Beck Center English Dept. University Libraries Emory University
Emory Women Writers Resource Project Collections:
Women's Genre Fiction Project

Adrienne, an electronic edition

by Rita

date: 1898
source publisher: Hutchinson & Co.
collection: Genre Fiction

Table of Contents

<< chapter 1 chapter 32 >>

Display page layout

| | 312

CHAPTER XXIX.

HELP was soon at hand, and restoratives administered to the sinking man. He seemed completely exhausted, and had not strength to speak again all through those long night hours when André watched by his side with untiring patience.

The doctor looked very grave when he paid his morning visit. There was greater weakness than he had expected, he said, and, although the wounds were doing well, the system did not seem inclined to rally as it ought to do.

"He will need the greatest care and attention," he said, looking critically at the young man. "I will send a woman in to help nursing. You don't look strong yourself. You will need rest and sleep."

"I am quite strong," answered André. "I will do all you tell me. Ought Monsieur le Comte's relatives be informed that he is in such danger?"

"Has he a wife?" inquired the doctor.

"Yes; but she is in delicate health, and monsieur's sister, who received your telegram, feared to tell her of the accident."

"Then tell his sister. She, of course, must use her own judgment. Of course the Count may rally--it is not impossible--only the chances at present are | | 313 against it. The shock to the system has been very great."

Then he gave some more instructions and left, promising to look in early in the evening. All through the bright, sunny hours of that day did André Briseaux sit there beside the half-conscious man. It was a hard task to him, and one new to all his previous experience. He felt stifled in that close room--he longed to be breathing the free, fresh coolness of the mountain air, with the blue sky above his head and the majesty of that mystic snow-world about his feet. But he never shrank from his task. He was patient, watchful, alert. In some dim way Armand de Valtour seemed to know he was there by his side. Once he stretched out his feeble hand and took that of the young Provençal's.

"You are very good to me," he whispered faintly.

André smiled bitterly. "Good to him!" It was an odd goodness, truly, that could have witnessed his death with perfect indifference--yet strove with untiring patience to preserve his life.

"After all, he is not fit to die," he muttered to himself. "And she--well, she would grieve. I suppose some day she will forgive him, and he may perhaps repent, and then they will be happy once more. Besides, I told her once that I devoted my life to her service; one day she may thank me for saving his."

He looked at the helpless figure lying back so wearily on the pillows. He remembered him in the | | 314 flush and vigour of manhood--the idol of fashion, the beloved of women, more especially of that one woman whose life his perfidy had wrecked. He thought of that long career of selfishness--the forgetfulness of faith and honour which had so characterised his actions; and only a great coldness and contempt were in his heart.

It was sheer, stern duty that kept him by this man's side; that, and the memory of the vow he had once made; the fancy that in some simple, unobtrusive way he was serving Adrienne, was paving the way for a return of her past happiness, by the sacrifice of his own comfort, the disregard of his own feelings.

It was nightfall when the woman came who was to assist him. She was a sister from a convent near St. Nicholas--an old, sad-looking, grim-faced woman, and very silent. André could understand her as little as she could him, but he was relieved to have some respite from his duties; and leaving her in charge, he went out into the quaint little village he had been longing to see.

But amid all the peace and beauty of the night his restless thoughts followed him. When he stood on the bridge and looked down at the rushing waters, he thought less of them than of the strange fate that had sent him here, and the beautiful sad-faced woman who was to his life what the sun is to the earth--what his fancies are to the poet--his dreams to the artist.

It was a strange fantasy, this feeling of his. Unlike | | 315 love, because it was too pure for passion; unlike religion, because it was based on an earthly idol, yet combining the tenderness and fidelity of the one with the reverence and adoration of the other. It is given to few men to feel like this--few women to inspire such a feeling. The world would view it with contempt, or decline to believe in its possibility.

Alas! for these days of realism, when every fantastic myth and beautiful fancy and half-divine dream are banished from human hearts as ridiculous and childish things, at which reason mocks and society scoffs; when genius is no longer simple and soul-felt, but lives for the patronage of modern civilisation, or the triumphs that sensation has marked out as its own!

From the memory of his divinity, André's thoughts turned to Maï. If love could beget love, and the pure, undivided worship of one heart arouse an equal worship, enforce an answering passion in another, André ought indeed to have loved his wife.

He did love her, in a way--loved her with tenderness and admiration for her unselfish life and patient brave little spirit. But, as in all artists, if they be worth the name, there is also something of the poet, so in his soul, and apart from the life he had voluntarily chosen, lived feelings she could never share--thoughts she could never understand--vague, fantastic, imaginative dreams that were sweeter to him than riches or triumphs or worldly honours, and that, in moments like these, swept over his soul as a | | 316 mountain torrent leaps from the frozen bonds that hold it, to meet the warmth of summer sunshine.

It was midnight before he went back to the hotel. He was wearied in body and mind, and sought his couch with a certain sense of relief. The Count was sleeping quietly. The doctor had pronounced him better. Reassured by the information, André closed his own eyes, and, for the first time since he had left Valtours, tasted the blessing of deep refreshing slumber.

. . . . . . .

Meanwhile Céline de Valtour was in an agony of suspense. When André's letter arrived, speaking of Armand's danger and critical position, her first thought was to fly to his side and there remain. The counsels of prudence and the entreaties of the Marquise de Savigny alone withheld her.

"Figure to yourself what it will be," cried Madame Odylle, in agony. "Adrienne will hear--will rush to the conclusion that he is dying; will, in all probability, forget and forgive all she has suffered at his hands, and insist on flying to his side also. In her condition what will be the result? It needs not words to paint it. On the other hand, he may recover. Other people have done so: dislocated joints, and bruised heads, and even fever, don't always mean death. Do I seem heartless? You know I am not that. I only advise for the best, and Adrienne's life is too precious to be recklessly sacrificed."

"Suppose she should blame us afterward?"

| | 317

The Marquise shrugged her pretty shoulders.

"Suppose--what is the use of supposing? It is just going half-way on the road to meet the troubles that Fate is only too fond of sending. No, no, dear--wait. That is what I counsel. You see that André says in his letter your brother is well cared for--has the best medical advice. What more can be done? There is but a month, and Adrienne will be a mother. You cannot risk her life and her child's without far greater cause than this letter gives."

Mdlle. de Valtour could not but agree.

"Still," she said, "if Adrienne should blame us--if in any time to come--"

"Chut!" interrupted the little Marquise impatiently, "Armand will not die. I am sure of that. Set your mind at rest on that point--at least, wait for further confirmation of our fears, and try to banish that anxious look from your face. Adrienne will be noticing it, and demanding an explanation."

"I am not a good hand at playing the hypocrite," said Céline de Valtour sadly.

"You ought to be, you are a woman," laughed the little Marquise. "They say it comes easy enough to most of us. Ma foi! life would save us many an ill turn if it didn't."

"What are you two talking about?" said Adrienne's voice at this moment. She had entered the room at the conclusion of that last sentence.

Céline de Valtour started nervously. The Marquise, true to her recently expressed sentiments, only | | 318 laughed a little, and pushed a chair forward for her friend.

"I believe we were discussing the misfortunes of our own sex," she said demurely. "Nature is against us--men are hard upon us--society is pitiless to our weaknesses; and candid to a fault respecting our failures. We have to combat all these disadvantages by the weapons of tact or dissimulation. The world preaches to us but one gospel--self-advantage. We learn to accept and be grateful for it, in time."

"I often wonder you can put up with so long and dreary an absence from that 'world' whose philosophy you so untiringly preach," said Adrienne, smiling languidly. "Are you not pining to return to it?"

"Do you wish to get rid of me? or am I to understand that my sacrifice at the shrine of friendship is regarded as worthless?" asked little Madame Odylle ironically.

"Neither," answered her friend, amused at the mock theatrical air she had assumed. "You have done me more good, I think, than even the sea-breezes. But it must be very dull for you here. I cannot forget how you used to abuse Valtours once."

"Oh, I have changed," said the Marquise airily. "Besides, country life is good for one's complexion. I don't go in much for Pivet, still there are occasions when he becomes needful. I am cultivating lilies and roses au naturel. The process is dull, but satisfactory."

"It is more than good of you to stay with me, | | 319 said Adrienne earnestly. "However lightly you treat the matter I cannot but feel it is a sacrifice."

"Sacrifice! Quelle idée!" answered the Marquise, throwing herself suddenly down by her friend's side, and taking the slender white hands in her own. "Let us change the subject. How do you feel to-day? Better and stronger, I hope. You look much more like your old self than I have seen you for long."

"I feel very well," said Adrienne calmly. "I am glad, after all, I went away. It certainly did me good."

"How odd it was--that meeting with your husband," said Madame Odylle musingly. She had heard about it long before from Mdlle. de Valtour. "Like a scene in a drama at the Porte St. Martin. I wonder you could be so obdurate, ma chère, for you care for him a great deal even now, and you know that he did not err as you had supposed. After all, Zoé Laurent was only Lamboi's mistress. As for Madame Lissac, she was a bad woman always, and unscrupulous. She separated your husband and yourself just out of revenge. All Paris knows she wanted to marry him herself."

"Yes, I know all that now," answered Adrienne sadly. "But though Armand may not have sinned in the letter, he has been faithless in the spirit. If he had been what I thought he was--if he had loved me as I thought he did--such conduct would not have been possible on his part."

"But that is just where I find you in fault," said | | 320 the Marquise eagerly. "You thought him something quite different to what he was. Men are but fallible beings like ourselves, more easily tempted and led astray even than we are, I think. I should never dream of exalting one into a hero or a demi-god. There are no Sir Galahads now, my dear, though for the matter of that there are plenty of Lancelots."

"Yes, one learns one's mistake soon enough," sighed Adrienne.

"I wish you would tell me candidly whether you have not one little bit of love still in your heart for your husband," said Madame Odylle coaxingly. "You are not always going to sit in judgment on him in this severe fashion, are you?"

Adrienne coloured hotly. "You ask a difficult question," she said. "I told him I forgave him; it is the forgetting I find so difficult."

"But a forgiveness that sends him out to banishment, and condemns you to solitude and unhappiness, is rather a poor sort of thing at best."

Adrienne sighed heavily.

"And you have not even told him of what is coming," continued her friend. "I think he would be a changed man--once he knew. Do you not intend to do so?"

"Not till it is over," answered Adrienne, with a warm blush flitting to her cheeks.

"Do you fear his return once he heard of it?"

"No," she said, raising her head proudly. "He | | 321 said only my wish as well as my full forgiveness would occasion that."

"How nice to be able to bring a man down on his knees like that!" exclaimed the little Marquise comically. "Ma foi, I wish I had your secret. My poor old Lothario would be the better of such a lesson. It is I who have had to condone and forgive for very peace and quietness' sake! But, then, you do not care for scandal, or position either for that matter?"

"I do, in a way," answered Adrienne. "But there is something I care for more; it is my own self-respect."

"Now you are mounting your stilts again. My dear, when will you learn that goodness may be as faulty in its way as evil. It disheartens ordinary mortals, and condemns slight faults as heavy sins. You have learned your power. You have brought your husband to his senses. In the name of wonder why did you banish him again? You only throw him back on the temptations that have ruined your peace of mind already. To my thinking, it would have been more wifely, more Christian-like, to have acted up to your forgiveness and received him back once more. It is not often a man like Monsieur de Valtour will acknowledge himself in the wrong or sue for pardon."

She stopped abruptly. Adrienne was sobbing as if her heart would break.

"Dearest what is it? Have I offended you, | | 322 distressed you? Pardon; indeed I did not mean to--"

"Oh, Odylle!" cried her friend, between her bitter sobs; "you cannot plead half so eloquently as my own heart does. You cannot say more for my husband than I do for the father of my child. But--"

"Hush, hush! do not agitate yourself thus," cried the little Marquise in alarm. "I did not mean to distress you. I only thought it would be best to have him here with you once more--to try and forget, even as you say you have forgiven. You have suffered much, I know. One only needs to look at your face to see that. But I do not think you will have to complain again. Armand will value you doubly once he has known what it is to lose you."

They were nearly the same words that Madame Lissac had used. Probably experience had taught the same lesson to both women, though in different ways.

Adrienne was silent, save for a sob that now and then shook her frame as she leant heavily against the warmly beating heart of her friend.

"You are a strange girl," continued the Marquise presently. Now, I would wager anything that if you heard Armand was ill, in danger, or in trouble of any sort, you would rush to his side immediately--that--"

"Why do you say that?" interrupted Adrienne, hastily drawing herself away from her friend's arms, | | 323 and looking searchingly at the bright riante face. "Have you heard anything? Do you know--"

"Now, don't be foolish and excite yourself," answered the little Marquise, drawing her head back to its old place, and glad of that excuse to escape those eager, searching eyes. "Heard anything! What should I hear? You don't suspect me of corresponding with your husband, I hope. I am only dealing in suppositions. Answer them to please me. Do not jump at wrong conclusions."

"I would certainly go to his side if he were sick, or in trouble, or needed me," said Adrienne quietly. "It would be my duty."

"Sublime!" laughed Madame Odylle mockingly. "Just what I expected. If Armand only knew that, I expect he would lose no time in breaking his neck, or catching a fever, or doing some other rash or daring deed, like a hero of modern romance in a novel. I can imagine you rushing off to his side at express speed then. My dear, what a pity it is that you were born in this age. There is no romance, and no poetry, and no beauty in life now, and love is only a mistake!"

"I wonder what you mean?" said Adrienne, looking searchingly at her. "You are sure you have not heard anything?"

Madame Odylle tried her best to laugh and look at ease, but it was a difficult matter.

"Heard! What should I have heard?" she said lightly. "Never think twice of the things I rattle | | 324 out, ma chère. You ought to know by this time that I never think first and speak afterward, as you admirable English people generally do. Come, you look tired. Will you not lie down a little while in your boudoir? We have a long drive after breakfast, you know."

"Yes; I am tired," sighed Adrienne, and leaning on her friend's arm, she sought the solitude and quiet of her own room.

. . . . . . .

"I was quite right," said the little Marquise, meeting Mdlle. de Valtour on the terrace some half-hour later. "If she knew of Monsieur de Valtour's illness she would fly to his side at once. The question is, ought we to risk telling her and then exert our influence to keep her here, or leave her in ignorance of what has happened until--"

"Until what?" asked Céline de Valtour eagerly.

"Until Fate decides the issue--I was about to say. How hard it is to know what is best!"

"To-morrow we shall hear from André again," said Mdlle. de Valtour. "If his account is more hopeful we will not distress Adrienne or add to her sufferings and anxieties. If not--"

There was a moment's silence. They looked at each other--with faces grave and anxious. Without further words they understood what must happen then.

<< chapter 1 chapter 32 >>