"Well, go in and tell the Countess Claudieuse,--but so that her husband does not hear you,--that Miss Chandore desires to see her a few moments."The watchman made no objection, and went in. But, when he came back, he said to the young girl,--"Madam, the countess sends word that she cannot leave her husband, who is very low."She stopped him by an impatient gesture, and said,--"Never mind! Go back and tell the countess, that, if she does not come out, I shall go in this moment; that, if it must be, I shall force my way in; that I shall call for help; that nothing will keep me. I must absolutely see her.""But, madam"--
"Go! Don't you see that it is a question of life and death?"There was such authority in her voice, that the watchman no longer hesitated. He went in once more, and reappeared a moment after.
"Go in," he said to the young girl.
She went in, and found herself in a little anteroom which preceded the office of the commonwealth attorney. A large lamp illuminated the room. The door leading to the room in which the count was lying was closed.
In the centre of the room stood the Countess Claudieuse. All these successive blows had not broken her indomitable energy. She looked pale, but calm.
"Since you insist upon it, madam," she began, "I come to tell you myself that I cannot listen to you. Are you not aware that I am standing between two open graves,--that of my poor girl, who is dying at my house, and that of my husband, who is breathing his last in there?"She made a motion as if she were about to retire; but Dionysia stopped her by a threatening look, and said with a trembling voice,--"If you go back into that room where your husband is, I shall go back with you, and I shall speak before him. I shall ask you right before him, how you dare order a priest away from his bedside at the moment of death, and whether, after having robbed him of all his happiness in life, you mean to make him unhappy in all eternity."Instinctively the countess drew back.
"I do not understand you," she said.
"Yes, you do understand me, madam. Why will you deny it? Do you not see that I know every thing, and that I have guessed what you have not told me? Jacques was your lover; and your husband has had his revenge.""Ah!" cried the countess, "that is too much; that is too much!""And you have permitted it," Dionysia went on with breathless haste;"and you did not come, and cry out in open court that your husband was a false witness! What a woman you must be! You do not mind it, that your love carries a poor unfortunate man to the galleys. You mean to live on with this thought in your heart, that the man whom you love is innocent, and nevertheless, disgraced forever, and cut off from human society. A priest might induce the count to retract his statement, you know very well; and hence you refuse to let the priest from Brechy come to his bedside. And what is the end and aim of all your crimes?
To save your false reputation as an honest woman. Ah! that is miserable; that is mean; that is infamous!"The countess was roused at last. What all M. Folgat's skill and ability had not been able to accomplish, Dionysia obtained in an instant by the force of her passion. Throwing aside her mask, the countess exclaimed with a perfect burst of rage,--"Well, then, no, no! I have not acted so, and permitted all this to happen, because I care for my reputation. My reputation!--what does it matter? It was only a week ago, when Jacques had succeeded in escaping from prison, I offered to flee with him. He had only to say a word, and I should have given up my family, my children, my country, every thing, for him. He answered, 'Rather the galleys!' "In the midst of all her fearful sufferings, Dionysia's heart filled with unspeakable happiness as she heard these words. Ah! now she could no longer doubt Jacques.
"He has condemned himself, you see," continued the countess. "I was quite willing to ruin myself for him, but certainly not for another woman.""And that other woman--no doubt you mean me!""Yes!--you for whose sake he abandoned me,--you whom he was going to marry,--you with whom he hoped to enjoy long happy years, and a happiness not furtive and sinful like ours, but a legitimate, honest happiness."Tears were trembling in Dionysia's eyes. She was beloved: she thought of what she must suffer who was not beloved.
"And yet I should have been generous," she murmured. The countess broke out into a fierce, savage laugh.
"And the proof of it is," said the young girl, "that I came to offer you a bargain.""A bargain?"
"Yes. Save Jacques, and, by all that is sacred to me in the world, Ipromise I will enter a convent: I will disappear, and you shall never hear my name any more."Intense astonishment seized the countess, and she looked at Dionysia with a glance full of doubt and mistrust. Such devotion seemed to her too sublime not to conceal some snare.
"You would really do that?" she asked.
"Unhesitatingly."
"You would make a great sacrifice for my benefit?""For yours? No, madam, for Jacques's."
"You love him very dearly, do you?"
"I love him dearly enough to prefer his happiness to my own a thousand times over. Even if I were buried in the depths of a convent, I should still have the consolation of knowing that he owed his rehabilitation to me; and I should suffer less in knowing that he belonged to another than that he was innocent, and yet condemned."But, in proportion as the young girl thus confirmed her sincerity, the brow of the countess grew darker and sterner, and passing blushes mantled her cheek. At last she said with haughty irony,--"Admirable!"
"Madam!"
"You condescend to give up M. de Boiscoran. Will that make him love me? You know very well he will not. You know that he loves you alone.
Heroism with such conditions is easy enough. What have you to fear?
Buried in a convent, he will love you only all the more ardently, and he will execrate me all the more fervently.""He shall never know any thing of our bargain!""Ah! What does that matter? He will guess it, if you do not tell him.
