The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 3 of 6

"Yes."

"And the woman will call again?"

"To-morrow."

"Write to Polidori, to come to me this evening, at nine o'clock."

"What! Will you rid yourself of the young girl and the old woman, too? Ferrand, that will be too much at once!"

"I bid you write to Polidori, to come here this evening, at nine o'clock!"

At the end of this day, Rodolph said to Murphy: "Desire M. de Graün to despatch a courier this instant; Cecily must be in Paris in six days."

"What! that she-devil again? The diabolical wife of poor David, as beautiful as she is infamous! For what purpose, monseigneur?"

"For what purpose, Sir Walter Murphy? Ask that question, in a month hence, of the notary, Jacques Ferrand."

CHAPTER VI

THE ANONYMOUS LETTER

Towards ten o'clock in the evening of the same day in which Fleur-de-Marie was carried off by the Chouette and Schoolmaster, a man on horseback arrived at the Bouqueval farm, representing himself as coming from M. Rodolph to tranquillise Madame Georges as to the safety of her young friend, and to assure her of her safe return ere long. The man further stated that M. Rodolph, having very important reasons for making the request, particularly desired no letters might be addressed to him at Paris for the present; but that, in the event of Madame Georges having anything particular to communicate, the messenger now sent would take charge of it, and deliver it punctually.

This pretended envoy on the part of Rodolph was, in fact, an emissary sent by Sarah, who, by this stratagem, effected the twofold purpose of quieting the apprehensions of Madame Georges and also obtaining a delay of several days ere Rodolph learned that the Goualeuse had been carried off; during which interval Sarah hoped to have induced the notary, Jacques Ferrand, to promote her unworthy attempt to impose a supposititious child on Rodolph, after the manner which has already been related. Nor was this all the evil planned by the countess; she ardently desired to get rid of Madame d'Harville, on whose account she entertained very serious misgivings, and whose destruction she had so nearly compassed, but for the timely interposition of Rodolph.

On the day following that in which the marquis followed his wife into the house in the Rue du Temple, Tom repaired thither, and, by skilfully drawing Madame Pipelet into conversation, contrived to learn from her how a young and elegantly dressed lady, upon the point of being surprised by her husband, had been preserved through the presence of mind and cleverness of a lodger in the house, named M. Rodolph.

Once informed of this circumstance, and possessing no positive proof of the assignation made by Clémence with M. Charles Robert, Sarah conceived a plan evidently more hateful than the former: she resolved to despatch a second anonymous letter to M. d'Harville, calculated to bring about a complete rupture between himself and Rodolph; or, failing that, to infuse into the mind of the marquis suspicions so unworthy of his wife and friend as should induce him to forbid Madame d'Harville ever admitting the prince into her society.

This black and malignant epistle was couched in the following terms:

"… You have been grossly deceived the other day; your wife, being apprised of your following her, invented a tale of imaginary beneficence; the real purpose of her visit to the Rue du Temple was to fulfil an assignation with an august personage, who has hired a room on the fourth floor in the house situated Rue du Temple, – this illustrious individual being known only at his lodging under the simple name of Rodolph. Should you doubt these facts, which may probably appear to you too improbable to deserve credit, go to No. 17 Rue du Temple, and make due inquiries; obtain a description of the face and figure of the august personage alluded to; and you will be compelled to own yourself the most credulous and easily duped husband that was ever so royally supplanted in the affections of his wife. Despise not this advice, if you would not have the world believe you carry your devotion to your prince rather too far."

This infamous concoction was put into the post by Sarah herself, about five o'clock in the afternoon of the day which had witnessed her interview with the notary.

On this same day, after having given renewed directions to M. de Graün to expedite the arrival of Cecily in Paris by every means in his power, Rodolph prepared to pass the evening with the Ambassadress of – , and on his return to call on Madame d'Harville, for the purpose of informing her he had found a charitable intrigue worthy even of her coöperation.

We shall now conduct our readers to the hôtel of Madame d'Harville. The following dialogue will abundantly prove that, in adopting a tone of kind and gentle conciliation towards a husband she had hitherto treated with such invariable coldness and reserve, the heart of Madame d'Harville had already determined to practise the sound and virtuous sentiments dictated by Rodolph. The marquis and his lady had just quitted the dinner-table, and the scene we are about to describe took place in the elegant little salon we have already spoken of. The features of Clémence wore an expression of kindness almost amounting to tenderness, and even M. d'Harville appeared less sad and dejected than usual. It only remains to premise that the marquis had not as yet received the last infamous production of the pen of Sarah Macgregor.

"What are your arrangements for this evening?" inquired M. d'Harville, almost mechanically, of his wife.

"I have no intention of going out. And what are your own plans?"

"I hardly know," answered he, with a sigh. "I feel more than ordinarily averse to gaiety, and I shall pass my evening, as I have passed many others, alone."

"Nay, but why alone, since I am not going out?"

M. d'Harville gazed at his wife as though unable to comprehend her. "I am aware," said he, "that you mentioned your intention to pass this evening at home; still, I – "

"Pray go on, my lord."

"I did not imagine you would choose to have your solitude broken in upon. I believe you have always expressed a wish to be alone when you did not receive company?"

"Perhaps I may have done so," said Clémence, with a smile; "but let me, for once, plead my sex's privilege of changing my mind, and so, even at the risk of astonishing you by my caprice, I will own that I should greatly prefer sharing my solitude with you, – that is, if it would be quite agreeable to you."

"Oh, how very good of you," exclaimed M. d'Harville, with much delight, "thus to anticipate my most ardent desire, which I durst not have requested had you not so kindly encouraged me!"

"Ah, my lord, your very surprise is a severe reproach to me."

"A reproach! Oh, not for worlds would I have you so understand me! But to find you so kindly considerate, so attentive to my wishes, after my cruel and unjust conduct the other day, does, I confess, both shame and surprise me; though the surprise is of the most gratifying and delightful sort."

"Come, come, my lord," said Madame d'Harville, with a smile of heavenly sweetness, "let the past be for ever forgotten between us."

"Can you, Clémence," said M. d'Harville, "can you bring yourself to forget that I have dared to suspect you; that, hurried on by a wild, insensate jealousy, I meditated violence I now shudder to think of? Still, what are even these deep offences to the greater and more irreparable wrong I have done you?"

"Again I say," returned Clémence, making a violent effort to command herself, "let us forget the past."

"What do I hear? Can you, – oh, is it possible you will pardon me, and forget all the past?"

"I will try to do so, and I fear not but I shall succeed."

"Oh, Clémence! Can you, indeed, be so generous? But no, no, – I dare not hope it! I have long since resigned all expectation that such happiness would ever be mine."

"And now you see how wrong you were in coming to such a conclusion."

"But how comes this blessed change? Or do I dream? Speak to me, Clémence! Tell me I am not deceiving myself, – that all is not mere illusion! Speak! Say that I may trust my senses!"

"Indeed you may; I mean all I have said."

"And, now I look at you, I see more kindness in your eye, – your manner is less cold, – your voice tremulous. Oh, tell me, tell me, is this indeed true? Or am I the sport of some illusion?"

"Nay, my lord, all is true, and safely to be believed. I, too, have need of pardon at your hands, and therefore I propose that we mutually exchange forgiveness."

"You, Clémence! You need forgiveness! Oh, for what, or wherefore?"

"Have I not been frequently unkind, unrelenting, and perhaps even cruel, towards you? Ought I not to have remembered that it required a more than ordinary share of courage to act otherwise than you did, – a virtue more than human to renounce the hope of exchanging a cheerless, solitary life, for one of wedded sympathy and happiness? Alas, when we are in grief or suffering, it is so natural to trust to the kindness and goodness of others! Hitherto your fault has been in depending too much on my generosity; henceforward it shall be my aim to show you, you have not trusted in vain."

"Oh, go on! Go on! Continue still to utter such heavenly words!" exclaimed M. d'Harville, gazing in almost ecstasy on the countenance of his wife, and clasping his hands in fervid supplication. "Let me again hear you pronounce my pardon, and it will seem as though a new existence were opening upon me."

"Our destinies are inseparably united, and death only can dissever us. Believe me, it shall for the future be my study to render life less painful to you than it has been."

"Merciful Heaven! Do I hear aright? Clémence, can it be you who have spoken these dear, these enchanting words?"

"Let me conjure you to spare me the pain and humiliation of hearing you express so much astonishment at my speaking as my duty prompts me to do; indeed, your reluctance to credit my assertions grieves me more than I can describe. How cruel a censure does it imply upon my past conduct! Ah, who will pity and soothe you in your severe trials, if not I? I seem inspired by some holy voice, speaking within my breast, to reflect upon my past conduct. I have deeply meditated on all that has happened, as well as on the future. My faults rise up in judgment against me; but with them come also the whisperings of my awakened feelings, teaching me how to repair my past errors."

"Your errors, my poor injured Clémence! Alas, you were not to blame!"

"Yes, I was. I ought frankly to have appealed to your honour to release me from the painful necessity of living with you as your wife; and that, too, on the day following our marriage, – "