The Seven Cardinal Sins: Envy and Indolence Part 78

"Possibly, monsieur; at all events, I felt so bewildered that I was obliged to ask you to return this evening, that we might have the explanation which is now indispensable."

"I am at your service, madame."

"Will you first permit me to ask you a few questions. I will afterwards answer yours. You told me that you and Florence were divorced, did you not? I was not aware of it before."

"That is not strange, for since that unfortunate evening when I met you in my house, neither my wife nor I have heard anything in relation to you."

"I will tell you why, monsieur."

"I must first explain that, after the terrible scene in which you and M.

d'Infreville, and my wife and I, took part, I very naturally felt deeply incensed with you. After your departure, Florence and I had a violent quarrel. She declared that she would not live with me any longer, and that she intended to make her home with you and your mother, that is, of course, if you and M. d'Infreville separated."

"Did Florence really intend to do that?"

"Yes, madame, for she always seemed to feel the tenderest affection for you. As you may suppose, I told her that such an idea was madness; but she, nevertheless, declared that she should leave me, whether or no. I shrugged my shoulders, but the separation took place, nevertheless."

"Such firmness of will on Florence's part surprises me very much; it accords so little with her habitual indolence."

"Ah, madame, how little you know her! How little I knew her myself! You have no idea how the inertia of such a character makes itself felt.

Prior to the scene in which you were a partic.i.p.ant, my wife and I had had a slight disagreement. As I have told you, I have a pa.s.sion for travel. It was the desire of my life to make Florence share this fondness, for I was very much in love with her, and to explore foreign lands in company with a beloved wife was my ideal of happiness. But Florence, with her incurable indolence, would not listen to the idea for a moment. I was wrong, undoubtedly; I realise it now that it is too late. I treated her too much as if she were a child and I the master; and though I loved her to idolatry, I thought her best interests and my dignity demanded that I should be imperious and severe; besides,--shall I confess it?--nervous, quick-tempered, and energetic as I am, her mocking indifference drove me almost crazy. The day after I met you in her room, she went to your house, but your servants told her that you had left in the night with your mother and M. d'Infreville. As time pa.s.sed, and she could discover no clue to your whereabouts, her chagrin and grief became intense. I pitied her so much that for some time I said nothing about a journey I had contemplated for many months, but finally, resolved to overcome my wife's opposition on this subject, I announced my intention of visiting Switzerland. I antic.i.p.ated a lively resistance on her part, but I was wrong."

"She consented?"

"'You insist upon my travelling,' she said to me. 'So be it. You have a right to do so, you claim. Very well, try it,' she added, with a most nonchalant air, 'but I warn you that you will bring me back to Paris within a week.'"

"And within a week, monsieur--?"

"I had brought her back to Paris."

"But how did she manage to compel you to do so?"

"In the simplest way in the world," said M. de Luceval, bitterly. "We started. At our first stopping-place--I forgot to tell you that we did not start until nine in the morning, so she would not be obliged to rise too early--"

"Well?"

"She remained in bed forty-eight hours on the pretext that she was overcome with fatigue, remarking to me with an insolent calmness that exasperated me beyond measure, 'The law gives you the right to compel me to accompany you, but the law does not limit the hours I am to remain in bed.' What could one say in reply to this? Besides, how was one to while away forty-eight hours in a dingy inn? Picture, if you can, madame, my wrath and impatience all that time, unable to extort another word from my wife. Nevertheless, I would not yield. 'I can stand it as long as she can,' I said to myself; 'she loves her comfort, and two or three such sojourns in dingy post-stations will cure her of her obstinacy.'"

"And were these expectations on your part realised?"

"I will tell you, madame. At the end of these two days, we set out again, and about three o'clock in the afternoon we stopped in a miserable little village for fresh horses. The road had been rather dusty, and Florence got out of the carriage and ordered her maid to come and brush the dust out of her hair. My wife was conducted to a dingy room. The bed was so untidy and uninviting that she would not lie down on it, so she made them bring in an old armchair. She established herself in that, declaring that, as she was even more fatigued this time, she would not stir out of that room for four days. I thought she was jesting, but such, alas! was not the case."

"What, monsieur, do you really mean that for four days--"

"I did not lose courage until the end of the third day. Then I could stand it no longer! Three days, madame, three whole days in that dingy hole, trying in vain to devise some means of overcoming my wife's resistance. To resort to force, and pick her up and put her in the carriage was out of the question. What a scandal it would create!

Besides, the same thing would undoubtedly have to be done over again at the next post-station. Threats and entreaties proved equally futile! And we started back to Paris exactly six days after we left it. Bad news awaited us. My wife's entire fortune had been left in the hands of her guardian, a well-known banker. He had failed and fled the country. I experienced a feeling of secret joy. Deprived of her fortune, my wife, finding herself entirely dependent upon me, would perhaps be more tractable."

"I know Florence, monsieur, and unless I am very much deceived, you were disappointed in your expectations."

"That is only too true, madame. On hearing of her loss of fortune, Florence, far from manifesting any regret, seemed much pleased. Her first words were:

"'I hope you will no longer refuse to consent to a separation now.'

"'Less than ever,' I replied; 'for I pity you, and cannot bear the thought of your being exposed to want.'

"'Before I lost my property,' she replied, 'I was rather loath to leave you, for I have given up all hope of finding Valentine. That being the case, I was fairly content to live on quietly after my own fashion; but now, every hour spent in this house is torture to me, and I will endure it no longer, so consent to give me back my freedom, and accept your own.'

"'But how will you live,--you who have all your life been accustomed to ease and luxury?'

"'I asked for ten thousand francs of my dowry when I married,' she answered. 'Part of this sum is still in my possession, and it will suffice.'

"'But this small amount spent, what will you live on?'

"'That is a matter which does not concern you in the least,' she retorted.

"'On the contrary, it does concern me to such an extent that I shall save you in spite of yourself, for whatever you may do, I will never consent to a separation.'

"'Listen, monsieur,' she said, earnestly; 'your intentions are most generous, and I thank you for them. You have many very excellent traits.

You are the most honourable man that ever lived, but our characters, dispositions, and tastes are, and always will be, so entirely incompatible that life would soon become intolerable to both of us.

Besides, this is a matter for me to decide, for, having lost my fortune, I should be a burden to you, pecuniarily. Understand then, once for all, that there is no power on earth that can force me to live with you under such conditions. I consequently beseech you to let us part quietly and amicably.'"

"This refusal, painful as it must have been to you, monsieur, really had its origin in the n.o.blest sentiments."

"I agree with you, madame, and the generosity Florence evinced, as well as the firmness of character and brave resignation which she displayed, only increased the love which I had always felt for her even when we differed most; so, in the hope that reflection and the fear of a life of poverty might yet restore her to me, I protested more energetically than ever against a separation, even promising that I would endeavour to mould my tastes by hers, but she replied: 'Such self-constraint as you propose to inflict upon yourself would transform you into a hypocrite.

You have your own peculiar temperament; I have mine. All the resolutions and reasoning in the world will not change them any more than they would transform me into a brunette and you into a blond. The same incompatibility of temperament would still exist; besides, on no account will I consent to be an expense to you. If I loved you, it would be entirely different; so once more, and for the last time, I implore you to let us part as friends.' I refused."

"And yet you are separated you say?"

"The separation took place. Florence forced it upon me."

"In what way?"

"Oh, in the simplest way in the world, and one that suited her indolent nature perfectly. Would you believe it, madame? for three whole months she never addressed a single word to me, or answered a single question I put to her. For three whole months, in short, she never once looked at me, or evinced the slightest consciousness of my existence. It is impossible to give you any conception of what I suffered,--the anger, despair, and positive fury which her mute obstinacy caused me. Prayers, tears, bribes, threats, none of these could extort so much as a word from her; one might as well have addressed them to a statue. Many a time, madame, it seemed to me that my brain would give way, and that I should go raving mad in the presence of this obdurate woman. My health became greatly impaired. A slow fever set in. This weakened my energy, and at last, convinced of the utter hopelessness of further resistance, I yielded."

"Good Heavens, how you must have suffered! But you were right. To struggle longer against such odds would have been useless."

"Consequently, I accepted the situation; but wishing to avoid scandal as much as possible, I consulted my lawyer. He informed me that one of the least objectionable grounds for a legal separation was an absolute refusal on the part of the wife to live with her husband; so Florence left my house and took up her abode in furnished apartments. I subsequently had the customary legal summons, demanding her return, served upon her. Her lawyer responded to it. The case was brought before the court, a decision was promptly rendered, and a legal separation was thus effected. My health had become so greatly impaired that my physicians thought a long journey my only chance of recovery. Before my departure, I gave one hundred thousand francs to my notary, charging him to compel my wife to accept the money. In case of refusal, he was to inform her that it would always be at her disposal; but this sum of money is still in his hands. I left France, hoping to find forgetfulness in travel. Far from it, I only realised, more deeply than ever, how much I missed my wife. I travelled through Egypt and Turkey, returning through the Illyrian provinces, and afterwards sailed from Venice for Cadiz, from which port I reembarked for Chili, where I met you, madame.

After an extended tour through the West Indies, I sailed for Havre, where I landed only a few days ago. From inquiries concerning Florence, inst.i.tuted as soon as I reached Paris, I learned that she was living on the Rue de Vaugirard. And yesterday when we met, I had just been endeavouring to obtain more definite information in relation to her, through a person who lives in the same house."

"And did you succeed, monsieur?"

"She must be in very straitened circ.u.mstances financially, for she has only one room on the fourth floor, and keeps no servant. Besides, her conduct is irreproachable. I am told that she has never been known to receive a visitor, but from some strange whim, which seems doubly incomprehensible when I remember her former indolent habits and love of ease, she goes out every morning before four o'clock, and never returns until midnight."

"Exactly like Michel!" exclaimed Valentine, unable to conceal her surprise and growing uneasiness. "How strange!"

"What do you mean, madame?"

"Why, yesterday, I discovered that M. Michel Renaud lives on the fourth floor, in Number 57, and that, like Florence, he goes out at four o'clock every morning, and never returns before midnight."

"What can this mean?" exclaimed M. de Luceval. "Michel and my wife living on the same floor in adjoining houses, and going out and returning home at the same hour?"