The Greeks of old wrote of Fate. The oracles of ancient Greece are replaced to-day by the honest, sturdy letter-carriers in their grey and black uniform.
It was nine o'clock in the evening. Odette was visiting her friend at St. Cloud; Claude and Grenoble had been absent several days on their sketching tour; Mme. Sirvin had retired early; so Paul was writing alone in his study. His book was progressing finely and would soon be ready for the publisher. Happiness is such a help to labor. He finally threw aside his pen, gayly, conscious that he had written well, and glad to have accomplished so much. He looked around for the evening paper and saw the letter lying on the table, that the servant had brought up with the paper. He noticed that the handwriting was unknown to him, and, carelessly thinking of some thing else, he opened the envelope.
He read the note in one glance, without moving, or uttering a sound; then, thinking he had misunderstood it, read it again. He crushed the paper in his hand and tossed it away, saying, "Poor Odette! That such a scoundrel should dare to even take her name on his lips!" Not a moment, not an instant of suspicion. His only thought was of tender sympathy with his wife and anger at her enemy.
He walked up and down the room, trying to imagine who could have written the cowardly, venomous thing; but could not think of a single enemy, far or near. The idea of his wife being untrue to him brought a smile to his lips, it was so preposterous. Then, to think that the only man whose name could be coupled with hers, should be Claude! Claude, so kind, so generous and thoughtful! These hideous fancies, perhaps, arose from the fact that it was Claude's generosity that had enabled them to marry; and then, Claude and Odette were obliged to go out a great deal together, as they were dwelling under the same roof. He did not notice that he was proving that the calumny at least had some appearance of probability. He knew well the oak cabinet in her room; he could catch a glimpse of it through the open door. Involuntarily he walked in and looked at it, and a sudden instinct caused him to seize the poker from the fireplace, and knock on the lock till it gave way and the carved doors flew open. He felt ashamed of his suspicious search as he saw the little drawers and divisions open before him. He withdrew his hand that he had half extended. Then, hurriedly, stealthily, like a thief in the night, he pulled open the drawers one by one, looking their contents carefully over, and tossing them aside. At last he came across a small, square, Japanese box. He shuddered as he found it locked. He knocked it violently against the desk, so that the cover came off in his hands, and his heart stood still as he saw a package of letters inside, tied with a narrow ribbon. He tore off this band and read the letters. He uttered a stifled cry of horror and despair. A wild, insane longing to have the blood of the guilty pair, seized him. He remembered that both were away from home; but Odette was at St. Cloud. He seized his hat and rushed out of the house, saying to himself; "I will kill her! I will kill her!" The avenue was crowded with the usual Summer evening throng, happy and gay; but Paul made his way through it, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, but Odette in Claude's arms, and a voice in his heart crying fiercely, Kill her! kill her!
So he had been deceived from the first! Even before his marriage had Claude and Odette loved each other! Nothing but treachery! He recalled the first months of his married life, when Odette had been so inexpressibly sweet and fascinating; those long, passionate embraces; their strolls in the woods; he could see the waves dancing in the sunbeams as he closed his eyes; that enchanting "solitude à deux;" and he gnashed his teeth as he reflected that it was all treachery and deceit. Odette had been lying when she told him she loved him; lying, when she embraced him. Nothing, nothing was left him. All had been false. She must die; and Claude must die. Paul recalled Claude's visit to Canet, when he thought him the soul of generosity and honor; and that, too, was false treachery! Claude wanted to establish his mistress in a house of her own, and could find no more suitable husband for her than his wife's son! Oh! it was infamous! And perhaps people thought that Paul had walked into the snare with his eyes open! No one could have believed that he alone was blind to his dishonor, but must have supposed his complaisant approval arose from feeling it to be to his interest to silently acquiesce! Paul stopped. He was seized with a sudden dizziness that forced him to cling to a tree for support. He had been walking blindly through the Bois de Boulogne, deserted and quiet at this late hour. His honor, as well as his happiness, had been smitten to the ground. Again he felt the instinct to kill his guilty wife drive him on. He dashed madly forward. He stumbled over a stone and fell to the ground. He grasped a drooping branch of the tree above him, and raised himself to his feet. He found his wild flight stopped by a low wall, broken down in many places, and covered with moss. He uttered a cry of dismay, for it was a cemetery that lay before him, gloomy and silent.
Paul saw the white gravestones in the pale moonlight, extending as far as he could see. The neglected cypresses and willows stretched their shaggy arms towards each other in ghostly silence. The grass grew thick and rank on the graves. No grand monuments or tombs were to be seen; only simple crosses, or plain marble slabs, gray and discolored with age.
It all seemed to Paul so sad, so sweetly peaceful. His anger subsided. He was hurrying to St. Cloud to kill his wife, and here lay Death at his feet. He leaned his arms on the wall and gazed on the solemn scene. Just before him lay a grave whose plain slab bore no other words save this simple inscription: "My Mother." Probably some poor, nameless woman, whose child had raised this touching tribute to her memory.
Those two words, "My Mother," sank into Paul's heart. Where was he going? To kill Odette, and to bring shame and disgrace to the wife of Claude Sirvin, the other victim of the tragedy. His mother! He thought no longer of himself, only of her, and his heart seemed ready to burst with sorrow and grief for her. How she worshiped her husband! and she would die at the news of his crime! Then the same thought came to him, in his love for his mother, that had come to the mother in her love for him; the sublime and noble idea of sacrificing himself for her happiness. The son said "My mother," as the mother had said "My son."
His eyes still rested on the slab before him, that seemed to say: "Tread lightly; speak softly; there is some one sleeping here."
This unknown son, imploring silence for his dead mother, seemed to show Paul that his duty was silence. Mme. Sirvin must never learn the horrible truth. It was a fearful sacrifice; but had not the mother borne as much for him? She had carried him under her heart; she had brought him into the world; she had devoted her life to rear him to manhood. Now he must, in his turn, suffer for her.