclaimed De Breulh, springing from the vehicle as soon as it drew up; “I will be back directly.”
Madame de Bois Arden is justly called one of the handsomest women in Paris. Very fair, with masses of black hair, and a complexion to which art has united itself to the gifts of nature, she is a woman who has been everywhere, knows everything, talks incessantly, and generally very well. She spends forty thousand francs per annum on dress. She is always committing all sorts of imprudent acts, and scandal is ever busy with her name. Half a dozen of the opposite sex have been talked of in connection with her, while in reality she is a true and faithful wife, for, in spite of all her frivolity, she adores her husband, and is in great awe of him. Such was the character of the lady into whose apartment M. de Breulh was introduced. Madame de Bois Arden was engaged in admiring a very pretty fancy costume of the reign of Louis XV., one of Van Klopen’s masterpieces, when M. de Breulh was announced, which she was going to wear, on her return from the opera, at a masquerade ball at the Austrian Ambassador’s. Madame de Bois Arden greeted her visitor with effusion, for they had been acquaintances from childhood, and always addressed each other by their Christian names.
“What, you here at this hour, Gontran!” said the lady. “Is it a vision, or only a miracle?” But the smile died away upon her lips, as she caught a glimpse of her visitor’s pale and harassed face. “Is there anything the matter?” asked she.
“Not yet,” answered he, “but there may be, for I hear that Mademoiselle de Mussidan is dangerously ill.”
“Is she really? Poor Sabine! what is the matter with her?”
“I do not know; and I want you, Clotilde, to send one of your people to inquire into the truth of what we have heard.”
Madame de Bois Arden opened her eyes very wide.
“Are you joking?” said she. “Why do you not send yourself?”
“It is impossible for me to do so; and if you have any kindness of heart, you do as I ask you; and I want you also to promise me not to say a word of this to any one.”
Excited as she was by this mystery, Madame de Bois Arden did not ask another question.
“I will do exactly what you want,” replied she, “and respect your secret. I would go at once, were it not that Bois Arden will never sit down to dinner without me; but the moment we have finished I will go.”
“Thanks, a thousand times; and now I will go home and wait for news from you.”
“Not at all,--you will remain here to dinner.”
“I must,--I have a friend waiting for me.”
“Do as you please, then,” returned the Viscountess, laughing. “I will send round a note this evening.”
De Breulh pressed her hand, and hurried down, and was met by Andre at the door, for he had been unable to sit still in the carriage.
“Keep up your courage. Madame de Bois Arden had not heard of Mademoiselle Sabine’s illness, and this looks as if it was not a very serious matter. We shall have the real facts in three hours.”
“Three hours!” groaned Andre, “what a lapse of time!”
“It is rather long, I admit; but we will talk of her while we wait, for you must stay and dine with me.”
Andre yielded, for he had no longer the energy to contest anything. The dinner was exquisite, but the two men were not in a condition of mind to enjoy it, and scarcely consumed anything. Vainly did they endeavor to speak on indifferent subjects, and when the coffee had been served in the library, they relapsed into utter silence. As the clock struck ten, however, a knock was heard at the door, then whisperings, and the rustle of female attire, and lastly Madame de Bois Arden burst upon them like a tornado.
“Here I am,” cried she.
It was certainly rather a hazardous step to pay such a late visit to a bachelor’s house, but then the Viscountess de Bois Arden did exactly as she pleased.
“I have come here, Gontran,” exclaimed she, with extreme vehemence, “to tell you that I think your conduct is abominable and ungentlemanly.”
“Clotilde!”
“Hold your tongue! you are a wretch! Ah! now I can see why you did not wish to write and inquire about poor Sabine. You well knew the effect that your message would have on her.”
M. de Breulh smiled as he turned to Andre and said,--
“You see that I was right in what I told you.”
This remark for the first time attracted Madame de Bois Arden’s attention to the fact that a stranger was present, and she trembled lest she had committed some grave indiscretion.
“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed she, with a start, “why, I thought that we were alone!”
“This gentleman has all my confidence,” replied M. de Breulh seriously; and as he spoke he laid his hand upon Andre’s shoulder. “Permit me to introduce M. Andre to you, my dear Clotilde; he may not be known to-day, but in a short time his reputation will be European.”
Andre bowed, but for once in her life the Viscountess felt embarrassed, for she was surprised at the extremely shabby attire of this confidential friend, and then there seemed something wanting to the name.
“Then,” resumed De Breulh, “Mademoiselle de Mussidan is really ill, and our information is correct.”
“She is.”
“Did you see her?”
“I did, Gontran; and had you seen her, your heart would have been filled with pity, and you would have repented your conduct toward her. The poor girl did not even know me. She lay in her bed, whiter than the very sheets, cold and inanimate as a figure of marble. Her large black eyes were staring wildly, and the only sign of life she exhibited was when the great tears coursed down her cheeks.”
Andre had determined to restrain every token of emotion in the presence of the Viscountess, but her recital was too much for him.
“Ah!” said he, “she will die; I know it.”
There was such intense anguish in his tone that even the practised woman of the world was softened.
“I assure you, sir,” said she, “that you go too far; there is no present danger; the doctors say it is catalepsy, which often attacks persons of a nervous temperament upon the receipt of a sudden mental shock.”
“But what shock has she received?” asked Andre.
“No one told me,” answered she after a short pause, “that Sabine’s illness was caused by the breaking off of her engagement; but, of course, I supposed that it was.”
“That was not the reason, Clotilde; but you have told us nothing; pray, go on,” interposed De Breulh.
The extreme calmness of her cousin, and a glance which she observed passing between him and Andre, enlightened the Viscountess somewhat.
“I asked as much as I dared,” she replied, “but I could only get the vaguest answers. Sabine looked as if she were dead, and her father and mother hovered around her couch like two spectres. Had they slain her with their own hands, they could not have looked more guilty; their faces frightened me.”
“Tell me precisely what answers were given to your questions,” broke in he impatiently.
“Sabine had seemed so agitated all day, that her mother asked her if she was suffering any pain.”
“We know that already.”
“Indeed!” replied the Viscountess, with a look of surprise. “It seems, cousin, that you saw Sabine that afternoon, but what became of her afterward no one appears to know; but there is positive proof that she did not leave the house, and received no letters. At all events, it was more than an hour after her maid saw her enter her own room. Sabine said a few unintelligible words to the girl, who, seeing the pallor upon her mistress’s face, ran up to her. Just as she did so, Sabine uttered a wild shriek, and fell to the ground. She was raised up and laid upon the bed, but since then she has neither moved nor spoken.”
“That is not all,” said De Breulh, who had watched his cousin keenly.
The Viscountess started, and avoided meeting her cousin’s eye.
“I do not understand,” she faltered. “Why do you look at me like that?”
De Breulh, who had been pacing up and down the room, suddenly halted in front of the Viscountess.
“My dear Clotilde,” said he, “I am sure when I tell you that the tongue of scandal has often been busy with your name, I am telling you nothing new.”
“Pooh!” answered the Viscountess. “What do I care for that?”
“But I always defended you. You are indiscreet--your presence here tonight shows this; but you are, after all, a true woman,--brave and true as steel.”
“What do you mean by this exordium, Gontran?”
“This, Clotilde,--I want to know if I dare venture to intrust to you a secret which involves the honor of two persons, and, perhaps, the lives of more.”
“Thank you, Gontran,” answered she calmly. “You have formed a correct judgment of me.”
But here Andre felt that he must interpose, and, taking a step forward, said, “Have you the right to speak?”
“My dear Andre,” said De Breulh, “this is a matter in which my honor is as much concerned as yours. Will you not trust me?” Then turning to the Viscountess, he added, “Tell us all you heard.”
“It is only something I heard from Modeste. You had hardly left the house, when the Baron de Clinchain made his appearance.”
“An eccentric old fellow, a friend of the Count de Mussidan’s. I know him.”
“Just so; well, they had a stormy interview, and at the end of it, the Baron was taken ill, and it was with difficulty that he regained his carriage.”
“That seems curious.”
“Wait a bit. After that Octave and his wife had a terrible scene together, and Modeste thinks that her mistress must have heard something, for the Count’s voice rang through the house like thunder.”
Every word that the Viscountess uttered strengthened De Breulh’s suspicions. “There is something mysterious in all this, Clotilde,” said he, “as you will say when you know the whole truth,” and, without omitting a single detail, he related the whole of Sabine and Andre’s love story.
Madame de Bois Arden listened attentively, sometimes thrilled with horror, and at others pleased with this tale of innocent love.
“Forgive me,” said she, when her cousin had concluded; “my reproaches and accusations were equally unfounded.”
“Yes, yes; never mind that; but I am afraid that there is some hidden mystery which will place a fresh stumbling-block in our friend Andre’s path.”
“Do not say that,” cried Andre, in terror. “What is it?”
“That I cannot tell; for Mademoiselle de Mussidan’s sake, I have withdrawn all my pretensions to her hand,--not to leave the field open to any other intruder, but in order that she may be your wife.”
“How are we to learn what has really happened?” asked the Viscountess.
“In some way or other we shall find out, if you will be our ally.”
Most women are pleased to busy themselves about a marriage, and the Viscountess was cheered to find herself mixed up in so romantic a drama.
“I am entirely at your beck and call,” answered she. “Have you any plan?”
“Not yet, but I will soon. As far as Mademoiselle de Mussidan is concerned, we must act quite openly. Andre will write to her, asking for an explanation, and you shall see her to-morrow, and if she is well enough, give her his note.”
The proposal was a startling one, and the Viscountess did not entertain it favorably.
“No,” said she, “I think that would not do at all.”
“Why not? However, let us leave it to Andre.”
Andre, thus addressed, stepped forward, and said,--
“I do not think that it would be delicate to let Mademoiselle de Mussidan know that her secret is known to any one else than ourselves.”
The Viscountess nodded assent.
“If,” continued Andre, “the Viscountess will be good enough to ask Modeste to meet me at the corner of the Avenue de Matignon; I shall be there.”
“A capital idea, sir,” said the lady, “and I will give your message to Modeste.” She broke off her speech suddenly, and uttered a pretty little shriek, as she noticed that the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to twenty to twelve. “Great heavens!” cried she, “and I am going to a ball at the Austrian Embassy, and now not even dressed.” And, with a coquettish gesture, she drew her shawl around her, and ran out of the room, exclaiming as she descended the stairs, “I will call here to-morrow, Gontran, on my way to the Bois,” and disappeared like lightning.
Andre and his host sat over the fire, and conversed for a long time. It seemed strange that two men who had met that morning for the first time should now be on such intimate terms of friendship; but such was the case, for a mutual feeling of admiration and respect had sprung up in their hearts.
M. de Breulh wished to send Andre home in his carriage, but this the young man declined, and merely borrowed an overcoat to protect him from the inclemency of the weather.
“To-morrow,” said he, as he made his way home, “Modeste shall tell all she knows, provided always that that charming society dame does not forget all about our existence before then.”
Madame de Bois Arden, however, could sometimes be really in earnest. Upon her return from the ball she would not even go to bed, lest she should oversleep herself, and the next day Andre found Modeste waiting at the appointed spot, and learnt, to his great grief, that Sabine had not yet regained consciousness.
The family doctor betrayed no uneasiness, but expressed a wish for a consultation with another medical man. Meanwhile, the girl promised to meet Andre morning and evening in the same place, and give him such scraps of information as she had been able to pick up. For two whole days Mademoiselle de Mussidan’s condition remained unchanged, and Andre spent his whole time between his own studio, the Avenue de Matignon, and M. de Breulh’s, where he frequently met Madame de Bois Arden.
But on the third day Modest informed him, with tears in her eyes, that though the cataleptic fit had passed away, Sabine was struggling with a severe attack of fever. Modeste and Andre were so interested in their conversation, that they did not perceive Florestan, who had gone out to post a letter to Mascarin.
“Listen, Modeste,” whispered Andre, “you tell me that she is in danger,--very great danger.”
“The doctor said that the crisis would take place to-day; be here at five this evening.”
Andre staggered like a madman to De Breulh’s house; and so excited was he that his friend insisted upon his taking some repose, and would not, when five o’clock arrived, permit Andre to go to the appointment alone. As they turned the corner, they saw Modeste hurrying toward them.
“She is saved, she is saved!” said she, “for she has fallen into a tranquil sleep, and the doctor says that she will recover.”
Andre and De Breulh were transported by this news; but they did not know that they were watched by two men, Mascarin and Florestan, who did not let one of their movements escape them. Warned by a brief note from Florestan, Mascarin had driven swiftly to Father Canon’s public-house, where he thought he was certain to find the domestic, but the man was not there, and Mascarin, unable to endure further suspense, sent for him to the Hotel de Mussidan. When the servant informed Mascarin that the crisis was safely passed, he drew a deep breath of relief; for he no longer feared that the frail structure that he had built up with such patient care for twenty long years would be shattered at a blow by the chill hand of death. He bent his brow, however, when he heard of Modeste’s daily interviews with the young man whom Florestan termed “Mademoiselle’s lover.”
“Ah,” muttered he, “if I could only be present at one of those interviews!”
“And, as you say,” returned Florestan, drawing out, as he spoke, a neat-looking watch, “it is just the hour of their meeting; and as the place is always the same, you--”
“Come, then,” broke in his patron. They went out accordingly, and reached the Champs Elysees by a circuitous route. The place was admirably suited to their purpose, for close by were several of those little wooden huts, occupied in summer by the vendors of cakes and playthings.
“Let us get behind one of these,” said Florestan. Night was drawing in, but objects could still be distinguished, and in about five minutes Florestan whispered, “Look, there comes Modeste, and there is the lover, but he has a pal with him to-night. Why, what can she be telling him? He seems quite overcome.”
Mascarin divined the truth at once, and found that it would be a difficult task to interfere with the love of a man who displayed so much intensity of feeling.
“Then,” remarked Mascarin, savagely, “that great booby, staggering about on his friend’s arm, is your young lady’s lover?”
“Just so, sir.”
“Then we must find out who he is.”
Florestan put on a crafty air, and replied in gentle accents.
“The day before yesterday, as I was smoking my pipe outside, I saw this young bantam swaggering down the street--not but what he seemed rather crestfallen; but I knew the reason for that, and should look just as much in the dumps if my young woman was laid up. I thought, as I had nothing to do, I might as well see who he was and where he lived; so, sticking my hands in my pockets, after him I sloped. He walked such a long way, that I got precious sick of my job, but at last I ran him to earth in a house. I went straight up to the lodge, and showed the portress my tobacco pouch, and said, ‘I picked up this; I think that the gentleman who has just gone in dropped it. Do you know him?’ ‘Of course I do,’ said she. ‘He is a painter; lives on the fourth floor; and his name is M. Andre.’”
“Was the house in the Rue de la Tour d’Auvergne?” broke in Mascarin.
“You are right, sir,” returned the man, taken a little aback. “It seems, sir, that you are better informed than I am.”
Mascarin did not notice the man’s surprise, but he was struck with the strange persistency with which this young man seemed to cross his plans, for he found that the acquaintance of Rose and the lover of Mademoiselle de Mussidan were one and the same person, and he had a presentiment that he would in some way prove a hindrance to his plans.
The astute Mascarin concentrated all his attention upon Andre.
The latter said something to Modeste, which caused that young woman to raise her hands to heaven, as though in alarm.
“But who is the other?” asked he,--“the fellow that looks like an Englishman?”
“Do you not know?” returned the lackey. “Why, that is M. de Breulh-Faverlay.”
“What, the man who was to marry Sabine?”
“Certainly.”
Mascarin was not easily disconcerted, but this time a blasphemous oath burst from his lips.
“Do you mean,” said he, “that De Breulh and this painter are friends?”
“That is more than I can tell. You seem to want to know a lot,” answered Florestan, sulkily.
Modeste had now left the young men, who walked arm in arm in the direction of the Avenue de l’Imperatrice.
“M. de Breulh takes his dismissal easily enough,” observed Mascarin.
“He was not dismissed; it was he that wrote and broke off the engagement.”
This time Mascarin contrived to conceal the terrible blow that this information caused to him, and even made some jesting remark as he took leave of Florestan; but he was in truth completely staggered, for after thoroughly believing that the game was won, he saw that, though perhaps not lost, his victory was postponed for an indefinite period.
“What!” said he, as he clenched his hand firmly, “shall the headstrong passion of this foolish boy mar my plans? Let him take care of himself; for if he walks in my path, he will find it a road that leads to his own destruction.”
