"None, madame."
She fixed her sparkling eyes on me for a moment, sighed deeply, and said, gently and sadly:
"You may go ... I won't detain you any longer."
The confidence with which I had just been honoured, had not surprised me much. For some time it had been evident that Mlle. Marguerite reserved for M. de Bévallan whatever sympathy she had left for humanity. But she seemed to show rather a friendly preference than an impassioned tenderness. And I ought to say that the preference was quite intelligible. I have never liked M. de Bévallan, and in these pages I have, in spite of myself, given a caricature rather than a portrait of him, but I admit that he combines most of the qualities and defects that are popular with women. He is absolutely devoid of modesty, which is a great advantage, as women do not like it. He has the cool, mocking, and witty assurance which nothing can daunt, which easily daunts others, and which gives to its possessor a kind of domination and a factitious superiority. His tall figure, his bold features, his skill in athletic exercises, his reputation as a sportsman, give him a manly authority which impresses the timid sex. And he has an air of daring, enterprise, and conquest which attracts and troubles women, and fills their souls with secret ardour. Such advantages, it is true, are, as a rule, chiefly impressive to vulgar natures; but though, as usual, I had at first been tempted to put Mlle. Marguerite's nature on a level with her beauty, she had for some time past seemed to make a positive parade of very mediocre sentiments, and I believed she was capable of yielding without resistance as without enthusiasm, and with the passive coldness of a lifeless imagination, to the charms of a common-place lady-killer, and, later, to the yoke of a respectable marriage.
AH this made it necessary for me to accept the inevitable, and I did so more easily than I should have thought possible a month ago. For I had summoned all my courage to combat the first temptations of a love, equally condemned by good sense and by honour. And she who had unwittingly imposed this combat on me, had also unwittingly powerfully helped me in my resistance. If she could not hide her beauty from me, she also unveiled her soul, and mine had recoiled. Small loss, no doubt, for the young millionaire, but a good thing for me.
Meanwhile I had to go to Paris, partly on Mme. Laroque's business and partly on my own. I returned two days ago, and as I arrived at the château I was told that old M. Laroque had repeatedly asked for me since the morning. I hurried to his apartment. A smile flickered across his withered cheeks as he saw me. He looked at me with an expression of malignant joy and secret triumph; then he said, in his dull, hollow voice:
"M. de Saint-Cast is dead."
This news, which the strange old man had wanted to tell me himself, was correct. On the previous night poor General de Saint-Cast had had a stroke of apoplexy, and an hour later had been snatched from the life of wealth and luxury which he owed to his wife. Directly the news came to the château, Mme. Aubry had started off to her friend, and the two had, as Dr. Desmarets told us, passed the day chanting a sort of litany of original and piquant ideas on the subject of death—the swiftness with which it strikes its prey, the impossibility of preventing or guarding against it, the futility of regrets, which cannot bring back the departed, the consoling effects of time, etc., etc.
After which they sat down to dinner, and gradually recovered their spirits. "Madame," said Mme. Aubry, "you must eat, you must keep yourself alive. It is our duty and the will of God."
At dessert Mme. de Saint-Cast had a bottle of the poor general's favourite Spanish wine, and begged Mme. Aubry to taste it for his sake. But, as Mme. Aubry firmly refused to be the only one to partake of it, Mme. de Saint-Cast allowed herself to be persuaded that God also wished her to have a glass of Spanish wine and a crust of bread. The general's health was not drunk. Early yesterday morning, Mme. Laroque and her daughter, both in mourning, took their places in the carriage. I accompanied them. About ten o'clock we were at the little town. While I attended the general's funeral, the ladies joined the widow's circle of official sympathizers. After the service I returned to the house, and with some other friends I was introduced into the famous drawing-room, the furniture of which had cost fifteen thousand francs. In the funereal half-light I distinguished the inconsolable Mme. de Saint-Cast sitting on a twelve-hundred-franc sofa, enveloped in crape, the price of which we were told before long. At her side was Mme. Aubry, an image of physical and moral prostration. Half a dozen friends and relatives completed this doleful group. As we took up our positions in line at the farther end of the salon, there was a sound of shuffling feet and some cracking of the parquet, then gloomy silence fell again on this mausoleum. Only from time to time a lamentable sigh, faithfully echoed by Mme. Aubry, rose from the sofa.