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CHAPTER XXV.

THEY went to a quiet little place on the summit of the table-land of Calvados.

It was far enough from Deauville and Trouville to be safe from any fashionable pleasure-seekers, and had only the beauty of the sea that washed its cliffs and the summer glory of cornfields and orchards all about. But it pleased Adrienne as much as anything could please her now. She spent hours and hours by the sea, and the quiet, and the change of scene, and the cool, salt air and fresh winds did her good, and some of the bodily weakness and languor left her. Still, she was terribly changed, and Mdlle. de Valtour's heart ached as she watched her day by day.

From Armand there came no word, but the Marquise de Savigny wrote that he had left Paris abruptly, and gone abroad. "I am coming to pay you a visit one of these days myself," continued the letter. "I want to see where you have buried yourself, and also how you are looking. Besides, I am sure you want someone to rouse and amuse you, and I know I have always been able to do that."

"She is a warm-hearted little thing, with all her frivolity," smiled Adrienne sadly, as she handed the letter to her sister-in-law.

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"I should be glad if she would come," answered Mdlle. de Valtour. "I often think I am but a dull companion for you."

"Never think that," said the girl tenderly. "You are goodness itself. I often wonder what I should have done without you."

But Céline only sighed. She knew that all she could do and all the love she had for her brother's wife was yet of no avail to chase the sadness from her face or give back peace to her heart.

Meanwhile Armand de Valtour had fled from Paris heartsick and disgusted. For once he woke to the fact that even a man who has studied women all his life may be duped and tricked by one. He had believed in Aurélie Lissac; he had never deemed it possible that she would attempt to cheat him, and he had felt a compassionate interest in her, knowing well that her love for himself was not yet extinct, and all the time she had woven this net for his feet--had contrived to separate him from his wife, to make him appear an unscrupulous villain in her eyes, and effectually robbed him of the purest, truest love that his life had ever known.

No wonder he cursed his own folly and blindness. No wonder he rushed from every sight and sound that could remind him of the women who had been the marplots of his happiness. In all his facile, careless, selfish life he had never felt as he felt now. He had never before seen his actions unmasked by false | | 267 sophistries, staring him in the face with all their nakedness and vileness unveiled, until for very shame he hid his face from sight, and a pang of remorse struck to his heart. No wonder Adrienne had left him in disgust. No wonder she had spoken out those words, whose memory haunted all his better moments: "The man I loved exists no longer."

She would never forgive him--of that he felt sure. She was so proud, so pure, so noble, and he had treated her no better than if she had been faithless and vile as so many other women were.

The long habits of a selfish life--the evil taint of example--the negligence and softness of his own temperament--these had been his destroyers. He felt a hatred of them all now, now when he saw the price he had paid for them, and knew that no deed or word of his would give him back his wife's love and faith again.

From place to place, from city to city he took his way. Always restless, often unhappy; never able to purchase forgetfulness, though he would have paid any price for its relief; a settled disgust and loathing of all the shams, and follies, and frivolities of society ever present in his heart. He felt bitterly impatient of himself at times. Impatient because his pleasure-loving temperament hated to be disturbed, because he could not shake off this one memory, or content himself with the philosophy of old.

There comes such a time in the lives of almost all men, unless, indeed, they are irredeemably bad. A | | 268 time when the virtue they have mocked at all their lives shines crystal clear in the sea of surrounding blackness made by their own sins and follies.

Many men affect to think lightly of women until the affectation becomes a habit, and by it they judge the worth of all the love they gain. But even to them Fate sometimes measures out severer justice than they dream exists, and a day comes when they waken to the fact that one woman among the world of others is forcing them to recant their past heresies--is gradually becoming dearer, sweeter to their hearts than their wildest dreams could have imagined, and as they stretch out their hands, crying, "Give me happiness--at last!" she fades away before their sight into the regions of unattainment, or looks sadly back to their longing eyes from behind the barriers of Fate.

They cry out it is hard--but, after all, it is but just!

Armand de Valtour found himself one day at Trouville. It brought back many painful memories, but they were the memories that were always with him now. The blue tranquil sea, the pretty houses, the old familiar promenade, the gay crowds, just so it had been a year ago. What a year that had been! How much he had gained and lost. He thought of it all as he looked at the sparkling water. What a fool he had been--oh, what a fool!

Two days at Trouville drove him desperate. He | | 269 left abruptly, and went to place after place along the coast of Calvados. One evening, toward sunset, he drove to a little half-hidden nook he had seen nestling amongst the tall cliffs. There were but few houses, and these chiefly of the peasant and fisher-people. One or two châteaux were buried amongst the trees, and all the country round was quiet and tranquil to a degree. He made some inquiries about the place, and heard that few people ever came there, save invalids or tourists. There was a park where they walked; it was not far, and the grounds were beautiful, and the view along the sea-coast very fine. He thought he would stroll there and see the place for himself.

The directions he had received were easily followed. He found himself in the park very soon. But he found also that it was a sort of public promenade. A little crowd of people were moving about. A few ladies, evidently invalids, a few bonnes with their young charges, a priest or two, with their black cassocks and breviary in hand, and two or three men, mostly old. They were walking to and fro under the trees. Armand seated himself at some little distance and watched them with careless unconcern. An elderly man, who looked like a doctor, was at the other end of the seat. He addressed a few words to the stranger, but though Armand answered with his unfailing courtesy, he made no effort to prolong the conversation, and presently the gentleman rose and left him sole occupant. At that moment | | 270 Armand de Valtour's eyes were attracted by the appearance of two ladies who had just emerged from the little crowd by the gates, and were coming straight toward himself. A moment he gazed incredulously--then turned white as death.

"Heavens!" he cried, half aloud, "it is my wife!"

She did not see him; she was leaning on Mdlle. de Valtour's arm, and walking slowly and wearily along. He sat there, confused--undecided--growing hot and cold by turns. Another instant, and she would see him. Would she speak, or pass on like a stranger? Céline and Adrienne were quite close before they lifted their eyes. Then there was a cry--a gasping for breath--and, pale as a corpse, Adrienne stood there, facing him in the evening sunlight. For a moment none of them spoke. They were too utterly bewildered. Armand recovered his presence of mind first. He rose, and bowed low before them.

"I did not expect to see you here," he said, quite humbly. "Are you staying at this place?"

"Yes," said Mdlle. de Valtour, giving him her hand.

Adrienne neither spoke nor looked, but she trembled from head to foot. The familiar tones of that musical voice went through her like a knife.

"I but came over for a day," he went on mechanically.

His eyes were on his wife's changed face. How altered she was; and there was something about | | 271 her that puzzled him. He could not say what it was. Then a sudden memory of all that had passed between them when last they parted came over him. But, since Fate had thrown her in his way, he resolved to make some effort to regain at least a portion of her regard.

"May I see you? May I call?" he asked timidly. "I have something to say. I--"

"Monsieur," interrupted Adrienne coldly. "I am your sister's guest. It is for her to receive whom she pleases."

The cold, inflexible tone chilled him more than the words. To think that this woman had once loved him--had rested in his arms and kissed his lips? It seemed incredible.

"May I come, Céline?" he asked, very quickly.

"Yes, of course, if you wish it," stammered his sister. She felt it was all so odd--so unaccountable. What could he desire? And yet, how strangely humble and penitent he looked! Was it possible, after all, that they might be reconciled? From the bottom of her soul she hoped it. Armand only asked her address, and then moved away, while Adrienne, breathless and trembling, and utterly unnerved, sank down on the seat that he had quitted. All the coldness and pride had gone from her face. A flush of shame dyed it; her lips shook as she tried to speak.

Céline de Valtour was frightened at her agitation, but she took it as a hopeful sign.

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"She must love him, to be so moved," she thought.

"Do not mind, love," she said soothingly. "It is only I who need see him. He will not seek to trouble you, I am sure."

"No, I do not fear that," she said, with a shadow of the old proud smile on her pale lips.

"And, dear one," pleaded Mdlle. de Valtour wistfully, "I would ask you to be patient--to try and think better of your resolution. Armand was very wrong, no doubt; but when are men faultless? You must see for yourself how he is changed, how ill, and careworn, and humbled he looks. You have given him a lesson; it may profit him. He will value you all the more because he has known what it is to lose you. Let me entreat you, for your own sake and the sake of what is coming in the future, to agree to a reconciliation--if he desires it."

"He will not desire it," said Adrienne calmly. "I know him better than that."

"I am ashamed, for my own sake and for yours, of the insult he has offered you," continued Céline; "but doubtless he has regretted it bitterly long ago. And when you left him you say he did not know of--of this hope?"

"No," said Adrienne, crimsoning to her very brows.

"That would make all the difference in the world to him," said Mdlle. de Valtour. "In any case, he must know now. Parental rights in France are strict, and the child will be his heir and successor."

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"Do not speak of it," cried Adrienne bitterly. "It almost breaks my heart when I think that even of the solace of motherhood I may be deprived. The fate of women is hard. It is easy to see who makes the laws."

"But have you considered, dear, that this separation cannot last for ever? It must end one way or the other. Can you find no remnant in your heart of all the love you had, that could plead your husband's cause now?"

Adrienne covered her face with her hands. Slow, hot tears rose to her eyes and trickled through her slender fingers.

"God help me!" she cried despairingly. "I love him still; but when I think of how my love and faith were betrayed I feel that to forgive him, to look upon him as my husband again, is a task beyond my strength."

Mdlle. de Valtour was silent. She knew Adrienne was right. The very purity and faithfulness of her womanhood cried out against the treatment she had so unwarrantably received. In her heart Céline could not blame her.

"I hardly know how to counsel you," she said, at last. "Only, of course, when husband and wife are separated the woman always gets the blame. The world is full of injustice, as you say. And you--well, you are different to most women. Your principles are high and noble. Fidelity to you is not the letter only but the spirit of the word. Yes--it must be hard."

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"It is hard--it is breaking my heart!" cried Adrienne piteously. "I sometimes hope God will let me die and my child too!"

"Ah, do not speak like that!" pleaded Mdlle. de Valtour, in terror. "God knows best what we must bear. Do not rashly call upon Him to end your life--hard as it is. Prayers are sometimes granted only to cause regret."

"There seems no time, nor any future in which I could feel regret for that prayer being granted," answered Adrienne despairingly, as she lifted her face and looked down the darkening avenue. Then she rose suddenly.

"It is cold--let us go home," she said, with a faint shiver.

The sun had sunk low, the late day had passed to eventide. The dusky sea rolled in slow, monotonous measure at the base of the cliffs. Here and there a star shone out from the dim, gray sky, and the twilight mists lay heavy over the darkening land.

With a heavier heart than he had ever known, Armand de Valtour took his way slowly to his sister's house. After all, what use would his visit be? What extenuation had he to offer for his past conduct? He longed with all his heart to see Adrienne again, and yet he dreaded that look in her eyes that had made him feel like a whipped hound in her presence. Forgive him? Was it within the | | 275 wildest bounds of probability that she would ever do that?

He found himself at the address Céline had given him. He marvelled a little at what had brought them here--why Adrienne had left Valtours.

A few moments and he stood in his sister's presence. She was alone. He had hardly expected anything else, but he was half surprised at the keen pang of disappointment he felt on seeing his dread had turned to certainty.

Céline received him very coldly.

He sat down, and a sort of embarrassed silence fell between them both.

"Adrienne has told you all?" he said at last.

"Yes," answered his sister. "Of course I knew you were never worthy of your wife, Armand; but I think you might have had the decency to try and appear so a little longer."

For once rebuke came home to him, and he received it without any plea or excuse.

"I know that," he said; "I have been a brute."

Mdlle. de Valtour looked at him with momentary surprise.

"I think you have," she said presently; "but your punishment is heavy enough. To have lost such love, such honour as Adrienne had for you--well, I wonder what you will find as recompense."

"Nothing, I know," he said bitterly, as he leant his | | 276 head on his hand to shut his face out from her sight. "I think I must have been mad."

"I am glad you acknowledge you were in the fault," said Céline, still coldly. "But what do you intend to do? Is this separation to be life-long?"

His hand fell, and he looked at her--a fire of anxious longing in his eyes.

"Not with my will," he said; "but how can I ask her to forgive? She is so proud. I have wronged her in a way--not perhaps as she thinks--but still she is so pure and good herself that the very shadow of disloyalty is unknown to her."

"Tell me all about it," said Mdlle. de Valtour at last. " I suppose it was that horrid woman you never would break with? She was always jealous and malicious. Let me hear your version, then, and pray tell me the truth--no prevarications or deceptions any longer."

He drew his chair close up beside her own, and, in the friendly dusk that hid his shamed and sorrowful face, he told her that story of his folly and wrong-doing.

She listened in perfect silence from beginning to end. Many a time in his boyish days had he come to her with similar confidences, though never, perhaps, with any so humiliating and painful. When he had finished, when he had told her of the discovery of Zoé's falseness, of Lamboi's treachery, of Madame Lissac's vileness, she felt a little thrill of triumph as she saw how each and all of them had over-reached | | 277 their own purposes, and how the shock of their joint-treachery had first awakened Armand's conscience to his own sin against his wife.

"Will you tell Adrienne--will you plead for me?" he said brokenly, at last, as his story was ended, and the gentle clasp of her hand told of her awakened sympathy.

"I will do what I can," she answered gravely. "But I cannot promise success. I will go and send her to you now. Tell her your story frankly and bravely as you have done to me. She is a good woman--though proud. I do not know whether she will believe you. In any case it is for you to sue for her pardon. That you know."

"To my own most bitter cost!" he answered despairingly.

Céline went away. How long the moments seemed! What could detain her? He paced restlessly up and down the room. His heart was beating wildly--his pulses were at fever heat. He could hardly credit that he could feel such keen and painful emotion on account of his wife. A few months before it would have seemed absurd.

The sound of a closing door fell on his ear and startled him. He turned swiftly and saw before him a white, shadowy figure. The grave, dark eyes looked coldly, steadily at his face.

"You wish to speak to me, monsieur," said Adrienne.

Her voice sounded cold and strange yet sweet to | | 278 his ears. She leaned, as if for support, against a table near by. He could see she was trembling.

With a swift, sudden passion of despair, and grief, and longing, he threw himself at her feet.

A shiver, as of cold, passed over her. She drew herself away from his touch.

"I have come to ask your forgiveness," he said humbly. "Only grant me that, and I will go away and never look upon your face again--unless you wish it!"