第 八 章 · The revelation which had just taken place, irritated much more than

it surprised the Count de Commarin. For twenty years, he had been

constantly expecting to see the truth brought to light. He knew that

there can be no secret so carefully guarded that it may not by some

chance escape; and his had been known to four people, three of whom were

still living.

He had not forgotten that he had been imprudent enough to trust it to

paper, knowing all the while that it ought never to have been written.

How was it that he, a prudent diplomat, a statesman, full of precaution,

had been so foolish? How was it that he had allowed this fatal

correspondence to remain in existence! Why had he not destroyed, at no

matter what cost, these overwhelming proofs, which sooner or later might

be used against him? Such imprudence could only have arisen from an

absurd passion, blind and insensible, even to madness.

So long as he was Valerie’s lover, the count never thought of asking

the return of his letters from his beloved accomplice. If the idea had

occurred to him, he would have repelled it as an insult to the character

of his angel. What reason could he have had to suspect her discretion?

None. He would have been much more likely to have supposed her desirous

of removing every trace, even the slightest, of what had taken place.

Was it not her son who had received the benefits of the deed, who had

usurped another’s name and fortune?

When eight years after, believing her to be unfaithful, the count had

put an end to the connection which had given him so much happiness he

thought of obtaining possession of this unhappy correspondence. But he

knew not how to do so. A thousand reasons prevented his moving in the

matter.

The principal one was, that he did not wish to see this woman, once so

dearly loved. He did not feel sufficiently sure either of his anger or

of his firmness. Could he, without yielding, resist the tearful pleading

of those eyes, which had so long held complete sway over him?

To look again upon this mistress of his youth would, he feared, result

in his forgiving her; and he had been too cruelly wounded in his pride

and in his affection to admit the idea of a reconciliation.

On the other hand, to obtain the letters though a third party was

entirely out of the question. He abstained, then, from all action,

postponing it indefinitely. “I will go to her,” said he to himself; “but

not until I have so torn her from my heart that she will have become

indifferent to me. I will not gratify her with the sight of my grief.”

So months and years passed on; and finally he began to say and believe

that it was too late. And for now more than twenty years, he had never

passed a day without cursing his inexcusable folly. Never had he been

able to forget that above his head a danger more terrible than the sword

of Damocles hung, suspended by a thread, which the slightest accident

might break.

And now that thread had broken. Often, when considering the possibility

of such a catastrophe, he had asked himself how he should avert it? He

had formed and rejected many plans: he had deluded himself, like all men

of imagination, with innumerable chimerical projects, and now he found

himself quite unprepared.

Albert stood respectfully, while his father sat in his great armorial

chair, just beneath the large frame in which the genealogical tree

of the illustrious family of Rheteau de Commarin spread its luxuriant

branches. The old gentleman completely concealed the cruel apprehensions

which oppressed him. He seemed neither irritated nor dejected; but

his eyes expressed a haughtiness more than usually disdainful, and a

self-reliance full of contempt.

“Now viscount,” he began in a firm voice, “explain yourself. I need say

nothing to you of the position of a father, obliged to blush before his

son; you understand it, and will feel for me. Let us spare each other,

and try to be calm. Tell me, how did you obtain your knowledge of this

correspondence?”

Albert had had time to recover himself, and prepare for the present

struggle, as he had impatiently waited four days for this interview.

The difficulty he experienced in uttering the first words had now given

place to a dignified and proud demeanor. He expressed himself clearly

and forcibly, without losing himself in those details which in serious

matters needlessly defer the real point at issue.

“Sir,” he replied, “on Sunday morning, a young man called here, stating

that he had business with me of the utmost importance. I received

him. He then revealed to me that I, alas! am only your natural son,

substituted through your affection, for the legitimate child borne you

by Madame de Commarin.”

“And did you not have this man kicked out of doors?” exclaimed the

count.

“No, sir. I was about to answer him very sharply, of course; but,

presenting me with a packet of letters, he begged me to read them before

replying.”

“Ah!” cried M. de Commarin, “you should have thrown them into the fire,

for there was a fire, I suppose? You held them in your hands; and they

still exist! Why was I not there?”

“Sir!” said Albert, reproachfully. And, recalling the position Noel had

occupied against the mantelpiece, and the manner in which he stood, he

added,--“Even if the thought had occurred to me, it was impracticable.

Besides, at the first glance, I recognised your handwriting. I therefore

took the letters, and read them.”

“And then?”

“And then, sir, I returned the correspondence to the young man, and

asked for a delay of eight days; not to think over it myself--there

was no need of that,--but because I judged an interview with you

indispensable. Now, therefore, I beseech you, tell me whether this

substitution really did take place.

“Certainly it did,” replied the count violently, “yes, certainly. You

know that it did, for you have read what I wrote to Madame Gerdy, your

mother.”

Albert had foreseen, had expected this reply; but it crushed him

nevertheless.

There are misfortunes so great, that one must constantly think of them

to believe in their existence. This flinching, however, lasted but an

instant.

“Pardon me, sir,” he replied. “I was almost convinced; but I had not

received a formal assurance of it. All the letters that I read spoke

distinctly of your purpose, detailed your plan minutely; but not one

pointed to, or in any way confirmed, the execution of your project.”

The count gazed at his son with a look of intense surprise. He

recollected distinctly all the letters; and he could remember, that,

in writing to Valerie, he had over and over again rejoiced at their

success, thanking her for having acted in accordance with his wishes.

“You did not go to the end of them, then, viscount,” he said, “you did

not read them all?”

“Every line, sir, and with an attention that you may well understand.

The last letter shown me simply announced to Madame Gerdy the arrival

of Claudine Lerouge, the nurse who was charged with accomplishing the

substitution. I know nothing beyond that.”

“These proofs amount to nothing,” muttered the count. “A man may form a

plan, cherish it for a long time, and at the last moment abandon it; it

often happens so.”

He reproached himself for having answered so hastily. Albert had had

only serious suspicions, and he had changed them to certainty. What

stupidity!

“There can be no possible doubt,” he said to himself; “Valerie has

destroyed the most conclusive letters, those which appeared to her the

most dangerous, those I wrote after the substitution. But why has she

preserved these others, compromising enough in themselves? and why,

after having preserved them, has she let them go out of her possession?”

Without moving, Albert awaited a word from the count. What would it be?

No doubt, the old nobleman was at that moment deciding what he should

do.

“Perhaps she is dead!” said M. de Commarin aloud.

And at the thought that Valerie was dead, without his having again seen

her, he started painfully. His heart, after more than twenty years of

voluntary separation, still suffered, so deeply rooted was this first

love of his youth. He had cursed her; at this moment he pardoned her.

True, she had deceived him; but did he not owe to her the only years of

happiness he had ever known? Had she not formed all the poetry of his

youth? Had he experienced, since leaving her, one single hour of joy

or forgetfulness? In his present frame of mind, his heart retained only

happy memories, like a vase which, once filled with precious perfumes,

retains the odour until it is destroyed.

“Poor woman!” he murmured.

He sighed deeply. Three or four times his eyelids trembled, as if a tear

were about to fall. Albert watched him with anxious curiosity. This was

the first time since the viscount had grown to man’s estate that he had

surprised in his father’s countenance other emotion than ambition or

pride, triumphant or defeated. But M. de Commarin was not the man to

yield long to sentiment.

“You have not told me, viscount,” he said, “who sent you that messenger

of misfortune.”

“He came in person, sir, not wishing, he told me to mix any others up in

this sad affair. The young man was no other than he whose place I have

occupied,--your legitimate son, M. Noel Gerdy himself.”

“Yes,” said the count in a low tone, “Noel, that is his name, I

remember.” And then, with evident hesitation, he added: “Did he speak to

you of his--of your mother?”

“Scarcely, sir. He only told me that he came unknown to her; that he had

accidentally discovered the secret which he revealed to me.”