"Why, what's the matter?"
"Nothing," said she. "Rue de Solferino? Then it's Monsieur Jaubourg, this sick friend? it is to Monsieur Jaubourg's that you are going?"
"Yes. How do you know his name?" And then, answering his own question, "To be sure, I have been to his house several times on leaving you. I have talked about him to you, and rather unkindly. I am sorry now. He has never shown much liking for me, and when I wanted to enter Saint-Cyr, he did much to excite my father against me. I bore him a grudge for it. But that was long ago, and he is mixed up in so many memories of my childhood! The news of his illness touched me. According to my father's despatch which I found at the house, asking me to go to see him, he is dying."
"He is dying!" she echoed. "Mon Dieu! I hope you will not be admitted. In your present state of wounded sensibility, that visit will be too trying, and it's of no use. Promise me that you won't try to see him!"
"Dear, dear friend!" exclaimed Landri, bestowing a second kiss on Valentine's clenched hand, "I tell you again that you do not know how completely you have restored my tranquillity, nor how brave I should be at this moment before the worst trials. And this visit would not be a trial to me. But I will manage to do what you wish, even in so unimportant a matter. I shall deserve no credit for it. I prefer not to place any too painful image between what I feel here"—he pointed to his heart—"and my return—to-morrow. How far away it is, and yet so near!"
"Until to-morrow, then," she rejoined with a half smile, as to which he could not divine that it was forced. "Come at two o'clock as usual,—and now, adieu."
"Adieu!" he said. Instinctively he drew near to her. In his eyes blazed a gleam of passion instantly subdued by her eyes. He repeated "Adieu!" in a voice stifled by the effort he made to control himself and not to give way to his ardent longing to cover with kisses that fair hair, that pure brow, that quivering mouth.
He rushed from the salon. She listened to the young man's step as he passed through the adjoining room, then through the reception-room and the street door, which opened and closed. When he had gone from the house, and doubtless from the street, a long while, she was still on the same spot and in the same attitude, steadfastly contemplating her thoughts. What she saw was not the refined and soldierly profile of the young man whom she loved, who loved her, and whose wife she knew now that she would be. No, she saw herself at Saint-Mihiel, a very long time before. She fancied that she was living through that hour again. Landri had just joined the regiment. Valentine had a friend, one Madame Privat, the wife of one of the officers of the garrison. On several occasions she had fancied that that friend was extraordinarily cold to the newcomer. Inconsiderately enough she had asked her—she could hear herself putting the question: "Monsieur de Claviers-Grandchamp seems so antipathetic to you. Why is it?" And she could hear Marguerite Privat reply:—
"I admit it, but it's an old, a very old story. We have a distant cousin, a Monsieur Jaubourg, of whom we used to see a great deal. I say we; I should say my parents. They had a little plan for having him marry one of my aunts. Suddenly the relations between us lost their warmth. The marriage didn't take place. This coldness dates from the day that he became intimate with the Claviers. He had, at all events my parents thought so, a passion for Madame de Claviers. They even believed that there was a liaison. In families many things are known that the public doesn't understand. He seemed to avoid us. My parents did not seek a reconciliation which would have seemed to be based on self-interest. Monsieur Jaubourg is the son of a broker and very rich. I witnessed my father's grief from this rupture, which was the cause of a very unhappy union contracted by my aunt out of spite. I have always blamed Madame de Claviers for it, perhaps unjustly. The sight of her son stirs those memories and is painful to me."
Yes, that was long, long ago, and lo! Madame Olier found anew in her heart the melancholy sensation with which Madame Privat's words had suddenly oppressed her. Must it be that she loved Landri even then, unconsciously? The truth of that confidence was guaranteed both by the character of her who made it and by the chance that led to it. But perhaps it was all a matter of chance. So that Madame Olier did not believe in it altogether. However, she had retained an ineradicable doubt. How often she had wondered whether the young man's mother had really made a misstep, and whether he was in danger of ever hearing of it! She had had a little shiver every time that he had mentioned the name of Jaubourg, by chance, in their conversations; and deeply stirred as she was, all those complex and confused sensations had suddenly reawakened when he had spoken of his proposed visit to Rue de Solferino. She had fancied him at the bedside of a sick man who, in his last moments, would perhaps let a terrible secret escape his lips! Her apprehension had been so great that an impulsive entreaty had followed, most imprudent if the relations between Jaubourg and the late Marquise de Claviers-Grandchamp had really been culpable!