“M. Champcey will arrive, or perhaps has already arrived, in Marseilles, on board a merchant vessel4, ‘The Saint Louis.’ I have been told so at the navy department. It is all important that I should see him before anybody else. I take the express train of quarter past seven. To-morrow, I’ll send you a telegram.”
The two ladies asked for something more, a hope, a word; but no, nothing more! The old dealer had jumped into the carriage that had brought him, before they had recovered from their surprise; and they remained there, sitting before the fire, silent, their heads in their hands, each lost in conjectures5. When the clock struck seven, the good widow was aroused from her grave thoughts, which seemed so different from her usual cheerful temper.
“Come, come, Miss Henrietta,” she said with somewhat forced gayety, “my brother’s departure does not condemn6 us, as far as I know, to starve ourselves to death.”
She had gotten up as she said this. She set the table, and then sat down opposite to Henrietta, to their modest dinner. Modest it was, indeed, and still too abundant. They were both too much overcome to be able to eat; and yet both handled knife and fork, trying to deceive one another. Their thoughts were far away, in spite of all their efforts to keep them at home, and followed the traveller.
“Now he has left,” whispered Henrietta as it struck eight.
“He is on his way already,” replied the old lady.
But neither of them knew anything of the journey from Paris to Marseilles. They were ignorant of the distances, the names of the stations, and even of the large cities through which the railroad passes.
“We must try and get a railway guide,” said the good widow. And, quite proud of her happy thought, she went out instantly, hurried to the nearest bookstore, and soon reappeared, flourishing triumphantly7 a yellow pamphlet, and saying,—
“Now we shall see it all, my dear child.”
Then, placing the guide on the tablecloth8 between them, they looked for the page containing the railway from Paris to Lyons and Marseilles, then the train which Papa Ravinet was to have taken; and they delighted in counting up how swiftly the “express” went, and all the stations where it stopped.
Then, when the table was cleared, instead of going industriously9 to work, as usually, they kept constantly looking at the clock, and, after consulting the book, said to each other,—
“He is at Montereau now; he must be beyond Sens; he will soon be at Tonnerre.”
A childish satisfaction, no doubt, and very idle. But who of us has not, at least once in his life, derived10 a wonderful pleasure, or perhaps unspeakable relief from impatience11, or even grief, from following thus across space a beloved one who was going away, or coming home? Towards midnight, however, the old lady remarked that it was getting late, and that it would be wise to go to bed.
“You think you will sleep, madam?” asked Henrietta, surprised.
“No, my child; but”—
“Oh! I, for my part,—I could not sleep. This work on which we are busy is very pressing, you say; why could we not finish it?”
“Well, let us sit up then,” said the good widow.
The poor women, reduced as they were to conjectures by Papa Ravinet’s laconic12 answers, nevertheless knew full well that some great event was in preparation, something unexpected, and yet decisive. What it was, they did not know; but they understood, or rather felt, that Daniel’s return would and must totally change the aspect of affairs. But would Daniel really come?
“If he does come,” said Henrietta, “why did they only the other day tell me, at the navy department, that he was not coming? Then, again, why should he come home in a merchant vessel, and not on board his frigate13?”
“Your letters have probably reached him at last,” explained the old lady; “and, as soon as he received them, he came home.”
Gradually, however, after having exhausted14 all conjectures, and after having discussed all contingencies15, Henrietta became silent. When it struck half-past three, she said once more,—
“Ah! M. Ravinet is at the Lyons station now.”
Then her hand became less and less active in drawing the worsted, her head oscillated from side to side, and her eyelids16 closed unconsciously. Her old friend advised her to retire; and this time she did not refuse.
It was past ten o’clock when she awoke; and upon entering, fully17 dressed, into the sitting-room18, Mrs. Bertolle greeted her with the exclamation:—
“At this moment my brother reaches Marseilles!”
“Ah! then it will not be long before we shall have news,” replied Henrietta.
But there are moments in which we think electricity the slowest of messengers. At two o’clock nothing had come; and the poor women began to accuse the old dealer of having forgotten them, when, at last, the bell was rung.
It was really the telegraph messenger, with his black leather pouch19. The old lady signed her receipt with marvellous promptness; and, tearing the envelope hastily open, she read,—
Marseilles, 12.40 a.m.
“Saint Louis” signalled by telegraph this morning. Will be in to-night. I hire boat to go and meet her, provided Champcey is on board. This evening telegram.
Ravinet.
“But this does not tell us any thing,” said Henrietta, terribly disappointed. “Just see, madam, your brother is not even sure whether M. Champcey is on board ‘The Saint Louis.’”
Perhaps Mrs. Bertolle, also, was a little disappointed; but she was not the person to let it be seen.
“But what did you expect, dear child? Anthony has not been an hour in Marseilles; how do you think he can know? We must wait till the evening. It is only a matter of a few hours.”
She said this very quietly; but all who have ever undergone the anguish21 of expectation will know how it becomes more and more intolerable as the moment approaches that is to bring the decision. However the old lady endeavored to control her excitement, the calm and dignified22 woman could not long conceal23 the nervous fever that was raging within her. Ten times during the afternoon she opened the window, to look for—what? She could not have told it herself, as she well knew nothing could come as yet. At night she could not stay in any one place. She tried in vain to work on her embroidery24; her fingers refused their service.
At last, at ten minutes past nine, the telegraph man appeared, as impassive as ever.
This time it was Henrietta who had taken the despatch25; and, before opening it, she had half a minute’s fearful suspense26, as if the paper had contained the secret of her fate. Then, by a sudden impulse, tearing the envelope, she read, almost at a glance,—
Marseilles, 6.45 p.m.
I have seen Champcey. All well; devoted27 to Henrietta. Return this evening. Will be in Paris tomorrow evening at seven o’clock. Prepare your trunks as if you were to start on a month’s journey immediately after my return. All is going well.
Pale as death, and trembling like a leaf, but with open lips and bright eyes, Henrietta had sunk into a chair. Up to this moment she had doubted every thing. Up to this hour, until she held the proof in her hand, she had not allowed herself to hope. Such great happiness does not seem to the unhappy to be intended for them. But now she stammered28 out,—
“Daniel is in France! Daniel! Nothing more to fear; the future is ours. I am safe now.”
But people do not die of joy; and, when she had recovered her equanimity29, Henrietta understood how cruel she had been in the incoherent phrases that had escaped her in her excitement. She rose with a start, and, seizing Mrs. Bertolle’s hands, said to her,—
“Great God! what am I saying! Ah, you will pardon me, madam, I am sure; but I feel as if I did not know what I am doing. Safe! I owe it to you and your brother, if I am safe. Without you Daniel would find nothing of me but a cross at the cemetery30, and a name stained and destroyed by infamous31 calumnies32.”
The old lady did not hear a word. She had picked up the despatch, had read it; and, overcome by its contents, had sat down near the fireplace, utterly33 insensible to the outside world. The most fearful hatred34 convulsed her ordinarily calm and gentle features; and pale, with closed teeth, and in a hoarse35 voice, she said over and over again,—
“We shall be avenged36.”
Most assuredly Henrietta did not find out only now that the old dealer and his sister hated her enemies, Sarah Brandon and Maxime de Brevan, mortally; but she had never seen that hatred break out so terribly as to-night. What had brought it about? This she could not fathom37. Papa Ravinet, it was evident, was not a nobody. Ill-bred and coarse in Water Street, amid the thousand articles of his trade, he became a very different man as soon as he reached his sister’s house. As to the Widow Bertolle, she was evidently a woman of superior intellect and education.
How had they both been reduced to this more than modest condition? By reverses of fortune. That accounts for everything, but explains nothing.
Such were Henrietta’s thoughts, when the old lady roused her from her meditations
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