No; the aim of this vile intriguing woman was merely the re-establishment of her former ascendancy over her daughter,—by fair means or by foul—by conciliation or intimidation—by ministering to her vanity and her pride, or by working on her fears—by rendering herself necessary to her, or by reducing her to subjection through a course of studied despotism and tyranny. Her imagination pictured the voluptuous and impassioned Perdita clinging to her young husband as to something which had become necessary to her very existence, and from which it were death to part; and she chuckled within herself, as she muttered between her lips,—“The girl would have this marriage; and it shall be made in my hands a means to subdue her! For in her tenderest moments—when reading love in his eyes, and looking love with her own,—when wrapt in Elysian dreams and visions of ineffable bliss—then will I steal near her, and whisper in her ear, ‘Perdita, you must yield to me in all things; or with a word—a single word—will I betray you to that fond, confiding fool; I will blast all your happiness, and he shall cast thee away from him as a loathsome and polluted thing!’”
With such agreeable musings as these did Mrs. Fitzhardinge while away the half-hour which the hackney-coach occupied in driving her from the hotel to the British Embassy. It was now five o’clock in the evening, and she fortunately found the chaplain’s clerk in an office to which the gate-porter directed her to proceed. From the official to whom she was thus referred, she learnt that Charles Hatfield and Perdita Fitzhardinge were united in matrimonial bonds on the previous day; and an inspection of the register, for which she paid a small fee, enabled her to ascertain the address they had given as their place of abode in the French capital.
Satisfied with these results, Mrs. Fitzhardinge returned to the vehicle, and ordered the coachman to drive her to an hotel which she named, and which was the one mentioned in the register. We should observe that the old woman spoke French with fluency; and thus she had no difficulty in making herself understood in the gay city of Paris.
CHAPTER CLV.
THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
On arriving at the hotel indicated, Mrs. Fitzhardinge alighted, and inquired of the porter whether Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield were residing there. The man referred to a long list of names on a paper posted against the wall; and, after running his eye down the column, turned to the old woman with the laconic, but respectfully uttered observation,—“Removed to No. 9, Rue Monthabor.”
To this new address did Mrs. Fitzhardinge repair, without pausing to ask any further question; and on her arrival at the entrance to a house of handsome appearance in the street named, she inquired for Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield.
“Oh! it is all right,” said the porter. “I was told that if any persons called to ask for Mrs. Hatfield, I was to direct them to the lady who has taken the second floor.”
Mrs. Fitzhardinge was somewhat surprised by this ambiguous answer: but it instantly struck her that Charles might have assumed his title of Viscount Marston, and that the name of Hatfield would, therefore, be unknown to the porter, had no particular instructions been left with him. At all events, she was in too great a hurry to remain bandying words with the man; and she accordingly hastened to ascend to the second floor, which, we should observe by the way, is the most fashionable in Parisian houses.
But as she mounted the staircase, it struck her that the porter, when replying to her query, had made no mention of any gentleman at all, but had plainly and clearly spoken of “the lady who has taken the second floor.” The old woman was puzzled—indeed, bewildered by the mystery which suddenly appeared to envelope her; and a certain misgiving seized upon her mind, the nature of which she could not precisely define.
On gaining the marble landing of the second floor, she rang the bell at the door of the suite of apartments on that flat, and was immediately admitted by Rosalie into a handsomely furnished drawing-room.