One rainy November day, her husband had gone to Provence on business. She was sitting, gazing into the bright fire, and thankfully meditating upon her present happiness, when the servant brought her a letter, which had been left by a stranger, who refused to give his name.
Without the faintest presentiment of evil, she carelessly broke the seal, and in an instant was almost petrified by the words which met her terrified eye:
“MADAME—Would it be relying too much upon the memories of the past to hope for half an hour of your time?
“To-morrow, between two and three, I will do myself the honor of calling upon you.
“THE MARQUIS OF CLAMERAN.”
Fortunately, Mme. Fauvel was alone.
Trembling like a leaf, she read the letter over and over again, as if to convince herself that she was not the victim of a horrible hallucination.
Half a dozen times, with a sort of terror, she whispered that name once so dear—Clameran! spelling it aloud as if it were a strange name which she could not pronounce. And the eight letters forming the name seemed to shine like the lightning which precedes a clap of thunder.
Ah! she had hoped and believed that the fatal past was atoned for, and buried in oblivion; and now it stood before her, pitiless and threatening.
Poor woman! As if all human will could prevent what was fated to be!