As, in spite of all the efforts of her lover to make her change her mind, the young girl was firm, Paul Meyrin was forced to go back to his studio in the Rue d'a.s.sas; but only to pa.s.s an occasional hour there. He could not settle down to work tempted as he was at one moment to go and implore his wife's pardon, at another to rush off to Sarah Lamber and tell her he was ready to live with her.

Too weak to make up his mind to a course, bad or good, unless he was helped to the decision by circ.u.mstances, the painter's life was idle and feverish. He went and came among his brother artists, who had speedily got to know of his adventure, thanks to the silly vanity of the model, eager to tell everywhere that a woman of fashion had wished to kill her.

The story in less than twenty-four hours was the scandal of the day among the artists. Soon the little halfpenny boulevard papers spoke of it, and Dumesnil heard of it one evening in the greenroom at the Odeon.

That excellent man was not surprised by the news, for Paul's frequent absences had disquieted him, but he was greatly pained by the news, and next day went to Lise's. This time he was admitted.

Pale and with dark circles round her eyes, she was lying on a couch.

Mme. Daubrel who, knowing nothing of the truth, supposed she was simply ill was with her and had just been telling her, with tears of joy and a trembling voice, that her own husband, touched by her repentance, was intending to pardon her; that almost by every post he sent from New York to Mme. Percier, her mother, news of her son, and that perhaps very soon she would see him again.

Mme. Meyrin, whose heart was so cruelly crushed, congratulated her friend, happy in her hopes, and thought sorrowfully that it would never be permitted to her to embrace her children; but when she saw Dumesnil with a troubled look on his face she dismissed her sad thoughts, and, to rea.s.sure him, said, smiling:

"Dear friend, nothing serious is amiss with me. In a day or two I shall be quite well again."

"You are the bravest of women," the comedian replied, bowing to Mme.

Daubrel and taking the seat Lise had offered him; "they who do you an injury are vile wretches."

"An injury! Why, what do you mean?"

Marthe, no more than Lise seized his thought.

Dumesnil saw by her surprise that she knew nothing, and concluding that Mme. Meyrin wished her friend to be kept in ignorance, he went on quickly, not picking his words very carefully:

"I express myself badly. I meant that only vile wretches would not wish you all the happiness you deserve."

Lise was too intelligent not to guess, from the embarra.s.sment of the old man, that he knew what had happened between her husband and herself.

With a glance she thanked him for his discretion, and some minutes later, when Marthe was gone, she hastened to say:

"I don't know what you have heard, but anything you can have been told is less than the truth. Monsieur Meyrin has betrayed me so vilely that I will not forgive him. My love for him is dead. As long as he pleases we will live under the same roof, but as strangers to one another. A woman of my stamp can forget neither a humiliation nor an outrage. Don't speak to me of him, I beg you. There are only you and Marthe left to love me."

Too much moved to speak a word, Dumesnil pressed a respectful and tender kiss on the feverish hand that the poor betrayed woman stretched out to him.

"And soon, too," she went on, "I shall have only you and my daughter, for in a few months, perhaps in a few weeks, Madame Daubrel will leave France to go to her husband in America."

"Her husband! Why, I thought they were separated by a decree?"

"It is so; and moreover, the separation was p.r.o.nounced against her; but for eight years she has so bravely expiated her fault that Monsieur Daubrel is disposed to forgive all. Marthe has told me a fact I did not know, that the separation lasts only as long as the man and wife wish.

It is revocable at their choice, and is annulled by the simple fact of their voluntary reunion, without the intervention of a judge or the accomplishment of any formality."

"That seems but right," said Dumesnil.

"Yes," said Mme. Meyrin, bitterly, "a deceived husband has the right, if he pardons his wife, to open his house to her again, to give back his children to her. He needs not to authorize her to bear his name anew, since she has not ceased to bear it. By a single kiss all is wiped out.

In the case of a divorce, on the contrary, the one woman in the world that the outraged husband can not take to his arms is she that has betrayed him. His union with her would be illegal, irregular; the children he might have by her would be b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Ah, my friend, how unhappy am I, and what a punishment mine is."

Lise had buried her face in her hands and was weeping.

The old artist dared not try to console her, and had no thought of defending Paul, who had made no real attempt at reconciliation with his wife, though a week had pa.s.sed since the drama of the Boulevard de Clichy.

M. Meyrin, it is true, breakfasted and dined pretty regularly at home, but Lise and he did not exchange a dozen words while they were at table, and after the meal, if the painter took his wife's hand, it was lifeless and cold in his.

And yet if Paul had had a true, spontaneous, and heartfelt impulse, Lise, strong as she believed she was and wished to seem, would perhaps not have resisted, for she had had for her husband one of those pa.s.sions that find excuses for the loved one from the very fact that they are not based on admiration, esteem, and an exaltation of the soul, that is to say, those lofty sentiments which when they disappear carry with them all affection and leave room for duty alone.

It is not thus with pa.s.sions born of desire. The attraction which has roused them can, in contempt of all dignity, rearouse them suddenly, the nerves being exclusively concerned in their manifestation. The heart, in its mercifulness and goodness, can pardon while mindful of the betrayal; the flesh has no n.o.bility of pride; in yielding anew it forgets.

But Paul Meyrin knew nothing of these things. The coldness of his wife humbled his foolish pride, and, thinking that he had done enough to win her back if she desired to return, he dared make no further effort through fear of a repulse. Very infatuated with Sarah, too, by reason of the resistance that she offered, he grew used, little by little, to return to the Rue d'a.s.sas less regularly; and as he was ignorant of the delicacy and the attentions which win pardon for so many errors in a well-bred man, he soon ceased to mention if he was going out before breakfast or did not intend to return for dinner. This was so often the case that in less than a month after the miserable event that we have related, Mme. Meyrin was for many a long hour alone with her child, her door being closed to all but Mme. Daubrel, to whom in the end she had told all, and Dumesnil, whose affection for her grew with every day.

Lise heard no mention made of her husband's family. Mme. Meyrin, the mother, blamed severely her son's conduct, and dared not come to see her daughter-in-law. As for Mme. Frantz, whose envious feelings had been the origin of all the evil, she rejoiced in secret over the sufferings of this foreign fine lady who had carried off her brother-in-law from her profitable guardianship.

This isolation had a logical and fatal result, due to the temperament of the deserted wife. An excellent mother naturally, Lise began now to worship her children with a sort of nervous, unquiet, morbid pa.s.sion, which was not appeased by the care she wrapped her daughter in, or the caresses she lavished on her.

It was as if she wished to avenge herself for having, for three years, divided her heart. More than ever, from this time forward, she thought of the absent ones. She spoke constantly of Alexander and Tekla, wept over their absence, and hungered to see them, were it but for an hour or a moment. These adored ones were the one subject of her talk with Marthe and Dumesnil. In his innocent weakness for poetical citations the honest comedian compared her with Andromache and Niobe.

Added to this, the poor woman received from her mother a letter which increased her humiliation. Having learned at Ems, from the French newspapers, the adventure of the Boulevard Clichy, Mme. Podoi hastened to write to her daughter in the sharpest terms. Her letter ended with these words:

"It is true you have the resource of a second divorce. Only, whom will you marry? G.o.d alone knows how low you may descend."

Proving beyond a doubt to Mme. Meyrin that the heart of her mother, pitiless in her wounded pride, was still shut against her, this harsh letter caused her deep sorrow; but she only replied to express all the regret she felt at not having had news of her children such as her mother was wont to send when, from time to time, she wrote.

Then, accepting with resignation the situation that events had made for her, she occupied herself solely with her beloved little daughter, driving away every thought that was not of those who alone remained dear to her. She saw her husband by chance alone, when it suited him to take his place at table. She spoke no word of reproach to him, and even took no interest in what became of him in his long absences. As she had said to Dumesnil, her love for Paul was dead. The spark from which the flame would have sprung again under the lightest breath of tenderness had died out forever in her.

Alas! the poor lonely one was soon to be stricken in this other love which alone now stirred her soul. Like wolves, misfortunes come in troops. One morning she received from St. Petersburg another letter from her mother which drew a cry of agony from her. Mme. Podoi mentioned baldly that, having had a telegram from Vera Soublaieff that the Prince Alexander was dangerously ill, she was starting for Pampeln with Dr.

Psaroff.

Without the loss of a moment Lise dispatched to the daughter of the farmer of Elva a telegram imploring her to send at once, by the same means, news of her son, and this being done, she pa.s.sed the whole day in unspeakable agony. Toward five o'clock she received Vera's answer, which drove her nearly mad.

"The doctor, who arrived last night with Madame Podoi, refuses to p.r.o.nounce an opinion, but we hope that G.o.d will hear our prayers, and that our care will save your son. I will send a telegram every day."

Mme. Meyrin sunk into a chair, repeating amid her sobs:

"My son, my child!"

Suddenly she rose, ran to her writing-desk, and in a trembling hand wrote:

"Paul, my son is dying. I am going to try and save him."

Having written these words, she rang the bell and told the servant who answered it to put the note in M. Meyrin's room. She had not seen him that day, and knew he was not to be home to dinner; she had heard him say overnight that he was going to the Amiens exhibition.

At this moment Mme. Daubrel entered.

"G.o.d has sent you, Marthe. Look, read."

She gave her Mme. Podoi's letter and Vera's telegram.

"My poor friend," said Mme. Daubrel. "What will you do?"

"I shall go to Pampeln."

"To Pampeln--you?"

"Yes, I. The prince is away, and I wish to save my son. I feel that I shall save him."