The Greatest Works of Émile Gaboriau. Emile Gaboriau
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is my home, while I have power to prevent it. Am I not indebted to you for more than life? What would I now be had you not taken pity on me? A factory girl in my native village. You warmly welcomed the poor orphan, and became a mother to her. Is it not to your husband that I owe the fortune which excites the cupidity of this wicked Clameran? Are not Abel and Lucien brothers to me? And now, when the happiness of all who have been loving and generous to me is at stake, do you suppose I would hesitate? No. I will become the wife of Clameran.”
Then began a struggle of self-sacrifice between Mme. Fauvel and her niece, as to which should be the victim; only the more sublime, because each offered her life to the other, not from any sudden impulse, but deliberately and willingly.
But Madeleine carried the day, fired as she was by that holy enthusiasm of sacrifice which is the sustaining element of martyrs.
“I am responsible to none but myself,” said she, well knowing this to be the most vulnerable point she could attack; “whilst you, dear aunt, are accountable to your husband and children. Think of the pain and sorrow of M. Fauvel if he should learn the truth; it would kill him.”
The generous girl was right. She knew her uncle’s heart.
After having sacrificed her husband to her mother, Mme. Fauvel was about to immolate her husband and children for Raoul.
As a general thing, a first fault draws many others in its train. As an impalpable flake is the beginning of an avalanche, so an imprudence is often the prelude to a great crime.
To false situations there is but one safe issue: truth.
Mme. Fauvel’s resistance grew weaker and more faint, as her niece pointed out the line for her to pursue: the path of wifely duty.
“But,” she faintly argued, “I cannot accept your sacrifice. What sort of a life will you lead with this man?”
“We can hope for the best,” replied Madeleine with a cheerfulness she was far from feeling; “he loves me, he says; perhaps he will be kind to me.”
“Ah, if I only knew where to obtain money! It is money that the grasping man wants; money alone will satisfy him.”
“Does he not want it for Raoul? Has not Raoul, by his extravagant follies, dug an abyss which must be bridged over by money? If I could only believe M. de Clameran!”
Mme. Fauvel looked at her niece with bewildered curiosity.
What! this inexperienced girl had weighed the matter in its different lights before deciding upon a surrender; whereas, she, a wife and a mother, had blindly yielded to the inspirations of her heart!
“What do you mean? Madeleine, what do you suspect?”
“I mean this, aunt: that I do not believe that Clameran has any thought of his nephew’s welfare. Once in possession of my fortune, he may leave you and Raoul to your fates. And there is another dreadful suspicion that tortures my mind.”
“A suspicion?”
“Yes, and I would reveal it to you, if I dared; if I did not fear that you—”
“Speak!” insisted Mme. Fauvel. “Alas! misfortune has given me strength to bear all things. There is nothing worse than has already happened. I am ready to hear anything.”
Madeleine hesitated; she wished to enlighten her credulous aunt, and yet hesitated to distress her.
“I would like to be certain,” she said, “that some secret understanding between M. de Clameran and Raoul does not exist. Do you not think they are acting a part agreed upon for the purpose of extorting money?”
Love is blind and deaf. Mme. Fauvel would not remember the laughing eyes of the two men, upon the occasion of the pretended quarrel in her presence. Infatuation had drowned suspicion. She could not, she would not, believe in such hypocrisy. Raoul plot against the mother? Never!
“It is impossible,” she said, “the marquis is really indignant and distressed at his nephew’s mode of life, and he certainly would not countenance any disgraceful conduct. As to Raoul, he is vain, trifling, and extravagant; but he has a good heart. Prosperity has turned his head, but he loves me still. Ah, if you could see and hear him, when I reproach him for his faults, your suspicions would fly to the winds. When he tearfully promises to be more prudent, and never again give me trouble, he means to keep his word; but perfidious friends entice him away, and he commits some piece of folly without thinking of the consequences.”
Mothers always blame themselves and everyone else for the sins of their sons. The innocent friends come in for the principal share of censure, each mother’s son leading the other astray.
Madeleine had not the heart to undeceive her aunt.
“God grant that what you say may be true,” she said; “if so, this marriage will not be useless. We will write to M. de Clameran to-night.”
“Why to-night, Madeleine? We need not hurry so. Let us wait a little; something else might happen to save us.”
These words, this confidence in chance, in a mere nothing, revealed Mme. Fauvel’s true character, and accounted for her troubles. Timid, hesitating, easily swayed, she never could come to a firm decision, form a resolution, and abide by it, in spite of all arguments brought to bear against it. In the hour of peril she would always shut her eyes and trust to chance for a relief which never came. Never once did she think to ward off trouble by her own exertions.
Quite different was Madeleine’s character. Beneath her gentle timidity lay a strong, self-reliant will. Once decided upon what was right and just, nothing could change her. If it was her duty to make a sacrifice, it was to be carried out to the letter; no hesitation and sighs for what might have been; she shut out all deceitful illusions, and walked straight forward without one look back.
“We had better end the matter at once, dear aunt,” she said, in a gentle, but firm tone. “Believe me, the reality of misfortune is not as painful as its apprehension. You cannot bear the shocks of sorrow, and delusive hopes of happiness, much longer. Do you know what anxiety of mind has done to you? Have you looked in the mirror during the last four months?”
She led her aunt up to the glass, and said:
“Look at yourself.”
Mme. Fauvel was indeed a mere shadow of her former self.
She had reached the perfidious age when a woman’s beauty, like a full-blown rose, fades in a day.
Four months of trouble had made her an old woman. Sorrow had stamped its fatal seal upon her brow. Her fair, soft skin was wrinkled, her golden hair was streaked with silver, and her large, soft eyes had a painfully frightened look.
“Do you not agree with me,” continued Madeleine, pityingly, “that peace of mind is necessary to you? Do you not see that you are a wreck of your former self? It is a miracle that M. Fauvel has not noticed this sad change in you!”
Mme. Fauvel, who flattered herself that she had displayed wonderful dissimulation, shook her head.
“Alas, my poor aunt! you think you concealed your secret from all: you may have blinded my uncle, but I suspected all along that something dreadful was breaking your heart.”
“You suspected what, Madeleine? Not the truth?”
“No, I was afraid—Oh, pardon an unjust suspicion, my dear aunt, but I was wicked enough to suppose——”
She stopped, too distressed to finish her sentence; then, making a painful effort, she added, as her aunt signed to her to go on:
“I was afraid that perhaps you loved another man than my uncle; it was the only construction that I could put upon your strange conduct.”
Mme. Fauvel buried her face, and groaned. Madeleine’s suspicion was, no doubt, entertained by others.
“My reputation is gone,” she moaned.
“No, dear aunt, no; do not be alarmed about that.