CHAPTER XV.

MADAME LACOMBE'S UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER.

On leaving the notary's office, Louis hastened to Mariette's home. He found the young girl sewing by the bedside of her godmother, who seemed to be sound asleep.

Her lover's extreme pallor, as well as the sad expression of his face, struck the young girl at once, and running toward him, she exclaimed, anxiously:

"Oh, Louis, something terrible must have happened, I am sure."

"Yes, Mariette. Have you heard of the frightful accident that occurred on the Versailles railroad yesterday?"

"Yes, it was horrible. People say there were nobody knows how many victims."

"I can hardly doubt that my father was one of the number."

Quick as thought, Mariette threw herself, sobbing, on Louis's breast, and for a long time the two stood clasped in a silent embrace. Louis was the first to speak.

"Mariette, you know how devotedly I loved my father, so you can judge of my despair," he said, sadly.

"It is a terrible blow to you, I know, Louis."

"The only consolation I have is your love, Mariette, and I am about to ask a fresh proof of this love."

"You have but to speak, Louis."

"I want you to marry me at once."

"Can you doubt my consent? Is this the proof of love that you asked?" inquired the young girl.

Then, after a moment's reflection, she added:

"But can we marry before your period of mourning, that only begins to-day, expires?"

"I entreat you, Mariette, not to be deterred by that scruple, decent as it appears."

"I--I will do whatever you wish."

"Listen, Mariette, my heart will be torn with regrets for a long, long time. True mourning is of the soul, and, with me, it will long exceed the period fixed by custom. I know that I honour my father's memory in every fibre of my being, and it is for this very reason that I do not feel it necessary to conform to any purely conventional custom. Believe me, a marriage contracted at so sad a time as this is of a much more solemn and sacred nature than if we married under different circumstances."

"You are right, perhaps, Louis; nevertheless, custom--"

"Because you will be my wife, Mariette,--because you will mourn for my father with me,--because you will share my grief, will he be less deeply regretted? Besides, Mariette, crushed with grief, as I am, I could not live on alone, separated from you,--all I have left in the world now. It would kill me."

"I am only a poor seamstress who knows little or nothing of the laws of society, so I can only tell you how I feel about this matter, Louis. Though a moment ago the idea of marrying you at once seemed almost a breach of propriety, the reasons you give have made me change my mind. Possibly I am wrong; possibly it is the desire to please you that influences me, but now I should not feel the slightest remorse if I married you at once, and yet it seems to me that I am as susceptible as any one I know."

"Yes, and more ungrateful than any one I know," exclaimed Madame Lacombe, tartly, raising herself up in bed.

Then, seeing the surprise depicted on the features of her goddaughter and Louis, she added, in sneering tones:

"Yes, you thought the old woman asleep, and so took advantage of the opportunity to decide all about the wedding, but I heard everything you said, everything--"

"There was nothing said that we were unwilling for you to hear, madame," replied Louis, gravely. "Mariette and I have no desire to retract a single word we have uttered."

"I am certain of that, for you two think only of yourselves. You seem to have no other idea in your head except this detestable marriage. As for me, one might suppose I was already in my coffin. I tell you once for all that--"

"Permit me to interrupt you, madame," said Louis, "and to prove to you that I have not forgotten my promise."

As he spoke, he took a small box which he had deposited upon the table at his entrance, and placed it on Madame Lacombe's bed, saying, as he handed her a key:

"Will you be kind enough to open this box, madame? The contents belong to you."

Madame Lacombe took the key with a suspicious air, opened the box, looked in, and exclaimed, like one both dazzled and stupefied:

"Good God! Good God!"

Recovering from her bewilderment at last, the sick woman emptied the contents of the box out upon the bed; but it seemed as if she could not believe her eyes when she saw the big pile of glittering gold coins before her.

"Oh, what a pile of gold! What a pile of gold!" she exclaimed, ecstatically. "And it is real gold--not a counterfeit piece among it. Great Heavens! What big, handsome coins they are! They must be one hundred sou pieces at least. What an immense amount of money this must be! Enough to make two poor women like Mariette and me comfortable for life," she added, with a sigh.

"You have about fifteen thousand francs there, madame," replied Louis. "They are yours."

"Mine?" cried the sick woman, "mine?"

Then, shaking her head with an incredulous air, she said, sharply, "Why do you want to mock an old woman? How can this gold belong to me?"

"Because this gold is to purchase you an annuity of twelve hundred francs, so that, after Mariette's marriage, you can live alone or remain with your goddaughter as you prefer, for to-morrow our marriage contract will be signed, and, at the same time, you will receive papers assuring you a yearly income of twelve hundred francs in exchange for this gold. I brought the money here to convince you of the sincerity of my promises. Now, madame, as you overheard our conversation, you know my reasons for entreating Mariette to hasten our marriage. You are comfortably provided for now. If there is any other obstacle to my union with Mariette, tell us, I beseech you, madame. Anything that either she or I can do to satisfy you, we will do. Our happiness will not be complete if you, too, are not content."

The words were uttered in a kind, almost affectionate tone, but Mother Lacombe's only reply was a heavy sigh, as she turned her back upon the speaker.

Louis and Mariette gazed at each other in silent astonishment for a moment; then the girl, kneeling by the invalid's bedside, asked, tenderly:

"What is the matter, godmother?"

Receiving no reply, Mariette leaned over the old woman, and, seeing tears trickling through her wasted fingers, exclaimed:

"Good Heavens, Louis, my godmother is weeping. This is the first time in ten years!"

"What is the matter, madame? Tell us, in Heaven's name."

"I appear like a beggar. I seem to be thinking only of money, and I am ashamed of it," responded the poor creature, sobbing bitterly. "Yes, you think I care only for money; you think I am selling Mariette to you exactly as I would have sold her to that villain, if I had been a bad woman."

"Do not say that, godmother," exclaimed Mariette, embracing the invalid tenderly. "Can you suppose for one moment that Louis and I had any intention of humiliating you by bringing you this money? Louis has done what you asked, that is all."

"I know that, but it was the fear of dying in the street, and of seeing you after marriage far more miserable than you are now, that made me ask for this money. I knew very well that I had no right to any money, but think what it must be to be afraid of being turned into the street when one is old and infirm. I asked for entirely too much, and I did very wrong. What do I really need? Only a mattress in some corner, and a morsel to eat now and then, and, above all, that Mariette will not desert me. I am so used to seeing her around. If she left me I should feel as lonely as if I were in the grave. Besides, there is nobody else in the world who would be so kind and so patient with a cross old sick woman like me. All I ask is to stay with Mariette. To have all this gold thrown in my face, as it were, humiliates me. One may be a mere worm, and yet have a little pride left. When that scoundrel came and offered me gold if I would sell Mariette to him, it made me mad, that is all; but this time it is very different, it makes me weep,--a thing I haven't done before for ten years, as you said yourself, child. This cuts me to the heart."

"Come, come, my dear Madame Lacombe, you need not give yourself the slightest uneasiness with regard to the future," said Louis, deeply touched. "Mariette will not leave you; we will all live, not luxuriously, but very comfortably together."

"Are you in earnest? Will you let me live with you, really and truly?"

At this fresh proof of the unfortunate woman's unconquerable distrust, Louis and Mariette again exchanged compassionate glances, and taking her godmother's hand, the girl said, tenderly:

"Yes, godmother, yes; we will keep you with us, and care for you as if you were our own mother. You shall see if we do not make you very, very happy."

"It will be no fault of ours if we do not, you may be sure of that," added Louis, earnestly.

The tone and expression of the two young people would have convinced the most skeptical, but it was so hard for this unfortunate woman to believe that such happiness could ever be hers, that, though she tried to conceal her doubts for fear of wounding Mariette and her lover, it was with an involuntary sigh that she replied:

"I believe you, children. Yes, I believe that M. Louis has money, and I believe you both mean well toward me, but after awhile I am afraid you'll find me very much in the way. Newly married people like to be alone, and--"

"What, godmother, you still doubt us, after all we have said?"

"Forgive me, children, I don't mean to," sobbed the poor woman; then, with a heart-broken smile, she added: "Perhaps it is all the better for me that I do doubt, for if, after fifty years of trouble and poverty, I should really come to believe that there was such a thing as happiness for me, I might go mad."

Then, in accents of inexpressible bitterness, she added:

"It wouldn't surprise me if I did. It would be just my luck."