By the time that the quartermaster
had fulfilled all the long and
dilatory formalities without
which no French soldier can be
married, he was passionately
in love with Juana di Mancini,
and Juana had had time to think
of her coming destiny.
An awful destiny! Juana, who
felt neither esteem nor love
for Diard, was bound to him forever,
by a rash but necessary promise.
The man was neither handsome
nor well-made. His manners, devoid
of all distinction, were a mixture
of the worst army tone, the habits
of his province, and his own
insufficient education. How could
she love Diard, she, a young
girl all grace and elegance,
born with an invincible instinct
for luxury and good taste, her
very nature tending toward the
sphere of the higher social classes?
As for esteeming him, she rejected
the very thought precisely because
he had married her. This repulsion
was natural. Woman is a saintly
and noble creature, but almost
always misunderstood, and nearly
always misjudged because she
is misunderstood. If Juana had
loved Diard she would have esteemed
him. Love creates in a wife a
new woman; the woman of the day
before no longer exists on the
morrow. Putting on the nuptial
robe of a passion in which life
itself is concerned, the woman
wraps herself in purity and whiteness.
Reborn into virtue and chastity,
there is no past for her; she
is all future, and should forget
the things behind her to relearn
life. In this sense the famous
words which a modern poet has
put into the lips of Marion Delorme
is infused with truth,--
"And Love remade
me virgin."
That line seems like a reminiscence
of a tragedy of Corneille, so
truly does it recall the energetic
diction of the father of our
modern theatre. Yet the poet
was forced to sacrifice it to
the essentially vaudevillist
spirit of the pit.
So Juana loveless was doomed
to be Juana humiliated, degraded,
hopeless. She could not honor
the man who took her thus. She
felt, in all the conscientious
purity of her youth, that distinction,
subtle in appearance but sacredly
true, legal with the heart's
legality, which women apply instinctively
to all their feelings, even the
least reflective. Juana became
profoundly sad as she saw the
nature and the extent of the
life before her. Often she turned
her eyes, brimming with tears
proudly repressed, upon Perez
and Dona Lagounia, who fully
comprehended, both of them, the
bitter thoughts those tears contained.
But they were silent: of what
good were reproaches now; why
look for consolations? The deeper
they were, the more they enlarged
the wound.
One evening, Juana, stupid
with grief, heard through the
open door of her little room,
which the old couple had thought
shut, a pitying moan from her
adopted mother.
"The child
will die of grief."
"Yes," said Perez, in a shaking
voice, "but what can we do? I
cannot now boast of her beauty
and her chastity to Comte d'Arcos,
to whom I hoped to marry her."
"But a single fault is not
vice," said the old woman, pitying
as the angels.
"Her mother gave her to this
man," said Perez.
"Yes, in a moment; without
consulting the poor child!" cried
Dona Lagounia.
"She knew what
she was doing."
"But oh! into
what hands our pearl is going!"
"Say no more,
or I shall seek a quarrel with
that Diard."
"And that would
only lead to other miseries."
Hearing these dreadful words
Juana saw the happy future she
had lost by her own wrongdoing.
The pure and simple years of
her quiet life would have been
rewarded by a brilliant existence
such as she had fondly dreamed,--dreams
which had caused her ruin. To
fall from the height of Greatness
to Monsieur Diard! She wept.
At times she went nearly mad.
She floated for a while between
vice and religion. Vice was a
speedy solution, religion a lifetime
of suffering. The meditation
was stormy and solemn. The next
day was the fatal day, the day
for the marriage. But Juana could
still remain free. Free, she
knew how far her misery would
go; married, she was ignorant
of where it went or what it might
bring her.
Religion triumphed. Dona Lagounia
stayed beside her child and prayed
and watched as she would have
prayed and watched beside the
dying.
"God wills it," she
said to Juana.
Nature gives to woman alternately
a strength which enables her
to suffer and a weakness which
leads her to resignation. Juana
resigned herself; and without
restriction. She determined to
obey her mother's prayer, and
cross the desert of life to reach
God's heaven, knowing well that
no flowers grew for her along
the way of that painful journey.
She married Diard. As for the
quartermaster, though he had
no grace in Juana's eyes, we
may well absolve him. He loved
her distractedly. The Marana,
so keen to know the signs of
love, had recognized in that
man the accents of passion and
the brusque nature, the generous
impulses, that are common to
Southerners. In the paroxysm
of her anger and her distress
she had thought such qualities
enough for her daughter's happiness.
The first days of this marriage
were apparently happy; or, to
express one of those latent facts,
the miseries of which are buried
by women in the depths of their
souls, Juana would not cast down
her husband's joy,--a double
role, dreadful to play, but to
which, sooner or later, all women
unhappily married come. This
is a history impossible to recount
in its full truth. Juana, struggling
hourly against her nature, a
nature both Spanish and Italian,
having dried up the source of
her tears by dint of weeping,
was a human type, destined to
represent woman's misery in its
utmost expression, namely, sorrow
undyingly active; the description
of which would need such minute
observations that to persons
eager for dramatic emotions they
would seem insipid. This analysis,
in which every wife would find
some one of her own sufferings,
would require a volume to express
them all; a fruitless, hopeless
volume by its very nature, the
merit of which would consist
in faintest tints and delicate
shadings which critics would
declare to be effeminate and
diffuse. Besides, what man could
rightly approach, unless he bore
another heart within his heart,
those solemn and touching elegies
which certain women carry with
them to their tomb; melancholies,
misunderstood even by those who
cause them; sighs unheeded, devotions
unrewarded,--on earth at least,--splendid
silences misconstrued; vengeances
withheld, disdained; generosities
perpetually bestowed and wasted;
pleasures longed for and denied;
angelic charities secretly accomplished,--in
short, all the religions of womanhood
and its inextinguishable love.
Juana knew
that life; fate spared her
nought. She was wholly
a wife, but a sorrowful and suffering
wife; a wife incessantly wounded,
yet forgiving always; a wife
pure as a flawless diamond,--she
who had the beauty and the glow
of the diamond, and in that beauty,
that glow, a vengeance in her
hand; for she was certainly not
a woman to fear the dagger added
to her "dot."
At first, inspired by a real
love, by one of those passions
which for the time being change
even odious characters and bring
to light all that may be noble
in a soul, Diard behaved like
a man of honor. He forced Montefiore
to leave the regiment and even
the army corps, so that his wife
might never meet him during the
time they remained in Spain.
Next, he petitioned for his own
removal, and succeeded in entering
the Imperial Guard. He desired
at any price to obtain a title,
honors, and consideration in
keeping with his present wealth.
With this idea in his mind, he
behaved courageously in one of
the most bloody battles in Germany,
but, unfortunately, he was too
severely wounded to remain in
the service. Threatened with
the loss of a leg, he was forced
to retire on a pension, without
the title of baron, without those
rewards he hoped to win, and
would have won had he not been
Diard.
This event, this wound, and
his thwarted hopes contributed
to change his character. His
Provencal energy, roused for
a time, sank down. At first he
was sustained by his wife, in
whom his efforts, his courage,
his ambition had induced some
belief in his nature, and who
showed herself, what women are,
tender and consoling in the troubles
of life. Inspired by a few words
from Juana, the retired soldier
came to Paris, resolved to win
in an administrative career a
position to command respect,
bury in oblivion the quartermaster
of the 6th of the line, and secure
for Madame Diard a noble title.
His passion for that seductive
creature enabled him to divine
her most secret wishes. Juana
expressed nothing, but he understood
her. He was not loved as a lover
dreams of being loved; he knew
this, and he strove to make himself
respected, loved, and cherished.
He foresaw a coming happiness,
poor man, in the patience and
gentleness shown on all occasions
by his wife; but that patience,
that gentleness, were only the
outward signs of the resignation
which had made her his wife.
Resignation, religion, were they
love? Often Diard wished for
refusal where he met with chaste
obedience; often he would have
given his eternal life that Juana
might have wept upon his bosom
and not disguised her secret
thoughts behind a smiling face
which lied to him nobly. Many
young men --for after a certain
age men no longer struggle--persist
in the effort to triumph over
an evil fate, the thunder of
which they hear, from time to
time, on the horizon of their
lives; and when at last they
succumb and roll down the precipice
of evil, we ought to do them
justice and acknowledge these
inward struggles.
Like many men Diard tried all
things, and all things were hostile
to him. His wealth enabled him
to surround his wife with the
enjoyments of Parisian luxury.
She lived in a fine house, with
noble rooms, where she maintained
a salon, in which abounded artists
(by nature no judges of men),
men of pleasure ready to amuse
themselves anywhere, a few politicians
who swelled the numbers, and
certain men of fashion, all of
whom admired Juana. Those who
put themselves before the eyes
of the public in Paris must either
conquer Paris or be subject to
it. Diard's character was not
sufficiently strong, compact,
or persistent to command society
at that epoch, because it was
an epoch when all men were endeavoring
to rise. Social classifications
ready-made are perhaps a great
boon even for the people. Napoleon
has confided to us the pains
he took to inspire respect in
his court, where most of the
courtiers had been his equals.
But Napoleon was Corsican, and
Diard Provencal. Given equal
genius, an islander will always
be more compact and rounded than
the man of terra firma in the
same latitude; the arm of the
sea which separates Corsica from
Provence is, in spite of human
science, an ocean which has made
two nations.
Diard's mongrel position, which
he himself made still more questionable,
brought him great troubles. Perhaps
there is useful instruction to
be derived from the almost imperceptible
connection of acts which led
to the finale of this history.
In the first
place, the sneerers of Paris
did not see without
malicious smiles and words the
pictures with which the former
quartermaster adorned his handsome
mansion. Works of art purchased
the night before were said to
be spoils from Spain; and this
accusation was the revenge of
those who were jealous of his
present fortune. Juana comprehended
this reproach, and by her advice
Diard sent back to Tarragona
all the pictures he had brought
from there. But the public, determined
to see things in the worst light,
only said, "That Diard is shrewd;
he has sold his pictures." Worthy
people continued to think that
those which remained in the Diard
salons were not honorably acquired.
Some jealous women asked how
it was that a DIARD (!) had been
able to marry so rich and beautiful
a young girl. Hence comments
and satires without end, such
as Paris contributes. And yet,
it must be said, that Juana met
on all sides the respect inspired
by her pure and religious life,
which triumphed over everything,
even Parisian calumny; but this
respect stopped short with her,
her husband received none of
it. Juana's feminine perception
and her keen eye hovering over
her salons, brought her nothing
but pain.
This lack of esteem was perfectly
natural. Diard's comrades, in
spite of the virtues which our
imaginations attribute to soldiers,
never forgave the former quartermaster
of the 6th of the line for becoming
suddenly so rich and for attempting
to cut a figure in Paris. Now
in Paris, from the last house
in the faubourg Saint-Germain
to the last in the rue Saint-Lazare,
between the heights of the Luxembourg
and the heights of Montmartre,
all that clothes itself and gabbles,
clothes itself to go out and
goes out to gabble. All that
world of great and small pretensions,
that world of insolence and humble
desires, of envy and cringing,
all that is gilded or tarnished,
young or old, noble of yesterday
or noble from the fourth century,
all that sneers at a parvenu,
all that fears to commit itself,
all that wants to demolish power
and worships power if it resists,--ALL
those ears hear, ALL those tongues
say, ALL those minds know, in
a single evening, where the new-comer
who aspires to honor among them
was born and brought up, and
what that interloper has done,
or has not done, in the course
of his life. There may be no
court of assizes for the upper
classes of society; but at any
rate they have the most cruel
of public prosecutors, an intangible
moral being, both judge and executioner,
who accuses and brands. Do not
hope to hide anything from him;
tell him all yourself; he wants
to know all and he will know
all. Do not ask what mysterious
telegraph it was which conveyed
to him in the twinkling of an
eye, at any hour, in any place,
that story, that bit of news,
that scandal; do not ask what
prompts him. That telegraph is
a social mystery; no observer
can report its effects. Of many
extraordinary instances thereof,
one may suffice: The assassination
of the Duc de Berry, which occurred
at the Opera-house, was related
within ten minutes in the Ile-Saint-Louis.
Thus the opinion of the 6th of
the line as to its quartermaster
filtered through society the
night on which he gave his first
ball.
Diard was therefore debarred
from succeeding in society. Henceforth
his wife alone had the power
to make anything of him. Miracle
of our strange civilization!
In Paris, if a man is incapable
of being anything himself, his
wife, when she is young and clever,
may give him other chances for
elevation. We sometimes meet
with invalid women, feeble beings
apparently, who, without rising
from sofas or leaving their chambers,
have ruled society, moved a thousand
springs, and placed their husbands
where their ambition or their
vanity prompted. But Juana, whose
childhood was passed in her retreat
in Tarragona, knew nothing of
the vices, the meannesses, or
the resources of Parisian society;
she looked at that society with
the curiosity of a girl, but
she learned from it only that
which her sorrow and her wounded
pride revealed to her.
Juana had the
tact of a virgin heart which
receives impressions
in advance of the event, after
the manner of what are called "sensitives." The
solitary young girl, so suddenly
become a woman and a wife, saw
plainly that were she to attempt
to compel society to respect
her husband, it must be after
the manner of Spanish beggars,
carbine in hand. Besides, the
multiplicity of the precautions
she would have to take, would
they meet the necessity? Suddenly
she divined society as, once
before, she had divined life,
and she saw nothing around her
but the immense extent of an
irreparable disaster. She had,
moreover, the additional grief
of tardily recognizing her husband's
peculiar form of incapacity;
he was a man unfitted for any
purpose that required continuity
of ideas. He could not understand
a consistent part, such as he
ought to play in the world; he
perceived it neither as a whole
nor in its gradations, and its
gradations were everything. He
was in one of those positions
where shrewdness and tact might
have taken the place of strength;
when shrewdness and tact succeed,
they are, perhaps, the highest
form of strength.
Now Diard, far from arresting
the spot of oil on his garments
left by his antecedents, did
his best to spread it. Incapable
of studying the phase of the
empire in the midst of which
he came to live in Paris, he
wanted to be made prefect. At
that time every one believed
in the genius of Napoleon; his
favor enhanced the value of all
offices. Prefectures, those miniature
empires, could only be filled
by men of great names, or chamberlains
of H.M. the emperor and king.
Already the prefects were a species
of vizier. The myrmidons of the
great man scoffed at Diard's
pretensions to a prefecture,
whereupon he lowered his demand
to a sub-prefecture. There was,
of course, a ridiculous discrepancy
between this latter demand and
the magnitude of his fortune.
To frequent the imperial salons
and live with insolent luxury,
and then to abandon that millionaire
life and bury himself as sub-prefect
at Issoudun or Savenay was certainly
holding himself below his position.
Juana, too late aware of our
laws and habits and administrative
customs, did not enlighten her
husband soon enough. Diard, desperate,
petitioned successively all the
ministerial powers; repulsed
everywhere, he found nothing
open to him; and society then
judged him as the government
judged him and as he judged himself.
Diard, grievously wounded on
the battlefield, was nevertheless
not decorated; the quartermaster,
rich as he was, was allowed no
place in public life, and society
logically refused him that to
which he pretended in its midst.
Finally, to cap all, the luckless
man felt in his own home the
superiority of his wife. Though
she used great tact--we might
say velvet softness if the term
were admissible--to disguise
from her husband this supremacy,
which surprised and humiliated
herself, Diard ended by being
affected by it.
At a game of
life like this men are either
unmanned, or they
grow the stronger, or they give
themselves to evil. The courage
or the ardor of this man lessened
under the reiterated blows which
his own faults dealt to his self-appreciation,
and fault after fault he committed.
In the first place he had to
struggle against his own habits
and character. A passionate Provencal,
frank in his vices as in his
virtues, this man whose fibres
vibrated like the strings of
a harp, was all heart to his
former friends. He succored the
shabby and spattered man as readily
as the needy of rank; in short,
he accepted everybody, and gave
his hand in his gilded salons
to many a poor devil. Observing
this on one occasion, a general
of the empire, a variety of the
human species of which no type
will presently remain, refused
his hand to Diard, and called
him, insolently, "my good fellow" when
he met him. The few persons of
really good society whom Diard
knew, treated him with that elegant,
polished contempt against which
a new-made man has seldom any
weapons. The manners, the semi-
Italian gesticulations, the speech
of Diard, his style of dress,--all
contributed to repulse the respect
which careful observation of
matters of good taste and dignity
might otherwise obtain for vulgar
persons; the yoke of such conventionalities
can only be cast off by great
and unthinkable powers. So goes
the world.
These details but faintly picture
the many tortures to which Juana
was subjected; they came upon
her one by one; each social nature
pricked her with its own particular
pin; and to a soul which preferred
the thrust of a dagger, there
could be no worse suffering than
this struggle in which Diard
received insults he did not feel
and Juana felt those she did
not receive. A moment came, an
awful moment, when she gained
a clear and lucid perception
of society, and felt in one instant
all the sorrows which were gathering
themselves together to fall upon
her head. She judged her husband
incapable of rising to the honored
ranks of the social order, and
she felt that he would one day
descend to where his instincts
led him. Henceforth Juana felt
pity for him.
The future was very gloomy
for this young woman. She lived
in constant apprehension of some
disaster. This presentiment was
in her soul as a contagion is
in the air, but she had strength
of mind and will to disguise
her anguish beneath a smile.
Juana had ceased to think of
herself. She used her influence
to make Diard resign his various
pretensions and to show him,
as a haven, the peaceful and
consoling life of home. Evils
came from society--why not banish
it? In his home Diard found peace
and respect; he reigned there.
She felt herself strong to accept
the trying task of making him
happy,--he, a man dissatisfied
with himself. Her energy increased
with the difficulties of life;
she had all the secret heroism
necessary to her position; religion
inspired her with those desires
which support the angel appointed
to protect a Christian soul--occult
poesy, allegorical image of our
two natures!
Diard abandoned his projects,
closed his house to the world,
and lived in his home. But here
he found another reef. The poor
soldier had one of those eccentric
souls which need perpetual motion.
Diard was one of the men who
are instinctively compelled to
start again the moment they arrive,
and whose vital object seems
to be to come and go incessantly,
like the wheels mentioned in
Holy Writ. Perhaps he felt the
need of flying from himself.
Without wearying of Juana, without
blaming Juana, his passion for
her, rendered tranquil by time,
allowed his natural character
to assert itself. Henceforth
his days of gloom were more frequent,
and he often gave way to southern
excitement. The more virtuous
a woman is and the more irreproachable,
the more a man likes to find
fault with her, if only to assert
by that act his legal superiority.
But if by chance she seems really
imposing to him, he feels the
need of foisting faults upon
her. After that, between man
and wife, trifles increase and
grow till they swell to Alps.
But Juana, patient and without
pride, gentle and without that
bitterness which women know so
well how to cast into their submission,
left Diard no chance for planned
ill-humor. Besides, she was one
of those noble creatures to whom
it is impossible to speak disrespectfully;
her glance, in which her life,
saintly and pure, shone out,
had the weight of a fascination.
Diard, embarrassed at first,
then annoyed, ended by feeling
that such high virtue was a yoke
upon him. The goodness of his
wife gave him no violent emotions,
and violent emotions were what
he wanted. What myriads of scenes
are played in the depths of his
souls, beneath the cold exterior
of lives that are, apparently,
commonplace! Among these dramas,
lasting each but a short time,
though they influence life so
powerfully and are frequently
the forerunners of the great
misfortune doomed to fall on
so many marriages, it is difficult
to choose an example. There was
a scene, however, which particularly
marked the moment when in the
life of this husband and wife
estrangement began. Perhaps it
may also serve to explain the
finale of this narrative.
Juana had two children, happily
for her, two sons. The first
was born seven months after her
marriage. He was called Juan,
and he strongly resembled his
mother. The second was born about
two years after her arrival in
Paris. The latter resembled both
Diard and Juana, but more particularly
Diard. His name was Francisque.
For the last five years Francisque
had been the object of Juana's
most tender and watchful care.
The mother was constantly occupied
with that child; to him her prettiest
caresses; to him the toys, but
to him, especially, the penetrating
mother-looks. Juana had watched
him from his cradle; she had
studied his cries, his motions;
she endeavored to discern his
nature that she might educate
him wisely. It seemed at times
as if she had but that one child.
Diard, seeing that the eldest,
Juan, was in a way neglected,
took him under his own protection;
and without inquiring even of
himself whether the boy was the
fruit of that ephemeral love
to which he owed his wife, he
made him his Benjamin.
Of all the sentiments transmitted
to her through the blood of her
grandmothers which consumed her,
Madame Diard accepted one alone,--
maternal love. But she loved
her children doubly: first with
the noble violence of which her
mother the Marana had given her
the example; secondly, with grace
and purity, in the spirit of
those social virtues the practice
of which was the glory of her
life and her inward recompense.
The secret thought, the conscience
of her motherhood, which gave
to the Marana's life its stamp
of untaught poesy, was to Juana
an acknowledged life, an open
consolation at all hours. Her
mother had been virtuous as other
women are criminal,--in secret;
she had stolen a fancied happiness,
she had never really tasted it.
But Juana, unhappy in her virtue
as her mother was unhappy in
her vice, could enjoy at all
moments the ineffable delights
which her mother had so craved
and could not have. To her, as
to her mother, maternity comprised
all earthly sentiments. Each,
from differing causes, had no
other comfort in their misery.
Juana's maternal love may have
been the strongest because, deprived
of all other affections, she
put the joys she lacked into
the one joy of her children;
and there are noble passions
that resemble vice; the more
they are satisfied the more they
increase. Mothers and gamblers
are alike insatiable.
When Juana saw the generous
pardon laid silently on the head
of Juan by Diard's fatherly affection,
she was much moved, and from
the day when the husband and
wife changed parts she felt for
him the true and deep interest
she had hitherto shown to him
as a matter of duty only. If
that man had been more consistent
in his life; if he had not destroyed
by fitful inconstancy and restlessness
the forces of a true though excitable
sensibility, Juana would doubtless
have loved him in the end. Unfortunately,
he was a type of those southern
natures which are keen in perceptions
they cannot follow out; capable
of great things over-night, and
incapable the next morning; often
the victim of their own virtues,
and often lucky through their
worst passions; admirable men
in some respects, when their
good qualities are kept to a
steady energy by some outward
bond. For two years after his
retreat from active life Diard
was held captive in his home
by the softest chains. He lived,
almost in spite of himself, under
the influence of his wife, who
made herself gay and amusing
to cheer him, who used the resources
of feminine genius to attract
and seduce him to a love of virtue,
but whose ability and cleverness
did not go so far as to simulate
love.
At this time all Paris was
talking of the affair of a captain
in the army who in a paroxysm
of libertine jealousy had killed
a woman. Diard, on coming home
to dinner, told his wife that
the officer was dead. He had
killed himself to avoid the dishonor
of a trial and the shame of death
upon the scaffold. Juana did
not see at first the logic of
such conduct, and her husband
was obliged to explain to her
the fine jurisprudence of French
law, which does not prosecute
the dead.
"But, papa, didn't you tell
us the other day that the king
could pardon?" asked Francisque.
"The king can give nothing
but life," said Juan, half scornfully.
Diard and Juana, the spectators
of this little scene, were differently
affected by it. The glance, moist
with joy, which his wife cast
upon her eldest child was a fatal
revelation to the husband of
the secrets of a heart hitherto
impenetrable. That eldest child
was all Juana; Juana comprehended
him; she was sure of his heart,
his future; she adored him, but
her ardent love was a secret
between herself, her child, and
God. Juan instinctively enjoyed
the seeming indifference of his
mother in presence of his father
and brother, for she pressed
him to her heart when alone.
Francisque was Diard, and Juana's
incessant care and watchfulness
betrayed her desire to correct
in the son the vices of the father
and to encourage his better qualities.
Juana, unaware that her glance
had said too much and that her
husband had rightly interpreted
it, took Francisque in her lap
and gave him, in a gentle voice
still trembling with the pleasure
that Juan's answer had brought
her, a lesson upon honor, simplified
to his childish intelligence.
"That boy's character requires
care," said Diard.
"Yes," she
replied simply.
"How about
Juan?"
Madame Diard, struck by the
tone in which the words were
uttered, looked at her husband.
"Juan was born perfect," he
added.
Then he sat down gloomily,
and reflected. Presently, as
his wife continued silent, he
added:--
"You love one
of YOUR children better than
the other."
"You know that," she
said.
"No," said Diard, "I
did not know until now which
of them
you preferred."
"But neither of them have ever
given me a moment's uneasiness," she
answered quickly.
"But one of them gives you
greater joys," he said, more
quickly still.
"I never counted them," she
said.
"How false you women are!" cried
Diard. "Will you dare to say
that Juan is not the child of
your heart?"
"If that were so," she said,
with dignity, "do you think it
a misfortune?"
"You have never
loved me. If you had chosen,
I would have
conquered worlds for your sake.
You know all that I have struggled
to do in life, supported by the
hope of pleasing you. Ah! if
you had only loved me!"
"A woman who loves," said Juana, "likes
to live in solitude, far from
the world, and that is what we
are doing."
"I know, Juana,
that YOU are never in the wrong."
The words were said bitterly,
and cast, for the rest of their
lives together, a coldness between
them.
On the morrow of that fatal
day Diard went back to his old
companions and found distractions
for his mind in play. Unfortunately,
he won much money, and continued
playing. Little by little, he
returned to the dissipated life
he had formerly lived. Soon he
ceased even to dine in his own
home.
Some months went by in the
enjoyment of this new independence;
he was determined to preserve
it, and in order to do so he
separated himself from his wife,
giving her the large apartments
and lodging himself in the entresol.
By the end of the year Diard
and Juana only saw each other
in the morning at breakfast.
Like all gamblers, he had his
alternations of loss and gain.
Not wishing to cut into the capital
of his fortune, he felt the necessity
of withdrawing from his wife
the management of their income;
and the day came when he took
from her all she had hitherto
freely disposed of for the household
benefit, giving her instead a
monthly stipend. The conversation
they had on this subject was
the last of their married intercourse.
The silence that fell between
them was a true divorce; Juana
comprehended that from henceforth
she was only a mother, and she
was glad, not seeking for the
causes of this evil. For such
an event is a great evil. Children
are conjointly one with husband
and wife in the home, and the
life of her husband could not
be a source of grief and injury
to Juana only.
As for Diard, now emancipated,
he speedily grew accustomed to
win and lose enormous sums. A
fine player and a heavy player,
he soon became celebrated for
his style of playing. The social
consideration he had been unable
to win under the Empire, he acquired
under the Restoration by the
rolling of his gold on the green
cloth and by his talent for all
games that were in vogue. Ambassadors,
bankers, persons with newly-acquired
large fortunes, and all those
men who, having sucked life to
the dregs, turn to gambling for
its feverish joys, admired Diard
at their clubs,--seldom in their
own houses,--and they all gambled
with him. He became the fashion.
Two or three times during the
winter he gave a fete as a matter
of social pride in return for
the civilities he received. At
such times Juana once more caught
a glimpse of the world of balls,
festivities, luxury, and lights;
but for her it was a sort of
tax imposed upon the comfort
of her solitude. She, the queen
of these solemnities, appeared
like a being fallen from some
other planet. Her simplicity,
which nothing had corrupted,
her beautiful virginity of soul,
which her peaceful life restored
to her, her beauty and her true
modesty, won her sincere homage.
But observing how few women ever
entered her salons, she came
to understand that though her
husband was following, without
communicating its nature to her,
a new line of conduct, he had
gained nothing actually in the
world's esteem.
Diard was not
always lucky; far from it.
In three years he
had dissipated three fourths
of his fortune, but his passion
for play gave him the energy
to continue it. He was intimate
with a number of men, more particularly
with the roues of the Bourse,
men who, since the revolution,
have set up the principle that
robbery done on a large scale
is only a SMIRCH to the reputation,--transferring
thus to financial matters the
loose principles of love in the
eighteenth century. Diard now
became a sort of business man,
and concerned himself in several
of those affairs which are called
SHADY in the slang of the law-courts.
He practised the decent thievery
by which so many men, cleverly
masked, or hidden in the recesses
of the political world, make
their fortunes,--thievery which,
if done in the streets by the
light of an oil lamp, would see
a poor devil to the galleys,
but, under gilded ceilings and
by the light of candelabra, is
sanctioned. Diard brought up,
monopolized, and sold sugars;
he sold offices; he had the glory
of inventing the "man of straw" for
lucrative posts which it was
necessary to keep in his own
hands for a short time; he bought
votes, receiving, on one occasion,
so much per cent on the purchase
of fifteen parliamentary votes
which all passed on one division
from the benches of the Left
to the benches of the Right.
Such actions are no longer crimes
or thefts,--they are called governing,
developing industry, becoming
a financial power. Diard was
placed by public opinion on the
bench of infamy where many an
able man was already seated.
On that bench is the aristocracy
of evil. It is the upper Chamber
of scoundrels of high life. Diard
was, therefore, not a mere commonplace
gambler who is seen to be a blackguard,
and ends by begging. That style
of gambler is no longer seen
in society of a certain topographical
height. In these days bold scoundrels
die brilliantly in the chariot
of vice with the trappings of
luxury. Diard, at least, did
not buy his remorse at a low
price; he made himself one of
these privileged men. Having
studied the machinery of government
and learned all the secrets and
the passions of the men in power,
he was able to maintain himself
in the fiery furnace into which
he had sprung.
Madame Diard knew nothing of
her husband's infernal life.
Glad of his abandonment, she
felt no curiosity about him,
and all her hours were occupied.
She devoted what money she had
to the education of her children,
wishing to make men of them,
and giving them straight- forward
reasons, without, however, taking
the bloom from their young imaginations.
Through them alone came her interests
and her emotions; consequently,
she suffered no longer from her
blemished life. Her children
were to her what they are to
many mothers for a long period
of time,--a sort of renewal of
their own existence. Diard was
now an accidental circumstance,
not a participator in her life,
and since he had ceased to be
the father and the head of the
family, Juana felt bound to him
by no tie other than that imposed
by conventional laws. Nevertheless,
she brought up her children to
the highest respect for paternal
authority, however imaginary
it was for them. In this she
was greatly seconded by her husband's
continual absence. If he had
been much in the home Diard would
have neutralized his wife's efforts.
The boys had too much intelligence
and shrewdness not to have judged
their father; and to judge a
father is moral parricide.
In the long run, however, Juana's
indifference to her husband wore
itself away; it even changed
to a species of fear. She understood
at last how the conduct of a
father might long weigh on the
future of her children, and her
motherly solicitude brought her
many, though incomplete, revelations
of the truth. From day to day
the dread of some unknown but
inevitable evil in the shadow
of which she lived became more
and more keen and terrible. Therefore,
during the rare moments when
Diard and Juana met she would
cast upon his hollow face, wan
from nights of gambling and furrowed
by emotions, a piercing look,
the penetration of which made
Diard shudder. At such times
the assumed gaiety of her husband
alarmed Juana more than his gloomiest
expressions of anxiety when,
by chance, he forgot that assumption
of joy. Diard feared his wife
as a criminal fears the executioner.
In him, Juana saw her children's
shame; and in her Diard dreaded
a calm vengeance, the judgment
of that serene brow, an arm raised,
a weapon ready.
After fifteen years of marriage
Diard found himself without resources.
He owed three hundred thousand
francs and he could scarcely
muster one hundred thousand.
The house, his only visible possession,
was mortgaged to its fullest
selling value. A few days more,
and the sort of prestige with
which opulence had invested him
would vanish. Not a hand would
be offered, not a purse would
be open to him. Unless some favorable
event occurred he would fall
into a slough of contempt, deeper
perhaps than he deserved, precisely
because he had mounted to a height
he could not maintain. At this
juncture he happened to hear
that a number of strangers of
distinction, diplomats and others,
were assembled at the watering-places
in the Pyrenees, where they gambled
for enormous sums, and were doubtless
well supplied with money.
He determined to go at once
to the Pyrenees; but he would
not leave his wife in Paris,
lest some importunate creditor
might reveal to her the secret
of his horrible position. He
therefore took her and the two
children with him, refusing to
allow her to take the tutor and
scarcely permitting her to take
a maid. His tone was curt and
imperious; he seemed to have
recovered some energy. This sudden
journey, the cause of which escaped
her penetration, alarmed Juana
secretly. Her husband made it
gaily. Obliged to occupy the
same carriage, he showed himself
day by day more attentive to
the children and more amiable
to their mother. Nevertheless,
each day brought Juana dark presentiments,
the presentiments of mothers
who tremble without apparent
reason, but who are seldom mistaken
when they tremble thus. For them
the veil of the future seems
thinner than for others.
At Bordeaux,
Diard hired in a quiet street
a quiet little
house, neatly furnished, and
in it he established his wife.
The house was at the corner of
two streets, and had a garden.
Joined to the neighboring house
on one side only, it was open
to view and accessible on the
other three sides. Diard paid
the rent in advance, and left
Juana barely enough money for
the necessary expenses of three
months, a sum not exceeding a
thousand francs. Madame Diard
made no observation on this unusual
meanness. When her husband told
her that he was going to the
watering-places and that she
would stay at Bordeaux, Juana
offered no difficulty, and at
once formed a plan to teach the
children Spanish and Italian,
and to make them read the two
masterpieces of the two languages.
She was glad to lead a retired
life, simply and naturally economical.
To spare herself the troubles
of material life, she arranged
with a "traiteur" the day after
Diard's departure to send in
their meals. Her maid then sufficed
for the service of the house,
and she thus found herself without
money, but her wants all provided
for until her husband's return.
Her pleasures consisted in taking
walks with the children. She
was then thirty-three years old.
Her beauty, greatly developed,
was in all its lustre. Therefore
as soon as she appeared, much
talk was made in Bordeaux about
the beautiful Spanish stranger.
At the first advances made to
her Juana ceased to walk abroad,
and confined herself wholly to
her own large garden.
Diard at first made a fortune
at the baths. In two months he
won three hundred thousand dollars,
but it never occurred to him
to send any money to his wife;
he kept it all, expecting to
make some great stroke of fortune
on a vast stake. Towards the
end of the second month the Marquis
de Montefiore appeared at the
same baths. The marquis was at
this time celebrated for his
wealth, his handsome face, his
fortunate marriage with an Englishwoman,
and more especially for his love
of play. Diard, his former companion,
encountered him, and desired
to add his spoils to those of
others. A gambler with four hundred
thousand francs in hand is always
in a position to do as he pleases.
Diard, confident in his luck,
renewed acquaintance with Montefiore.
The latter received him very
coldly, but nevertheless they
played together, and Diard lost
every penny that he possessed,
and more.
"My dear Montefiore," said
the ex-quartermaster, after making
a tour of the salon, "I owe you
a hundred thousand francs; but
my money is in Bordeaux, where
I have left my wife."
Diard had the money in bank-bills
in his pocket; but with the self-
possession and rapid bird's-eye
view of a man accustomed to catch
at all resources, he still hoped
to recover himself by some one
of the endless caprices of play.
Montefiore had already mentioned
his intention of visiting Bordeaux.
Had he paid his debt on the spot,
Diard would have been left without
the power to take his revenge;
a revenge at cards often exceeds
the amount of all preceding losses.
But these burning expectations
depended on the marquis's reply.
"Wait, my dear fellow," said
Montefiore, "and we will go together
to Bordeaux. In all conscience,
I am rich enough to-day not to
wish to take the money of an
old comrade."
Three days later Diard and
Montefiore were in Bordeaux at
a gambling table. Diard, having
won enough to pay his hundred
thousand francs, went on until
he had lost two hundred thousand
more on his word. He was gay
as a man who swam in gold. Eleven
o'clock sounded; the night was
superb. Montefiore may have felt,
like Diard, a desire to breathe
the open air and recover from
such emotions in a walk. The
latter proposed to the marquis
to come home with him to take
a cup of tea and get his money.
"But Madame Diard?" said
Montefiore.
"Bah!" exclaimed
the husband.
They went down-stairs; but
before taking his hat Diard entered
the dining-room of the establishment
and asked for a glass of water.
While it was being brought, he
walked up and down the room,
and was able, without being noticed,
to pick up one of those small
sharp-pointed steel knives with
pearl handles which are used
for cutting fruit at dessert.
"Where do you live?" said Montefiore,
in the courtyard, "for I want
to send a carriage there to fetch
me."
Diard told him the exact address.
"You see," said Montefiore,
in a low voice, taking Diard's
arm, "that as long as I am with
you I have nothing to fear; but
if I came home alone and a scoundrel
were to follow me, I should be
profitable to kill."
"Have you much
with you?"
"No, not much," said the wary
Italian, "only my winnings. But
they would make a pretty fortune
for a beggar and turn him into
an honest man for the rest of
his life."
Diard led the
marquis along a lonely street
where he remembered
to have seen a house, the door
of which was at the end of an
avenue of trees with high and
gloomy walls on either side of
it. When they reached this spot
he coolly invited the marquis
to precede him; but as if the
latter understood him he preferred
to keep at his side. Then, no
sooner were they fairly in the
avenue, then Diard, with the
agility of a tiger, tripped up
the marquis with a kick behind
the knees, and putting a foot
on his neck stabbed him again
and again to the heart till the
blade of the knife broke in it.
Then he searched Montefiore's
pockets, took his wallet, money,
everything. But though he had
taken the Italian unawares, and
had done the deed with lucid
mind and the quickness of a pickpocket,
Montefiore had time to cry "Murder!
Help!" in a shrill and piercing
voice which was fit to rouse
every sleeper in the neighborhood.
His last sighs were given in
those horrible shrieks.
Diard was not aware that at
the moment when they entered
the avenue a crowd just issuing
from a theatre was passing at
the upper end of the street.
The cries of the dying man reached
them, though Diard did his best
to stifle the noise by setting
his foot firmly on Montefiore's
neck. The crowd began to run
towards the avenue, the high
walls of which appeared to echo
back the cries, directing them
to the very spot where the crime
was committed. The sound of their
coming steps seemed to beat on
Diard's brain. But not losing
his head as yet, the murderer
left the avenue and came boldly
into the street, walking very
gently, like a spectator who
sees the inutility of trying
to give help. He even turned
round once or twice to judge
of the distance between himself
and the crowd, and he saw them
rushing up the avenue, with the
exception of one man, who, with
a natural sense of caution, began
to watch Diard.
"There he is! there he is!" cried
the people, who had entered the
avenue as soon as they saw Montefiore
stretched out near the door of
the empty house.
As soon as that clamor rose,
Diard, feeling himself well in
the advance, began to run or
rather to fly, with the vigor
of a lion and the bounds of a
deer. At the other end of the
street he saw, or fancied he
saw, a mass of persons, and he
dashed down a cross street to
avoid them. But already every
window was open, and heads were
thrust forth right and left,
while from every door came shouts
and gleams of light. Diard kept
on, going straight before him,
through the lights and the noise;
and his legs were so actively
agile that he soon left the tumult
behind him, though without being
able to escape some eyes which
took in the extent of his course
more rapidly than he could cover
it. Inhabitants, soldiers, gendarmes,
every one, seemed afoot in the
twinkling of an eye. Some men
awoke the commissaries of police,
others stayed by the body to
guard it. The pursuit kept on
in the direction of the fugitive,
who dragged it after him like
the flame of a conflagration.
Diard, as he ran, had all the
sensations of a dream when he
heard a whole city howling, running,
panting after him. Nevertheless,
he kept his ideas and his presence
of mind. Presently he reached
the wall of the garden of his
house. The place was perfectly
silent, and he thought he had
foiled his pursuers, though a
distant murmur of the tumult
came to his ears like the roaring
of the sea. He dipped some water
from a brook and drank it. Then,
observing a pile of stones on
the road, he hid his treasure
in it; obeying one of those vague
thoughts which come to criminals
at a moment when the faculty
to judge their actions under
all bearings deserts them, and
they think to establish their
innocence by want of proof of
their guilt.
That done, he endeavored to
assume a placid countenance;
he even tried to smile as he
rapped softly on the door of
his house, hoping that no one
saw him. He raised his eyes,
and through the outer blinds
of one window came a gleam of
light from his wife's room. Then,
in the midst of his trouble,
visions of her gentle life, spent
with her children, beat upon
his brain with the force of a
hammer. The maid opened the door,
which Diard hastily closed behind
him with a kick. For a moment
he breathed freely; then, noticing
that he was bathed in perspiration,
he sent the servant back to Juana
and stayed in the darkness of
the passage, where he wiped his
face with his handkerchief and
put his clothes in order, like
a dandy about to pay a visit
to a pretty woman. After that
he walked into a track of the
moonlight to examine his hands.
A quiver of joy passed over him
as he saw that no blood stains
were on them; the hemorrhage
from his victim's body was no
doubt inward.
But all this took time. When
at last he mounted the stairs
to Juana's room he was calm and
collected, and able to reflect
on his position, which resolved
itself into two ideas: to leave
the house, and get to the wharves.
He did not THINK these ideas,
he SAW them written in fiery
letters on the darkness. Once
at the wharves he could hide
all day, return at night for
his treasure, then conceal himself,
like a rat, in the hold of some
vessel and escape without any
one suspecting his whereabouts.
But to do all this, money, gold,
was his first necessity,--and
he did not possess one penny.
The maid brought a light to
show him up.
"Felicie," he said, "don't
you hear a noise in the street,
shouts, cries? Go and see what
it means, and come and tell me."
His wife, in her white dressing-gown,
was sitting at a table, reading
aloud to Francisque and Juan
from a Spanish Cervantes, while
the boys followed her pronunciation
of the words from the text. They
all three stopped and looked
at Diard, who stood in the doorway
with his hands in his pockets;
overcome, perhaps, by finding
himself in this calm scene, so
softly lighted, so beautiful
with the faces of his wife and
children. It was a living picture
of the Virgin between her son
and John.
"Juana, I have
something to say to you."
"What has happened?" she
asked, instantly perceiving
from the
livid paleness of her husband
that the misfortune she had daily
expected was upon them.
"Oh, nothing;
but I want to speak to you--to
you, alone."
And he glanced at his sons.
"My dears, go to your room,
and go to bed," said Juana; "say
your prayers without me."
The boys left the room in silence,
with the incurious obedience
of well-trained children.
"My dear Juana," said Diard,
in a coaxing voice, "I left you
with very little money, and I
regret it now. Listen to me;
since I relieved you of the care
of our income by giving you an
allowance, have you not, like
other women, laid something by?"
"No," replied Juana, "I
have nothing. In making that
allowance
you did not reckon the costs
of the children's education.
I don't say that to reproach
you, my friend, only to explain
my want of money. All that you
gave me went to pay masters and--"
"Enough!" cried Diard, violently. "Thunder
of heaven! every instant is precious!
Where are your jewels?"
"You know very
well I have never worn any."
"Then there's not a sou to
be had here!" cried Diard, frantically.
"Why do you shout in that way?" she
asked.
"Juana," he replied, "I
have killed a man."
Juana sprang to the door of
her children's room and closed
it; then she returned.
"Your sons must hear nothing," she
said. "With whom have you fought?"
"Montefiore," he
replied.
"Ah!" she said with a sigh, "the
only man you had the right to
kill."
"There were
many reasons why he should
die by my hand. But
I can't lose time--Money, money!
for God's sake, money! I may
be pursued. We did not fight.
I--I killed him."
"Killed him!" she cried, "how?"
"Why, as one
kills anything. He stole my
whole fortune and
I took it back, that's all. Juana,
now that everything is quiet
you must go down to that heap
of stones--you know the heap
by the garden wall--and get that
money, since you haven't any
in the house."
"The money that you stole?" said
Juana.
"What does
that matter to you? Have you
any money to give me?
I tell you I must get away. They
are on my traces."
"Who?"
"The people,
the police."
Juana left the room, but returned
immediately.
"Here," she said, holding out
to him at arm's length a jewel, "that
is Dona Lagounia's cross. There
are four rubies in it, of great
value, I have been told. Take
it and go--go!"
"Felicie hasn't come back," he
cried, with a sudden thought. "Can
she have been arrested?"
Juana laid the cross on the
table, and sprang to the windows
that looked on the street. There
she saw, in the moonlight, a
file of soldiers posting themselves
in deepest silence along the
wall of the house. She turned,
affecting to be calm, and said
to her husband:--
"You have not
a minute to lose; you must
escape through the garden.
Here is the key of the little
gate."
As a precaution she turned
to the other windows, looking
on the garden. In the shadow
of the trees she saw the gleam
of the silver lace on the hats
of a body of gendarmes; and she
heard the distant mutterings
of a crowd of persons whom sentinels
were holding back at the end
of the streets up which curiosity
had drawn them. Diard had, in
truth, been seen to enter his
house by persons at their windows,
and on their information and
that of the frightened maid-servant,
who was arrested, the troops
and the people had blocked the
two streets which led to the
house. A dozen gendarmes, returning
from the theatre, had climbed
the walls of the garden, and
guarded all exit in that direction.
"Monsieur," said Juana, "you
cannot escape. The whole town
is here."
Diard ran from window to window
with the useless activity of
a captive bird striking against
the panes to escape. Juana stood
silent and thoughtful.
"Juana, dear
Juana, help me! give me, for
pity's sake, some
advice."
"Yes," said Juana, "I
will; and I will save you."
"Ah! you are
always my good angel."
Juana left the room and returned
immediately, holding out to Diard,
with averted head, one of his
own pistols. Diard did not take
it. Juana heard the entrance
of the soldiers into the courtyard,
where they laid down the body
of the murdered man to confront
the assassin with the sight of
it. She turned round and saw
Diard white and livid. The man
was nearly fainting, and tried
to sit down.
"Your children implore you," she
said, putting the pistol beneath
his hand.
"But--my good
Juana, my little Juana, do
you think--Juana! is
it so pressing?--I want to kiss
you."
The gendarmes were mounting
the staircase. Juana grasped
the pistol, aimed it at Diard,
holding him, in spite of his
cries, by the throat; then she
blew his brains out and flung
the weapon on the ground.
At that instant the door was
opened violently. The public
prosecutor, followed by an examining
judge, a doctor, a sheriff, and
a posse of gendarmes, all the
representatives, in short, of
human justice, entered the room.
"What do you want?" asked
Juana.
"Is that Monsieur Diard?" said
the prosecutor, pointing to the
dead body bent double on the
floor.
"Yes, monsieur."
"Your gown
is covered with blood, madame."
"Do you not see why?" replied
Juana.
She went to the little table
and sat down, taking up the volume
of Cervantes; she was pale, with
a nervous agitation which she
nevertheless controlled, keeping
it wholly inward.
"Leave the room," said
the prosecutor to the gendarmes.
Then he signed to the examining
judge and the doctor to remain.
"Madame, under the circumstances,
we can only congratulate you
on the death of your husband," he
said. "At least he has died as
a soldier should, whatever crime
his passions may have led him
to commit. His act renders negatory
that of justice. But however
we may desire to spare you at
such a moment, the law requires
that we should make an exact
report of all violent deaths.
You will permit us to do our
duty?"
"May I go and change my dress?" she
asked, laying down the volume.
"Yes, madame;
but you must bring it back
to us. The doctor
may need it."
"It would be too painful for
madame to see me operate," said
the doctor, understanding the
suspicions of the prosecutor. "Messieurs," he
added, "I hope you will allow
her to remain in the next room."
The magistrates approved the
request of the merciful physician,
and Felicie was permitted to
attend her mistress. The judge
and the prosecutor talked together
in a low voice. Officers of the
law are very unfortunate in being
forced to suspect all, and to
imagine evil everywhere. By dint
of supposing wicked intentions,
and of comprehending them, in
order to reach the truth hidden
under so many contradictory actions,
it is impossible that the exercise
of their dreadful functions should
not, in the long run, dry up
at their source the generous
emotions they are constrained
to repress. If the sensibilities
of the surgeon who probes into
the mysteries of the human body
end by growing callous, what
becomes of those of the judge
who is incessantly compelled
to search the inner folds of
the soul? Martyrs to their mission,
magistrates are all their lives
in mourning for their lost illusions;
crime weighs no less heavily
on them than on the criminal.
An old man seated on the bench
is venerable, but a young judge
makes a thoughtful person shudder.
The examining judge in this case
was young, and he felt obliged
to say to the public prosecutor,--
"Do you think
that woman was her husband's
accomplice? Ought
we to take her into custody?
Is it best to question her?"
The prosecutor replied, with
a careless shrug of his shoulders,--
"Montefiore
and Diard were two well-known
scoundrels. The
maid evidently knew nothing of
the crime. Better let the thing
rest there."
The doctor performed the autopsy,
and dictated his report to the
sheriff. Suddenly he stopped,
and hastily entered the next
room.
"Madame--" he
said.
Juana, who had removed her
bloody gown, came towards him.
"It was you," he whispered,
stooping to her ear, "who killed
your husband."
"Yes, monsieur," she
replied.
The doctor returned and continued
his dictation as follows,--
"And, from
the above assemblage of facts,
it appears evident
that the said Diard killed himself
voluntarily and by his own hand."
"Have you finished?" he
said to the sheriff after a
pause.
"Yes," replied
the writer.
The doctor signed the report.
Juana, who had followed him into
the room, gave him one glance,
repressing with difficulty the
tears which for an instant rose
into her eyes and moistened them.
"Messieurs," she said to the
public prosecutor and the judge, "I
am a stranger here, and a Spaniard.
I am ignorant of the laws, and
I know no one in Bordeaux. I
ask of you one kindness: enable
me to obtain a passport for Spain."
"One moment!" cried the examining
judge. "Madame, what has become
of the money stolen from the
Marquis de Montefiore?"
"Monsieur Diard," she replied, "said
something to me vaguely about
a heap of stones, under which
he must have hidden it."
"Where?"
"In the street."
The two magistrates looked
at each other. Juana made a noble
gesture and motioned to the doctor.
"Monsieur," she said in his
ear, "can I be suspected of some
infamous action? I! The pile
of stones must be close to the
wall of my garden. Go yourself,
I implore you. Look, search,
find that money."
The doctor went out, taking
with him the examining judge,
and together they found Montefiore's
treasure.
Within two days Juana had sold
her cross to pay the costs of
a journey. On her way with her
two children to take the diligence
which would carry her to the
frontiers of Spain, she heard
herself being called in the street.
Her dying mother was being carried
to a hospital, and through the
curtains of her litter she had
seen her daughter. Juana made
the bearers enter a porte-cochere
that was near them, and there
the last interview between the
mother and the daughter took
place. Though the two spoke to
each other in a low voice, Juan
heard these parting words,--
"Mother, die
in peace; I have suffered for
you all." |