Part 21

“I brought her here, and at once she commenced to excuse herself for her past conduct, begging me to restore her my friendship. As I expected, she had long since forgotten the young man, cause of our rupture. But she was now in love, and seriously this time, she declared, with a furniture-maker, who was a captain in the National Guards. It was through him that she had become a vivandiere; and she offered me a similar position, if I wished it. But I did not wish it; and, as I was complaining that I could find no work, she swore that she would get me some through her captain, who was a very influential man.

“Through him, I did in fact obtain a few dozen jackets to make. This work was very poorly paid; but the little I earned was that much less to take from my humble resources. In that way I managed to get through the siege without suffering too much.

“After the armistice, unfortunately, M. Van Klopen had not yet returned. I was unable to procure any work; my resources were exhausted; and I would have starved during the Commune, but for my old friend, who several times brought me a little money, and some provisions. Her captain was now a colonel, and was about to become a member of the government; at least, so she assured me. The entrance of the troops into Paris put an end to her dream. One night she came to me livid with fright. She supposed herself gravely compromised, and begged me to hide her. For four days she remained with me. On the fifth, just as we were sitting down to dinner, my room was invaded by a number of police-agents, who showed us an order of arrest, and commanded us to follow them.

“My friend sank down upon a chair, stupid with fright. But I retained my presence of mind, and persuaded one of the agents to go and notify my friend the justice. He happened luckily to be at home, and at once hastened to my assistance. He could do nothing, however, for the moment; the agents having positive orders to take us straight to Versailles.

“‘Well,’ said he, ‘I shall accompany you.’

“From the very first steps he took the next morning, he discovered that my position was indeed grave. But he also and very clearly recognized a new device of the enemy to bring about my destruction. The information filed against me stated that I had remained in the service of the Commune to the last moment; that I had been seen behind the barricades with a gun in my hand; and that I had formed one of a band of vile incendiaries. This infamous scheme had evidently been suggested by my relations with my friend from the Batignolles, who was still more terribly compromised than she thought, the poor girl; her colonel having been captured, and convicted of pillage and murder, and herself charged with complicity.

“Isolated as I was, without resources, and without relatives, I would certainly have perished, but for the devoted efforts of my friend the justice, whose official position gave him access everywhere, and enabled him to reach my judges. He succeeded in demonstrating my entire innocence; and after forty-eight hours’ detention, which seemed an age to me, I was set at liberty.

“At the door; I found the man who had just saved me. He was waiting for me, but would not suffer me to express the gratitude with which my heart overflowed.

“‘You will thank me,’ he said, ‘when I have deserved it better. I have done nothing as yet that any honest man wouldn’t have done in my place. What I wish is to discover what interests you are threatening without knowing it, and which must be considerable, if I may judge by the passion and the tenacity of those who are pursuing you. What I desire to do is to lay hands upon the cowardly rascals in whose way you seem to stand.’

“I shook my head.

“‘You will not succeed,’ I said to him.

“‘Who knows? I’ve done harder things than that in my life.’

“And taking a large envelope from his pocket,

“‘This,’ he said, ‘is the letter which caused your arrest. I have examined it attentively; and I am certain that the handwriting is not disguised. That’s something to start with, and may enable me to verify my suspicions, should any occur to my mind. In the mean time, return quietly to Paris, resume your ordinary occupations, answer vaguely any questions that may be asked about this matter, and above all, never mention my name. Remain at the Hotel des Folies: it is in my district, in my legitimate sphere of action; besides, the proprietors are in a position where they dare not disobey my orders. Never come to my office, unless something grave and unforeseen should occur. Our chances of success would be seriously compromised, if they could suspect the interest I take in your welfare. Keep your eyes open on every thing that is going on around you, and, if you notice any thing suspicious, write to me. I will myself organize a secret surveillance around you. If I can bag one of the rascals who are watching you, that’s all I want.’

“‘And now,’ added this good man, ‘good-by. Patience and courage.’

“Unfortunately he had not thought of offering me a little money: I had not dared to ask him for any, and I had but eight sous left. It was on foot, therefore, that I was compelled to return to Paris.

“Mme. Fortin received me with open arms. With me returned the hope of recovering the hundred and odd francs which I owed her, and which she had given up for lost. Moreover, she had excellent news for me. M. Van Klopen had sent for me during my absence, requesting me to call at his shop. Tired as I was, I went to see him at once. I found him very much downcast by the poor prospects of business. Still he was determined to go on, and offered to employ me, not as work-woman, as heretofore, but to try on garments for customers, at a salary of one hundred and twenty francs a month. I was not in a position to be very particular. I accepted; and there I am still.

“Every morning, when I get to the shop, I take off this simple costume, and I put on a sort of livery that belongs to M. Van Klopen, --wide skirts, and a black silk dress.

“Then whenever a customer comes who wants a cloak, a mantle, or some other ‘wrapping,’ I step up and put on the garment, that the purchaser may see how it looks. I have to walk, to turn around, sit down, etc. It is absurdly ridiculous, often humiliating; and many a time, during the first days, I felt tempted to give back to M. Van Klopen his black silk dress.

“But the conjectures of my friend the peace-officer were constantly agitating my brain. Since I thought I had discovered a mystery in my existence, I indulged in all sorts of fancies, and was momentarily expecting some extraordinary occurrence, some compensation of destiny, and I remained.

“But I was not yet at the end of my troubles.”

Since she had been speaking of M. Van Klopen, Mlle. Lucienne seemed to have lost her tone of haughty assurance and imperturbable coolness; and it was with a look of mingled confusion and sadness that she went on.

“What I was doing at Van Klopen’s was exceedingly painful to me; and yet he very soon asked me to do something more painful still. Gradually Paris was filling up again. The hotels had re-opened; foreigners were pouring in; and the Bois Boulogne was resuming its wonted animation. Still but few orders came in, and those for dresses of the utmost simplicity, of dark color and plain material, on which it was hard to make twenty-five per cent profit. Van Klopen was disconsolate. He kept speaking to me of the good old days, when some of his customers spent as much as thirty thousand francs a month for dresses and trifles, until one day,

“‘You are the only one,’ he told me, ‘who can help me out just now. You are really good looking; and I am sure that in full dress, spread over the cushions of a handsome carriage, you would create quite a sensation, and that all the rest of the women would be jealous of you, and would wish to look like you. There needs but one, you know, to give the good example.’”

Maxence started up suddenly, and, striking his head with hand,

“Ah, I understand now!” he exclaimed.

“I thought that Van Klopen was jesting,” went on the young girl. “But he had never been more in earnest; and, to prove it, he commenced explaining to me what he wanted. He proposed to get up for me some of those costumes which are sure to attract attention; and two or three times a week he would send me a fine carriage, and I would go and show myself in the Bois.

“I felt disgusted at the proposition.

“‘Never!’ I said.

“‘Why not?’

“‘Because I respect myself too much to make a living advertisement of myself.’

“He shrugged his shoulders.

“‘You are wrong,’ he said. ‘You are not rich, and I would give you twenty francs for each ride. At the rate of eight rides a month, it would be one hundred and sixty francs added to your wages. Besides,’ he added with a wink, ‘it would be an excellent opportunity to make your fortune. Pretty as you are, who knows but what some millionaire might take a fancy to you!’

“I felt indignant.

“‘For that reason alone, if for no other,’ I exclaimed, ‘I refuse.’

“‘You are a little fool,’ he replied. ‘If you do not accept, you cease being in my employment. Reflect!’

“My mind was already made up, and I was thinking of looking out for some other occupation, when I received a note from my friend the peace-officer, requesting me to call at his office.

“I did so, and, after kindly inviting me to a seat,

“‘Well,’ he said, ‘what is there new?’

“‘Nothing. I have noticed no one watching me.’

“He looked annoyed.

“‘My agents have not detected any thing, either,’ he grumbled. ‘And yet it is evident that your enemies cannot have given it up so. They are sharp ones: if they keep quiet, it is because they are preparing some good trick. What it is I must and shall find out. Already I have an idea which would be an excellent one, if I could discover some way of throwing you among what is called good society.’

“I explained to him, that, being employed at Van Klopen’s, I had an opportunity to see there many ladies of the best society.

“‘That is not enough,’ he said.

“Then M. Van Klopen’s propositions came back to my mind, and I stated them to him.

“‘Just the thing!’ he exclaimed, starting upon his chair: ‘a manifest proof that luck is with us. You must accept.’

“I felt bound to tell him my objections, which reflection had much increased.

“‘I know but too well,’ I said, ‘what must happen if I accept this odious duty. Before I have been four times to the Bois, I shall be noticed, and every one will imagine that they know for what purpose I come there. I shall be assailed with vile offers. True, I have no fears for myself. I shall always be better guarded by my pride than by the most watchful of parents. But my reputation will be lost.’

“I failed to convince him.

“‘I know very well that you are an honest girl,’ he said to me; ‘but, for that very reason, what do you care what all these people will think, whom you do not know? Your future is at stake. I repeat it, you must accept.’

“‘If you command me to do so,’ I said.

“‘Yes, I command you; and I’ll explain to you why.’”

For the first time, Mlle. Lucienne manifested some reticence, and omitted to repeat the explanations of the peace-officer. And, after a few moments’ pause,

“You know the rest, neighbor,” she said, “since you have seen me yourself in that inept and ridiculous role of living advertisement, of fashionable lay-figure; and the result has been just as I expected. Can you find any one who believes in my honesty of purpose? You have heard Mme. Fortin to-night? Yourself, neighbor --what did you take me for? And yet you should have noticed something of my suffering and my humiliation the day that you were watching me so closely in the Bois de Boulogne.”

“What!” exclaimed Maxence with a start, “you know?”

“Have I not just told you that I always fear being watched and followed, and that I am always on the lookout? Yes, I know that you tried to discover the secret of my rides.”

Maxence tried to excuse himself.

“That will do for the present,” she uttered. “You wish to be my friend, you say? Now that you know my whole life almost as well as I do myself, reflect, and to-morrow you will tell me the result of your thoughts.”

Whereupon she went out.

XXVIII

For about a minute Maxence remained stupefied at this sudden denouement; and, when he had recovered his presence of mind and his voice, Mlle. Lucienne had disappeared, and he could hear her bolting her door, and striking a match against the wall.

He might also have thought that he was awaking from a dream, had he not had, to attest the reality, the vague perfume which filled his room, and the light shawl, which Mlle. Lucienne wore as she came in, and which she had forgotten, on a chair.

The night was almost ended: six o’clock had just struck. Still he did not feel in the least sleepy. His head was heavy, his temples throbbing, his eyes smarting. Opening his window, he leaned out to breathe the morning air. The day was dawning pale and cold. A furtive and livid light glanced along the damp walls of the narrow court of the Hotel des Folies, as at the bottom of a well. Already arose those confused noises which announce the waking of Paris, and above which can be heard the sonorous rolling of the milkmen’s carts, the loud slamming of doors, and the sharp sound of hurrying steps on the hard pavement.

But soon Maxence felt a chill coming over him. He closed the window, threw some wood in the chimney, and stretched himself on his chair, his feet towards the fire. It was a most serious event which had just occurred in his existence; and, as much as he could, he endeavored to measure its bearings, and to calculate its consequences in the future.

He kept thinking of the story of that strange girl, her haughty frankness when unrolling certain phases of her life, of her wonderful impassibility, and of the implacable contempt for humanity which her every word betrayed. Where had she learned that dignity, so simple and so noble, that measured speech, that admirable respect of herself, which had enabled her to pass through so much filth without receiving a stain?

“What a woman!” he thought.

Before knowing her, he loved her. Now he was convulsed by one of those exclusive passions which master the whole being. Already he felt himself so much under the charm, subjugated, dominated, fascinated; he understood so well that he was going to cease being his own master; that his free will was about escaping from him; that he would be in Mlle. Lucienne’s hands like wax under the modeler’s fingers; he saw himself so thoroughly at the discretion of an energy superior to his own, that he was almost frightened.

“It’s my whole future that I am going to risk,” he thought.

And there was no middle path. Either he must fly at once, without waiting for Mlle. Lucienne to awake, fly without looking behind, or else stay, and then accept all the chances of an incurable passion for a woman who, perhaps, might never care for him. And he remained wavering, like the traveler who finds himself at the intersection of two roads, and, knowing that one leads to the goal, and the other to an abyss, hesitates which to take.

With this difference, however, that if the traveler errs, and discovers his error, he is always free to retrace his steps; whereas man, in life, can never return to his starting-point. Every step he takes is final; and if he has erred, if he has taken the fatal road, there is no remedy.

“Well, no matter!” exclaimed Maxence. “It shall not be said that through cowardice I have allowed that happiness to escape which passes within my reach. I shall stay.” And at once he began to examine what reasonably he might expect; for there was no mistaking Mlle. Lucienne’s intentions. When she had said, “Do you wish to be friends?” she had meant exactly that, and nothing else,--friends, and only friends.

“And yet,” thought Maxence, “if I had not inspired her with a real interest, would she have so wholly confided unto me? She is not ignorant of the fact that I love her; and she knows life too well to suppose that I will cease to love her when she has allowed me a certain amount of intimacy.”

His heart filled with hope at the idea.

“My mistress,” he thought, “never, evidently, but my wife. Why not?”

But the very next moment he became a prey to the bitterest discouragement. He thought that perhaps Mlle. Lucienne might have some capital interest in thus making a confidant of him. She had not told him the explanation given her by the peace-officer. Had she not, perhaps, succeeded in lifting a corner of the veil which covered the secret of her birth? Was she on the track of her enemies? and had she discovered the motive of their animosity?

“Is it possible,” thought Maxence, “that I should be but one of the powers in the game she is playing? How do I know, that, if she wins, she will not cast me off?”

In the midst of these thoughts, he had gradually fallen asleep, murmuring to the last the name of Lucienne.

The creaking of his opening door woke him up suddenly. He started to his feet, and met Mlle. Lucienne coming in.

“How is this?” said she. “You did not go to bed?”

“You recommended me to reflect,” he replied. “I’ve been reflecting.”

He looked at his watch: it was twelve o’clock.

“Which, however,” he added, “did not keep me from going to sleep.”

All the doubts that besieged him at the moment when he had been overcome by sleep now came back to his mind with painful vividness.

“And not only have I been sleeping,” he went on, “but I have been dreaming too.”

Mlle. Lucienne fixed upon him her great black eyes.

“Can you tell me your dream?” she asked.

He hesitated. Had he had but one minute to reflect, perhaps he would not have spoken; but he was taken unawares.

“I dreamed,” he replied, “that we were friends in the noblest and purest acceptance of that word. Intelligence, heart, will, all that I am, and all that I can,--I laid every thing at your feet. You accepted the most entire devotion, the most respectful and the most tender that man is capable of. Yes, we were friends indeed; and upon a glimpse of love, never expressed, I planned a whole future of love.” He stopped.

“Well?” she asked.

“Well, when my hopes seemed on the point of being realized, it happened that the mystery of your birth was suddenly revealed to you. You found a noble, powerful, and wealthy family. You resumed the illustrious name of which you had been robbed; your enemies were crushed; and your rights were restored to you. It was no longer Van Klopen’s hired carriage that stopped in front of the Hotel des Folies, but a carriage bearing a gorgeous coat of arms. That carriage was yours; and it came to take you to your own residence in the Faubourg St. Germain, or to your ancestral manor.”

“And yourself?” inquired the girl.

Maxence repressed one of those nervous spasms which frequently break out in tears, and, with a gloomy look,

“I,” he answered, “standing on the edge of the pavement, I waited for a word or a look from you. You had forgotten my very existence. Your coachman whipped his horses; they started at a gallop; and soon I lost sight of you. And then a voice, the inexorable voice of fate, cried to me, ‘Never more shalt thou see her!’”

With a superb gesture Mlle. Lucienne drew herself up.

“It is not with your heart, I trust, that you judge me, M. Maxence Favoral,” she uttered.

He trembled lest he had offended her.

“I beseech you,” he began.

But she went on in a voice vibrating with emotion,

“I am not of those who basely deny their past. Your dream will never be realized. Those things are only seen on the stage. If it did realize itself, however, if the carriage with the coat-of-arms did come to the door, the companion of the evil days, the friend who offered me his month’s salary to pay my debt, would have a seat by my side.”

That was more happiness than Maxence would have dared to hope for. He tried, in order to express his gratitude, to find some of those words which always seem to be lacking at the most critical moments. But he was suffocating; and the tears, accumulated by so many successive emotions, were rising to his eyes.

With a passionate impulse, he seized Mlle. Lucienne’s hand, and, taking it to his lips, he covered it with kisses. Gently but resolutely she withdrew her hand, and, fixing upon him her beautiful clear gaze,

“Friends,” she uttered.

Her accent alone would have been sufficient to dissipate the presumptuous illusions of Maxence, had he had any. But he had none.

“Friends only,” he replied, “until the day when you shall be my wife. You cannot forbid me to hope. You love no one?”

“No one.”

“Well since we are going to tread the path of life, let me think that we may find love at some turn of the road.”

She made no answer. And thus was sealed between them a treaty of friendship, to which they were to remain so strictly faithful, that the word “love” never once rose to their lips.

In appearance there was no change in their mode of life.

Every morning, at seven o’clock, Mlle. Lucienne went to M. Van Klopen’s, and an hour later Maxence started for his office. They returned home at night, and spent their evenings together by the fireside.

But what was easy to foresee now took place.

Weak and undecided by nature, Maxence began very soon to feel the influence of the obstinate and energetic character of the girl. She infused, as it were, in his veins, a warmer and more generous blood. Gradually she imbued him with her ideas, and from her own will gave him one.

He had told her in all sincerity his history, the miseries of his home, M. Favoral’s parsimony and exaggerated severity, his mother’s resigned timidity, and Mlle. Gilberte’s resolute nature.

He had concealed nothing of his past life, of his errors and his follies, confessing even the worst of his actions; as, for instance, having abused his mother’s and sister’s affection to extort from them all the money they earned.