Honorine Dalmont, with her young friend Agathe, occupied a modest apartment on Rue des Martyrs. Their only servant was a woman who came in to do their housework, and went away again after preparing their dinner.

Madame Dalmont's slender fortune would not allow her to live more expensively in Paris, where living is so dear, and it was in the hope of being less straitened and of being able to obtain more of the comforts of life, that she had formed the plan of going into the country--a plan which had keenly delighted her friend Agathe.

For women who go into society, who follow the fashions, who pa.s.s their evenings at theatres or concerts or b.a.l.l.s, or at fashionable receptions, it seems a terrible penance to go to the country to live. To them it is equivalent to ceasing to exist, it means the renunciation of all the pleasures of life, it means, in short, condemning themselves to die of ennui.

But it is not so with those who, although they dwell in Paris, pa.s.s their lives in their own homes, seldom go out, and know nothing of that splendid capital save the uproar, the crowd, the vehicles which constantly threaten them with destruction out of doors, and the tumultuous throng that blocks the popular promenades on Sundays and holidays. To them there is nothing painful about leaving the great city.

On the contrary, when they turn their backs on the tumult, the confusion, the incessant whirl of business and pleasure in which they have no part, they breathe more freely; they feel more at liberty to raise their heads, they find in nature something that they had lost; they have their places there, whereas in Paris they were nothing at all!

Honorine's past life had been uneventful. The daughter of respectable people who had not succeeded in business--there are many respectable people who do not make a fortune--she had nevertheless received a careful education. She had learned music and drawing; she was blessed by nature with that fortunate temperament which enables one to learn quickly and without much difficulty that which others often spend long years in studying.

Honorine, who was a very intelligent girl, would have liked to marry an artist, but circ.u.mstances did not permit her to choose. She was fain to be content with a simple government clerk, an honest fellow who had nothing poetic in his nature, but who attended punctually at his desk and performed his duties promptly.

Honorine longed to become a mother; that would at least afford some occupation for her heart, which longed for someone to adore; for, with the best will in the world, she could only esteem her husband.

After she had been married two years, she had a son; but she was denied the joy of rearing him; he died at the age of twenty months, when he was just beginning to stammer his mother's name and to take his first tottering steps. Honorine's grief was so intense that it affected her health. From that moment she began to lose her color, and her lungs seemed to be impaired. Another child alone could have consoled her for the loss of the first; for the heart is of all the organs most amenable to h.o.m.oeopathic treatment; but she had no other child, and a few months later her husband died suddenly of inflammation of the lungs.

At twenty-one, Honorine was left alone--a widow and an orphan, for her parents had died long before.

Then it was that she made the acquaintance of Madame Montoni, the mother of Agathe, at that time a child of nine.

Madame Montoni, who lived in the strictest retirement, happened to occupy an apartment in the same house as Madame Dalmont; she had seen her grief when she lost her child, and had been deeply moved by it. When she learned that she had lost her husband suddenly, she hastened to offer her consolation and attentions.

Honorine received her advances gratefully. Being without experience and entirely unacquainted with business, she was in danger of being deprived of the small property which her husband had left her, and which was claimed by collateral relations. But Madame Montoni had strength, courage and resolution; she took all the necessary steps, and the young widow was enabled to enjoy in peace the two thousand francs a year which her husband had left her.

As for Madame Montoni herself, she supported herself and her child with her hands. She made those pretty pieces of fancy work which bring in so little, and require so much time and care. Luckily she was very skilful.

But she often pa.s.sed whole nights over her embroidery frame, in order that she might buy a new dress for her daughter.

Honorine had tried to a.s.sist her new friend a little; but Madame Montoni was proud; she would accept nothing from her to whom she had, however, rendered material service.

Incessant toil exhausts vitality. Moreover, Agathe's mother had in the depths of her heart a mortal sorrow which was crushing her; she had confided it to Honorine, who could only weep with her. There are sorrows which admit of no consolation.

Little Agathe used often to ask her mother:

"Why don't we ever see papa? what can have become of him? When I was a little girl, I remember he used to come to see me often; he used to take me out to ride and to dine at restaurants; you used to be very bright then, mamma; you didn't work all day long; and then papa always brought me nice presents, and you too; and he used to kiss me a lot and tell me he loved me with all his heart. And then he stopped coming all of a sudden, and then you cried every day, yes, every day.--Is my papa dead?"

When Madame Montoni heard that question she always wept and strained the child to her heart as she replied:

"Alas! dear child! I don't know what to tell you! I have no idea what has become of your father; I do not know if he still lives, and that is the cause of this grief that is wearing my life away!--Adhemar loved me so dearly! and he adored you! How can I believe that he could have determined to abandon us for no reason whatever?--that he, who promised me such a lovely future,--certain happiness--would have left us suddenly without means, without resource, without support--oh, no! no!

he would not have done that! Your father must be dead! My Adhemar certainly has ceased to live, since we are so unhappy!"

"How long ago did you last see him?" inquired Honorine one day, when she had become the confidante of the mother and daughter.

"Alas! my Agathe was just six years old when her father came to see us the last time."

"Why, didn't papa live with you?"

Madame Montoni blushed and turned her face away.

"No, my child, he couldn't; his business prevented him."

"My papa was very nice-looking, wasn't he, mamma?"

"Oh! yes, my child! he was as handsome as he was n.o.ble and generous; a little hasty only, and quick to lose his temper; that was the only fault I ever discovered in Adhemar. The last time he came to see us, he said to me: 'In a few days we will start for Italy; it is your native land, Julia, and I want to see it with you; then we will return to France and I will leave you no more.'"

"And you have never seen him since?"

"No; and no news of him, no letter! nothing from him! nothing!"

"But you must have made inquiries, have tried to learn something?"

"When a week had pa.s.sed without my seeing Adhemar--ordinarily he never let more than two days pa.s.s without coming to us--I decided to go to the hotel where he had told me that he lived; it was one of the finest hotels in Paris. I asked for Monsieur Adhemar de--I asked for Monsieur Adhemar, and the concierge a.s.sured me that he had left the hotel six days before.

"'He can't have gone away,' I said; 'if he has, where has he gone?'

"As that man knew nothing, I went to the hotel-keeper himself, who said to me:

"'Madame, I am quite as surprised as you are at the absence of Monsieur de--of Monsieur Adhemar. I know that he intended to go to Italy, he had spoken of it several times; but when he left the house six days ago, he said simply: "I am going into the country; I shall return to-morrow morning."'

"'And he has not returned since?'

"'No, madame.'

"'Where was he going in the country?'

"'Mon Dieu! he didn't tell me; he had received a letter that morning--probably an invitation.'

"'And he went away alone?'

"'Alone, yes, madame. But he will surely return; he has left his linen here, and property of much greater value than the amount of his bill, for he paid every week. He's a young man of orderly habits, and he will return, madame; he is bound to return. The probability is that he's enjoying himself in the country and so is making a longer stay there than he intended.'

"'I will return in a few days then,' I said, as I went away. And I did in fact go there again the second day after. But Adhemar had not been seen! So it went on for a month; until at last I had to abandon all hope."

"But his family--didn't you know them?"

"I knew from Adhemar that his family lived in the neighborhood of Toulouse; they were uncles and aunts, all proud of their rank and t.i.tles, and they did not condescend to answer the letters I wrote them.

At last, someone who was going to that part of the country was obliging enough to make inquiries of several persons, and they told him that Monsieur Adhemar had not been seen by his relations, but that they took little interest in his fate, for they knew that, heedless of his name and his birth, he had contracted in Paris a liaison unworthy of him; and if he did not break off that liaison, he would never be received again by his n.o.ble family. That is all that I learned concerning him whom I loved better than my life. Ah! if it had not been for my daughter, his disappearance would have killed me; but what would have become of my little Agathe, without friends or kindred on earth? I felt that I must live for her, for her whom her father loved so dearly! And that is what I did; I lived, but I have never been comforted!--Alas! suppose that he died far away from us--unable to embrace us once more, to bid us a last farewell, and above all, to ensure the future welfare of his daughter!

Poor Adhemar! think what his anguish must have been, his despair, at the thought that he left us here in misery! Oh! that idea haunts me incessantly and intensifies the bitterness of my regrets."

This conversation was often renewed between the new friends, for Madame Montoni was never tired of talking of her Agathe's father. In those soothing outpourings of her soul, she concealed nothing from Honorine, whereas she kept one thing secret from her daughter.

Several years pa.s.sed; Madame Montoni, exhausted by toil and grief, soon lost her little remaining strength. Feeling that she must soon say farewell to life, she placed in Honorine's hand the hand of her daughter, then twelve years of age, and said to little Agathe:

"Honorine will take my place with you; love her as you loved your mother. Heaven has at least vouchsafed that I should leave with you a sister, a friend! Some day, my daughter, she will tell you what your mother has never dared to tell you; and you will forgive your mother, because she loved you dearly and has suffered much for your sake. Now I am going to join my Adhemar, your father, and from above we will both watch over our child. But if fate has decreed that he is not dead, and that you are to see him again some day, oh! tell him that, until my last hour, his image was always here--in my heart!"

Agathe's tears and Honorine's prayers were powerless to suspend the decree of destiny! Madame Montoni closed her eyes forever.

"Death's rigors have no like; Vain our entreaties all; His tyrant hand will strike; Our plaints on deaf ears fall."

After Madame Montoni's death, Honorine took Agathe with her, and from that moment they were never separated.