“I saw myriads of them at once,” she said afterwards.
Then she rang for the manservant, and in the transport of fever found strength enough to write the following note, for she was possessed by a mania, she must be sure of the truth:—
To Madame la Baronne du Guénic.
“Dear Mamma—When you come to Paris, as you have led us to hope you may, I will thank you in person for the beautiful present by which you and Aunt Zéphirine and Calyste propose to thank me for having done my duty. I have been amply paid by my own happiness.—I cannot attempt to express my pleasure in this beautiful dressing-table, when you are here I will try to tell you. Believe me, when I dress before this glass, I shall always think, like the Roman lady, that my choicest jewel is our darling angel,” and so on.
She had this letter posted by her own maid.
When the Vicomtesse de Portenduère came in, the shivering fit of a violent fever had succeeded the first paroxysm of madness.
“Ursule, I believe I am going to die,” said she.
“What ails you, my dear?”
“Tell me, what did Calyste and Savinien do yesterday evening after dinner at your house?”
“What dinner?” replied Ursule, to whom her husband had as yet said nothing, not expecting an immediate inquiry. “Savinien and I dined alone last evening, and went to the Opera without Calyste.”
“Ursule, dear child, in the name of your love for Savinien, I adjure you, keep the secret of what I have asked you, and what I will tell you. You alone will know what I am dying of—I am betrayed, at the end of three years—when I am not yet three-and-twenty—”
Her teeth chattered, her eyes were lifeless and dull; her face had the greenish hue and surface of old Venetian glass.
“You—so handsome!—But for whom!”
“I do not know. But Calyste has lied to me—twice. Not a word! Do not pity me, do not be indignant, affect ignorance; you will hear who, perhaps, through Savinien.—Oh! yesterday’s note—”
And shivering in her shift, she flew to a little cabinet and took out the letter.
“A Marquise’s coronet!” she said, getting into bed again. “Find out whether Madame de Rochefide is in Paris. Have I a heart left to weep or groan?—Oh, my dear, to see my beliefs, my poem, my idol, my virtue, my happiness, all, all destroyed, crushed, lost!—There is no God in Heaven now, no love on earth, no more life in my heart—nothing!—I do not feel sure of the daylight, I doubt if there is a sun.—In short, my heart is suffering so cruelly, that I hardly feel the horrible pain in my breast and my face. Happily the child is weaned. My milk would have poisoned him!” And at this thought, a torrent of tears relieved her eyes, hitherto dry.
Pretty Madame de Portenduère, holding the fatal note which Sabine had smelt at for certainty, stood speechless at this desperate woe, amazed by this death of love, and unable to say anything in spite of the incoherent fragments in which Sabine strove to tell her all. Suddenly Ursule was enlightened by one of those flashes which come only to sincere souls.
“I must save her!” thought she. “Wait till I return, Sabine,” cried she. “I will know the truth.”
“Oh, and I shall love you in my grave!” cried Sabine.
Madame de Portenduère went to the Duchess de Grandlieu, insisted on absolute secrecy, and informed her as to the state Sabine was in.
“Madame,” said she, in conclusion, “are you not of opinion that, to save her from some dreadful illness, or perhaps even madness—who can tell?—we ought to tell the doctor everything, and invent some fables about that abominable Calyste, so as to make him seem innocent, at any rate, for the present?”
“My dear child,” said the Duchess, who had felt a chill at this revelation, “friendship has lent you for the nonce the experience of a woman of my age. I know how Sabine worships her husband; you are right, she may go mad.”
“And she might lose her beauty, which would be worse,” said the Vicomtesse.
“Let us go at once!” cried the Duchess.
They, happily, were a few minutes in advance of the famous accoucheur Dommanget, the only one of the two doctors whom Calyste had succeeded in finding.
“Ursule has told me all,” said the Duchess to her daughter. “You are mistaken. In the first place, Béatrix is not in Paris. As to what your husband was doing yesterday, my darling, he lost a great deal of money, and does not know where to find enough to pay for your dressing-table—”
“And this?” interrupted Sabine, holding out the note.
“This!” said the Duchess, laughing, “is Jockey Club paper. Everyone writes on coroneted paper—the grocers will have titles soon—”
The prudent mother tossed the ill-starred document into the fire.
When Calyste and Dommanget arrived, the Duchess, who had given her orders, was informed; she left Sabine with Madame de Portenduère, and met the doctor and Calyste in the drawing-room.
“Sabine’s life is in danger, monsieur,” said she to Calyste. “You have been false to her with Madame de Rochefide”—Calyste blushed like a still decent girl caught tripping—“and as you do not know how to deceive,” the Duchess went on, “you were so clumsy that Sabine’s guessed everything. You do not wish my daughter’s death, I suppose?—All this, Monsieur Dommanget, gives you a clue to my daughter’s illness and its cause.—As for you, Calyste, an old woman like me can understand your error, but I do not forgive you. Such forgiveness can only be purchased by a life of happiness. If you desire my esteen, first save my child’s life. Then forget Madame
