Madame Bastien usually saw David several times a day.

One day he did not make his appearance at all.

When supper-time came Marguerite went to tell him that the meal was on the table, but David bade the servant say to Madame Bastien that, not feeling very well, would she kindly excuse him for not coming down as usual?

Frederick, too, refused to leave his room, so Marie, for the first time since Henri David's arrival, spent the evening alone.

This loneliness caused a feeling of profound depression, and she was a.s.sailed by all sorts of gloomy presentiments.

When she went to her room about eleven o'clock, her son was asleep, or pretended to be asleep, so sadly and silently she slipped on a wrapper and let down her long hair, preparatory to brushing it for the night, when old Marguerite, coming in as usual to inquire if her mistress wanted anything before retiring, remarked, as she was about to withdraw:

"I forgot to ask you if Andre could have the horse and cart to go to Pont Brillant to-morrow morning, madame?"

"Yes," answered Marie, abstractedly.

"You know why Andre has got to go to the village, don't you, madame?"

"No," replied Marie, with the same deeply absorbed air.

"Why, it is to take M. David's things. He is going away, it seems."

"Great Heavens!" exclaimed Madame Bastien, letting the ma.s.s of hair she had been holding fall upon her shoulders, and, turning suddenly to the old servant, "What are you saying, Marguerite?"

"I say that the gentleman is going away, madame."

"What gentleman?"

"Why, M. David, M. Frederick's new tutor, and it is a pity, for--"

"He is going away?" repeated Madame Bastien, interrupting Marguerite in such a strangely altered voice, and with such an expression of grief and dismay, that the servant gazed at her wonderingly. "There must be some mistake. How do you know that M. David is going away?"

"He is sending his things away."

"Who told you so?"

"Andre."

"How does he know?"

"Why, yesterday M. David asked Andre if he could get a horse and cart to send some trunks to Pont-Brillant in a day or two. Andre told him yes; so I thought I ought to tell you that Andre intended to use the horse to-morrow, that is all."

"M. David has become discouraged. He abandons the task as an impossibility. The embarra.s.sment and regret he feels are the cause of his holding himself so sedulously aloof all day. My son is lost!"

This was Marie's first and only thought. And, wild with despair, forgetting her disordered toilet and the lateness of the hour, she rushed up-stairs and burst into David's room, leaving Marguerite stupefied with amazement.

CHAPTER XXIII.

When Marie presented herself so unexpectedly before him, David was seated at his little table in the att.i.tude of meditation. At the sight of the young woman, pale, weeping, her hair dishevelled, and in the disorder of her night-dress, he rose abruptly, and, turning as pale as Marie herself, at the fear that some dreadful event had taken place, said:

"Madame, what has happened? Has Frederick--"

"M. David!" exclaimed the young woman, "it is impossible for you to abandon us in this way!"

"Madame--"

"I tell you, that you shall not leave, no, you cannot have the heart to do it. My only, my last hope is in you, because--you know it well, oh, my G.o.d!--I have no one in the world to help me but you!"

"Madame, a word, I implore you."

Marie, clasping her hands, continued in a supplicating voice:

"Mercy, M. David, be good and generous to the end. Why are you discouraged? The transports of my son have ceased, he has given up his plans for vengeance. That is already a great deal, and that I owe to your influence. Frederick's dejection increases, but that is no reason for despair. My G.o.d! My G.o.d! Perhaps you think me ungrateful, because I express my grat.i.tude to you so poorly. It is not my fault. My poor child seems as dear to you as to me. Sometimes you say _our_ Frederick; then I forget that you are a stranger who has had pity on us! Your tenderness toward my son seems to me so sincere that I am no more astonished at your devotion to him than at my own."

In his astonishment, David had not at first been able to find a word; then he experienced such delight in hearing Marie portray her grat.i.tude in such a touching manner that, in spite of himself, he did not rea.s.sure her, perhaps, as soon as he could have done so. Nevertheless, reproaching himself for not putting an end to the agony of this unhappy woman, he said:

"Will you listen to me, madame?"

"No, no," cried she, with the impetuosity of grief and entreaty. "Oh, you surely will have pity, you will not kill me with despair, after having made me hope so much! How can I do without you now? Oh, my G.o.d!

what do you think will become of us if you go away? Oh, monsieur, there is one memory which is all-powerful with you, the memory of your brother. In the name of this memory, I implore you not to abandon Frederick. You have been as tender with him as if he were your own child or your own brother. These are sacred links which unite you and me, and you will not break these links without pity; no, no, it cannot be possible!"

And sobs stifled the voice of the young woman.

Tears came also to the eyes of David, and he hastened to say to Madame Bastien, in a voice full of emotion:

"I do not know, madame, what has made you think that I intended to go away. Nothing was farther from my thought."

"Really!" exclaimed Marie, in a voice which cannot be described.

"And if I must tell you, madame, while I have not been discouraged, I have realised the difficulty of our task; but to-day, at this hour, for the first time I have good hope."

"My G.o.d, you hear him!" murmured Marie with religious fervour. "May this hope not be in vain!"

"It will not be, madame, I have every reason to believe, and, far from contemplating departure, I have spent my time in reflecting all this day, because to-morrow may offer something decisive. And in order that my reflections might not be interrupted, I did not appear at dinner, under the pretext of a slight indisposition. Calm yourself, madame, I implore you in my turn. Believe that I have only one thought in the world, the salvation of our Frederick. To-day this salvation is not only possible, but probable. Yes, everything tells me that to-morrow will be a happy day for us."

It is impossible to describe the transformation which, at each word of David, was manifested in the countenance of the young woman. Her face, so pale and distorted by agony, became suddenly bright with joyous surprise; her lovely features, half veiled by her loose and beautiful hair, now shone with ineffable hope.

Marie was so adorably beautiful, thus attired in her white dressing-gown, half open from the violent palpitations of her bosom, that a deep blush mounted to David's brow, and the pa.s.sionate love that he had so long felt, not without dread, now took possession of his heart.

"M. David," continued Madame Bastien, "surely you will not deceive me with false hope, in order to escape my prayers, and spare yourself the sight of my tears. Oh, forgive me, forgive me! I am ashamed of this last doubt, the last echo of my past terror. Oh, I believe you, yes, I believe you! I am so happy to believe you!"

"You can do so, madame, for I have never lied," replied David, scarcely daring to look up at Marie, whose beauty intoxicated him almost to infatuation. "But who, madame, has led you to suppose that I was going away?"

"It was Marguerite who told me a little while ago in my chamber; then, in my dismay, I ran to you."