The prince understood, from the gesture of the doctor and the consternation of MM. Rimaldi and Bertin, that all was over. Then, and not till then, his face grew ghastly pale, and for a moment his eyes rested on the corpse that his justice had made. Then he uncovered respectfully, and walked away without a word, leaning on Count Panen's arm.

That day Mme. Daubrel and Vera each received in Paris a telegram to say that Prince Pierre Olsdorf would be at the Grand Hotel by the evening of the next day.

CHAPTER XI.

LISE AND MARTHE.

When she received at Pampeln the telegram which Prince Olsdorf had sent to her from Brindisi to ask her to go at once to Paris with Alexander and Tekla, Vera Soublaieff had stifled a cry of joy; for at first she thought of nothing but the happiness of seeing again the man she had loved with all her soul for more than three years, whose name was spoken night and morning in her prayers, and whom she had for so long dreaded she would not meet again. But soon she felt shame at this first emotion, natural though it was; and, feeling that if the exile was returning so quickly some great misfortune must be threatening, she wept over the poor children who were going to embrace their mother on her death-bed only. She determined to set out at once.

That evening, thanks to the preparations made some weeks before, she was able to take the express train at Mittau with the young prince, his sister, and Mme. Bernard, the governess. She was sure thus, rapidly as he might travel, to be in Paris before Pierre Olsdorf.

She was not mistaken. On arriving at the Grand Hotel she found the telegram in which the prince announced that he would be there next day.

As for Mme. Daubrel, whose second telegram from Rome had come some hours earlier, she had hurried to her friend to tell her of it, and, to her surprise, had found Mme. Podoi there, who had arrived but a few minutes ago.

Having been told by the Soublaieff's daughter that Mme. Meyrin was as ill as she could be, the ex-Countess Barineff had suddenly started from St. Petersburg without a word of warning to anybody.

The interview between Lise and her mother had been heart-breaking. In seeing her daughter deserted, aged, in danger of her life, she felt changed in her that maternal love which for so long had been only pride; and, in spite of her efforts to seem calm and not agitate the patient, despair was in her face.

Mme. Meyrin had been unable to leave her bed for several days. She had had her little daughter brought to her, and at the moment when Marthe entered the bedroom she was saying to her mother, and pointing to Marie, who was playing with the lace of the pillows:

"You will love her dearly, will you not, when I am no more, and you will rear her strictly as you reared me? But you will not try to make a fine lady of her; try to make of her no more than a happy woman. Above all things, do not marry her where divorce can follow. Divorce, mother, is nothing but a legal prost.i.tution--a sort of challenge to adultery. It is an outrage on the laws of the Church and on modesty. Has any woman the right to pa.s.s from the arms of a living husband into those of another husband? Must not the divorced woman's brow redden at the thought of a possible, perhaps of an inevitable meeting between the two men who have possessed her? And her mother's heart, when she has to make two parts of it, one for the children who are no longer hers even in name, and one for those who come to her--must not it bleed mortally? If ever my daughter marries, let it be without the possibility of divorce, I beseech you."

"My dear Lise," said the general's wife, forcing a smile, "I promise to follow your wishes in every respect; but why look so far into the future, why despair? Oh, I am sure you will get better; Marie will have no need of a second mother; you will be here to watch over her, having come forth brave and beautiful from your present trials. You are no longer alone; Alexander and Tekla will soon be here, and who knows but that your husband, ashamed and penitent, will soon return to you? It is an every-day occurrence."

At these last words of her mother, Mme. Meyrin shivered with horror, and in a strange voice said:

"My husband! Never speak of him to me. And your hopes are but dreams.

Yes, if G.o.d spares me, I shall see Alexander and Tekla again, since the man I deceived has taken pity on me; but it will be too late. I lived for my pa.s.sion, I die of maternal love. G.o.d is full of mercy in His justice."

As she spoke Lise closed her eyes. When she opened them again in a few moments she saw Mme. Daubrel, who had softly drawn near the bed.

"See," she said to her mother, designating her friend with a grateful look, "here is my guardian angel. For four months Marthe has been by me.

I owe to her my power to live to see you."

The general's wife offered her hand to Mme. Daubrel, without speaking, however, for she felt that sobs would hinder her. She knew the young woman already by what her daughter had said of her at Pampeln, and from the touching letters she had sent to Vera Soublaieff at the time of Alexander's sickness.

"My dear Lise," said Marthe, after returning the pressure of the ex-Countess Barineff's hand, "I bring you good news."

"My children?" asked Mme. Meyrin, with an accent of indescribable tenderness.

"Yes, your children and Prince Olsdorf. He telegraphs that he will be in Paris in less than forty-eight hours, at the same time as your son and daughter. They were to have left Pampeln two days ago."

"Heaven be praised! Where did the prince telegraph from?"

"From Rome."

"From Rome? Rome? Why did he go there? It was not on his way from Brindisi to Paris. Marthe, you are hiding something from me."

Lise had started up in bed, her eyes dilated.

"No, I swear it," replied Mme. Daubrel. "Read for yourself."

The sick woman read rapidly through the telegram which her friend offered her. She sunk back exhausted on the pillows, half dead, and they heard her murmur:

"From Rome! And Pierre Olsdorf is coming to me, Madame Meyrin! Oh, G.o.d!"

"Lise, be calm, I beseech you," said her mother. "These emotions kill you."

The unhappy woman seemed to hear nothing; her eyes wandered, her discolored lips spoke disconnected words. Struggling with some terrible hallucination, she tried with her thin, transparent, bloodless hands to push away the phantoms crowding about her.

This crisis lasted nearly a quarter of an hour, while the general's wife and Marthe thought that Lise was dying. However, the poor martyr presently became calmer, and a little blood returned to her face.

In a few moments, when she had quite regained her senses, and had once more recognized her mother and Marthe, she rea.s.sured them with a gesture; then, suddenly, her smiling eyes were turned to the door of the room which had just been softly opened. The ex-Countess Barineff and Mme. Daubrel turned around.

It was Dumesnil who came in.

Recognizing her old lover, though she had not seen him for twenty years, the general's wife could not master her movement of surprise. She knew nothing of the friendly relations between her daughter and the old comedian.

The good man did not seem to recognize Mme. Froment. Thinking only of his cherished patient, whose eyes called him to her side, he drew near, bent to kiss her tenderly, and then only he coldly saluted Mme. Podoi, to whom Lise said, in a faint voice:

"This is another friend, mother, whom you must love too as you will love Marthe. His devotion to me has been boundless. If I had been his daughter he could not have tended me more carefully. She and he have been all my family these six months. But I remember; you are not strangers. Yes, Dumesnil told me formerly, when I was happy, that he knew me as quite a baby. It seems I was pretty then; and he was infatuated with me. How far away all that is now. I was beautiful as I grew older--too beautiful. And now?"

This was too much for their two hearts. Their grief, so long repressed, was about to burst forth in sobs, when the doctor was announced who paid Mme. Meyrin a daily visit, though he had given up all hope of her recovery.

While the doctor, to acquit his conscience, was examining the patient and trying to encourage her with some generous, professional untruths, the other actors in the painful scene were silent. When the doctor left the room, Lise's mother and Dumesnil followed him out.

In the next room they stopped, but he did not give them the time to question him.

"My duty is not to deceive you, madame," he said to the ex-Countess Barineff. "I can give no hope. Madame Meyrin is so weak that the danger is more imminent. She may struggle for two or three days more; not longer."

The general's wife pressed her handkerchief to her mouth to stifle a cry of grief.

"Courage, madame," said the doctor, as he left them. "She is at least free from pain. Hide your fears from her. She will pa.s.s away gently, without a moan, as if she were but falling asleep."

Dumesnil, who stood leaning against the wall, was crying.

"Yes, the doctor is right; do not let her read anything in our faces,"

said the old man, going up to his former mistress. "With what a cruel punishment, Madeleine, G.o.d punishes your ambition and my weakness. Poor Lise! For six months and more I have witnessed her martyrdom, and have never given myself the supreme joy of calling her my daughter. Come, dry your tears, as I force back mine to the bottom of my heart, and let us go back to her."

"Forgive me, Armand; I have not the courage. If I were to go in there again I should betray my feelings. Give me a few moments."

Seeing that it was indeed better so, the comedian went back alone into the bedroom. Lise was calm and seemed half stupefied. He sat down a short way from the bed and let his tears flow silently.