Chapter LII (7)

I dismissed the servant, rose hastily, threw on my dressing-gown, and, with unsteady step, hurried to the desk in which I had locked up my mother's letter. The desk was untouched. At the very part of it where the drawer was so skilfully contrived, and of which I alone possessed the secret, there were some grains of dust, clearly proving that the mysterious spring had not been touched for a long time. I opened it, and there lay my mother's letter, exactly as I had, with my own hands, placed it! Astonished and confounded, I went to Mademoiselle d'Ermay's room. Her keys were on her dressing-table; _she_ had neither suspicions nor secrets! I searched every where, turned every thing topsy-turvy. Not a hole nor corner did I omit to rummage; and I shuddered the while, for I was every moment expecting to find the watch, the rubies, and the diamonds which I had seen, or fancied that I saw, scattered before me on the floor of my study. But no, there was nothing of the sort. Was it, then, a dream--a frightful illusion, and the mere forerunner of my illness? By some strange contradiction, or some magnetic power which a strong will exercises over a feeble one, I felt that I loved Eugenie a hundred times better than ever, and crawled back again to my bed, convinced that I had been mistaken, and the victim of a fearful dream. I then considered the case in another point of view, and asked myself whether, even supposing Mademoiselle d'Ermay to be guilty, she had not some excuse for her crime? What could be more base and dishonorable than to abandon so fond and devoted a woman? Had not M. de Fosseux deserved his fate? And I, who had entertained the same design, and had been on the point of committing the very same act of treachery, and for the very same vile motive of adding to an already large fortune, what was _I_, then? Had she meant to give me an awful warning of the fate which awaited me if I proved as faithless as M. de Fosseux? I was lost in conjectures. There was, perhaps, one way of extricating myself from this labyrinth, or, at least, of throwing some light on the darkness by which I was surrounded. I might ascertain from the family of M. de Fosseux if at the time of his death he was engaged to be married. I, however, rejected this idea; for, whether it proceeded from love or from infirmity of purpose, I preferred darkness to light, and blindness to perfect vision. "Yes," said I to myself, "I have dreamt it all; my imagination has mixed up M. de Fosseux with the wrong I was myself about to inflict, and, whilst meditating a crime, I have also imagined its cruel punishment. Truly, I have had a shocking dream!"

My reflections had led me thus far, when Mademoiselle d'Ermay returned from church. She came and took her accustomed place at my bedside.

"Eugenie," said I, "I have much to tell you."

"Do not talk, chevalier; you are still too weak for conversation."

"No, Eugenie, I am better. My head is clear, and my delirium past; so listen. In the first place, my brother is dead."

"Accept my condolences, and allow me to congratulate you on your accession to wealth and a higher title."

"My dear friend," said I again, "my mother has written to me. She requires me to do two things; one is to go for a time to my estate in Dauphiné, and the other to get married. Surely, then, this is the auspicious moment to obtain the sanction of the Church to our union?"

"You are right, marquis," she answered, quietly, "for the king and queen" (Louis XV. was dead), "and especially the Princess Elizabeth, his majesty's sister, are very strait in their notions, and might otherwise possibly look coldly upon you when you are presented."

Within a week we were married.

"She became your wife?" exclaimed I.

"Yes, and I am still in mourning for her, and shall continue to wear it to the end of my life."

There was no change in our domestic arrangements; all went on as usual, except that my friends and acquaintance, and my people, instead of calling Eugenie Mademoiselle, addressed her as Madame la Marquise. In the world my marriage was not blamed; on the contrary, it was approved. It was an event which every body seemed to have expected, and, taking place, as it did as soon as I became rich, was voted to be alike honorable to Mademoiselle d'Ermay and myself. I must tell you a trait which will enable you to judge how my wife--for so I must now call her--interested herself in the events of my former life. A few days after our marriage she said to me,

"My dear marquis, I used formerly to go sometimes to the theatre of Audinet--did you?"

"Yes, marquise, often."

"There was at that time a young _danseuse_ on those boards who attracted my attention: she was called, I believe, Zephirine; do you remember her?"

"I had forgotten her, marquise, and but for your recalling her to my mind I should never have thought of her again."

"She was a giddy girl, I understand," continued she, "and from mere love of change left Paris and France some years ago with a wealthy Englishman, through whose indulgence and her own indolence she neglected her dancing--a talent soon lost without constant practice--and she has grown fat and lost her agility. The Englishman has become tired of her and turned her off, and she cannot get an engagement even in London; would you now be so kind as to make her some small allowance?"

I did so, and my wife would never listen to the confession I begged her to hear. I then took my wife into Dauphiné, and presented her to my mother, who at first received her very coldly, as I expected--for this marriage had marred all her plans--but she was soon so won by the unvarying sweetness of her temper, and the irresistible fascination of her manners, that she conceived the warmest affection for her, and no mother-in-law ever loved a daughter better. My good fortune excited some jealousy, and the beauty of my wife much admiration. A gentleman in the neighborhood fell in love with her, and was bold enough to declare his passion; she instantly, and without the smallest hesitation, informed me of the insult she had received, and I, as promptly, decided on calling him out; a resolution which Eugenie at first opposed, but on my insisting that as I had in former days fought for a mistress I could not do less for a wife, she said, "Go, then, and avenge me; if you fall, I will not survive you."

My antagonist was severely wounded; and this proof of spirit obtained me the more credit in my neighborhood, as my cause was so just. The revolution broke out whilst we were in Dauphiné, and I wished to return without delay to Paris; but my wife dissuaded me. "You are no longer in the army," said she; "you left it when you married me, and you therefore owe no personal service to the king; stay here, where you may perhaps be useful to others, and certainly so to yourself."

I followed counsels which had long since become the only guide of my will, and it was well I did so, for we passed in peace and retirement that period which was so fatal to our aristocracy; and when the storm was over, "Now," said she, "let us go to Paris."

Here we lived in the enjoyment of happiness which nothing ever alloyed, and of a mutual affection which age neither cooled nor impaired. Thus, you see, my friend (continued M. de Marigny), I have been led through life by my wife; but she strewed the path with flowers, whilst the circumstance which, as it were, compelled me to marry her saved me from the commission of a base and unworthy act, for which I should never have ceased to reproach myself, and which would have rendered my life miserable. Yes, all has been for the best.

"You mean by that," said I, "that you have had sufficient strength of mind to control your imagination and to become thoroughly convinced that preceding events were the mere dream of a delirious man?"

Wait awhile (quietly pursued M. de Marigny). Two years ago, my wife was seized by sudden and severe illness; she had up to that moment enjoyed invariable good health, and though she was upwards of fifty, her smile retained all its sweetness, and her countenance was as serene as ever. When she found herself unable to leave her bed, she gave herself up for lost.

"I feel that I shall die, my dear friend," said she to me one day, "and I have some few requests to make of you; you will not marry again--will you?"

At these words I burst into tears, and poured forth again all my former oaths, and which, considering our long attachment and my advanced age, it was no longer difficult to keep.

"I know," said she, "you will never give your name to another woman; I feel sure of that. What I wish is, that you should retire to your estate in Dauphiné, and there, in peace and tranquillity, end your days where your father and mother died and are buried; and, that you may have no inducement to remain in Paris or ever return to it, sell your house; and then, having no interest in the capital, you will find it the more easy to perform what I have now requested, and what I feel assured you will promise me to do."

I promised all she required; and in so doing it appeared to me that I was adopting the wisest and most prudent course. There was, moreover, in the idea of going to die amidst the tombs of my ancestors and of mingling my ashes with theirs, a feeling of piety which melted me to tears. Eugenie, once feeling assured that her last wishes would be obeyed, asked for the attendance of a priest, and died with the same courage and composure as had marked her whole life.

"Sir," said her confessor to me, "God is just and merciful. He pardons the repentant sinner--your wife is a saint in heaven."

I will not attempt to describe my grief, my despair, and the state of utter loneliness into which this sad bereavement plunged me: I have other matters to talk of. When Eugenie was no more I had no longer any will but my own to consult; and though deeply regretting the absence of that sway I had been so long accustomed to, I nevertheless followed inclinations which were no longer controlled. It was a feeling of piety which had first made me promise to retire into Dauphiné, and it was now a similar feeling which determined me to remain where I was. Why should I go and die amidst ancestral tombs? Why make it a point of duty to mix my ashes with theirs? I lost my father when I was a mere child; I scarcely remembered him; and I had lived very little with my mother, whereas, my whole life had been spent with Eugenie. It was therefore near her that I ought to end my days, and in her grave that I ought to find my final resting place; nor could I understand how it was that she had not expressed a wish to that effect, and I persuaded myself that if she could now see me she would approve of the change in my resolution. When I had once made up my mind to remain in Paris, it was no longer requisite or convenient to sell my house; and to tell you the truth, I was very desirous to keep it. I had inhabited it from my youth; I had improved and embellished it, and it recalled to my remembrance the only woman that I had ever sincerely loved. My whole life had been spent in it; in it had been acted the whole drama of my existence, and there was not a corner nor a piece of furniture in it which did not awaken some thought or recollection. I resolved then to live and die in Paris. But, my friend, though our dwellings of brick and mortar are more durable than those of our own mortal clay, they, nevertheless, from time to time require repair, or they would fall into a state of utter dilapidation. Several months ago, my people told me that some tiling was wanted to the roof, and that the flooring of the rooms on the sixth story was sadly out of condition. These were the rooms of which Mademoiselle d'Ermay had been the last occupier; in fact, my wife had always taken to herself these three rooms which she had occupied in her poverty, and the keys of them remained in the hands of my people till after that my grief had somewhat subsided. I wished to revisit the scene of my wooing, and the hallowed spot where Eugenie had responded to my passion. My first visit was made alone, and I gave way without restraint to the feelings which the scene was calculated to excite. On this occasion, however, I went up with the workmen. Time, and the dampness of a room always kept closed, had almost entirely destroyed the flooring. They set to work in my presence, and scarcely had they raised up the mouldy boards and decayed joists, than I saw diamonds glitter, and rubies, and gold--those dreadful jewels which had caused me so much terror and such a severe illness--there they were, the very same....

"Great God!" cried I; "then she _had_ killed M. de Fosseux!!!"

The old man NODDED.

From Household Words.

THE SPENDTHRIFT'S DAUGHTER. IN SIX CHAPTERS.