"LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME" By Frances Hodgson Burnett Copyright, 1877 It was Madame who first entered the box, and Madame was bright withyouthful bloom, bright with jewels, and, moreover, a beauty. She wasa little creature, with childishly large eyes, a low, white forehead, reddish-brown hair, and Greek nose and mouth. "Clearly, " remarked the old lady in the box opposite, "not aFrenchwoman. Her youth is too girlish, and she has too petulant an airof indifference. " This old lady in the box opposite was that venerable and somewhat severearistocrat, Madame de Castro, and having gazed for a moment or so alittle disapprovingly at the new arrival, she turned her glasses to theyoung beauty's companion and uttered an exclamation. It was at Monsieur she was looking now. Monsieur had followed his wifeclosely, bearing her fan and bouquet and wrap, and had silently seatedhim self a little behind her and in the shadow. "_Ciel!_" cried Madame de Castro, "what an ugly little man!" It was not an unnatural exclamation. Fate had not been so kind to theindividual referred to as she might have been--in fact she had beendefinitely cruel. He was small of figure, insignificant, dark, and worea patient sphynx-like air of gravity. He did not seem to speak or move, simply sat in the shadow holding his wife's belongings, apparentlyalmost entirely unnoticed by her. "I don't know him at all, " said Madame de Castro; "though that is not tobe wondered at, since I have exiled myself long enough to forget and beforgotten by half Paris. What is his name?" The gentleman at her side--a distinguished-looking old young man, with asarcastic smile--began with the smile, and ended with a half laugh. "They call him, " he replied, "Le Monsieur de la petite Dame. His name isVillefort. " "Le Monsieur de la petite Dame, " repeated Madame, testily. "That isa title of new Paris--the Paris of your Americans and English. It isvillainously ill-bred. " M. Renard's laugh receded into the smile again, and the smile became ofdouble significance. "True, " he acquiesced, "but it is also villainously apropos. Look foryourself. " Madame did so, and her next query, after she had dropped her glassagain, was a sharp one. "Who is she--the wife?" "She is what you are pleased to call one of our Americans! You knowthe class, "--with a little wave of the hand, --"rich, unconventional, comfortable people, who live well and dress well, and have anincomprehensibly _naïve_ way of going to impossible places and doingimpossible things by way of enjoyment. Our fair friend there, forinstance, has probably been round the world upon several occasions, and is familiar with a number of places and objects of note fearfulto contemplate. They came here as tourists, and became fascinated withEuropean life. The most overwhelming punishment which could be inflictedupon that excellent woman, the mother, would be that she should becompelled to return to her New York, or Philadelphia, or Boston, whichsoever it may be. " "Humph!" commented Madame. "But you have not told me the name. " "Madame Villefort's? No, not yet. It was Trent--Mademoiselle BerthaTrent. " "She is not twenty yet, " said Madame, in a queer, grumbling tone. "Whatdid she marry that man for?" "God knows, " replied M. Renard, not too devoutly, "Paris does not. " For some reason best known to herself, Madame de Castro looked angry. She was a shrewd old person, with strong whims of her own, even atseventy. She quite glared at the pretty American from under her bushyeyebrows. "Le Monsieur de la petite Dame!" she fumed. "I tell you it is low--_low_to give a man such names. " "Oh!" returned Renard, shrugging his shoulders, "we did not give it tohim. It was an awkward servant who dubbed him so at first. She was newto her position, and forgot his name, and being asked who had arrived, stumbled upon this _bon mot: 'Un monsieur, Madame--le monsieur de lapetite dame, '_--and, being repeated and tossed lightly from hand tohand, it has become at last an established witticism, albeit bandiedunder breath. " It was characteristic of the august De Castro that during the remainderof the evening's entertainment she should occupy herself more with herneighbors than with the opera. She aroused M. Renard to a secret ecstasyof mirth by the sharp steadiness of her observation of the inmates ofthe box opposite to them. She talked about them, too, in a tone not toowell modulated, criticising the beautifully dressed little woman, her hair, her eyes, her Greek nose and mouth, and, more than all, herindifferent expression and her manner of leaning upon the edge of herbox and staring at the stage as if she did not care for, and indeedscarcely saw, what was going on upon it. "That is the way with your American beauties, " she said. "They have norespect for things. Their people spoil them--their men especially. They consider themselves privileged to act as their whims direct. Theyhave not the gentle timidity of Frenchwomen. What French girl would havethe _sang froid_ to sit in one of the best boxes of the Nouvelle Opéraand regard, with an actual air of _ennui_, such a performance as this?She does not hear a word that is sung. " "And we--do we hear?" bantered M. Renard. "_Pouf!_" cried Madame. "We! We are world-dried and weather-beaten. Wehave not a worm-eaten emotion between us. I am seventy, and you, who arethirty-five, are the elder of the two. Bah I At that girl's age I hadthe heart of a dove. " "But that is long ago, " murmured M. Renard, as if to himself. Itwas quite human that he should slightly resent being classed with anunamiable grenadier of seventy. "Yes!" with considerable asperity. "Fifty years!" Then, with harshvoice and withered face melted suddenly into softness quite _naïve, "MonDieu!_" she said, "Fifty years since Arsène whispered into my ear at myfirst opera, that he saw tears in my eyes!" It was at this instant that there appeared in the Villefort box a newfigure, --that of a dark, slight young man of graceful movements, --infact, a young man of intensely striking appearance. M. Villefort roseto receive him with serious courtesy, but the pretty American was not sogracious. Not until he had seated himself at her side and spoken to herdid she turn her head and permit her eyes simply to rest upon his face. M. Renard smiled again. "Enter, " he remarked in a low tone, --"enter M. Ralph Edmondstone, thecousin of Madame. " His companion asked no questions, but he proceeded, returning to hislight and airy tone:-- "M. Ralph Edmondstone is a genius, " he said. "He is an artist, he is apoet, he is also a writer of subtile prose. His sonnets to Euphrasie--inthe day of Euphrasie--awakened the admiration of the sternest critics:they were so tender, so full of purest fire! Some of the same criticsalso could scarcely choose between these and his songs to Aglæ inher day, or Camille in hers. He is a young man of fine fancies, andpossesses the amiable quality of being invariably passionately inearnest. As he was serious in his sentiments yesterday, so he will beto-morrow, so he is to-day. " "To-day!" echoed Madame de Castro. "Nonsense!" Madame Villefort did not seem to talk much. It was M. Ralph Edmondstonewho conversed, and that, too, with so much of the charm of animationthat it was pleasurable even to be a mere looker-on. One involuntarily strained one's ears to catch a sentence, --he wasso eagerly absorbed, so full of rapid, gracefully unconscious andunconventional gesture. "I wonder what he is saying?" Madame de Castro was once betrayed intoexclaiming. "Something metaphysical, about a poem, or a passage of music, or apicture, --or perhaps his soul, " returned M. Renard. "His soul is hisstrong point, --he pets it and wonders at it. He puts it through itspaces. And yet, singularly enough, he is never ridiculous--only fancifuland _naïve_. It is his soul which so fascinates women. " Whether this last was true of other women or not, Madame Villefortscarcely appeared fascinated. As she listened, her eyes still restedupon his eager mobile face, but with a peculiar expression, --anexpression of critical attention, and yet one which somehow detractedfrom her look of youth, as if she weighed his words as they fell fromhis lips and classified them, without any touch of the enthusiasm whichstirred within himself. Suddenly she rose from her seat ana addressed her husband, whoimmediately rose also. Then she spoke to M. Edmondstone, and withoutmore ado, the three left the box, --the young beauty, a little oddly, rather followed than accompanied by her companions, --at the recognitionof which circumstance Madame de Castro uttered a series of sharpejaculations of disapproval. "Bah! Bah!" she cried. "She is too young for such airs!--as if she wereMadame l'Impératrice herself! Take me to my carriage. I am tired also. " Crossing the pavement with M. Renard, they passed the carriage of theVilleforts. Before its open door stood M. Villefort and Edmondstone, andthe younger man, with bared head, bent forward speaking to his cousin. "If I come to-morrow, " he was saying, "you will be at home, Bertha?" "Yes. " "Then, good-night, "--holding out his hand, --"only I wish so thatyou would go to the Aylmers instead of home. That _protégée_ of Mrs. Aylmer's--the little singing girl--would touch your heart with hervoice. On hearing her, one thinks at once of some shy wild bird high ina clear sky, --far enough above earth to have forgotten to be timid. " "Yes, " came quietly from the darkness within the carriage; "but I am tootired to care about voices just now. Good-night, Ralph!" M. Renard's reply of "God knows, Paris does not, " to Madame de Castro'squery as to why Madame Villefort had married her husband, contained anelement of truth, and yet there were numbers of Parisian-Americans, moreespecially the young, well-looking, and masculine, who at the timethe marriage had taken place had been ready enough with sardonicexplanations. "There are women who are avaricious enough to sell their souls, " theycried; "and the maternal Trent is one of them. The girl is only to blamefor allowing herself to be bullied into the match. " "But the weak place in this argument, " said M. Renard, "is, that thepeople are too rich to be greatly influenced by money. If there had beena title, --but there was no title. " Neither did Bertha Trent comport herself like a cowed creature. She tookher place in society as Madame Villefort in such a manner as could giverise to no comment whatever; only one or two of the restless inquisitivewondered if they had not been, mistaken in her. She was, as I have saidalready, a childishly small and slight creature, --the kind of woman totouch one with suggestions of helplessness and lack of will; and yet, notwithstanding this, a celebrated artist--a shrewd, worldly-wise oldfellow--who had painted her portrait, had complained that he was notsatisfied with it because he had not done justice to "the obstinateendurance in her eye. " It was to her cousin, Ralph Edmondstone, he had said this with somedegree of testiness, and Edmondstone had smiled and answered:-- "What! have you found that out? Few people do. " At the time of the marriage Edmondstone had been in Rome singeing hiswings in the light of the eyes of a certain Marchesa who was his latestpoetic passion. She was not his first fancy, nor would she be his last, but she had power enough for the time being to have satisfied the mostexacting of women. He was at his banker's when he heard the news spoken of as the latestitem from American Paris, and his start and exclamation of disgust drewforth some cynical after-comment from men who envied him. "Who?" he said, with indiscreet impatience. "That undersized sphynx of aVillefort? Faugh!" But insignificant though he might be, it was M. Villefort who hadwon, and if he was nothing more, he was at least a faithful attendant. Henceforth, those who saw his wife invariably saw him also, --drivingwith her in her carriage, riding with her courageously if ungracefully, standing or seated near her in the shadow of her box at the NouvelleOpéra, silent, impassive, grave, noticeable only through the contrast heafforded to her girlish beauty and bloom. "Always there!" commented a sharp American belle of mature years, "likean ugly little conscience. " Edmondstone's first meeting with his cousin after his return to Pariswas accidental. He had rather put off visiting her, and one night, entering a crowded room, he found himself standing behind a girl's lightfigure and staring at an abundance of reddish-brown hair. When, almostimmediately the pretty head to which this hair belonged turned witha slow, yet involuntary-looking movement toward him, he felt that hebecame excited without knowing why. "Ah, Bertha!" he exclaimed. She smiled a little and held out her hand, and he immediately becameconscious of M. Villefort being quite near and regarding him seriously. It was the perverseness of fate that he should find in Bertha Villeforteven more than he had once seen in Bertha Trent, and there had beena time when he had seen a great deal in Bertha Trent. In the Trenthousehold he had been a great favorite. No social evening or familyfestivity had seemed complete without his presence. The very childrenhad felt that they had a claim upon his good-humor, and his tendencyto break forth into whimsical frolic. Good Mrs. Trent had been wont toscold him and gossip with him. He had read his sonnets and metaphysicalarticles to Bertha, and occasionally to the rest; in fact, his footingin the family was familiar and firmly established. But since hermarriage Bertha had become a little incomprehensible, and on thataccount a little more interesting. He was sure she had developed, butcould not make out in what direction. He found occasion to reproach hersometimes with the changes he found in her. "There are times when I hardly know you, " he would say, "you are sofinely orthodox and well controlled. It was not so with you once, Bertha. Don't--don't become that terrible thing, a fine lady, and worsestill, a fine lady who is _désillusionée_" It baffled him that she never appeared much moved, by his charges. Certainly she lived the life of a "fine lady, "--a brilliant life, a luxurious one, a life full of polite dissipation. Once, when in atenderly fraternal mood, he reproached her with this also, she laughedat him frankly. "It is absinthe, " she said. "It is my absinthe at least, and who doesnot drink a little absinthe--of one kind or another?" He was sincerely convinced that from this moment he understood and hadthe right to pity and watch over her. He went oftener to see her. In herpresence he studied her closely, absent he brooded over her. He becameimpatiently intolerant of M. Villefort, and prone to condemn him, hescarcely knew for what. "He has no dignity--no perception, " was his parental decision. "He hasnot even the delicacy to love her, or he would have the tenderness tosacrifice his own feelings and leave her to herself. I could do it for awoman I loved. " But M. Villefort was always there, --gravely carrying the shawls, pickingup handkerchiefs, and making himself useful. "_Imbécile!_" muttered M. Renard under cover of his smile and hismustache, as he stood near his venerable patroness the first time shemet the Villeforts. "Blockhead!" stealthily ejaculated that amiable aristocrat. But thoughshe looked grimly at M. Villefort, M. Renard was uncomfortably uncertainthat it was he to whom she referred. "Go and bring them to me, " she commanded, "Go and bring them to mebefore some one else engages them. I want to talk to that girl. " It was astonishing how agreeable she made herself to her victimswhen she had fairly entrapped them. Bertha hesitated a little beforeaccepting her offer of a seat at her side, but once seated she foundherself oddly amused. When Madame de Castro chose to rake the embers ofher seventy years, many a lively coal discovered itself among the ashes. Seeing the two women together, Edmondstone shuddered in fastidiousprotest. "How could you laugh at that detestable old woman?" he exclaimed onencountering Bertha later in the evening. "I wonder that M. Villefortwould permit her to talk to you. She is a wicked, cynical creature, whohas the hardihood to laugh at her sins instead of repenting of them. " "Perhaps that is the reason she is so amusing, " said Bertha. Edmondstone answered her with gentle mournfulness. "What!" he said. "Have you begun to say such things? You too, Bertha"-- The laugh with which she stopped him was both light and hard. "Where is M. Villefort?" she asked. "I have actually not seen him forfifteen minutes. Is it possible that Madame de Castro has fascinated himinto forgetting me?" Edmondstone went to his hotel that night in a melancholy mood. He evenlay awake to think what a dreary mistake his cousin's marriage was. Shehad been such a tender and easily swayed little soul as a girl, and nowit really seemed as if she was hardening into a woman of the world. In the old times he had been wont to try his sonnets upon Bertha as amusician tries his chords upon his most delicate instrument. Even nowhe remembered certain fine, sensitive expressions of hers which hadthrilled him beyond measure. "How could she marry such a fellow as that--how could she?" he groaned. "What does it mean? It must mean something. " He was pale and heavy-eyed when he wandered round to the Villeforts'the following morning. M. Villefort was sitting with Bertha and readingaloud. He stopped to receive their visitor punctiliously and inquireafter his health. "M. Edmondstone cannot have slept well, " he remarked. "I did not sleep at all, " Edmondstone answered, "and naturally have aheadache. " Bertha pointed to a wide lounge of the _pouf_ order. "Then go to sleep now, " she said; "M. Villefort will read. When I have aheadache he often reads me to sleep, and I am always better on awaking. " Involuntarily Edmondstone half frowned. Absurdly enough, he resented insecret this amiability on the part of M. Villefort toward his own wife. He was quite prepared to be severe upon the reading, but was surprisedto be compelled to acknowledge that M. Villefort read wondrously well, and positively with hints of delicate perception. His voice was full andyet subtly flexible. Edmondstone tried to protest against this also, butuselessly. Finally he was soothed, and from being fretfully wide-awakesuddenly passed into sleep as Bertha had commanded. How long his slumberlasted he could not have told. All at once he found himself aroused andwide-awake as ever. His headache had departed; his every sense seemed tohave gained keenness. M. Villefort's voice had ceased, and for a fewseconds utter, dead silence reigned. Then he heard the fire crackling, and shortly afterward a strange, startling sound--a sharp, gasping sob! The pang which seized upon him was strong indeed. In one moment heseemed to learn a thousand things by intuition--to comprehend her, himself, the past. Before he moved he knew that Villefort was not in theroom, and he had caught a side glimpse of the pretty blue of Bertha'sdress. But he had not imagined the face he saw when he turned his head to lookat her. She sat in a rigid attitude, leaning against the high cushionedback of her chair, her hands clasped above her head. She stared at thefire with eyes wide and strained with the agony of tears unshed, andamid the rush of all other emotions he was peculiarly conscious ofbeing touched by the minor one of his recognition of her look of extremeyouth--the look which had been wont to touch people in the girl, BerthaTrent. He had meant to speak clearly, but his voice was only a loudwhisper when he sprang up, uttering her name. "Bertha! Bertha! Bertha!" as he flung himself upon his knees at herside. Her answer was an actual cry, and yet it reached no higher pitch thanhis own intense whisper. "I thought you were asleep?" Her hands fell and he caught them. His sad impassioned face bowed itselfupon her palms. "I am awake, Bertha, " he groaned. "I am awake--at last. " She regarded him with a piteous, pitying glance. She knew him with akeener, sadder knowledge than he would ever comprehend; but she did notunder-estimate the depth of his misery at this one overwhelming moment. He was awake indeed and saw what he had lost. "If you could but have borne with me a little longer, " he said. "If Ihad only not been so shallow and so blind. If you could but have bornewith me a little longer!" "If I could but have borne with myself a little longer, " she answered. "If I could but have borne a little longer with my poor, base pride!Because I suffered myself, I have made another suffer too. " He knew she spoke of M. Villefort, and the thought jarred upon him. "He does not suffer, " he said. "He is not of the fibre to feel pain. " And he wondered why she shrank from him a little and answered with a sadbitterness:-- "Are you sure? You did not know that!"-- "Forgive me, " he said brokenly, the face he lifted, haggard with hisunhappiness. "Forgive me, for I have lost so much. " She wasted few words and no tears. The force and suddenness of hisemotion and her own had overborne her into this strange unmeantconfession; but her mood was unlike his, --it was merely receptive. Shelistened to his unavailing regrets, but told him little of her own past. "It does not matter, " she said drearily. "It is all over. Let itrest. The pain of to-day and tomorrow is enough for us. We have borneyesterday; why should we want it back again?" And when they parted she said only one thing of the future:-- "There is no need that we should talk. There is nothing for us beyondthis point. We can only go back. We must try to forget--and be satisfiedwith our absinthe. " Instead of returning to his hotel, Edmondstone found his way to theChamps Élysées, and finally to the Bois. He was too wretched to have anypurpose in his wanderings. He walked rapidly, looking straight beforehim and seeing nobody. He scarcely understood his own fierce emotionsHitherto his fancies had brought him a vague rapture; now he experiencedabsolute anguish, Every past experience had become trivial. Whathappiness is so keen as one's briefest pain? As he walked he lived againthe days he had thrown away. He remembered a thousand old, yet new, phases of Bertha's girlhood. He thought of times when she had touchedor irritated or pleased him. When he had left Paris for Rome she had notbidden him good-by. Jenny, her younger sister, had told him that she wasnot well. "If I had seen her then, " he cried inwardly, "I might have read herheart--and my own. " M. Renard, riding a very tall horse in the Bois, passed him and raisedhis eyebrows at the sight of his pallor and his fagged yet excited look. "There will be a new sonnet, " he said to himself. "A sonnet to Despair, or Melancholy, or Loss. " Afterward, when society became a little restive and eager, M. Renardlooked on with sardonic interest. "That happy man, M. Villefort, " he said to Madame de Castro, "is a goodsoul--a good soul. He has no small jealous follies, " and his smile wasscarcely a pleasant thing to see. "There is nothing for us beyond this past, " Bertha had said, andEdmondstone had agreed with her hopelessly. But he could not quite break away. Sometimes for a week the Villefortsmissed him, and then again they saw him every day. He spent his morningswith them, joined them in their drives, at their opera-box, or at theentertainments of their friends. He also fell into his old place in theTrent household, and listened with a vague effort at interest to Mrs. Trent's maternal gossip about the boys' college expenses, Bertha'shousehold, and Jenny's approaching social _début_ He was continuallyfull of a feverish longing to hear of Bertha, --to hear her name spoken, her ingoings and out-comings discussed, her looks, her belongings. "The fact is, " said Mrs. Trent, as the winter advanced, "I am anxiousabout Bertha. She does not look strong. I don't know why I have notseen it before, but all at once I found out yesterday that she is reallythin. She was always slight and even a little fragile, but now she isactually thin. One can see the little bones in her wrists and fingers. Her rings and her bracelets slip about quite loosely. " "And talking of being thin, mother, " cried Jenny, who was a frank, bright sixteen-year-old, "look at cousin Ralph himself. He has littlehollows in his cheeks, and his eyes are as much too big as Bertha's. Isthe sword wearing out the scabbard, Ralph? That is what they always sayabout geniuses, you know. " "Ralph has not looked well for some time, " said Mrs. Trent. "As forBertha, I think I shall scold her a little, and M. Villefort too. Shehas been living too exciting a life. She is out continually. She muststay at home more and rest. It is rest she needs. " "If you tell Arthur that Bertha looks ill "--began Jenny. Edmondstone turned toward her sharply. "Arthur!" he repeated. "Who isArthur?" Mrs. Trent answered with a comfortable laugh. "It is M. Villefort's name, " she said, "though none of us call himArthur but Jenny. Jenny and he are great friends. " "I like him better than any one else, " said Jenny stoutly. "And I wishto set a good example to Bertha, who never calls him anything but M. Villefort, which is absurd. Just as if they had been introduced to eachother about a week ago. " "I always hear him address her as Madame Villefort, " reflectedEdmondstone, somewhat gloomily. "Oh yes!" answered Jenny, "that is his French way of studying herfancies. He would consider it taking an unpardonable liberty to call her'Bertha, ' since she only favors him with 'M. Villefort. ' I said to himonly the other day, 'Arthur, you are the oddest couple! You're so grandand well-behaved, I cannot imagine you scolding Bertha a little, andI have never seen you kiss her since you were married. ' I was halffrightened after I had said it. He started as if he had been shot, and turned as pale as death. I really felt as if I had done somethingfrightfully improper. " "The French are so different from the Americans, " said Mrs. Trent, "particularly those of M. Villefort's class. They are beautifullypunctilious, but I don't call it quite comfortable, you know. " Her mother was not the only person who noticed a change in BerthaVillefort. Before long it was a change so marked that all who saw herobserved it. She had become painfully frail and slight. Her face lookedtoo finely cut, her eyes had shadowy hollows under them, and were alwaysbright with a feverish excitement. "What is the matter with your wife?" demanded Madame de Castro of M. Villefort. Since their first meeting she had never loosened her holdupon the husband and wife, and had particularly cultivated Bertha. There was no change in the expression of M. Villefort, but he wasstrangely pallid as he made his reply. "It is impossible for me to explain, Madame. " "She is absolutely attenuated, " cried Madame» "She is like a spirit. Take her to the country--to Normandy--to the sea--somewhere! She willdie if there is not a change. At twenty, one should be as plump as ayoung capon. " A few days after this, Jenny Trent ran in upon Bertha as she lay upona lounge, holding an open book, but with closed eyes. She had come tospend the morning, she announced. She wanted to talk--about people, about her dress, about her first ball which was to come off shortly. "And Arthur says"--she began. Bertha turned her head almost as Edmondstone had done. "Arthur!" she repeated. For the second time Jenny felt a littleembarrassed. "I mean M. Villefort, " she said, hesitantly. She quite forgot what she had been going to say, and for a moment or soregarded the fire quite gravely. But naturally this could not last long. She soon began to talk again, and it was not many minutes before shefound M. Villefort in her path once more. "I never thought I could like a Frenchman so much, " she said, in allenthusiastic good faith. "At first, you know, " with an apologetic halflaugh, "I wondered why you had not taken an American instead, when therewere so many to choose from, but now I understand it. What beautifultender things he can say, Bertha, and yet not seem in the leastsentimental. Everything comes so simply right from the bottom of hisheart. Just think what he said to me yesterday when he brought me thoseflowers. He helps me with mine, and it is odd how things will cheer upand grow for him, I said to him, 'Arthur, how is it that no flower everfails you?' and he answered in the gentlest quiet way, 'Perhaps becauseI never fail them. Flowers are like people, --one must love and betrue to them, not only to-day and to-morrow, but every day--everyhour--always. ' And he says such things so often. That is why I am sofond of him. " As she received no reply, she turned toward the lounge. Bertha lay uponit motionless and silent, --only a large tear trembled on her cheek. Jenny sprung up, shocked and checked, and went to' her. "Oh, Bertha!" she cried, "how thoughtless I am to tire you so, you poorlittle soul! Is it true that you are so weak as all that? I heard mammaand Arthur talking about it, but I scarcely believed it. They said youmust go to Normandy and be nursed. " "I don't want to go to Normandy, " said Bertha, "I--I am too tired. Ionly want to lie still and rest. I have been out too much. " Her voice, however, was so softly weak that in the most natural mannerJenny was subdued into shedding a few tears also, and kissed herfervently. "Oh, Bertha!" she said, "you must do anything--anything that willmake you well--if it is only for Arthur's sake. He loves you so--soterribly. " Whereupon Bertha laughed a little hysterically. "Does he, " she said, "love me so 'terribly'? Poor M. Villefort?" She did not go to Normandy, however, and still went into society, thoughnot as much as had been her habit. When she spent her evenings at home, some of her own family generally spent them with her, and M. Villefortor Edmondstone read aloud or talked. In fact, Edmondstone came oftener than ever. His anxiety and unhappinessgrew upon him, and made him moody, irritable, and morbid. One night, when M. Villefort had left them alone together for a shorttime, he sprang from his chair and came to her couch, shaken withsuppressed emotion. "That man is killing you!" he exclaimed. "You are dying by inches! Icannot bear it!" "It is not _he_ who is killing me, " she answered; and then M. Villefortreturned to the room with the book he had been in search of. In this case Edmondstone's passion took new phases. He wrote no sonnets, painted no pictures. He neglected his work, and spent his idle hours inrambling here and there in a gloomy, unsociable fashion. "He looks, " said M. Renard, "as if his soul had been playing him someevil trick. " He had at first complained that Bertha had taken a capricious fancyto Madame de Castro, but in course of time he found his way to the oldwoman's _salon_ too, though it must be confessed that Madame herselfnever showed him any great favor. But this he did not care for. He onlycared to sit in the same room with Bertha, and watch her every movementwith a miserable tenderness. One night, after regarding him cynically for some time, Madame broke outto Bertha with small ceremony:-- "What a fool that young man is!" she exclaimed. "He sits and fairlydevours you with his eyes. It is bad taste to show such an insanepassion for a married woman. " It seemed as if Bertha lost at once her breath and every drop of bloodin her body, for she had neither breath nor color when she turned andlooked Madame de Castro in the face. "Madame, " she said, "if you repeat that to me, you will never see meagain--never!" Upon which Madame snapped her up with some anger at being so rebuked forher frankness. "Then it is worse than I thought, " she said. It was weeks before she saw her young friend again. Indeed, it requiredsome clever diplomacy to heal the breach made, and even in her mostamusing and affectionate moods, she often felt afterward that she wastreated with a reserve which held her at arm's length. By the time the horse-chestnuts bloomed pink and white on the Avenue desChamps Élysées, there were few people in the Trent and Villefort circleswho had not their opinions on the subject of Madame Villefort and hercousin. There was a mixture of French and American gossip and comment, franksatire, or secret remark. But to her credit be it spoken, Madame deCastro held grim silence, and checked a rumor occasionally with suchamiable ferocity as was not without its good effect. The pink and white blossoms were already beginning to strew themselvesat the feet of the pedestrians, when one morning M. Villefort presentedhimself to Madame, and discovered her sitting alone in the strangest ofmoods. "I thought I might have the pleasure of driving home with MadameVillefort. 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. Herfalse front was pushed fantastically away, her rouge and powder wererubbed off in patches, her face looked set and hard. Her first wordswere abominably blunt. "M. Villefort, " she said, "do you know what your acquaintances callyou?" 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--thatthey call you in ridicule 'Le Monsieur de la petite Dame?' Do you knowthat?" His look was incomprehensible, but he bowed gravely. "Madame, " he answered, "since others have heard the title so often, itis but natural that I myself should have heard it more than once. " She regarded him in angry amazement. She was even roused to rapping uponthe floor with her gold-headed cane. "Does it not affect you?" she cried. "Does it not move you toindignation?" "That, Madame, " he replied, "can only be my affair. My friends willallow me my emotions at least. " Then she left her chair and began to walk up and down, striking thecarpet 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 agood turn. " She made no pretense at endeavoring to soften the blow she was about tobestow. She drew forth from her dress a letter, the mere sight of whichseemed to goad her to a mysterious excitement. "See, " she cried; "it was M. Ralph Edmondstone who wrote this, --it wasto Madame Villefort it was written. It means ruin and dishonor. I offerit 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 thehusband was worthy and the lover was not, --one learns that too late. Myfate was what your wife's will be if you will not sacrifice your prideand 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 healways does. He had a desperate look which warned me. Afterward I foundthe note upon the floor. Now will you read it?" "Good God!" he cried, as he fell into his chair again, his brow sinkinginto his hands. "I have read it, " said Madame, with a tragic gesture, "and I choose toplace one stumbling-block in the path that would lead her to an old agelike mine. I do not like your Americans; but I have sometimes seen inher girl's face a proud, heroic endurance of the misery she has broughtupon 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--itis a poem in itself. I, myself, read it with sobs in my throat and tearsin my eyes. 'If you love me!--if you have ever loved me!' he cries, 'forGod's sake!--for love's sake!--if there is love on earth--if there is aGod in heaven, you will not let me implore you in vain!' And his prayeris that she will leave Paris with him tonight--. To-night! There!Monsieur, I have done. Behold the letter! Take it or leave it, as youplease. " And she flung it upon the floor at his feet. She paused a moment, wondering what he would do. He bent down and picked the letter up. "I will take it, " he said. All at once he had become calm, and when he rose and uttered his lastwords to her, there was upon his face a faint smile. "I, too, " he said, --"I, too, Madame, suffer from a mad and hopelesspassion, and thus can comprehend the bitterness of M. Edmondstone'spangs. I, too, would implore in the name of love and God, --if I might, but I may not. " And so he took his departure. Until evening Bertha did not see him. The afternoon she spent alone andin writing letters, and having completed and sealed the last, she wentto her couch and tried to sleep. One entering the room, as she lay uponthe violet cushions, her hands at her sides, her eyes closed, might wellhave been shocked. Her spotless pallor, the fine sharpness of her face, the shadows under her eyes, her motionlessness, would have excusedthe momentary feeling. But she was up and dressed for dinner when M. Villefort presented himself. Spring though it was, she was attired in ahigh, close dress of black velvet, and he found her almost cowering overthe open fire-place. Strangely enough, too, she fancied that when shelooked up at him she saw him shiver, as if he were struck with a slightchill also. "You should not wear that, " he said, with a half smile at her gown. "Why?" she asked. "It makes you so white--so much like a too early lily. But--but perhapsyou thought of going out?" "No, " she answered; "not to-night. " He came quite close to her. "If you are not too greatly fatigued, " he said, "it would give mehappiness to take you with me on my errand to your mother's house. Imust carry there my little birthday gift to your sister, " smiling again. An expression of embarrassment showed itself upon her face. "Oh, " she exclaimed, "to think that I had forgotten it! She will feel asif I did not care for her at all. " She seemed for the moment quite unhappy. "Let me see what you have chosen. " He drew from his pocket a case and opened it. "Oh, " she cried, "how pretty and how suitable for a girl!" They were the prettiest, most airy set of pearls imaginable. She sat and looked at them for a few seconds thoughtfully, and thenhanded them back. "You are very good, and Jenny will be in ecstasies, " she said. "It is a happiness to me to give her pleasure, " he returned. "I feelgreat tenderness for her. She is not like the young girls I have known. Her innocence is of a frank and noble quality, which is better thanignorance. One could not bear that the slightest shadow of sin or painshould fall upon her. The atmosphere surrounding her is so bright withpure happiness and the courage of youth. " Involuntarily he held out his hand. "Will you"--he began. His voice fell and broke. "Will you go with me?"he ended. He saw that she was troubled. "Now?" she faltered. "Yes--now. " There was a peculiar pause, --a moment, as it seemed to him, ofbreathless silence. This silence she broke by her rising slowly from herseat. "Yes, " she responded, "I will go. Why should I not?" It was midnight when they left the Trents', and Jenny stood upon thethreshold, a bright figure in a setting of brightness, and kissed herhand to them as they went down the steps. "I hope you will be better to-morrow, Arthur, " she said. He turned quickly to look up at her. "I?" "Yes. You look so tired. I might say haggard, if it was polite. " "It would not be polite, " said Bertha, "so don't say it. Good-night, Jenny!" But when they were seated in the carriage she glanced at her husband'sface. "_Are_ you unwell?" she asked. He passed his hand quickly across his forehead. "A little fatigued, " he replied. "It is nothing. To-morrow--to-morrow itwill be all over. " And so silence fell upon them. As they entered the drawing-room a clock chimed the half hour. "So late as that!" exclaimed Bertha, and sank into a chair with a faintlaugh. "Why, to-day is over, " she said. "It is to-morrow. " M. Villefort had approached a side table. Upon it lay a peculiar-lookingoblong box. "Ah, " he said, softly, "they have arrived. " "What are they?" Bertha asked. He was bending over the box to open it, and did not turn toward her, ashe replied:-- "It is a gift for a young friend of mine, --a brace of pistols. He hasbefore him a long journey in the East, and he is young enough to have afancy for firearms. " He was still examining the weapons when Bertha crossed the room on herway up-stairs, and she paused an instant to look at them. "They are very handsome, " she said. "One could almost wear them asornaments. " "But they would have too threatening a look, " he answered, lightly. As he raised his eyes they met hers. She half started backward, moved bya new sense of the haggardness of his face. "You _are_ ill!" she exclaimed. "You are as colorless as marble. " "And you, too, " he returned, still with the same tender lightness. "Letus hope that our 'to-morrow' will find us both better, and you say it istomorrow now. Good-night!" She went away without saying more. Weary as she was, she knew there wasno sleep for her, and after dismissing her maid, she threw herself uponthe lounge before the bedroom fire and lay there. To-night she felt asif her life had reached its climax. She burst into a passion of tears. "Jenny! Jenny!" she cried, "how I envy--how I envy you!" The recollection of Jenny shining in her pretty gala dress, anddelighting in her birthday presents, and everybody else's pride andaffection, filled her with a morbid misery and terror. She covered herface with her hands as she thought of it. "Once, " she panted, "as I looked at her tonight, for a moment I almosthated her. Am I so bad as that?--am I?" Scarcely two seconds afterward she had sprung to her feet and wasstanding by the side of her couch, her heart beating with a rapid throbof fright, her limbs trembling. A strange sound had fallen suddenly uponthe perfect silence of the night--a sound loud, hard, and sharp--thereport of a pistol! What dread seized her she knew not. She was acrossthe room and had wrenched the door open in an instant, then with flyingfeet down the corridor and the staircase. But half-way down the stairsshe began to cry out aloud, "Arthur! Arthur!" not conscious of her ownvoice--"Arthur, what is it?" The door of the drawing-room flew openbefore the fierce stroke of her palm. M. Villefort stood where she had left him; but while his left handsupported his weight against the table, his right was thrust into hisbreast. One of the pistols lay at his feet. She thought it was Death's self that confronted her in his face, but hespoke to her, trying faintly to smile. "Do not come in, " he said, "I have met with--an accident. It is nothing. Do not come in. A servant----" His last recollection was of her white face and white draperies as hefell, and somehow, dizzy, sick, and faint as he was, he seemed to hearher calling out, in a voice strangely like Jenny's, "Arthur! Arthur!" In less than half an hour the whole house was astir. Upstairs physicianswere with the wounded man, downstairs Mrs. Trent talked and weptover her daughter, after the manner of all good women. She was fairlyterrified by Bertha's strange shudderings, quick, strained breath, anddilated eyes. She felt as if she could not reach her--as if she hardlymade herself heard. "You must calm yourself, Bertha, " she would say. "Try to calm yourself. We must hope for the best. Oh, how could it have happened!" It was in the midst of this that a servant entered with a letter, whichhe handed to his mistress. The envelope bore upon it nothing but her ownname. She looked at it with a bewildered expression. "For me?" she said. "It fell from Monsieur's pocket as we carried him upstairs, " replied theman. "Don't mind it now, Bertha, " said her mother, "Ah, poor M. Villefort!" But Bertha had opened it mechanically and was reading it At first it seemed as if it must have been written in a language she didnot understand; but after the first few sentences a change appeared. Herbreath came and went more quickly than before--a kind of horror grew inher eyes. At the last she uttered a low, struggling cry. The paperwas crushed in her hand, she cast one glance around the room as ifin bewildering search for refuge, and flung herself upon her mother'sbreast. "Save me, mother!" she said. "Help me! If he dies now, I shall go mad!" Afterward, in telling her story at home, good Mrs. Trent almost brokedown. "Oh, Jenny!" she said. "Just to think of the poor fellow's having had itin his pocket then! Of course I did not see it, but one can fancy thatit was something kind and tender, --perhaps some little surprise he hadplanned for her. It seemed as if she could not bear it. " M. Villefort's accident was the subject of discussion for many days. Hehad purchased a wonderful pair of pistols as a gift for a young friend. How it had happened that one had been loaded none knew; it was justpossible that he had been seized with the whim to load it himself--atall events, it had gone off in his hands. An inch--nay, half an inch--tothe right, and Madame Villefort, who flew downstairs at the sound of thereport, would only have found a dead man at her feet. "_Ma foi!_" said M. Renard, repressing his smile; "this is difficult forMonsieur, but it may leave '_la petite Dame_' at liberty. " Madame de Castro flew at him with flashing eyes. "Silence!" she said, "if you would not have me strike you with my cane. "And she looked as if she were capable of doing it. Upon his sick-bed M, Villefort was continually haunted by anapparition--an apparition of a white face and white draperies, suchas he had seen as he fell. Sometimes it was here, sometimes there, sometimes near him, and sometimes indistinct and far away. Sometimes hecalled out to it and tried to extend his arms; again he lay and watched, it murmuring gentle words, and smiling mournfully. Mrs. Trent and the doctor were in despair. Madame Villefort obstinatelyrefused to be forced from her husband's room. There were times when theythought she might sink and die there herself. She would not even leaveit when they obliged her to sleep. Having been slight and frail fromill health before, she became absolutely attenuated. Soon all her beautywould be gone. "Do you know, " said Mrs. Trent to her husband, "I have found out thatshe always carries that letter in her breast? I see her put her hand toit in the strangest way a dozen times a day. " One night, awakening from a long sleep to a clearer mental consciousnessthan usual, M. Villefort found his apparition standing over him. She stood with one hand clinched upon her breast, and she spoke to him. "Arthur!" she said, --"Arthur, do you know me?" He answered her, "Yes. " She slipped down upon her knees, and held up in her hand a lettercrushed and broken. "Try to keep your mind clear while you listen to me, " she implored. "Try--try! I must tell you, or I shall die. I am not the bad woman youthink me. I never had read it--I had not seen it. I think he must havebeen mad. Once I loved him, but he killed my love himself. I could nothave been bad like that, Jenny!--mother!--Arthur! believe me! believeme!" In this supreme moment of her anguish and shame she forgot all else. Shestretched forth her hands, panting. "Believe me! It is true! Try to understand! Some one is coming! Say oneword before it is too late!" "I understand, " he whispered, "and I believe. " He made a weak effort totouch her hand, but failed. He thought that perhaps it was the chilland numbness of death which stole over him and held him bound. When thenurse, whose footsteps they had heard, entered, she found him lying withglazed eyes, and Madame Villefort fallen in a swoon at the bedside. And yet, from this time forward the outside world began to hear that hiscase was not so hopeless after all. "Villefort will possibly recover, " it was said at first; then, "Villefort improves, it seems;" and, at last, "Villefort is out ofdanger Who would have thought it?" Nobody, however, could say that Madame had kept pace with her husband. When Monsieur was sufficiently strong to travel, and was advised todo so, there were grave doubts as to the propriety of his wife'saccompanying him. But she would not listen to those doubts. "I will not stay in Paris, " she said to her mother. "I want to be freefrom it, and Jenny has promised to go with us. " They were to go into Normandy, and the day before their departure RalphEdmondstone came to bid them good-bye. Of the three he was by far the most haggard figure, and when Bertha camedown to meet him in the empty drawing-room, he became a wretched figurewith a broken, hopeless air, For a few seconds Bertha did not speak, but stood a pace or two away looking at him. It seemed, in truth, as shewaited there in her dark, nun-like dress, that nearly all her beauty hadleft her. There remained only her large sad eyes and pretty hair, andthe touching look of extreme youth. In her hand she held the crushedletter. "See!" she said at last, holding this out to him. "I am not so bad--sobad as that. " He caught it from her hand and tore it into fragments. He was stabbedthrough and through with shame and remorse. After all, his love had beenstrong enough here, and his comprehension keen enough to have made himrepent in the dust of the earth, in his first calm hour, the insult hehad put upon her. "Forgive me!" he cried; "oh, forgive me!" The few steps between them might have been a myriad of miles. "I did love you--long ago, " she said; "but you never thought of me. Youdid not understand me then--nor afterward. All this winter my love hasbeen dying a hard death. You tried to keep it alive, but--you did notunderstand. You only humiliated and tortured me--And I knew that if Ihad loved you more, you would have loved me less. See!" holding up herthin hand, "I have been worn out in the struggle between my unhappinessand remorse and you. " "You do not know what love is!" he burst forth, stung into swiftresentment. A quick sob broke from her. "Yes I do. " she answered. "I--I have seen it" "You mean M. Villefort!" he cried in desperate jealous misery. "Youthink that he----" She pointed to the scattered fragments of the letter. "He had that in his pocket when he fell, " she said, "He thought that Ihad read it. If I had been your wife, and you had thought so, would youhave thought that I was worth trying to save--as he tried to save me?" "What!" he exclaimed, shamefacedly. "Has he seen it?" "Yes, " she answered, with another sob, which might have been an echo ofthe first. "And that is the worst of all. " There was a pause, during which he looked down at the floor, and eventrembled a little. "I have done you more wrong than I thought, " he said. "Yes, " she replied; "a thousand-fold more. " It seemed as if there might have been more to say, but it was not said. In a little while he roused himself with an effort. "I am not a villain!" he said. "I can do one thing. I can go toVillefort--if you care. " She did not speak. So he moved slowly away until he reached the door. With his hand upon the handle he turned and looked back at her. "Oh, it is good-bye--good-bye!" he almost groaned. "Yes. " He could not help it--few men could have done so. His expression wasalmost fierce as he spoke his next words. "And you will love him--yes, you will love _him_. " "No, " she answered, with bitter pain. "I am not worthy. " ***** It was a year or more before the Villeforts were seen in Paris again, and Jenny enjoyed her wanderings with them wondrously. In fact, shewas the leading member of the party. She took them where she chose, --toqueer places, to ugly places, to impossible places, but never from firstto last to any place where there were not, or at least had not been, Americans as absurdly erratic as themselves. The winter before their return they were at Genoa, among other places;and it was at Genoa that one morning, on opening a drawer, Bertha cameupon an oblong box, the sight of which made her start backward and puther hand to her beating side. M. Villefort approached her hurriedly. Aninstant later, however, he started also and shut the drawer. "Come away, " he said, taking her hand gently. "Do not remain here. " But he was pale, too, and his hand was unsteady. He led her to thewindow and made her sit down. "Pardon me, " he said. "I should not have left them there. " "You did not send them to your friend?" she faltered. "No. " He stood for a moment or so, and looked out of the window at the bluesea which melted into the blue sky, at the blue sky which bent itselfinto the blue sea, at the white sails flecking the deep azure, at thewaves hurrying in to break upon the sand. "That"--he said at length, tremulously, and with pale lips--"that wasfalse. " "Was false!" she echoed. "Yes, " hoarsely, "it was false. There was no such friend. It was alie--they were meant only for myself. " She uttered a low cry of anguish and dread. "Ah, _mon Dieu!_" he said. "You could not know. I understood all, andhad been silent. I was nothing--a jest--'_le Monsieur de la petiteDame_, ' as they said, --only that. I swore that I would save you. When Ibade you adieu that night, I thought it was my last farewell. There wasno accident. Yes--there was one. I did not die, as I had intended. Myhand was not steady enough. And since then----" She rose up, crying out to him as she had done on that terrible night-- "Arthur! Arthur!" He came closer to her. "Is it true, " he said, --"is it true that my prayers have not beenin vain? Is it true that at last--at last, you have learned--havelearned----" She stretched forth her arms to him. "It is true!" she cried. "Yes, it is true!--it is true!"