"Emilie."

Pog, the Count de Montreuil, as the sequel will show, had never been able, in discovering his wife's guilt, to learn the name of the unhappy woman's seducer. Nor did he know that Erebus was the child of this adulterous connection.

For a moment he was overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. Although such a bitterness of resentment might seem puerile, after the lapse of so many years, his rage reached its height when he saw this letter, written by himself in the very intoxication of happiness, and full of those confidences of the soul which a man dares pour out only in the heart of a beloved wife, enclosed in one addressed to her seducer, when he realised that it had been read, perhaps laughed at, by his enemy, the Commander des Anbiez.

In his fury he could only think of the painful ridiculousness of his att.i.tude in the eyes of that man, as he spoke with so much freedom, so much love, and so much idolatry, of a child which was not his, and of this wife who had so basely deceived him.

The deepest, the most agonising, the most incurable wounds are those which pain our heart and our self-love at the same time.

The very excess of his wrath, his burning thirst for vengeance, brought Pog back, so to speak, to his religious sentiment. He saw the hand of G.o.d in the strange chance which had thrown Erebus, the fruit of this criminal love, in his pathway.

He thrilled with a cruel joy at the thought that this unfortunate child, whose soul he had perverted, whom he had led in a way so fatal to all purity and happiness, would, perhaps, carry desolation and death into the Des Anbiez family.

He saw in this startling coincidence a terrible providential retribution.

His first thought was to go at once and a.s.sa.s.sinate Erebus, but, urged by a consuming curiosity, he desired to discover all the secrets of this guilty connection.

So he continued to read the letters contained in the casket. The next letter, written by Madame de Montreuil, was also addressed to the Commander des Anbiez.

_Third Letter_,

"December 14th, one o'clock in the morning.

"G.o.d has had pity on me.

"The unfortunate child lives; if he continues to live, he will live only for you,--only for me.

"My women are safe; this house is isolated, far from all help.

To-morrow I shall send to the village for the venerable Abbe de Saint-Maurice,--another lie,--a sacrilegious lie!

"I will tell him that this unfortunate child died in birth. Justine has already engaged a nurse; this nurse is waiting in the house occupied by the guard of the crossroads. This evening she will take the poor little being with her. This evening she will depart for Languedoc, as we have agreed upon.

"Oh, to be separated from my child, who has cost me so many tears, so much sorrow, and such despair! To be separated from it for ever! Ah, I dare not, I cannot complain! It is the least expiation of my crime.

"Poor little creature, I have covered it with my tears, with my kisses; it is innocent of all this sin. Ah, dreadful, how dreadful it is! I shall not survive these heartrending emotions. That is all my hope. G.o.d will take me from this earth,--yes,--but to d.a.m.n me in eternity!

"Ah, I do not wish to die; no, I do not wish to die! Oh, pity, pity, mercy!

"I have just recovered from a long fainting-fit Peyrou will carry this letter to you; send him back without delay."

The next letter announced to the commander that the sacrifice had been completed.

_Fourth Letter_.

"December 15th, ten o'clock in the morning.

"All is over. This morning the Abbe de Saint-Maurice came.

"My women told him that the child was dead, and that I, in my despair, had wished, in pious resignation, to shroud it myself in its coffin.

"You know that this poor priest is very old; and, besides, he has known me from my birth, and has a blind confidence in me, and not for a moment did he suspect this impious lie.

"He prayed over an empty coffin!

"Sacrilege, sacrilege!

"Oh, G.o.d will be without pity! At last the coffin was carried and buried in our family chapel.

"Yesterday, in the night, for the last time I embraced this unfortunate child, now abandoned, now without a name. Now the shame and remorse of those who have given it birth will ever--

"I could not give him up--I could not. Alas! it was always a kiss,--just a last kiss. When Justine s.n.a.t.c.hed it from my arms it uttered a pitiful cry.

"Oh, that feeble wail of sorrow reechoes in the depths of my soul; what a fatal omen!

"Again I ask, what will become of it? Oh, what will become of it?

That woman--that nurse, who is she? What interest will she take in this unfortunate orphan? She will be indifferent to its tears, to its sorrows; miserable woman, its poor weeping will never move her as I have been stirred by its one feeble wail!

"Who is this woman? Who is this woman, I ask. Justine says she will answer for her, but has Justine the heart of a mother, which could answer for her, could judge her? I, yes, I would have known so quickly if she was worthy of confidence. Why did I not think of that? Why did I not see her myself? Ah, G.o.d is just! the guilty wife could be nothing but a bad mother!

"Poor little one! He is going to suffer. Who will protect him? Who will defend him? If this woman is unfaithful,--if she is avaricious, she is going to let him want for everything,--he is going to be cold,--he is going to be hungry,--perhaps she will beat him! Oh, my child, my child!

"Oh! I am an unnatural mother,--I am base,--I am infamous,--I am afraid,--I have not the courage of my crime. No, no, I will not! I will not! I will brave all, the return of my husband, the shame, ay, death itself, but I will not be separated for ever from my child; nothing but death shall separate us,--there is time enough yet Justine is coming.

I am going to tell her to go for the nurse and instruct her to remain here.

"Nothing, nothing!--oh, my G.o.d! to be at the mercy of these people like that! Justine refuses to tell me the route this woman has taken,--she has dared to speak to me of my duties, of what I owe to my husband. Oh, shame, shame! once I was so proud, to be reduced to this!

Yet she weeps while she denies me; poor woman, she thinks I am insane.

"What is so awful is, that I dare not invoke Heaven's blessing on this unfortunate child, abandoned at its birth; it is devoted to grief.

What will become of it?

"Ah! you at least will not abandon it, but in his infancy, at that age when he will have so much need of care and tenderness, what can you do for him? Nothing, oh, my G.o.d, nothing! And besides, may you not die in battle? Oh, how dreadful would that be--fortunately I am so weak, that I shall not survive this agony, or rather I shall die under the first look of him whom I have so terribly offended.

"Each one of his letters, so faithful, so n.o.ble, so tender, strikes me a mortal blow. Yesterday I announced to him the fatal news, another lie.

How he will suffer! Already he loved the child so much!

"Ah, how dreadful, how dreadful! but this struggle will soon end, yes, I feel it, the end is very near.

"Pierre, I wish nevertheless to see you before I die. It is more than a presentiment--it is a certainty. I tell you that never shall I see him again.

"I am sure of it, if I see him again, I feel it, his presence will kill me.

"To-morrow you must leave France.

"When this poor child is confided to you, if he survives his sad infancy, Pierre, love him, oh, love him! He will never have had a mother's love. I wish, if he is worthy of the sacred vocation, and if it suits his mind and his character, I wish him to be a priest. Some day you will tell him the terrible secret of his birth.

"He will pray for you and for me, and perhaps Heaven will hear his prayers. I feel very feeble, very feeble. Again, Pierre, I must see you.

Ah, how cruelly we expiate a few days of madness!