LITMIR.BIZ

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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!

      It was in this hour of security, when she imagined herself pardoned, that the storm was to burst upon the fragile edifice of her happiness, and destroy her every hope.

      A long time passed before she could collect her scattered thoughts sufficiently to decide upon a course of conduct.

      Then she began to think she was foolish to be so frightened. This letter was written by Gaston, of course; therefore she need feel no apprehension. Gaston had returned to France, and wished to see her. She could understand this desire, and she knew too well this man, upon whom she had lavished her young affection, to attribute any bad motives to his visit.

      He would come; and finding her the wife of another, the mother of grown sons, they would exchange thoughts of the past, perhaps a few regrets; she would restore the jewels which she had faithfully kept for him; he would assure her of his lifelong friendship, and—that would be all.

      But one distressing doubt beset her agitated mind. Should she conceal from Gaston the birth of his son?

      To confess was to expose herself to many dangers. It was placing herself at the mercy of a man—a loyal, honorable man to be sure—confiding to him not only her own peace, honor, and happiness, but the honor and happiness of her family, of her noble husband and loving sons.

      Still silence would be a crime. She had abandoned her child, denied him the cares and affection of a mother; and now should she add to her sin by depriving him of the name and fortune of his father?

      She was still undecided when the servant announced dinner.

      But she had not the courage to meet the glance of her sons. She sent word that she was not well, and would not be down to dinner. For the first time in her life she rejoiced at her husband’s absence.

      Madeleine came hurrying into her aunt’s room to see what was the matter; but Valentine dismissed her, saying she would try to sleep off her indisposition.

      She wished to be alone in her trouble, and see if she could decide upon some plan for warding off this impending ruin.

      The dreaded morrow came.

      She counted the hours until two o’clock. After that, she counted the minutes.

      At half-past two the servant announced:

      “M. the Marquis of Clameran.”

      Mme. Fauvel had promised herself to be calm, even cold. During a long, sleepless night, she had mentally arranged beforehand every detail of this painful meeting. She had even decided upon what she should say. She would reply this, and ask that; her words were all selected, and her speech ready.

      But, at the dreaded moment, her strength gave way; she turned as cold as marble, and could not rise from her seat; she was speechless, and, with a frightened look, silently gazed upon the man who respectfully bowed, and stood in the middle of the room.

      Her visitor was about fifty years of age, with iron-gray hair and mustache, and a cold, severe cast of countenance; his expression was one of haughty severity as he stood there in his full suit of black.

      The agitated woman tried to discover in his face some traces of the man whom she had so madly loved, who had pressed her to his heart, and besought her to remain faithful until he should return from a foreign land, and lay his fortune at her feet—the father of her son.

      She was surprised to discover no resemblance to the youth whose memory had haunted her life; no, never would she have recognized this stranger as Gaston.

      As he continued to stand motionless before her, she faintly murmured:

      “Gaston!”

      He sadly shook his head, and replied:

      “I am not Gaston, madame. My brother succumbed to the misery and suffering of exile: I am Louis de Clameran.”

      What! it was not Gaston, then, who had written to her; it was not Gaston who stood before her!

      She trembled with terror; her head whirled, and her eyes grew dim.

      It was not he! And she had committed herself, betrayed her secret by calling him “Gaston.”

      What could this man want?—this brother in whom Gaston had never confided? What did he know of the past?

      A thousand probabilities, each one more terrible than the other, flashed across her brain.

      Yet she succeeded in overcoming her weakness so that Louis scarcely perceived it.

      The fearful strangeness of her situation, the very imminence of peril, inspired her with coolness and self-possession.

      Haughtily pointing to a chair, she said to Louis with affected indifference:

      “Will you be kind enough, monsieur, to explain the object of this unexpected visit?”

      The marquis, seeming not to notice this sudden change of manner, took a seat without removing his eyes from Mme. Fauvel’s face.

      “First of all, madame,” he began, “I must ask if we can be overheard by anyone?”

      “Why this question? You can have nothing to say to me that my husband and children should not hear.”

      Louis shrugged his shoulders, and said:

      “Be good enough to answer me, madame; not for my sake, but for your own.”

      “Speak, then, monsieur; you will not be heard.”

      In spite of this assurance, the marquis drew his chair close to the sofa where Mme. Fauvel sat, so as to speak in a very low tone, as if almost afraid to hear his own voice.

      “As I told you, madame, Gaston is dead; and it was I who closed his eyes, and received his last wishes. Do you understand?”

      The poor woman understood only too well, but was racking her brain to discover what could be the purpose of this fatal visit. Perhaps it was only to claim Gaston’s jewels.

      “It is unnecessary to recall,” continued Louis, “the painful circumstances which blasted my brother’s life. However happy your own lot has been, you must sometimes have thought of this friend of your youth, who unhesitatingly sacrificed himself in defence of your honor.”

      Not a muscle of Mme. Fauvel’s face moved; she appeared to be trying to recall the circumstances to which Louis alluded.

      “Have you forgotten, madame?” he asked with bitterness: “then I must explain more clearly. A long, long time ago you loved my unfortunate brother.”

      “Monsieur!”

      “Ah, it is useless to deny it, madame: I told you that Gaston confided everything to me—everything,” he added significantly.

      But Mme. Fauvel was not frightened by this information. This “everything” could not be of any importance, for Gaston had gone abroad in total ignorance of her secret.

      She rose, and said with an apparent assurance she was far from feeling:

      “You forget, monsieur, that you are speaking to a woman who is now advanced in life, who is married, and who has grown sons. If your brother loved me, it was his affair, and not yours. If, young and ignorant, I was led into imprudence, it is not your place to remind me of it. This past which you evoke I buried in oblivion twenty years ago.”

      “Thus you have forgotten all that happened?”

      “Absolutely all; everything.”

      “Even your child, madame?”

      This question, uttered in a sneer of triumph,

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