Part 11

Honorine, who was a very intelligent girl, would have liked to marry an artist, but circumstances did not permit her to choose. She was fain to be content with a simple government clerk, an honest fellow who had nothing poetic in his nature, but who attended punctually at his desk and performed his duties promptly.

Honorine longed to become a mother; that would at least afford some occupation for her heart, which longed for someone to adore; for, with the best will in the world, she could only esteem her husband.

After she had been married two years, she had a son; but she was denied the joy of rearing him; he died at the age of twenty months, when he was just beginning to stammer his mother's name and to take his first tottering steps. Honorine's grief was so intense that it affected her health. From that moment she began to lose her color, and her lungs seemed to be impaired. Another child alone could have consoled her for the loss of the first; for the heart is of all the organs most amenable to homoeopathic treatment; but she had no other child, and a few months later her husband died suddenly of inflammation of the lungs.

At twenty-one, Honorine was left alone--a widow and an orphan, for her parents had died long before.

Then it was that she made the acquaintance of Madame Montoni, the mother of Agathe, at that time a child of nine.

Madame Montoni, who lived in the strictest retirement, happened to occupy an apartment in the same house as Madame Dalmont; she had seen her grief when she lost her child, and had been deeply moved by it. When she learned that she had lost her husband suddenly, she hastened to offer her consolation and attentions.

Honorine received her advances gratefully. Being without experience and entirely unacquainted with business, she was in danger of being deprived of the small property which her husband had left her, and which was claimed by collateral relations. But Madame Montoni had strength, courage and resolution; she took all the necessary steps, and the young widow was enabled to enjoy in peace the two thousand francs a year which her husband had left her.

As for Madame Montoni herself, she supported herself and her child with her hands. She made those pretty pieces of fancy work which bring in so little, and require so much time and care. Luckily she was very skilful. But she often passed whole nights over her embroidery frame, in order that she might buy a new dress for her daughter.

Honorine had tried to assist her new friend a little; but Madame Montoni was proud; she would accept nothing from her to whom she had, however, rendered material service.

Incessant toil exhausts vitality. Moreover, Agathe's mother had in the depths of her heart a mortal sorrow which was crushing her; she had confided it to Honorine, who could only weep with her. There are sorrows which admit of no consolation.

Little Agathe used often to ask her mother:

"Why don't we ever see papa? what can have become of him? When I was a little girl, I remember he used to come to see me often; he used to take me out to ride and to dine at restaurants; you used to be very bright then, mamma; you didn't work all day long; and then papa always brought me nice presents, and you too; and he used to kiss me a lot and tell me he loved me with all his heart. And then he stopped coming all of a sudden, and then you cried every day, yes, every day.--Is my papa dead?"

When Madame Montoni heard that question she always wept and strained the child to her heart as she replied:

"Alas! dear child! I don't know what to tell you! I have no idea what has become of your father; I do not know if he still lives, and that is the cause of this grief that is wearing my life away!--Adhémar loved me so dearly! and he adored you! How can I believe that he could have determined to abandon us for no reason whatever?--that he, who promised me such a lovely future,--certain happiness--would have left us suddenly without means, without resource, without support--oh, no! no! he would not have done that! Your father must be dead! My Adhémar certainly has ceased to live, since we are so unhappy!"

"How long ago did you last see him?" inquired Honorine one day, when she had become the confidante of the mother and daughter.

"Alas! my Agathe was just six years old when her father came to see us the last time."

"Why, didn't papa live with you?"

Madame Montoni blushed and turned her face away.

"No, my child, he couldn't; his business prevented him."

"My papa was very nice-looking, wasn't he, mamma?"

"Oh! yes, my child! he was as handsome as he was noble and generous; a little hasty only, and quick to lose his temper; that was the only fault I ever discovered in Adhémar. The last time he came to see us, he said to me: 'In a few days we will start for Italy; it is your native land, Julia, and I want to see it with you; then we will return to France and I will leave you no more.'"

"And you have never seen him since?"

"No; and no news of him, no letter! nothing from him! nothing!"

"But you must have made inquiries, have tried to learn something?"

"When a week had passed without my seeing Adhémar--ordinarily he never let more than two days pass without coming to us--I decided to go to the hotel where he had told me that he lived; it was one of the finest hotels in Paris. I asked for Monsieur Adhémar de--I asked for Monsieur Adhémar, and the concierge assured me that he had left the hotel six days before.

"'He can't have gone away,' I said; 'if he has, where has he gone?'

"As that man knew nothing, I went to the hotel-keeper himself, who said to me:

"'Madame, I am quite as surprised as you are at the absence of Monsieur de--of Monsieur Adhémar. I know that he intended to go to Italy, he had spoken of it several times; but when he left the house six days ago, he said simply: "I am going into the country; I shall return to-morrow morning."'

"'And he has not returned since?'

"'No, madame.'

"'Where was he going in the country?'

"'Mon Dieu! he didn't tell me; he had received a letter that morning--probably an invitation.'

"'And he went away alone?'

"'Alone, yes, madame. But he will surely return; he has left his linen here, and property of much greater value than the amount of his bill, for he paid every week. He's a young man of orderly habits, and he will return, madame; he is bound to return. The probability is that he's enjoying himself in the country and so is making a longer stay there than he intended.'

"'I will return in a few days then,' I said, as I went away. And I did in fact go there again the second day after. But Adhémar had not been seen! So it went on for a month; until at last I had to abandon all hope."

"But his family--didn't you know them?"

"I knew from Adhémar that his family lived in the neighborhood of Toulouse; they were uncles and aunts, all proud of their rank and titles, and they did not condescend to answer the letters I wrote them. At last, someone who was going to that part of the country was obliging enough to make inquiries of several persons, and they told him that Monsieur Adhémar had not been seen by his relations, but that they took little interest in his fate, for they knew that, heedless of his name and his birth, he had contracted in Paris a liaison unworthy of him; and if he did not break off that liaison, he would never be received again by his noble family. That is all that I learned concerning him whom I loved better than my life. Ah! if it had not been for my daughter, his disappearance would have killed me; but what would have become of my little Agathe, without friends or kindred on earth? I felt that I must live for her, for her whom her father loved so dearly! And that is what I did; I lived, but I have never been comforted!--Alas! suppose that he died far away from us--unable to embrace us once more, to bid us a last farewell, and above all, to ensure the future welfare of his daughter! Poor Adhémar! think what his anguish must have been, his despair, at the thought that he left us here in misery! Oh! that idea haunts me incessantly and intensifies the bitterness of my regrets."

This conversation was often renewed between the new friends, for Madame Montoni was never tired of talking of her Agathe's father. In those soothing outpourings of her soul, she concealed nothing from Honorine, whereas she kept one thing secret from her daughter.

Several years passed; Madame Montoni, exhausted by toil and grief, soon lost her little remaining strength. Feeling that she must soon say farewell to life, she placed in Honorine's hand the hand of her daughter, then twelve years of age, and said to little Agathe:

"Honorine will take my place with you; love her as you loved your mother. Heaven has at least vouchsafed that I should leave with you a sister, a friend! Some day, my daughter, she will tell you what your mother has never dared to tell you; and you will forgive your mother, because she loved you dearly and has suffered much for your sake. Now I am going to join my Adhémar, your father, and from above we will both watch over our child. But if fate has decreed that he is not dead, and that you are to see him again some day, oh! tell him that, until my last hour, his image was always here--in my heart!"

Agathe's tears and Honorine's prayers were powerless to suspend the decree of destiny! Madame Montoni closed her eyes forever.

"Death's rigors have no like; Vain our entreaties all; His tyrant hand will strike; Our plaints on deaf ears fall."

After Madame Montoni's death, Honorine took Agathe with her, and from that moment they were never separated.

That which at first was only the affection of a guardian soon became sisterly affection; for, by the time she was fifteen, Agathe had become a sister to her companion, who was then but twenty-seven; time abolished the distance that it had at first set between them. The girl's tastes and pleasures were no longer those of a child, but were identical with those of the young woman, who was overjoyed to find a congenial companion in her to whom at first she had been only a second mother.

But Agathe had not forgotten the last words her own mother had said to her. There was a secret which Madame Montoni had confided to Honorine, but which she had not dared to disclose to her daughter. How could that kind and loving mother have feared to tell her daughter anything? Might she not always have felt quite certain that that daughter would never blame any act of hers?

That was what Agathe said to herself, and yet she dared not ask Honorine to reveal that secret, for she was reluctant to offend even her mother's shade.

"As she did not confide it to me while she was alive," thought the girl, "perhaps it is not right for me to try to learn it now that she is no more."

But one evening, after a long conversation between the two friends, in which they had talked about the strange disappearance of Agathe's father, the girl exclaimed:

"If I only owned something that belonged to my father! I have many things that my mother possessed, which I treasure beyond words; but I have nothing of my father's, absolutely nothing! that is very cruel."

"But suppose I should tell you," rejoined Honorine, "that I have something of your father's to give you--something which your poor mother gave me to keep until I should give it to you?"

"Mon Dieu! is it possible? you have something that belonged to my father, and you have not given it to me in all the time since my mother died? Oh! Honorine, then you did not want to make me very happy!"

"My dear Agathe, when I give you this object which was confided to me, I must also tell you the secret which your mother dreaded to tell you--because she did not wish to blush before you."

"Blush before me!--my dear mother!--why, that is absurd! Come, speak, Honorine, speak; do not conceal anything from me now."

"I will speak; indeed, it seems to me necessary that you should know the truth, that you should learn your father's name at last; otherwise you might stand by his side some day, and not know it."

"My father's name! Why, his name was Montoni, of course, as my mother's was Madame Montoni."

Honorine sadly shook her head.

"No," she murmured. "And that is the whole secret: your mother did not bear his name--for they were not married."

"Not married! Oh! poor mother! poor mother! And that was what she dared not tell me! Am I any less her child on that account?"

"Now, Agathe, listen to the story of your mother's love, as she herself told it to me.

"She was born in Italy, but she left that country when she was very young, with her parents, who settled in Switzerland. They died just as she reached her sixteenth year. She lived then with an old Swiss woman, who treated her very badly and reduced her almost to the condition of a servant. She was keeping a flock of goats, which she drove to pasture on the mountains, when she fell in with a young foreigner who was travelling in Switzerland for pleasure. He was a Frenchman, named Adhémar de Hautmont; he was rich and of noble birth; but he was young, handsome, attractive and susceptible; and it seems that your mother, although a goatherd, was exceedingly pretty. In a word, the two young people were attracted to each other, fell in love and exchanged their vows; and your poor mother had no one to watch over her but the goats that she herself guarded!

"This liaison had lasted two months, and young Adhémar could not make up his mind to part from Julia. It became much harder when she told him that she bore within her a pledge of his love. At that, the young Frenchman said to her:

"'You cannot stay in this region, exposed to the cruel treatment of a woman who is harsh enough with you now, and will be much more so when she learns of your misstep. You must go with me; I will take you to France, to Paris, and you shall live there; I will take care that you lack nothing when I am obliged to leave you and go back to my family. And then I shall not be away long; as they allow me to travel often, for my education, instead of visiting Germany, Spain and England, I will pass my time with you until the moment when I can call you my wife and then I shall never have to leave you again.'

"You can imagine that your mother joyfully assented to her young lover's plan. So they left Switzerland together and came to Paris; young Adhémar installed his Julia in a small apartment, simple and retired, but provided with everything that she required. Then, having supplied her with all the money she was likely to need in his absence, he started for Toulouse; for he was not yet of age, and he had everything to fear from his family if they should learn that he had abducted from Switzerland a young girl who was with child by him.

"But everything went well; Adhémar calculated carefully the length of his absences, and he loved his Julia so dearly that he found a way to come to her when he was supposed to be far away in some foreign country.

"Then you came into the world, and when your father pressed you to his heart, he swore again that he would have no other wife than your mother.

"Several years passed. Some of those talkative people who take delight in interfering in everything, and who had seen Monsieur Adhémar de Hautmont in Paris when his relations thought that he was in Vienna, did not fail to inform them that the young man was in Paris and had a mistress there. The relations ordered Adhémar to return to Toulouse, but he was then of age and master of his actions, and he paid no attention to the commands which they attempted to impose on him. But he had one great-uncle, who was very old and very rich, and who was very fond of him; this uncle was expected to leave him his whole fortune. Your father often said to his sweetheart:

"'I don't dare to marry you while he is alive, for it might make him angry with me and deprive us of a large fortune hereafter. But when he is dead, there will be nothing to delay our union'; and your mother, who was very, very happy because your father still loved her as much as ever, replied: 'Do just as you think best, my dear; my daughter and I will always be content, so long as we have your love; to us that is the greatest of blessings.'

"At last, a few days before his disappearance, your father learned that his great-uncle had become more indulgent; that he seemed disposed to forgive his nephew his secret love-affair. Adhémar instantly set about procuring from his native place all the documents that he required for his marriage, saying to your mother:

"'As soon as the ceremony is at an end, we will start for Italy with our little Agathe. We will pass a year there and then return to France, where my family, knowing that you are my wife, will understand that there is nothing for them to do but to forgive me, and to love you when they know you.'

"That, my dear Agathe, is the whole story of your mother's love. Many women bear their lover's name without right, and assume in society the title of lawful wife; your mother would never have stooped to do that. The name of Montoni was her father's; it is the only one she has left you. Poor Agathe! why did fate decree that, just when you were on the point of obtaining a noble name, when a brilliant future opened out before you, he to whom you were to owe it all should suddenly disappear?"

"Dear Honorine," said Agathe, "the name and wealth are not what I regret, but my father's love, my father's kisses--But what is it that you have to give me?"

"The letters he wrote to your mother when he was away from her, which she always preserved with care."

"Oh! what joy! my father's letters! Give them to me! give them to me!"

Honorine took from her desk a small package which she had kept in safety there, and handed it to Agathe.

She received with a trembling hand the only heritage her father had left her; she hastily opened one of the letters, put her lips to it and wet it with her tears as she faltered:

"My poor father!"

Then she wiped her eyes, so that she could read, and said to Honorine:

"See--what a pretty hand my father wrote! Ah! I can read this easily; listen:

"'My beloved Julia, the time seems very long when I am far from you; the days are endless; and what people call amusements--cards, hunting, concerts and balls--all seem very dull to me and are not worth a glance from you or a smile from my little Agathe, who, I love to believe, is still as fresh and rosy as ever, and strong and well. When shall I be able to embrace you both! My child was beginning to stammer a few words. You told me that on my return she would give me that sweet title of father, which I shall be so happy to hear from her lips. In a fortnight I shall start; I shall pass two days in England, then hasten to you. Patience, my Julia, patience; the time will come when I shall leave you no more, when you will be my wife before men as you now are before God. Be careful of your health; do not tire yourself by carrying your child; I told you to hire a servant, and I trust that you have done so. _A bientôt_, and then _à toujours_, your

'Adhémar, Comte de Hautmont.'"

Agathe read the letter almost at a breath; then she looked up at Honorine and said:

"My dear friend, a man doesn't write thus to a person whom he means to abandon some day. Ah! it must be that my father is dead, as he never returned to us."

The package contained sixteen letters, all of which gave eloquent expression to Adhémar de Hautmont's love for Julia Montoni and for their child. Agathe read them all with deep emotion, then exclaimed:

"Ah! thank you, dear mother; this is indeed a treasure that you left for me; and it is much more precious than money. Henceforth, when I want to reward myself, I will read over these letters and imagine that I am between my father and my mother."

Now that we are fully acquainted with the antecedents of Honorine and Agathe, we may go with them to inspect the little house at Chelles.

XIII

THE LITTLE HOUSE AT CHELLES

It was the middle of March. There were no leaves on the trees as yet, but there was plenty of sunshine; it was already soft and penetrating and announced the return of spring, of that lovely season of the year when everything seems to be born again--even those persons who are on the downward path.

Ah! why do not men grow green again like trees and shrubs? To be sure, their springtime lasts more than three months, but so few of them know how to make use of it! they do not appreciate it until they have thrown it away, and then they regret it in vain; decidedly the trees are wiser than mankind.

Honorine and her young companion dressed in haste in order to arrive early at the railroad station at the farther end of the Boulevard de Strasbourg, whence they were to take a train for Chelles. The two women were ready in a very short time. Agathe, whose quick and cheerful imagination saw something everywhere to give her pleasure, took the keenest delight in going into the country, although the season was not far enough advanced for the fields to have resumed their robes of green. It was a great diversion to her even to take a short journey by rail.

When one rarely indulges in any amusement, one is not surfeited with all the different forms of distraction; and the shortest walk is a pleasure to one who rarely goes out. This is a compensation to those persons who do not often have an opportunity for enjoyment; little is required to satisfy them, whereas ennui sometimes besets those who are always holiday-making. There are compensations everywhere.

In an hour the two friends had reached their destination. When one arrives at the Chelles station from Paris, the village or hamlet is at the left on a low hill; it is distant about ten minutes' walk; but then it rarely happens that the railways take you just where you want to go. When you arrive at a station, you almost always find yourself in the open fields. You look about in search of the place at which you are supposed to have arrived, and you are surprised to see, instead of houses, fields of cabbages, turnips or potatoes.

Agathe, overjoyed to be in the country, leaped and frolicked about like a child.

"Oh! how good the fresh air feels!" she cried. "One can run about here without dread of those horrid omnibuses that are always behind you or in front of you in Paris! And when everything is in leaf and flower, when the trees give shade, when there are poppies among the wheat, lilies of the valley in the woods, and violets in the hedgerows--oh! then it will be perfectly enchanting! Honorine, don't you think that you'll like it--doesn't all this delight you?"

"Yes, yes, I am very fond of the country."

"Well, why do you sigh then? why do you look so sad when you say it?"

"Because I am thinking of my poor little boy. If he had lived, he would be seven years old now. Can't you understand, Agathe, how happy it would make me to have him by my side, to take him by the hand, or to watch him running along the road like you? He was such a pretty boy! I am sure he would have grown to be very fine-looking--my poor little Léon!"

"Mon Dieu! Honorine, if you are going to mourn over that, you will be sad and sigh--and the doctor said that would make you sick."

"It's over, Agathe--you are right; I do not mean to disturb your joy; but, you see, when I think of the new life we are going to lead here, of the sweet peaceful life that is to be ours, when we have left Paris, oh! then I can't help thinking of my son, who always had a place in my dreams of happiness and of the future. You have no idea, Agathe, of a mother's love, and you cannot understand the incurable wound that the loss of that child has made in my heart! But it's all over now, poor love! Now you are sad, too. Come, let us turn our thoughts to finding the house that's for sale; we are to apply to----"