CHAPTER XI.

LISE AND MARTHE.

When she received at Pampeln the telegram which Prince Olsdorf had sent to her from Brindisi to ask her to go at once to Paris with Alexander and Tekla, Vera Soublaieff had stifled a cry of joy; for at first she thought of nothing but the happiness of seeing again the man she had loved with all her soul for more than three years, whose name was spoken night and morning in her prayers, and whom she had for so long dreaded she would not meet again. But soon she felt shame at this first emotion, natural though it was; and, feeling that if the exile was returning so quickly some great misfortune must be threatening, she wept over the poor children who were going to embrace their mother on her death-bed only. She determined to set out at once.

That evening, thanks to the preparations made some weeks before, she was able to take the express train at Mittau with the young prince, his sister, and Mme. Bernard, the governess. She was sure thus, rapidly as he might travel, to be in Paris before Pierre Olsdorf.

She was not mistaken. On arriving at the Grand Hotel she found the telegram in which the prince announced that he would be there next day.

As for Mme. Daubrel, whose second telegram from Rome had come some hours earlier, she had hurried to her friend to tell her of it, and, to her surprise, had found Mme. Podoi there, who had arrived but a few minutes ago.

Having been told by the Soublaieff's daughter that Mme. Meyrin was as ill as she could be, the ex-Countess Barineff had suddenly started from St. Petersburg without a word of warning to anybody.

The interview between Lise and her mother had been heart-breaking. In seeing her daughter deserted, aged, in danger of her life, she felt changed in her that maternal love which for so long had been only pride; and, in spite of her efforts to seem calm and not agitate the patient, despair was in her face.

Mme. Meyrin had been unable to leave her bed for several days. She had had her little daughter brought to her, and at the moment when Marthe entered the bedroom she was saying to her mother, and pointing to Marie, who was playing with the lace of the pillows:

"You will love her dearly, will you not, when I am no more, and you will rear her strictly as you reared me? But you will not try to make a fine lady of her; try to make of her no more than a happy woman. Above all things, do not marry her where divorce can follow. Divorce, mother, is nothing but a legal prostitution--a sort of challenge to adultery. It is an outrage on the laws of the Church and on modesty. Has any woman the right to pass from the arms of a living husband into those of another husband? Must not the divorced woman's brow redden at the thought of a possible, perhaps of an inevitable meeting between the two men who have possessed her? And her mother's heart, when she has to make two parts of it, one for the children who are no longer hers even in name, and one for those who come to her--must not it bleed mortally? If ever my daughter marries, let it be without the possibility of divorce, I beseech you."

"My dear Lise," said the general's wife, forcing a smile, "I promise to follow your wishes in every respect; but why look so far into the future, why despair? Oh, I am sure you will get better; Marie will have no need of a second mother; you will be here to watch over her, having come forth brave and beautiful from your present trials. You are no longer alone; Alexander and Tekla will soon be here, and who knows but that your husband, ashamed and penitent, will soon return to you? It is an every-day occurrence."

At these last words of her mother, Mme. Meyrin shivered with horror, and in a strange voice said:

"My husband! Never speak of him to me. And your hopes are but dreams. Yes, if God spares me, I shall see Alexander and Tekla again, since the man I deceived has taken pity on me; but it will be too late. I lived for my passion, I die of maternal love. God is full of mercy in His justice."

As she spoke Lise closed her eyes. When she opened them again in a few moments she saw Mme. Daubrel, who had softly drawn near the bed.

"See," she said to her mother, designating her friend with a grateful look, "here is my guardian angel. For four months Marthe has been by me. I owe to her my power to live to see you."

The general's wife offered her hand to Mme. Daubrel, without speaking, however, for she felt that sobs would hinder her. She knew the young woman already by what her daughter had said of her at Pampeln, and from the touching letters she had sent to Vera Soublaieff at the time of Alexander's sickness.

"My dear Lise," said Marthe, after returning the pressure of the ex-Countess Barineff's hand, "I bring you good news."

"My children?" asked Mme. Meyrin, with an accent of indescribable tenderness.

"Yes, your children and Prince Olsdorf. He telegraphs that he will be in Paris in less than forty-eight hours, at the same time as your son and daughter. They were to have left Pampeln two days ago."

"Heaven be praised! Where did the prince telegraph from?"

"From Rome."

"From Rome? Rome? Why did he go there? It was not on his way from Brindisi to Paris. Marthe, you are hiding something from me."

Lise had started up in bed, her eyes dilated.

"No, I swear it," replied Mme. Daubrel. "Read for yourself."

The sick woman read rapidly through the telegram which her friend offered her. She sunk back exhausted on the pillows, half dead, and they heard her murmur:

"From Rome! And Pierre Olsdorf is coming to me, Madame Meyrin! Oh, God!"

"Lise, be calm, I beseech you," said her mother. "These emotions kill you."

The unhappy woman seemed to hear nothing; her eyes wandered, her discolored lips spoke disconnected words. Struggling with some terrible hallucination, she tried with her thin, transparent, bloodless hands to push away the phantoms crowding about her.

This crisis lasted nearly a quarter of an hour, while the general's wife and Marthe thought that Lise was dying. However, the poor martyr presently became calmer, and a little blood returned to her face.

In a few moments, when she had quite regained her senses, and had once more recognized her mother and Marthe, she reassured them with a gesture; then, suddenly, her smiling eyes were turned to the door of the room which had just been softly opened. The ex-Countess Barineff and Mme. Daubrel turned around.

It was Dumesnil who came in.

Recognizing her old lover, though she had not seen him for twenty years, the general's wife could not master her movement of surprise. She knew nothing of the friendly relations between her daughter and the old comedian.

The good man did not seem to recognize Mme. Froment. Thinking only of his cherished patient, whose eyes called him to her side, he drew near, bent to kiss her tenderly, and then only he coldly saluted Mme. Podoi, to whom Lise said, in a faint voice:

"This is another friend, mother, whom you must love too as you will love Marthe. His devotion to me has been boundless. If I had been his daughter he could not have tended me more carefully. She and he have been all my family these six months. But I remember; you are not strangers. Yes, Dumesnil told me formerly, when I was happy, that he knew me as quite a baby. It seems I was pretty then; and he was infatuated with me. How far away all that is now. I was beautiful as I grew older--too beautiful. And now?"

This was too much for their two hearts. Their grief, so long repressed, was about to burst forth in sobs, when the doctor was announced who paid Mme. Meyrin a daily visit, though he had given up all hope of her recovery.

While the doctor, to acquit his conscience, was examining the patient and trying to encourage her with some generous, professional untruths, the other actors in the painful scene were silent. When the doctor left the room, Lise's mother and Dumesnil followed him out.

In the next room they stopped, but he did not give them the time to question him.

"My duty is not to deceive you, madame," he said to the ex-Countess Barineff. "I can give no hope. Madame Meyrin is so weak that the danger is more imminent. She may struggle for two or three days more; not longer."

The general's wife pressed her handkerchief to her mouth to stifle a cry of grief.

"Courage, madame," said the doctor, as he left them. "She is at least free from pain. Hide your fears from her. She will pass away gently, without a moan, as if she were but falling asleep."

Dumesnil, who stood leaning against the wall, was crying.

"Yes, the doctor is right; do not let her read anything in our faces," said the old man, going up to his former mistress. "With what a cruel punishment, Madeleine, God punishes your ambition and my weakness. Poor Lise! For six months and more I have witnessed her martyrdom, and have never given myself the supreme joy of calling her my daughter. Come, dry your tears, as I force back mine to the bottom of my heart, and let us go back to her."

"Forgive me, Armand; I have not the courage. If I were to go in there again I should betray my feelings. Give me a few moments."

Seeing that it was indeed better so, the comedian went back alone into the bedroom. Lise was calm and seemed half stupefied. He sat down a short way from the bed and let his tears flow silently.

The night following upon this day of emotions was a bad one for Mme. Meyrin. She was delirious almost throughout it, watched by her mother, Marthe, and a Sister of Charity, who did not leave her for a moment. Next day, at noon, the general's wife saw there was time only to summon a priest to her daughter's bedside. She sent word at once to the Reverend Pope Wasilieff who, for that matter, had been several times to see Lise since the beginning of her illness.

Meanwhile, Mme. Daubrel drove to the Grand Hotel.

Vera Soublaieff had arrived there the previous evening, with Alexander and Tekla. When Mme. Daubrel was announced, she foreboded some misfortune. Leaving the young prince and his sister in the care of Mme. Bernard, she went quickly to the room into which the visitor had been shown.

"Mademoiselle," said Marthe, recognizing Vera in this beautiful girl with the sweet and serious face, "Madame Meyrin is dying; if you would have her embrace her son and daughter, there is not a moment to lose."

"You are Madame Daubrel, are you not?" said the farmer's daughter, "the devoted friend Madame la Comtesse spoke of to me at Pampeln. Yes, assuredly, I will take her children to her. I am expecting the prince at every moment. He will forgive me for acting without his orders. Poor mother!"

Vera Soublaieff rang, and gave the order to the footman, who answered the bell to send for a carriage.

"You are indeed the noble woman we all love," said Marthe, offering her hand.

"I only ask for time to write two lines, in case Prince Olsdorf should come while I am away. I will ask the governess to have the children ready. Go now; we will be at the Rue d'Assas as soon as you are."

"Thanks, mademoiselle, thanks. May God bless you!"

And quickly leaving the room, Mme. Daubrel went to her cab.

In ten minutes' time Vera was in the landau, with Alexander and Tekla, which had been driven up to the entrance to the Grand Hotel. The young prince and his sister knew they were going to see their mother again, and that she was dangerously ill. Alexander, who had his father's temperament, was grave; his paleness alone betrayed his emotion. Tekla was crying in the arms of Soublaieff's daughter.

In less than a quarter of an hour, the landau drew up in the Rue d'Assas, at the same time as Mme. Daubrel's cab. The two women quickly crossed the vestibule, and, after asking Vera to wait with the children in the little room next to the bed-chamber, Marthe was going to pass in to Lise, when Dumesnil stopped her, saying, in a broken voice:

"The priest is with her. He came a few moments after the departure of the commissionaire Madame Podoi had sent for him. He had a presentiment that his presence was necessary."

Vera Soublaieff, to whom the old man spoke as much as to Marthe, sat in a chair and took Tekla on her knees. The little girl wished to do as she was told by her big sister--so in her simplicity she called the daughter of the farmer of Elva--who had asked her not to cry, so as not to pain her mother; and her little face was convulsed by the efforts she made to keep back her tears.

Leaning against the mantel-piece, his head lowered, the young Prince Alexander did not speak, but the nervous movements of his clasped hands showed plainly enough with what difficulty he kept command over himself. With the heroic courage that women often possess in the most terrible circumstances, Mme. Daubrel by a look tried to calm Dumesnil. It seemed as if in this heavy silence they could hear their bruised hearts beating in unison.

Almost half an hour had passed when the venerable J. Wasilieff left the sick-chamber. At the sight of the dying woman's children he called them to him, kissed them tenderly, and blessed them. Then, sad and deeply moved, he walked from the room, raising his eyes to heaven, and not speaking again.

Mme. Daubrel was already with her friend, whom she found calm, almost smiling. It seemed as if in freeing her soul from its agony the priest's pardon had given new strength to her body.

"Will you promise me to keep calm?" asked Marthe, in her soft voice.

"Yes," said Lise, slowly, as if seeking to guess why the question was put to her.

Then, suddenly, she cried:

"My children, my children!"

Her mother-heart had guessed. Was there any other happiness that could be given her but to see her children?

And, raising herself a little, she received in her arms Alexander and Tekla, who, brought to the threshold of the door by Vera, had heard her cry and ran to her. Pressing them to her heart, and devouring them with kisses, covering them with tears, caressing them with her smiles, she repeated:

"My son--my daughter. Thank God!"

She held them from her a little--oh! only the length of her arms--to see them better for a moment or two, then snatched them back to her heart, raining on them again tears and kisses and a thousand endearments, to which the children replied only by their kisses, their tears, their tenderness, and one word: "Mamma."

Great as was the happiness of the poor mother, and on account indeed of the fullness of her joy, Mme. Daubrel thought it prudent to put an end to so touching a scene.

"You promised me to be good and calm," she said to Lise, calling Alexander and Tekla from her with a look.

"Already?" murmured Mme. Meyrin, who understood. "You want to take them from me already?"

"No," said Marthe; "but you must have a little rest. They shall not leave the house."

"I promise they shall not, Madame la Comtesse," said Soublaieff's daughter, taking the children by the hand.

"Is it you, Vera? Forgive me; I could see only them. Let Marthe take them, and you come here to me, while I can still speak."

The young prince and his sister went out with Mme. Daubrel.

"How beautiful you are! And you are as good as you are beautiful," said Lise to the young girl, who, before she could hinder it, had kissed her hand as in the olden time. "How worthy to be loved, too!"

"Madame la Comtesse!" said Vera, blushing.

"Oh, I am not jealous," said Mme. Meyrin, with a mournful smile. "You will always love them, will you not, when I am dead? For I am going to die; I know it; I feel it. What strength God had left me to see them I have given them just now. What would have become of them but for you these three years? What will become of them without you, without a mother to guard them? Swear that you will never leave them--swear it, I beg of you. Then I can go before my God grateful and resigned."

"I promise you, madame," said Vera, crying.

"Thank you," murmured Lise, in a voice that could scarcely be heard, her eyes closing.

The young girl sprung up. Thinking the patient was dying, she called Mme. Daubrel. She ran in with Dumesnil, leaving the young prince and his sister in the neighboring room under the care of the Sister of Charity.

But the last hour of the deserted woman was not yet come. Her heart beat feebly; with her crooked fingers now and then she tried to draw the bed-clothes about her--a movement common to the dying.

Mme. Meyrin lay thus until the evening. When Marthe, then, was about to take Alexander and Tekla to the room made ready for them, she reopened her eyes, looked round vaguely, and stammered:

"My children."

Mme. Daubrel took them to the bedside. The poor mother scarcely knew them.

At this moment a carriage was heard to stop before the house; the bell was rung; some moments passed, and a man, pale, and with uncovered head, appeared on the threshold of the room.

It was Pierre Olsdorf. On reaching the Grand Hotel he had found Vera's letter, and had hurried thither.

"The prince!" cried Mme. Podoi, with an ineffable expression of gratitude.

"He," murmured Vera, growing pale.

As if the word "prince" spoken by her mother had suddenly revived her, Lise raised herself and uttered a cry.

The Russian nobleman quickly drew near to the woman who had borne his name.

"You?" she said, raising herself as if galvanized. "Can you pardon me?"

"I think of nothing now, Lise, but that you are suffering," replied Pierre Olsdorf, pressing softly in his the suppliant hands which the unhappy woman raised to him.

"Then I can die. Pierre Alexandrowich, listen to me. Vera, come near--very near. Lose not a word, either of you. Oh, God! give me strength. Pierre, Vera loves you. She is a noble and saintly girl. When I am dead you will have the right to marry again. Promise me that she shall be the mother of my children--promise it!"

"I promise--I swear it," replied the prince, in a firm and grave voice.

The daughter of the farmer of Elva felt the blood rush to her heart.

The dying woman spoke now so low that she could hardly be heard, as if she were speaking to herself.

"With her the name of the Olsdorfs will remain unstained."

She would have fallen back heavily if the prince, who was supporting her, had not laid her gently on the pillows.

This effort was her last. In a few moments the dying woman was delirious. Her widely opened eyes were expressionless; her lips, distorted by a convulsive smile, spoke only broken words, the last expression of the last beating of her heart: "My children--Pierre--Vera--Marthe--mother--Dumesnil--all--all are here--and he--only he--"

Pierre Olsdorf understood that Lise's thoughts had turned for a moment to her husband; and he lowered his head that he might not see in a corner of the death-chamber the cradle of the child whose father he had killed.

Suddenly a cry of horror was heard.

Leaning over her daughter, Mme. Podoi had felt her last breath upon her face.

Mme. Meyrin, the ex-Princess Olsdorf, was no more.

Dumesnil, staggering, his eyes haggard, stretched out his arms as if to save himself from falling. Mme. Daubrel, deeply as she herself was moved, rushed to him to support him. But the comedian pushed her away, crying:

"She was my daughter--my daughter!"

And he fell on his knees beside the death-bed.

Despair had wrung from the old man the secret which his paternal love had made him keep so bravely for more than twenty years.

A fortnight later, after a funeral ceremony performed in the chapel at Pampeln, in presence of the prince, his children, Vera Soublaieff, and Mme. Podoi, the mortal remains of the Countess Lise were lowered into the vault of the Olsdorfs.

The "divorced princess" had come again under the roof of the man whose name she had borne--but she came a corpse.

Almost at the same hour, on one of the piers of New York, Mme. Daubrel was weeping over her son, while her husband smiled upon them.

Repentant and pardoned, the woman separated by decree from her husband had now a new future before her, and took again her place by her husband's hearth.

THE END.

THE HART SERIES

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Transcriber's note:

The original edition did not contain a table of contents. A table of contents has been created for this electronic edition.

The following typographical errors present in the original edition have been corrected.

On the title page, "RENE DE PONT-JEST" was changed to "RENE DE PONT-JEST".

In Part I, Chapter II, "the actor as the Odeon Theatre" was changed to "the actor at the Odeon Theatre", and "Well, well we will begin" was changed to "Well, well, we will begin".

In Part I, Chapter IV, "she was _enciente_ by Paul Meyrin" was changed to "she was _enceinte_ by Paul Meyrin".

In Part I, Chapter V, "some skill as a violinst" was changed to "some skill as a violinist", "she cauld give herself rein" was changed to "she could give herself rein", "It was the Princes Olsdorf" was changed to "It was the Princess Olsdorf", "she bad driven off" was changed to "she had driven off", and a quotation mark was added after "I thought you were alone."

In Part I, Chapter VI, "his wife life lives publicly" was changed to "his wife lives publicly".

In Part I, Chapter VIII, "you were _enciente_ by him" was changed to "you were _enceinte_ by him".

In Part I, Chapter IX, "when, being drassed" was changed to "when, being dressed".

In Part I, Chapter XII, a question mark was changed to a period after "you are your father's own daughter", and "fell back on the soft" was changed to "fell back on the sofa".

In Part I, Chapter XIII, "ove you more than ever" was changed to "owe you more than ever".

In Part II, Chapter II, "Mme. Frantz eat scarcely anything" was changed to "Mme. Frantz ate scarcely anything", and a missing quotation mark was added after "most adorable little thing ever seen."

In Part II, Chapter III, "expressiong her gratitude" was changed to "expressing her gratitude", "When she was _enciente_ with Tekla" was changed to "When she was _enceinte_ with Tekla", "so long as you are suckling, Marie" was changed to "so long as you are suckling Marie", and a missing period was added after "let us speak no more of it".

In Part II, Chapter IV, "his artist friends; her dream" was changed to "his artist friends, her dream".

In Part II, Chapter V, "Her letter ended with these wrods" was changed to "Her letter ended with these words".

In Part II, Chapter VI, "the Countess Lise Barnieff" was changed to "the Countess Lise Barineff", "no less than Alexander and Telka" was changed to "no less than Alexander and Tekla", and a missing period was added after "She was there alone".

In Part II, Chapter VII, "tell their petty sorrows too" was changed to "tell their petty sorrows to", and "especially welcome to Mme. Daudrel" was changed to "especially welcome to Mme. Daubrel".

In Part II, Chapter X, "went to Mm. Rimaldi and Bertin" was changed to "went to MM. Rimaldi and Bertin".

In Part II, Chapter XI, a missing quotation mark was added after "You are Madame Daubrel, are you not?"