Doctor Hortebise did not find it necessary to resort to any of those expedients which Mascarin had found it advisable to use in order to reach Madame de Mussidan. As soon as he presented himself--that is, after a brief interval of five minutes--he was introduced into the presence of the Countess. He rather wondered at this, for Madame de Mussidan was one of those restless spirits that are seldom found at home, but are to be met with at exhibitions, on race-courses, at the salons, restaurants, shops, or theatres; or at the studio of some famous artist; or at the rooms of some musical professor who had discovered a new tenor; anywhere and everywhere, in fact, except at home. Hers was one of those restless natures constantly craving for excitement; and husband, home, and child were mere secondary objects in her eyes. She had many avocations; she was a patroness of half a dozen charitable institutions, but the chief thing that she did was to spend money. Gold seemed to melt in her grasp like so much snow, and she never knew what became of the sums she lavished so profusely. Husband and wife had long been almost totally estranged, and led almost separate existences. Dr. Hortebise was well aware of this, in common with others who moved in society. Upon the appearance of the doctor, the Countess dropped the book she had been perusing, and gave vent to an exclamation of delight. “Ah, doctor, this is really very kind of you;” and at the same time signed to the servant to place a chair for the visitor.
The Countess was tall and slender, and at forty-five had the figure of a girl. She had an abundance of fair hair, the color of which concealed the silver threads which plentifully interspersed it. A subtle perfume hung about her, and her pale blue eyes were full of pride and cold disdain.
“You know how to time your visits so well, doctor!” said she. “I am thoroughly bored, and am utterly weary of books, for it always seems to me, when I read, that I had perused the same thing before somewhere or other. You have arrived at so opportune a moment, that you appear to be a favorite of timely chance.”
The doctor was indeed a favorite of chance; but the name of the chance was Baptiste Mascarin.
“I see so few visitors,” continued Madame de Mussidan, “that hardly any one comes to see me. I must really set aside one day in the week for my at home; for when I do happen to stay at home, I feel fearfully dull and lonely. For two mortal hours I have been in this room. I have been nursing the Count.”
The doctor knew better than this; but he smiled pleasantly, and said, “Perfectly so,” exactly at the right moment.
“Yes,” continued the Countess, “my husband slipped on the stairs, and hurt himself very much. Our doctor says it is nothing; but then I put little faith in what doctors say.”
“I know that by experience, madame,” replied Hortebise.
“Present company of course always excepted; but, do you know, I once really believed in you; but your sudden conversion to homeopathy quite frightened me.”
The doctor smiled. “It is as safe a mode of practice as any other.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I am perfectly sure of it.”
“Well, now that you are here, I am half inclined to ask your advice.”
“I trust that you are not suffering.”
“No, thank heaven; I have never any cause to complain of my health; but I am very anxious about Sabine’s state.”
Her affection of maternal solicitude was a charming pendant to her display of conjugal affection, and again the doctor’s expression of assent came in in the right place.
“Yes, for a month, doctor, I have hardly seen Sabine, I have been so much engaged; but yesterday I met her, and was quite shocked at the change in her appearance.”
“Did you ask her what ailed her?”
“Of course, and she said, ‘Nothing,’ adding that she was perfectly well.”
“Perhaps something had vexed her?”
“She,--why, don’t you know that every one likes her, and that she is one of the happiest girls in Paris; but I want you to see her in spite of that.” She rang the bell as she spoke, and as soon as the footman made his appearance, said, “Lubin, ask Mademoiselle to have the goodness to step downstairs.”
“Mademoiselle has gone out, madame.”
“Indeed! how long ago?”
“About three o’clock, madame.”
“Who went with her?”
“Her maid, Modeste.”
“Did Mademoiselle say where she was going to?”
“No, madame.”
“Very well, you can go.”
Even the imperturbable doctor was rather surprised at a girl of eighteen being permitted so much freedom.
“It is most annoying,” said the Countess. “However, let us hope that the trifling indisposition, regarding which I wished to consult you, will not prevent her marriage.”
Here was the opening that Hortebise desired.
“Is Mademoiselle going to be married?” asked he with an air of respectful curiosity.
“Hush!” replied Madame de Mussidan, placing her finger on her lips; “this is a profound secret, and there is nothing definitely arranged; but you, as a doctor, are a perfect father confessor, and I feel that I can trust you. Let me whisper to you that it is quite possible that Sabine will be Madame de Breulh-Faverlay before the close of the year.”
Hortebise had not Mascarin’s courage; indeed, he was frequently terrified at his confederate’s projects; but having once given in his adherence, he was to be relied on, and did not hesitate for a moment. “I confess, madame, that I heard that mentioned before;” returned he cautiously.
“And, pray, who was your informant?”
“Oh, I have had it from many sources; and let me say at once that it was this marriage, and no mere chance, that brought me here to-day.”
Madame de Mussidan liked the doctor and his pleasant and witty conversation very much, and was always charmed to see him; but it was intolerable that he should venture to interfere in her daughter’s marriage. “Really, sir, you confer a great honor upon the Count and myself,” answered she haughtily.
Her severe manner, however, did not cause the doctor to lose his temper. He had come to say certain things in a certain manner. He had learned his part, and nothing that the Countess could say would prevent his playing it.
“I assure you, madame,” returned he, “that when I accepted the mission with which I am charged, I only did so from my feelings of respect to you and yours.”
“You are really very kind,” answered the Countess superciliously.
“And I am sure, madame, that after you have heard what I have to say, you will have even more reason to agree with me.” His manner as he said this was so peculiar, that the Countess started as though she had received a galvanic shock. “For more than twenty-five years,” pursued the doctor, “I have been the constant depository of strange family secrets, and some of them have been very terrible ones. I have often found myself in a very delicate position, but never in such an embarrassing one as I am now.”
“You alarm me,” said the Countess, dropping her impatient manner.
“If, madame, what I have come to relate to you are the mere ravings of a lunatic, I will offer my most sincere apologies; but if, on the contrary, his statements are true--and he has irrefragable proofs in his possession,--then, madame----”
“What then, doctor?”
“Then, madame, I can only say, make every use of me, for I will willingly place my life at your disposal.”
The Countess uttered a laugh as artificial as the tears of long-expectant heirs. “Really,” said she, “your solemn air and tones almost kill me with laughter.”
“She laughs too heartily, and at the wrong time. Mascarin is right,” thought the doctor. “I trust, madame,” continued he, “that I too may laugh at my own imaginary fears; but whatever may be the result, permit me to remind you that a little time back you said that a doctor was a father confessor; for, like a priest, the physician only hears secrets in order to forget them. He is also more fitted to console and advise, for, as his profession brings him into contact with the frailties and passions of the world, he can comprehend and excuse.”
“And you must not forget, doctor, that like the priest also, he preaches very long sermons.”
As she uttered this sarcasm, there was a jesting look upon her features, but it elicited no smile from Hortebise, who, as he proceeded, grew more grave.
“I may be foolish,” he said; “but I had better be that than reopen some old wound.”
“Do not be afraid, doctor; speak out.”
“Then, I will begin by asking if you have any remembrance of a young man in your own sphere of society, who, at the time of your marriage, was well known in every Parisian salon. I speak of the Marquis de Croisenois.”
The Countess leaned back in her chair, and contracted her brow, and pursed up her lips, as though vainly endeavoring to remember the name.
“The Marquis de Croisenois?” repeated she. “It seems as if----no--wait a moment. No; I cannot say that I can call any such person to mind.”
The doctor felt that he must give the spur to this rebellious memory.
“Yes, Croisenois,” he repeated. “His Christian name was George, and he had a brother Henry, whom you certainly must know, for this winter I saw him at the Duchess de Laumeuse’s, dancing with your daughter.”
“You are right; I remember the name now.”
Her manner was indifferent and careless as she said this.
“Then perhaps you also recollect that some twenty-three years ago, George de Croisenois vanished suddenly. This disappearance caused a terrible commotion at the time, and was one of the chief topics of society.”
“Ah! indeed?” mused the Countess.
“He was last seen at the Café de Paris, where he dined with some friends. About nine he got up to leave. One of his friends proposed to go with him, but he begged him not to do so, saying, ‘Perhaps I shall see you later on at the opera, but do not count on me.’ The general impression was that he was going to some love tryst.”
“His friends thought that, I suppose.”
“Yes, for he was attired with more care than usual, though he was always one of the best dressed men in Paris. He went out alone, and was never seen again.”
“Never again,” repeated the Countess, a slight shade passing across her brow.
“Never again,” echoed the unmoved doctor. “At first his friends merely thought his absence strange; but at the end of a week they grew anxious.”
“You go very much into details.”
“I heard them all at the time, madame, and they were only brought back to my memory this morning. All are to be found in the records of a minute search that the authorities caused to be made into the affair. The friends of De Croisenois had commenced the search; but when they found their efforts useless, they called in the aid of the police. The first idea was suicide: George might have gone into some lonely spot and blown out his brains. There was no reason for this; he had ample means, and always appeared contented and happy. Then it was believed that a murder had been committed, and fresh inquiries were instituted, but nothing could be discovered--nothing.”
The Countess affected to stifle a yawn, and repeated like an echo, “Nothing.”
“Three months later, when the police had given up the matter in despair, one of George de Croisenois’ friends received a letter from him.”
“He was not dead then, after all?”
Dr. Hortebise made a mental note of the tone and manner of the Countess, to consider over at his leisure.
“Who can say?” returned he. “The envelope bore the Cairo post-mark. In it George declared that, bored with Parisian life, he was going to start on an exploring expedition to Central Africa, and that no one need be anxious about him. People thought this letter highly suspicious. A man does not start upon such an expedition as this without money; and it was conclusively proved that on the day of De Croisenois’ disappearance he had not more than a thousand francs about him, half of which was in Spanish doubloons, won at whist before dinner. The letter was therefore regarded as a trick to turn the police off the scent; but the best experts asserted that the handwriting was George’s own. Two detectives were at once despatched to Cairo, but neither there nor anywhere on the road were any traces of the missing man discovered.”
As the doctor spoke, he kept his eyes riveted on the Countess, but her face was impassable.
“Is that all?” asked she.
Dr. Hortebise paused a few moments before he replied, and then answered slowly,--
“A man came to me yesterday, and asserts that you can tell me what has become of George de Croisenois.”
A man could not have displayed the nerve evinced by this frail and tender woman, for however callous he may be, some feature will betray the torture he is enduring; but a woman can often turn a smiling face upon the person who is racking her very soul. At the mere name of Montlouis the Count had staggered, as though crushed down by a blow from a sledge hammer; but at this accusation of Hortebise the Countess burst into a peal of laughter, apparently perfectly frank and natural, which utterly prevented her from replying.
“My dear doctor,” said she at length, as soon as she could manage to speak, “your tale is highly sensational and amusing, but I really think that you ought to consult a clairvoyant, and not a matter-of-fact person like me, about the fate of George de Croisenois.”
But the doctor, who was ready with his retort, and, not at all disconcerted by the cachinations of the Countess, heaved a deep sigh, as though a great load had been removed from his heart, and, with an air of extreme delight, exclaimed, “Thank Heaven! then I was deceived.”
He uttered these words with an affectation of such sincerity that the Countess fell into the trap.
“Come,” said she, with a winning smile, “tell me who it is that says I know so much.”
“Pooh! pooh!” returned Hortebise. “What good would that do? He has made a fool of me, and caused me to risk losing your good opinion. Is not that enough? To-morrow, when he comes to my house, my servants will refuse to admit him; but if I were to do as my inclinations lead me, I should hand him over to the police.”
“That would never do,” returned the Countess, “for that would change a mere nothing into a matter of importance. Tell me the name of your mysterious informer. Do I know him?”
“It is impossible that you could do so, madame, for he is far below you in the social grade. You would learn nothing from his name. He is a man I once helped, and is called Daddy Tantaine.”
“A mere nickname, of course.”
“He is miserably poor, a cynic, philosopher, but as sharp as a needle; and this last fact causes me great uneasiness, for at first I thought that he had been sent to me by some one far above him in position, but--”
“But, doctor,” interposed the Countess, “you spoke to me of proofs, of threats, of certain mysterious persons.”
“I simply repeated Daddy Tantaine’s words. The old idiot said to me, ‘Madame de Mussidan knows all about the fate of the Marquis, and this is clearly proved by letters that she has received from him, as well as from the Duke de Champdoce.’”
This time the arrow went home. She grew deadly pale, and started to her feet with her eyes dilated with horror.
“My letters!” exclaimed she hoarsely.
Hortebise appeared utterly overwhelmed by this display of consternation, of which he was the innocent cause.
“Your letters, madame,” replied he with evident hesitation, “this double-dyed scoundrel declares he has in his possession.”
With a cry like that of a wounded lioness, the Countess, taking no notice of the doctor’s presence, rushed from the room. Her rapid footfall could be heard on the stairs, and the rustle of her silken skirts against the banisters. As soon as he was left alone, the doctor rose from his seat with a cynical smile upon his face.
“You may search,” mused he, “but you will find that the birds have flown.” He walked up to one of the windows, and drummed on the glass with his fingers. “People say,” remarked he, “that Mascarin never makes a mistake. One cannot help admiring his diabolical sagacity and unfailing logic. From the most trivial event he forges a long chain of evidence, as the botanist is able, as he picks up a withered leaf, to describe in detail the tree it came from. A pity, almost, that he did not turn his talents to some nobler end; but no; he is now upstairs putting the Count on the rack, while I am inflicting tortures on the Countess. What a shameful business we are carrying on! There are moments when I think that I have paid dearly for my life of luxury, for I know well,” he added, half consciously fingering his locket, “that some day we shall meet some one stronger than ourselves, and then the inevitable will ensue.”
The reappearance of the Countess broke the chain of his thoughts. Her hair was disturbed, her eyes had a wild look in them, and everything about her betrayed the state of agitation she was in.
“Robbed! robbed!” cried she, as she entered the room. Her excitement was so extreme that she spoke aloud, forgetting that the door was open, and that the lackey in the ante-room could hear all she said. Luckily Hortebise did not lose his presence of mind, and, with the ease of a leading actor repairing the error of a subordinate, he closed the door.
“What have you lost?” asked he.
“My letters; they are all gone.”
She staggered on to a couch, and in broken accents went on. “And yet these letters were in an iron casket closed by a secret spring; that casket was in a drawer, the key of which never leaves me.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Hortebise in affected tones, “then Tantaine spoke the truth.”
“He did,” answered the Countess hoarsely. “Yes,” she continued, “I am the bondslave to people whose names I do not even know, who can control my every movement and action.”
She hid her face in her hands as though her pride sought to conceal her despair.
“Are these letters, then, so terribly compromising?” asked the doctor.
“I am utterly lost,” cried she. “In my younger days I had no experience; I only thought of vengeance, and lately the weapons I forged myself have been turned against me. I dug a pitfall for my adversaries and have fallen into it myself.”
Hortebise did not attempt to stay the torrent of her words, for the Countess was in one of those moods of utter despair when the inner feelings of the soul are made manifest, as during a violent tempest the weeds of ocean are hurled up to the surface of the troubled waters.
“I would sooner be lying in my grave a thousand times,” wailed she, “than see these letters in my husband’s hands. Poor Octave! have I not caused him sufficient annoyance already without this crowning sorrow? Well, Dr. Hortebise, I am menaced with the production of these letters, and they will be handed to my husband unless I agree to certain terms. What are they? Of course money is required; tell me to what amount.”
The doctor shook his head.
“Not money?” cried the Countess; “what, then, do they require? Speak, and do not torture me more.”
Sometimes Hortebise confessed to Mascarin that, putting his interests on one side, he pitied his victims; but he showed no sign of this feeling, and went on,--
“The value of what they require, madame, is best estimated by yourself.”
“Tell me what it is; I can bear anything now.”
“These compromising letters will be placed in your hands upon the day on which your daughter marries Henry de Croisenois, the brother of George.”
Madame de Mussidan’s astonishment was so great that she stood as though petrified into a statue.
“I am commissioned to inform you, madame, that every delay necessary for altering any arrangements that may exist will be accorded you; but, remember, if your daughter marries any one else than Henry de Croisenois, the letters will be at once placed in your husband’s hands.”
As he spoke the doctor watched her narrowly. The Countess crossed the room, faint and dizzy, and rested her head on the mantelpiece.
“And that is all?” asked she. “What you ask me to do is utterly impossible: and perhaps it is for the best, for I shall have no long agony of suspense to endure. Go, doctor, and tell the villain who holds my letters that he can take them to the Count at once.”
The Countess spoke in such a decided tone that Hortebise was a little puzzled.
“Can it be true,” she continued, “that scoundrels exist in our country who are viler than the most cowardly murderers,--men who trade in the shameful secrets that they have learned, and batten upon the money they earn by their odious trade? I heard of such creatures before, but declined to believe it; for I said to myself that such an idea only existed in the unhealthy imaginations of novel writers. It seems, however that I was in error; but do not let these villains rejoice too soon; they will reap but a scanty harvest. There is one asylum left for me where they cannot molest me.”
“Ah, madame!” exclaimed the doctor in imploring accents; but she paid no attention to his remonstrances, and went on with increasing violence,--
“Do the miserable wretches think that I fear death? For years I have prayed for it as a final mercy from the heaven I have so deeply offended. I long for the quiet of the sepulchre. You are surprised at hearing one like me speak in this way,--one who has all her life been admired and flattered,--I, Diana de Laurebourg, Countess de Mussidan. Even in the hours of my greatest triumphs my soul shuddered at the thought of the grim spectre hidden away in the past; and I wished that death would come and relieve my sufferings. My eccentricities have often surprised my friends, who asked if sometimes I were not a little mad. Mad? Yes, I am mad! They do not know that I seek oblivion in excitement, and that I dare not be alone. But I have learned by this time that I must stifle the voice of conscience.”
She spoke like a woman utterly bereft of hope, who had resolved on the final sacrifice. Her clear voice rang through the room, and Hortebise turned pale as he heard the footsteps of the servants pacing to and fro outside the door, as they made preparations for dinner.
“All my life has been one continual struggle,” resumed she,--“a struggle which has cost me sore; but now all is over, and to-night, for the first time for many years, Diana de Mussidan will sleep a calm and untroubled sleep.”
The excitement of the Countess had risen to so high a pitch that the doctor asked himself how he could allay a tempest which he had not foreseen; for her loud tones would certainly alarm the servants, who would hasten to acquaint the Count, who was himself stretched upon the rack; then the entire plot would be laid bare, and all would be lost.
Madame de Mussidan was about to rush from the room, when the doctor, perceiving that he must act decisively, seized her by both wrists, and, almost by force, caused her to resume her seat.
“In Heaven’s name, madame,” he whispered, “for your daughter’s sake, listen to me. Do not throw up all; am not I here ready to do your bidding, whatever it may be? Rely upon me,--rely upon the knowledge of a man of the world, and of one who still possesses some portion of what is called a heart. Cannot we form an alliance to ward off this attack?”
The doctor continued in this strain, endeavoring to reassure the Countess as much as he had previously endeavored to terrify her, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing his efforts crowned with success; for Madame de Mussidan listened to his flow of language, hardly comprehending its import, but feeling calmer as he went on; and in a quarter of an hour he had persuaded her to look the situation boldly in the face. Then Hortebise breathed more freely, and, wiping the perspiration from his brow, felt that he had gained the victory.
“It is a nefarious plot,” said the Countess.
“So it is, madame; but the facts remain. Only tell me one thing, have you any special objection to M. de Croisenois paying his addresses to your daughter?”
“Certainly not.”
“He comes from a good family, is well educated, handsome, popular, and only thirty-four. If you remember, George was his senior by fifteen years. Why, then, is not the marriage a suitable one? Certainly, he has led rather a fast life; but what young man is immaculate? They say that he is deeply in debt; but then your daughter has enough for both. Besides, his brother left him a considerable fortune, not far short of two millions, I believe; and to this, of course Henry will eventually succeed.”
Madame de Mussidan was too overwhelmed by what she had already gone through to offer any further exposition of her feelings on the subject.
“All this is very well,” answered she; “but the Count has decided that Sabine is to become the wife of M. de Breulh-Faverlay, and I have no voice in the matter.”
“But if you exert your influence?”
The Countess shook her head. “Once on a time,” said she sadly, “I reigned supreme over Octave’s heart; I was the leading spirit of his existence. Then he loved me; but I was insensible to the depths of his affection, and wore out a love that would have lasted as long as life itself. Yes, in my folly I slew it, and now----” She paused for a moment as if to collect her ideas, and then added more slowly: “and now our lives are separate ones. I do not complain; it is all my own fault; he is just and generous.”
“But surely you can make the effort?”
“But suppose Sabine loves M. de Breulh-Faverlay?”
“But, madame, a mother can always influence her daughter.”
The Countess seized the doctor’s hand, and grasped it so tightly that he could hardly bear the pain.
“I must,” said she in a hoarse whisper, “divulge to you the whole extent of my unhappiness. I am estranged from my husband, and my daughter dislikes and despises me. Some people think that life can be divided into two portions, one consecrated to pleasure and excitement, and the other to domestic peace and happiness; but the idea is a false one. As youth has been, so will be age, either a reward or an expiation.”
Dr. Hortebise did not care to follow this train of argument--for the Count might enter at any moment, or a servant might come in to announce dinner--and only sought to soothe the excited feelings of Madame de Mussidan, and to prove to her that she was frightened by shadows, and that in reality she was not estranged from her husband, nor did her daughter dislike her; and finally a ray of hope illuminated the saddened heart of the unfortunate lady.
“Ah, doctor!” said she, “it is only misfortune that teaches us to know our true friends.”
The Countess, like her husband, had now laid down her arms; she had made a longer fight of it, but in both cases the result had been the same. She promised that she would commence operations the next day, and do her utmost to break off the present engagement.
Hortebise then took his leave, quite worn out with the severe conflict he had waged during his two hours’ interview with the Countess. In spite of the extreme cold, the air outside seemed to refresh him considerably, and he inhaled it with the happy feeling that he had performed his duty in a manner worthy of all praise. He walked up the Rue de Faubourg Saint Honore, and again entered the café where he and his worthy confederate had agreed to meet. Mascarin was there, an untasted cutlet before him, and his face hidden by a newspaper which his anxiety would not permit him to peruse. His suspense was terrible. Had Hortebise failed? had he encountered one of those unforeseen obstacles which, like a minute grain of sand, utterly hinders the working of a piece of delicate machinery?
“Well, what news?” said he eagerly, as soon as he caught sight of the doctor.
“Success, perfect success!” said Hortebise gayly. “But,” added he, as he sank exhausted upon a seat, “the battle has been a hard one.”
