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CHAPTER XIV.

AT noon next day as Adrienne sat alone in her own boudoir a servant came, and brought her a card. She looked at it--it was no fashionable one, glazed and perfumed, but simply a common bit of pasteboard, on which was written "André Brizeaux."

She turned hastily to her servant.

"Admit him," she said, and then sank back once more among her cushions, while a smile played round her lips. André had doubtless come to tell her of his benefactor's goodness--to assure her of his own gratitude and indebtedness.

A moment went by, then the door opened, and before her stood the haggard, wasted semblance of the handsome young peasant who had sung to her under the green vine boughs of his home but a few months before. She started up. The silken folds of her morning robe fell round her slight, tall figure--the firelight flashed on the loosely-coiled masses of her hair--the pale, delicate beauty of her face seemed to André lovelier even than when he had seen it last.

"André," she cried, in deep concern, "what ails you--have you been ill?"

"No, madame," he said, bowing low before her; | | 159 "at least, not in body. I have taken the liberty of calling on you because I remembered your kindness of old. I thought, perhaps, you might remind M. de Valtour of the promise he has forgotten. I am in sore need, or I would not have come here to-day."

"In need--you!" She drew back, and turned very white. "Tell me all," she said briefly. "You think my husband has--forgotten you?"

He did not guess the difficulty with which that word was spoken; the meaning that lay beneath its utterance.

Standing there before her, he told her some--not all--of his sufferings and despair during the past months, of the vain longings that knew no fruition, of the little likelihood that any of his dreams would be realised, of the burial-ground his talents had found in the obscurity and friendlessness of a great city, of the long waiting for news that never came, of the gradual despair that had settled upon his heart, till that night when once again he saw her face, and that sight nerved him for one last effort.

Adrienne sat there among her cushions, her face shaded by her hand, the colour burning deeper and deeper in her cheeks, and she heard the story that to her was only one of shame and bitter reproach. So this was how Armand de Valtour kept his promises!

When André Brizeaux ceased, she turned to him with still that feverish flush and brilliance on her face.

"I am glad you came to me," she said, a strange, | | 160 repressed excitement in her voice, "You say you only want a hearing, Rest assured you shall have it. A week hence I have a reception. I have asked several notable musical people--men of influence and judgment. You shall sing before them. If I mistake not, the result will satisfy you in every way. Do you mean to say no one has heard you yet--that you are as absolutely unknown as when you arrived in Paris first?"

"Such is my misfortune, madame."

"I am more sorry than I can tell you," she said earnestly. "But, believe me, what I can do to remedy matters shall be done, and that speedily. I will let you know all particulars in a few days' time. For the present, if I can be of any service temporarily--"

He made a proud gesture, and a dark flush rose to his brows.

"Madame, I am not yet reduced to asking alms. All the same, I thank you. You have given me new life to-day. I never dared to hope for so much honour as to sing to your guests. But rest assured I will do my utmost not to disgrace your patronage."

"Do not call it that," she said hurriedly. "Art knows no distinction. It holds equal greatness for rich and poor."

Something of the old light and gladness came back to the young, haggard face.

"Madame," he said, "you have given me hope again, and hope means life. Words are but poor | | 161 thanks for such a gift. But perhaps a day will come when deeds may prove my gratitude. Divided as we are now, it seems an empty phrase to say I devote my life to your service; but, nevertheless, I do so from this hour."

Adrienne hardly heard or heeded him.

Such impassioned devotion, such faithful service, might have touched her at any other time; but now her heart was hot with indignation. She felt ashamed, hurt, disappointed, all in one, as she thought of her husband's deception--his broken promises.

When André Brizeaux had left her presence, she sat there for long in that dainty luxurious chamber, which was exclusively her own. Her heart ached with pain. She was struggling with the innate loyalty of that love to her husband which prevented her blaming him too severely even in her thoughts. She was resolved to speak to him first. Perhaps he might explain his neglect even now. But, then, his falsehoods to herself?

As she buried her face in her hands, and shuddered at that remembrance, her husband's voice sounded in the ante-chamber, playfully demanding admittance. She started, and then, resuming her composure with an effort, rose from her couch to meet him. Her face told him something was amiss. He kissed her lightly on the brow, and then waited to hear her speak. Armand de Valtour was too wise to pave the way for any woman's complaints.

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She nerved herself with an effort.

"Armande she said, "tell me what you have done for André Brizeaux."

He stated and looked a little discomposed at the abrupt question. Then he temporised, as usual.

"My dear one," he said lightly, "why do you trouble yourself about this young peasant? He is all right. I shall grow jealous of your interest, do you know."

She made an impatient gesture.

"Tell me the truth honestly," she said. "You were the first who tempted him away. You promised to befriend him. Have you done so?"

He hesitated. He wondered why she asked these questions now--what she had learnt.

"I heard he was singing somewhere," he said at last. "He never came to me; naturally, I forgot. What have you heard of him?"

"I have seen him," she said coldly. "Seen him starving, wretched, almost destitute. Of course you knew nothing of that."

"I have something else to do besides looking after your protégé," he answered indifferently. "If he needed assistance he should have sought me here."

"So he did," she said indignantly. "Armand, why did you deceive me so? Why did you make me believe you were generously befriending this young man, when all the time not one of your promises to him were kept?"

"I cannot help what you believed," he answered | | 163 her. "I have many demands on my time. I cannot remember everyone."

"It is not your forgetfulness I blame," she said, her voice pained and shaken now; "it is the falsehoods you told me."

"I am not aware I told you any," he answered irritably. "I thought the young man was doing well. I certainly heard so. Of course if you choose to take him up you can. Doubtless he knew the worth of a beautiful woman's influence when he appealed to you."

She did not notice the sneer. She was looking gravely, sadly at him, and wondering whether she had been wilfully blinding herself all this time to the defects of a character she had deemed so noble.

They had been but a short time in Paris now. They had come up the last week in February, but already Adrienne's beauty was the talk of society; her triumph had been as great as her husband had desired. Yet she took but slight interest in it all, though to please him she dressed magnificently and went everywhere, and received his guests with the sweet, gracious dignity that so well became her stately young beauty. Armand had been proud of her success, even though he had felt assured of it. For a time it seemed to waken all the passion and adoration of old in his breast. He was ever by her side, ready to do her slightest behest; but after a time it wearied him. His attentions relaxed, he went his own way as of yore, and left her to those excitements | | 164 and dissipations that were so new and yet brought little of the charms of novelty with them.

It was seldom they were alone, even though they were often together. Their lives seemed gradually drifting apart, and Adrienne saw that in Paris, even as at Valtours, her dreams were only doomed to be unrealised.

As she stood there now before her husband, amidst all the wealth, and luxury, and beauty with which he had surrounded her, a sense of bitter disappointment filled her heart. Recrimination, rebuke, complaint--these were things for which she was too proud; but that strange chill feeling never left her--it seemed to set a seal of eternal coldness on the glow and fervour of her love.

She answered him at last. "We need not discuss this matter any longer," she said. "I look upon it as a wrong to this young man that he should have been drawn from the peace and security of his home by false promises and the bait of a life of success. I shall do what I can to rectify the mistake. I suppose I should be thankful that his death does not lie at our door."

"It is not so bad as that, surely," said Armand de Valtour, with a sort of sullen wonder in his voice.

"It is very nearly as bad as that," answered his wife. "But do not reproach yourself. A broken promise is but a slight thing. Who would think it might murder a human being?"

He frowned with angry impatience. "You take | | 165 everything too seriously," he said. "This subject has been discussed enough. You may do what you please. I do not interfere with you. But I have other things to think of besides half-mad peasants who dream they have the genius of a Mendelssohn. As for you, the world does not interest you, you say. Perhaps philanthropy will. The young man is very handsome. He has known how to awaken your sympathy before now."

Then he left her and went away. The memory of his words stung Adrienne's pride, but she soon put it aside with calm contempt. She knew herself, she knew the purity and single-heartedness of her motives, and she was quite brave and quite fearless where she knew them to be right. But she felt pained and shocked that her husband should have said such words, suspected such motives.

"How little he must understand me!" she thought, and sank back among her cushions with a weary sigh.

She did not acknowledge even to herself that perhaps she understood him just as little. The blindness of love was about her still; she would not blame him too severely.