Volume 14 / Part 2 — XXII REVELATION

While all these events were taking place at Goldfish Villa, let us see what was happening in the modest abode of Honorine and Agathe.

Edmond’s young betrothed was secretly unhappy at the thought that her beloved was going to Madame de Belleville’s fête. She remembered how that lady had stared at her the first time that she saw her at the summer-house window, and the familiar tone in which she had spoken to Edmond.

The woman who is most innocent of intrigue has nevertheless a secret instinct which enables her to detect the sentiments which people try to conceal from her; and that instinct never deceives her in the matter of a rival.

Agathe, however, did not doubt the love or the fidelity of the man she loved; that was why, dreading to appear ridiculous if she allowed the apprehensions caused by Madame de Belleville’s invitation to appear, she had been the first to urge him to attend the fête.

But that evening, as soon as Edmond had left them, to go home to dress, Agathe had gone up to her room, in order to conceal from Honorine the anxiety she felt.

Honorine had divined what was taking place in Agathe’s heart; but she did not share her apprehensions. She thought that a woman ought never to abuse her influence over the man who loves her, by obliging him to do only what she wished. She imagined too that Edmond’s presence at Madame de Belleville’s would prevent the slanderous tongues of the village from making any unseemly remarks about herself and her young friend.

Honorine therefore was alone that evening in the small salon which opened into the garden; it was the first time that that had happened since she had lived at Chelles. At that moment solitude was not irksome to her; when the heart has much to think about, it loves silence and repose. Honorine reflected that for several days their neighbor Paul had not called upon them. She wondered if it was possible that anything that she had said had displeased him; she could think of nothing to account for his absence, and the result of her cogitations was a deep sigh, and the reflection that she was thinking of someone who did not waste a thought on her.

The young woman, absorbed in her reverie, had long since let her embroidery fall from her hands, without being conscious that she had ceased to work, when of a sudden she felt something cold against her hand, then a heavy paw was laid on her lap; that was the way in which the dog from the Tower always said good-morning or good-evening. When she saw Ami fawning upon her, Honorine’s heart beat fast with pleasure, and she patted the dog gently.

“Why, is that you, Ami? So you have found the road to this house again? I was beginning to think that you had forgotten us altogether, and that we should not see you again!”

These words were addressed no less to the master than to the dog; and Paul, who appeared in the doorway, would have been very ungrateful if he had not taken them home to himself.

He bowed low to the young woman, saying:

“Is it not presumptuous in me, madame, to present myself here so late?”

“Why, no, monsieur; it is little more than nine o’clock, I think; and if you find me alone—which I very rarely am—it is because Agathe felt tired and sleepy. As for Monsieur Edmond, he is at a party, which fact accounts in some measure for Agathe’s headache.—Now, monsieur, consider whether you have the courage to remain with one poor woman—who has nothing but her conversation to offer you.”

Paul took a chair and seated himself at some distance from Honorine. On learning that he was to be alone with her, he seemed embarrassed. Luckily, Ami was there to enliven the interview; Honorine continued to caress him and said to him:

“How glad you seem to see me, Ami! But if it gives you so much pleasure to be with me, why don’t you come oftener? You don’t need to wait until it happens to occur to your master to come. If he doesn’t enjoy himself here, he is right not to come; but you know the way, and I don’t think that he objects to your coming here to show us that you haven’t forgotten us.”

“Surely you cannot think, madame, that I do not enjoy myself in your house; only in your pleasant company have I found at last some distraction from the sorrows which have made me shun society for many years.”

“If that is so, how does it happen that we have not seen you for several days? You had accustomed us to your company of late; we made up our minds—too soon—that it would continue. There are habits which give one so much pleasure!”

Honorine’s voice began to quiver, and she abruptly ceased speaking, in order to conceal the emotion she felt.

But Paul had drawn his chair nearer to hers; he gazed at the young woman with an expression which was not calculated to calm her agitation, and replied:

“I went to Paris several days ago. I had received some information which led me to believe that I had found the traces of a person whom I have sought in vain for nine years! But the information was misleading; my investigations were of no avail, and I have learned nothing.”

“I shall be very presumptuous, I fear, if I ask you who this person is whom you have been seeking so long.”

“It is a young girl; she must be about sixteen years old now.”

“Ah! and this girl is your kinswoman, or perhaps even more than that? Why shrink from admitting it? Men do many foolish things in their youth; they should never be ashamed to try to atone for them.”

“You are mistaken, madame; this girl is no connection of mine; and yet, it is my duty to stand in a father’s place to her, for I had the misfortune to deprive her of her father—in a duel.”

“In a duel! Ah! I guessed as much; I understand it all now!”

“What? what did you guess?”

“This duel took place in the ravine yonder, by your estate of the Tower.”

“That is true, madame. But who can have told you?”

“We had heard the story of a young man being found dead on that spot; no one knew whether he had been attacked there, but he had not been robbed; so that it was presumable that he was killed in a duel.”

“Yes, madame, yes. Ah! that is the deed for which I can never forgive myself; for that unfortunate man had never offended me—he was the victim of an execrable plot. A woman—but I am not sure that one should give that name to such a monster of wickedness!—I loved her, I loved her madly! Our liaison had lasted three years. I was young, rich, independent; my father, Monsieur Duronceray, had left me more than thirty thousand francs a year, so that I could afford to make every sacrifice for that woman; I would have gone so far as to give her my hand and my name. But that woman deceived me. A man whom I believed to be my friend was secretly her lover; but in order to turn aside my suspicions more effectually, she played the flirt with other men; with one, among others, of whom I was jealous—for he was well adapted to seduce! he was young and rich and had every quality likely to attract and charm a woman. Ah! if he had chosen to respond to that woman’s allurements, I am sure that she would have asked nothing better than to number him among her lovers. And it was to revenge herself for his indifference that she made him her victim.—But I ought to have been enlightened as to the real sentiments of those who surrounded me. My faithful Ami, my brave companion, had never been willing to bestow the slightest caress on the woman who betrayed me; far from it! he always manifested such an aversion for her, that I had ceased to take him with me when I went to see her. Whereas, whenever I was with that young man whom I believed to be my rival, Ami would run to him and display as much friendly feeling as he displayed just now for you. But at that time I did not know that the dog was so skilful in divining the sentiments that people entertained for his master; I attributed his behavior to caprice, and drew no other inference from it.

“At last, on a certain day—a fatal day, which I cannot recall without a shudder!—this woman, by the way, had hired a small country house near the village of Couberon—I went to her house in Paris; not finding her there, I suspected that she was in the country, and I hastened thither, torn in advance by a thousand suspicions, for she was not in the habit of going to Couberon without me.—I arrived. A lady’s maid, who was doing sentry duty, saw me in the distance and hastened to warn her mistress. She instantly dismissed her lover, and learning that Comte Adhémar had just arrived——”

“Comte Adhémar! was that the name you said, monsieur?” cried Honorine, in the most intense excitement.

“Yes, madame, Comte Adhémar de Hautmont.”

“Ah! that is the name! the very name!”

“Did you know him, madame?”

“Yes—that is to say, not I—But finish, monsieur! for heaven’s sake, finish your story!”

“Well! on entering my mistress’s room, I found her alone with the count, and apparently in the utmost confusion. Thereupon, blinded by jealousy, I overwhelmed her with reproaches. And she, instead of telling me that the man who was then with her was not her lover, had the perfidy to confirm my suspicions by some words which seemed to escape her involuntarily. I instantly insulted the count and demanded satisfaction for his conduct. He, utterly amazed by what he had seen and heard, could not comprehend my jealousy, and tried to make me understand that I was wrong to think him my rival. But I could no longer restrain my fury, jealousy drove me mad. I thought that the count declined to fight with me, and, to force him to do it, I raised my hand against him.

“Adhémar’s temperament was as fiery as mine. I had offered him an insult which could only be washed out in blood; and after that, it was on his own account, to avenge his outraged honor, that he fought.

“I succeeded in obtaining pistols, and we both went out from that house to which that woman had lured the count, solely in the hope—too fully realized—that if I should surprise her, he would serve to lead my jealousy astray.—Adhémar and I walked a long distance through the fields. It was mid-day, and we constantly met villagers and farm-hands at work in the fields, in whose presence we could not fight. At last we reached the sunken road that leads from the road to Noisy-le-Grand. It was a deserted spot, no one could see us in that ravine, and there our duel took place.

“Adhémar was the insulted party; he fired first, but did not hit me; whereas I—poor, poor fellow! shot through the breast, he had barely time to say:

“‘I was not your rival; I have never made love to that woman in whose house you found me. I love devotedly a young girl who has made me a father. She is poor; my relations are opposed to the connection; but before long I should have been able to marry my love. What will become of my poor little girl and her mother without me?—Go to them and take care of them.’

“‘Their name, their address?’ I cried; ‘on my honor I swear to take your place with them.’

“Alas! poor Adhémar tried to speak, but he had not the strength; he died without naming the woman whom he adored. I looked through his wallet, hoping to find the name and address there. Nothing—no paper, no scrap of information to put me on the track of those unfortunate creatures from whom I had taken their only support. I rushed away from the spot, beside myself with grief, like a madman. I had seen people coming; I was afraid of being arrested; for I said to myself: ‘If they deprive me of my liberty, how shall I find this woman whom I have deprived of her husband, this child whom I have deprived of her father?’”

“That child is here, monsieur, very near you—in this house.”

“Mon Dieu! what do you say, madame?”

“I say that Agathe is the daughter of Comte Adhémar de Hautmont!”

“Is it possible? are you not mistaken?”

“No, monsieur, and you shall have proofs of it—letters from the count which her poor mother possessed and kept religiously; they were all she had of his.”

“Agathe, Adhémar’s daughter! I have found her at last! O my God! hast Thou forgiven me?—But her mother?”

“Julia Montoni, Agathe’s mother, is no longer living. Poor woman! she died five years after the disappearance of the man she adored, and whom she never ceased to expect, for no one knew how the count had died. And when she went to his hotel to inquire what had become of him, they could give her no information. She caused inquiries to be made of his family, but obtained no reply; and when she was on her deathbed, when she commended her daughter to my care, poor Julia still hoped that Agathe’s father would be restored to her some day.”

“Ah! madame, from this day half of my fortune belongs to her. But do you think that she will forgive me for having deprived her of her father?”

“Your long repentance, your remorse for the duel, the seclusion and isolation to which you condemned yourself—all these surely entitle you to forgiveness.”

“Yes; after fruitless endeavors to find the two persons whom the count had so earnestly recommended to me, I returned to this region, to the stage upon which those events took place. The woman who was the cause of everything had left her Couberon estate long before. I found, in the ravine, the modest memorial of the unfortunate Adhémar; an estate near by was for sale; I bought it and went into retirement there. Far from the world which I hated, and near the last resting-place of the victim of my blind jealousy, I was enabled to visit the ravine every day, to visit the spot where that fatal duel took place, and to weep by the cross which has been set up where Adhémar lies.—Ah! if his daughter had seen me there, she would forgive me!”

“She has seen you there; that evening, after the storm, Agathe and I heard you praying by the cross.”

“Is it possible?”

“Yes; and Agathe herself said: ‘That gentleman cannot be guilty; he regrets too sincerely the person who lies there.’”

“Dear child! poor girl!—But that is not all, madame. Still hoping that I might sooner or later find the count’s natural daughter, I went to his family. There I asked if anyone knew the name of the young woman whom Adhémar loved. His people did not know, or at all events they would give me no information. But one old uncle, who was more kind-hearted and indulgent than the rest, said to me: ‘They are concealing from me too the name of the young woman whom my nephew wanted to marry. But if you ever succeed in finding her, tell her that her daughter, Adhémar’s daughter, shall have the whole of my fortune; that I will leave everything I possess to her.’

“That old man is still alive, I know. And Agathe, you say, has letters from Adhémar to her mother. Those letters will suffice to prove that she is his daughter, and to give her the fortune that is destined for her; for I am certain that this uncle, by recognizing her as his niece, will give her the right to bear her father’s name.”

“Mon Dieu! this seems like a dream. My poor Agathe rich and happy! Suppose I wake her?”

“No, no! Let me prepare myself to see her. If you knew all that I feel! Ah! madame, you have made me very happy; and yet I tremble—it seems to me that I shall not dare to face this girl whom I have wronged so terribly!”

“Calm yourself, monsieur; your duel was the result of a mistake, of an act of perfidy; the sole culprit was that woman who so ill requited your love for her.”

“But I am no longer surprised by this dog’s affection for Agathe. As I have told you, he always showed the greatest friendliness for her father. On that fatal day, when I went to Couberon, I left Ami at Paris. When he saw me again after the duel, instead of coming to meet me as he usually did, he retreated, making a plaintive sort of groaning noise; one would have said that he meant to reproach me for what I had done. It took a long time to recover his affection, and he never fawned upon me again until he had seen me weeping over Adhémar’s grave.”

“Good dog! See, he is looking at us and listening to us; one would think that he knows what we are talking about.—Dear Agathe! so I shall see her happy at last! she will be able to marry him she loves! You will oppose no obstacles to her marrying Edmond Didier, will you?”

“I, madame, oppose obstacles to her happiness, when it is my duty, on the contrary, to do everything to ensure it! Is it not my duty?—Whether her father’s uncle leaves her his fortune or not, I have thirty thousand francs a year, and I will give half of it to Mademoiselle Agathe on her wedding day.”

“Oh! that is too much, monsieur! you mustn’t do so much for the young couple.—How delighted poor Edmond will be.”

“How does it happen that he is not here to-night?”

“He could not refuse to attend a grand fête given to-night by some people who have been living here a short time. His friend Freluchon and he are old acquaintances of Monsieur and Madame de Belleville.”

“Monsieur Edmond at Madame de Belleville’s?”

“Yes.—That lady’s name seems to excite you strangely. Do you know her?”

“Do I know her! Why, this pretended Madame de Belleville is no other than Thélénie—the woman whose treachery caused Comte Adhémar’s death.”

“What do you tell me? Can it be true?”

“Yes. Only to-day, this morning, did I learn it. I had just returned from Paris when a woman on horseback appeared at my house, made a great outcry in my courtyard, and demanded to speak to me, in order to complain of my dog, which had presumed to jump at her and her horse. Fancy my amazement on recognizing in that person the woman who no longer inspires me with any other sentiments than horror and disgust! Ah! I believe that, when she recognized me, she was very sorry that she had come to the Tower.—But I am sorry that Edmond has gone to Thélénie’s house; I am sorry that he knows her; for if there has ever been a liaison between them, and she knows that he is in love now with the lovely Agathe, we must expect anything from that creature; she is capable of anything, if her self-esteem is humbled.”

“Mon Dieu! you make me shudder! Your words remind me of the strange way in which she stared at Agathe, and of Agathe’s melancholy mood to-night!—But what could that woman do to Edmond?”

“I trust that our apprehensions are without foundation; however, to-morrow Monsieur Edmond shall know this Thélénie as she is, and I am quite sure that he will never darken her doors again.—Mon Dieu! it is very late, and I am keeping you from retiring.”

“Do you think that I regret seeing you this evening?”

“No, you are so good—you are so attached to your young companion!”

“You give me permission, do you not, to tell her to-morrow all that you have revealed to me to-night?”

“Yes, let her know all; and to-morrow, when I come, you will tell me, before I enter the presence of Comte Adhémar’s daughter, whether she is willing to receive me and give me her hand.”

“I have already told you that Agathe saw you on your knees by the cross in the ravine; that sight has remained engraved on her memory, she has often mentioned it to me; that fact is enough to assure you that you will be forgiven.—Mon Dieu! it is twelve o’clock, and you have to return to the Tower alone!”

“Alone! no, isn’t Ami with me? He would be a valiant defender; but this neighborhood is not dangerous, there are no evildoers hereabout.”

“You will come to-morrow—during the day?”

“Oh! I shall not fail; I long to see her.”

“Of course, you will not fail to come,” murmured Honorine with a faint sigh; “for it is for Agathe!”

The young woman uttered these last words in a trembling voice. Paul suddenly seized her hand, covered it with kisses, pressed it to his heart, and then hurried away, unable to speak.

But what words could have been more eloquent than his acts? Honorine understood their significance, for her face lighted up with pleasure, and she whispered to herself as she went up to her room:

“Ah! I am very happy too!”