Other People's Money by Emile Gaboriau (ebook smartphone txt) 📕

For the first time, Mlle. Lucienne manifested some reticence, and omitted to repeat the explanations of the peace-officer.  And, after a few moments’ pause,

“You know the rest, neighbor,” she said, “since you have seen me yourself in that inept and ridiculous role of living advertisement, of fashionable lay-figure; and the result has been just as I expected.  Can you find any one who believes in my honesty of purpose?  You have heard Mme. Fortin to-night?  Yourself, neighbor —what did you take me for?  And yet you should have noticed something of my suffering and my humiliation the day that you were watching me so closely in the Bois de Boulogne.”

“What!” exclaimed Maxence with a start, “you know?”

“Have I not just told you that I always fear being watched and followed, and that I am always on the lookout?  Yes, I know that you tried to discover the secret of my rides.”

Maxence tried to excuse himself.

“That will do for the present,” she uttered.  “You wish to be my friend, you say?  Now that you know my whole life almost as well as I do myself, reflect, and to-morrow you will tell me the result of your thoughts.”

Whereupon she went out.

For about a minute Maxence remained stupefied at this sudden denouement; and, when he had recovered his presence of mind and his voice, Mlle. Lucienne had disappeared, and he could hear her bolting her door, and striking a match against the wall.

He might also have thought that he was awaking from a dream, had he not had, to attest the reality, the vague perfume which filled his room, and the light shawl, which Mlle. Lucienne wore as she came in, and which she had forgotten, on a chair.

The night was almost ended:  six o’clock had just struck.  Still he did not feel in the least sleepy.  His head was heavy, his temples throbbing, his eyes smarting.  Opening his window, he leaned out to breathe the morning air.  The day was dawning pale and cold.  A furtive and livid light glanced along the damp walls of the narrow court of the Hotel des Folies, as at the bottom of a well.  Already arose those confused noises which announce the waking of Paris, and above which can be heard the sonorous rolling of the milkmen’s carts, the loud slamming of doors, and the sharp sound of hurrying steps on the hard pavement.

But soon Maxence felt a chill coming over him.  He closed the window, threw some wood in the chimney, and stretched himself on his chair, his feet towards the fire.  It was a most serious event which had just occurred in his existence; and, as much as he could, he endeavored to measure its bearings, and to calculate its consequences in the future.

He kept thinking of the story of that strange girl, her haughty frankness when unrolling certain phases of her life, of her wonderful impassibility, and of the implacable contempt for humanity which her every word betrayed.  Where had she learned that dignity, so simple and so noble, that measured speech, that admirable respect of herself, which had enabled her to pass through so much filth without receiving a stain?

“What a woman!” he thought.

Before knowing her, he loved her.  Now he was convulsed by one of those exclusive passions which master the whole being.  Already he felt himself so much under the charm, subjugated, dominated, fascinated; he understood so well that he was going to cease being his own master; that his free will was about escaping from him; that he would be in Mlle. Lucienne’s hands like wax under the modeler’s fingers; he saw himself so thoroughly at the discretion of an energy superior to his own, that he was almost frightened.

“It’s my whole future that I am going to risk,” he thought.

And there was no middle path.  Either he must fly at once, without waiting for Mlle. Lucienne to awake, fly without looking behind, or else stay, and then accept all the chances of an incurable passion for a woman who, perhaps, might never care for him.  And he remained wavering, like the traveler who finds himself at the intersection of two roads, and, knowing that one leads to the goal, and the other to an abyss, hesitates which to take.

With this difference, however, that if the traveler errs, and discovers his error, he is always free to retrace his steps; whereas man, in life, can never return to his starting-point.  Every step he takes is final; and if he has erred, if he has taken the fatal road, there is no remedy.

“Well, no matter!” exclaimed Maxence.  “It shall not be said that through cowardice I have allowed that happiness to escape which passes within my reach.  I shall stay.”  And at once he began to examine what reasonably he might expect; for there was no mistaking Mlle. Lucienne’s intentions.  When she had said, “Do you wish to be friends?” she had meant exactly that, and nothing else,—friends, and only friends.

“And yet,” thought Maxence, “if I had not inspired her with a real interest, would she have so wholly confided unto me?  She is not ignorant of the fact that I love her; and she knows life too well to suppose that I will cease to love her when she has allowed me a certain amount of intimacy.”

His heart filled with hope at the idea.

“My mistress,” he thought, “never, evidently, but my wife.  Why not?”

But the very next moment he became a prey to the bitterest discouragement.  He thought that perhaps Mlle. Lucienne might have some capital interest in thus making a confidant of him.  She had not told him the explanation given her by the peace-officer.  Had she not, perhaps, succeeded in lifting a corner of the veil which covered the secret of her birth?  Was she on the track of her enemies? and had she discovered the motive of their animosity?

“Is it possible,” thought Maxence, “that I should be but one of the powers in the game she is playing?  How do I know, that, if she wins, she will not cast me off?”

In the midst of these thoughts, he had gradually fallen asleep, murmuring to the last the name of Lucienne.

The creaking of his opening door woke him up suddenly.  He started to his feet, and met Mlle. Lucienne coming in.

“How is this?” said she.  “You did not go to bed?”

“You recommended me to reflect,” he replied.  “I’ve been reflecting.”

He looked at his watch:  it was twelve o’clock.

“Which, however,” he added, “did not keep me from going to sleep.”

All the doubts that besieged him at the moment when he had been overcome by sleep now came back to his mind with painful vividness.

“And not only have I been sleeping,” he went on, “but I have been dreaming too.”

Mlle. Lucienne fixed upon him her great black eyes.