Le Monsieur De La Petite Dame | Page 8

was treated with a reserve which held her at arm's length.
By the time the horse-chestnuts bloomed pink and white on the Avenue des Champs ��lys��es, there were few people in the Trent and Villefort circles who had not their opinions on the subject of Madame Villefort and her cousin.
There was a mixture of French and American gossip and comment, frank satire, or secret remark. But to her credit be it spoken, Madame de Castro held grim silence, and checked a rumor occasionally with such amiable ferocity as was not without its good effect.
The pink and white blossoms were already beginning to strew themselves at the feet of the pedestrians, when one morning M. Villefort presented himself to Madame, and discovered her sitting alone in the strangest of moods.
"I thought I might have the pleasure of driving home with Madame Villefort. My servant informed me that I should find her here."
Madame de Castro pointed to a chair.
"Sit down," she commanded.
M. Villefort obeyed her in some secret but well-concealed amazement. He saw that she was under the influence of some unusual excitement. Her false front was pushed fantastically away, her rouge and powder were rubbed off in patches, her face looked set and hard. Her first words were abominably blunt.
"M. Villefort," she said, "do you know what your acquaintances call you?"
A deep red rose slowly to his face, but he did not answer.
"Do you know that you are designated by them by an absurd title--that they call you in ridicule 'Le Monsieur de la petite Dame?' Do you know that?"
His look was incomprehensible, but he bowed gravely.
"Madame," he answered, "since others have heard the title so often, it is but natural that I myself should have heard it more than once."
She regarded him in angry amazement. She was even roused to rapping upon the floor with her gold-headed cane.
"Does it not affect you?" she cried. "Does it not move you to indignation?"
"That, Madame," he replied, "can only be my affair. My friends will allow me my emotions at least."
Then she left her chair and began to walk up and down, striking the carpet hard with her cane at every step.
"You are a strange man," she remarked.
Suddenly, however, when just on the point of starting upon a fresh tour, she wheeled about and addressed him sharply.
"I respect you," she said; "and because I respect you, I will do you a good turn."
She made no pretense at endeavoring to soften the blow she was about to bestow. She drew forth from her dress a letter, the mere sight of which seemed to goad her to a mysterious excitement.
"See," she cried; "it was M. Ralph Edmondstone who wrote this,--it was to Madame Villefort it was written. It means ruin and dishonor. I offer it to you to read."
M. Villefort rose and laid his hand upon his chair to steady himself.
"Madame," he answered, "I will not touch it."
She struck herself upon her withered breast.
"Behold me!" she said. "Me! I am seventy years old! Good God! seventy! I am a bad old woman, and it is said I do not repent of my sins. I, too, have been a beautiful young girl. I, too, had my first lover. I, too, married a man who had not won my heart. It does not matter that the husband was worthy and the lover was not,--one learns that too late. My fate was what your wife's will be if you will not sacrifice your pride and save her."
"Pride!" he echoed in a bitter, hollow voice. "My pride, Madame!"
She went on without noticing him:--
"They have been here this morning--both of them. He followed her, as he always does. He had a desperate look which warned me. Afterward I found the note upon the floor. Now will you read it?"
"Good God!" he cried, as he fell into his chair again, his brow sinking into his hands.
"I have read it," said Madame, with a tragic gesture, "and I choose to place one stumbling-block in the path that would lead her to an old age like mine. I do not like your Americans; but I have sometimes seen in her girl's face a proud, heroic endurance of the misery she has brought upon herself, and it has moved me. And this let ter--you should read it, to see how such a man can plead. It is a passionate cry of despair--it is a poem in itself. I, myself, read it with sobs in my throat and tears in my eyes. 'If you love me!--if you have ever loved me!' he cries, 'for God's sake!--for love's sake!--if there is love on earth--if there is a God in heaven, you will not let me implore you in vain!' And his prayer is that she will leave Paris with him tonight--. to-night! There! Monsieur, I have done.