That which at first was only the affection of a guardian soon became sisterly affection; for, by the time she was fifteen, Agathe had become a sister to her companion, who was then but twenty-seven; time abolished the distance that it had at first set between them. The girl's tastes and pleasures were no longer those of a child, but were identical with those of the young woman, who was overjoyed to find a congenial companion in her to whom at first she had been only a second mother.

But Agathe had not forgotten the last words her own mother had said to her. There was a secret which Madame Montoni had confided to Honorine, but which she had not dared to disclose to her daughter. How could that kind and loving mother have feared to tell her daughter anything? Might she not always have felt quite certain that that daughter would never blame any act of hers?

That was what Agathe said to herself, and yet she dared not ask Honorine to reveal that secret, for she was reluctant to offend even her mother's shade.

"As she did not confide it to me while she was alive," thought the girl, "perhaps it is not right for me to try to learn it now that she is no more."

But one evening, after a long conversation between the two friends, in which they had talked about the strange disappearance of Agathe's father, the girl exclaimed:

"If I only owned something that belonged to my father! I have many things that my mother possessed, which I treasure beyond words; but I have nothing of my father's, absolutely nothing! that is very cruel."

"But suppose I should tell you," rejoined Honorine, "that I have something of your father's to give you--something which your poor mother gave me to keep until I should give it to you?"

"Mon Dieu! is it possible? you have something that belonged to my father, and you have not given it to me in all the time since my mother died? Oh! Honorine, then you did not want to make me very happy!"

"My dear Agathe, when I give you this object which was confided to me, I must also tell you the secret which your mother dreaded to tell you--because she did not wish to blush before you."

"Blush before me!--my dear mother!--why, that is absurd! Come, speak, Honorine, speak; do not conceal anything from me now."

"I will speak; indeed, it seems to me necessary that you should know the truth, that you should learn your father's name at last; otherwise you might stand by his side some day, and not know it."

"My father's name! Why, his name was Montoni, of course, as my mother's was Madame Montoni."

Honorine sadly shook her head.

"No," she murmured. "And that is the whole secret: your mother did not bear his name--for they were not married."

"Not married! Oh! poor mother! poor mother! And that was what she dared not tell me! Am I any less her child on that account?"

"Now, Agathe, listen to the story of your mother's love, as she herself told it to me.

"She was born in Italy, but she left that country when she was very young, with her parents, who settled in Switzerland. They died just as she reached her sixteenth year. She lived then with an old Swiss woman, who treated her very badly and reduced her almost to the condition of a servant. She was keeping a flock of goats, which she drove to pasture on the mountains, when she fell in with a young foreigner who was travelling in Switzerland for pleasure. He was a Frenchman, named Adhemar de Hautmont; he was rich and of n.o.ble birth; but he was young, handsome, attractive and susceptible; and it seems that your mother, although a goatherd, was exceedingly pretty. In a word, the two young people were attracted to each other, fell in love and exchanged their vows; and your poor mother had no one to watch over her but the goats that she herself guarded!

"This liaison had lasted two months, and young Adhemar could not make up his mind to part from Julia. It became much harder when she told him that she bore within her a pledge of his love. At that, the young Frenchman said to her:

"'You cannot stay in this region, exposed to the cruel treatment of a woman who is harsh enough with you now, and will be much more so when she learns of your misstep. You must go with me; I will take you to France, to Paris, and you shall live there; I will take care that you lack nothing when I am obliged to leave you and go back to my family.

And then I shall not be away long; as they allow me to travel often, for my education, instead of visiting Germany, Spain and England, I will pa.s.s my time with you until the moment when I can call you my wife and then I shall never have to leave you again.'

"You can imagine that your mother joyfully a.s.sented to her young lover's plan. So they left Switzerland together and came to Paris; young Adhemar installed his Julia in a small apartment, simple and retired, but provided with everything that she required. Then, having supplied her with all the money she was likely to need in his absence, he started for Toulouse; for he was not yet of age, and he had everything to fear from his family if they should learn that he had abducted from Switzerland a young girl who was with child by him.

"But everything went well; Adhemar calculated carefully the length of his absences, and he loved his Julia so dearly that he found a way to come to her when he was supposed to be far away in some foreign country.

"Then you came into the world, and when your father pressed you to his heart, he swore again that he would have no other wife than your mother.

"Several years pa.s.sed. Some of those talkative people who take delight in interfering in everything, and who had seen Monsieur Adhemar de Hautmont in Paris when his relations thought that he was in Vienna, did not fail to inform them that the young man was in Paris and had a mistress there. The relations ordered Adhemar to return to Toulouse, but he was then of age and master of his actions, and he paid no attention to the commands which they attempted to impose on him. But he had one great-uncle, who was very old and very rich, and who was very fond of him; this uncle was expected to leave him his whole fortune. Your father often said to his sweetheart:

"'I don't dare to marry you while he is alive, for it might make him angry with me and deprive us of a large fortune hereafter. But when he is dead, there will be nothing to delay our union'; and your mother, who was very, very happy because your father still loved her as much as ever, replied: 'Do just as you think best, my dear; my daughter and I will always be content, so long as we have your love; to us that is the greatest of blessings.'

"At last, a few days before his disappearance, your father learned that his great-uncle had become more indulgent; that he seemed disposed to forgive his nephew his secret love-affair. Adhemar instantly set about procuring from his native place all the doc.u.ments that he required for his marriage, saying to your mother:

"'As soon as the ceremony is at an end, we will start for Italy with our little Agathe. We will pa.s.s a year there and then return to France, where my family, knowing that you are my wife, will understand that there is nothing for them to do but to forgive me, and to love you when they know you.'

"That, my dear Agathe, is the whole story of your mother's love. Many women bear their lover's name without right, and a.s.sume in society the t.i.tle of lawful wife; your mother would never have stooped to do that.

The name of Montoni was her father's; it is the only one she has left you. Poor Agathe! why did fate decree that, just when you were on the point of obtaining a n.o.ble name, when a brilliant future opened out before you, he to whom you were to owe it all should suddenly disappear?"

"Dear Honorine," said Agathe, "the name and wealth are not what I regret, but my father's love, my father's kisses--But what is it that you have to give me?"

"The letters he wrote to your mother when he was away from her, which she always preserved with care."

"Oh! what joy! my father's letters! Give them to me! give them to me!"

Honorine took from her desk a small package which she had kept in safety there, and handed it to Agathe.

She received with a trembling hand the only heritage her father had left her; she hastily opened one of the letters, put her lips to it and wet it with her tears as she faltered:

"My poor father!"

Then she wiped her eyes, so that she could read, and said to Honorine:

"See--what a pretty hand my father wrote! Ah! I can read this easily; listen:

"'My beloved Julia, the time seems very long when I am far from you; the days are endless; and what people call amus.e.m.e.nts--cards, hunting, concerts and b.a.l.l.s--all seem very dull to me and are not worth a glance from you or a smile from my little Agathe, who, I love to believe, is still as fresh and rosy as ever, and strong and well. When shall I be able to embrace you both! My child was beginning to stammer a few words. You told me that on my return she would give me that sweet t.i.tle of father, which I shall be so happy to hear from her lips. In a fortnight I shall start; I shall pa.s.s two days in England, then hasten to you. Patience, my Julia, patience; the time will come when I shall leave you no more, when you will be my wife before men as you now are before G.o.d. Be careful of your health; do not tire yourself by carrying your child; I told you to hire a servant, and I trust that you have done so. _A bientot_, and then _a toujours_, your

'Adhemar, Comte de Hautmont.'"

Agathe read the letter almost at a breath; then she looked up at Honorine and said:

"My dear friend, a man doesn't write thus to a person whom he means to abandon some day. Ah! it must be that my father is dead, as he never returned to us."

The package contained sixteen letters, all of which gave eloquent expression to Adhemar de Hautmont's love for Julia Montoni and for their child. Agathe read them all with deep emotion, then exclaimed:

"Ah! thank you, dear mother; this is indeed a treasure that you left for me; and it is much more precious than money. Henceforth, when I want to reward myself, I will read over these letters and imagine that I am between my father and my mother."

Now that we are fully acquainted with the antecedents of Honorine and Agathe, we may go with them to inspect the little house at Ch.e.l.les.

XIII

THE LITTLE HOUSE AT Ch.e.l.lES

It was the middle of March. There were no leaves on the trees as yet, but there was plenty of sunshine; it was already soft and penetrating and announced the return of spring, of that lovely season of the year when everything seems to be born again--even those persons who are on the downward path.

Ah! why do not men grow green again like trees and shrubs? To be sure, their springtime lasts more than three months, but so few of them know how to make use of it! they do not appreciate it until they have thrown it away, and then they regret it in vain; decidedly the trees are wiser than mankind.

Honorine and her young companion dressed in haste in order to arrive early at the railroad station at the farther end of the Boulevard de Strasbourg, whence they were to take a train for Ch.e.l.les. The two women were ready in a very short time. Agathe, whose quick and cheerful imagination saw something everywhere to give her pleasure, took the keenest delight in going into the country, although the season was not far enough advanced for the fields to have resumed their robes of green.