"Louise, before we part, won't you let me kiss you? I have not dared to do it since I found you; and yet, in the village, we used to kiss very often."

The girl saw no reason why she should deny the friend of her childhood the sweet privilege which she used to accord him, and her only reply was to walk toward him. Cherubin threw his arms about her and pressed her to his heart; but his kiss was no longer the kiss of a child. Louise realized her imprudence too late; how can one shun a danger which one does not antic.i.p.ate? And then there are sins which it is so pleasant to commit, and Cherubin swore so earnestly that he would always love her!--He had ceased to be bashful!

XXVIII

MONFReVILLE'S LOVE-AFFAIRS

Daybreak found Cherubin still in Louise's arms; the apartment made ready on the floor above had not been required. But when morning came, the young man crept softly upstairs, so that his servants might think that he had pa.s.sed the night there. About nine o'clock he rang for Jasmin and bade him go down and see if Mademoiselle Louise had risen and could receive him.

The old servant eagerly performed his errand and returned with a radiant face to inform his young master that his dear friend had risen, that she was as lovely and fresh as a rose, and that anyone could see that she had slept soundly all night.

Cherubin smiled at Jasmin's perspicacity, and went down at once to Louise.

The girl wept and hid her face on her lover's breast; but Cherubin said to her in the tone which speaks true love and which reaches a woman's heart so quickly:

"Why should you regret having made me happy, when I propose to employ my whole life hereafter to make you happy? We will never part, you will be my faithful companion, my beloved wife."

"No," replied Louise, weeping, "you are rich and of n.o.ble birth, and you cannot marry a poor girl without father or mother. I shall love you as long as I live, but I cannot be your wife; for perhaps a day would come when you would be sorry that you had given me that t.i.tle, and then I should be too wretched."

"Never! and it is very wicked of you to have any such idea!--But there's the letter that you are to deliver to Monfreville--that should inform you who your parents are. I will throw myself at their feet, and they will have to consent to my becoming your husband."

Louise sighed and hung her head.

"But am I worthy _now_ to find my parents?" she replied. "It seems to me that I no longer dare to deliver the letter to that gentleman; perhaps I should do better to destroy it."

Cherubin succeeded in allaying her fears; he decided to write to his friend and to send him the letter that the young woman dared not carry to him. So he at once wrote Monfreville the following letter:

"My dear friend:

"I have found my Louise; she is an angel who will embellish my life. She cannot be another's now, for she is mine. O my dear Monfreville, I am the happiest of men, and I was not frightened this time. But then, I have never loved other women, and I adore this one.

"Madame de Noirmont gave my Louise a letter for you, and told her that you could tell her who her father was; and it was while she was looking for your house that she fell in with that villainous Darena, who took her to his _pet.i.te maison_, making her think that she was in your house. Luckily, I arrived in time! I send you this letter, my friend; come to us quickly, and tell us what you know.

But if Louise's parents would try to part us, do not make them known to her; for henceforth we cannot exist without each other."

Cherubin signed this letter, enclosed with it the one that was given to Louise, and sent them both to his friend early in the morning.

Monfreville was alone when Cherubin's letter was brought to him, and he lost no time in reading it. When he saw Madame de Noirmont's name and learned what she had said to Louise, he trembled and turned pale, and his eyes instantly rested on the enclosure; he glanced at the superscription and exclaimed:

"Yes, she has written to me; I recognize that writing, although it is a long while since my eyes last rested on it. Great G.o.d! what can have induced her to write to me, after swearing that she would never look upon me except as a stranger, that she would wipe the whole past from her memory? And this girl that she sent to me--Ah! if I dared to hope!"

Monfreville broke the seal of Madame de Noirmont's letter. Before reading it, he was obliged to pause again, for he was so excited that his eyes had difficulty in distinguishing the letters. At last he made an effort to recover himself, and read:

"Monsieur:

"When, disregarding your oaths, you left me to lament by my child's cradle a fault which you made no motion to repair, I swore that you should never know that child. And more than that, I confess that I included her in the hatred which filled my heart thenceforth for my seducer; I abandoned my child to the village people in whose care I had placed her, and I determined never to see her again. Later, my position made it my duty to keep that oath. My father, who, thank heaven, never knew of his daughter's wrongdoing, disposed of my hand; married, a mother, and the wife of a man no less severe on the question of honor than jealous of his reputation, I should have wrecked my daughter's happiness, Monsieur de Noirmont's, and my own, if, by a single imprudent step, I had exposed myself to the suspicion of a youthful indiscretion. To tell you that I was happy would be to deceive you; can a mother be happy, when she has spurned one of her children from her arms? I often blamed myself for the caresses that I gave my daughter; for I said to myself, in the depths of my heart, that I had another daughter who had an equal claim to my affection, and that I had cast her out!--My remorse was not sufficient, evidently, and Heaven had a more terrible punishment in store for me! A few months ago, while I was out of town, a young woman was taken into my household as lady's maid. Her sweet disposition, the charm that emanated from her whole person, soon won all hearts. I myself felt drawn toward her. But conceive my situation when I discovered that that girl, brought up in the village of Gagny, by the good-nature of a peasant-woman named Nicole, was the same child whom I had abandoned to that woman's tender mercies years ago! My daughter under my roof in a servile capacity! a servant in her mother's house! Ah! monsieur, could I endure that ghastly position of affairs? Constantly tempted to throw myself into Louise's arms, to strain her to my heart; then, remembering my husband, my other daughter, the honor of a whole family--I felt that I must find a way out of that situation or die. At last I went to Louise; I could not force myself to confess that I was her mother, but I implored her to leave the house, and the poor child yielded to my entreaties. But, deeply touched by the attachment to me which she has manifested, I have determined to give her a father. That child, whom, on your return to France, you vainly implored me to make known to you, is Louise, the lovely and virtuous maid who will hand you this letter. Give her a father, monsieur; as for her mother, you must not mention her name to her, but her heart will doubtless lead her to divine who she is.

"AMELIE DE NOIRMONT."

When he had finished reading this letter, Monfreville abandoned himself to the wildest delight; he ran his eyes over Madame de Noirmont's missive again, for he feared that he was the plaything of a delusion; he was too happy to think that Louise, whose beauty and virtue and sweet temper everyone joined in extolling, was the daughter whom he was ardently desirous to find. But soon he recalled something that moderated the exuberance of his joy; he remembered Cherubin's letter, took it up and read it again, and a melancholy expression stole over his face.

"Heaven did not choose that my happiness should be without alloy," he murmured, with a sigh; "doubtless it is to make me expiate my sin; but after being so guilty myself, there is nothing left for me to do but to forgive."

Louise and Cherubin were still together; they were impatiently awaiting Monfreville's arrival, and their impatience was blended with a secret fear which they could not clearly define.

At last, Jasmin announced: "Monsieur de Monfreville."

Louise, deeply agitated, lowered her eyes; Cherubin ran to meet his friend, but stopped short when he saw his serious, even stern, expression, and faltered, offering him his hand:

"Haven't you received my letter, my friend?"

Monfreville did not touch the hand that Cherubin offered him; he turned his eyes on the girl who stood, trembling, at the farther end of the room; and, as he gazed at her, he felt that his eyes filled with tears.

But, struggling to conceal the emotion that he felt, he seated himself a few steps from Louise, who still kept her eyes on the floor, and motioned Cherubin to sit, saying:

"Yes, I have received your letter; and I have read the one from Madame de Noirmont, who tells me that mademoiselle was adopted by the same good woman who nursed you."

"Well, my friend, is it true that you know Louise's father, that you can help her to find him? But do you think he will make her happy, that he will not put any obstacles in the way of our love?"

Monfreville glanced at the girl again and said in a faltering voice:

"Yes, I know mademoiselle's father."

Louise raised her eyes at that, and looked at Monfreville with a thrill of hope and of filial affection, crying:

"You know my father? Oh! if it should be true, monsieur, that he would deign to love me--to----"

She could not finish the sentence; her voice trembled and the words died on her lips.

"Before answering your questions," Monfreville continued, after a moment, "it is necessary that I should tell you an anecdote of my youth.

Please give me your attention.--I was just twenty-two years old; I was independently rich, absolutely master of my actions and with very little control over my pa.s.sions. I loved a young lady belonging to an honorable family. She had no mother to watch over her, and during her father's absence, my love succeeded in triumphing over her virtue. Believe me, it is very wrong to abuse a sentiment you have aroused, in order to induce the person you love to forget her duties; and it rarely happens that one is not punished for it!"

Here Cherubin lost countenance and dared not look at Monfreville, while Louise, pale and trembling, felt the tears falling from her eyes.

"Soon after," continued Monfreville, "being obliged to visit England on business, I went away, promising the victim of my seduction that I would soon return to ask her father for her hand. But when I was away from her, inconstancy, too natural in a young man, led me to forget my promise. But I received a letter in which she told me that she was about to become a mother, and that I must hasten back to her, if I wished to save her honor and repair the wrong I had done. Well! I left that letter unanswered; I had another intrigue on hand! Two years pa.s.sed. I returned to France, and, remembering the woman whom I had abandoned in such dastardly fashion, and the child who did not know its father, I resolved to offer my name and my hand to her to whom my conduct had been so blameworthy. But it was too late--she was married! As she was married to a man of honorable position, I felt sure that she had succeeded in concealing her weakness from all eyes; but I was wild to know what had become of my child. After many fruitless attempts, I succeeded at last in obtaining a secret interview with the woman who had loved me so well; but I found only an embittered, implacable woman, who, to all my entreaties, made no other answer than this: 'You abandoned me when I implored you to come home and make me your wife and give your child a father. I no longer know you! I desire to forget a sin for which I blush; and, as for your daughter, all your prayers will be wasted, you shall never know what has become of her.' This decree, p.r.o.nounced by an outraged woman, was only too strictly executed. Sixteen years pa.s.sed. I renewed my prayers at intervals, but in vain: they were left unanswered.

And now, Cherubin, you know the cause of the fits of melancholy which sometimes a.s.sailed me in the gayest circles; of that instability of temper for which I am noted; sometimes, amid the noisy amus.e.m.e.nts of society, the thought of my child would come to my mind, and the wealth that people envied, the good-fortune that I seemed to enjoy--ah! I would willingly have sacrificed them to hold my daughter in my arms just once!

But to-day my desires are granted; to-day, a friend of her whom I once loved so dearly, has deigned to restore my child to me at last! But O my G.o.d! when I should be so happy to recover her, must I needs learn at the same time that she is guilty? that seduction, which wrecked her mother's happiness, is the lot of my child also?"

Monfreville had not finished when Louise and Cherubin threw themselves at his feet. With their faces bathed in tears, they kissed his knees, and Louise held out her arms, murmuring tremulously:

"Forgive me, father--forgive us! Alas! I did not know my parents, and Cherubin was everything to me!"

Monfreville opened his arms and the lovers threw themselves upon his heart.

"Yes," he said, as he embraced them, "yes, I must forgive you, for henceforth I shall have two children instead of one."