Part 12

“There is a pleasant time in store for you, Madame la Marquise,” said M. d’Aiglemont, setting his coffee cup down upon the table. He looked at the guest, Mme. de Wimphen, and half-pettishly, half-mischievously added, “I am starting off for several days’ sport with the Master of the Hounds. For a whole week, at any rate, you will be a widow in good earnest; just what you wish for, I suppose.--Guillaume,” he said to the servant who entered, “tell them to put the horses in.”

Mme. de Wimphen was the friend to whom Julie had begun the letter upon her marriage. The glances exchanged by the two women said plainly that in her Julie had found an intimate friend, an indulgent and invaluable confidante. Mme. de Wimphen’s marriage had been a very happy one. Perhaps it was her own happiness which secured her devotion to Julie’s unhappy life, for under such circumstances, dissimilarity of destiny is nearly always a strong bond of union.

“Is the hunting season not over yet?” asked Julie, with an indifferent glance at her husband.

“The Master of the Hounds comes when and where he pleases, madame. We are going boar-hunting in the Royal Forest.”

“Take care that no accident happens to you.”

“Accidents are usually unforeseen,” he said, smiling.

“The carriage is ready, my Lord Marquis,” said the servant.

“Madame, if I should fall a victim to the boar--” he continued, with a suppliant air.

“What does this mean?” inquired Mme. de Wimphen.

“Come, come,” said Mme. d’Aiglemont, turning to her husband; smiling at her friend as if to say, “You will soon see.”

Julie held up her head; but as her husband came close to her, she swerved at the last, so that his kiss fell not on her throat, but on the broad frill about it.

“You will be my witness before heaven now that I need a firman to obtain this little grace of her,” said the Marquis, addressing Mme. de Wimphen. “This is how this wife of mine understands love. She has brought me to this pass, by what trickery I am at a loss to know.... A pleasant time to you!” and he went.

“But your poor husband is really very good-natured,” cried Louisa de Wimphen, when the two women were alone together. “He loves you.”

“Oh! not another syllable after that last word. The name I bear makes me shudder----”

“Yes, but Victor obeys you implicitly,” said Louisa.

“His obedience is founded in part upon the great esteem which I have inspired in him. As far as outward things go, I am a model wife. I make his house pleasant to him; I shut my eyes to his intrigues; I touch not a penny of his fortune. He is free to squander the interest exactly as he pleases; I only stipulate that he shall not touch the principal. At this price I have peace. He neither explains nor attempts to explain my life. But though my husband is guided by me, that does not say that I have nothing to fear from his character. I am a bear leader who daily trembles lest the muzzle should give way at last. If Victor once took it into his head that I had forfeited my right to his esteem, what would happen next I dare not think; for he is violent, full of personal pride, and vain above all things. While his wits are not keen enough to enable him to behave discreetly at a delicate crisis when his lowest passions are involved, his character is weak, and he would very likely kill me provisionally even if he died of remorse next day. But there is no fear of that fatal good fortune.”

A brief pause followed. Both women were thinking of the real cause of this state of affairs. Julie gave Louisa a glance which revealed her thoughts.

“I have been cruelly obeyed,” she cried. “Yet I never forbade him to write to me. Oh! he has forgotten me, and he is right. If his life had been spoiled, it would have been too tragical; one life is enough, is it not? Would you believe it, dear; I read English newspapers simply to see his name in print. But he has not yet taken his seat in the House of Lords.”

“So you know English.”

“Did I not tell you?--Yes, I learned.”

“Poor little one!” cried Louisa, grasping Julie’s hand in hers. “How can you still live?”

“That is the secret,” said the Marquise, with an involuntary gesture almost childlike in its simplicity. “Listen, I take laudanum. That duchess in London suggested the idea; you know the story, Maturin made use of it in one of his novels. My drops are very weak, but I sleep; I am only awake for seven hours in the day, and those hours I spend with my child.”

Louisa gazed into the fire. The full extent of her friend’s misery was opening out before her for the first time, and she dared not look into her face.

“Keep my secret, Louisa,” said Julie, after a moment’s silence.

Just as she spoke the footman brought in a letter for the Marquise.

“Ah!” she cried, and her face grew white.

“I need not ask from whom it comes,” said Mme. de Wimphen, but the Marquise was reading the letter, and heeded nothing else.

Mme. de Wimphen, watching her friend, saw strong feeling wrought to the highest pitch, ecstasy of the most dangerous kind painted on Julie’s face in swift changing white and red. At length Julie flung the sheet into the fire.