CHAPTER XXX.—IN THE TOILS.

He spoke quietly enough, but she recoiled as if he had struck her.

‘Your wife!’ she exclaimed. ‘Your wife, monsieur!’

A dark look passed over the Frenchman’s face. He bowed profoundly.

‘It is an honour which has been coveted by many, madame,’ he returned, ‘to be the wife of your humble serviteur; but I am proud to say it has been reserved for one who is truly worthy of it. Yes, Madeline, I will own it—at one time I thought the position too elevated for you; but when I saw you nobly rising to fame, I said to myself, “After all, I was wrong. She is a splendid creature; she will adorn our world of Art; at the right moment I will reveal the truth, and claim her”—and so, my dear Madeline, I claim you now!’

He smiled, he held forth his hand; but Madeline recoiled again.

‘Do not touch me,’ she cried wildly.

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘Eh bien—I have no wish to touch you, chère amie—but if you play the tragedy queen in the park you will gather a crowd about you, and that would not be pleasant for you.

He spoke with quiet malignity; nevertheless Madeline knew that he spoke truly. She was utterly in his power, and for her own sake she dared not make a scene; whatever she said must be said quietly for fear of attracting attention. She cast a fearful glance around her, then, pale and trembling with disgust and shame, she turned again to the Frenchman.

‘This is another of your falsehoods. Why have you chosen to tell me it to-day?’

‘Mon Dieu! what a question! I do not choose to tell you a story. I came to claim my wife.’

‘It is false. I am not your wife.’

‘No? Then this little writing lies.’

As he spoke he drew forth a paper and waved it carelessly in the air.

‘Ah, my dear Madeline, there was once a time when you would joyfully have received the news I bring you to-day. You did not always scorn the thought of being madame my lady!’

‘You are right, monsieur,’ answered Madeline. ‘There was once a time when the news which you bring me today would have been welcome to me, but thank God that time has gone, and I am changed!’

‘Yes,’ he returned quietly, ‘you are changed, as you say; so also am I. At that period of my career to which you allude I was not perfect, and, pardon me for saying so, Madeline, neither were you. I confess with all humility that I told lies, and we both showed temper, but—nous avons changé tout cela! I come to-day to tell you the truth, and to offer you your rightful home.’

Again he moved as if to approach her. Again she shrank away.

‘It is not the truth,’ she returned vehemently; ‘I refuse to believe you! You told me the truth once, but you are lying to me to-day!’

Again his face darkened, but when he spoke his voice was as sweet as it had been before.

‘Your judgment is harsh, chérie, but I have without doubt deserved it—that being so, I bear it with patience. I say to you that I lied to you before; therefore I must not expect you to believe me now. Before I could not prove the truth of my statement, but that is all changed at last!’

Again he produced his slip of paper; this time he held it out before Madeline’s eyes. In a dazed, troubled way she looked at it. She saw at a glance that it was the certificate, real or forged, of the marriage between Auguste Belleisle and Madeline Hazel mere. Therefore she completely lost her self control, and did what, under the circumstances, it was most injudicious that she should do—she allowed the Frenchman to see that she was afraid.

‘I will not—I cannot—believe it,’ she cried. ‘If it is so, why did you tell me that wicked falsehood, when I did not know you well enough to doubt your word?’

‘I will tell you, dearest. When I induced you to fly with me from the school I was poor—miserably poor, and I believed I was eloping with a lady who would become possessed of a fortune when she was of age. Ah! forgive me, but I was wicked, corrupt! Then I said to myself, “She is a charming girl; she will become the victim of fortune-hunters; she evidently adores me, and I care for her; the fortune must be mine!” Afterwards you repented of your mad folly. I knew you did so too late—in spite of your wishes I married you. Shortly after our marriage you yourself informed me, chérie, that you were poor. I felt that I had been befooled, and I grew enraged. Still, as I could not easily rid myself of my wife, I resolved to make her useful. I did so. You fell into my plans until you discovered them; then you showed temper, and threatened to become dangerous. I wondered for a second time what I should do with you. I determined to try a bold stroke, and succeed or fail. I succeeded. I told you a lie, mon ange, and in your charming innocence you believed it to be the truth. You asked for no proofs, which was lucky for me, since I could produce none. You believed that you had been my mistress. I knew that you were bound to me by a nearer and a dearer tie.’

He paused and looked at her. Her face was ghastly, her eyes wildly fixed; she shivered through all her frame.

‘Madame, you are not well.’

Again she shrank away. He smiled and nodded.

‘Mon ange, I know I have done wrong, but you must forget and forgive. I came to make amends. Since those days of which I have spoken I also have changed. I am no longer a penniless, nameless Frenchman. I have risen to a position which henceforth I hope to adorn. The divine Muse has entered into my soul. Art is now my adored mistress; the great men and women of the land are pleased, so to speak, to prostrate themselves before me. I offer you a position which thousands would give their lives to fill. Bien! I care nothing for them. I accept their adulation, but I am willing to place you beside me and say to the world, “This charming creature is my wife!”’

What wonderful self-sacrifice!—what condescension!

He stood as if expecting her to fall in ecstasy at his feet. She simply stared at him in dumb amazement, till, disgusted at her silence, Gavrolles, who had all his wits about him, spoke again.

‘Mon Dieu, but am I not generous!’ he said. ‘I say to you, “Come to me, my wife;” while you think, “Alas! it is too late. I have taken to myself another husband.” Well, that shall make no difference to me. I take the blame of that, since it was I who deceived you. Yes, mon ange, I forgive you from my soul! *

She looked at him in deepening horror, while she said in a hollow voice—

‘What of my husband, monsieur?’

‘Parbleu, I had no thought of him. What is he?—a common tradesman, I believe; a dull creature, incapable of comprehending the splendours of a nature like mine; there is no poetry in his soul. He adds up his accounts now; he will add them up when you are gone—that is all!’

Madeline’s face grew even whiter, but her eyes flashed fire.

‘Take care,’ she cried, ‘take care. Say what you like of me, do what you can to me, but don’t dare to put a slight on him.’

It was now the Frenchman’s turn to be astonished. For a moment the lackadaisical look of condescension passed completely from his eyes.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked sharply.

‘Only this, monsieur, that the gentleman whom you are pleased to denounce as commonplace is as far above you as the sun is above the earth. That after you had tried to destroy me it was he who nobly put out his hand to save me. That sooner than let you bring disgrace and sorrow to him I will make a sacrifice of myself, perhaps of you!’

‘Parbleu, but you are heroic,’ sneered the Frenchman.

‘What I am,’ continued Madeline, ‘I am; thanks to you, and you only. I have been dragged as low almost as the women who nightly walk the streets. Now you come to me and ask me to return to shame and degradation. Your wife I may be, as you say, but sooner than return to you and live with you—in honourable wedlock, as the world would call it—I would destroy myself. I expect no mercy from you. Well, you may do you worst—what that may be I neither know nor care.’

And before the Frenchman could utter a word she turned from him and walked swiftly away.

He did not attempt to follow her. This sudden and unexpected onslaught of his victim had found him quite unprepared, and he gazed after her with eyes full of perplexity and amazement. Then he, too, turned and walked away. He strolled slowly through the park in the direction of the Serpentine; having reached it, he paused on one of the bridges, leant over the parapet, and watched the swans. He felt in his pocket, threw them some broken biscuits, and watched them eat.

While so watching, he soliloquised. ‘As I suspected,’ he murmured, ‘she still possesses a spirit and a temper—-eh bien, it is for me to manage both. If this little piece of paper (touching the certificate) were genuine, if that spirited creature were indeed my wife, I should find my work easy. The law would give her to me, and there would be an end to the whole matter. I would place her again upon the stage; she would make me a rich man, while I could pursue my dream, mount rapidly up the ladder of fame, become the idol of mankind, and make my name immortal. But, alas! that cannot be. The charming creature detests me, and means to resist me. I dare not appeal to the law, for it would require more proofs of my sagacity than my charming Madeline does. Parbleu! what must I do now?’

He ran his thin fingers through his long hair; he gazed again meditatively at the water; he threw some more biscuits to the swans. Suddenly the perplexed look passed away from his face, which lit up into positive ecstasy.

‘The husband! 5 he cried. ‘Mon Dieu! but she adores the husband even more cordially than she detests me. Let me think of him; let my plans involve him, and my success is tolerably sure.’