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 UNIV. OF CALIF. LIBRARY. LOS ANGELES
 
 UN MYSTERE 
 
 (A MYSTERY) 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY GREVILLE 
 
 (MME. DURAND) 
 
 TRANSLATED BY HARVEY C. ALFORD. 
 
 CHICAGO : 
 
 DONOHUE, HEXNEBERRY & CO., 
 1890.
 
 PRINTED AND BOUND BY 
 
 DONOHUE & HENNEBERRY, 
 
 CHICAGO.
 
 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 (A MYSTERY.) 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 In the great salon of the de Beaurand mansion, 
 open for the first time in twenty years, the crowd 
 had begun to clear away, and there were not many 
 groups left except in the buffet to which some friends 
 had fled to take some refreshments before leaving. 
 The women were seated nibbling fruit or a piece of 
 cake, the men remained standing; they chatted 
 principally upon the subject of the marriage. Re- 
 markably beautiful was the bride under her veil of 
 lace thrown into relief by her heavy black locks 
 which made a magnificent setting for her beauty. 
 Upon that all agreed, and the men were bound to 
 admit her beauty. 
 
 "I like a less imposing style of beauty," said a 
 ver} 7 elegant young man, " I would not dare to take 
 a woman like her to the Bouffes. And if one could 
 not take one's wife to the Italian opera, then " 
 
 " You. Oh, you know your tastes. It is one of 
 the de Polrey's that you want. Marry, my dear, 
 marry, an4 you'Jl go to the Bouffes ; I I answer for 
 that, an4 to the Eden, &pd J:p the $"euilly fair. But 
 like that." 
 
 Mme. de Beaurand has an excellent smile," sairj 
 ft (Jpwager of a conciliating temperament, 
 
 3 
 
 2130095
 
 4 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 " Excellent. She is another woman when she 
 smiles." 
 
 "And she has smiled all day. I should think her 
 face would be sour." 
 
 " Bah ! Happiness ! " 
 
 " Happiness ? Not so much as that. It is not a 
 marriage of love, I told you." 
 
 " And of what, then ? She is rich as rich as he." 
 
 " At least." 
 
 "JSTo more is it a marriage of ambition. He is a 
 captain of dragoons, is very refined, thirty-two years 
 of age; but then it is not in that that you are inter- 
 ested." 
 
 " It is a marriage of friendship, it seems, almost 
 of convenience." 
 
 " On which side ? " 
 
 " On the side of the bride, of course. As for him, 
 he is an amorous fool. They say I am speaking 
 only from hearsay they say that Mile. Estelle 
 Brunaire has at last consented only through kind- 
 ness of heart, because she saw that Raymond was 
 losing flesh on account of her. Positively, he has 
 grown thin. You know how that is 2 " 
 
 At this they laughed, one woman cried aloud, one 
 man became reinstated upon that hazarded remark, 
 and finally they dispersed amid hearty handshaking 
 and phrase poli. 
 
 In one corner of the smoking-room the groom 
 leaned upon the arm of a fauteil, talking in a low 
 tone to Theodore Benoist, his comrade in the line, 
 though some years since retired to private life. 
 
 " You are happy ? " said Theodore. 
 
 " Happy, without doubt, since I hope."
 
 UN MYSTERE. 5 
 
 " For what do you hope ? " 
 
 " To make myself beloved by her ; she does not 
 love me." 
 
 " Oh, then you heard her speak of you ? " And 
 to-day was she not beautiful beaming ! " 
 
 " Yes, she was beaming to-day, because she is 
 good, as good as goodness itself. But she spoke of 
 me, you said ; she has much, oh, very much friend- 
 ship for me, but no love. Have you seen any- 
 thing upon her face resembling the impatient fear 
 of young brides ? You see, we have been husband 
 and wife for as much as four hours, and, would you 
 believe, I have not been able to say a word to her in 
 private that I have not even had an opportunity to 
 kiss her hand." 
 
 u In a reception like this, you must admit, my dear 
 Raymond, that privacy " 
 
 " Oh, if she only loved me ! I don't see how she 
 can, but then she will find the means. You see, as 
 for me, I adore her." 
 
 Raymond passed his hand over his forehead, 
 effaced a wrinkle and arose, smiling. 
 
 " You love her too much," said Benoist. 
 
 " Yes, I am afraid of it. It is absolutely neces- 
 sary that she love me. She will love me, won't 
 she?" 
 
 " I hope so, and I think so," said his friend, with 
 a confident smile. 
 
 "You will remain till we leave? "We take the 
 train at six o'clock, to dine at Beaurand, we believe, 
 at seven. I would like to bid you adieu at the last 
 moment." 
 
 " AE right I will walk with your aunt. Mme.
 
 6 UN MYS1EKE. 
 
 Montclar is adorable to-day. She always is. I don't 
 know a finer woman; but to-day her happiness has 
 made her tender." 
 
 " She is happy, she, also. She likes Estelle very 
 much. She pretends that between them there is a 
 surprising likeness. I have not yet seen it, but that 
 indicates nothing. My poor aunt ; she loves me 
 because of all the others for my mother whom I 
 never knew, for my father whom I lost so suddenly 
 twenty years ago 
 
 Raymond stopped and remained thinking. 
 
 " Don't think of that," said his companion, affec- 
 tionately. " This day should not be marred by sad 
 thoughts." 
 
 " I think of it always," said the young man, sadly. 
 " Not a day has gone by since his death but that I 
 have seen the face of my poor father such as I can 
 remember. That tragical death has left upon me an 
 ineffaeable print." 
 
 " Be reasonable ; a hunting accident could come to 
 anyone." 
 
 "Possibly. However, the remembrance of that 
 catastrophe does not cease to haunt me a single 
 day." 
 
 "Hold on, my friend, I am going to scold you 
 soundly. See your wife at the end of the salon 
 rouge, and did you say, that at the end of three 
 hours you were going to be at home alone?" 
 
 "You are right. Thanks. Immediately. You 
 will await me as it is agreed. I will go and dress." 
 
 He arose, shook the hand of his friend, and went 
 away. 
 
 Theodore absently followecj him with his eye
 
 UN MYSTERE. 1 
 
 and saw him approach the group where his wife 
 was seated. She had removed her veil, her head 
 was slightly turned to one side, her graceful form 
 was resting easily in her dress of heavy gilded 
 white silk, she looked like an ancient portrait. "Her 
 regular profile, her beautiful black eyes, the sweet- 
 ness of her face, the extraordinary expression of 
 kindness from her smiling lips gave to her a greater 
 charm than her beauty. In the midst of the heavy 
 green foliage, in a frame of garlands, among the in- 
 numerable white bouquets of every form and aspect, 
 the bride seemed to be a young goddess surrounded 
 with original offerings which she welcomed with 
 thanks. 
 
 Eaymond went up to her and spoke a few words 
 to her. Benoist did not hear the words ; but the 
 attitude of his Mend, not less than the manner in 
 which he placed his hand upon the back of his 
 wife's chair, showed a tenderness so absolute, a 
 passion so absorbing, that Theodore was surprised 
 by it. She answered her husband raising her eyes to 
 his. The look was listless, the smile was confident, 
 a slight laugh showed the white teeth, and she 
 turned her head away like a child that amuses itself, 
 her whole being respired the sweet grace and tran- 
 quillity of a soul supremely happy. 
 
 " I hope she will love him," thought Benoist. " It 
 would be terrible if these two charming souls should 
 not understand each other." 
 
 They all arose, the relations and friends stood 
 up and extended their congratulations and good 
 wishes to the newly married couple, now standing 
 side by side. The Captain was a head taller than
 
 S Utt MYSTERE. 
 
 his wife, but he was unusually tall, and alone, among 
 them all, Mine. Montclar was as tall as Estelle. The 
 blue eyes, the auburn hair and the light moustache 
 of Raymond made a brilliant contrast with the dark 
 beauty of his wife; but she possessed the pink 
 tinted cheeks of the blonde, which one sometimes 
 finds with dark eyes and which double the attraction. 
 
 "Raymond cannot see the likeness between his 
 wife and his father's sister. I can see it," said 
 Benoist to himself. " There is a similarity of general 
 lines, a similar construction of the head. Forty 
 years from now, Mme. de Beaurand will be another 
 Mme. Montclar, just as beautiful and probably 
 prettier." 
 
 The guests dispersed in the salon, he stepped 
 forward a few steps and was in speaking distance. 
 
 " I am going to dress," said the wife, " and you, 
 Raymond, hurry up." 
 
 Beaurand bent over the hand which his wife had 
 placed on the fauteil and kissed it, then, saluting the 
 people present, he went out. 
 
 " And, as for me," said Estelle, " I must also get 
 ready. If we should miss the train! On the day 
 of the wedding! Such a thing was never heard of 
 before ! " 
 
 " There are other trains," said Mme. Montclar, 
 philosophically. 
 
 " And our Yatel who should have prepared a 
 magnificent dinner for us. In the event of his fail- 
 ure there would be despair. What a debut for my 
 matrimonial career ! I must go. Adieu." 
 
 She disappeared behind a portiere of tapestry 
 that fell around her, the folds of her train following
 
 UN MYSTEEE. 
 
 her in a rippling of silk and lace. Her aunt, after 
 having accompanied the last of the guests to the 
 staircase, returned to Benoist in the middle of the 
 room. 
 
 " If I trouble you, dear madame," said he, " put 
 me in a corner and think no more of me. .Raymond 
 has asked me to remain until his departure he 
 wants to shake my hand once more. It is childish- 
 ness ; but then we are such old friends." 
 
 " You do not trouble me, M. Benoist," said Mme. 
 Montclar, "I am going to be seated in the arm 
 chair with a footstool under my feet. There, that 
 is well. Thanks. For I am a little fatigued ; but I 
 am also content, and joy keeps one up. And then 
 I shall have plenty of time in which to rest. I will 
 not rejoin Beaurand for a week." 
 
 "That is a long time," said Benoist, smiling, 
 " you hardly leave your nephew except for manoeu- 
 vres. What a mother you have been." 
 
 " It was necessary. The poor child. When my 
 brother died, Raymond was twelve years old. 
 What do you suppose would become of a child of 
 that age if some one did not replace the parents that 
 he had lost ? At last he is married. I am now 
 content." 
 
 '' You love your niece very much, as Raymond 
 has told me. She is charming." 
 
 "You don't know how charming she is. She is 
 also an orphan. Her mother has been dead a 
 dozen years happily I was about to say. If I 
 only dared." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " She was a sad woman, an invalid, too, I think.
 
 10 t 
 
 She did not love her daughter, and never paid any 
 attention to her. A friend of mine took care of the 
 child and raised her with her own children, and 
 succeeded admirably. Raymond called at the house. 
 At bottom, I think my friend had chosen Raymond 
 for her elder daughter, and then my nephew was 
 foolishly infatuated with Estelle, and they had to let 
 him have her, whether or no. That caused the cool- 
 ness between Mme. de Polrey and us. Well, it is 
 too bad. What can I do ? And I love Estelle 
 more than I do all the little de Polreys, all, as many 
 as there are. They are refined, but, with their 
 gossip, they are regular poll-parrots in the room. 
 However, our Estelle is a woman. She is true to de 
 Beaurand." 
 
 " Enthusiast ! " said Benoist, smiling. 
 
 "Enthusiast? So be it, always; all my life; 
 which has given me no little pleasure," Mme. Mont- 
 clar remarked, dreamily. All at once she arose. 
 
 " I must see how they are dressing her, that child, 
 if you will permit it. I will return immediately." 
 
 She went out by the same door that her niece did, 
 leaving Benoist to his meditations.
 
 CHAPTEK II. 
 
 Raymond stopped at the landing to give some 
 orders ; that done, he cast around him the glance of 
 the satisfied master. 
 
 The rich hotel had preserved its freshness of colors 
 and brilliant decorations, seldom attended with 
 twenty years of repose, and they were softer to the 
 eyes than when new. The great tapestries, preserved 
 in the family during more than two hundred years, 
 draping the marble walls, descended to the steps of 
 the staircase, where they lay in sumptuous folds. 
 The light came from above through a cupola sur- 
 rounded by balustres ajoures, from which hung 
 cloths, embroidered and bedizened with gold, the 
 purple carpet was thrown into relief by the brilliant 
 whiteness of the stone; great azalias filled all the 
 vacant places ; above the ballustrade great green 
 palms crossed their leaves under the canopy of joy 
 and glory. Two hours before, Raymond had passed 
 through this wilderness of gaiety, conducting his 
 young wife, dressed in original flowers; in a few 
 minutes they would repass in simple traveling cos- 
 tumes, and at that thought the heart of the young 
 man beat more loudly. The hour at which he led 
 her into the old mansion of his father had been an 
 hour of thanksgiving ; but that upon which he would 
 take her out with him would be a hundred times 
 more joyous. With a little haste he succeeded in 
 giving his instructions for the days to come, and 
 called Michel, his valet, de chambre. 
 
 11
 
 12 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 " All is ready/' said he. He was a man of forty, 
 with a military bearing, in dress-coat and white 
 cravat. " I lighted a little fire in your room, Cap- 
 tain, for it was not warm in comparison with the 
 rest of the house." 
 
 " All right," said Raymond, absently. 
 
 "And the mail, Captain, is on the writing desk." 
 
 "Thanks. You may go into the dressing-room 
 and wait for me there. I will be in in a moment. 
 Say also that I am detained, if, by chance, madame 
 should be ready before I." 
 
 With the dogged step of a man who is going to 
 do some drudgery, Raymond went into his room. 
 
 It was one he had occupied ever since the death 
 of his father had drawn near to him his Aunt Mont- 
 clar, a widow without children. During the holi- 
 days of Saint Cyr he had passed many fine nights 
 there, sleeping till eight o'clock in the morning in 
 the great bed draped with sombre curtains, there in 
 the alcove. It was a large room, a dark, massive 
 writing-desk near the window, an enormous fire- 
 place in which a large log was burning, did not 
 make the room look narrow. Above the mantel was 
 a large picture of General de Beaurand in place of 
 a mirror. Every day and every evening when in 
 Paris, Raymond greeted his father in look and in 
 heart. The fine blonde face of his mother had been 
 effaced from his memory, as photographs are some- 
 times weakened by the action of the light and the 
 sun, and of which there remain but indistinct traces. 
 But he always thought of his father, a little while 
 ago living, superb, upon his yellow-chestnut horse, a 
 short time since, dead, livid, extended upon a litter
 
 UN MYSTERE. 13 
 
 of boughs, with a wound in his left side, a wound so 
 singular that it was formerly spoken of not as an 
 accident, but as a murder. On entering his room, 
 Raymond looked at the portrait and thought of the 
 wound. Strangely he missed his father more upon 
 that day than any other. The quasi-rnaladive affec- 
 tion, which his memory had saved, made very pain- 
 ful that day when the dear souls were parted more 
 than ever before from happiness. In the gray light 
 of an afternoon in May the portrait seemed paler 
 than usual. 
 
 "Who could have killed his father? Revenge? 
 Everybody in the country loved him. He was 
 received on the ground of friendship in all the houses 
 for five leagues around. Upon that fatal day he was 
 alone hunting, having given to his hunting guard an 
 order to take his dog and another with a beater. On 
 returning they found the General, dead, near the same 
 passage where they had left him, at the foot of a 
 hedge near a fosse. The gun had exploded as M. de 
 Beaurand jumped the hedge. "Who could then have 
 killed the General, and why ? 
 
 Raymond shook off the importunate idea and re- 
 turned to the desk. A large photograph of Estelle, 
 placed behind the blotting case, well in the light, 
 calm, sweet-looking, hands crossed, oaught his eye. 
 He looked at it with an affectionate consciousness. 
 
 "Dear one, dear one," he said, pressing his lips 
 against the glass that covered it. 
 
 The cold contact was disagreeable to him. He 
 took the photograph from the case and kissed it 
 passionately, with a throbbing of the heart that had 
 not stopped since morning. "When he put it back
 
 14 UN MYSTEKE. 
 
 upon the table he saw a compact mass of cards, 
 letters, and telegrams of all colors, sizes and forms. 
 
 "Oh, heavens," thought he, "and must I read all 
 those." 
 
 At last, in order to relieve himself from the weari- 
 some task he hopefully looked at his watch; but the 
 watch gave him time to look over the correspond- 
 ence. So many must be finished before he could 
 be at liberty, afterwards that afterwards contained 
 for him a multitude of intoxicating pleasures. With 
 a resigned hand he seized the first envelope that 
 came, removed the letter and read patiently what it 
 contained. 
 
 Regrets with an affectionate word, cards of indif- 
 ference with nothing at all, offers of house furnishers, 
 letters from domestics desirous of entering into the 
 service of himself or of his wife; one after another 
 Raymond removed from its envelope, read and 
 classed the letters placing the useless upon one side 
 and those that needed answers upon the other, with 
 that promptitude and that method peculiar to men 
 who value their time and their space. Twice, 
 impatient to be done he looked at his watch, and 
 seeing that he still had time he continued to work, 
 trying to conquer the impatience and the foolish 
 desire that seized him each moment. Besides, in all 
 he had not used ten minutes. His valet entered and 
 assured him that all was in order. 
 
 "I am coming, Michel," said Raymond without 
 looking. 
 
 The door closed. 
 
 Still two cards, that was all. He arose. A letter, 
 fallen to the foot of the desk, attracted his attention ;
 
 UN MYSTERE. 15 
 
 he picked it up, and looked at it with some surprise. 
 It was a common envelope. The hand-writing of 
 the address was irregular, like that of those who 
 seldom write, it ascended toward the right hand 
 corner. 
 
 " To Monsieur Raymond de Beaurand, 
 At his hotel, on de Lille st., 
 Paris." 
 
 " I do not like the looks of that letter," thought 
 Raymond. 
 
 It resembled,however,in outward appearance,many 
 of those which he had just read, coming from domes- 
 tics out of employment; he opened it. The sheet of 
 paper which it contained Avas covered with serrated 
 lines of a miserable but resolved script; one could 
 easily see that the writer had made a first draught 
 and had copied it with persistence. Three pages 
 were full, on the fourth were only a few words and 
 a signature. Raymond remained standing and 
 began to read. 
 
 After the first few lines he leaned upon a chair, 
 with haggard eyes and a discomposed look. After 
 a instant of waiting he seated himself, putting the 
 paper upon the table, for his hand trembled, and he 
 recommenced his reading with minute care. The 
 words danced before him. He had t'o put a hand 
 upon the paper and to follow the lines with his finger 
 in order to not lose the place. 
 
 He read it twice then threw himself forward and 
 thought. 
 
 What he thought must have been horrible, for the 
 sweat stood out in great beads upon his forehead, 
 and he did not think to wipe it away. He arose
 
 10 UN MYSTERE). 
 
 sharply, opened the window, breathed full and deep, 
 then returned and seated himself before the letter. 
 More than once he sought to find in the lines a phrase 
 which he re-read, then relapsed into meditation. 
 
 Michel, in the next room, made a noise with the 
 toilet articles to draw his attention; once he even 
 put his head through the half-open door. But his 
 master's appearance so terrified him that he dared 
 not say anything and retired, a prey to a deadly fear. 
 
 Raymond still thought ; many times he made a 
 brusque movement, like a man who had found the so- 
 lution to a problem, then returned to the paper before 
 him, and fell into an attitude of absolute dejection. 
 
 "What if I call Benoist?" he said to himself. 
 
 The impossibility of communicating to another that 
 which he had learned was as clear as the light itself. 
 He remained motionless. The traveling clock struck 
 once; he looked at it, half past five; he had no time 
 to lose if he wanted to catch the train. He arose 
 undecidedly, unsteadily. All the energy of Captain 
 de Beaurand had disappeared ; there remained no 
 more of him than a poor man who had fallen under 
 a stroke that he could not have averted. 
 
 "Captain," Michael ventured, turning the handle 
 of the door. 
 
 " Leave me," said Raymond in a choked voice. 
 
 "His eyes fell upon the letter; he took it, and, roll- 
 ing it into a ball, he threw it into the fire-place, where 
 it instantly burned. The ashes of the paper black- 
 ened and were draw r n up the chimney with a few 
 sparks. Raymond followed them, wavering all the 
 time as though drunk. 
 
 The rustling of a robe of silk was heard in the cor- 
 ridor at the door; the voice of Estelle accompanied it.
 
 UN MYSTEKK. 17 
 
 "How about me, who was afraid of not being 
 ready," said she, laughing. 
 
 " Raymond," said Mine. Montclar, knocking at the 
 door, "you will miss the train." 
 
 " Let him alone, aunt, that would be so droll," said 
 Estelle, gaily. 
 
 " I am coming," he answered in a strong voice. 
 
 Five minutes more and he closed the window. 
 
 The two women departed, laughing. 
 
 He had taken his customary attitude; standing, he 
 was rigid as a corpse. With passionate vehemence 
 he seized the photograph of Estelle and pressed it to 
 his lips; but his lips had hardly touched it when he 
 recoiled from it with horror, looking straight into 
 the eyes of the picture he seemed to be addressing to 
 it a mute adjuration; fascinated, he was about to kiss 
 it again, when he shrank back with violence. He 
 tore the picture in pieces, which he threw into the fire- 
 place, where they blazed without his notice. He then 
 opened his box of arms and took out the pistols, which 
 he examined. They were in excellent condition and 
 loaded. He took one of them, unloaded it and loaded 
 it again, and he seized it with a firm hand and went 
 toward the general. Without difficulty he discovered 
 his own breast and looked at the picture of his father. 
 
 He looked at it a long time with'eyes of tender- 
 ness and sadness. What did he say to it during those 
 moments of mute contemplation ? Was it a prayer, 
 or only the expression of filial love exalted to the 
 verge of insanity ? At the moment when burning 
 with fever the eyes of Raymond filled with tears; he 
 put the muzzle of the pistol upon his heart and fell 
 dead, the pistol in his hand.
 
 CHAPTER 111. 
 
 One cannot describe the stupefaction that fol- 
 lowed. The first impression was that it could not be 
 true, and that the whole house was being duped by 
 a terrible hallucination. 
 
 Michel was the first to rush into the room; before 
 the detonation had ceased he saw his Captain fall. 
 Kneeling at his side he tried to put his hand on the 
 captain's heart; but drew it back smeared with 
 blood, and filled with a sickness that made him fall 
 faint. 
 
 Mine. Montclar entered almost immediately, sup- 
 posing there had been merely some slight fire-arm 
 accident, trusting that it was nothing, with the con- 
 fidence of those who are so happy that they cannot 
 think of the brutalit}^ of an unmerited fortune. 
 
 At the sight of her nephew extended upon the 
 floor, Mme. Montclar caught hold of the door post 
 struck dumb. Estelle, who followed her, entered 
 the room, took two or three steps and stopped, 
 frightened at the terrible apparition of death that 
 she saw for the first time. In her light costume 
 of silver gray silk, dressed ready to go, flowers upon 
 her hat and her umbrella in her hand, she was the 
 very image of life and joy. 
 
 After the first movements of terror she approached 
 him carefully and leaned over the body. At that 
 moment her gown fell into the stream of blood that 
 ran upon the floor. 
 
 " He is only wounded, speak, Michel," she said, in 
 a low voice; " we must go for a surgeon." 
 
 18
 
 UN MYSTERE. 19 
 
 The room was filled with frightened servants. 
 Benoist came in, his presence immediately com- 
 manded order and silence. 
 
 "Without waiting to discover life in the corpse at 
 his feet, he picked Raymond up and placed him 
 upon the bed. Michel, having recovered his senses, 
 helped him. Two men were sent for two surgeons 
 in different parts of the city, and the rest of the 
 servants were sent about their work. 
 
 " Your master seems to be the victim of an acci- 
 dent," he said, in a cool voice; " it is nothing un- 
 usual. While you go about your duties we will see 
 what can be done. While waiting for the physicians 
 we need but be silent. " 
 
 The tone of his voice had re-established confi- 
 dence, the servants retired, almost convinced that 
 the misfortune was purely accidental. 
 
 The door was closed and Benoist found himself 
 with the two women and Michel before the corpse 
 of his friend. " 
 
 " He has only fainted, has he, Monsieur, " said 
 Mine. Montclar, who wished to hear good news. 
 
 Benoist shook his head sadly. 
 
 " You are both in a condition to listen to me, " he 
 said, "Raymond is dead. His fingers are already 
 cold and becoming rigid. What it 'is necessary to 
 know at present and to conceal, perhaps, is the cause 
 of his death." 
 
 "An accident," said Mme. Montclar, wringing 
 her hands, " without doubt it is only an accident, 
 Monsieur Benoist. In his happiness he always was 
 imprudent. He was beside himself for joy this 
 morning when he went to the church. He said to
 
 20 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 me, ' I am silly, dear aunt, absolutely silly, I am so 
 happy. ' ' 
 
 Estelle said nothing but remained standing in the 
 middle of the room, looking at her husband with 
 deep eyes full of pity. Benoist looked at her aston- 
 ished to find her so calm. 
 
 " And you, Madame, " he said to her, " do you 
 think it was an accident ? " 
 
 She did not answer, not being accustomed to 
 being called Madame. He took a step towards her. 
 
 "Madame de Beaurand," said he, "do you also 
 believe that the death of your husband was due to 
 an accident?" 
 
 " Certainly, Monsieur," she added; "what else could 
 it be?" 
 
 She turned towards him. A nervous start made 
 her gown shiver when she encountered his inquisi- 
 torial look, so sharp that it seemed that he would 
 bore into her conscience. 
 
 The room sounded with a cry of woe. It was 
 Madame Montclar, who, having recovered from her 
 shock, approached the bed, and, touching the already 
 cold hand of her nephew, had realized the horror of 
 her fear. She fell upon her knees by his side, with 
 sobs broken by words. The spectacle of the old 
 lady, in her rich robe, in the attitude of despairing 
 prayer, was heart-rending. Estelle approached her 
 and clasped her in her arms ; her beautiful face was 
 marked with an unbounded commiseration. 
 
 " My aunt, my dear aunt," said she, in a low 
 voice ; " for love of him be patient, be silent." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Madame Montclar, "you compre- 
 hend nothing. You may speak of resignation, but
 
 UN MYSTEKE. 21 
 
 not to me, who have known him since he was 
 born." 
 
 An expression of tolerance, of suffering, even of 
 mortification, passed over Estelle's face; without 
 being taken aback, she leaned over the old lady. 
 
 " Help me, Monsieur," said she to Benoist, who 
 took Mine. Montclar by the other arm, and, between 
 the two, they succeeded in placing her in a chair 
 against the bed. 
 
 " You must take her away," said the young man 
 to Mme. de Beaurand. 
 
 " You take her away, if she will consent to go," 
 said Estelle, without looking at him. "My place 
 is here I am his wife." 
 
 Benoist threw at her such a look as goes to the 
 bottom of the soul. She bore it tranquilly, a little 
 astonished at such very inconsistent persistence. 
 
 " You are surprised to not see me cry," said she, 
 with a haughty air. " I can never cry when I am 
 seriously affected. Blessed are those who have the 
 gift of tears." 
 
 She placed her hand caressingly upon the shoul- 
 der of Madame Montclar, with a soft tenderness 
 which the poor woman felt, for she responded by 
 pressing the compassionate hand, and then broke 
 into tears. 
 
 Mme. de Beaurand remained standing before her 
 aunt, when a servant announced the arrival of the 
 doctor. Michel, who was seated in a chair near the 
 window, and who had not made a movement nor 
 uttered a sound from the time his master was placed 
 on the bed, arose brusquely and approached the body. 
 
 The doctor was neither the one nor the other of
 
 22 TIN MYSTERE. 
 
 the noted surgeons for whom Benoist had sent. He 
 was a doctor of minor degree, living in the quarter, 
 caught by chance by one of the servants and sent 
 in. He entered quietly, went to the bed, uncovered 
 the wound where the blood had coagulated, made a 
 few percussions, and, turning toward Benoist, said, 
 in a low tone : 
 
 " The ball passed through the heart ; death was 
 instantaneous." 
 
 " I thank you, Monsieur," said Benoist, in a calm 
 voice. " I suppose we must inform the police." 
 
 At this word both women regarded him with a 
 look of repulsion, which is inspired by a like idea in 
 people bred in the higher planes of society. 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur, certainly," said the doctor. 
 
 He had intended speaking of the marriage, about 
 which the whole quarter had been excited since 
 morning; not knowing positively, he much doubted 
 that the young lady in pure gray was the young 
 bride. He looked at her with a sort of stupefac- 
 tion ; she was very pale and very calm, and still 
 had on pearl gray gloves. 
 
 " Yery well," said Benoist, laconically. " If you 
 will come with me, we will go to the prefecture." 
 
 "But," said the doctor, "usually they go to the 
 Commisaire of Police in the quarter." 
 
 "Well then, go there, Monsieur, and do your 
 duty. As for me, I will try to see the Prefect of 
 Police. The death of Captain de Beaurand was 
 purely accidental, and they must be informed of it." 
 
 " Pardon me, Monsieur," said the doctor, "I do 
 not believe that the death was accidental." 
 
 "Why so, Monsieur?" queried Benoist, in a proud 
 planner.
 
 UN MYSTERE. 23 
 
 "Because of the aspect of the wound. The muz- 
 zle of the pistol touched the shirt and a burn was 
 very apparent. It was not an accident." 
 
 Benoist squeezed the arm of the doctor and said 
 in an. imposing voice : 
 
 " Upon bethinking yourself, you will change your 
 opinion. I see the presence of these ladies disturbs 
 you. Ladies, will you retire? It is necessary." 
 
 Madame Montclar arose with that peculiar sub- 
 missiveness with which the higher classes bow to 
 that which is convenient. Estelle passed her arm 
 through that of the old lady, and took two steps 
 toward the door. 
 
 "No, wait," said the aunt of the dead, "let me 
 kiss him, my handsome Raymond, my beloved Ray- 
 mond, my nephe\v, my son. Like his poor father, 
 what fatality!" 
 
 She had thrown herself upon the bed and covered 
 with kisses, the face yet warm, upon which rested 
 super-human calmness. 
 
 " Enough, Madame," said Benoist, drawing her 
 aside with a firm hand. 
 
 *' And you, Estelle, you will not kiss him ? " said 
 Madame Montclar, sadly. " lie was your husband, 
 my child, your husband before God and man. Kiss 
 him!" 
 
 Obediently, while her face became livid, the 
 young woman leaned over Raymond and sealed a 
 kiss upon his brow. It was the first he had ever 
 received from her. It was the first time she had 
 come close to him. An hour before, he who lay in 
 the sleep of death would have thrilled under that 
 liffht touch.
 
 24 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 Estelle recoiled from him chilled with the cold- 
 ness of death, then, reproaching herself for her fee- 
 bleness, placed a second kiss upon the blanched face, 
 as a tear fell upon the closed eyes. 
 
 Benoist watched her attentively. The doctor 
 seemed surprised to see a woman show such sang 
 froid under such circumstances. Estelle paid no 
 attention to them, and drawing the hand of Madame 
 Montclar through her arm, led her from the room. 
 
 When the doctor was alone witli Benoist and 
 Michel, he approached the corpse to make a com- 
 plete examination. Theodore, with a gesture, stopped 
 him. 
 
 "It is useless," said he, "you are right, but 
 nobody, except us, and those who should know it, 
 shall know the truth. To the people it shall pass as 
 an accident, and it is for them that I desire you to 
 go with me. Besides, it will avail nothing. I alone 
 shall do what need be done. Michel, you will 
 remain here, allow nobody to enter, touch nothing 
 and arrange nothing." 
 
 " But what if the ladies wish to see the captain ? " 
 asked Michel, whose face had become haggard ai*d 
 dark. 
 
 " You will refuse; that is the order; you under- 
 stand?" 
 
 " I understand," said the worthy fellow. 
 
 Benoist went out, followed by the doctor. When 
 the sound of their footsteps had died out in the cor- 
 ridor, the old soldier left the bed and began an 
 anxious and silent search through the room. 
 
 " It was the letter that caused the deed," he 
 thought, as his temples throbbed with the excess of
 
 UN MYSTERE. 25 
 
 contained emotion. " If I could only find it, that 
 beggarly letter." 
 
 lie did not search the envelopes which made a 
 heap upon the writing desk; but obstinately worked 
 over the pile which Raymond had prepared to 
 answer. When he was assured that he could find 
 nothing of the missing paper, he put them all back 
 in their place and continued his search. He went to 
 the fireplace and saw the pieces of Estelle's picture, 
 which the fire had not entirely consumed. At sight 
 of them, he was struck dumb, without thought or 
 word. "With almost unaccountable care, he took 
 one, examined it and returned it to the exact place 
 whence he took it. At that moment, one of the 
 servants, called by Estelle to bring some fresh water 
 to Mme. Montclar, entered the room, as though 
 bewildered, and said to his comrade: 
 
 "Did you notice? The bride had blood on her 
 robe."
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 In one of the large salons of the mansion trans- 
 formed into a zealous chapel, reposed the body of 
 Raymond de Beaurand, prepared for his last resting- 
 place. 
 
 After all sorts of authentications, Michel had 
 dressed his master in a new uniform, worn for the 
 first time on that fateful morning, and they had laid 
 him upon the bier. The handsome face of the young 
 man was not troubled. The tear that was shed by 
 Estelle had quickly dried upon the eyelid of the 
 dead, who seemed to be sleeping peacefully, had it 
 not been that the lips were tightly pressed together. 
 The flowers placed everywhere on the occasion of 
 the marriage, had been artistically arranged behind 
 the catafalque in the form of a wall of verdure. All 
 around they filled the room, leaving a small space in 
 which to move. The candelabras, filled with burn- 
 ing candles, cast a golden light upon the purple car- 
 pets placed in the passage ways. 
 
 Benoist, who had superintended the whole ar- 
 rangement, did not desire black hangings. Ray- 
 mond would still pass some hours in the palace of 
 his father, in the midst of the splendor of his nuptial 
 glory. 
 
 A priest and two sisters of charity prayed over 
 the deceased. Meanwhile, Benoist and Michel were 
 closeted with M. Andre Bolvin, assistant procurer de 
 la Republique, searching everywhere for the letter, 
 mentioned by the valet de charribre. That letter 
 
 26
 
 UN MYSTERE. 27 
 
 which had undoubtedly caused the death of his 
 master, as he said. 
 
 They had gone over everything. It was sad to 
 see the most secret drawers, the most sacred boxes 
 opened by an unknown representative of the law. 
 They found only family relics, old letters of General 
 de Beaurand written to his wife, the correspondence 
 of friends, some dead, some living nothing, not a 
 word, which could explain the strange suicide. 
 
 " The letter is in the pile," said Michel, for the 
 tenth time, with a sort of rage. 
 
 " The Captain might have burned it, one can not 
 tell what has become of it. After all," said Andre 
 Bolvin, raising his clear, penetrating eyes over their 
 heads, "what could have been in the letter?" 
 
 "I absolutely do not know; but when I saw my 
 capttin reading it I was frightened, for I never saw 
 such a look on a human face. From that moment, I 
 feared some misfortune. Ah! if I had done as I 
 ought to have done, I should have remained in the 
 room ! " 
 
 "You know nobody who could have wished to 
 have caused de Beaurand any sorrow or could have 
 desired to have frightened him ? " 
 
 " Nobody ; you see he was like his father every - 
 bodv liked him." 
 
 v 
 
 " That did not prevent somebody's having killed 
 him, though ; or that he killed himself." 
 
 The young assistant looked attentive at Michel. 
 In a few words Benoist related to him the tragical 
 death of the General. 
 
 " Truly, it is singular," he said. 
 
 a nervous hand he looked over the cards and
 
 28 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 letters lying on the writing desk. All at once he 
 seated himself and began to closely study the envel- 
 opes, placing them with their respective cards, 
 identifying them, as nearly as possible by the hand- 
 writing. 
 
 Benoist watched him closely, aiding him when a 
 difficulty presented itself, and accounting for the 
 letters, the authors all of which he knew or at least 
 knew the name. This work ended, one envelope 
 remained upon the table. 
 
 " This is the envelope," said the deputy. 
 
 " I hardly hoped to find the letter there." 
 
 Benoist looked at the envelope with a singular 
 emotion. That common piece of paper contained 
 the message of death. And he had no idea of where 
 to find the letter. 
 
 " There is evidently a woman in the case," said 
 Bolvin, turning the envelope over. 
 
 "A Avoman ? I don't believe it ; I know the life 
 of my friend, and that seems impossible." 
 
 " There are many ways in which a woman may be 
 involved," said the deputy, without moving. " I did 
 not say that it was the revenge of one whom he had 
 deserted, you understand me, but if there should not 
 be a woman at the bottom of this matter, it will be 
 very singular. Did your friend know anybody at 
 Laval?" 
 
 "At Laval," said Benoist, searching his memory. 
 " No, I do not think so." 
 
 " Has he been stationed at that town ? " 
 
 " No sir," said Michel, distinctly. 
 
 " Did the Beaurands have any servants there ; any 
 whatever? Are there none of the domestics of this
 
 UN MYSTERE. 29 
 
 house who have relations there ? The letter bears the 
 post mark of Laval ; but then it might have been 
 sent there from Paris and thence here ; however, it 
 was posted at Laval. These letters arrive post-haste, 
 and that makes tracing them veiy difficult. It then 
 becomes necessary to know if those who immediately 
 surround the family have not relations at Laval. 
 You will make it your business to find that out, 
 Michel." 
 
 The young magistrate remained silent for a 
 moment. The large room was very dark, notwith- 
 standing the two or three lamps placed upon the 
 stands to light the corners. 
 
 " Michel, you will leave us," said M. Bolvin. The 
 servant obeyed, going out silently. 
 
 k * Monsieur," said the deputy to Benoist, who was 
 seated in front of him, " can you tell me what was 
 M. de Beaurand's attitude toward his wife?" 
 
 From the moment that he was certain of the 
 death of his friend, Benoist had not ceased to think 
 of that same question and to wonder what import 
 his answer should have. In presence of a direct 
 question, he, in his turn, looked at the man that put 
 the question, and decided that he was an honest 
 man. 
 
 " His sentiments were of the warmest tenderness," 
 said he, without hesitating. 
 
 "You are sure of it ? " 
 
 " Absolutely certain, for we were talking about it 
 not more than a half-hour before the misfortune." 
 
 " Then he spoke of it to you ? " 
 
 " In an extraordinary way." 
 
 " How, then, can you explain the fact that the torn
 
 30 UN MTSTERE. 
 
 picture of Mme. de Beaurand was found in the 
 ashes?" said Bolvin, examining the remains of the 
 photograph, which he had picked up and put away. 
 
 " I can not explain it," said Benoist, honestly. 
 
 A silence followed ; the deputy looked from the 
 pieces of the photograph to the envelope alternately, 
 as though by confronting them he hoped to make 
 them speak. 
 
 " And Mme. de Beaurand: Can you tell me how 
 she felt toward her husband ? " 
 
 Benoist did not answer immediately ; that which 
 he was about to say was of such gravity that he 
 wished to know its whole effect before saying one 
 word. 
 
 " Do you desire to say nothing? " said Bolvin, in a 
 tone which cut Benoist like the stroke of a knife. 
 
 " No ; I was only trying to find out how I could 
 explain it to you so that you might have an exact 
 idea. I do not know how I can do it better than to 
 relate to you my last conversation with Raymond ; 
 you will be better able to judge from that than from 
 my own personal idea of it." 
 
 Followed by the closest attention of the magis- 
 trate, he then related their conversation exactly. 
 
 " You will say that my friend, enamored as he 
 was of his Avife, was not deluded in regard to the 
 affection she had for him ; but he thought her good, 
 good as goodness itself, and it was on account 
 of that goodness that he gained the consent of 
 Mme. de Beaurand, who had very much friendship 
 for him." 
 
 " How was she to him toward the last ? " 
 
 tl I saw her little until to-day. She was affection-
 
 UN MYSTERE. 31 
 
 ate and gay, very calm. All in all, she seemed happy 
 in being married." 
 
 " Mine, de Beaurand was Miss Brunaire ? Family 
 good ? Her parents - " 
 
 " The father has been dead since the birth of his 
 daughter, the mother survived ^ : m eight years." 
 
 " An orphan, then ; schoolod in a convent, by 
 the kindness of a friand '.' I heard that. It was 
 not then a money marriage ? " 
 
 " Neither on one side nor the other." 
 
 " How old was Mine, de Beaurand ? " 
 
 "A little more than twenty." 
 
 The deputy reflected. 
 
 "And she, she knows no one at Laval?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Benoist. 
 
 " Will you ask her to come here ? I would go to 
 her, except that on account of Mme. Montclar I 
 think it preferable." 
 
 Benoist went ou, by the door leading into the 
 corridor and asked of the first servant where he 
 might find Mme c de Beaurand. He was told that she 
 was in the chapel of prayer. So there he went. 
 The great clock oi the palace struck eleven. The 
 priests anc ". the two sisters of charity prayed all the 
 time. One might have followed the psalms by the 
 movement of their lips. A short 'distance from 
 them upon a prie-dieu, fixed for the occasion, 
 Estelle knelt, dressed in an indoor gown of pure 
 white, because she had no dress of black in the 
 hotel, with hands joined. With an expression of 
 anxious interrogation, she looked at the corpse of 
 him who was her husband only before the world. 
 Why was he there, when he should have been with
 
 32 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 her in a nest prepared for them ? A tearful tender- 
 ness came to her lips and showed in her eyes as she 
 saw there, him whom she had accepted as her hus- 
 band with the full hope of being happy, with a 
 deeply sincere intention of returning to him love for 
 love, just at the moment when his soul closed and 
 he had become happy. " It was not my fault," said 
 she to herself, " if I never really loved him. I could 
 not; he was to me a very dear friend; I do not know 
 that he could ever have become a beloved friend. 
 One may be good, affectionate and true to one's 
 husband without showing passion for him. Doubt- 
 less, I do not know how to be passionate, but I am 
 sure, however, that I could have made his a life of 
 happiness." 
 
 The deadened sound of the footsteps of Benoist 
 roused her from her revery. They had disturbed 
 Mme. Montclar a dozen times to ask her desires, but 
 she was so overwhelmed that she could not answer. 
 
 " Will you come with me a moment, Madame," 
 said Benoist, in a low tone. 
 
 She rose and followed him with a sort of repug- 
 nance; the way in which he had examined her over 
 the body, had made a disagreeable impression upon 
 her. As he guided her through the corridor, she 
 stopped. 
 
 "Are we going into that room?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, the deputy wishes to make a few inquiries." 
 
 "Very well," said she, tranquilly. 
 
 She entered; Bolvin, immediately struck with her 
 beauty, her distinction, her supreme elegance, bowed 
 respectfully to her. She stood erect without notic- 
 ing the chair which he offered her ; thus obliging 
 him to stand also.
 
 UN MYSTERE. 33 
 
 " I beg pardon, Madame," said he, " I have only a 
 word to say to you. Do you know, far or near, high 
 or low in the social world, anybody who lives, or has 
 parents or friends who live, at Laval?" 
 
 "Laval?" 
 
 " Yes, or in the environments ; think welL" 
 
 Estelle bowed her head, searching her memory 
 scrupulously. Then looked Bolvin full in the face 
 and said : 
 
 " No, sir ; I know nobody in that district. I have 
 never been there." 
 
 " Very well, Madame, that is all," said the deputy, 
 saluting her. 
 
 She went out with her head bowed. When she 
 had left the room Bolvin looked at Benoist and 
 said : " The letter which has caused ,;he suicide was 
 undoubtedly a denunciation of Mme de Beaurand. 
 
 "A denunciation a calumny ." said Benoist. 
 
 "I think so," said Bolvin, coolly.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 All of Paris, that had assisted on the afternoon of 
 the nuptial ceremony, learned upon rising, the next 
 morning, of the death of Captain de Beaurand. A 
 large morning journal informed of the accident im- 
 mediately, gave an account of it to its readers upon 
 the first page. Theodore Benoist had thought of 
 many things, but he had not thought to close the 
 mouths of a dozen servants and as many more sub- 
 alterns belonging to as many different professions. 
 The effect of this indiscretion was disastrous. Beau- 
 rand, married in the morning, died during the day ? 
 The simple explanation of a simple accident could 
 satisfy nobody. It was too simple. And then, 
 besides, what need was there of a young husband 
 playing with fire-arms? On all sides interested and 
 curious they ran to the hotel de Beaurand. 
 
 The most positive orders had been given that no- 
 body should be allowed to see Mme. Montclar or the 
 young widow; but certain people passed all the 
 barriers and forced all consigns with an inexplicable 
 ease. At the moment when Estelle had come from 
 her modiste who had been called to make the 
 mourning costume late in the evening previous, the 
 Baroness de Polrey came to her, followed by a ser- 
 vant whom she had easily seduced by her assurance. 
 
 " I thought that your orders did not include me, 
 my dear Estelle," said she, with a wounded air very 
 strange upon the face of a happy, wordly woman. 
 tf You could not, under such circumstances, refuse to 
 see the friend who replaced your mother." 
 
 34
 
 UN MYSTEKE. 35 
 
 " Certainly, dear Madame," said the young woman, 
 a little coldly ; " I thank you for the solicitude you 
 have shown." 
 
 Mine, de Polrey looked at her curiously, as one 
 would examine something odd. This bride of the 
 evening, widow before being a wife, was destined 
 to become the subject for common conversation dur- 
 ing a week or more ; what honor to be able to say, 
 " It is I who saw her first ; " all at once she remem- 
 bered that the pretext of her visit had a maternal 
 interest, and she opened her arms : 
 
 " My dear child," said she, " what a horrible situa- 
 tion this is for you. In this house where you are 
 actually a stranger, you must have need of a friend 
 to whom you can open your heart ? Kiss me, my 
 darling." 
 
 But the darling did not seem the least bit in the 
 world to display" any effusion.; she, however, kissed 
 Mme. de Polrey with mere convenient recognition, 
 and seeing that she did not defer to it, she offered 
 her a chair. 
 
 " Is this your room ? " said the Baroness, shad- 
 ing her eyes with her hand and looking round her. 
 " It is nice, very nice, a little sombre these tapes- 
 tries as for me, I have a room in blue and gold, but 
 I am a blonde. Let us see, Estelle, tell me how did 
 it happen ? You know you may place all your confi- 
 dence in me, I am as mute as a tomb. Were you 
 present ? Poor child, how you must suffer." 
 
 " I was not there," answered Estelle, decisively. 
 
 Since the eve Before, she had learned that she 
 should speak as ittle as possible. Her short inter- 
 view with the deputy had aroused in her ideas of
 
 36 UN MTSTERE. 
 
 prudence, the existence of which she had never sus- 
 pected. 
 
 " He was alone then ? " queried Mme. de Polrey ; 
 " the poor fellow ! But then, why did he touch the 
 pistols? What imprudence, and then, don't you 
 think, between us, that an officer ought to know the 
 danger of such arms enough to avoid them ? Don't 
 you think so ? tell me." 
 
 " I know absolutely nothing," answered Estelle, 
 with a little petulence. "I can not think of such 
 things. I know only one thing, and that is, that we 
 were married yesterday at one o'clock in the after- 
 noon, and that before six o'clock in the evening, I 
 was a widow ; that is enough to shatter the most 
 robust nerves. I tell you, my dear Madame, that I 
 am absolutely broken down." 
 
 "I understand that," said the Baroness, without 
 moving, " my poor dear. Have you been able to 
 cry, at all?" 
 
 " When I have much sorrow," said Estelle, " I am 
 unable to cry." 
 
 " Your eyes are, however, very hollow. It is ter- 
 rible, and what did Mme. Montclar say about it ? " 
 
 " She is overwhelmed. I am afraid that she will 
 never recover. Happily there is a friend of Ray- 
 mond who has charge of all." 
 
 " That is fortunate, truly. Only two women what 
 could they do ? great heavens ! What are you going 
 to do?" 
 
 " I don't know. I will have to have time in which 
 to reflect." 
 
 " No doubt, no uuuui/. A.ny way, will you remain 
 here in the hotel while waiting?"
 
 UN MYSTERE. 37 
 
 " Evidently," said Estelle, who did not understand ; 
 " is it not my house ? " 
 
 "Ah!" said Mrae. de Polrey, with a sigh, half 
 hopeful and half disappointed; " then you have de- 
 cided the question ? " 
 
 " For the present, absolutely ." 
 
 " I came to ask you," said the Baroness, with a 
 great liberality of mind, u if you would not return 
 to our house and take, there, the same room that 
 you had when you were a young girl ? But then 
 you're decided." 
 
 Estelle looked her straight in her eyes and pierced 
 her to the bottom of her soul. Before that day she 
 had judged the Baroness and found her terri.oly hol- 
 low, except in that which concerned her maternal 
 kindness ; it was from this remaining part that they 
 had called her a good woman. 
 
 Upon the death of Mme. Brunaire, Mme. de Pol- 
 rey was charged with raising Estelle. Why the 
 Baroness more than anyone else? No particular 
 friendship had united her with the deceased, who, 
 besides during several years cared for nobody and 
 seemed to be detached from the world by a sort of 
 sad monomania. Mme. de Polrey had obtained 
 charge of Estelle for the simple reason that she had 
 asked it ; the tutor of the orphan, pleased with not 
 being obliged to occupy herself with the child, dis- 
 charged the pupil upon the amiable woman, the wife 
 of a worthy man, enemy to all care, mother to three 
 little girls, and who was probably an ample guaran- 
 ^33 for competency in the matter of education. 
 
 The agreement between Estelle and her, who, to 
 use an admissible phrase, took the place of her
 
 38 UN MTSTERE. 
 
 mother, had been very simple. Mme. de Polrey 
 claimed neither recognition nor particular atten- 
 tion ; but only the amiable politeness which consti- 
 tutes social relations. In her family, Estelle gave 
 her no more trouble than one more turtle dove in her 
 dove cote ; all the little people were sent to the con- 
 vent, were visited in the parlor, went out regularly 
 and returned for their holidays with a smiling dis- 
 cipline which was no cause for ennui. When the 
 time came to present the young girls, Mme. de Pol- 
 rey was shown a little deception. Certainly Susan, 
 her eldest daughter, was more fashionably pretty, 
 and Odette, the second, possessed an extraordinary 
 " chic ; " as to Yalentine she was fourteen years old ; 
 there was no question about all this. But Estelle, 
 besides her unusual name which attracted attention 
 to her, had a queenly appearance, her commanding 
 beauty was so apparent that her companions found 
 themselves thrown relatively into the shade. This 
 was the commencement of the sorrows of Mme. de 
 Polrey and of her becoming undeceived with regard 
 to her pupil. This vexatious spirit lasted for two 
 years without outward manifestation, then came the 
 question with regard to Raymond. The Baroness 
 suffered from it without showing her discomfiture; 
 but Estelle understood that she herself was very 
 wrong to engross the attentions of a heart intended 
 for Susan and without resenting the least ill-humor, 
 she said to herself, that Mme. de Polrey was after 
 all only mortal and not a guardian angel, as they 
 had both said in good faith, in times already past. 
 The question was now very neatly put; The 
 Baroness had not made her proposition until after
 
 UN MYSTERE. 39 
 
 she had learned with certitude that it would be un- 
 acceptable. It was very wise and absolutely mater- 
 nal having shown the many inconveniences which 
 would be thrown in the way of her ex-pupil. The 
 young widow found herself wounded. If, by chance, 
 she had found it necessary to have an asylum under 
 such circumstances, could she not have found it 
 there? Estelle was not far enough advanced in life 
 to understand a very natural excess of maternal pru- 
 dence ; her young heart and also her own self-esteem 
 had received a cutting wound. She did not know 
 or wish to hide it, and the Baroness, who was clever, 
 discovered it immediately. From that moment 
 there was no true affection between these two 
 women, if it had so much as ever existed. All this 
 occurred in less than half a minute. 
 
 "I will remain here," said Mme. de Beaurand, 
 "since Mme. Montclar, my aunt she emphasized 
 that word will have immediate need for care and 
 kindness, besides my mourning gown will keep me 
 out of society for two years." 
 
 " That is to say, to remain with Mme. Montclar is 
 what you desire 'to do," said the Baroness, slowly, a 
 little piqued ; " and, besides, under these circum- 
 stances, which are so trying, her protection may be 
 quite necessary." 
 
 " Her protection ? " asked Estelle, straightening up. 
 " Her friendship were better." 
 
 " Call it what you please, my dear ; it is certain 
 that the wife of a man who died suddenly by a pis- 
 tol shot upon the day of his wedding, has need of a 
 stable chaperon, more for the future than for the 
 present. You are in a pitiable situation, my dear."
 
 40 TIN MYSTERE. 
 
 Estelle blushed as though under a direct affront, 
 notwithstanding that Mrae. de Polrey was right; 
 however, in her manner of speaking, she had missed 
 her footing, slightly. 
 
 " My situation is difficult, I understand that," said 
 the young woman, "and, moreover, I count upon my 
 friends to uphold me." 
 
 "Certainly, my child, we will all be ready to sus- 
 tain you and to defend you." 
 
 The eyes of Estelle shot fire, and she could not 
 contain herself. 
 
 " To defend me ? " said she, " heavens ! and against 
 whom ? " 
 
 "Against the malicious public, my dear child. 
 You are intelligent, Estelle; do you doubt that 
 your premature widowhood will be the subject of a 
 thousand comments? Nobody will believe that that 
 accident " 
 
 " It is very simple," said Estelle, with bitterness. 
 
 "It is too simple! Do you want to know the 
 truth? I heard it said already twice this morning^ 
 and it is not yet eleven o'clock. Listen, Estelle, I 
 replaced your mother, and, well, I tell you, that if a 
 like thing had happened to one of my daughters, I 
 wouldn't have enough eyes to weep with." 
 
 " You needn't presume that it is anything serious," 
 said Mme. de Beaurand, " and I am happy to be so 
 situated to-day as to cause you no chagrin." 
 
 " My dear child," commenced Mme. de Polrey, 
 who repented of having gone so far, for she was not 
 cruel, but only imprudent in her language, like about 
 three-fourths of us mortals are. She stopped upon 
 seeing that Estelle was not disposed to accept her
 
 tJN MYSTEKE. 41 
 
 advice nor explanations, and arose to go. " Is the 
 hour of the ceremony fixed ?" she asked. " I sup- 
 pose it will be to-day ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think so. M. Theodore Benoist has charge 
 of these things. Gracious! but these details are 
 horrible ! " 
 
 " You have had ample opportunity to discover 
 that they are," added Mme. de Polrey, upon the 
 threshold. 
 
 " Raymond asked him to remain " 
 
 Upon seeing the expression which these words 
 brought to the face of the baroness, Estelle regret- 
 ted having spoken. 
 
 " Since all is wrongly interpreted," thought she, 
 " I will say nothing to anyone." "Au revoir, chere 
 JMadame,a,nd I thank you," she added, in a full tone, 
 as Mme. de Polrey disappeared down the stairway.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The church of St. Thomas Aquinas was too small 
 to hold the crowd that came to attend the obsequies 
 of Captain de Beaurand. The magnificent cata- 
 falque, the many crowns of flowers, the lampadaires 
 with green flames, which filled the narrow nave 
 where, twenty-four hours before, Estelle and Ray- 
 mond had vowed to remain together until death did 
 them part, occupied more room than did the two 
 upon their prie-dieu of red velvet, and, moreover, 
 now the husband was alone. 
 
 Benoist, with a truly remarkable tact in organiza- 
 tion, had discovered an old relation of the famity,near 
 enough to lead the mourners, and yet distant enough 
 to be perfectly indifferent ; this person of noble 
 appearance and of little excitability was installed 
 in the place of honor, and conducted himself with 
 the air of one whom nothing could astonish, and to 
 whom fortune was at the end of all fluctuation. It 
 was before him that the eighteen hundred persons 
 filed, who had come in order to be able to say, " I 
 was there," and also to assure themselves that the 
 young widow, following her own convenience, had 
 remained at home. 
 
 Estelle had acted according to the best rules, and 
 there were many who criticized her for it ; let us, 
 however, do them the justice of saying that had 
 she been there she would have been criticized by 
 the same persons and in exactly the same manner. 
 
 " She should at least have been able to accompany 
 
 43
 
 UN MYSTERE. 4:3 
 
 her husband to the church ; it does not trouble her 
 the least in the world. She owed him that, how- 
 ever." 
 
 " She did not come out at all," said the others. 
 " That is very singular. Were I in her place - 
 
 One can not imagine the many contradictory 
 things that they would have done had they been in 
 her place. 
 
 The body of Raymond was interred under the 
 sumptuous family monument at Pere-Lachaise, and 
 Benoist, when all was done, returned to the hotel de 
 Beaurand to inform Mme. Montclar of all that 
 had passed. 
 
 Mme. Montclar was one of those women who, 
 having a sad youth, enjoy afterward a long period 
 of peaceful happiness ; there shown from the tran- 
 quil years a soft light that illuminated all the rest 
 of her life, and that made it singularly easy to 
 accept old age. A widow while yet young, without 
 children, as rich as she could desire, Mme. Montclar 
 had arrived at forty without great sorrow ; at that 
 time the tragical end of her brother de Beaurand 
 threw her into great melancholy. The love which 
 she had avowed for little Raymond and the care for 
 his education had occupied her ; since then she had 
 descended life easily, not finding the steps steep, 
 feeling assured that she should feel herself sustained 
 until the end by the tender heart and robust and 
 strong hand of the nephew of whom she had made 
 a son. This accident, from which the people would 
 make nothing but a scandal, ruined, for her, the rest 
 of her life. However, her health and practical 
 nature furnished her with the necessary energy to
 
 44 UN MYSTEKE. 
 
 recover from her dejection. They had taken her 
 away at the time of the funeral ceremony. "When 
 she was dressed in mourning, she wished to go and 
 pray before the coffin of Raymond in the sanctuary ; 
 but Estelle told her that he was no longer there. 
 Disposed at first to protest against the usurpation of 
 her rights, Mine. Montclar at last acceded to the 
 soft entreaties of Estelle, who, taking her arm, 
 assured her that it was better so. " We know where 
 to find him, my dear aunt," she said to her, " and 
 there we shall not be a spectacle for the curiosity of 
 the people." 
 
 It was so true that Madame Montclar pressed 
 silently the hand of her niece, and led her to her 
 own private apartment where they found Theodore 
 Benoist. 
 
 After he had told them the details of the cere- 
 nony, he remained silent, and the silence rested 
 iieavily upon them. Estelle felt that he desired her 
 to leave the room, that he might have occasion to 
 ;ay to Mme. Montclar, something that he desired to 
 hide from her, and as she considered the pretension 
 insolent, she resolved to remain, come what might. 
 Since the accident, Estelle had asked herself many 
 questions, beside that which took precedence above 
 all others, why did Raymond kill himself ? Many 
 others disquieted her constantly ; primary among 
 them was, whence came this singular attitude of 
 Benoist in caring for her ? He was the last to have 
 talked confidentially with the Captain. What could 
 he have said to the unfortunate one so neer tG> iiis 
 end, in that last conversation ? If any one had the 
 key to the enigma, Estelle thought that one must be
 
 UN MYSTERE. 45 
 
 Benoist. "Was there then a mysterious link between 
 the obvious coldness of this young man and the 
 unexpected death of her husband ? Was it Benoist 
 who had revealed to Kaymond, some horrible mys- 
 tery or had Raymond before dying confided to his 
 friend an inviolable secret ? The words of the 
 deputy had impressed the young man with an indel- 
 ible idea; the idea that Raymond died of a denun- 
 ciation of his wife, that had, little by little, taken 
 control of him. 
 
 The truth is that hypothesis cleared up all that 
 was otherwise obscure. But then, whence did he 
 derive his faith? what documents? what over- 
 whelming proof did that letter, which had dis- 
 appeared, contain that Raymond had not taken time 
 to verify that which it revealed to him and had 
 not doubted it for a single instant ? What mystery 
 could be hidden in the apparently transparent life 
 of Estelle ? What was the secret concealed by that 
 beautiful undecipherable face? 
 
 Undecipherable, it had never been and was not 
 at that time when it watched with an unquiet 
 curiosity, trying to pierce the mask of coldness with 
 which Benoist tried to disguise his own anxiety to 
 know. And the young man deceived himself, little 
 by little, by taking that disquietude, for the mani- 
 festation of a troubled conscience. The trouble 
 which weighed upon them at that hostile waiting, 
 won Mme. Montclar, for to dissipate it she posed 
 resolutely at Benoist the question which burned upon 
 the lips of Estelle. 
 
 " Have you heard anything saii Ui>ii tie subject 
 of this fatal accident ? "
 
 46 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 Benoist, before answering, looked at Estelle. She 
 neither blushed nor turned pale. She awaited the 
 answer with lips slightly open, with body leaning a 
 little forward in the attitude of attention. He 
 resolved to inform these two women of the motive 
 which, according to his presumption, had caused 
 Raymond to commit suicide. 
 
 " They say a great many things," said he, measur- 
 ing his words. " They remse absolutely to believe it 
 to have been an accident." 
 
 " What do they suppose ? " asked Mme. Montclar, 
 carrying her handkerchief to her lips by a nervous 
 movement ; " we ought to know, we are completely 
 in the dark." 
 
 " Not entirely, my dear Madame." 
 
 They looked at him with a movement of attention. 
 
 " It is proved now, proved in a certain way, that 
 Raymond found in his mail a letter which he read 
 over a great many times and which was the deter- 
 mining cause of his fatal resolution." 
 
 "A letter," said Mme. Montclar. "Where is it, 
 what did it contain ? " 
 
 " We know nothing of it. ' The letter has dis- 
 appeared. Raymond, no doubt, burned it, with 
 other papers, perhaps." 
 
 He looked at Estelle who listened to him with 
 eyes fixed upon him with an intense interest. 
 
 " A letter ! Kill himself for a letter ! Is it pos- 
 sible ! The poor child, must have lost his head ! " 
 
 "That is what we think," said Benoist. 
 
 "We, who is that?" 
 
 "The deputy who had charge of the inquest 
 aiid I,"
 
 TIN MYSTERE. 47 
 
 ""Was there an inquest," asked Mme. JVIontcIar 
 with an expression of horror; "an inquest in this 
 house so honorable and so respected ? " 
 
 " It was necessary. Re-assure yourself, my dear 
 lady. The secret is as well guarded as possible, but 
 it was necessary that the cause of the death of 
 Raymond should be known, and, if possible, 
 avenged." 
 
 "Yes, you are right, but the inquest justice 
 here is very harsh, at least, since that is necessary." 
 
 "Was it for that that I was interrogated?" asked 
 Estelle in a brave voice. 
 
 " Precisely, Madame. There were indications that 
 made us suppose that the author of that letter had 
 relations at Laval." 
 
 "Raymond knew nobody in that town," said Mme. 
 Montclar, again thrown into her dejection. " Is there 
 no garrison there ? 
 
 "Yes; researches are now being made on that 
 point." 
 
 Benoist did not look from the face of Estelle. 
 
 " "What do you think," said she, " was the subject 
 of that letter ? You have some idea or opinion of 
 what it contained 2 " 
 
 The young man hesitated an instant ; the sangfroid 
 of Estelle exasperated him. 
 
 " "We believe," said he, " that it contained a revela- 
 tion, true or false, of facts such that " 
 
 " An anonymous letter ?" 
 
 "It is not probable. Raymond would have put no 
 confidence in an anonymous letter." 
 
 " "What could it have said ? " cried Mme. Mont- 
 clar, with some excitement. " Our family is, thank
 
 48 tJN MYSORE. 
 
 Heaven, without stain. If there had been anything 
 I would not have spoken of a stain, but only of a libel 
 upon the house; but no, we are as white as ermine, 
 upon the side of the de Beaurands, as also upon that 
 of the Yernons, from which came the wife of my 
 brother. The Brunaires are equally without re- 
 proach." 
 
 " Ah, then you have thought of it," said the look 
 of Benoist so clearly that she stopped short. 
 
 " My poor dear,"said she,arising and seizing Estelle 
 in her arms, " I hope they shall not be able to sully 
 your character by their suppositions. You or 
 yours " 
 
 " I hope so too,"said Estelle,passing an arm around 
 the waist of Mme. Montclar and looking at Benoist 
 at the same time with a haughty air that struck him 
 full in the face. "Is it I, Monsieur, whom they 
 accuse of having taken some part in the death of my 
 husband ? " 
 
 " Not yet," said he, returning to her, defiance for 
 defiance. 
 
 "M. Benoist, answer me," said Mme. Montclar, 
 " does any one attack my niece ? " 
 
 " Not yet, Madame, as I have the honor of speak- 
 ing to you at this moment." 
 
 "But will they attack her? " 
 
 '" It is probable. Many persons know already that 
 there was a letter. It is not I who have told them, 
 I assure you. They tried to find out what the letter 
 contained, and there is not much difference among 
 their outrageous suppositions." 
 
 Estelle thought, "yesterday, Mme. de Polrey, who 
 was my friend ; to-day, this man whom I do not 
 know "
 
 UN MYSTEKE. 49 
 
 " Monsieur," said she aloud, " have I committed 
 some injustice, some wrong without knowing it? 
 Have I offended somebody ? What interest can those 
 people, whom I do not know, have in destroying the 
 reputation of a woman ? " 
 
 " I do not know, Madame, as I have already had the 
 honor of saying to you. I would have wished to 
 have averted it, but it seems necessary tome, having 
 given my friendship to Raymond and also my respect 
 to all who bear his name." 
 
 "Don't you fear anything, my daughter," said 
 Mme. Montclar, "if they do accuse you, it is I who 
 will defend you. Your sorrow is great enough with- 
 out adding calumny to it. No one will dare to say 
 anything when they see that I sustain your honor 
 by my own. Kiss me, my niece, and pick up courage. 
 I will defend you, and, if need be, will avenge you. 
 Is it not so, M. Benoist ? " 
 
 She bowed silently. Estelle's eyes rested upon his 
 for an instant; they said: " "What have I done to you 
 that you should be my enemy ? " 
 
 The look of Benoist answered her : ""Why was your 
 photograph torn and in the ashes ? " 
 
 But she did not understand, because she had not 
 seen it.
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 Seated easily in a chair before the little writing- 
 desk in her bed-chamber, Estelle thought. She had 
 seated herself to write to some one, to tell her sorrow 
 and ask for sympathy, and at the moment when she 
 was about to draw out her blotting case, she had 
 realized that she had no one to whom she could write. 
 
 In our society the young girl is not allowed to 
 have anything to say in regard to her own life; she 
 only participates in that of her parents, neither 
 receiving nor making visits with her mother, except, 
 perhaps, she has friends who are intimate with the 
 family, and, more than all others, an orphan finds 
 herself isolated if some mishap deprives her of the 
 sociability of her immediate surroundings. 
 
 Estelle, who never really had any other relations 
 than those with the Baroness de Polrey, suddenly 
 became aware of the fact that she was absolutely 
 alone in the world. Not a woman to whom she 
 could explain her suffering, not a man on whom she 
 could count for support. Mme. Montclar had 
 adopted her in advance because she was going to 
 become the wife of her nephew, very soon her beau- 
 tiful daughter but that friendship was of very 
 recent date ; had not the occurrences changed it any ? 
 Not one person to whom she could tell her sorrow, 
 could it be true! Mme. Montclar was the woman 
 with whom it was the most possible to speak openly 
 of the things which tormented the young widow. 
 How could she touch upon even the important ques- 
 
 b'J
 
 UN MYSTERE. Ol 
 
 tions which enveloped the tragic mystery? Never 
 before had Estelle felt the need of a support. Her sad 
 childhood near a sick and pre-occupied mother had 
 accustomed her for a long time to seek for no 
 resources except in herself. An easy temper com- 
 pleted by a smiling resignation formed the basis of 
 that happy nature. At the convent she was amused 
 at everything, having taken a taste for everything, 
 even to her studies, and she showed herself to be a 
 good comrade without the chilly exclusiveness which 
 makes one friends ; of the kind that become very 
 popular among her companions, she had formed 
 none of those liaisons of youth which play such a 
 role in the opening of life. The Miles, de Polrey 
 were not firm enough to inspire in her any warm 
 sentiments. 
 
 The young girls among whom Estelle was the 
 eldest had appeared together in the social world and 
 at the same time they were amused at that which 
 seemed comical to them ; but there was nothing pro- 
 found in that babbling stream rolling over the peb- 
 bles. 
 
 Mile. Brunaire felt that once married the three 
 companions would take very different routes in 
 which they would have no opportunity of meeting. 
 The Miles, de Polrey took life from the point of 
 view of a cotillion, well directed, and assured them- 
 selves that they could not fail having good partners. 
 Estelle wished for something a little more earnest ; 
 she wished a husband whom alone she could respect 
 until death. She had almost found her ideal in Kay- 
 mond de Beaurand, almost, for esteem had come im- 
 mediately with a great and warm sympathy, love
 
 52 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 only was lacking. Estelle hoped that that would 
 come very soon. However, it was not without a 
 certain internal distaste that she accepted marrying. 
 " She will pray," said Valentine de Polrey con- 
 temptuously. 
 
 Such an idea never entered the head of Estelle. 
 It seemed to her dangerous to marry a man whom 
 she was not certain of some day loving, and whom, 
 consequently, she could not hope, in advance, of 
 loving alone and forever. It was that which she 
 had told very frankly to Mme. Montclar when 
 that lady came to ask her to consent. The old lady 
 approved the delicacy of the scruple ; but as there 
 was not likely to occur a like occasion, she had thrown 
 aside the objection of an innocent and proud soul. 
 
 "You have a good heart, my dear child, for not 
 loving a soul that you esteem and which has for you 
 such a tender passion." 
 
 Estelle thereupon consented. At that time when 
 in the room prepared for the young couple she de- 
 scended to the bottom of her heart with an unpity- 
 ing precision, she reproached herself bitterly for 
 allowing herself to have been won over and for not 
 having firmly refused. 
 
 It was not merely on account of an egoistic desire 
 that the young woman abandoned herself to this 
 regret; a vague fear, inspired by the words of Theo- 
 dore Benoist troubled her deeply. She was sure 
 of being without reproach ; but then, how was it that 
 an accusation had been made so strongly against her 
 that Raymond himself would rather die than speak 
 of it to her? If it had been thus, would it not have 
 been a hundred times better for Raymond himself to
 
 UN MYSTERE. 53 
 
 have inflicted upon that vicious man the chagrin of a 
 denunciation ? Would they have dared to calumniate 
 to that degree any other than an orphan, alone, not- 
 withstanding her apparent surroundings? 
 
 u He would have lived, without doubt, had I not 
 become his wife," thought Estelle, sadly. A natural 
 return to herself made her add, " And I should not 
 have been plunged into such an abyss of dangers 
 and sorrows." 
 
 Truly she was alone. Nothing of her previous 
 life had followed her to the de Beaurand mansion ; 
 the few dear and familiar objects that she had 
 brought with her had been sent to the country, 
 where she was to pass the summer with her husband. 
 Besides, had not the smallness of their number called 
 to her lips a smile, half of pity, half of sadness, when 
 she saw them going away ? 
 
 " I have always lived in a flying camp," said she 
 once to Mme. Montclar ; " at the convent I was a 
 pupil who desired to do nothing but go ; in the house 
 of Mme. de Polrey I waited for my marriage I 
 thought that Beaurand would be a permanent 
 home." 
 
 Estelle could imagine herself, at a more or less 
 distant time, wandering about Europe, living at the 
 hotels of the principal cities, always alone; the mere 
 idea of seeing herself surrounded by interested flat- 
 terers, artificial women, disguised mendicants, like 
 so many of the others, rich in possessions and poor 
 in friends, inspired in her a true horror. 
 
 Had she any enemies? How could a reasonable 
 young woman, without pronounced opinions, living 
 in the same way that all the rest of the world lived,
 
 54: UN MYSTERE. 
 
 have made an enemy so powerful, with a desire to 
 produce such a terrible result ? 
 
 The idea of calumny finds us always, when we first 
 realize it, disarmed and with consternation. The first 
 feeling is not of indignation, but of stupor. " How 
 could anybody have hated me so much ? " is the first 
 reflection of a good and just being. It seems impos- 
 sible; one thinks they could not have intended it, 
 and that the error will be perceived and all the repa- 
 ration possible made; it takes time for one to realize 
 that it was for one's self, indeed, that it was intended. 
 
 Estelle was yet at that period of stupor. Another 
 idea began to develop in her slightly over-excited 
 mind : "Why did not Raymond come to me loyally 
 and speak to me about it ? I could so easily have 
 proved the inanity of the calumny." 
 
 Little by little the one thought dominated over the 
 other. Raymond was good and honest; she had 
 never seen any manifestations of unreasonable anger 
 or of ridiculous credulity in him ; then how could he 
 have worked with such precipitation? A stroke of 
 madness, could it be? But a stroke that could not 
 have been foreseen, was that reasonable? 
 
 Estelle determined to question Mme. Montclar 
 with regard to it. The manner in which she had 
 answered the questions of M. Benoist was a guaranty 
 for the estimation that the excellent woman had of 
 him ; delicate and dangerous as the undertaking was, 
 it was necessary. For the honor of Estelle it was 
 necessary that the character of Raymond should be 
 better known than merely that of a fiance. She 
 closed her writing-desk and asked if Mme. Montclar 
 was ready to receive her.
 
 UN MYSTERE. 55 
 
 Mme. Montclar responded by going herself to see 
 the young widow in her own apartments. 
 
 In her terrible despair, solitude perhaps more than 
 anything else weighed upon the poor woman. 
 
 During the last few days the hubbub of a large 
 house filled with workmen, the coming and the 
 going necessary to the preparations for a great wed- 
 ding, filled her mind and her ears ; the heavy silence 
 which had fallen upon the house of mourning and 
 crushed to nothingness material life, could not do 
 otherwise than cast down the two lonely women 
 together in a sorrow which they knew they could 
 not betray to the world ; it seemed to Mme Mont- 
 clar as an odious covering, something like a garment 
 imposed upon her soul by sheer force and she had 
 a great desire to rid herself of it. 
 
 " You wish to speak to me?" she said, accosting 
 Estelle. 
 
 " The young woman seated herself easily in a 
 chair before answering. Many times had she seen 
 Raymond thus employ himself to the pleasure of 
 his aunt, and it seemed very natural to thus replace 
 him. This tender attention drew to the eyes of 
 Mme Montclar tears which were quickly wiped 
 away. 
 
 " Pardon me, my dear aunt," said Estelle, "for a 
 question that to you may seem to be in a great 
 degree presumptuous; but in the situation in which 
 we now are, do you not find it just and reasonable 
 to take all possible means at hand to clear up the 
 obscurity that envelopes us ? " 
 
 " Speak/' said Mme. Montclar. 
 
 " Have you ever noticed any flightiness in your
 
 56 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 nephew, any singularity that would warrant you in 
 attributing his last act to over mental excitement? " 
 
 "Never," answered the old lady with firmness. 
 " Raymond had one of the best of balanced minds 
 and was one of the most reasonable people you 
 could meet. His only weak point, if such a holy 
 sentiment could be called weak, was an extremely 
 lively sensibility to all that had any bearing upon 
 his father, whose tragic and premature death had 
 violently impressed him. As for the rest, he had 
 the most sensible of heads and calmest of minds." 
 
 "His father," said Estelle, "I never thought of that. 
 Is it not possible that the letter had some bearing 
 upon some act in the life of his father ? " 
 
 Mine. Montclar straightened up, her face on fire 
 and her right hand raised with animation unusual 
 for her. 
 
 " I tell you I could swear," she said, " that there 
 was nothing in the life of my brother that would 
 offer even a pretext for a dishonorable accusation, 
 not one thing at any time." 
 
 " But, my dear aunt, calumny needs no pretext." 
 
 " Then Raymond would have lived to discover the 
 infamous calumniator and to kill him after having 
 denounced him. No, no, my niece, that supposition 
 is not admissible." 
 
 " Then," said Estelle, in a calm voice, " I renounce 
 it. Aunt, you have lost a nephew who was a son to 
 you, but I, I have lost all without parents, without 
 friends as you have had ample proof, for I received 
 cards, but not a word that bore me any affection. 
 Raymond would have replaced all the rest to me. I 
 came to him in full confidence, he has left me with-
 
 UN MYSTERE. 57 
 
 out saying one word, of adieu, and I am a thousand 
 times more alone than upon the eve of my marriage. 
 If he had died upon the eve, my dear aunt, the 
 whole world would have found tears for me in my 
 misfortune; but now I see around me only coldness, 
 hostility and enmity. Pardon me, then, for trying to 
 find a cause for this horrible catastrophe which has 
 deprived me of all happiness, and which menaces 
 even my honor." 
 
 She had spoken with great simplicity. Meanwhile 
 tears nearly filled her eyes. Yery much affected 
 Mme. Montclar arose, took Estelle in her arms and 
 kissed her forehead with tenderness. 
 
 " My child," said she to her, " have confidence in 
 me, we will search together."
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 " You have found nothing ? " asked Andre Bolvin, 
 upon seeing Benoist enter, whose card he had just 
 received. 
 
 " Absolutely nothing. I came to find out if you 
 do not think we were deceived after all, I think we 
 shall have to search elsewhere." 
 
 "Elsewhere, I have searched," answered the 
 young deputy. " They have been searching in the 
 province, above all, where M. de Beaurand had rela- 
 tions or comrades. They have searched in regi, 
 ments, among the men who were under the orders 
 of the Captain, and who might have been near him. 
 They have discovered not the least indications which 
 can give us a clue." 
 
 " Did they find nothing that would confirm you 
 in your ideas ? " insisted Theodore. 
 
 He felt himself to be in a peculiar state of mind; 
 his reason, his sentiment of honor, his respect for 
 the wife revolted at the thought that Madame de 
 Beaurand could have had, far or near, any relations 
 with the death of her husband ; but, however, a 
 bizarre distrust, purely instinctive, arose in him when 
 he saw her so calm in appearance, near the warm 
 body of the man whom she had just married. It, 
 however, bore no weight toward giving a clue to the 
 author of the letter, and in assuring him that his 
 suspicions were but foolishness. At the same time, 
 he had a strong desire to receive the certitude that 
 he had not been deceived. Doubt was agonizing, 
 
 58
 
 UN MYSTERE. 59 
 
 he would come out of it at any price, in some way 
 or other, and it was precisely that which he did not 
 know how to do. 
 
 " Nothing has proved to you that that letter con- 
 tained what you supposed ?" asked Benoist, seeing 
 that Bolvin had not responded to his question. 
 
 " Frankly, no," answered the young magistrate, 
 looking with a pre-occupied air at the white paper 
 spread before him. " No ; but I can not recover from 
 the impression which the extraordinary calmness of 
 Madame de Beaurand made upon me. It was so 
 unnatural." 
 
 "She is a person who has very much control 
 over herself," Theodore observed, with some irri- 
 tation. 
 
 "Evidently." 
 
 Bolvin began to whirl an ivory paper knife, whose 
 evolutions disturbed his interlocutor very much. All 
 at once he placed upon the table the disturbing 
 object. 
 
 "You see," said he, "there are some things which, 
 when once read or heard, haunt one, and of which one 
 can not be divested. When Henry IV. was assassin- 
 ated pardon me for this slight historical pedantry 
 there was a contemporary who wrote about Marie 
 de Medicis, a very small phrase of a dozen words : 
 ' she was not at all astonished by the death of her 
 husband.' Well, that little phrase weighed and will 
 weigh forever upon the memories of the queen." 
 
 " Who was perhaps innocent," said Benoist. 
 
 "Perhaps, and even probably. The sight of 
 Madame de Beaurand brought that idea to my mind, 
 and I have not been able to get rid of it."
 
 60 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 " This is not a very scientific method of proced- 
 ure," said Theodore, rising. 
 
 " They have made some very singular discoveries 
 in this way, thanks to like intuition," replied Bol- 
 vin, who remained seated. "Eemember, Mon- 
 sieur, the idea of a direct accusation is very far from 
 me, but I can not avoid the idea that M. de Beau- 
 rand was killed on account of his wife." 
 
 " That is no reason for your thinking that she 
 knew what was the cause," said Benoist, snappishly, 
 not without a little anger. 
 
 " It is true; but then why was there that calmness 
 which astonished you as much as it did me ? " 
 
 The young man did not know what to answer. 
 
 " Adieu," said he, " 1 must go since I have nothing 
 to tell you, and you have nothing to advise me upon 
 the subject." 
 
 Bolvin arose. 
 
 " M. Benoist," said he, " I am very sorry to be 
 unable to afford you any light upon this subject, 
 which is so sadly obscure; pardon me for having 
 been unable to make better success." 
 
 " You consider then that the researches are termi- 
 nated ? " 
 
 "They must be provisionally and, moreover, I 
 should deliver to you the papers which were found 
 in the room of your unfortunate friend the package 
 is not large, will you take it and give it to the right 
 person ? " 
 
 "Very well," said Benoist, with a vague uneasi- 
 ness. 
 
 Bolvin opened a drawer of the writing-desk and 
 took from it a large envelope, which contained the
 
 UN MYSTERE. 61 
 
 cards and the letters last sent to Raymond. Upon 
 the top of a little file of papers was the envelope 
 marked " Laval ; " the deputy looked at it with pro. 
 found attention, and said, in a tone full of regret : 
 
 " The secret is there," striking it lightly with his 
 fingers; "but the envelope is mute. M. Benoist, 
 would you accept some advice, some advice of the 
 most disinterested sort ? Guard well that envelope, 
 speak of it to no one ; perhaps, some day the missing 
 letter will return and be placed there itself and 
 then you will know all." 
 
 " Speak of it to no one, not even to Madame Mont- 
 clar?" 
 
 " It were useless; it is very evident that the poor 
 woman would be unable to aid you." 
 
 " Or to Madame de Beaurand ? " 
 
 " I advise you to speak of it to no one," repeated 
 the young magistrate with a fine smile which seemed 
 skeptical. 
 
 " But what if she should be able to recognize the 
 handwriting ? If she " 
 
 " It is little probable that she would be able to 
 recognize a handwriting so like that of all people 
 who are not in the habit of writing. Such styles of 
 calligraphy disconcert even the efforts of experts. 
 There will always be time to speak of it to her, if 
 circumstances demand it." 
 
 " But " 
 
 Bolvin placed his first finger, very lightly, upon 
 the arm of Theodore. 
 
 " Mark you," said he, " that if Madame de Beau- 
 rand should know nothing, you will thus put this 
 uneasiness in her head without profit,"
 
 62 UN MYSIEItE. 
 
 "But," said Benoist, " she knows that they suspect 
 her." 
 
 "Who told her of it?" 
 
 " I, in a moment of ill-humor. She was then very 
 calm. " 
 
 u You have done wrong. Mine, de Beaurand will 
 distrust you. " 
 
 " I believe that she will hate me, if she does not 
 already, " murmured the young man. 
 
 " One will not hinder the other, but on the con- 
 trary," remarked the deputy, with a smile which 
 was almost a laugh. " We met in the world, Mon- 
 sieur, and the present case interests me more because 
 I had a great deal of sympathy for your friend, and 
 that is why I had permitted myself to speak to you 
 in a manner extra-professional; take care of the en- 
 velope. I am at your commands at any time when 
 I can be of the least use to you, however little im- 
 portance it may be. But if you learn anything, you 
 will let me know it. " 
 
 " Yery well," said Benoist, taking leave of him. 
 When he was in the street, he breathed deeply 
 two or three times, hoping that his restlessness would 
 dissipate itself in the open air ; but his desire was not 
 fulfilled. As he walked slowly along the bank of 
 the Seine he felt his forehead become wrinkled and 
 his mind become concentrated. At last he stopped 
 upon the quay and looked at the admirable displa}' 
 of stone, which he had under his eyes, as though he 
 wished to find there some powerful element of dis- 
 traction. 
 
 The beautiful morning sun of springtime gilded 
 the poplars and the elnis, which made a beautiful
 
 UN MYSTERE. 63 
 
 wall of verdure upon the bank of the water under the 
 pavilion, of Flore: the sculpture of the Louvre took a 
 brilliant relief in that bright light, and the foundation 
 of gold, upon which arose so strongly the Genie upon 
 the wing of the Antonin Mercie, shone like an auriole. 
 
 The row-boats, tugs, and flat-boats cut the green 
 and pale water in all directions as it laughed and 
 coursed through the arches of the bridges. The 
 swallows cried out in their piercing calls and repeated 
 by striking with their wings; the washer- women sang 
 bareheaded in the washing- boats, and their laughter 
 was heard from time to time when the tumult of the 
 river was slightly hushed. 
 
 Behind the School of Fine Arts at the extremity of 
 the Pont du Carrousel, flags floated upon the great flag- 
 staffs to announce an exposition; the carriages, the om- 
 nibuses intercrossed each other with an almost meth- 
 odical animation, with that sort of regulated fever 
 that astonishes all strangers who see it for the first 
 time. Hurried men, loiterers, working women, old 
 savants with slow steps, employes loaded with pack- 
 ages, a whole world of passers-by, went and came 
 without striking one another, stopping with an in- 
 voluntary movement, some upon the bridge looking 
 at the color of the water, some upon' the quay, that 
 they might rest their eyes upon the sumptuous mass 
 of verdure that extended from the Royal Bridge to 
 the Trocadero, with the Arcde Triomphe as a crown, 
 gilded like one of the portals of Paradise, by the 
 triumphant morning sun. 
 
 Under the plane-trees, whose leaves had but just 
 begun to peep from the buds, the book stalls at- 
 tracted a busy public, similar, except for the noise,
 
 64 tnsr MYSTERE. 
 
 to the bees over the bunches of thyme. Benoist 
 looked at this dizzying sight enviously. 
 
 Those below him were happy, while they stole 
 science and art from the books out of the reach of 
 their purses, and which handled a hundred times 
 finished by being read from one end to the other. 
 They were not, like him, haunted by a troublesome 
 idea, a bad idea, even the hateful idea born of one 
 knows not what absurd germ. They had candid and 
 good souls under the clear sun of May, at least, 
 while they plundered with nose close to the half- 
 opened book, and he what had he done to deserve 
 that malicious and painful idea which Avas incrusted 
 in his mind? 
 
 Seeking for relief, where others seemed to find it, 
 he took at hazard, from the first open case, the first 
 volume that fell under his hand. It was an inept 
 book; he returned it quickly to its place and chose 
 another one. It was a judicial romance, whose title 
 was " Cherchez la Femme " (Seek the Woman). 
 
 Impatient, he returned it and took a package of 
 brochures. His eyes met upon the yellow cover, 
 in words of large letters: " Les Causes Celebres" 
 (Celebrated Cases). 
 
 Decidedly, chance had a grudge against Benoist. 
 He retook his road along the quay, looking at the 
 trees of the Tuileries, trying to draw serenity from 
 this corner of Paris, almost mute, almost motionless, 
 where the bugle call from the barracks of the 
 dragoons threw from time to time a musical note 
 carried over the poetical ruins of the Cour des 
 Comptes; all at once he asked himself where he was 
 going and he perceived that his feet were carrying 
 him toward the Rue de Lille.
 
 UN MYSTERE. 65 
 
 What am I going to do there, he said to himself, 
 angry at himself for once; and inflicting upon 
 himself moral reproaches. He traversed \vith long 
 strides the road of the Hue Drouot, where his bachelor 
 quarters were situated.
 
 CHAPTER IX, 
 
 After the first five days of mourning consecrated 
 to the distressing but inevitable arrangement of 
 affairs, Mme. Montclar had proposed to Estelle to 
 take their departure for the Chateau de Beaurand ; 
 but the young woman, with all the discretion imag- 
 inable, expressed a firm desire not to go there. 
 
 "It is enough, dear aunt," said she, "that I have 
 the sorrow of living alone with you in the hotel in 
 Paris; here, where we should both be, spare me the 
 sorrow of recommencing this trial in a house with 
 which I am not acquainted and where sorrowful 
 emotions will no more be spared you than me." 
 
 This reasoning was too just for Mme. Montclar to 
 refuse to accede to it. 
 
 From the estate of her mother, Estelle possessed 
 at some distance from Chartres, a country house, 
 important enough that there she could take great 
 comfort, and yet modest enough so that it was not 
 necessary to have there any considerable number of 
 servants. It was there that the two women resolved 
 to go during the beautiful season. 
 
 Mme. de Beaurand hud hoped to escape from 
 sorrowful remembrances by leaving the hotel and 
 not going to the Chateau de Beaurand. She had 
 counted on the power of evocation which character- 
 izes certain beings. The bloody vision of Raymond, 
 with the terrible problem it entailed, followed her in 
 her asylum, and moreover, the scenes of her child- 
 hood, which she had believed forgotten, returned 
 to her mind with truly surprising distinctness. 
 
 66
 
 UN MYSTERE. 67 
 
 Notwithstanding her great desire to not trouble 
 in the least what peace might fall to the lot of Mme. 
 Montclar after such a terrible trial, Estelle could 
 not hinder herself from confiding in her, one evening 
 as they were walking together in the garden near 
 the great park upon the bank of the Loire. 
 
 It was an old garden, almost a century old, with 
 tall hedges of yoke elm trees which formed a sort of 
 labyrinth. Following the sinuous paths they turned 
 slowly in a sort of helix, intersected by crossing 
 paths which permitted them to go out easily; a little 
 basin with a feeble jet of water and surrounded with 
 banks occupied the center of this melancholy place, 
 charming and fresh during the heat of midday. 
 Since it was not yet eight o'clock, the sun had not 
 quite set. At that period of the year when the days 
 draw themselves out, little by little, the evenings 
 have the penetrating charm of things which are 
 about to be finished. One feels how small one's life 
 has been, how precious are the hours of amber light, 
 and with what rapidity the days decrease in number. 
 
 That impression, which never appertains to youth, 
 was very strong with Mme. Montclar. Seated near 
 the little basin, she looked at the gilded rays, which 
 warmly colored the neighboring forest, decrease and 
 retire to the summits. 
 
 " Behold what has occurred once more," said she, 
 " with the warm sun of summer, which is the half of 
 our terrestrial life. Who knows, if I shall be here to 
 enjoy it next year." 
 
 " My good aunt," said Estelle, pressing her hand, 
 " 4o not think of such sad things. You are not at 
 that age when gu.gji things pught tp preoccupy 
 you,"
 
 68 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 "Who can say thut he will even be alive to-mor- 
 row ? " replied the old lady, sadly. ' Raymond upon 
 the threshold full of joy and of life" 
 
 " My dear aunt, I beg of you" 
 
 Mme. Montclar responded by pressing Estelle's 
 hand and remaining for a moment silent to repress 
 the tears which came to her eyes. She turned 
 toward her neice and said : 
 
 "Tell me of yourself," said she. "1 love you 
 very much; but I know almost nothing of you. A 
 young fiancee never gives anybody any confidences. 
 Though I have appreciated your self-control, your 
 tact and your goodness of soul, I can, however, 
 assure you, my niece, that I may speak with truth, I 
 know almost nothing of you. Speak to me of your- 
 self. Did you live with your mother ; and have you, 
 in any way, preserved any remembrance of her ? " 
 
 Estelle's brow became wrinkled and she spoke 
 with some difficulty. 
 
 " I remember my mother very well," said she, " it 
 was here that I passed with her the last summer of 
 her life. I was then eight years of age, and at that 
 age, one may receive impressions which are strong 
 and durable." 
 
 Mme. Montclar listened for her to continue; but 
 Estelle kept silent. 
 
 " And your father ? " 
 
 " I have no remembrance of him. From the date 
 which I have read on the civil acts, I could hardly 
 have been two years old when he died. He traveled 
 all the time. He was a man, it seems, of a restless 
 disposition, who never remained long in the same 
 place. It was at Florence that he died some eighteen 
 years ago. My mother died six years after."
 
 UN MYSTERE. 69 
 
 " Poor child," murmured Mine. Montclar, involun- 
 tarily, looking affectionately at the young woman, 
 who followed with her eye the movements of the 
 thin jets of water." 
 
 " Poor child, yes, truly," answered Estelle, in a low 
 voice, and almost without inflection, as if the sight of 
 the brilliant drops from the fountain had thrown 
 her into a sort of magnetic repose. I did not think 
 that I was unhappy; but now I comprehend that I 
 was. This garden was my domain and here they 
 never troubled me. From six o'clock in the morn- 
 ing until nightfall, I ran at liberty in it, recalled 
 only at the noon hour by the clock, the same which 
 sounds at present for us. 
 
 " Always alone," asked Mme. Montclar, " they 
 did not occupy themselves with you ? " 
 
 " So it was. In the morning at eight o'clock, I 
 said good-morning to my mother in her room, she 
 kissed my forehead and dismissed me. At noon, we 
 took lunch, at seven o'clock, we dined together ; she 
 hardly ever spoke to me, except to ask me if I had 
 been very good. I always was. I do not believe 
 that a child was less cast down or petted or spoiled 
 with things than I. I never merited it, besides I was 
 at liberty to do just as I pleased from June till 
 November." 
 
 " And the rest of the time ? " 
 
 " I passed in the little school in a convent, not far 
 from our home in Paris. Moreover, I liked the 
 summer. The sight of the first green leaves drew to 
 my eyes tears of joy and when the pathways were 
 filled with dead leaves, I remained for hours motion- 
 less, watching them fall, my heart broken, my soul
 
 70 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 in agony without perceiving that I was chilled by 
 the north wind or wet through by the rain. .All my 
 happiness went with them, when those days came, 
 I was scolded when I came into the house." 
 
 " By your mother ? " 
 
 " No, my mother never scolded me, it was Rosalie, 
 her femme de chambre, who had been my nursery 
 maid and who occupied herself with me." 
 
 " She was very much attached to you ? " 
 
 " Attached ! No, I can not say that. She had for 
 me a very peculiar sentiment. Certainly, she did 
 not love me, notwithstanding she gave much of her 
 care to my welfare. At bottom, I really think she 
 detested me." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " I do not know ; perhaps, while I was small, I had 
 been very disagreeable. It is even very probable, 
 according to what people have told me ; they never 
 spoke to me of iny childhood." 
 
 Mme. Montclar was greatly moved with pity 
 for this young woman who had had so few joys. 
 
 "And you never knew your father? Poor child. 
 Mme. Brunaire died very young, did she not?" 
 
 " She was, I think, thirty years old ; but she had 
 been always sick since my birth and they told me that 
 she was very much changed. However, such as my 
 remembrance of her face is, she was still very beau- 
 tiful." 
 
 " Do you resemble her ? " 
 
 " Not in the least. She was slender, pretty and 
 blonde with thin hands, very thin my poor mother. 
 When she was dead, Rosalie took me to see her. She 
 seemed no more dead than while she Jived,"
 
 L'X MYSTERE. 71 
 
 " They might have spared you such an emotion. 
 What good was it to thus impress you," said 
 Mine. Montclar indignantly, "it was useless and 
 cruel." 
 
 " Because Rosalie detested me. Then Mme. de 
 Polrey took me to her home, her first care was to 
 ask of Rosalie, if she would not enter in her service 
 in order to attend me during the vacations. She 
 became very angry. The Baroness was greatly 
 astonished." 
 
 " That Rosalie seems to me to have been a very 
 impertinent person," said Mme. Montclar. 
 
 " She was spoiled. Mamma let her do just exactly 
 as she wanted to. You understand that, being so 
 sick, so feeble, having always need of her services. 
 At bottom, I think that she was almost afraid. 
 Sometimes she would look at me with such a look 
 in her eyes that I almost wanted to cry or else strike 
 Rosalie with my fist." 
 
 " She was then a very wicked girl ? " 
 
 "No, she was bizarre, she was rigidly honest, 
 scrupulous in her conscience, to keep it clear from 
 reproaches or anything and almost self-denying." 
 
 " How do you know that ? " 
 
 " Mme. de Polrey told me so ; for you think rightly 
 that I was incapable of judging for myself. With a 
 narrow and cruel piety for herself as well as for 
 others. I slept regularly in my chair and she 
 would arouse me a dozen times by shaking me. I 
 would have liked so much more to have slept in my 
 bed. To atone for this, in the most severe frosts of 
 winter, she would have no fire in the room in which 
 she slept near me ; at five o'clock in the morning, if
 
 72 tIN MYSTERE. 
 
 I opened my eyes, I could see her, in the morning 
 light in night dress and bare feet, upon the waxed 
 floor, saying her prayers upon her knees." 
 
 " Then you never spoke of this to Raymond 2 " 
 said Mme. Montclar, searching her memory. 
 
 " Yes," said she, with vi\ 7 acity, shaking off the 
 strange somnolence that weighed upon her; "I told 
 Raymond about all the sad childhood I had, I even 
 told him listen, it is here, for I always loved this 
 retreat. As at present, the sun had just disappeared 
 and all had beco'me dark very suddenly, I heard the 
 call and footstep of Rosalie, who was hunting me to 
 put me to bed, and I amused myself by avoiding her 
 and thus gained a few minutes. Through the hedge, 
 I heard her mutter some words. I approached be- 
 hind it and I heard, ' Cursed be the day and cursed 
 be the night, damned be the mother, the child and 
 the father.' I was afraid and I ran up to her to stop 
 her saying more. She took me rudely in her arms 
 without saying anything and took me away. I was 
 hardly able to sleep during that night." 
 
 " She must have been insane," said Mme. Mont- 
 clar, rising. " What has become of her?" 
 
 " I believe she has returned to her own country, 
 the lower part of Brittany, and that she became a 
 member of a religious community." 
 
 On turning the corner of an alley in the dark 
 labyrinth, they awakened a great night-bird which 
 flew away with a plaintive cry. Both of them trem- 
 bled, and Mme. Montclar took Estelle's arm. 
 
 " You have made me a coward with your story," 
 said she. " That which is astonishing is that you 
 never become cowardly."
 
 UN MYSTEKE. 73 
 
 " O, as for me," said the young woman, " I have 
 been, and so much so, that, finding there was no use 
 in it, I ceased to be so. One may become accus- 
 tomed to living alwa} T s with phantoms, and Rosalie 
 should be a ghost, at least."
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Many people upon committing a reprehensible 
 action, believe that they should give themselves to 
 an almost irresistible desire to do something agree- 
 able. Without desiring to pretend that this case 
 never presents itself, one might well affirm that 
 the larger part of dishonest actions, or those simply 
 reprehensible, committed each day upon our globe, 
 are accompanied by the strongest disgust, by the 
 most distressing struggles in those who are the 
 authors and who find themselves obliged to continue 
 in a life in which they have engaged, without being 
 able to deliver themselves from anything that they 
 do. 
 
 At the moment when Bolvin had so strongly ad- 
 vised Theodore Benoist to take care of the envelope, 
 the young man found it very natural to do so, in fact, 
 of the friends of Raymond, he was the only one who 
 was charged with the duty of discovering the proba- 
 ble causes of the suicide. The family was no longer 
 in reality represented, except by the widow and 
 Mme. Montclar ; the male relatives of the family who 
 still remained were either so distant or else so indif- 
 ferent that they admitted the propriety of his doing 
 this. Mme. Montclar was not in a state of mind 
 capable of following or of taking up the search upon 
 her own account ; Mme. de Beaurand 
 
 That was the feeble point in the argumentation : 
 Mme. de Beaurand should have been the first not 
 only to carry on the research but also to demand 
 
 74
 
 UN MYSTERE. 75 
 
 that they who employed themselves with it, do their 
 duty ; but Benoist had no desire to confide this care 
 to Mme. de Beaurand. 
 
 He had no desire to do so and it was that which 
 enraged him ; yet he really believed that the young 
 woman desired him to continue the task which he 
 had undertaken; he thought it Why? For her? 
 He had no need of being summoned to carry on the 
 search with all the zeal desirable, and more than 
 that he had a certain desire to know, which formed 
 a part of his character. For her then? 
 
 Well, yes, for her. Was it not his duty to make 
 known to all the world what hand, imprudent or 
 criminal, had made her a widow upon the day of her 
 marriage ? And she said nothing, she did not even 
 question. Mine. Montclar had written once or twice 
 to find out with what success the search had been 
 carried on ; but Estelle had not given even a sign of 
 life. It was a very delicate thing. 
 
 Delicate, it is true, for the search had not given 
 the answer to a single question put to it, and since 
 no one had any doubt with regard to the suicide of 
 Raymond, it could be only officious; those only 
 should enquire who had interest in knowing the 
 moral cause of that act. Why did not Estelle her- 
 self inquire? Who more than she should desire to 
 know the truth ? 
 
 Such a course of reasoning and many others sim- 
 ilar to it determined Raymond to take care of the 
 envelope. But he had not had it in his possession 
 twenty-four hours till he felt guilty for not having 
 given it to the person to whom it legally belonged, 
 and who should be put in possession of it, even 
 Mme. Estelle de Beaurand herself.
 
 76 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 He arose on the morning of the third day with 
 the resolution to carry it to her immediately that 
 is, as soon as he could be admitted. 
 
 "And then I shall say nothing more of it," he 
 said, with firmness. "The real truth is that I 
 do not know why 1 ever bothered my head with 
 regard to a thing which concerns me so little as that 
 does. My friend commits suicide upon the day of 
 his marriage; that is bad, very bad. Being his 
 friend, I feel a deep sorrow. But why in the devil 
 should I distress myself about it on account of 
 Mme. de Beaurand, with whom I have hardly con- 
 versed, and who, to me, is not only extremely dis- 
 agreeable, but hardly civil. What sentiments of dis- 
 like could I have for a woman who has none forme? 
 Then why should I bother myself with doing injury 
 to her? It must be that I have not control of 
 myself. Let me end this, then, by taking my proper 
 position." 
 
 That was to speak like Pallas- Athene in person ; 
 only the morning mail-carrier brought Benoist a let- 
 ter from Mme. Montclar, which not only said that 
 she regretted that he had not called upon them at 
 the de Beaurand mansion ; but also announced their 
 departure for Saumeray, where they would pass the 
 summer season, and it invited him to call upon them 
 should he have any communication to make to them, 
 or even if he should desire to do so. 
 
 The reading of this letter threw Benoist into a fit 
 of anger. Like all those who do not decide in time, 
 he accused Fate of being against him, and he apos- 
 trophized her in very warm language. 
 
 To upbraid Fate when one is in a passion, is of all
 
 UN MYSTERE. 77 
 
 things, the most useless ; it excites one's nerves, and, 
 besides, it is no sooner said than it is forgotten by 
 her. Benoist realized this at the end of an hour. 
 He perceived that it was his fault. Why had he not 
 gone to the Rue de Lille upon the same day that 
 Bolvin gave him the package? Instead of taking 
 the shortest way there, he mused upon the bridge 
 like a loafer until he did not realize where he was. 
 Only one thing remained for him to do ; put the let- 
 ters in an envelope under the direct orders that they 
 be sent to Saumeray that very day. 
 
 Yes ; but Mme. Montclar had never heard of the 
 envelope, no more had Estelle. His most obvious 
 duty was to advise them of the importance of the 
 envelope, but how should he communicate it by 
 letter?' How should he explain the silence that he 
 had kept upon that point ? 
 
 Theodore Benoist perceived that it was very diffi- 
 cult for him to constitute himself the judge of 
 instructions, and cursed the idea that he then held. 
 The only thing that he could then do was to guard 
 the envelope and papers until he should see Mme. 
 Montclar and Estelle. After all, a delay would 
 change nothing, and during that delay, who knows 
 but that they might find a clue. 
 
 Soothed by this thought, Benoist ate his dinner, 
 took a walk, and about four o'clock there came to 
 him suddenly an imperious desire to refresh his soul, 
 and he said to himself that he would see his mother. 
 
 Mme. Benoist was a very original person. The 
 daughter of a rich vintner of Anjou, she married a 
 vintner without fortune, whose family had been 
 ruined by the oidium, before the time when a cruel
 
 78 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 fate had created the phylloxera in all its perfection. 
 She had the pleasure of taking her fortune with her 
 to the worthy ruined fellow whom she knew to be a 
 capable and intelligent man. And, moreover, she 
 loved him, and that surmounted the best of logic. 
 
 Alone in all that region they had the courage to 
 sacrifice their doubtful harvest in order to apply an 
 energetic treatment, and they succeeded. 
 
 " My lady, one must have other money in order to 
 wait ! " said the people to her. 
 
 The result was surprising, and within a few years 
 the fortune of the Benoists had been tripled. An 
 only son was born to them, and said the father, " He 
 shall be a soldier." 
 
 He passed his examinations with honor and was 
 sent to Saint-Cyr at the same time with Kaymond, to 
 whom he was very strongly attached. The son of 
 the general and the son of the vintner resembled 
 each other in many points and differed in many 
 others, in such a way that their friendship augmented 
 the differences of their characters. 
 
 Benoist's father being dead, the widow took charge 
 of the investments, and they did not go badly. Theo- 
 dore, after many years of service resigned from the. 
 army, where he became noted as an officer of good 
 qualities, though not extraordinarily called to the 
 profession, and he began to study scientifically the 
 growth of grapes in a manner to contend with the 
 new enemy which had recently been discovered. It 
 was thus that he passed his winters in Paris, return- 
 ing to Youvray only when his mother had need of 
 him. 
 
 Upon that day when he had no more plausible
 
 UN MYSTERE. 79 
 
 motive he had the desire to see a good face, to behold 
 the look of two frank eyes; very strange things for a 
 young man of thirty -two years, so ruggedly schooled. 
 'He had an extraordinary desire to be embraced and 
 fondled as in the times when he was a small child 
 when he had received a blow from the fist of some 
 comrade, or had been struck with a stone by another. 
 Upon such occasions as that, one enters the house 
 well washed and wiped, and one is careful of speak- 
 ing of one's fights before the parents ; but the mother 
 could see come into her fissue or her apron, before 
 the age when he had become a young man, a little, 
 good-for-nothing head, which rubbed itself and rested 
 there. 
 
 " You are, then, hurt pretty badly, my son," says 
 the mother, who is not a mother for nothing. 
 
 "No, mamma ; but kiss me, all the same." 
 
 Benoist perceived that in arranging properly he 
 might arrive at Vouvray that evening. His valise 
 was quickly packed, and in a short time after he was 
 rolling toward Orleans. 
 
 When he descended from the car the night was as 
 black as ink. A few stars, lost in the obscure velvet 
 immensity, showed him the road which he could have 
 followed, even with his eyes closed, and he arrived 
 at the great gate-way without having struck his foot 
 upon a single stone at the side of the road. 
 
 He drew out his key, which he carried in prevision 
 of these late journeys, and opened the little door and 
 entered the court. The large watch-dog recognized 
 him, for he was barking before the kennel with a sat- 
 isfied air and his tail beat against the wood with an 
 unusual vehemence.
 
 80 UN MYSTEKE. 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur Pollux; it is I; it's your master." 
 The shaggy head advanced to receive a caress, and 
 the good watch-dog re-entered his kennel with a for- 
 midable bark of warning. A light burned behind 
 the thin curtains, and above the kennel a window 
 was open. A woman's head, dressed like a monk's, 
 with a very white bonnet posed upon the hair, seemed 
 to detach itself from the light back-ground of the 
 room. 
 
 " Is it you, Theodore ? " said she, in the most tran- 
 quil manner possible, as if he had just gone out for 
 the evening. 
 
 " Yes, mother, do not come down, I will come up. 
 There is no need of a light." 
 
 "Very well," said Mme. Benoist, closing the 
 window. 
 
 A moment later they were at the top of the stairs 
 in a large hall and a large cage cPescalier whose 
 bannisters and heavy billots of turned oak had seen 
 generations of vintagers. 
 
 " Good evening," said Benoist, embracing his 
 mother. 
 
 " Good evening, my son," answered she, kissing 
 him. She had seized him by the lapelle of his great 
 coat in order to kiss him, for she was very small and 
 he did not bow his head very much. 
 
 " What has taken you so suddenly that has made 
 you come? " said she to him with tenderness, when 
 he was seated in Mme. Benoist's room upon a straw 
 chair near a round black walnut table before two 
 candles which she had lighted in their old silver 
 candlesticks placed upon the chimney. "You are 
 not sick ? "
 
 UN MYSTERE. 81 
 
 "No, mamma," answered Theodore, very much 
 embarrassed about explaining the cause of his re- 
 turn. 
 
 His mother looked at him with clear eyes, full of 
 perspicacity and maternal tenderness. 
 
 "You are not sick, are affairs going well? It 
 must be that something has gone wrong, my dear 
 son ? " 
 
 No, mamma," responded the son, pressing to his 
 breast the form of the old lady, " but kiss me all 
 the same."
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 The vineyard lay under the hot sun upon the 
 hillside. The crooked vine stocks extended their 
 little massive and short arms, and from place to 
 place a soft, white bud thrust itself through the 
 gray covering; below the hillside, the houses and 
 the gardens, the ranges of poplars made along the 
 Loire, a hedge of honor like soldiers at present arms. 
 The noble river ran rapidly as though it had to 
 fill below, toward the west, some duty unavoidable 
 and pressing; the west wind ruffled it's surface in 
 brilliant waves, and from time to time, a great 
 sail, higher than the houses, describing the arc of a 
 circle, ascended the river. The black hulls of the 
 boats cut the waves with a rushing noise, while the 
 helmsman, immobile, leaned against the tiller, cast- 
 ing a look at the nearing of the bend of the river. 
 The waters were high for that season of the year, 
 the trees in a tender young green of a still light 
 foliage, were mirrored upon the now gilded river, like 
 exquisite transparent lace. Theodore who was look- 
 ing over the vines with his mother, could not avoid 
 stopping to admire the landscape which he had seen 
 a thousand times, at all hours of the day, never being 
 satiated. " It is beautiful," said he, while his mother 
 leaned upon a grapestock examining it with the care 
 that a doctor would the pulse of his patient. The 
 old lady rose, shading with her hand, eyes that had 
 never known the need of glasses, and surveyed with a 
 look, the river and it's banks, and answered : 
 
 82
 
 UN MYSTERE. 83 
 
 " Yes, it is beautiful ; it is a beautiful country." 
 
 After this, she continued her inspection. 
 
 Her vineyard was not like other vineyards, it was 
 her child and a child saved at the price of a terrible 
 struggle. Mme. Benoist felt herself to be the mother 
 of her vineyard as much as one might feel proud of 
 being the mother of a superb and delicate son, 
 menaced by a hereditary disease, and above all this 
 at the mercy of ordinary accidents. She spoke little 
 and always reserved ly, as one will do kindnesses of 
 which one is not exactly sure. Some years before, 
 Theodore in order to please her had said that he was 
 becoming jealous of the vineyard. The old lady 
 answered him: 
 
 ' Well, it has given me a great deal more trouble 
 than you ever did." A large veil of very fine linen 
 hung from the bonnet, placed well forward upon 
 her head, hiding the fine and regular features, the 
 black eyes lively and brilliant, a skin almost im- 
 perceptibly wrinkled by the action of the sun and 
 rain. Never had Mme. Benoist worn any other than 
 this bonnet de paysanne, except when upon Sundays 
 she went to mass or when she appeared dressed in 
 black silk and a bonnet of black lace. She was a 
 paysanne who wished to remain a paysanne, at the 
 same time, when she wished, she had the means and 
 the heart of being a very grand woman. 
 
 Her son looked at her, agitated by a singular inde- 
 cision, not knowing whether he ought to depart on 
 that day, now that he had seen her, or if it would 
 be better to remain at Pressoirs until his ideas had 
 taken their proper course. This discontentment 
 which tried him rendered life difficult and full of
 
 84 UN MVSTJCRE. 
 
 many slight vexations. Would not the country air 
 drive away all these phantoms? 
 
 Mme. Benoist rose with that prolonged strength- 
 ening peculiar to those who stoop often. 
 
 " If heaven wills, the sun and the rain also," said 
 she, " the year will not be a bad one. There are 
 already some blades." 
 
 Her search satisfied, she looked over the magnifi- 
 cent hillside, over the red earth where there did not 
 appear a plant, and over the beautiful country, the 
 sweet country of Touraine, then returned upon her 
 son, but prudently, looked carefully around him, 
 before definitively placing her eyes upon him. "And 
 you, my son," said she, with a half smile, ''does the 
 year promise to be equally good ? " 
 
 " Mamma," said Benoist, deciding quickly, " I am 
 troubled; I am very sad; I have lost one of my 
 friends in a villainous way, by a terrible death, and 
 that has brought care to me. I have need of seeing 
 you in order to come into my right mind." 
 
 " Then the Pressoirs are dearer to my son than 
 Paris. You have done well to come," said the old 
 lady, looking across the vines. " But why do you 
 say that your friend, died a terrible death? Did 
 some one deal him a mortal wound ? " 
 
 " No, not that, mother. He killed himself." 
 
 " Then it was your friend Raymond de Beaurand ?" 
 said the old lady, with a secret pride. 
 
 She wished to remain one of the common people; 
 but the aristocratic friendships of her son gave her 
 a secret pleasure, and made the country people think 
 the Benoists were the equals of the nobility. 
 
 " You know of it ? " said Theodore, surprised.
 
 UN MYSTERE. 85 
 
 " Yes, I read the paper," answered Madame 
 Benoist, tranquilly, and not without a slight tinge of 
 irony. " Since you have been thrown into high 
 society I read Figaro. Should I not know some- 
 thing of the people who see my son ?" 
 
 Benoist looked affectionately at his mother. They 
 had entered a little grassy path, which led toward 
 the house, across the garden, a real flower garden, 
 like that of a cure, with rustic flowers, some plates- 
 bandes seemed to resemble squares of legumes; a 
 charming and odorous garden, planted to lavender 
 and to rosemary, like those so much depicted in the 
 old French songs. 
 
 "Then," answered Theodore, "you are aware of 
 the terrible death of my poor friend ? " 
 
 " Yes, my son, I understand something of your 
 sorrow; but" 
 
 The mother said no more; her clear eyes spoke for 
 her and said intelligibly: 
 
 " But your face bears traces of a greater torment- 
 ing than that which would come from the death of 
 your friend, terrible as it was." 
 
 " You see, mother, that some things have occurred, 
 some very sad things, that make one think." 
 
 Mine. Benoist made a quick movement, as though 
 to stop him, and began to walk with an alert step. 
 
 ' fc Why did he kill himself? What foolishness of 
 youth, that appeared at such an unseemly time, 
 had he committed ? " 
 
 "Oh, will you believe it? Beaurand was the very 
 personification of honor." 
 
 " A story about his wife then 
 
 "I do not know," said Benoist, with a thoughtful
 
 86 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 air. "A story about his wife yes it was probably 
 that." 
 
 " You do not know ? " 
 
 " I know nothing." 
 
 " But you suspect ? " 
 
 The young man was undecided; all at once he 
 determined. 
 
 " I am going to tell you all, mother," said he, 
 "you have such a clear mind, and such good judg- 
 ment, that I think I shall be unable to find a better 
 counselor." 
 
 In a few words he recounted the story of the 
 tragedy, the course that he had followed, his 
 last visit to the deputy, and the possession of the 
 letters of the deceased. 
 
 "You have kept these papers and the envelope? 
 Why have you not given them to the widow ? " 
 
 Benoist looked at his mother with a perplexed 
 air, without answering. 
 
 " It is the widow only who should have those 
 papers, my son. You must send them to her at 
 once." 
 
 Obviously embarrassed, the young man explained 
 that under the peculiar circumstances, he had never 
 spoken to her about the envelope. 
 
 "But, my dear son, should she not, before all 
 others, know of these things? Is there anything 
 more sacred than a widow ? Theodore, I am greatly 
 astonished that you did not think of that." 
 
 " Mother, she is not a widow as you are," said 
 Benoist with vivacity. 
 
 " Do you wish to say that she is unworthy ? " 
 
 "No, oh no! but she did not love Beaurand as 
 you loved my father,"
 
 UN MYSTERE. 87 
 
 "That makes no difference, my son. ]S f o one 
 knows what passes through the heart of a woman 
 when she sees lying before her the body of the man 
 whom she has sworn to follow, respect and love, 
 even to the tomb. One must be a woman to under- 
 stand such things." 
 
 He bowed his head, affected, if not convinced. 
 
 " Do you know what that woman thought ? Do 
 you know what she suffered ? Do you not see that 
 if she loved her husband ever so little, she must 
 have been most cruelly affected ; and if she did not 
 love him, how she must have reproached herself?" 
 
 " With what ? " 
 
 " With not having loved him enough to have 
 saved him by her love from a wrong that came from 
 others," said the mother with an almost solemn 
 gravity. "Believe me, that woman has well mourned 
 the loss." 
 
 Theodore did not answer. His mother looked at 
 him without being observed. They had arrived in 
 front of the house, pretty and venerable, antique 
 without decay, grand without ostentation ; the home 
 of a family which had always been honorable. 
 
 " You do not believe me then," said Mme. Be- 
 noist. "Then you dislike that woman very much?" 
 
 "No," said he with an effort ; " but T cannot help 
 thinking that she is in someway related to this sad 
 affair, and even mixed up in the cause of it." 
 
 The old lady straightened up and put her hand 
 upon the shoulder of her son ; he was tall and she 
 was small; the browned hand was still small in 
 spite of the work of years, and seemed to be very
 
 88 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 small upon the somber background, but it had, how- 
 ever, an extraordinary weight. 
 
 " Never accuse a creature of God unless you know 
 exactly of what you are accusing it. Never think 
 ill of a woman unless you are sure she merits it. 
 And if that woman has neither father nor mother, 
 neither brothers nor a husband to defend her, be then 
 still more prudent, my son, for injustice would be a 
 crime. And one can not imagine what the unfortu- 
 nate one would suffer on account of it." 
 
 Theodore took the hand which held him under its 
 command and kissed it with respect. They entered 
 in the great paved room, where the coffee and milk 
 steamed in the polished brown earthen vessels, as in 
 the good old times. They were alone. Mme. Benoist 
 waited upon her son, passing him the plateful of 
 small buttered biscuit, which he liked so much, and 
 which were made expressly for him whenever he 
 came. 
 
 "Is the lady pretty ? " she asked. 
 
 " Very beautiful." 
 
 " Lovable ? " 
 
 " They say so." 
 
 " Is she cold toward you ? " 
 
 " I believe she detests me." 
 
 Mme. Benoist remained silent for a moment, look- 
 ing at her son. All at once their eyes met ; those of 
 Theodore showed an anguish so sad, so hopeless, 
 that his mother felt herself deeply affected. Rising 
 from her chair, she went to Benoist and put her 
 arms around his neck. 
 
 " Ah, my poor son," said she in a low and broken 
 tone, "you love that woman?"
 
 UN MYSTERE. 89 
 
 " Yes," said lie in the same tone, "but still I can 
 not help thinking that she is culpable." 
 
 He hid his head in the maternal bosom ; the arms 
 that had drawn him to her pressed him closer, and 
 in the little folds of the fichu which covered the noble 
 heart, he pressed out two large tears that had risen 
 to his eyes.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Toward the end of August Mrae. Montclar became 
 weary of solitude ; for, to a woman who has always 
 been in society, an exile of four months in the coun- 
 try tete-d-tete with a widow, is a hard enough trial. 
 
 In that long reclusion she had opportunity to learn 
 the grand moral qualities of Estelle ; but she also 
 learned that the young woman did not have the 
 same ideas of life as had those among whom she 
 lived. 
 
 More than once Moe. Montclar had been surprised 
 to hear her say, in the easiest manner possible, that 
 she had a certain disdain, or, at least, a distaste for 
 the pleasures and the duties of which it seemed inad- 
 missible to not appreciate the value. 
 
 "Just like Raymond," she would say to herself, 
 " she has been perfectly schooled, and could conduct 
 herself with the utmost propriety; but one can see 
 that she has not been convinced of the necessity of 
 forms that she observes, and that she very much pre- 
 fers something else. My poor nephew would have 
 been a wonder living with her, and they would have 
 lived like a couple of wolves during the greater part 
 of the year. But in a man it is excusable. My 
 brother, General de Beaurand, was the same. " 
 
 Having given vent to these impressions, in this 
 little monologue, Mme. Montclar felt that she ought 
 to go with her niece to some quiet retreat, to the 
 seashore, for example, where there would be no 
 social duties or regular balls, and the thing was to 
 find such a retreat. 
 
 90
 
 UN MYSTERE. 91 
 
 By the aid of the Guide Joanne, and her own 
 memory, Mme. Montclar finally decided upon a 
 solemn, quiet place, a refuge for the judiciary, to 
 whom its position afforded the opportunity of avoid- 
 ing the more fashionable places. The people of the 
 country were very deferential to their austere lords 
 with long grey beards, and to ladies of pronounced 
 age, with hair dressed in bonnets of lace. At such 
 places one was assured of receiving the attention due 
 one among a population not yet contaminated by the 
 corruptions of the cities, and imbued with respect 
 for venerable things. 
 
 That is to say, Mme. Montclar had chosen Saint 
 Aubin. 
 
 The arrival of two such eminently distinguished 
 women, dressed in mourning and accompanied by 
 their waiting maids, was an event the more noticeable 
 because these ladies ate in their own rooms, and 
 that no one had any occasion whatever to speak 
 to them. 
 
 Their names were placed upon the register of the 
 hotel and soon became subjects of comments ; but the 
 bathers at St. Aubin were so candid that the names 
 raised no remembrance in their minds. The public 
 attention, accompanied by a marked consideration, 
 attached to these persons who had such a grand air, 
 and they waited the arrival of some bather better 
 informed, who could tell them of that which they 
 desired to know. 
 
 Mme. Montclar, however, returned to social life; 
 that is to say, she became visible. For a woman that 
 has always lived surrounded by friends, isolation is 
 premature death. The sight of human faces, though
 
 92 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 void of beauty, was to her, like fresh \vater to a 
 plant long exposed to the heat of the sun. And 
 then, beside the curious bathers, she thought that 
 the month of September could not help bringing her 
 some other diversion, having written to three or 
 four of her friends to come and be with her at St. 
 Aubin, she thought, at least, that one or two would 
 surely arrive during the month. 
 
 Upon the contrary, Estelle greatly enjoyed this 
 absence from society. The shock which she had 
 received, left upon her durable traces; to the stupor 
 of the first moment and to the indignation of the 
 second, a sort of consternation had succeeded. Was 
 it possible that the world was always so light and 
 cruel? She wished to believe that that affair would 
 be quickly forgotten and that no one would pay 
 more attention to her. Benoist only, she very truly 
 believed, continued to regard her in that unquiet and 
 cold way, which had so singularly wounded her. 
 She reproached herself, for being troubled by that 
 idea and could not hinder herself from always 
 thinking of it. 
 
 It was with consternation that she knew herself 
 to be actually accused by the grave man; and 
 accused of what? She absolutely did not know. 
 Her thought could not go to the bottom of the 
 odious suspicion. She supposed that some one had 
 told him some love story which he had carried to 
 Raymond and that had occasioned a movement of 
 jealousy so violent as to make him insane. It was 
 the only explanation that she could find, and that 
 explanation in the eyes of a stranger, did not lack a 
 certain plausibility and to her it seemed even trust* 
 worthy.
 
 UN MYSTERE. 93 
 
 But to her, to whom the character and the heart 
 of her fiance, her husband of a few hours, had been 
 disclosed without reserve in their conversations, she 
 knew well that it was false, and that Kaymond had 
 no suspicion of her; she knew that, calumnized, she 
 could not be dear to him. It was precisely that 
 unbounded adoration, which had touched her: it 
 was the confidence, the esteem and the recognition 
 provoked by that complete abandonment to her 
 whole being, which had given to this young woman 
 the hope of loving later, in her turn, him who loved 
 her then so unselfishly. 
 
 No, Estelle had no part in the suicide of her 
 husband, she was certain of it, before her con- 
 science, which she had a thousand times interrogited. 
 Had she not also told him of all her life, of her sad 
 childhood ? In the same way that he had opened up 
 the soul of the man and the soldier to her. Had she 
 not also told him the story of her life, as a young 
 girl, so devoid of interest and romance, clear and 
 pure as crystal. 
 
 Being struck by the force of the impossibility, she 
 had finished by believing that Raymond had been 
 the victim of sudden insanity, caused not by jealousy, 
 but by the extreme tension of his mind during those 
 last days; if not this, then what? This explanation 
 did not satisfv her, but allowed her pity to still con- 
 
 * > L t- 
 
 tinue with a profound tenderness born of the catas- 
 trophy and mixed with tears. It was because of 
 that, that she disclosed her heart to no one, fearing 
 all illusion, hating every word upon the subject of 
 her dead husband, whose loss was so sincerely 
 mourned.
 
 94 UN MYSTEEE. 
 
 Surely Estelle loved him better deiul than she had 
 loved him living; disengaged from the terrestrial 
 element of which she had always a sort of instinctive 
 distaste, her affection rested upon the tomb of Ray- 
 mond like a bird that could use its wings no more. 
 
 It was upon these high and consoling thoughts that 
 the young widow had found a sort of justification of 
 Theodore Benoist in her eyes. A generous friend- 
 ship, as good as ordinary affections, such asEaymond 
 alone could inspire with his chivalrous qualities, 
 could have instigated the young man to defend his 
 dead friend, to avenge him, if possible; standing 
 guard to a great sorrow and having a secret detesta- 
 tion for those who might misknow her upon that 
 point, Estelle was not far from admiring him. 
 
 With a certain impatience, mixed perhaps with a 
 little fever, she awaited the moment when the rou- 
 tine of worldly relations would bring Benoist to the 
 house of Mme. Montclar where she might impress 
 upon him with all her force, the truth of her inno- 
 cence; it was impossible that a man capable of being 
 the dearest friend of Raymond could remain insensi- 
 ble to clear light and true purity. With such a dis- 
 like as she held for such a life, it became an almost 
 intolerable burden. 
 
 Estelle was twenty years of age and did not doubt 
 the absolute justness of things; that faith placed in 
 her future a vague, almost insensible light, but the 
 reflection of which softly colored her thoughts. 
 
 The first series of bathers of August packed their 
 trunks ; the corridors of the hotels were filled with 
 numberless little packages straw baskets, shrimp- 
 nets, folding chairs, wicker baskets all bearing in
 
 UN MYSTEKE. 95 
 
 letters, more or less readable, the word Saint- Aubin 
 embroidered, painted or engraved in the \vay to make 
 them the least odious; objects destined to make the 
 impatient mammas fret until the opening of school, 
 ruing the day when their lack of foresight had per- 
 mitted these intolerable souvenirs to enter into their 
 existences. 
 
 The second series, that of September, made its 
 appearance and ranged its linen in the drawers left 
 empty by the first ; the newcomers installed them- 
 selves at the hotel tables, interrogating with looks 
 the rows of attentive heads, saluting with an air ? 
 roguish or content, the visages found well or ill 
 apropos. 
 
 The magistrature assize was very well represented 
 that year. In their ranks were noticeable some 
 " debout " come to take care of their advance- 
 ment, at the same time to attend to their healths. 
 Among those who came was Andre Bolvin. He 
 was an honest fellow, very much noted, full of 
 talent and finesse, but like all those who follow one 
 idea, trusting wholly in it, his successes had been a 
 little disappointing, and for some time he had held 
 that disagreeable idea of having no faith in inno- 
 cence ; but upon pushing it, one mi'ght make him 
 admit that one ought to arrange it so as to have 
 always under the hand, a second suspect, in case the 
 first should escape. 
 
 Upon Sunday afternoon, all the new visitors and 
 the old ones that remained went upon the seashore, 
 and there were recognitions and introductions with 
 out number. Mme. Montclar and her niece, seated 
 upon the grassy plat, back from the beach, observed 
 these proceedings with more or less interest.
 
 96 UN MYSTEKE. 
 
 Bolvin walked along, saluting here, saluted there, 
 according to the importance of the people. A well- 
 dressed lady, accompanied by two daughters, smiled 
 at him ; he went to her, and was immediately 
 engrossed. 
 
 "Monsieur Bolvin, you who know all, tell me 
 those whom I do not know." 
 
 He named over with much complaisance and a 
 little cynicism the bathers whom he knew. Mine. 
 Barriere was charming, and really made an ideal 
 belle-mere. 
 
 "And these and those?" 
 
 This singular fellow knew everybody. At last he 
 rested his eyes upon the s \vard where were Mme. 
 Montclar and Estelle. 
 
 " And those ladies," said the younger of the 
 Misses Barriere. 
 
 " They are too far away," said the young deputy, 
 trying to distinguish them without being indiscreet. 
 
 "I can tell you their names," said the elder. 
 " They are Mme. de Beaurand and her aunt, Mme. 
 Montclar, the one old and the other young, both 
 are very beautiful and in deep mourning. Mme. 
 Montclar is the younger is she not? " 
 
 Bolvin made an easy movement, very slow, and 
 ceased to look to that side. 
 
 "If you are sure of their names, Mademoiselle, 
 the elder is Mme. Montclar." 
 
 " Truly ? Why are they in deep mourning ? 
 They are of the highest society, are they not ? " 
 
 " Of the best society," said Bolvin coldly. " Mme. 
 Montclar is the aunt of Mme. de Beaurand, she was 
 the aunt of her husband."
 
 UN MYSTKRE. 97 
 
 " Mme. de Beaurand is a widow ? So young ! 
 Beaurand ! I know that name. There is a history. 
 Wait!" 
 
 " Mme. de. Beaurand has been a widow since the 
 day of her marriage," said Bolvin, with an almost 
 unobservable motion of disdain. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know, a suicide. Oh, it was strange." 
 
 " An accident, my dear lady." said Bolvin with an 
 almost imperceptible smile. 
 
 He immediately repented for having added that 
 word and that smile ; but it was too late.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 That same evening all Saint- Aubin was talking of 
 Mme. de JBeaurand. The occurrence had already 
 become so old that it was not fresh in all their 
 minds; but it was not yet old enough to have been 
 completely forgotten, and each one wished to appear 
 to be equally well informed with her neighbor, and 
 remembered something that the paper had said 
 about the accident. 
 
 Mme. Montclar and her niece, while they we v e 
 being discussed in the groups, tranquilly walked 
 upon the beach, admiring the setting sun. Their 
 shadows were cast distinctly upon the sand in front 
 of the speakers, and when they approached them a 
 halo of fire seemed to surround their heads. 
 
 The attention fixed upon them was not kindly 
 already their grand air and their reserved manner 
 had provoked a certain enmity among the good 
 women who wished only to make acquaintances at 
 the resorts and who never went bathing, going to 
 the resorts for that only. 
 
 Little by little a slight shunning of the persons, 
 who took their dinners in their own rooms in the 
 hotel, arose, and certain boarders at the hotel pre- 
 tended that the wings of their own fowls were not long 
 enough to carry them so high, and that was, indeed, 
 sufficient to arouse envious feelings, without adding 
 that of the feeling that there were people there who 
 payed higher prices for services than did they. 
 
 When the two women, in order to enter their 
 
 08
 
 UN MYSTERE. 99 
 
 rooms, passed in front of the troops of bathers, 
 united or scattered in groups, all eyes, as by the 
 same movement were directed towards them, and 
 silence rested upon all. 
 
 Surprised, Estelle raised her eyes and encountered 
 a score of glances, of curiosity among the women, 
 and of cynicism among the men. 
 
 A peculiar feeling made her draw the folds of her 
 cloak about her, as if to defend herself; but she 
 passed haughtily, with a cold demeanor, with the 
 disdain of a queen who ignores even the existence 
 of her infamous subjects. Mme. Montclar, w r ho 
 happily, had her head bowed, saw nothing of this. 
 
 When they reached the hotel the old lady turned 
 again to see the setting of the sun ; Estelle did like- 
 wise, and in the sweeping glance that she cast over 
 the beach her eyes beheld Andre Bolvin. 
 
 " Ah," she said to herself, " I understand. But 
 what right has that man to speak of me ? " 
 
 A dull anger made her heart beat a little more 
 quickly. Upon entering the salon she saw through 
 the window such a wonderful arrangement of the 
 clouds that she could not resist the temptation to 
 contemplate it again; her aunt followed her and 
 they went to the balcony. 
 
 They were talking very actively upon the beach ; 
 and some of the conversers were but a short dis- 
 tance from the hotel, the air was very clear, and the 
 sound of their voices rose very distinctly ; Estelle 
 heard some words the sound of which vibrated in 
 sonorous syllables and very clearly, and she under- 
 stood that they were speakingof her and her husband. 
 
 ( - Poor fellow/' said one man ? laughing, " perhaps 
 be ha4 to do better,"
 
 100 UN MTSTERE. 
 
 Mine, de Beaurand felt a profound disgust take 
 possession of her. 
 
 On account of Raymond dead and herself living 
 and injured she had a feeling of revolt that destroys 
 the peace of mind and pushes one almost to hatred. 
 At twenty, one has not yet had time to learn toler- 
 ance ; the young woman condemned to herself, with- 
 out recourse, all the women, all the men, who, not 
 thinking for a moment that she might be still 
 weeping for Raymond in his tomb, amused them- 
 selves with the scandal. 
 
 It was Andre Bolvin who had started this fire, it 
 was through him that they had ]earned of Estelle ; he 
 had never seemed sympathetic since their short 
 interview ; she seemed to be seized with an uncon- 
 trollable aversion for him while a great dejection 
 enveloped her like a shroud of lead. 
 
 " The beach is animated, Estelle," said Mme. JVlont- 
 clar, with an astonishing apropos. "We who do 
 not mix in these little intrigues amuse ourselves by 
 looking at them. It is singular. You were never 
 before at a watering-place ? " 
 
 "Never, aunt," answered Estelle, her eyes all the 
 time fixed upon the groups with their heads together, 
 forgetting all political disagreement in the universal 
 activity of slander, there upon the sward. 
 
 "This resembles a watering-place nearly enough," 
 said the old lady, in a placid tone ; " there is always 
 a coterie or two; from our balcony we can see them 
 all it is very pleasing. Besides, I hope that my 
 friend, Mme. Daubray, will come next week ; she 
 will draw us into the current, for ghe has a wonder* 
 ful tact,"
 
 UN MYSTEEE. 101 
 
 Estelle, upon the contrary, had a very strong 
 desire to go away, to return jLo Saumeray, in order 
 that she might avoid the looks of those then around 
 her ; but how could she speak of it without, at the 
 same time, speaking of Andre Bolvin ? She held 
 such an extreme repugnance to introducing into her 
 conversations the remembrance of the death of her 
 husband, that she preferred to keep silence. 
 
 The curiosity which the two women inspired ended 
 at the close of two or three days, without entirely 
 disappearing. The arrival of some and the depart- 
 ure of others always gave new points to the com- 
 mentaries. The season, unhappily for Estelle, 
 was admirable, and September, still more balmy, 
 more beautiful than July, had prolonged the bathing 
 season beyond the ordinary limits. At last the friend 
 of Mme. Montclar arrived. 
 
 She was a large woman, thin and withered, very 
 friendly, very affable, one of those persons whom 
 one meets inevitably in all houses where they receive 
 many, one of those who aid in doing the honors, pre- 
 sent people to others, introduce the dancers to the 
 homely girl and mix themselves generally in mar- 
 riage affairs without a shade of judgment, without 
 an atom of malice. Too impersonal to not be good in 
 the world, and too impressionable to have any opin- 
 ions of their own, they change their minds according 
 to the society with an ingenuity which at least makes 
 them almost interesting. 
 
 Even though she bore the title, Mme. Daubray 
 was not a friend to Mme. Montclar, because the 
 exclusive cares for her family prevented her giving 
 much of }ir friendship outside, but tiie word "friend
 
 102 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 ship" designating in the most correct manner the 
 relation slightly fomaZ.which the women of the world 
 voluntarily entertain ; they went together to the thea- 
 ter, to the springs, to the sea-side resorts they were 
 always together in society, they saw each other every 
 day, they spoke of the same people and of the same 
 happenings. What difference did it make if at heart 
 they cared very little for each other? A widow and 
 unembarrassed, with sufficient income to be inde- 
 pendent, M me. Daubray was always ready to come or 
 go, provided that she were not occupied elsewhere. 
 Coming from a tiresome sojourn at the house of the 
 sick relation, she was very much pleased to see Mme. 
 Montclar, whom she had not consoled in her mis- 
 fortune, having been at the time detained at Cannes, 
 and she showed a lively pleasure in making the 
 acquaintance of Mme. de Beaurand, so interesting 
 and so beautiful. She was ignorant of what was 
 said, not having put her foot in Paris for six months, 
 except to change her winter clothing for summer 
 wear. 
 
 After a long conversation with Mme.' Montclar, 
 the new-comer went toward the beach to hear what 
 was being said, and she was not away long ; in less 
 than twenty minutes she had met five or six persons 
 of her acquaintance. From the balcony, which she 
 had hardly quitted, Estelle could see her seated in 
 the midst of a group of which Mme. Barriere was 
 one ; the young daughters, some distance away were 
 bathing. The conversation made good progress; 
 they got their heads together ; two or three times 
 Estelle saw them cast curious looks toward the hotel ; 
 surely they spoke of her.
 
 UN MYSTERE. - 103 
 
 A horrible sensation, that of knowing oneself to be 
 torn in pieces by the beautiful teeth of a neighbor, 
 of whom one can demand no explanation nor ask for 
 its cause ; to be sure that one questions your reputa- 
 tion, your honor, and to 'be unable to lay it to a single 
 person, the evasive calumny having an anonymous 
 author and for authority that complacent word, 
 " they," the accomplice of all perfidiousness, of all 
 slanders and of all outrages. Estelle knew that bit- 
 terness and believed herself crushed with the first 
 blow. She deceived herself. At the dinner hour, 
 Mme. Daubray, who would go to dinner with her 
 friend, returned, always smiling, but not without a 
 certain reserved look for Mme. de Beaurand. 
 
 With her sensative impressionability, she imme- 
 diately perceived the coolness and herself retired in 
 a cold pride which produced upon the new-comer a 
 very bad effect. This armed peace lasted two or 
 three days without Mme. Montclar knowing it so 
 happy was she in having a companion according to 
 her Bastes. 
 
 However, she could not help perceiving, one fine 
 evening, that the relation between her neice and her 
 friend were too cool to be cordial. 
 
 " Does Mme. Daubray displease you? " asked she 
 of Estelle, who silently retired to the balcony taking 
 refuge in contemplating the horizon. 
 
 " I have no opinion, whatever, of her," answered 
 the young woman, upon re-entering the salon. " I 
 have seen her very little. It is I, I believe, who 
 have not had the happiness to please her." 
 
 " "Well, haven't you had time enough jn which to
 
 104 TIN MYSTEEE. 
 
 become acquainted with her?" asked Mme.,Mont- 
 clar, much surprised. 
 
 Understanding that the moment had come in 
 which to speak, notwithstanding all the interest, all 
 the pity which the old lady inspired in her, Estelle 
 looked at her softly and put her beautiful white 
 hand forward to caress the hand put toward her. 
 
 " My dear aunt," said she, "you have, until now, 
 extended to me your protection; behold this is the 
 moment when you shall find it difficult. I have 
 been calumned, you know that; far from being 
 stopped, that calumny has gained headway and your 
 friend has heard the echo of it, that is all." 
 
 " Is it possible, Estelle ? " cried Mme. Montclar, 
 terrified. 
 
 " Ask your friend." 
 
 " You wish that I should ask ? " 
 
 u I wish that you should know, my dear aunt, that 
 which I have endured for a week and that to which 
 you have exposed yourself in being the chaperon of 
 a wido\v such as am I. I beg of you, ask of her." 
 
 After a short moment of hesitation, the old lady 
 knocked at the door of Mme. Daubray, which was 
 situated upon the same floor. 
 
 " Tell me frankly, my dear," said she, " have you 
 heard anything whatever, disagreeable, with regard 
 to my niece ? " 
 
 Her friend was neither mean nor a deceiver, she 
 understood that the situation was serious and 
 responded affirmatively. 
 
 "Who has had " 
 
 " Everybody," said Mme. Daubray, innocently.
 
 CHAPTER XIT. 
 
 It was not without great difficulty that Mme. 
 Montclar obtained the desired information from 
 her friend. The worldly experience of Mme. Dau- 
 bray, as thorough as it could be, had taught her 
 nothing of how to act under such circumstances, and 
 every one of her words were literally torn from her 
 when it was necessary to relate the details. After 
 much work, the resume of the information was 
 this : Estelle was accused of having assassinated 
 her husband upon the day of their marriage. The 
 domestics had seen her come from the chamber of 
 crime, with blood upon her gown. 
 
 At this revelation, Mme. Montclar let a sickly 
 laugh escape which it was difficult to control: How-, 
 ever, as she w T as a discreet person, she knew how to 
 control her feelings and cut short the nervous crisis 
 which menaced her and recovered her sang froid in 
 an instant. 
 
 " This is the idle story that they have told you," 
 said she to Mme. Daubray, and you< ought to place 
 no confidence in it. You, at least, ought to have 
 been able to ask me about the facts of w r hich I know 
 more than any other person since I did not leave my 
 niece from the moment when we returned from the 
 church until we both, together, entered the room of 
 my unfortunate nephew." 
 
 On that remembrance she was seized by a new 
 emotion which she could not control and which gave 
 to her friend time in which to answer. 
 
 105
 
 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 ' But, my dear," said the poor soul in distress, " I 
 never believed this horrible story. Only put your- 
 self in my place. It is extremely embarrassing in 
 such direct communication with a person of whom 
 everybody : 
 
 Mine. Montclar, slightly weakened, cut short the 
 words. 
 
 " My neice is very much distressed by being accused 
 by these fools," said she in a firm voice, without 
 judgment enough to know that they add to her sor- 
 row. I assure you that there is not a word of truth 
 in the story. If only my poor nephew in a sudden 
 stroke of delirium, without doubt, for it seems to me 
 impossible to understand it otherwise my poor Ray- 
 mond shot himself. Without malice and without 
 inhumanity this sad affair should have passed as an 
 accident ; but then, when one begins to believe what 
 
 a domestic says ; at least, my dear, I hope that 
 
 you will take advantage of the confidence which I 
 have just placed in you to defend my poor Estelle, 
 who has truly too much unhappiness." 
 
 " Be sure, my dear friend," said Mme. Daubray, 
 very much discomfitted, " if I had been able to fore- 
 see " 
 
 " What would you have done ? " asked Mme. Mont- 
 clar, a little brusquely. 
 
 " I would not have come to Saint- Aubin," retorted 
 the unfortunate one, who was seated alone, in tears, 
 profoundly pitying herself for her fate. " To come 
 to Saint- Aubin in order to breathe the sea air with 
 one's friends, and then to find one's self mixed in an 
 abominable tale ! It's enough to make one sick." 
 
 Mme. Montclar returned to Estelle in a very
 
 UN MYSTEKE. 107 
 
 troubled state of mind. The reality of the case did 
 not permit discussion. In the eyes of the old lady 
 it was odious even to the point of grotesqueness, and 
 the absurd side made her think that it could not sus- 
 tain examination. A second reflection recalled, how- 
 ever, the thought that, in general, people hardly 
 examine the probability of calumnies ; they admit 
 them without discussion ; and it is that which gives 
 them so much weight. 
 
 Mme. de Beaurand awaited her aunt without fear, 
 but with a certain agitation. Was she going to know 
 at last of what she was accused ? Her face had such 
 a direct questioning look that Mme. Montclar an- 
 swered immediately. 
 
 " My child," said she, "they say, very plainly, that 
 you killed your husband." 
 
 Estelle's face showed neither the indignation nor 
 the horror that her aunt believed it would provoke, 
 but a disdain which touched the heart of the old 
 lady. She took her niece by the hands and drew 
 her toward her with a gesture full of nobleness. 
 
 " Aunt," answered the young widow, " does that 
 astonish you? I was not in the least surprised. Is 
 it not necessary to foresee all when they insult one ? " 
 
 " You're a brave girl," replied , Mme. Montclar, 
 kissing the pure forehead, which rose to a level with 
 her own, " but do you know what they have also 
 invented? You cannot guess. They pretend that 
 your robe was covered with spots of blood." 
 
 Estelle was seriously struck and looked at her aunt, 
 allowing her hands to fall. 
 
 " They say that ? " said she, in a strangely altered 
 voice. " They are right."
 
 108 UN MVSTKKE. 
 
 Mme. Montclar thought for an instant that her 
 niece had lost her mind. 
 
 "They are right," repeated the widow. "My 
 traveling gown, that which I wore that day, fell 
 into the blood when I leaned over him. Ah," cried 
 she, hiding her face in her two cold hands, " is it 
 not enough to have seen it? Is it necessary that 
 these wretches evoke by derision the remembrance 
 of that horrible moment ? No, no; it is too much. " 
 
 She had recoiled as if the body of Eaymond was 
 once more before her. 
 
 "My niece," said Mme. Montclar, whose throat 
 was choked with emotion, hardly allowing the words 
 to escape, " are you sure of what you have said ? " 
 
 " Yes, when we went in, do you remember, I ran 
 to him, arid I wished to raise him could I have 
 thought of anything else at that time? He was my 
 husband, I had sworn to love him and to obey him. 
 Ah! why was I not taken with him! I should have 
 suffered less." 
 
 She recoiled once more, and fell upon the couch 
 in the position of veritable physical and mental tor- 
 ture. Upon the contrary, Madame Montclar seemed 
 to have received all the strength which Estelle, so 
 long oppressed, allowed to flow into her. 
 
 "Estelle, hear me, that robe" 
 
 "Of gray silk which you made me wear upon leav- 
 ing, because Raymond liked the color so much. Yes, 
 it was soaked with blood. The whole hem. I did 
 not perceive it ; it was myfemme de chainbre Betzy 
 who showed it to me some hours after." 
 
 " What did you do with it ? " asked Mme. Montclar. 
 
 " I had all that burned that was stained, and the
 
 UN MYSTERE. 109 
 
 rest I do not know any more. I think I gave it to 
 Betzy. Oh ! Eaymond ! Raymond." 
 
 She wrung her hands. With a tenderness mixed 
 with authority, her aunt seated hereself near her 
 and she immediately became motionless. 
 
 " Estelle be calm. That was an unhappy occur- 
 rence; but it should not trouble such a mind as yours. 
 No more should it trouble me who did not leave 
 you during the whole of that horrible day. What 
 difference does it make if you are accused since I, 
 in the name of the dead, assume the duty of defend- 
 ing you, and it is I who should do so ? " 
 
 The thought of Theodore Benoist ran through 
 the head of Estelle like an arrow, with a recrudes- 
 cence of sorrow she tore her trembling hands from, 
 those of the old lady. 
 
 " Aunt," said she, a prey to a terrible anguish, 
 " you might affirm that I did not kill Raymond, and, 
 perhaps some one would believe you. But you can 
 never prove that he was not killed on account of 
 me, on account of -my dishonor, perhaps. Nobody 
 will be able to prove that, and there are those who 
 will believe it. But in truth I swear to you that I 
 would rather have them believe that I was capable 
 of that than that I married him with' a stained char- 
 acter." 
 
 Estelle's voice was so poignant, and such a sad 
 sincerity arose from all her bruised self, that Mme. 
 Montclar could no longer contain herself. And as 
 much as she disliked extreme and passionate demon- 
 strations, she threw her arms about Estelle. 
 
 " My daughter, I have said to you that we should 
 search together, I have but ill kept iny promise,
 
 110 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 I have been feeble and indolent. God has pun- 
 ished me for thus torturing you. But I shall 
 repair my fault, and if there is one person in the 
 world who will come to our aid it is Theodore 
 Benoist." 
 
 Estelle disengaged herself from the arms that held 
 her. 
 
 " If you have counted upon him you have leaned 
 upon a frail reed, my dear friend," said she. " These 
 accuse me because of inhumanity; but he accuses 
 me because he hates me." 
 
 " And why does he hate you ? " asked Mme. Mont- 
 clar, with consternation. 
 
 " I do not know, only he hates me," replied Estelle, 
 breaking into tears. 
 
 The next evening a charity concert, organized for 
 the benefit of a family of fishers, would take place 
 in the large hall of the principal hotel of St. Aubin. 
 
 Everybody had promised to take part in the good 
 work, either as artists or as spectators, and the 
 tickets had doubled in price in the kindly hands. 
 Madame Barridre and her two daughters had pur- 
 chased seats, with the intention of selling them at 
 the highest price possible, and they succeeded as they 
 hoped to. 
 
 Andre Bolvin, promoted to the rank of commis- 
 saire, rendered to everybody an infinitude of little 
 services, and was admired for his kindnesses and for 
 his happy faculty of being able to get out of difficult 
 positions. 
 
 The hall was filled with sounds as sonorous as 
 those of a German spinning-top at the moment when 
 Montclar entered with her niece, having
 
 UN MYSTEKE. Ill 
 
 paid a hundred francs for their two seats, accompa- 
 nied by Madame Daubray, who was self-em bar rassed 
 almost to extreme inquietude. 
 
 The seats were numbered. Estelle and her aunt 
 reached their chairs which were in the first row ; the 
 second was already occupied by Mme. Barriere and 
 her daughters and a company that they had formed. 
 Close to Mme. Montclar were two or three officials 
 of Saint- Aubin, who were always invited to the solem- 
 nities. 
 
 The entry of Estelle and her aunt in their mourn- 
 ing, according to the circumstances, of strict black, 
 with no affectation of crape, produced an extraor- 
 dinary sensation ; the girls of the country stretched 
 their necks, and even mounted upon the chairs to 
 see them. The noise which arose upon their entry 
 subsided suddenly, and the silence that succeeded 
 seemed almost solemn ; then the murmur of voices 
 again arose, little by little, in the hall, the aisles be- 
 came clear and behind a door one could hear the 
 three regular taps. 
 
 At that moment Estelle, who had felt for some 
 time something extraordinary, turned around sharply 
 and saw behind her that the second row of chairs 
 was entirely vacant. The prudent company of Mme. 
 Barriere, not less wise, had vacated theirs, leaving 
 a vacant space significant enough between the black 
 sheep and the rest of the company. 
 
 Mme. de Beaurand did not make a movement, nor 
 did she speak to her aunt. The concert commenced. 
 She endured her punishment patiently until the end ; 
 but when the first part had been finished, she drew 
 the attention of Mme. Montclar by a simple word
 
 119 TIN MYSTERfc. 
 
 murmured in a low tone. Both rose and went 
 toward the door. Upon their way, the spectators 
 looked at them, giving them a wide passage. "With 
 deep silence under a fire of eyes, they went through 
 the foolish crowd and returned to their rooms. 
 When Estelle was alone with Mme. Montclar, she 
 looked at her without tears in her eyes. 
 
 " Well," said she, "do you not think that the duty 
 of Raymond, since he would not take me with him, 
 was to live to protect me \ "
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 The question at that time was simply this: Ought 
 they to retire in order to avoid a new slander, or 
 ought they to stay with their calumnators, holding 
 them in absolute disdain ? Mme. Monclar was of the 
 latter opinion. 
 
 " "What ? " said she, " do you wish to retreat be- 
 fore these wicked tongues? Would you pay them 
 the honor of attaching any importance to their prat- 
 tle? But my child, those people to us are nobody. 
 Of what weight to us is their opinion ?" 
 
 " They do not exist to us," said Estelle sadly ; 
 " but we exist to them. They disquiet themselves 
 with that which we do. They are hundreds and we 
 are alone." 
 
 ' ; But then," said Mme. Monclar, with a little irri- 
 tation, " they say that we are alone in the world, 
 lilce Prometheus bound to his rock. "We have 
 friends and when we return to Paris will gather 
 them around us. "While waiting, it seems to me that 
 Mme. de Polrey, who has not disturbed herself on 
 account of you during the summer, might show you 
 some mark of sympathy ; invite you to her home." 
 
 Estelle took from her blotting-case, a letter 
 received that evening and gave it to her aunt. 
 
 In response to a letter in which her ex-pupil 
 informed her of being installed at Saint-Aubin, 
 Mme. de Polrey congratulated her upon having 
 found such a quiet place where she might termin- 
 ate, without disturbance, the first six months of 
 
 113
 
 114 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 her widowhood. " I would wish very much to see 
 you at our home," said she in closing, "but our 
 nouse during the harvests will be very full, and the 
 hunting opening at an early hour, there will be such 
 noise and movement as will not be in accord with 
 your recent mourning. Say, however, to your good 
 friend Mme. Montclar, that I count, in compensa- 
 tion, upon both of you being here during the next 
 autumn." 
 
 Before finishing the letter, the old lady was 
 obliged to re-adjust her eye-glasses three or four 
 times ; her blood literally boiled in her veins, so 
 much so that she showed her anger at that tranquil 
 insolence. 
 
 " In no plainer way could one be shown the door," 
 said she, returning the letter to Estelle. "I will 
 show her in my turn that they are wrong to thus 
 break with people of whom they may have need. 
 Her three daughters are not yet married, thank 
 Heaven, and more than once she may wish to depend 
 on my kind offices. She will find the door closed. 
 I'll answer for that. Then you did show a desire to 
 see her?" 
 
 " No," answered Estelle, " but she had such great 
 fear of my visit that she has taken this precaution 
 in advance." 
 
 " One could not be better advised," said Mme. 
 Montclar. "Well, my niece, if you will trust me, 
 we shall remain here two or three days more, in 
 order that it may not be said by these persons that 
 they have put us to flight, and then we will travel 
 by short days, making the tour of Normandy and 
 Brittany, and in October, when we shall have
 
 UN MYSTEEE. 115 
 
 returned to Paris, we will take counsel of experienced 
 people. It would be much too odious, if" 
 
 She did not finish the phrase. Estelle was seated 
 near her, and looked at her with eyes full of tender- 
 ness and a kind of pity. 
 
 " You think that I am raving ? " said Mrne. Mont- 
 clar, answering the look. 
 
 "I think, my dear aunt," said the young woman, 
 "that you are full of grandeur and goodness ; I said 
 to myself that the wisest thing would be for you to 
 disembarrass yourself of me, to return to your 
 friends, to your relations and to your customary 
 habits. I am not your niece, even though you give 
 me that title. You do not know me ; hardly as they 
 know the young girls in society, and thus, with no 
 right to your kindness, I have thrown in your life 
 so much sorrow and distress as I believe was never 
 known before. If you will permit me "- 
 
 " You wish to enter a convent ? " interrupted Mme. 
 Montclar. 
 
 " No, I haven't courage enough, I assure you," 
 answered Estelle. a It is too recently that I termi- 
 nated my education. I would not, without pro- 
 found discouragement, return to the impressions of 
 my childhood. But might I not live alone, mod- 
 estly, as it should be, in my widowhood?" 
 
 " Of that there can be no question," said the old 
 lady, with firmness. " The name which you carry 
 would never permit an independent nature like yours 
 to hurt itself. We have dreamed of being happy 
 parents; Fate has willed that this desire shall 
 become a cause of sorrow. Let us accept its will. 
 You will remain near me, my niece, as long as I
 
 116 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 Jive. After God will provide. And then," added 
 she, with a smile, in which resignation mixed with 
 pride in a peculiar manner, " I am attached to you, 
 Estelle, more than I could have believed. I have 
 found in you so many of the things which make me 
 think of Raymond, and I do riot know what else; 
 there are points of contact, peculiar affinities 
 between your nature and mine. In short, such as 
 you are, I would have loved to have had you for my 
 daughter. Then speak no more of quitting me." 
 
 Estelle leaned over to the beautiful white hand of 
 her old friend and placed upon it a reverential kiss. 
 Mme. Montclar pressed her in her arms, and they 
 separated silently. 
 
 Their programme was very easy to realize. Upon 
 the morning of the next day Andre Bolvin had 
 departed for Paris, very much worried by the trick 
 of Mme. Barriere, which he could not have fore- 
 seen. 
 
 That of itself was very embarrassing; her little 
 coup de tete should never, in her idea, have taken 
 such considerable proportions, but she had reckoned 
 without the sheep of Panurge, and now she beheld 
 herself responsible for all that might result from it. 
 
 Her elder daughter, after the departure of Bolviu, 
 did not cease to reproach her, weeping ; and, to turn 
 attention, she had been obliged to organize long 
 walks to the interior of the country in order to 
 avoid the frequent meetings upon the seashore. 
 That miserable trick has disconcerted everybody ; a 
 renewal of silent consideration made itself felt upon 
 the two women, who left the bathers at Saint-Aubin 
 under an impression of trouble and distress, almost 
 of remorse.
 
 UN MYSTERE. 117 
 
 After two or three days, Estelle liked the journey. 
 Mme. Montclar was an excellent guide ; avoiding 
 useless fatigues, she let nothing of true interest 
 escape ; she showed, besides, a sincere desire for dis- 
 tracting her companion. Upon her part, Estelle was 
 very apt at assimilating all new ideas. Under the 
 superficial direction of Mme. de Polrey, she had 
 seen very few things, and asked but to instruct 
 herself. They visited thus the old chateaux, Roman 
 churches, the ruins of all sorts which are so fre- 
 quent in Normandy, and journeyed thus toward the 
 Mont- Saint-Michel, sometimes by rail, sometimes by 
 carriage, following the occasion or their fancy. 
 
 One afternoon they were traveling in an old two- 
 horse caleche across the great plain of Lessay ; the 
 wonderful abbey, of a purely Roman style, remained 
 behind them after having received their visit, and 
 they went toward Coutances. The plain extended 
 around them upon all sides covered with fleecy furz 
 like to a rough sea. Estelle respired the penetrat- 
 ing odor of the heather and wind thyme which 
 characterized the country. 
 
 "I do not know why," said she suddenly, "I 
 think of Rosalie, the femme d$ chambre of my 
 mother ; her remembrances were of the plains, such 
 as this, which I had never seen, but of which she 
 spoke to me." 
 
 " Did she live here ? " asked Mme. Montclar. 
 
 " No, she was born in Brittany. I do not know 
 where. I have forgotten it, for she told me ; but I 
 have forgotten so many things of my childhood. I 
 did not wish to remember them." 
 
 The prairie was at last passed and the steeples of
 
 118 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 the cathedral of Coutances arose like a glorious 
 apparition upon the heavens gilded by the setting 
 sun. After the unavoidable preliminaries of in- 
 stallation in a hotel, Estelle and her aunt walked 
 toward the wonderful church, one of the most 
 perfect in the world. 
 
 Notwithstanding the already advanced hour, the 
 sacri stain proposed that they go immediately to the 
 summit of the tower which crowned the transcept, 
 in order that they might see the setting of the sun. 
 Mme. Montclar being much fatigued, declined, but 
 she requested her niece to go, and the young woman 
 obeyed. 
 
 Ascending, one after the other, the narrow stair- 
 cases upon the inside of the walls, she followed 
 her guide for a long time. She perceived that she 
 arose only when the loop holes let filter upon the 
 steps a ray of amber light. At last, all at once, she 
 found herself upon a platform in the open light. It 
 was like a stroke of intoxication when she came into 
 the open azure. To the left, nothing but a balus- 
 trade of broken stones; under her feet, the town al- 
 residy half-hidden in the dusk of the twilight ; above, 
 the delicate blue heavens, of an exquisite purity; all 
 around, a darkened horizon, confounding the trees 
 and the clouds in an indistinct line, and before her, 
 to the west, a fiery furnace, where the clouds were 
 gilded like burning glass ; the sea surrounded by 
 black rocks which were the isles, and all bathed in 
 a purple and violet light which slowly changed its 
 place and color. 
 
 A tender melancholy overcame the soul of Estelle, 
 and she thought of the Indian widows who burned
 
 UN MYSTERE. 119 
 
 upon the bodies of their husbands; a large island 
 upon the horizon seemed to her like a gigantic 
 mausoleum. "Would she not have liked to have dis- 
 appeared with .Raymond in this beautiful mingling 
 of the sea and sky? Without doubt, she did not 
 love him, but then do widows who are almost child- 
 ren know what love is? 
 
 " No more for me," thought she with a kind of 
 pity for herself. 
 
 She filled her heart with this strange spectacle ; 
 but she must go for fear of being imprisoned by the 
 darkness in the labyrinth of staircases ; she turned 
 away with a feeling of regret, and after a descent that 
 to her seemed almost eternal, she reached the nave. 
 
 After coming from the splendors of the sky, the 
 church seemed dark. Estelle could hardly distin- 
 guish Mine. Montclar who was half sunken in a 
 chair. In a window of the sixteenth century, illumi- 
 nated by a reflection which one might have said was 
 an aurora, was distinctly shown a group of souls in 
 agony. Naked, their hands joined, at the door of 
 Paradise, their emaciated faces depicting such inten- 
 sity of prayer and agon}^ that the soul of Estelle was 
 crushed. 
 
 As she lowered her eyes, she sa'w a form kneeling 
 a few steps in front of her. 
 
 It was an aged form ; in the style of the Bretons 
 and the Normans, she was dressed entirely in a 
 mantle of a thousand pleats, like the widows and the 
 orphans. The pleated capuchon, deep and black, 
 covered her head and half fell upon her forehead. 
 Struck by the originality of the costume half moni- 
 chal and of an imposing solemnity, Estelle stopped.
 
 120 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 The face draped in darkness looked up, and Estelle 
 saw two black eyes fix themselves upon her and her 
 mourning dress. The expression of those eyes, upon 
 beholding her, became all at once tragical, the 
 features became contracted and similar to these of 
 those wretched souls of whom Mme. de Beaurand 
 had so much horror. The hour and the place filled 
 her with a sort of sacred terror, and as she tried to 
 read that sad physiognomy, a half -forgotten face 
 arose in her memory. 
 
 " Eosalie," said she extending her hand. 
 
 The woman clothed in black glided between the 
 chairs and disappeared in the gloom, without answer- 
 ing. Estelle passed her hand over her hallucinated 
 eyes and returned to her aunt, whom she led out, 
 into the open air. 
 
 "You seem to be troubled," said Mme. Mont- 
 clar to her. 
 
 "I thought that I just saw thefemme de chambre 
 of my mother," said she, "but perhaps it was only a 
 vision."
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The next day a slight rain fell which prevented all 
 excursions. 
 
 Estelle went to the cathedral and submitted the 
 sacristain to a rigorous examination. Who was 
 that woman? Did she live at Coutances ? Does she 
 attend the church ? 
 
 The good man knew absolutely nothing ; he had 
 not noticed her more than any other ; many relig- 
 ious women came to the church in fulfilment of 
 some vow, and they go away immediately ; he did 
 not know them. And Estelle could learn nothing. 
 
 However, upon reflecting at leisure, she became 
 convinced that she had neither been deceived nor 
 had she lost her mind ; it was really Rosalie whom 
 she had seen. For truly the habits of that woman 
 might have taken her to Coutances upon a pilgrim- 
 age ; but then why that expression upon her face? 
 Estelle was sure of having been recognized, and 
 a coincidence of resemblances could not have pro- 
 duced such a result. Was it remorse for having 
 tormented her unhappy childhood ? The supposition 
 seemed to be possible, and it was there that the 
 young woman stopped, regretting not having spoken 
 with that girl. However, now that her past life 
 appeared under a new light she wished to interrogate 
 Rosalie upon a thousand details concerning her 
 mother and herself; she left Coutances with the 
 regret which one bears upon leaving remarkable 
 
 things, and the sadness which had left her for a few 
 
 121
 
 122 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 days returned and beat heavily upon her. After 
 having patiently awaited a change in the weather 
 !-.r three days, the two \\omen, in order to cut their 
 journey short, returned to Paris ; there, at least, 
 they should not feel themselves transpierced by the 
 frosty humidity of the equinoctial winds. 
 
 Upon their return, Mine. Montclar informed her- 
 self upon the whereabouts of those friends who 
 were in the city or in its immediate vicinity ; the 
 number of which was not large. She managed, 
 however, to see them. They gave her the most 
 cordial welcome and promised to visit her. With 
 regard to Mme. de Beaurand, their attitude was 
 different, according to their surroundings and tem- 
 peraments. At certain houses, they informed them- 
 selves about her with a poorly dissimulated curiosity; 
 in others, they affected to speak as little of her as 
 possible, and in all, Mme. Montclar obtained the 
 certitude that her niece was gravely compromised. 
 
 "Listen to me," said she to one of her oldest 
 friends whom she went to see at Saint-Germain. 
 " You will have to take me as I am, you know, I 
 believe you have learned that, during the forty odd 
 years that we have known each other. "Well, I am 
 with my niece and for my niece and I shall remain 
 so until the end. Then, if you care for me you will 
 have to arrange for us two together." 
 
 "My dear friend," answered she, "I will speak 
 with a frankness equal to yours. If I were alone, I 
 would also brave the world by your side, but I have 
 a married son and a son-in-law, and it would be 
 impossible for me to expose their two wives to the 
 annoyance which one may see would be brought
 
 UN MYSTERE. 123 
 
 upon them. I will go to see you alone, with much 
 pleasure; I will go upon your day in the after- 
 noon ; but do not exact of me that I shall take my 
 daughters or my sons." 
 
 " I understand," replied Mme. Montclar, " a year 
 ago, or only six months ago, such language would 
 have disgusted me. Since then I have acquired 
 very much indulgence for the children -faiblesses, 
 and I ought to say, that it is Mme. de Beaurand 
 who has taught me that virtue. And, moreover, 
 I do not become angry with you for having 
 said to me what you have just said. I thank you 
 even for reserving for me so much esteem, for not 
 putting me aside ; but even that should not hinder 
 me from thinking that at my age, you believe 
 ms foolish enough to infect myself with the presence 
 of an unworthy woman, unworthy of my esteem, 
 for if I understand, at bottom, that is your thought." 
 
 After some circumlocutions she admitted it. 
 
 " "Well, my dear, I did not think, assuredly, that 
 such a catastrophe would ever come to your family; 
 but since such is the case, I should most sincerely 
 hope you may have pleasant associations with a 
 woman like Mme. de Beaurand., And now, when- 
 ever you will have the kindness to call, you shall 
 be always welcome." 
 
 After two or three visits of this sort, Mme. Mont- 
 clar had made a very pretty collection of persons 
 disposed to mourn with her; that which is one of 
 the worst forms of unkinduess. 
 
 She did not become dejected, being endowed with 
 a character at once despotic and chivalrous which 
 gave to her in such trying circumstances a heroic and 
 dignified attitude, at once, worthy of her race,
 
 124 UN MYSTfiEK. 
 
 However, she at once felt the weakness of her 
 situation. In a family in which there was but one 
 male descendant, if he should die, all would be 
 wrecked and it was that which happened to the 
 Beaurands, even without the formidable manner in 
 which Kaymond had disappeared. In order to sus- 
 tain two isolated women, the arm of a man was neces- 
 sary, and that man did not exist. Then, at the end of 
 her resources, and without having consulted Estelle, 
 who had never had this idea, Mme. Montclar wrote 
 a long letter to Theodore Benoist, asking him to 
 come that she might speak to him. 
 
 "You have been," said she to him, "the best 
 friend to Raymond. With that title, I ask you to 
 come to the succor of her who replaced his mother 
 and of his widow." "When he received that letter, 
 Benoist was in full harvest. An exceptional harvest 
 was upon them like an amber river, the ripe grapes in 
 the presses made wine without effort ; the vats filled 
 full of the new wine the odor of which entered even 
 to the hillside, where the robust fellows and the 
 pretty girls were gathering the fruit. 
 
 After having thought for about half an hour, 
 Theodore with the letter in his hand went to find 
 his mother who was seated outside watching the 
 vintagers go toward the pressing cellars, carrying 
 upon their heads, baskets of grapes, according to 
 the old idea. 
 
 "Mamma," said he, with that soft appellation of 
 childhood which did not seem strange upon the lips 
 of the man when he came to ask confidence of her, 
 "will you read this?" 
 
 The old vintner cast a quick look upon her son
 
 UN MYSTEKE. 125 
 
 who turned his head, and read the letter slowly 
 with care. The large easy writing of Mme. Mont- 
 clar was not difficult for her to decipher, but she 
 wished to understand even the smallest words. 
 
 " I believe, my son," said she, upon returning the 
 paper to him, "that with them there are great 
 difficulties for you ; but you know what I have said, 
 I do not believe myself that the widow of your 
 dead friend is a criminal. Her aunt does not believe 
 it any more than I, and I believe that she and I are 
 right. Even though we are in the middle of our 
 work and you are absolutely needed here, go and 
 see what you can do and do what you can. These 
 ladies are alone in the world, worse than alone, since 
 the world looks upon them with ill will. Be a man 
 and above everything else be just. And then, return 
 from there when you can, for there is much work 
 here and I am too old to do it alone as I once did." 
 She looked at the vintagers, who in an uninterrupted 
 train were mounting toward the cellar and descend- 
 ing with quick steps, with laughter and with pleas- 
 antries. 
 
 "I understand you, mamma," said Theodore, 
 leaning over her with tenderness, "and I thank 
 you." 
 
 " Wait a moment, my son ; yet one word more. I 
 have said that there would be much trouble for you 
 there ; there will be in more than one way. That 
 lady is of a high family, and can care nothing for 
 a vintner." 
 
 " Well, my mother," interrupted Benoist, with a 
 shade of rudeness, " it isn't a question of such things. 
 Have I not told you that I can not be drawn from
 
 126 UN MYSTEKE. 
 
 my idea, and she knows it well. I can not force 
 myself to like her, and I am sure that she detests 
 me." 
 
 " Well, my son, carry the load. And if it prove too 
 heavy, come and bring it to your old mother. She 
 will not be able to console you in such sorrows ; no 
 one could console you, but she will love you and 
 that will help you." 
 
 In the presence of all these people, young men 
 and women so happy, they could not kiss each other, 
 they exchanged a long look full of tender and pro- 
 found thoughts. 
 
 " Then, I will take the train at five o'clock," said 
 Theodore ; " it is now four ; I have yet time." 
 
 He went to the house, and shortly afterward came 
 out ready for the journey. He had taken off the 
 suit of red velvet, the dress of the chasseur or pro- 
 prietor, and appeared correctly dressed, as all Paris- 
 ians demanded. 
 
 " I like you better as a vintner," said his mother, 
 looking at him. " You have the air of a Monsieur; 
 otherwise, you are my son, a vintner, like your 
 .father." 
 
 " In any dress, my mother, I am your loving son," 
 said he, kissing her, this time ceremoniously. 
 
 The vintagers stopped upon the threshold of the 
 press-room, surprised to see him with his valise in 
 his hand. 
 
 " To morrow, my children," he said to them, in a 
 strong voice, " the day isn't yet finished, and there 
 is yet enough light for you to work a couple of hours 
 more ; the presses demand that you work." 
 
 They answered him with, a joyous " good-day," 
 and the files reformed upon the side of the hill
 
 UN MYSTERE. 127 
 
 " Return to-morrow or the day after," said bis 
 mother to him, accompanying him to the threshold 
 of the court. " You know what you will have to do ; 
 I have nothing more to say." 
 
 He looked at her from his beautiful, profound 
 eyes with an infinite tenderness. 
 
 " You are a true woman of God," he said in a low 
 voice ; " my father was very happy with you, and I 
 am proud of being your son. Go, mamma, go reign 
 over all the people who respect you and love you. 
 With your bonnet of white linen, you are more a 
 queen than many of those who wear a crown." 
 
 He kissed her once more, and then looked at her 
 going away. With a quick step she returned to the 
 presses. He saw her say a word of encouragement 
 here and a word of reproach there, always with- 
 out rudeness and without flattery. She seated her- 
 self, gilded by the rays of the sun, which was rap- 
 idly declining, surrounded by baskets of grapes like 
 a rustic Pomona in all the splendor of her rural 
 divinity. 
 
 " My dear saint of a mother," said he with a look 
 of adoration. 
 
 The train was in sight upon a curve of the Loire, 
 under a white bank of steam which rolled among 
 the poplars. The puffing could be heard repeated in 
 echoes. 
 
 Theodore took his way, arriving at the same time 
 with the train, and rode on toward Paris, while the 
 clearness of the setting sun made an aureole over his 
 hill.
 
 CHAPTER XYII. 
 
 Theodore was somewhat troubled when he pre- 
 sented himself at the house of Mine. Montclar. In 
 his portfolio he had the little package given him by 
 Andre Bolvin, and in another pocket the famous 
 envelope. Why were they separated ? He could not 
 say. Many times he had repeated to himself that 
 his duty was to unite them immediately. However, 
 it had never been done. 
 
 Mme. Montclar received him in her own salon 
 with a certain effusion, very different from the cold 
 attitude which she had observed formerly. With 
 the first look, Benoist observed that she was very 
 much changed. The stroke which she had received 
 by the death of her nephew had continued to pro- 
 duce its effects, even though she seemed to have 
 recovered, and, to those who had not seen her for 
 some time, it was evident that her health was greatly 
 broken. 
 
 " I have asked you to come," said she, "notwith- 
 standing the inconvenience that my precipitate call 
 might cause you, because I found myself in a pass, 
 and that, alone, I could not get out of it. It is not 
 that I lack advice, I have old friends and I have 
 men of affairs ; but I recognize that my friends care 
 nothing for me and that the men of affairs can 
 see nothing here. You were the friend of Raymond, 
 I believe you to have always borne enough esteem 
 and friendship to inspire in you some affection ; help 
 me and I will bear you the most grateful thanks." 
 
 128
 
 UN MYSTERE. 129 
 
 All this had been said in a calm tone ; but the voice 
 trembled slightly and the beautiful face of the old 
 lady showed a profound emotion. Theodore himself 
 was affected. In a few words, he assured Mme. 
 Montclar of his devotion and asked her to explain to 
 him that which had come upon her. She told him 
 then of the adventure at Saint-Aubin, then of the 
 welcome which their friends had extended them. 
 
 "It is clear," said she at last, "that it will be 
 impossible for us to be in society this winter; well, I 
 shall never permit these miserable calumnators to be 
 an obstacle to my social life. From my birth until 
 this day, I have always walked with my head high 
 and I shall die thus. They wish me to abandon 
 Estelle. I shall never abandon her: she is a Beau- 
 rand, she carries now the name of my father, that 
 would be enough to make me protect her, if for 
 olher things she merited no regard." 
 
 Theodore had heard this with deference, he seemed 
 to wait for her to add something else, but since she 
 was si lent, he said : 
 
 " What is it you wish of me, Madame?" 
 
 "That you shall aid me in denouncing this infamy 
 and in clearing up the innocence 9f my niece. We 
 must have means to search. Have they not said that 
 she killed her husband, because she had blood upon 
 her robe? You know well that she did not kill him." 
 
 Theodore moved. The enormity of that accusa- 
 tion struck him violently and he seemed dazed. 
 
 "No, she did not kill him. I would be ready to 
 swear to that," said he with vivacity, "that is truly 
 monstrous." 
 
 "Ah, you will help me to defend her?" asked 
 Mme. Montclar.
 
 130 fN MYST^KE. 
 
 young man felt himself taken by all his 
 uncertainties. 
 
 " To defend Mme. de Beaurand ! From what my 
 dear lady ? My intervention would be but disagree- 
 able," said he. 
 
 "If you have confidence in her, you will find a 
 way," said the old lady with a little bitterness. 
 "Unhappily you also are of the number of her 
 enemies." 
 
 " Permit me," said Theodore, trying to clear him- 
 self. 
 
 " I have thought that your chivalrous spirit would 
 force you to vanquish the antipathy which you seem 
 to bear my niece ; 1 see that I have deceived myself." 
 
 Mme. Montclar turned her face and tried fur- 
 tively to staunch a tear. She felt real humiliation. 
 
 " My dear Madame," said Benoist, " be sure that 
 my sense of justice is strong enough to make me 
 correct any error. I have believed, I admit, that 
 Mme. de Beaurand might know something of im- 
 portance which we knew not, and which might 
 throw a new light upon the mystery of the death of 
 Raymond. Until now, I have been unable to make 
 myself believe that she knew no more about it than 
 do we, but between that and condemning a woman 
 a woman in a situation so terrible, delicate and sad 
 as hers, there is a great distance, believe me." He 
 was animated, while he talked, he thought he could 
 hear the voice of his mother repeating to him her 
 councils of prudence and justice and he felt himself 
 to be between his first impressions and his new 
 emotions and it seemed that he could not refuse to 
 do better than correct his judgment.
 
 UN MYSTKRE. 131 
 
 "'"Well, Monsieur Benoist, I ask of you one thing," 
 said Mine. Montclar with vivacity, "see my niece, 
 speak with her, try to know her. She does not raise 
 herself voluntarily, but she has that right and I am 
 sure that you will quickly perceive it. Who knows! 
 Perhaps in your conversation, if she should see in you 
 a friend, she would tell you without question, some- 
 thing which would help you to comprehend or pene- 
 trate the horrible mystery. Raymond had perhaps 
 some motives, but I can not think so. Try, Monsieur, 
 to obtain her confidence; though very young, she 
 has rare sense, sometimes more than I who am older 
 Alas! oh, so old." 
 
 With a weary air she leaned upon the back of her 
 armchair, and Benoist saw to what a degree slie had 
 been overcome by care. 
 
 " I would hardly," said he, " be able to gain the 
 confidence of Mine, de Beaurand, but, dear Madame, 
 for you there is nothing that I am not ready to 
 undertake. You have already been so good to me, 
 when I was at Saint-Cyr and when Raymond took 
 me to your home, and afterward and always " 
 
 " My dear child," said Mme. Montclar, putting 
 her hands upon her eyes to hide the tears, which 
 burst forth, notwithstanding, and ran between her 
 fingers. " It is a very strange thing to say ; but at 
 this moment I have no other friend but you ; and my 
 niece has no other friend but me. It is necessary 
 that we work together. You see there is no way in 
 which we can be separated until death." 
 
 She fainted and her bead fell upon the back of the 
 chair. 
 
 Frightened, Benoist rang the bell; the waiting
 
 132 UN MYSTEKE. 
 
 maid came, and immediately afterward Estelle 
 entered. 
 
 " It is nothing, Madame," said Benoist to her, 
 taking a step toward her ; " Mine. Montelar has but 
 shown a momentary weakness." 
 
 Estelle thanked him by a motion of her head and 
 ran to her aunt, who, under her delicate hand, opened 
 her eyes. Without power yet to speak she made a 
 sign to Benoist which he understood. 
 
 "Madame, your aunt," said he to Estelle, "desires 
 that I should say something to you in confidence; 
 she wishes me to bear it; in order to show myself 
 worthy of it, it is necessary that I should declare 
 myself her servant, respectful and devoted, and yours 
 also, Madame." 
 
 He had ended this sentence without looking at 
 her. He raised his eyes and saw that the young 
 woman looked at him with firmness. 
 
 " I thank you, Monsieur," answered she. 
 
 " Give him your hand, my niece," said Mme. Mont- 
 elar in a feeble voice, almost like a breath. 
 
 Estelle put forth her hand, fine and loyal; her eyes 
 said: " My old friend wishes that we declare peace. 
 I consent to it in order to please her, but you may 
 remain of your own opinions." 
 
 In the look of Benoist she read a sadness which 
 might be a reproach or regret what more she could 
 not know. 
 
 "We will resume this conversation later," said the 
 young man to Mme. Montelar, " for to day I think 
 you have need of complete repose. If you will per- 
 mit me I will return to-morrow." 
 
 Too weak to answer, she gave him her attenuated
 
 UN MYSTERE. 133 
 
 fingers, which Benoist kissed respectfully. He went 
 toward the door. Estelle walked a little behind him. 
 and also crossed the threshold. When they were in 
 the neighboring room the door closed behind them 
 and they stopped and looked at each other. 
 
 " Monsieur," said Estelle, " I do not suppose that 
 your opinion of me has been modified by the words 
 of which I have been the subject. To please my 
 aunt you have believed it your duty to hold senti- 
 ments which you do not believe. I thank you for 
 her; be certain that I do not misunderstand it. 
 
 " Madame," said Benoist, making a violent effort 
 to speak in a firm voice, " Mme. Montclar has mani- 
 fested a very great desire of seeing me a true friend. 
 I could not answer that request if I came to you 
 otherwise than with sincerity." 
 
 She cast down her eyes and they both remained 
 motionless ; her soul full of violent thoughts ; inex- 
 plicable sadness that words could not remove, that 
 of which the mind could not divest itself. Dur- 
 ing the four or five months that they had thought of 
 each other constantly, with passionate anger that 
 almost amounted to hatred, what had they not 
 spoken of each other without the other's hearing ? 
 The remembrance of these vehement and mute 
 apostrophies arose between them and hindered them 
 speaking. 
 
 At last Benoist put a hand in the pocket, where he 
 found the portfolio, and took it out. He took the 
 package given him by Bolvin and after an imper- 
 ceptible movement handed it to Estelle. 
 
 " I should have given you that a long time ago," 
 said he, " pardon my tardiness. These papers are 
 the last that Raymond ever received."
 
 134: UN MYSTERE. 
 
 She took them with a perfectly firm hand. 
 
 " They were given me," continued he, u by the 
 magistrate who had undertaken to discover the cir- 
 cumstances his mission was entirely friendly and 
 has not yet ended these belong to you." 
 
 She threw her eyes on the little paper which con- 
 tained so many things and which really contained 
 nothing ; then she looked at Benoist. 
 
 "Is that all?" said she. 
 
 He was ashamed before that honest look with a 
 bitter sadness, but with an invincible pride. His 
 fingers moved nervously over the portfolio and he 
 was very near taking out the envelope. But the 
 remark of Bolvin returned to his memory : " be 
 careful of it, 1 would not be surprised if some day 
 the letter should be replaced in it." He returned 
 the portfolio to his pocket and said, "that is all." 
 
 They remained silent for a moment before each 
 other. 
 
 "I thank you, Monsieur," said the young woman, 
 at last. After a short hesitation, she added, "for 
 this and for the care which you have taken of my 
 aunt. She is ill, worse than she appears; that 
 which happened at Saint-Aubin dealt her a terrible 
 blow. I think she will not live long then I shall 
 be alone. But so long as she lives, so long will she 
 have love for me for you, be good to her, Monsieur."
 
 CHAPTER XYIII. 
 
 Upon rising the next morning, Theodore Benoist 
 was surprised to find himself in a smiling disposition 
 of mind, almost gay, something which had not 
 occurred to him for a long time. 
 
 That man of grave thought, of a serious heart, 
 had not, to speak properly, worn out his youth. 
 
 A disappointment in love at the age when these 
 things have a decisive influence upon certain char- 
 acters had left upon him a sadness without bitter- 
 ness ; but accompanied by a sort of discouragement. 
 The great love and the profound respect which he 
 bore his mother had hindered him, from dispraising 
 women in general ; but he did not feel a desire to 
 recommence a like trial and love never comes to 
 any but those who seek it; he had passed in an 
 austere manner the years which the greater number 
 of men dissipate in pleasures and aventures amour- 
 euses. 
 
 It was at once to him a strength and a weakness. 
 Without doubt, having reserved the freshness of 
 his impressions and the energy of his will, he was 
 well armed for the combat of life; but he ignored 
 many of the snares, and, above all, those which one 
 innocently spreads for one's self, where thousands of 
 the most worthy are the most easily taken. 
 
 Benoist would not have wished to have deeply 
 loved Mme. de Beaurand. The old remains of dis- 
 like, the yet unexplained mystery enveloped the 
 young woman, to his eyes, in a captious atmosphere, 
 
 135
 
 136 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 almost frightful ; he saw her as one respires an air 
 charged with intoxicating poisons, with a sort of 
 fear almost of anguish. 
 
 Truly, he had struggled against himself during 
 the peaceable summer passed near his mother, in the 
 large and easy life of a country proprietor; the 
 certitude that Raymond had killed himself on 
 account of Estelle had not ceased to haunt his mind. 
 All at once, he asked of himself, once or twice, if 
 the cause of the suicide had not been in Kaymond 
 himself but then, why should his friend have 
 trembled before an avowal when he was upon the 
 point of preferring death, and Benoist put aside the 
 idea. 
 
 The mere fact of having hesitated in such an 
 absolute conviction, however, brought on a dis- 
 tressing tension of the poor fellow's nerves; the 
 sight of Estelle no more irritated and revolted 
 against his suspicions, but saddened almost to humil- 
 iation by the undeniable injustice of the opinion, 
 brought him to a new condition. 
 
 He liked her better thus than in anger and in- 
 dignation ; his heart now counselled indulgence, pos- 
 sibl} T pardon for that creature so rudely chastised 
 for a certain mishap, and assuredly, out of pro- 
 portion, he believed it now with the terrible effect 
 that had followed it. That Estelle was guilty of an 
 imprudence, of inconsequence, possibly, he would 
 admit. A grave fault ! He didn't believe so even 
 for a moment. 
 
 Her sad youth, her real isolation in the midst of 
 the world, were they not sufficient facts to excuse 
 her? And whatever could have been her error, was
 
 ttf MYSTERE. 137 
 
 it not cruelly punished ? Was not a little indulgence 
 due her ? 
 
 These vague and fugitive ideas visited the sleep 
 of Benoist; his awakening had that peculiar sweet- 
 ness of the mornings which followed great efforts of 
 will, examinations for example. With a leisure very 
 different from his usual custom, he dressed himself, 
 breakfasted and went out, finding the air balmy, 
 the passers by pleasant and Paris admirable. 
 
 By the order of Mme. de Beaurand, he was 
 received upon the rezde-chaussee. The large hotel 
 was very sad in its luxury, the waxed floors glis- 
 tened like ice, the paintings and the gildings, restored 
 for the marriage, glistened in the silence and the 
 
 o * o 
 
 solitude. Theodore was very much affected upon 
 seeing this suite of rooms, full of noise and of move- 
 ment when he had been there last; moved by an 
 unreflecting impulse, he entered the little salon 
 where he had exchanged with Ea} r mond the last 
 words, where they re-affirmed their tender friend- 
 ship and from there he returned to perceive the 
 retreat where his eyes had rested upon Estelle while 
 she was speaking with her friends. 
 
 There, where he had contemplated her in her 
 white nuptial toilet, he saw her now coming toward 
 him dressed in mourning. Possibly she had grown 
 taller; certainly her form, already so noble, was 
 more slender and graceful;* her step was very firm 
 and more grave than before; one felt that the load 
 of her life weighed upon her } 7 oung shoulders with- 
 out making them bend. Eapidly, as if he had sud- 
 denly become aware of an indiscretion, Benoist 
 stepped to meet her.
 
 1,38 UN MYSTKRE. 
 
 " Pardon me," said he, "I could not avoid walking 
 here, it was here that I saw Beaurand for the last 
 time." 
 
 Estelle looked the young man in the face, her 
 eyes went straight to the bottom of his soul, and he 
 felt all at once that he could no longer suspect her, 
 even of the most venial fault. A great shame with 
 a profound feeling of repentance entered Benoist ; 
 he bowed his eyes, incapable of say ing any thing and 
 slowly as a submissive dog, followed Mme. de Beau- 
 rand, who went to a salon near the hall. 
 
 "Mme. Montclar is suffering," said she, seating 
 herself and designating a seat for him upon the sofa. 
 
 " She is confined to her bed, and asks that you ex- 
 cuse her; besides, yesterday, I believe, she explained 
 to you that which preoccupied her. The sickness 
 is without remedy at least, so it appears to me ; 
 however, if it is possible to discover a.nything to 
 assure my aunt of rest, it. will have to be found at 
 any price whatever; but for that only." 
 
 " Only," asked Benoist, touched by that self-abne- 
 gation of which he felt the sad and hidden effort ; 
 "and for you, Madame? " 
 
 She raised her head proudly. 
 
 " For me?" said she, with a softness that her ges- 
 ture did not betoken; "I need nothing I hope for 
 nothing. Why should I preoccupy myself with 
 those things which do riot affect me? Mme. Mont- 
 clar loves me and esteems me, that is sufficient." 
 
 Theodore felt wounded, but his wound caused him 
 a sadness without irritation; had he not merited 
 that, even a hundred times more? 
 
 " Madame," said he, in a low voice
 
 UN MYSTEKE. 139 
 
 He stopped, as if to implore pardon of that woman, 
 so kindly if deeply offended. The mere fact of excus- 
 ing himself, was not that also another offence? She 
 awaited that which he wished to say, because he had 
 begun to speak. 
 
 " Madame," said he, with a great effort, I under- 
 stand and I admire your devotion to Mme. Mont- 
 clar, but it is not for her alone that you have to 
 struggle, it is for yourself also." 
 
 " O for me," said Estelle, with a gesture of thanks, 
 " if I had the misfortune to lose my aunt, the opinion 
 of the world would be of little consequence." 
 
 " They see in the world, however." 
 
 She shook her head negatively. 
 
 " I would go into a corner of the province," said 
 she ; " I would become useful there if I could ; I 
 would quit the name which has brought to me such 
 a load of sorrow, and I would live tranquilly under 
 that of my mother Mile. Brunaire. They would say 
 of me, ' she's an old maid.' " 
 
 She laughed lightly, a little laugh, short and sad. 
 He heard it. 
 
 " And those who love you ? " said he, feeling, him- 
 self, the absurdity of that word and not being able 
 to retain it. 
 
 She looked at him with profound astonishment. 
 
 " But there are none," said she. " My friends of 
 youth are broken from me by the catastrophe. And 
 then, with money, can I not make friendship more 
 or less firm, no matter where ? " 
 
 Benoist kept silent for a moment, seeking some 
 means by which to disclose his thought. She stud- 
 ied him with a secret satisfaction ; to see before her
 
 140 UN MYSTEKE. 
 
 her old enemy in trouble was a pleasure that was 
 mysteriously enjoyable. 
 
 " You are, then, undeceived," said he at last, "and 
 so young." 
 
 " One must be, you will admit," said she, a little 
 drily. " Then, Monsieur, I would have, for you, infi- 
 nite thanks if you would do what you can to tran- 
 quilize my aunt, and even to that end I have said to 
 myself but shall I give you a bad opinion of me ?" 
 
 Theodore received full in his face the look of 
 Estelle, which said to him : " Have you not a bad 
 enough opinion of me already, and without reason ? 
 Is it possible that I could add yet one thing more ?" 
 His own look answered : " Cast no more upon me, 
 I pray of you." 
 
 " I have thought that, if you would help me, we 
 together might form a coinplot to give to Mme. 
 Montclar a pleasant illusion. She is very ill, and 
 I am afraid that her days are nearly ended. Our 
 mourning and hor state of health will probably 
 hinder her going out this winter. It is you who 
 will be charged with communicating with the peo- 
 ple outside. Could you not, Monsieur, say to her 
 that there has been produced a sentiment in my 
 favor, or simply that they no longer speak of me ? 
 That would doubtless be true. The world does not 
 occupy itself for any length of time with the same 
 subjects. It would have been, of necessity, a truly 
 extraordinary circumstance to make me a toy for 
 this length of time. Will you not, Monsieur, aid me 
 in this truly charitable work? That excellent woman 
 has not merited the misfortune which the} 7 have "- 
 
 " No more have you, Madame," said Benoist, rising.
 
 UN MYSTERE. 141 
 
 She lowered her eyes to taste the strange sweetness 
 of that speech, and they remained silent. 
 
 " As for me," said she, with an altered voice, " it 
 matters little. I have told you " 
 
 " It bears upon everything you respect," responded 
 he, bowing. 
 
 She arose also; something choked her and hin- 
 dered her saying a word. 
 
 " Monsieur," said she, so low that he had to bend 
 his head in order to understand, " you believe no 
 longer that it was I, or on account of me " 
 
 He bowed so deeply he almost rested on his knee's. 
 
 " Madame," said he, in the same choked voice, 
 " pardon me for having been so miserable it was 
 because I loved my friend more than myself " With 
 an unreflecting movement, she held out her hands, 
 which he seized and pressed strongly. Their fingers 
 did not separate, and they remained face to face, 
 smiling, the eyes of Estelle glistening with tears, 
 those of Theodore half-closed, for he contained his. 
 She took a deep breath. 
 
 " Ah, Monsieur," said she, " I thank you. At 
 present my load seems less heavy to carry." 
 
 They spoke amicably during the few moments; 
 but that which they said was foreign to their true 
 thoughts. Benoist soon took leave. 
 
 "Do you wish me to return?" said he; "has 
 Mme. Montclar need of me ? " 
 
 " No," responded the young woman. " Now, we 
 do not desire to take you from your mother, who 
 must be distressed over your absence. "We will see 
 each other this winter." 
 
 They parted in the great hall, so cold, so white ; 
 but each one's soul was warm and clear.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A summer already prolonged beyond all seeming 
 possibility detained at Saint-Martin, far from Paris, 
 those whose duties did not imperiously recall them. 
 
 Silence and abandonment continued to reign at 
 the hotel de Beaurand ; except a few humble souls, 
 of those whom necessity or reconnaissance attached 
 to the fortunes of the rich, Mme. Montclar received 
 very few visits, and Estelle received none at all. 
 
 Great was her surprise when one day she found 
 herself called upon by Mme. de Polrey. The chilliness 
 of the weather had prevented Mme. Monclar taking 
 the air for a couple of hours in her carriage, as she 
 often did, accompanied by her niece. 
 
 The first intention of the young woman was to 
 not answer. Was there not something outrageous in 
 that visit, made at a time of day when no visits 
 were made, and following an inexcusable silence? 
 
 However, a quick reflection changed her feelings; 
 she must know what Mme. de Polrey had to say, 
 it would perhaps be interesting, and certainly 
 instructive; and more, it was probable that the 
 good woman, in presenting herself at the time of 
 da^j when Estelle and her aunt commonly took the 
 air, counted upon not finding them at home, thus 
 allowing her to merely leave her card, and the satis- 
 faction of taking her in her own trap was not to be 
 disdained. She who had, according to the expres- 
 sion, served as mother to Mme. de Beaurand, was 
 
 somewhat disappointed at seeing her introduced; but 
 
 us
 
 TIN MYSTEKE. 143 
 
 then one must not always hope to find the people 
 out, upon whom one calls from nece.ss : ty. Besides, 
 she was not displeased upon her part, to see what 
 sort of a face a woman accused of such a crime would 
 have. Escorted by her two daughters she went into 
 the salon where Estelle was waiting to receive her. 
 
 "My dear child," said she when they were seated, 
 after the unavoidable kissing, "I could not wait a 
 moment to tell you of the good news that has so 
 filled our house with joy. Your two friends and 
 companions of childhood are affianced to two of our 
 worthy gentlemen friends; the one is a country 
 gentleman, and the other is a lieutenant of the 10th 
 regiment of Hussars ; my two daughters are much 
 pleased, and my two sons-in-law are carried away, 
 and they will celebrate the wedding upon the same 
 day." 
 
 " I congratulate you most sincerely, my dear lady," 
 said Estelle. 
 
 She looked at the companions of her childhood, 
 who truly seemed to be satisfied with their lot, and 
 congratulated them also: the young girls were not 
 after all, responsible for the prudence of their 
 mother. She astonished herself by answering with 
 a ceremonious politeness, much different from her 
 old familiarity. 
 
 A storm of remembrance assailed Estelle. There 
 were the friends whom she had left some six or seven 
 months before, in her childhood's room, pressing 
 around her, placing here a flower upon her person, 
 there a jewel, pleased with their role of maids-of- 
 honor, and hiding, the elder at least, for the younger 
 was sincerely attached to her, a real jealousy, under 
 the covering of the most tender friendship.
 
 144 UN MYSTEKE. 
 
 Oh, but that was a long time ago. A lapse of 
 twenty years, a crown of white hair like that of 
 Mme. Montclar replacing the black locks of the 
 young woman could not have marked a more pro- 
 found or a wider gulf. In a moment Estelle drove 
 away that impression, and the sadness about to seize 
 her disappeared, and was replaced by a proudness, 
 bordering upon disdain. 
 
 "Be happy, my dear friends," said she, with a 
 great freedom of mind, " happiness knows no 
 absolute conditions, everyone arranges his to his 
 own taste, and I hope that yours will be easy and 
 true." 
 
 Upon each of the little noses appeared a com- 
 manded smile, each of the little mouths proffered a 
 few words devoid of real sense, but very a-propos, 
 and the two pairs of eyes turned toward their 
 mother, who ought then to have something to say. 
 
 " The marriages are set for the twenty ninth," 
 said Mme. de Polrey with a slight inquietude ; " it is 
 sad that your mourning will prevent your attend- 
 ance, perhaps you will come to the mass, however 1 " 
 
 " Heavens," thought Estelle, "but she is afraid of 
 my accepting. She deserves a beautiful very formal 
 "yes," but then that is not worth my provoking 
 them." 
 
 "I can not," said Estelle aloud. "Mme. Montclar 
 is suffering. The twenty -ninth, that is within eight 
 days, I believe? I do not believe she will be able to 
 bear the fatigue of the ceremony so soon, and I never 
 go out without her." 
 
 "You are right," said Mme. de Polrey, visibly 
 relieved ; " however much we may regret it, we can 
 not help approving you."
 
 UN MYSTERE. 145 
 
 She rose to go ; the young women accompanied 
 her to the hall. The elder of the girls said suddenly : 
 
 " You will come to see my trousseau, will you not, 
 Estelle? It will be on exhibition Monday and Tues- 
 day ; it is not as rich as yours was, but, however, it 
 is not bad." 
 
 " Yes," said the mother, somewhat troubled, " you 
 might come in the morning, or better about half past 
 one when you will be sure of meeting no one ; at 
 that time you will surely find us alone." 
 
 Mine, de Beaurand smiled. That little bit of inso- 
 lence, innocent as it might seem, which would have 
 profoundly wounded her two months before seemed 
 to her irresistibly comical in her insensibility. 
 
 " Be not disturbed," she responded, " I will go at 
 a time when I shall meet no one; it is not so long 
 since I left your house, I know your customs yet." 
 
 " It is on account of your mourning, you under- 
 stand " said the younger, who had blushed with 
 shame as she heard her mother say that. 
 
 She was a good little girl, yet little enough habit- 
 uated to the ways of the world to think of herself 
 alone. 
 
 " I understood, my dear child," said Mme. de 
 Beaurand , putting her hand affectionately upon her 
 shoulder, " and I thank you. I thank you also for 
 your visit Madame ; have the kindness to remember 
 me to M. de Polrey." 
 
 "When the three women were in their carriage the 
 mother proceeded to scold the foolish child severely 
 for having made such a terrible blunder. 
 
 " Can you imagine the effect she would have pro- 
 duced had she come at five, among all those people ? " 
 said she upon terminating her homily.
 
 1-iO UN MYSTERE. 
 
 " It is, however, necessary that she should see 
 what they have given us! " said the young girl with 
 a sulky look. "After all her trousseau was not so 
 much richer that ours, rich as hers was." 
 
 " She answered very nicely," interrupted Odette, 
 "and she showed much tact. When I am married I 
 shall see her." 
 
 " You will do no such thing," scolded her older 
 sister. 
 
 "At least, if my husband does not prohibit me, you 
 will see if I don't see her," replied the little rebel. 
 "And if he is mean enough to forbid it I shall not 
 love him at all. She was very kind to me, while we 
 were in the convent, and I love her very much. And 
 I don't think she was ever capable of doing anything 
 wrong, not a thing, whatever they may say." 
 
 "There, that is enough," said Mine, de Polrey. 
 "Do not get angry my daughters, for then you 
 would spoil your complexions, and we have yet ten 
 or eleven more visits to make before dinner." 
 
 After having talked over with Mme. Montclar the 
 question of whether or not she could, with propriety 
 accept Mme. de Polrey's invitation, Estelle decided 
 in the affirmative. Consequently the next Monday, 
 for the first time since the day of her marriage, she 
 crossed the threshold of the house which had been, 
 or which seemed to have been her home for a dozen 
 years. 
 
 She was greatly moved upon seeing her old room 
 decorated for the occasion, the same as it had been 
 for her ; it was she who so few months before had 
 run from one table to another, lifting delicately with 
 the tips of her fingers the laces and the silken stuffs,
 
 UN HYSTERE. 147 
 
 as her old friends were now doing. With what child- 
 like joy did she blow the pleats of her marriage dress, 
 overjoyed with it being so beautiful! She remem- 
 bered how upon the last evening, alone in her room, 
 into which she could not now enter, she had tried on 
 the jewels, placing them on her bare shoulders before 
 the glass, those jewels that had come from her mother. 
 How the stones glistened upon the delicate satin of 
 her young breast, and how the diamond stars scin- 
 tillated in her black luiir. The radiant vision of 
 that moment, the last of her maiden freedom, made 
 the tears come to her eyes as she brushed the rib- 
 bons that knotted the trousseau. 
 
 " Estelle," suddenly said an almost childish voice 
 in her ear, " when I am married I shall go and see 
 you ; do you want me to say ? " 
 
 Mine, de Beaurand turned around quickly, and 
 saw raised to her, full of a generous light, the eyes 
 of Odette, of whom at the convent she had so long 
 been the little mother. 
 
 "You?" said she, seized with tenderness and joy. 
 " Then you have always loved me ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. You shall see my affianced he is very 
 kind. I love him, and he is so good you will love 
 him, too. You will come and dine with us at our 
 house, will you not ? Listen, I will set that service 
 for you," said she pointing to a table loaded with 
 silver and damask linen. " That is my best." 
 
 Estelle looked about her. At the other extremity 
 of the salon Mine, de Polrey and her elder daughter 
 were holding a great council with the milliner. She 
 seized the yet too meager young girl in her arms, and 
 kissed passionately the little chubby face, at that 
 moment of an almost ideal beauty.
 
 148 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 " You are a dear little darling," said she in a very 
 low voice, "and I shall always love you for what 
 you have just said to me. May God bless you for 
 your charity and return it to you a hundredfold in 
 Paradise. You have truly to-day given a cup of 
 cold water to a sufferer." 
 
 "Then you will come?" questioned the child, who 
 did not half understand. 
 
 "We will see each other later, when you wish ; but 
 no more now." 
 
 She put between herself and Odette the interval 
 of a step or two, then turned toward Mine, de Pol- 
 rey, who came toward her. Speeches and still 
 speeches, and polite deceits, and Mine, de Beaurand 
 left the house of her childhood. Alone in her car- 
 riage she felt so much alone that she burst into tears. 
 As she staunched them, with a delightful sensation, 
 the image of Theodore Benoist displaced that of her 
 " petite fille."
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 The marriage of the Miles, de Polrey took place 
 with great pomp. Mme. Montclar and her niece sent 
 their cards in return for invitations, and a telegram 
 upon the day of the marriage. That evening Estelle 
 had secretly sent to her young friend a very precious 
 jewel, chosen for her with a half maternal solicitude. 
 Both of the young couples left the city at noon, each 
 one to its fate, and Mme. de Beaurand felt that 
 Paris was a little chillier, a little more hostile when 
 the little woman had left with her husband. 
 
 Benoist had returned after a longer silence than 
 usual. His mother felt very much fatigued, a little 
 weakened, by superintending an unusually large 
 harvest, and, he having vainly pressed her to accom- 
 pany him to Paris in order to consult the faculty, 
 he finally remained with her. This sacrifice had its 
 reward very soon. The repose of the winter and 
 the feeling that her son was near her, soon brought to 
 her cheeks the color of which Theodore was so proud ; 
 the black eyes had again their usual brilliancy and 
 vivacity, and the quiet smile that gave so much 
 charm to that face, returned every time the face of 
 her son appeared. They lived together in the large 
 house, pre-occupied apparently, by different thoughts, 
 but which were not sensibly different, for they 
 thought continually of each other. 
 
 A cold day of December covered the panes of the 
 high windows with frost and the reflection of a 
 slight fall of snow gave a peculiar charm to the 
 
 149
 
 150 UN MTSTEKE. 
 
 crackling of the big beech log in the fire-place. 
 Theodore buried in an arm-chair, read a paper; 
 Mme. Benoist, with active fingers was knitting long 
 woolen stockings for her son to wear in March, 
 when he should go to superintend the cultivation of 
 the vines. 
 
 "Theodore? " said she, sticking one of her needles 
 under her linen cap. 
 
 He looked up, torpidly and voluptuously lazy. 
 
 " You have the air of being extremely content, 
 my son," said she, without stopping her work. "Are 
 things going as you wish them to ? " 
 
 He could not resist smiling, and his mother 
 removed her look from his good eyes. 
 
 " As I wish, mamma, that is to say a good deal," 
 said he, " because I do not know very well what I 
 want, except to see you happy and well. But if it 
 is of my cares that you are speaking, I may say that 
 they are better." 
 
 A light of satisfaction shone upon her face, which 
 was clear of the tan of the summer; white under 
 the white bonnet, with a light rose blush upon her 
 cheeks, she was a veritable picture of domestic 
 peace. 
 
 " Then you know why your friend committed 
 that bad act? No? Then why are you free from 
 care ? What has happened ? " 
 
 " I have reflected upon your counsels and have 
 found them good ; the person whom you know so 
 well, has pardoned my folly and my unkindness." 
 
 " Ah, you have spoken to her ? " 
 
 "I saw her; she is now caring for her husband's aunt, 
 who has not long to live, the poor women have had
 
 UN MYSTERE. 151 
 
 more than their share of sorrow. Imagine, that 
 they have accused Mme. de Beaurand of having 
 killed her husband, I know the contrary to be true. 
 It is the horribleness of that calumny that has made 
 me bethink myself. I am no more foolish, nor any 
 more wicked than any others. At last it is finished 
 and I am easy." 
 
 " You gave her the letters ?" 
 
 Not daring to lie he made a sign of the head 
 that she took for an affirmation. 
 
 " And you yet know nothing ? " 
 
 " Nothing.'' 
 
 Mme. Benoist knitted with a singular energy. 
 
 " You never thought," said she, in a half tone, 
 " that your friend, when he was young, had perhaps 
 made an imprudent promise to some woman ? A 
 promise to marry her and I know not what ? I 
 have often thought of that and I have asked myself 
 if proud as he was, if he had not lost his mind upon 
 being called a dishonest man; once married he could 
 not, however, undo it. You never thought of that ? " 
 
 Theodore leaped from his chair and walked with 
 long steps through the great dining room. 
 
 "No. And it is astounding. That is an explana- 
 tion. It is prodigious, and it is to you that the merit 
 is due that the idea was discovered. But in the 
 whole affair I have conducted myself like an ass. I 
 was stubborn enough to remain quiet. Mamma, 
 you are one of the most extraordinary women I 
 ever knew." 
 
 He took between his hands the well shaped head 
 of Mme. Benoist, and kissed her two cheeks repeat- 
 ed ly, after which he returned to his chair and sank 
 into an attitude of meditation.
 
 152 TIN MYSTERE. 
 
 " You may be right," said he, after a few min- 
 utes. " But alone I can not make the thorough search 
 it demands. But that would be impossible." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " It will necessitate looking over the papers of 
 Raymond to find something that would point 
 toward such a thing; but how get the papers?" 
 
 " Demand them of the widow," said Mme. Benoist, 
 tranquilly, who had recommenced her work after 
 having re-adjusted her hair. 
 
 " Of her ? ''asked Theodore. 
 
 " Indeed, you can not hurt her, I think. It seems 
 to me that it is to her interest that the truth be 
 known." 
 
 After an instant of silence, she laid her knitting 
 upon her knee and looked at her son. 
 
 " You see, Theodore, that if it were I who was 
 accused of such a horrible thing, I would not sleep 
 day or night till it was cleared up." 
 
 " No more does she sleep," said Benoist sadly. 
 
 " Then if you are her friend you ought to render 
 her the sleep of which she has so much need. And 
 lastly, if you please, or if you do not please, it is an 
 affair between you and her; for your duty as a 
 friend, as much of the widow as of the dead captain, 
 is to discover the truth." 
 
 "You are right, mother," said the young man, 
 rising ; " since you have no more need of me 
 
 "Yes, you may go now, since I am well and have 
 not much to do. But listen to me my son. You 
 understand that I love you and that I am desirous 
 of your happiness. If that woman should come to 
 love you and she had only unhappiness in her life,
 
 UN MTSTEBE. 153 
 
 then it is well for her because you are a worthy 
 fellow and have always acted properly. But I am 
 an honest woman, as was ray mother before me, and 
 as was her mother before her; our house has never 
 had any but good women, and should it please God 
 they will always be such. I would not have it so 
 that they might point at her and say: 'She was 
 the cause of the death of her husband ; and the 
 proof of it is that they have never been able to tell 
 why he killed himself.' They must know, how- 
 ever, why it was. If he lost his mind the doctors 
 must say so. In short, my son, it makes little differ- 
 ence if they have calumniated your wife if you can 
 prove to the people that it was false. Otherwise, I 
 shall witness vour marriage with sorrow. It is be- 
 
 / o 
 
 cause of that that I tell you to search and to find." 
 " You speak like wisdom itself and I thank you," 
 said Benoist, kissing respectfully the old wrinkled 
 hand that had taken the needles again, and knitted 
 fast to make up for the lost time. " I shall have to 
 go to work." 
 
 A few days later Benoist presented himself at the 
 hotel de Beaurand. Mme. Montclar was better and 
 received him with visible pleasure. The poor 
 woman was fast failing; but she only half realized it. 
 The winter had brought to her a few of her old 
 friends, aged ladies, independent, that is to say out 
 of society, who put their habits above their pre- 
 judices ; having passed all or a part of their even- 
 ings during twenty years at the home of Mme. 
 Montclar or of Noel a Paques, they could see no rea- 
 son why they should not continue to do so still. With 
 an indifferent politeness they had accommodated
 
 154 TIN MYSTERE. 
 
 themselves to the presence of Estelle ; and she had 
 besides rendered herself agreeable to each one of 
 them in a discreet way, and her aunt was rejoiced 
 as though by a happy presage. 
 
 The visit of Benoist instead of returning them to 
 unhappy remembrances, as she had feared it would, 
 gave the old lady great pleasure ; she asked him to 
 dine with them. He did so, hoping in this way that 
 he might the more easily see Mme. de Beaurand 
 alone; he was, however, deceived, for Mme. Montclar 
 would not permit herself to be separated from 
 Estelle; after several unsuccessful attempts, he 
 decided to write her asking for an interview with 
 her alone. 
 
 She was much surprised by that odd step, which 
 caused her no little worry ; however, she responded 
 by fixing a day and an hour when she knew Mme. 
 Montclar would be occupied by business with a 
 man of affairs. 
 
 Her heart beat a little louder as she descended 
 into the salon of the rez-de-chussee, where she had 
 received the young man three months before ; that 
 day had been of much importance in her life so 
 suddenly transformed that she could not think of it 
 without a tremor of joy. Nothing of that emotion 
 showed upon her face as he advanced towards her 
 holding out his hand. 
 
 In a few words he excused himself for his Demarche 
 and made her understand that nothing but a very 
 grave motive would have prompted him to do so. 
 
 u You have discovered something ? " said Mme. 
 de Beaurand with a feeling of interest. 
 
 "No, but my mother said it was my duty to 
 search in all directions."
 
 UN MYSTEKE. 155 
 
 " Your mother ? " interrupted Estelle. " Your 
 mother has had the goodness 
 
 " My mother esteems you, and loves you as should 
 every right-minded soul who knows of your sorrow." 
 
 Estelle looked down. What a divine light these 
 words were to her sorrowful heart. There was one 
 woman in the world who cared for her and who was 
 sorrowful on her account, and yet who did not know 
 her. Without doubt since Benoist had done her 
 justice he had explained it. 
 
 " It is my mother," said he, devining the thought 
 of Estelle, " who understood your situation. To do 
 her justice, I should say that she opened my eyes." 
 
 Estelle raised her right hand lightly to impose 
 silence; he obeyed the gesture. 
 
 " That which I wish, and it is something that I 
 hardly dare ask, is permission to look over the papers 
 of Raymond, the letters of his youth, to see if we 
 can not find some trace of some occurrence." 
 
 She looked at him attentively, then bowing her 
 eyes, became profoundly absorbed. 
 
 " You are right," said she, after a silence. " I will 
 conduct you to his apartment."
 
 CHAPTEK XXI. 
 
 Mrae. de Beaurand opened the door of the high, 
 dark room, where Kaymond had found death. All 
 was in the same order that it was upon that fatal 
 da}' ; the furniture of waxed oak glistened, without a 
 speck of dust, the candelabras held their candles, upon 
 the writing-desk the familiar objects occupied their 
 ordinary places. Benoist felt his heart tremble as 
 he crossed the threshold of that chamber of death ; 
 the ghost of his friend seemed to be floating around 
 the room above his head in the obscurity of the 
 pannelled ceiling. He entered, however, following 
 Estelle, who had gone several steps in advance 
 toward the fireplace ; she stopped, her eyes fixed 
 upon a spot on the floor, visibly affected. 
 
 "It was there that I got my robe in the blood," 
 said she, in a low voice. u That blood will forever 
 rest upon me, and God knows that I would have 
 given all of mine " 
 
 She went no further; controlling her emotion, she 
 went toward the closet, and, opening it with a key 
 from a bunch that she carried, she took from it three 
 others, which she gave him. 
 
 " Do your duty, Monsieur," said she to him ; " in 
 that writing desk and in that stand you will find all, 
 I believe, that will be of use to you. I thank you in 
 advance, and I will await you in the room above." 
 
 " You will leave me? " said Theodore, embarrassed, 
 taking the keys. " However, your presence would 
 be justified." 
 
 156
 
 UN MYSTERE. 157 
 
 She looked at him with a tranquil and profound 
 look in her eyes. 
 
 " Where we now are," said she, " in this matter 
 the ordinary conveniences are far behind us, and we 
 can not recall them. Think then, we are here, you 
 the friend, I, the wife, of the dead, to search in his 
 life for some wrong, some error which will permit 
 me to lift my eyes from the crime of which I am 
 accused. And, however, God knows that I respect 
 the memory of Eaymond as much as do you your- 
 self." 
 
 She made a gesture, sad and resigned, as she 
 moved toward the door. 
 
 " Pardon," said Benoist, " but I can not open the 
 desk ; the key will not turn." 
 
 She returned and bent over the table, and, with a 
 little difficulty, she unlocked it; the drawer opened, 
 showing the orderliness of the deceased in the 
 arrangement of the papers and the objects which 
 it contained, and which had been respected by 
 Bolvin. 
 
 As she arose, with a light sigh she looked at the 
 carved silver case that had contained her photograph. 
 Empty, it occupied its ordinary , place. Michael, 
 upon leaving the hotel to enter as a guard upon the 
 lands of the Beaurands, had put all things in place, 
 and had transmitted a positive order to the valet to 
 replace it. Estelle threw herself a little forward, 
 as though frightened. 
 
 " My photograph," said she, in an altered voice ; 
 " who has taken my photograph ? " 
 
 Benoist did not answer. The half-burned debris 
 of the forgotten photograph returned to his memory,
 
 158 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 and he trembled at the fugitive thought that per- 
 haps Estelle was not innocent. That was not a 
 light. 
 
 " Raymond had my photograph upon his writing- 
 desk; he told me so a hundred times; we bought 
 the case together in the Rue de la Paix, while pur- 
 chasing jewels. It was I who gave it to him. What 
 can have become of my photograph ? " 
 
 She looked at the young man with eyes wild from 
 distress, and of one can not know what mysterious 
 anguish. He was ashamed of himself, and felt that 
 he should speak. 
 
 "Before his death," said he, very low, "Raymond 
 destroyed it ; I found some remains of it in the fire- 
 place." 
 
 " Monsieur," said Estelle, in a choked voice, look- 
 ing at him with a supplicating expression, "that can 
 not be ! " 
 
 "It is the truth," said he, as much affected as 
 though he had pronounced a sentence of death. 
 
 She carried her cold hands to her head. 
 
 "My God," said she, almost without breathing, 
 "what could they have told him? What infamy 
 could have troubled his mind to make him inflict 
 such an outrage upon me ? " 
 
 She leaned upon the back of a chair, tottering ; 
 Theodore put out his arm to sustain her, but with- 
 out daring to touch her. She fixed upon him her 
 great black eyes, softened by the bitterness that was 
 almost terror. 
 
 " Tell me, Monsieur, what is it they could have 
 written him about me? What have you thought 
 since you no longer believe that it is 1 2 "
 
 TIN MYSTERE. 159 
 
 He interrupted her, crushed to the bottom of his 
 soul to hear her talk so simply, without rancor or 
 anger, of the outrage which he 'had inflicted upon 
 her. 
 
 " Madame," said he, with firmness, " since I have 
 had my eyes opened, I have come to believe that my 
 friend, de Beaurand. must have lost his mind, to cause 
 you such sorrow and to inflict upon you so much 
 disgrace. One stroke of insanity would explain it 
 and excuse his action." 
 
 Estelle was a little re-assured, and she looked at 
 the half-open drawer. 
 
 " Poor Raymond," said she, suddenly appeased and 
 consoled by the words she had just heard, " there 
 was perhaps a secret in his life. Search, Monsieur ; 
 who knows if we should not weep over him, when 
 we know the truth ? " 
 
 She passed before Benoist, saluting him with a 
 queenly bow, and went out, closing the door noise- 
 lessly. The young man who had followed her 
 with his eyes, sighed when she had disappeared ; 
 in her clothing of black laine, she seemed to have 
 taken away all the light of that mortuary chamber. 
 
 Resolutely, his teeth clenched, with a sort of 
 internal madness, he examined package after pack- 
 age, drawer after drawer ; the smallest envelopes, 
 the smallest boxes were examined with a widely dif- 
 ferent kind of persistent attention from that with 
 which they were examined by Andre Bolvin ; the 
 entire life of the unfortunate passed in review under 
 his eyes, which had become attentive and impas- 
 sionate, as those of a judge. The day was closing, 
 and Benoist lighted the candles of a candelabra and
 
 100 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 continued his work ; at last, when he had assured 
 himself that nothing had escaped him, he closed the 
 drawers carefully,'having first put all things in their 
 places, and then placed the candelabra upon the 
 mantel. 
 
 His eyes fell upon the picture of the General, which 
 was clearly lighted, and he was held as though under 
 a spell. 
 
 A hundred times he had seen that work without 
 being affected, in any unusual wa}^, or particularly 
 interested ; he was, however, now attracted to it as 
 though to an enigma. It was to that picture of his 
 father that Raymond had, in all probability, ad- 
 dressed his last words; they found him before it; 
 what did that man, condemned to die by his own 
 hand, say to it ? Was it a reproach ? "Was it a par- 
 don or a prayer that rose from his lips before they 
 closed forever ? Could that picture have heard why 
 the Captain killed himself ? "Would it have borne 
 wi, ness to the innocence of Estelle? Now he was 
 trying to revenge the death of the husband. He 
 must preserve from infamy the name of the wife. 
 
 Benoist took the candelabra again, stepped back to 
 be able to see the portrait better ; he felt a peculiar 
 sensation, a kind of fascination, in looking into those 
 black eyes so full of tenderness and will, the features 
 well drawn, so the old picture did not lack a delicate 
 grace. Raymond had not the eyes nor the hair of 
 the General, though they resembled each other; but 
 ii was not the resemblance between the father and 
 the son that struck him, it was something else unex- 
 plained and unexplainable. He, also, died in the full 
 flower of life, and none knew why he died, nor who 
 shot him.
 
 UN MYSTERE. 1>1 
 
 That man must have been irresistible, thought 
 Benoist, as he placed the candelabra upon the mantel ; 
 that portrait possessed a charm which he had never 
 met elsewhere. At another time it \vould not have 
 produced this same effect upon me ; it is now only 
 that I can explain what it is that makes Mine. Mont- 
 clar adored by all the people. It is her eyes. 
 
 Those eyes followed Benoist for a long time in his 
 work and in his dreams, those profound, tender, 
 black eyes, full of energy and kindness. 
 
 He went out of the chamber full of strange impres- 
 sions, almost superstitious, and mounted the stair- 
 case to find Estelle. 
 
 She awaited him, calm in appearance; in reality, 
 in deep anguish. On seeing him, she made a gesture 
 of interrogation, so light that he hardly saw it. 
 
 " Nothing, absolutely nothing," said he. 
 
 Mine, de Beaurand showed no surprise, but dis- 
 couragement was depicted upon her beautiful face, 
 and Benoist contemplated it with silent emotion. 
 
 "You have accomplished a very distressing task. 
 I know not how to thank you for it. We must now 
 abandon all hope." 
 
 " You are not sure of that," said Benoist, preoccu- 
 pied. " Are you well acquainted with the life of 
 General de Beaurand ? " 
 
 "Very little. Raymond loved him passionately, 
 but he lost him when very young." 
 
 " Have Mine. Montclar tell you all that she can 
 about the life of her brother. It is thus that per- 
 haps we shall discover something." 
 
 He was at the end about to retire. Estelle ap- 
 proached him to speak to him in a low voice.
 
 1C2 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 " My photograph ! My pooi photograph ! that gives 
 me more trouble than I can ever tell you, I had never 
 returned to that room. It is not because I was 
 afraid; I never knew childish fear; but I never 
 knew why I should go. Then you think Kaymond 
 died cursing me ? " 
 
 " No," said Benoist, speaking contrary to himself 
 " I can not believe that. He -knew you, he appre- 
 ciated you ; no one could change his opinion thus in 
 a minute." 
 
 " Then why did he tear it ? However " 
 
 " It was, perhaps, that nobody might touch it after 
 him," suggested Benoist, at hazard. 
 
 The explanation was not satisfactory, however, 
 it slightly appeased the anguish of Estelle, who, at 
 that moment, downcast by her long waiting, was 
 very easily convinced. She held her hand to her 
 ex-enemy, now become her ally, and they parted 
 without further adieu. Before returning to Mme. 
 Montclar, she was inclined to go in her turn and 
 search the drawers of Raymond's writing desk. 
 To what good ? Had Benoist not examined them all 
 faithfully? The confidence which she had in that 
 enemy of but a few days since was profound and 
 inexplicable ; she resolved to trust absolutely in him. 
 
 Benoist was no less quieted by his long search. 
 In breathing the damp, cold air of the Boulevard 
 Saint- Germain, he heard murmured in his ear short 
 phrases, sometimes in the voice of Raymond, some- 
 times in the voice of Estelle. The eyes of the Gen- 
 eral followed him until he saw them twice in the 
 faces of the people whom he met. A third time, he 
 stopped short under a carriage way ; a woman poorly
 
 UN MYSTEKE. 163 
 
 dressed, half-famished, young, bearing bouquets of 
 violets, in a pannier under a door, silently implored 
 the pity of the passers-by with her soft, dark eyes, 
 which resembled those of the portrait. 
 
 I am haunted, thought the young man. If this 
 should continue, I believe I also shall lose my mind.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 
 
 Mme. Montclar went out no more; the chilly air 
 outside burned her because she had become almost 
 of a morbid sensibility. The doctors questioned, hud 
 counseled that they should manage it so that the 
 interior apartments should have pure air, as fre- 
 quently as possible without exposing her to the 
 coarseness of winter. She lived in an artificial at- 
 mosphere as nearly natural as possible, her niece 
 having by her delicate attention gathered around 
 her a circle of old friends, of old habitues, who 
 could possibly give to her the illusion of society. 
 The poor woman became weaker day by day ask- 
 ing only that they should wait upon her and with- 
 out troubling themselves. 
 
 This wreck which had been the flower of a good 
 Parisian company, bore to Estelle neither cordiality 
 nor coldness; they accepted her as a part of the 
 hotel, she did not trouble their conversation nor was 
 she troubled by their whist. Their tea or their light 
 cup of chocolate was veiy acceptable, served by her 
 beautiful, delicate hands, and even in thanking her, 
 they did not dole out their smiles. Some of those 
 who, notwithstanding their age, had not abdicated 
 their pretensions would have voluntarily taken it 
 upon themselves to introduce her to the Court if the 
 miserable story had not thrown upon their aspira- 
 tions a sort of light crape, slightly disconcerting. 
 
 Estelle knew that not one of these amiable men, 
 not one of these polished women had for her a word 
 
 164
 
 UN MYSTERE. 165 
 
 of kindness, good will, or even of compassion. She 
 knew that upon the clay when she should lose her 
 aunt, that band of friends, more or less gorraands, 
 and very egotistic, would disappear like a band of 
 swallows upon the day when the table should cease 
 to be set ; but she was careful to not mention this 
 to Mine. Montclar. Upon the contrary, she praised 
 to her, when she found occasion, the good grace and 
 the kindness of these people, desirous, above all, of 
 giving her until her end, all the illusions possible 
 with regard to herself. 
 
 " You will not be entirely alone, after I am gone, 
 my child," said the old lady to her one day, " I will 
 leave you my friends as a legacy, and they will help 
 you in making other friends before disappearing 
 themselves. All the people are not so bad as the 
 blockheads at Saint-Aubin. Look at Monsieur 
 Benoist. Have you not found in him a true friend?' 
 
 "And besides we have his mother for a friend," 
 said Estelle, trying to please her aunt. 
 
 "His mother? He has one then? Ah, yes, a 
 worthy woman, who attends the vine\ r ard. I remem- 
 ber. He is not of the aristocrats, the young; Be- 
 
 v O 
 
 noist ; but he is, however, extremely well-bred. There 
 is no place like Saint-Cyr, you see, to school a son. 
 Raymond had a great regard for him, Tery high . 
 What is he doing now ? Working at chemistry ? I 
 believe. He has spoken to me about the fats. Mor 3 
 than that I know nothing. Who have we to dinner 
 this evening \ " 
 
 Estelle answered all the questions that Mme. 
 Montclar put to her ; but her mind was elsewhere. 
 The manner in which the old lady had just spoken
 
 166 
 
 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 of Benoist had deeply wounded one cord of which 
 she herself had, until then, not known the existence. 
 Thisprotectorial, slightly disdainful tone, in speaking 
 of the vintner and of his mother, had hurt her more 
 than as though she had spoken thus to her own self. 
 Until then she had seen in Benoist only the moral 
 man, once her judge, now her ally, always the friend 
 ofEaymond; she became aware, suddenly, that he 
 had also a social life, had occupation, friends, rela- 
 tions of which she had never through. Without 
 doubt, Benoist is a plebean name and chemistry is a 
 modern science, but does that divest the man of any 
 merit that would make him useful ? 
 
 Estelle had never had aristocratic prejudices ; her 
 mother who belonged to the nobility had married a 
 simple citizen. Mine, de Polrey professed no opin- 
 ions except those of perfect submission to society. 
 The young girl had created for herself a little phi- 
 losophy upon seeing at the convent names and the 
 origins of the most diverse natures, obtain like friend- 
 ships and equal rewards. The manner in which 
 Mme. Montclar had classed Benoist in an inferior 
 degree seemed to her monstrously unjust, and created 
 in her a short revolt. Her good heart and her rea- 
 son, however, told her immediately that the old 
 lady had no malice toward him ; her affection had 
 received no blow; but she felt in herself a great 
 desire to compensate the unconscious victim, of that 
 little unknown humiliation, and the esteem which 
 she had for the young man on account of it was sud- 
 denly augmented. 
 
 Mme. Montclar had invited Benoist to come up oil 
 any evening when it seemed proper to him, H
 
 UN MYSTEKE. 167 
 
 came on a Sunday ; but he felt himself so com- 
 pletely a stranger to the guests that he felt troubled 
 and ill at ease. Estelle seated herself at his side to 
 talk with him. Suddenly he became aware that 
 they were looking at him, and a burning blush cov- 
 ered his face. Could he have betrayed by some im- 
 prudence the secret he had hardly dared admit 
 to himself? These cold, indifferent, almost hostile 
 beings, had they perceived that he madly loved the 
 widow of Raymond de Beaurand? 
 
 That idea became so intolerable to him that he be- 
 came, as it were, paralyzed. Estelle, surprised at not 
 hearing him answer, looked at him attentively ; he 
 believed himself discovered and making pretext of 
 an important affair, he excused himself and weni out. 
 
 The mind of Benoist was in an indescribable 
 trouble. Since he had made peace with Estelle rjid 
 himself, since his mother had talked to him with 
 such entire confidence, he had let the cares of his 
 soul sleep. A sort of moral lethargy had come over 
 him, he had allowed the most important thoughts to 
 remain idle, the inquietudes which brought insomnia, 
 and had lived only from day to day, taking each 
 morning that which life needed to exist. 
 
 In all passion, as in all tempests, certain calms 
 present themselves, then the struggle seems to have 
 terminated. One does not disturb one's self with that 
 which was devouring upon the evenings before. 
 The most painful sorrows, the most distressing 
 qualms of conscience are appeased. One believes 
 willingly that they have ceased to exist. It was 
 thus that Benoist lived during several months, yet the 
 curious look of a few old women, would throw him 
 suddenly into a sea of sad perplexities.
 
 168 tfN MTSTEKE. 
 
 First, and before all, it was necessary to hide from 
 all eyes that absurd senseless love. 
 
 Blinded by her motherly love, Mme. Benoist had 
 been able to speak of marriage. At the moment he 
 had found it very natural, but in the hotel Beaurand, 
 Estelle appeared to him under another light. 
 
 A sort of an instinctive and secret fear had often 
 driven him from his love. The widow of Raymond 
 became almost sacred to him. Was it not a sort of 
 sacrilege to love the widow of his friend, when so 
 little time had passed since his death ? What would 
 Estelle think if she knew that he had loved her since 
 the first day of her widowhood, even when be be- 
 lieved her culpable ? Would she not be indignant? 
 Later yes, that would be different, and then 
 according to the express conditions of his mother 
 it was necessary to take to the Pressoirs a woman 
 clear of all suspicions. 
 
 Descending to the bottom of his heart, Theodore 
 preceived then for the first time that his suspicions 
 of Estelle had not been dictated, as he had believed, 
 by cruel concurrence of circumstances and by his 
 friendship for his brother-at-arms, but it was a sort 
 of jealousy, an instinct of anger and revenge, born 
 of an unavowable love for her who had chosen 
 Raymond. 
 
 I have always loved her, he had said to himself, 
 if Beaurand had lived I would have hated him for 
 all the love that she bore him, but she did not 
 love him. 
 
 A divine light drove away the shadows where the 
 conscience of the } r oung man was debating. She 
 did not love him, he told himself, and Fate had
 
 TIN MYSTERE. 160 
 
 willed that she should be a widow and maiden, a 
 white soul, without remembrance, without restraints, 
 innocent and calumnied, at liberty to choose him 
 who should be able to make her love him. Theface 
 of Estelle presented itself to his mind, in all her 
 immaculate purity, as the Virgin appeared to the 
 Saints in the desert; moved to the bottom of his 
 soul, he was inclined to join his hands before the 
 exquisite face in asking pardon of her for so many 
 errorc. so many offenses, those which she knew as 
 well as those which she had never expected. Then 
 the vision disappeared, and he found himself before 
 the reality; he adored the rich woman, who be- 
 longed to the aristocracy, and who, without doubt, 
 cared nothing for him. A woman stigmatized by 
 the opinion which his mother and himself never 
 admitted at their fireside without desiring that the 
 truth should come to light, and he felt the weight of 
 existence full upon his head like to the lid of a 
 coffin. 
 
 An idea truly new to him glided then across his 
 mind. Until then, he had seen in Eaymond but a 
 victim ; for the first time he asked himself if the 
 unfortunate were not himself guilty in disappearing 
 so suddenly from the eyes of the world. He had 
 divested himself of a multitude of duties, the first 
 of which was to assure his wife of a position w T orthy 
 of her ; insanity alone would excuse this, as he had 
 already said, but Raymond was no fool. Never had 
 he been more master of himself in his thought and 
 in his language than in their last conversation. 
 
 A dull, profound anger boiled slowly in the heart 
 of Benoist. His friend had betrayed friendship,
 
 170 tJN MYSTERE. 
 
 betrayed love, betrayed honor, in quitting life with- 
 out leaving a word which would explain his disap- 
 pearance, lie had acted like a coward a coward 
 
 Benoist, alone in his room, which he paced fever- 
 ishly, took his head in his hands and implored pity 
 of his dead friend. 
 
 "I am a wretch," said he to him, " but pardon me, 
 for I suffer cruelly. Behold, I injure you because I 
 have the misfortune to love your wife."
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Mme. de Beaurand was seated at her writing-desk 
 about ten o'clock in the morning, revising the 
 accounts of the month. Still a novice at the exer- 
 cise, she went at it with the fervor and the feeling 
 of a neophyte ; the least details were examined and 
 verified as though they were accounts of the state. 
 
 " What a misfortune," thought she, stopping in 
 the middle of a column of figures, " truly, what a 
 misfortune it is to be so rich. Not knowing what 
 to do with one's money, it is spent in useless things. 
 This great house peopled with domestics, horses in 
 the stables of what good is all this ? Would not 
 one be as happy in a house less grand, with a less 
 complete service and less sumptuous equipages?" 
 
 She remembered at that time the joyous appari- 
 tion which she met one day upon the route to Bour- 
 gogne, near the Chateau de Polrey. It was a little 
 English carriage, drawn by a fast pony in full mane 
 and tail, with a brass and silver-mounted harness of 
 tawny-colored leather. A young man held the 
 reins ; his pretty little wife laughed as she looked at 
 him. They passed so quickly that Estelle could not 
 see them distinctly enough to recognize them after- 
 ward. What was necessary to be so happy ? 
 
 One might, with the wealth of the Brunaires 
 and that of the Beaurands combined, purchase many 
 such ponies, harnesses and carriages ; but that 
 laughy which the wind carried over the field of yel- 
 low grain, the carelessness of love, where could she 
 have gotten that? 
 
 in
 
 372 UN MTSTERE. 
 
 Estelle i'elt a profound melancholy envelope her 
 like a net ; her life seemed to be closed to all things. 
 She had once been young and gay; but of what good 
 is youth if one lives like the aged ? Of what good is 
 natural happiness if one is condemned to live in 
 eternal solitude ? Who would love her ? Who would 
 marry her? 
 
 A sudden blush overspread her face, and she 
 re-commenced her addition at the top of the column 
 as though the figures could not wait. The door of 
 her little salon opened ; she paid no attention to it, 
 supposing that at that early hour it was the maid 
 come to put things in order; suddenly two little 
 gloved hands covered her eyes, and a fine odor of 
 violettes floated arouiid her. 
 
 "Who is it? " said a voice, vainly disguised. 
 
 "You, Odette My darling," said Estelle taken 
 with a joyful surprise ; " at such an early hour ? 
 Where do you come from ? " 
 
 They kissed each other and seated themselves side 
 by side upon a narrow sofa with their hands joined. 
 The new bride blushing under her toque and her 
 violettes, looked at her " ex-little mother " and said 
 with admiration : 
 
 "Oh, but you are beautiful! More beautiful than 
 ever before ! " 
 
 "And you," said Estelle smiling, "you have changed 
 very much, you are as pretty as heart could wish, 
 and you have grown." 
 
 " Oh I, it is happiness," said the young wife with 
 animation. " We have been all over, at Rome, at 
 Florence, at Venice, at Aries, at Dijon, and in the cha- 
 teau of my husband's parents. There, for example, it
 
 UN MYSTEBE. 173 
 
 is not gay in the winter. My husband was with me, 
 happily." 
 
 She pronounced "my husband" with a comical 
 and tender gravity which made Estelle almost laugh 
 and cry. 
 
 " My husband is charming," she continued, " he 
 adores me," 
 
 " And you ? " 
 
 " I also, naturally. Only I never tell him so. 
 But I know that he knows it all the same. He is 
 such a rogue." 
 
 She began to laugh and look around her. 
 
 "It is very pretty here with you, prettier than it 
 is at our house, but little as it is, it is nice all the 
 same. You know my husband is young, he is twenty- 
 seven ; he is very handsome in his uniform of Lieu- 
 tenant of Hussars ; the uniform of the Hussars is very 
 pretty. I want to have me a dress of blue cloth, of 
 that blue, with black Brandenbourgs like a canti- 
 niere, to carry the colors of the regiment. But he is 
 going to be transferred into the Chasseurs, then we 
 will live in Paris." 
 
 " Is it long since you returned ? " asked Estelle 
 troubled she knew not why. 
 
 " Yesterday. Mamma waited for us at the station 
 with papa, we are to dine with them this evening. 
 We had hardly arisen this morn ing when Hubert went 
 to la Place ; do you know what it is, la Place ? I do 
 not dare to ask him. I have already asked him so 
 many questions that I am ashamed. He pretends 
 that I ask him the drollest I don't know I ask him 
 whatever comes into my head ; and he laughs over 
 it like a fool. Now I am more prudent; I try to
 
 174: UN MYSTERE. 
 
 inform myself elsewhere. You see he has gone to 
 la Place and while he is there I came to see you. 
 My sister is in Spain with her husband, they will 
 freeze there. That is all right. I don't like my 
 brother-in-law he is now between you and me, he 
 is only a fool, only a brute. He'll have a thread to 
 twist with my sister. 
 
 Estelle listened, smiling, to this flood of words, 
 broken by childish laughter, that innocent joy, that 
 confidence in her marriage, in her love, in the life 
 which opened a window upon the unlighted future. 
 From the prison in which she had been shut six 
 months before, it seemed to her that, as far as she 
 could see, rolling at the horizon, were verdant plains, 
 peopled with happy beings. Her kind disposition, 
 the exquisite tenderness with which she had been 
 endowed, hindered her from feeling the least envy 
 of a happiness that could net be hers ; the pleasure 
 of hearing her old " little girl " prattle gave her a 
 maternal air, quite touching in her young face. She 
 caressed with her hand the yellow hair which, at the 
 convent, she had so many times smoothed. Who 
 could have told her that the days of study and of 
 restraint would, within ten months after her mar- 
 riage, be remembered so sweetly, with so much 
 regret ? 
 
 " Now you," said the little wife, as she placed a 
 new kiss upon the cheek of Estelle. " Wait, here is 
 a bouquet of violets that I bought for you. Imag- 
 ine, I came on foot on foot and all alone, without a 
 waiting-maid I, who never before put my nose out 
 of the door without being accompanied. It is awfully 
 amusing. Do you ever go out on foot and alone ? "
 
 TTN MYSTJ3BE. 175 
 
 " No," said Estelle, thinktng that she had never 
 even thought of using that privilege. " But it is dif- 
 ferent with me." 
 
 " Oh, yes, that is true," said Odette, looking at the 
 still austere mourning of her friend. She hesitated 
 for a minute, and then continued : " Is it true that 
 which they tell of you ? Tell me." 
 
 " What is that, my dear ? " asked Mme. de Beau- 
 rand, her heart beating distressingly. 
 
 " That your husband killed himself upon the day 
 of his marriage ? " 
 
 " It is true " 
 
 " Upon returning from the church ? " 
 
 " A little after ; after you had gone." 
 
 " You do not know why ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 The little Mine. d'Aulmoye was perplexed. 
 
 " Yon know that they speak very ill of you? " said 
 she, regretfully. 
 
 " I know it." 
 
 " But as for me, I never believed it," added she, 
 with vivacity. " I shall love you always, my ' little 
 mother.' " 
 
 A kiss punctuated that sentence ; then Odette, 
 turning her muff over and over, said, without look- 
 ing at her friend : 
 
 " But then it is as though you were never mar- 
 ried." 
 
 " Almost," answered Mme. de Beaurand. 
 
 " Poor Estelle, you have had nothing but sorrow. 
 If I should lose Hubert Oh ! " 
 
 She shivered, and her little face became pale. 
 
 " Then you are happy ? " asked Estelle, to turn her 
 thoughts.
 
 176 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 " Happy ! It is Paradise. That is what marriage 
 is. I don't know if my sister is of the same mind. 
 I dislike that punctillious good man of a husband. 
 He is bald, with whiskers. He has the air of a 
 notary a notary who does not amount to much. 
 But he has the money ; he is worth more than we. 
 He is a vintner, a vintner of Bourgogne. As for me, 
 I like the Army better. I must go. Only think, 
 what if my husband should return and find me 
 absent? Nobody knows where I am." 
 
 "You will tell him?" said Estelle, suddenly 
 becoming grave. 
 
 " Yes, yes," said the young woman, lightly. My 
 dinner is ordered. I hope the cook will not have put 
 the eggs in the water before my arrival. You 
 remember at the convent there was a student who 
 could eat nothing but hard eggs, because her moth- 
 er's cook put her point of honor upon being always 
 exact ? Au revoir, my ' little mother.' Soon. I 
 will go and call a carriage. That will be amusing. 
 I have never paid for a carriage in my life. Have I 
 lost my pocket-book ? No, here it is." 
 
 She searched her pockets with a comical anxiety 
 She stopped upon the threshold and cast a look 
 around her." 
 
 " Poor Estelle ! always alone. I would die of sor- 
 row if I were alone now. But you, you never had 
 a husband at all. To be a bride two or three hours, 
 that does not count. And he was dead when you 
 saw him ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Estelle, gravely. 
 
 " It is horrible. And then not to know. He was 
 insane was he not ? "
 
 UN MYSTERE. 177 
 
 " I hope so," answered the widow, but the young 
 wife did not hear it 
 
 When the little friend had gone she went into her 
 room scented with violets, truly all alone; a bride of 
 two or three hours, that does not count. What life 
 lacked so much as hers? 
 
 She walked slowly to her desk and took her book 
 of accounts. The addition recommenced seemed to 
 wish to make her desist, for it would not be ended; 
 the rebellious thought of the young woman would 
 not remain upon the figures and would continually 
 revert to Odette, in the little apartment carpeted, 
 anew, elegant and decorated like a marriage basket, 
 where a Lieutenant of Hussars was going to meet her. 
 She could see him enter, his eyes sparkling, his lips 
 half open; he would laugh to see her at her breakfast. 
 Upon the dining table was a bouquet brought by her 
 husband, the water and the wines sparkled in the 
 decanters in a ray of light that had just pierced the 
 clouds, they seated themselves before their egg cups 
 and their hard boiled eggs, and laughed again. 
 
 Pushing aside the book of accounts, Estelle placed 
 her two arms upon the table, buried her head in them 
 like a little dispirited child and w,ept hot tears.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 The service in commemoration of the death of 
 Captain de Beaurand, was celebrated at the end of 
 the year in great pomp at the church of Saint- 
 Thomas Aquinas. Mme. Montclar had obstinately 
 sent letters of invitation to all her old relations not- 
 withstanding the timid observations of Estelle, and 
 she would serve an acte de presence upon all whom 
 she could say were her friends. 
 
 " He was my nephew, almost my son; I owe him 
 this last proof of my tenderness." 
 
 The old lady had grown more and more petulant 
 for some time, the great generous flame which had 
 enveloped her at the moment when her niece was 
 attacked, was extinct, allowing to escape only a few 
 isolated scintillations; the approaching death of 
 which she was not entirely conscious caused in her, 
 nevertheless, from time to time, a sort of fear which 
 translated itself in melancholy, and sometimes in bit- 
 terness. Estelle who suffered without murmuring, 
 thought that the longest patience would not suffice 
 to pay the affectionate protection which had been 
 extended her. 
 
 Mme. Montclar attended the service with her 
 niece. She was very badly impressed upon seeing 
 what a small number would give to Raymond this 
 last proof of affection and to her that solemn mark 
 of deference; the ordinary habitues, the furnishers of 
 the house and enough of the curious formed all of 
 the audience. The old relation, who had represented 
 
 178
 
 UN MYSTERE. 179 
 
 the family upon the year preceding, dislodged for 
 the occasion, occupied the first chair with the weary 
 air of a man condemned to an inevitable and dis- 
 agreeable duty. 
 
 Affected with a secret disquietude, Benoist ob- 
 served and kept in mind the faces and their actions. 
 There was much talking in that indifferent aud- 
 ience. He listened till he was fatigued, trying 
 vainly to hear something. At last the general 
 absolution was pronounced and he went to Mme. 
 Montclar to ask permission to assist her to the 
 carriage while the old relation would, if he had room, 
 receive the salutations of the company already 
 three-fourths dispersed. The old lady thanked him 
 with dignity ; but instead of allowing herself to be 
 accompanied by him, she followed the master of 
 the ceremonies and placed herself near the entrance. 
 
 " Aunt," said Estelle, " I beg of you, let us go." 
 
 Mme. Montclar made a gesture of decisive re- 
 fusal and remained immovable. 
 
 While the defile, which was short, passed, she 
 stood with head erect not counting her friends 
 present, but those absent, with a haughty bitterness. 
 All eyes were fixed upon the two women, both so 
 beautiful and so imposing. They spoke in a low 
 voice around them. Estelle suffered martyrdom, 
 but she gave no evidence of it. Finally the last of 
 the curious went out, the old relation approached 
 Mme. Montclar, who said to him in a half voice : 
 
 " I thank you, my cousin." 
 
 A little girl from among the crowd very near her 
 pronounced these words: 
 
 " Is it the old or the young one, say mamma, that 
 Idlled her husband?"
 
 ISO I'N MYSTKRE. 
 
 The voice resounded like a metallic distinctness 
 along the sonorous stones. All those that were 
 scattered in the aisles turned to see. Benoist made 
 a violent gesture, seized the arm of the child and 
 cast her aside with a rude word. He returned 
 quickly to the t\vo women. Mme. Montclar leaned 
 on the arm of her relation. Estelle only looked 
 with an unexplainable sadness at the unconscious 
 one who had just inflicted that most mortal injury. 
 
 " Take my arm Madame," said Theodore aloud. 
 
 Joining the gesture to the words, he led to the 
 carriage the young woman who had become weak. 
 
 " Get in, my cousin, get in, Monsieur," said Mme. 
 Montclar to the two men who had accompanied 
 them. 
 
 Silence reigned in the landau during the short 
 journey from Saint-Thomas Aquinas to the hotel de 
 Beaurand. Mme. Monclar climbed the steps of the 
 outer staircase and entered in the salon of the rez- 
 de-chau8see\ Benoist who had taken Estelle's arm 
 conducted her to a chair. 
 
 "My friend," said the old lady struggling against 
 her feebleness, " I thank you. I was wrong." 
 
 Her eyes closed and she lost consciousness. 
 
 Estelle recovered her strength immediately ; a 
 real danger always found her ready to face it. Mme. 
 Montclar was taken to her bed and revived. Her 
 physician, who saw her go out with extreme repug- 
 nance, arrived at that time to see how r she bore the 
 new trial he ordered repose and absolute silence. 
 Mme. de Beaurand returned to the salon, w r here the 
 two men awaited her return. The old relation, 
 after some commonplaces, returned to his pleasures
 
 UN MYSTEKE. 181 
 
 and his habits. Benoist remained standing, ready 
 to go. 
 
 " Monsieur," said Estelle, " will you give me a 
 moment ?" 
 
 "I am entirely at your service, Madame," he 
 answered. 
 
 " Then will you follow me \ 
 
 They went to Raymond's chamber, which she 
 entered with him. 
 
 " It is here, Monsieur," she said to him, " where 
 nobody will either hear or trouble us, that I wish 
 you to answer me. After the insult to which I was 
 just subjected, there is nothing that I will not do to 
 find out the truth. You are the last person to whom 
 my husband spoke confidentially. Upon your 
 honor, tell me what was your last conversation with 
 Raymond ? " 
 
 Benoist frowned. He had never before been 
 placed in such a delicate situation. However, thus 
 begged, he could not do otherwise than answer. 
 
 " Since you demand it, Madame," said he, "I will 
 obey you. In that conversation, truly confidential, 
 my friend, de Beaurand, confessed to me the abso- 
 lute tenderness which he felt for, you ; he stated it 
 in such terms as I have not the right to repeat, but 
 which proved a passion unbounded." 
 
 The face of Estelle, ordinarily pale, was covered 
 with an ardent blush ; she awaited the rest without 
 raising her eyes. Benoist had stopped. 
 
 k 'And then," said she, seeing that he spoke no 
 farther. 
 
 " Then, he expressed the hope of seeing one day 
 that tenderness returned"
 
 182 TIN MYSTEKE. 
 
 "I had very much affection for him," said Estelle. 
 
 " He was not ignorant of it, as you know very 
 well ; but that affection he said to me was not that 
 which he hoped to inspire in you later." 
 
 The burning red left the cheeks of the young 
 woman, who became pale. 
 
 " And then," said she s with an effort. 
 
 " He spoke to me at some length of his father," 
 Theodore answered, "of his tragic and mysterious 
 death. The thought of that poorly explained trag- 
 edy, evidently haunted him, and it evidently had 
 something to do with the act which terminated his 
 life." 
 
 "Do you believe it?" 
 
 " I do not doubt it, the same sort of death. A 
 shot in the left side. He must have yielded to the 
 feeling." 
 
 Estelle suddenly took a step towards the fireplace. 
 
 "But my picture, Monsieur," said she, with a 
 vehemence which Benoist had never known of her ; 
 "my torn, outraged picture, as though myself had 
 been torn and insulted that same day ? Is it pos- 
 sible that under that occult impulse M. de Beaurand 
 destroyed it ? Or was it a blind hatred, a stroke of 
 insanity, jealousy " 
 
 She stopped, that word which had escaped her 
 lips provoked a new blush, which mounted to her 
 forehead and immediately vanished. Benoist was 
 troubled, as was she. 
 
 " A jealousy," continued the young woman, " and 
 o f what, great heavens ! and of whom ? I left the 
 convent at eighteen ; until then I had seen nobody 
 except the friends of the family of de Polrey, the
 
 UN MYSTERE. 183 
 
 friends of holidays, those whom a prudent mother 
 chooses to invite to her house during the time when 
 her daughters are there, those who have nothing in 
 their natures to excite the imagination of little 
 school girls. And in society, I have not met even one 
 man capable of inspiring any interest in me, what- 
 ever. You know how they draw us girls to marri- 
 age? They do not allow us to see that the pretend- 
 ants are chosen for us with vigilant hands. Raymond 
 only, of all those whom I met, had serious qualities, 
 capable of inspiring esteem and affection." 
 
 She hesitated for a moment, struggling, and sud- 
 denly allowed the avowal for which Benoist waited, 
 to escape. 
 
 " Notwithstanding that, I did not love him; no, I 
 had no love for him, it was rather pity." 
 
 She inclined her superb head with a sort of 
 humility and continued immediately: 
 
 "Pity, because I vaguely felt that I could never 
 love him as he hoped. It is true, Monsieur, " added 
 she, raising her eyes, and looking at Benoist, " I have 
 never wept for him, for I did not love him. " 
 
 What did she read in the eyes that drank in every 
 word from her lips? "Was it triumph, joy or prayer? 
 She remained immobile, overcome by a delicious sen- 
 sation which deprived her of all desire of speech. 
 She was certain, however, that a door of destiny had 
 just been opened, and that she could no more return 
 after that day. 
 
 "Madame," said Benoist, slowly, " you have asked 
 me to be entirely frank. I obeyed you. Permit me, 
 in my turn, to ask a respectful question." 
 
 She did not refuse ; he continued :
 
 184r TIN MYSTERE. 
 
 " You have told me, some time ago, that you were 
 going to live in solitude under your maiden name. 
 Is it because marriage inspires in you an inevitable 
 repugnance ? 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 " Do you not think that a true union, based upon 
 true affection, upon giving you a support, would 
 allow you to be happy, and to be always good and 
 kind?" 
 
 "Ah! Monsieur, " said the young woman with the 
 same energy which had surprised him but a short 
 time before, "could I carry to a man the burden 
 which crushes me? What man would accept it? 
 And if he accepted it, would I not be a coward for 
 imposing it upon him ? Even the crowd insults me 
 without knowing my name, you have seen that. 
 And would I expose a man to participation in these 
 insults, to be struck down perhaps by the chastise- 
 ment? Ah, Monsieur, is it not enough that one 
 man died for having married me? " 
 
 She turned her inflamed face and burst into tears, 
 which were quickly staunched. "As long as the 
 mystery is not cleared, " said she, " I alone will bear 
 the opprobrium, which I have not merited. You 
 have spoken to me like a friend, for that and for the 
 support which you afforded me, I thank you. " 
 
 He bowed in silence. Both, without adding a 
 word left the chamber and separated.
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Mme. Montclar had received a mortal blow; 
 strong in her instincts and generous resolutions, feeble 
 / in the difficulties of a struggle which seemed without 
 end, she had borne herself well in the aggression; but 
 the resort which had artificially sustained her, had 
 been broken by the last shock. 
 
 She maintained, during several days, her role of 
 protectress, having Estelle write invitations, calling 
 her friends to her, dressing herself, or allowing her- 
 self to be dressed, that she might again receive those 
 whom she had invited, and bearing ostensibly toward 
 her niece an. affection and esteem, which she had 
 never before borne toward any one. 
 
 This effort which wore out the last resources of 
 her body and her mind, brought upon her a contin- 
 ued fever; the ardent and lively eyes hollowed and 
 surrounded with black circles, she was only the 
 shadow of the beautiful Madame Montclar. Estelle 
 moved, even to tears, surrounded her with cares and 
 filial caresses. Each feigned calmness and even 
 gaiety in order to deceive the other, and, knowing 
 well that she could not recover, still played the do- 
 lorous comedy of confidence. 
 
 One morning about eleven o'clock Madame de 
 Beaurand preceding the waiting - maid, who bore 
 upon a server, the breakfast of her mistress, found 
 her aunt extended upon a reclining chair in a state 
 of weakness and complete exhaustion. The eyes had 
 no sparkle, the features no expression; the soft hands 
 hung inertly by the side of her listless body. 
 
 185
 
 186 TIN MYSTERE. 
 
 " M.y dear aunt," said Estelle, kneeling, frightened, 
 beside her, " do } T OU see me, do you hear me 2" 
 
 The invalid made a feeble gesture ; the young 
 woman arose and gave her a draught of cordial and 
 then sent immediately for the physician, and after- 
 ward returned to her side. Madame Montclar being 
 without strength enough to speak, breathed easily, 
 her eyes were intelligent and kindly. Spontane- 
 ously, without knowing that which she did, Estelle 
 ran to her writing-desk and wrote to Benoist four 
 words: "Come to us immediately." Signed her 
 name and sent the note to the address of the young 
 man. 
 
 The doctor arrived first and gave but little hope ; 
 the life was exhausted, the lamp was extinguished, 
 the death was not painful, but Avould return and 
 vanish from moment to moment. When Estelle, 
 who had called him, entered the room, Madame 
 Montclar called her with her eyes. 
 
 " He told you that I am going to die ? " said she, 
 in a clearer voice, but feeble as a thread. 
 
 " Estelle, listen to me." 
 
 " I beg of you, do not fatigue yourself, my dear 
 aunt," implored the young woman. 
 
 " Listen to me," said the dying woman, with a 
 little impatience, " I have given to you all, all that 
 I have. I can not give you friends, I have none. 
 You will be alone. But I am sure of your being 
 brave. You are a Beaurand, you. A true Beau- 
 rand, like me." 
 
 She had placed her right hand upon the head of 
 her niece; the weight of that hand threw backward 
 the beautiful face, imprinted with a proud resigna-
 
 UN MYSTERE. 187 
 
 tion. The black eyes of Mme. Montclar looked 
 into the black eyes of Estelle, veiled with tears and 
 full of* a compassionate tenderness. She seemed to 
 scrutinize the soul of the young woman in that long 
 look which only a conscience without stain could 
 have borne. 
 
 " See how I was," said the dying woman, with a 
 little wandering of the mind; " life has worn me out, 
 worn me out. You are young, you will also struggle. 
 A true Beaurand, yes a true ' 
 
 All at once, her eyes were re-animated, she drew 
 to her the face, which she examined so attentively, 
 and looked at it yet a little closer; a strange, unquiet 
 expression came over her features as a live rosy tint 
 came to her cheeks. Twice she wished to express a 
 thought which tormented her wearied mind, but 
 she could not formulate the words ; then her hand 
 fell, her face paled, she sighed, closed her eyes and 
 was motionless. 
 
 Estelle was afraid and leaned over her, then Mme. 
 Montclar spoke slowly with her eyes closed. 
 
 " My husband, then my brother, then Kaymond. 
 I have lost all whom I loved. You have come and 
 I go, poor child." 
 
 Another sigh deeper, sadder, shook her breast, 
 then she seemed to become calmer and to sleep. 
 Noiselessly the maid opened the door, the movement 
 of her lips announced: 
 
 "Monsieur Benoist." 
 
 Estelle looked at her aunt and saw that she 
 could leave her to the care of the maid, who took 
 her place; she went out and received the young man 
 in the neighboring room. He stood awaiting her.
 
 188 TIN MYSTKRE. 
 
 disturbed. She looked at him and he understood 
 taat the note from Estelle came because of sorrow. 
 More affected than she was, he held his hands to 
 her. She put hers in his without ceasing to look 
 into his sad, almost hopeless eyes. 
 
 " I have no longer anything," said that look, " I 
 am an innocent waif, who goes to find herself upon 
 the bank of an unknown river. Nothing remains, 
 nothing remains." 
 
 All at once he read in the black eyes, one knows 
 not what, that made him tremble from head to 
 foot. Was it a call? He did not wait to reflect. 
 The two hands which held those of the young woman, 
 drew her forcibly to him and threw her upon his 
 breast ; he opened them and his arms closed upon 
 the shoulders of Estelle with a gesture of protection. 
 She did not resist ; with bowed head, she tasted in 
 herself, the grave and profound pleasure of feeling 
 herself sustained. The simplicity of the gesture 
 had deprived it of all that could make it resemble 
 a caress. It was the close, and dignified embrace 
 of strength protecting weakness. 
 
 lie understood if thus for his arms immediately 
 opened and he took a step backward, while hi: face 
 had lost nothing of its almost austere expression. 
 She stood still and looked at him, but with a sub- 
 missive kindness which he had never before seen 
 in those eyes and which had an indescribable charm. 
 
 " She is dying," said Estelle, without turning 
 away. 
 
 She felt an intense, blinding joy upon knowing 
 thc,t he loved her. 
 
 "You will not be alone," said he, " I will come at 
 any time you ma,v ask for me,"
 
 UN MYSTERE. 189 
 
 " That can not be,*' replied she, suddenly made 
 prudent and perspicuous by the intuition of his 
 love. 
 
 She blushed upon pronouncing these words and 
 his look troubling her, she lowered her eyes. 
 
 "What difference does it make," said he, with 
 some impatience, " you can not be alone in such a 
 time as this." 
 
 She had recovered her calmness, she put her hand 
 forward slowly toward the arm of the young man, 
 upon which she placed it. 
 
 ' I am not afraid of being alone ; I am not afraid 
 to see death, but I shall fear a word She did 
 
 not add the epithet ; the word sufficed on the lips 
 of a woman well bred. 
 
 "Have they not said a hundred times worse?" 
 replied Theodore. 
 
 " Yes," said Estelle, quickly, " but it was not 
 true." 
 
 She recoiled a step; her head lowered, as if afraid 
 to have allowed such a word to have escaped. 
 
 Good breeding closes the lips of men and women 
 under an invisible seal which stops the expression of 
 all their sentiments, which interdicts the manifesta- 
 tions of all their emotions ; under {hat invisible law, 
 they cowld say nothing of that which entered their 
 souls, they understood each other as well as though 
 they had explained it by a long discourse; but it was 
 to the true condition that falsehood and coquetry 
 rendered them strangers. 
 
 "IsMme. Montclar, then, surely lost? "said he 
 without betraying the joy that he felt in his heart, 
 
 " It is but a question of hours,"
 
 190 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 " Then, give me jour book of addresses ; I will do, 
 in my room, all that it is necessary to have done. 
 Will you allow me to return to see you ? " 
 
 " Without doubt. In the evening ; if misfortune 
 comes before, J will advise you of it." 
 
 " Thank you. The book of addresses ? " 
 
 She went to her writing-desk, took out the book 
 asked for and gave it to him. 
 
 " It will be necessary to inform M. de Mailly, our 
 old relation," said she. 
 
 " You will write him, I will take charge of all the 
 rest. You need not trouble yourself in the least." 
 She heard him with a new feeling of complete 
 satisfaction ; she had believed that a blood more 
 rich and more generous, like to the wines of the 
 lands of the sun, ran in her veins at the sound of his 
 voice which she was astonished to find so harmoni- 
 ous and so tender, 
 
 " Thank you," said she, putting in that word all 
 that she could of thanks. 
 
 "Do not disturb yourself," said he, "whatever 
 happens whatever they do or say you are the 
 only mistress here, you should make yourself re- 
 spected/' 
 
 " For that I will answer to you," said she with a 
 proud smile. " Why do you look at me like that," 
 added she, struck with seeing an impression of odd 
 trouble replace, upon the face of Theodore, that of 
 confidence and kindness. 
 
 " I do not know," said he, passing his hand over his 
 brow ; " I am tired no doubt, for some time I have 
 been ill, I believe it is nothing."
 
 uu MYSTEKE. 191 
 
 " Indeed," said she. 
 
 " Your eyes make me think of something and at 
 the same moment when I thought of it, I lost the 
 notion of that which I thought I saw. Tliat is all, 
 pardon me, have you confidence in me, tell me ? " 
 
 " Yes," said she. 
 
 " Then this evening." 
 
 She returned to the room of Mme. Monclar under 
 a singular impression of serenity and lightness. 
 The sight of the old lady sleeping, so near to the 
 end, far from inspiring in her sorrow, added still 
 more to her surprising calmness ; it was the arrival 
 in port of a tired soul, the end of a dreary voyage, 
 the repose after the battle of life. 
 
 An hour before Estelle envied her aunt for being 
 so near death ; she was almost jealous of the peace 
 that awaited her; now she felt a new strength ; life 
 became dear in proportion to the struggle under 
 which she found herself, her hands might be torn 
 upon the thorns, the red blood might mark the path 
 by staining the dust of the road ; they now fought 
 not only for honor but for another thing also, which 
 without honor would be worthless, but which honor 
 would raise to its proper dignity. ' 
 
 At the thought of that mysterious thing, Estelle 
 felt her heart swell with modesty and joy ; through 
 her tears, humiliation, tortures of all kinds, he, the 
 unknown visitor had come, the silent guest who 
 knocks not at the door, but who comes as master of 
 the house, widow without being a wife, strong in all 
 the delicacy of the maiden, Mme. de Beaurand felt 
 that she loved.
 
 192 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 The dull anger that she had felt toward Raymond 
 suddenly ceased, and was replaced by a profound 
 pity, and without admitting it to herself, had she 
 dared to look clearly, she would have found that 
 she was thankful that he was dead, at least since 
 she was at liberty now to marry Theodore Benoist.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 Toward seven o'clock in the evening, at the 
 moment when the rays of the sun ceased to tint the 
 upper windows of the mansion, death came to Mme. 
 Montclar with the twilight, and like it, softly and 
 stealthily. 
 
 When Benoist came at nine o'clock, he found 
 Estelle very calm, seated at her writing-desk writ- 
 ing letters. 
 
 The domestics were too well accustomed to the 
 ways of the young man to be astonished to see 
 him. come under such circumstances; but thereafter 
 it would be otherwise. Theodore gave to Mme. de 
 Beaurand all the necessary information and instruc- 
 tions, that she might not have need of appealing to 
 him so frequently. 
 
 They were both seated at the same table, facing 
 each other ; he taking the notes, she directing them 
 or hunting the addresses. A grand sensation of 
 calmness was in their hearts upon that warm evening 
 of spring-time, under the tranquil calmness" of the 
 shaded light. A complete silence reigned in the 
 hotel which death had saddened for the second time 
 in less than thirteen months. But, as the suicide of 
 Raymond had brought trouble 'and confusion, the 
 foreseen death of Mme. Montclar brought gravity 
 and reflection. 
 
 That feeling of calmness, of silence, of repose, was 
 so strong that Mme. de Beaurand felt the necessity 
 of breaking it. Alone with him whom she loved, she 
 
 193
 
 194 UN MTSTERE. 
 
 felt herself intimidated, as though she never had a 
 confidential talk with him. 
 
 Leaving him with the cards, she opened the door 
 of the neighboring room, where Mme. Montclar 
 rested upon the bed, surrounded by candles and 
 tapers. A sheet of pale light came through the open 
 door into the tranquil salon. Benoist raised his eyes 
 and saw nothing but the reflection. In that clear- 
 ness, which, by contrast, seemed glaring, the form of 
 Estelle, elegant and virginal in her dress of black, 
 seemed sculptured from dark marble. He could not 
 see her face, but the black, wavy, lustrous hair 
 fastened at her neck, of which he could only see the 
 outline, seemed very life-like. 
 
 At the end of the room she was looking at the 
 dead, and to her she confided her thoughts. What 
 would her protectrice have said had she known the 
 truth ? Would she have permitted Estelle to have 
 forsaken her illusory fidelity ? What would she 
 have said had she known that her sole ambition 
 was to many Theodore Benoist, vintner; she a 
 Beaurand ? 
 
 " No, I am not a Beaurand," thought Estelle, the 
 writing and the ceremony that for a moment made 
 me the wife of Raymond did not make me a Beau- 
 rand. I am, notwithstanding all these sophisms, 
 still Mile. Brunaire, free to marry whomsoever I 
 please. And that which I could not do during your 
 life for fear of vexing you. my dear protectrice, I 
 shall do now that you are dead, providing that I 
 shall be able to wash away the bloody stain which 
 your nephew placed upon my nuptial robe. I have 
 nobody now to think for but myself, and in the
 
 UN MYSTKRE. 195 
 
 future all my time, all my strength shall be con- 
 secrated to seeking my own welfare. 
 
 Her young face had taken an expression of 
 resolved firmness when she returned to the table 
 where Theodore had remained. 
 
 " What were you thinking of ? " said he naturally. 
 
 "Of the future," said she, in the same manner. 
 U I have no peace in the present because I have not 
 discovered the truth." 
 
 He thought immediately of the envelope and was 
 ready to show it to her. But how should he tell 
 the woman to what a degree he had doubted her, 
 since so many words had been exchanged between 
 them, and that they rested equally upon the same 
 understanding? Even the gesture that had thrown 
 Estelle ujion his heart could be interpreted as an 
 expression of fraternal sympathy. 
 
 Benoist had never trembled before anything; this 
 time he literally shuddered upon thinking that one 
 word would expose him to the loss of Estelle for- 
 ever. He knew her to be proud; the wound which 
 he might inflict upon her self-esteem might never 
 be healed. He was afraid, upon thinking that she 
 never said that she loved him, ,that, perhaps, she 
 never would. 
 
 " I must be assured of her," said he to himself, 
 before I expose myself to her indignation. " ~\Ye 
 are both to search," said he aloud, and we shall 
 henceforth have a vast field of action. 
 
 Having finished his task he arose. 
 
 " I will return to-morrow," said he, " you will not 
 go to the church, you should take no part in it, you 
 .will receive nobody."
 
 196 UN MYSTKKE. 
 
 "Can I do so?" asked Estelle. 
 
 " You arc ill, and that is why to-morrow," 
 
 They clasped hands, and she found she was alone, 
 but not isolated. 
 
 The next twenty-four hours passed as pass days of 
 that kind, at times quickly and then slowly. At last 
 the ceremony took place. The funeral drew a large 
 crowd of the curious and of old friends who repented 
 at having allowed her so grievously to die in soli- 
 tude, this woman for whom they had so much esteem 
 and affection, there were also reporters there, in quest 
 of news. All the people were evidently disappointed 
 at not seeing Estelle. The sight of the young widow 
 would have been a fine repast for the crowd and for 
 the reporters; but then it had to pass, not without 
 cruel words for the absent one, whose presence 
 would inevitably have drawn others no less cruel. 
 
 Benoist, lost in the number, listened and recorded 
 all with an unpitying precision. His generous nature 
 was exasperated by the contemptibleness and the 
 slanderousness, impersonal as it were, of the crowd, 
 where each one added some perfidious word with- 
 out thinking of the consequences, that they might, 
 like the rest, have the appearance of being well 
 informed, and perhaps to show some disposition. 
 He became ferocious upon hearing these libels, 
 and he, like the Roman Emperor, wished that he 
 might see in that whole mass but one head that he 
 might strike it down with one fell blow. 
 
 He preserved from the first to the last the load of 
 slanders as he followed the procession, from the Rue 
 de Lille, to the church of Saint-Thomas Aquinas, 
 from Saint-Thonias Aquinas to. Pere-Lachaise, and
 
 UN MYSTERE. 197 
 
 he amassed enough anger to last him for months, 
 for years; profound anger that he hud been one of 
 them, that he like them, had judged lightly of her; 
 his only superiority being that he had never opened 
 his mouth to anyone, Andre Bolvin having vainly 
 tried to draw from him a formal avowal of his sus- 
 picions. 
 
 A young officer was remarkable for the causticity 
 of his remarks, he followed the convoy on foot, talk- 
 ing with his friends and making shockingly rude 
 remarks about Mme. de Beaurand. 
 
 " I represent my family," said he to a corpulent 
 man who followed painfully close upon the hearse 
 ascending to the cemetery, and besides I am very 
 willing to render to Mme. Montclar this slight testi- 
 mony of my esteem; she was an excellent woman, 
 worthy, and the particular friend of my mother-in- 
 law; but Mme. de Beaurand, after all the shame that 
 she has brought upon the name she bears, I hope will 
 realize that she has compromised it enough; she has 
 nothing more to do but disappear and hide in a hole." 
 
 Benoist could not resist the demon that had pur- 
 sued him for two hours. Upon the pavement, made 
 slippery by a spring shower, he^ made a mistep, 
 throwing the young officer rudely. 
 
 " Attention there," said he, with a gesture of 
 humor, continuing his way. 
 
 The convoy entered the cemetery. Benoist knew 
 well that the moment was badly chosen. He 
 waited until the inhumation was finished and when 
 the crowd had dispersed, taking the arm of one of 
 his friends whom he intuitively chose, he followed 
 close upon the steps of the young officer. A short
 
 198 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 distance from the gate, Theodore let his cane drop 
 between the legs of his unknown enemy, in a way 
 that made him almost fall. 
 
 " Awkwardness ! " said the young man, with an 
 unseemly epithet. 
 
 Their eyes crossed and the young officer under- 
 stood that it was not the result of awkwardness. 
 
 "It was you who tripped me but a short time 
 ago ? " said he. 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur," said Benoist, returning the glare. 
 
 The officer but ill retained a not pleasant expres- 
 sion ; the quarrel was entered upon ; in less than 
 half a minute notwithstanding the efforts of their 
 friends, who did not understand it, the young men 
 had exchanged cards. 
 
 "Hubert d'Aulmoye, Lieutenant of the 9th Chas- 
 seurs," said Benoist, reading it. " That will do him 
 a great deal of good. That trifler is very young. 
 They ought not to let him go alone on the streets." 
 
 " Theodore Benoist ; what can be the matter with 
 him ? " said young d'Aulmoye at the same time. 
 
 " He is a brave officer, who has passed through his 
 trials," said one of those who came up to him. 
 "You have a bad affair upon your hands, my friend." 
 
 " But, then, what is the matter with him, the 
 boor?" retorted the unconscious culprit, not without 
 some seeming truth. "He trips me, and I say noth- 
 ing to him ; he put his cane between my legs I 
 demand that which he would have demanded of me. 
 Truly it was not a matter of chance. I go to the 
 interrement of a woman, whom I do not know ; I 
 do not know that I ever saw her three times in my 
 life. My father-in-law is in the country. I am on
 
 tTN MYSTERE. 199 
 
 leave, and I have to get into an affair on account 
 of that. It is a little hard ; I don't understand it 
 at all." 
 
 No one could enlighten him. After having lost 
 themselves in conjecturing, they ended by selecting 
 witnesses. 
 
 The friend who accompanied Benoist did not yet 
 understand it. Such an affront on the part of a man 
 always recognized as being sound-minded was abso- 
 lutely inexplicable. 
 
 " Well," said Benoist, " to stop remonstrances, let 
 us say that it is a military grudge ; there are in the 
 Army certain arms that are in more or less open 
 rivalry. Suppose that I, an old dragoon, have a 
 mortal dislike for the chasseurs. That will seem 
 possible to you, will it not ?" 
 
 " Benoist," said the other, suddenly enlightened, 
 there is a woman at the bottom." 
 
 " A woman ? What an idea ! Do people fight 
 in these days for women? I tell you that he dis 
 pleases me, the fool. I assure you that is sufficient. 
 
 The seconds took a strange dislike to arranging 
 the preliminaries of the duel, but Benoist was firm 
 and d'Aulmoye hot-headed. The duel was arranged 
 for the morning of the next day, with as moderate 
 conditions as possible. 
 
 "Oh heavens!" said Theodore, philosophical^, 
 when he learned them. " I don't want to kill him, 
 the little joker! I only want to whip him. But 
 since our rules deny me that privilege, I will just 
 bleed him a little. He will bear that better." 
 
 And being assured that it was only five o'clock, 
 he determined to visit Mine, de Beaurand, to tell 
 her of the ceremony.
 
 CHAPTEB XXVII. 
 
 The bells of Saint-Thomas Aquinas were still toll- 
 ing the departure of the cortege, when Madame de 
 Beaurand heard the rustling of a dress and little feet 
 in the hall, which she well kne\v. She opened her 
 door and received in her arms her little friend Odette. 
 
 "My dear," said she, almost choking her with 
 kisses, " how is it you have succeeded in passing, not- 
 withstanding my orders ? " 
 
 " Oh, I said that you had forgotten that I was to 
 come, that it was understood between us, and here 
 I am. My poor, 'little mother' and you are an 
 orphan once more." 
 
 That word, almost childlike, touched the heart of 
 Estelle and brought tears to her eyes. They 
 remained for a moment in each other's embrace, 
 imbibing an indescribable sweetness from weeping 
 together. 
 
 At the end of a moment Odette dried her eyes, 
 and said : 
 
 " My husband follows the procession ; mamma 
 persuaded him, and he could not do otherwise. 
 Papa's in the country, that's very bad. Hubert 
 promised me that he would go to the cemetery, and 
 I I'm here. I could not stay away ; I wanted to 
 see you so much." 
 
 " Your husband is very good ; it's very kind of 
 him to do so," said Estelle. 
 
 All at once she realized that she had not received 
 either a visit or a card from M. d'Aulmoye. 
 
 200
 
 tJN MYSTERE. 
 
 "Does he know that you are here?" added she 
 with some vivacity. 
 
 The little head of Odette fell upon her dark cloth 
 jacket. 
 
 " He knows it," said she, embarrassed without 
 knowing it ; " that is to say don't look at me so, 
 Estelle ; you know that I never could fib when you 
 looked in my eyes no, he does not know it. But 
 what difference does that make? Now, that I am 
 married, I have a right to do what I please. I can not 
 enumerate to him in detail all the stores into which 
 he has taken me. Isn't that the same thing ? " 
 
 Mme. de Beaurand followed to herself the line of 
 her thought, while Odette, with a slightly feverish 
 volubility, continued explaining to her how she had 
 arranged her life, with a complete innocence, in a 
 way to act to her humor, without openly deceiving 
 her. 
 
 " My little girl," said she with a tranquil authority, 
 when her young friend had stopped out of breath, 
 '' why have you not told your husband that you 
 came to see me ? " 
 
 " Because because, listen, do you want to know 
 the truth ? He is mean. That is to say, he isn't the 
 least bit mean in the world, but he has a bad tongue. 
 O, Estelle, you can't imagine how they blackguard 
 in the regiments. O, they told some things ; some 
 things that would make you shudder, and he 
 believed all they told him ; but that don't prove that 
 he is mean ; for example, to believe like that, the 
 meanest things in the world ; anyway, we have quar- 
 reled ; it is our first quarrel. It made me awfully sad." 
 
 Upon her remembrance of this first quarrel, the
 
 202 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 tears of the young wife flowed easy and free, like 
 a May shower. Estelle smiled, absorbed in seeing 
 her cry so easily. 
 
 " O, they said something bad of me?'' said she, 
 tranquilly. 
 
 " Something horrible. You know it as well as I 
 do. He had no right to think so bad of people as 
 that. It's villainous; I told him so. Then he 
 mocked me; that made me mad. I told him that 
 he was a coward to attack a woman who had no 
 one to defend her. There, I was right, that is 
 clear, isn't it? Then he got very mad. O, awful 
 mad. You can't imagine it; and, as I scolded him, 
 he said he didn't know that I had so much haughti- 
 ness. As for me, you know if I have any pride. 
 Finally, he told me that he wouldn't permit me to 
 see you. Frankly, Estelle, judge f or yourself, if that 
 was the time to tell him that I came here." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Madame de Beaurand, squeezing 
 Odette's hand. 
 
 "No. You can speak of it in an easy tone; but if 
 you had been in my place in short, I didn't tell 
 him ; nor will I ever tell him, but I'll come and. see 
 you as often as I please." 
 
 Estelle kissed the little face tenderly; the young 
 wife seemed like a child, it was impossible to treat 
 her as a woman. Would it be possible to get into 
 that little head the notion of a duty which nobody, 
 it seemed, had taken pains to teach her? 
 
 " Listen, Odette," said she, with great tenderness, 
 "you know that I love you. I'm going to tell you 
 something. Of all the young women that I know, 
 not one has given me a single mark of sympathy.
 
 TIN MYSTERE. 203 
 
 At present, now that Madame Montclar is dead, 
 there is perhaps not a woman in the world who cares 
 anything for me, except you only. You may then 
 believe that your friendship is precious. Listen to 
 me and understand. More than your friendship, a 
 great deal more, your esteem moves me to the bot- 
 tom of my heart. You, my poor child you have an 
 honest and kind heart; you do no think of useless 
 wrong ; you have to esteem the soul that you like. 
 For that I thank you and I love you. But as for me, 
 Odette, I shall not like you if you take upon your- 
 self the habit of dissimulation to your husband's 
 face. 
 
 " Dissimulation ? " said Odette, surprised, almost 
 shuddering. 
 
 " Yes, my dear child, that is the word. Your hus- 
 band ought to know all your actions ; you have not 
 the right to hide one from him." 
 
 " Indeed, does he tell me all that he does ? Does 
 he tell me every place he has been ? When I ask 
 him he laughs." 
 
 " It isn't the same thing. You see, Odette, there 
 is no reason why you should tell him all the minute 
 details of your life, but you ought to live in such a 
 way that, if he should ask you, you should never be 
 afraid to tell him the truth." 
 
 Odette bowed her head in confusion ; the moral 
 atmosphere of her people had never let her hear 
 such austere words, perhaps, she felt that Estelle was 
 right. 
 
 "You should tell him that you came to see me," 
 continued Mme. de Beaurand. 
 
 " I never will ! " cried Odette, impetuously.
 
 204: UN MYSTERE. 
 
 | 
 
 " You should tell him, though not immediately, 
 if you don't want to, should he not speak of it. You 
 should tell him, because if he should happen to learn 
 
 i 55 
 
 " How should he learn it ? " 
 
 " I do not know ; perhaps by an indiscretion 
 of the servants. If he should come to know it, 
 it would be very humiliating for you, and then your 
 life would be poisoned, for he would no longer have 
 any confidence in you, and if that should happen, 
 you see, my child, it would almost be better for 
 you, young and charming as you are, to die that 
 very instant." 
 
 She had closed her maternal arms over the shiv- 
 ering shoulders of her "petite fille" and held her 
 smothered against her breast, while her eyes, staring 
 vacantly, remembered the bitter time when the hard 
 look of Benoist rested upon her like that of a judge. 
 
 " Confidence, Odette, is the first condition of hap- 
 piness in marriage. One may be deceived, one may 
 commit faults, but if each one is sure that the 
 other never deceives, the human errors will be only 
 the inevitable part of the cares which await us in this 
 world. And they will love each other, notwith- 
 standing the quarrels. You love him, your hus- 
 band, do you not?" 
 
 " O, yes, when he isn't mean." 
 
 " He is not mean ; he is young. He will correct 
 himself, you see. There, you'll cry no more ? Ah, 
 well, some day when he is in a good humor tell him 
 that you come to see me and that you did not intend 
 to do wrong, and that you will come no more, Odette, 
 never any more at least, not until he brings you 
 here himself."
 
 UN MYSTERE. 205 
 
 " Then you don't want to see me any more ? " said 
 the young woman, starting with surprise. 
 
 " I deprive myself of my only joy," answered 
 Estelle, squeezing the two hands persuasively, " but 
 it is my duty, my child, the same as it is yours." 
 
 Odette looked into the eyes of her "petite mere" 
 and read there so much resignation, so much sacri- 
 fice that her soul was stirred. A nobleness that she 
 had never suspected revealed itself to her for the 
 first time, causing in her respect which resembled 
 fear. She submitted with no more resistance. 
 
 " You're going to detest my husband," said she, 
 with some shame for having spoken ill of him. 
 
 "No," answered Estelle, with calmness, which 
 made her kindness sweet and imposing. " I have 
 not the least animosity for him. And now, my 
 child, you had better go home, that he may not be 
 angry at your absence. Go, but I love you ever so 
 much. It is because I love you that I send you 
 away." 
 
 " I can't see you any more ? " said Odette, almost 
 suffocated with tears. 
 
 "Perhaps; but what's the difference, since you 
 know that I love you ? " 
 
 " But I will write to you." 
 
 " No, you would then have to deceive in your let- 
 ters. Nothing that would be better." 
 
 The child passed her arm around the neck of her 
 friend and sobbed. 
 
 " My friend, my 'little mother,' adieu." 
 
 " Au revoir, my dear." 
 
 She led Odette, who was choked with tears, to the 
 great staircase, and watched her descend, so slight,
 
 206 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 so delicate, so little a woman, so little prepared for 
 the struggles of life. Their eyes met once again in 
 a kindly look, and the door closed upon the last lady 
 friend of Estelle. 
 
 Mme. de Beaurand returned to her room and 
 seated herself, her hands clasped over her knees, 
 thinking of a thousand sad things, of the death, of 
 the renunciation of a long life devoid of happiness. 
 But she was not sad, for there was to her an invisi- 
 ble star whose rays she felt. 
 
 A little after six o'clock, Benoist came. She was 
 surprised to find him so restless, so occupied. He 
 who was ordinarily grave and easy going. After he 
 had told her in two words that nothing had troubled 
 the obsequies, he in his turn questioned. 
 
 "Well, have you seen anybody?" 
 
 " The truth is I did receive one visitor," answered 
 Estelle with a half smile. "I have yet one friend, 
 notwithstanding all, a companion of my childhood 
 Mile, de Polrey. To-day Madame D'Aulmoye." 
 
 " D'Aulmoye," repeated Benoist, thinking that he 
 had misunderstood. 
 
 " Madame Hubert D'Aulmoye. Her husband was 
 a Lieutenant of the Eleventh Hussars, but he has 
 been re-stationed and has come to Paris." 
 
 Benoist became very serious. 
 
 " You said that the wife of this Monsieur is your 
 friend?" said he, without raising his eyes. 
 
 " I think so, the poor child, she has come twice in 
 secret to see me. She has faith in me ; but it is she 
 only. I told her not to return you understand ? 
 She has been married a few months, her husband is 
 Jjke. the rest j he has no reason for liking me, as for
 
 UN MYSTERE. 207 
 
 her she is young, hardly eighteen ; she commences 
 life she will have to be careful of herself, since she 
 has the good luck to love her husband." 
 
 " She loves him ? " asked Benoist. 
 
 " Yes, she loves him and he loves her ; it was a 
 marriage of love. Poor child, for the compassion 
 she has borne me, for her chivalrous devotion, I wish 
 that the day would come when I could return it to 
 her. At present, I have rendered the only service 
 in my power; I told her not to return. She still 
 calls me her 'little mother' in remembrance of the 
 convent; she touches me I assure you." 
 
 " Then you interest yourself very much in her?" 
 insisted Benoist. 
 
 " As much as though she belonged to me, a daughter 
 or a sister. Why ? " 
 
 " O, I wanted to know. The number of those 
 whom you love seem to be restricted enough to be 
 seriously interesting." 
 
 " Is it not ? " asked she with a half smile so seduc- 
 tive, so sympathetic, that Benoist lost his coolness. 
 
 " I think I shall go," said he, " I am fatigued. 
 Will you give me your hand? " 
 
 She presented her beautiful open hand ; he placed 
 it in his own and she affectionately placed her left 
 hand upon it. 
 
 " Good evening," said she, " and I thank you. For 
 all that you have done for me, thanks." 
 
 He respectfully kissed one after the other, the two 
 hands and went out, his mind greatly troubled.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 Theodore was not content with himself ; the very 
 lively pleasure which he had found in provoking the 
 young lieutenant annoyed him under the certitude 
 that Mme. de Beaurand would be saddened to know 
 that he had wounded the husband of her little friend. 
 But then, how could he now prevent it ? Had not a 
 distressing concurrence of events made him address 
 precisely the only man whom he could not hurt with- 
 out regetting it. The affair was too far gone to 
 stop it now and, besides at the remembrance of the 
 words pronounced by the imprudent chasseur, Be- 
 noist felt his blood boil, his good sense told him 
 repeatedly that he had been extremely imprudent, 
 but his anger made him tremble with impatience. 
 
 The quarrel was so ridiculously incomprehensible 
 that the public and the first witnesses sought for a 
 more serious motive to explain it. 
 
 What difference did it make if the name of Estelle 
 was pronounced ? The young man had only said 
 that which the}* themselves thought. 
 
 Another care harrassed him. Mme. de Beaurand 
 ought not to know that he had fought for her. 
 Would she not mistake him either for a fool or a 
 brute for having provoked an unknown individual in 
 that way ? 
 
 " It was said," thought Benoist sadly, " that face 
 to face with her I would settle myself 'in a way to 
 commit nothing but folly." 
 
 The morning came, he dressed himself to go and 
 
 208
 
 UN MYSTEKE. 209 
 
 meet his adversary in a park which a friend had 
 obligingly placed at their disposition. The morn- 
 ing was exquisite; one of those fine fogs, which 
 announce beautiful days, floated over Paris, climb- 
 ing the hill of Yille d'Avray, blurring the precise 
 lines of the monuments, softening the colors of the 
 masses of verdure and giving to the immense fields 
 of stone, the softness of marine horizons. 
 
 "I can not slash that fellow" thought Benoist, 
 " his little wife would hate me, would think horribly 
 of me. And Mine, de Beaurand would not be 
 pleased. I shall have to let myself be bled like a 
 chicken. My only hope is that he will not be too 
 awkward, for if he should be he might be capable of 
 unintentionally running me through. Such a misera- 
 ble adventure ! " 
 
 He thought of his mother, who at that time was 
 probably opening her eyes to the g?ad sun of spring- 1 
 time; he could see her at the window looking over 
 the wonderful valley extending at her feet, her eyes 
 shaded with her hand, looking at the vines upon the 
 hillside, unfolding their little, white, cottony leaves. 
 
 "My poor, dear mother," said he to himself, "if 
 she only knew what a fool her son had shown him- 
 self to be, would she not be angry ? And I would 
 merit it. Let me, however, look to it that he does 
 not care for me." 
 
 Young D'Aulmoye contrarily was burning with a 
 most war-like disposition. Upon entering his house 
 the evening before, much warmed by the prepara- 
 tions for his duel, he had not remarked, happily for 
 her, the red eyes and the embarrassed manners of 
 his wife.
 
 210 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 Upon leaving Estelle, she was so much impressed 
 \viih her duty that she would have made her confes- 
 sion immediately ; she was prepared with a great 
 effort of courage to admit her first and second visits, 
 being well decided to make the grandeur of the soul 
 of her friend apparent. She hoped to be able to 
 make her husband know the magnanimity of her 
 misknown character, and her little imagination could 
 already see him crossing the threshold of the hotel 
 de Beaurand with her upon his arm, repenting and 
 confused, ready to demand and to obtain her pardon. 
 
 The Lieutenant, who was naturally jolly, entered 
 the house that day, however, with extreme ill-humor. 
 After his first word she felt that he could not deceive 
 his wife, whom he adored, and remarked that it was 
 caused by grave re-occupations in the service. Im- 
 mediately after dinner, he shut himself in his room, 
 with a roll of charts brought from the armory, and 
 announced that he had some work to do for the min- 
 ister, and that he would have to work all night as 
 the charts had to be returned at six o'clock in the 
 morning of the next day. 
 
 The seeming untruth of this statement did not shock 
 Odette, she was too much troubled herself to not 
 appreciate the happy chance afforded her to defer 
 her avowal; she kissed her husband tenderly, hoping 
 that he would not fatigue himself. 
 
 "After all," said she to him, " it is not as hard as 
 to dance until 1 o'clock in the morning." 
 
 Perfectly reassured on his part, the young Lieuten- 
 ant was not the less angry at the unknown man 
 whose singular aggression brought him a disagree- 
 able night under the shade of the emotions insepara- 
 ble from a duel. He had fought two or three times
 
 UN MYSTEEE. 211 
 
 and did not take the affair tragically, but he took it 
 seriously and that put him in a very disagreeable 
 humor. It was upon inquiring, as he ought to about 
 him with whom he was about to cross his steel, that 
 he learned that not only was he a gentleman, but 
 that he was also an old friend of Beaurand; that gave 
 him some satisfaction, but it was not sufficient to 
 quiet him. An unqualified aggression in a place as 
 sacred as Pere-Lachaise had provoked in him, with- 
 out calming his anger, an eruption of phrases entirely 
 of that class which modern language irreverently 
 places under the designation of stereotyped. He 
 presented himself upon the ground Avith the firm 
 intentionjof giving a rude lesson to his adversary. 
 
 The sword was the weapon chosen and that per- 
 mitted Benoist to hope for a pleasing success ; he 
 perceived immediately that d'Aulmoye had no inten- 
 tions of sparing him. More disgusted with himself 
 than he could have believed, he defended himself as 
 best he could, trying not to wound his furious enemy, 
 and that was not easy. 
 
 The young Lieutenant was not sufficiently master 
 of himself to perceive the intentions of Theodore and 
 that saved him from a cruel \voun4 to his self-esteem ; 
 he was soon fatigued having fought too fast ; at the 
 end of a few moments he could not see clearly. A 
 terrible thrust which would have pierced the breast 
 of Benoist, through and through, passed between 
 his arm and his body, only scratching the skin of 
 his right wrist. D'Aulmoye was completely at the 
 mercy of his adversary, who contented himself with 
 throwing up his sword and stopping. 
 
 The duel was terminated before the Lieutenant,
 
 212 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 dazed by the adventure, comprehended the situation. 
 As he was neither a fool nor mean, he felt a real 
 consideration for the man who, so furiously attacked, 
 had courteously spared his life. They shook hands, 
 the most cordially in the world, and each one went 
 his way. 
 
 The scratch Benoist had received amounted to 
 nothing ; he however, had it slightly dressed, then 
 waited for his carriage with his seconds ; the almost 
 unavoidable dinner was eluded by common accord, 
 and soon he found himself at his own home, free to 
 meditate at his leisure. 
 
 Hardly ten o'clock ! Madame Benoist was going 
 through her vineyard under the grand sun which 
 could not but tan her fine skin ; she went with slow 
 steps, stopping here or there to look at the young 
 buds and thinking, surely, of her son, for the excel- 
 lent w r oman found opportunity to mix the thought 
 of her son in all her occupations. 
 
 " Dear mother, continue to inspect the vines, your 
 son sends you a tender remembrance. He is pleased 
 with himself this morning ; be also pleased without 
 knowing why ; that his deep delight surrounds you 
 during all this day with an atmosphere of peace; 
 this evening, upon retiring, when you think of him, 
 say of him: * My good Theodore. ' for he merits it." 
 
 Theodore was satisfied. After a slight breakfast, 
 he lay down upon the lounge and thought satisfiedly 
 of the pleasure which the little Madame d'Aulmoye 
 would experience ; he imagined the arrival of the 
 Lieutenant at his home ; very sure that he would be 
 unable to keep himself still and the young wife 
 would soon learn of the happening. The chasseur
 
 UN MYSTEKE. 213 
 
 was an honest fellow and Benoist knew he would do 
 him justice. 
 
 That thought made him very comfortable and he 
 tried to draw enough consolation from it to compen- 
 sate for his being unable to go to see Estelle that 
 day, or upon the day following. "When should he 
 be able to see her ? 
 
 She was going to Saumeray, the next day, perhaps, 
 and without forbidding him, she had not asked 
 him to come and see her. Besides, was it not, in 
 fact, impossible? What excuse could he have for 
 presenting himself at her home, so far from Paris ? 
 
 Then, was he to pass weeks, perhaps months, 
 without seeing her, without speaking to her, with- 
 out writing to her ? 
 
 At that idea, Benoist bounded from the sofa and 
 found himself standing before his writing-desk. He 
 was going to ask permission of her to see her once 
 again, and then he would oblige her to send him an 
 answer. After all, was it not absurd that that 
 woman, so good, so beautiful, so worthy of all 
 regard, was condemned to isolation by the conven- 
 tionality of a world which put her outside its laws? 
 
 His enthusiasm suddenly fell, 'the words of his 
 brother came to his mind. 
 
 "I would accept her as a daughter with pleasure," 
 the old lady had said, " provided that you may be 
 able to prove that she has been merely calumnied." 
 
 "Prove," and by what means? 
 
 A sort of rage seized the young man at the idea 
 that Estelle for more than a year had been strug- 
 gling in that net. Until then, absorbed by his own 
 sentiments, he had not thought of those which the
 
 214: TIN MYSTERE. 
 
 poor woman might experience ; a sudden intuition 
 disclosed to him a long martyrdom -which she had 
 patiently endured, the wounds which she had borne, 
 the anguish which had torn her. 
 
 " And she found means to think of others,- ' cried 
 he, in a loud voice, in the excess of his emotion. 
 "And she is good. She excuses, she pardons. Ah, 
 chere, ah sainte! And what a wretch I am compared 
 with her." 
 
 He opened the secret drawer of his writing desk 
 and took the portfolio in which he kept the most 
 important papers. In a separate pocket lay the 
 envelope, he placed it before him, he examined it 
 with a sort of fear. 
 
 "Why had he kept it so long ? What if it were only 
 a scrap of useless paper, and if so, why should he 
 care for it? While he looked at it, or merely 
 thought of it, a procession of bloody pictures rose 
 before him, breaking his repose. Possibly, it was 
 the true key to the mystery ; in that case Mine, de 
 Beaurand should possess it. 
 
 He would send it immediately to Estelle, that same 
 day, and if she could find in it no clue they would 
 destroy it together, and thus cease to think of it. 
 Now he was sure, very sure, that she would pardon 
 all doubts, all suspicions, all that had on account of 
 him, saddened her existence. And, even before hav- 
 ing confessed his fault, he felt that she had already 
 pardoned him. 
 
 He awaited the evening feverishly, and about 
 nine o'clock he went to the hotel de Beaurand,
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 At the name of Benoist, Estelle ordinarily so 
 reserved, gave forth an exclamation of joy and arose 
 quickly. The door was closed, they were alone, she 
 took two steps toward him and then stopped, her 
 hands clasped before her. 
 
 " Ah," she said in a deep voice, " I am pleased to 
 see you. I was going to write you. You are good, 
 you are generous. Yes, you are good." 
 
 He remained standing silently, fascinated; she 
 came to him and touched with her delicate hand the 
 little band of linen which bound the wrist of the 
 young man, passing slightly beyond his glove. 
 
 " You have allowed yourself to be wounded," said 
 she, " for me. For me first, and then because 1 love 
 Odette. O, say nothing, I understand it all. I divined 
 it." 
 
 " But who told you ? " Benoist commenced. 
 
 She pointed to a lauge evening paper, spread upon 
 the table. 
 
 " There, in the latest news. Tell the truth, is it 
 for me that you fought ? The poor fellow said some 
 unkind words." 
 
 Not knowing what to answer, Theodore kept 
 silent without removing his eyes from the beautiful 
 face, animated with a passionate expression, more 
 beautiful than he had ever seen it before. 
 
 "Does he know that it was for me?" continued 
 Estelle. 
 
 " No," said he, briefly; " I don't think he does." 
 
 216
 
 216 tJN MYSTERE. 
 
 "And you were the better. You could have 
 killed him. I read between the lines, that is enough. 
 They speak of your courteousness." 
 
 Benoist seized the paper and read the lines of the 
 latest news. 
 
 " It is one of his friends," said he, " or himself, who 
 wrote that. The fool." 
 
 "It is well done, I am pleased with it." 
 
 Estelle's eyes burned with an extraordinary flame ; 
 her half-opened lips smiled, agitated by an imper- 
 ceptible trembling. Benoist seized her hands. 
 
 "And I," said he, "I am happy. Yes, I wanted 
 to fight with that ninny, because he spoke ill of 
 you, like the big baby that he is ; yes, I defeated 
 him in order that his wife might not weep, not shed 
 a tear. She whom you love and who loves you. 
 Yes, I received a scratch which doesn't amount to 
 as much as they say ; all that is true. But I did all 
 that because I love you, you understand, I love you, 
 and I want you to be my wife ; we should see then 
 if any one dare attack you. Tell me, Mme. de 
 Beaurand, would you be simply Mme. Benoist ? " 
 
 " Yes," said she, looking at him with a perfect, 
 an absolute confidence. 
 
 He pressed closer the hand which he held, re- 
 mained motionless, saying nothing ; they looked, 
 transported, into each other's eyes, and they were 
 conscious of nothing else than their own happiness. 
 Suddenly Estelle disengaged herself. 
 
 " Yes," she repeated, " but not till the light has 
 come. Otherwise, never. I would enter your house 
 without stain." 
 
 He took from his pocket the envelope and placed 
 it before her upon the table.
 
 UN MYST^KE. 217 
 
 "What is that?" she asked, astonished. 
 
 "It is the envelope that contained the letter, 
 you know." 
 
 She looked from the envelope at Benoist, and 
 from him at the envelope, not understanding. 
 
 "The letter has disappeared, the envelope re- 
 mains. Look at it well, study it ; the happiness of 
 our life is perhaps in that. Try." 
 
 She trembled, seized by a strange emotion; he 
 brought a chair and seated himself close to her, 
 within the circle of light thrown by the reflector of 
 the lamp. 
 
 " Be not afraid," said he to her, seeing that she 
 was affected ; " you have been so brave until now." 
 
 " It was because until now I was fighting for 
 myself alone. Now I am afraid." 
 
 " Of what ? " 
 
 " Of not succeeding in the search. I am afraid to 
 look at that paper. What if I should see nothing 
 in it?" 
 
 " Well, we should search elsewhere. Have cour- 
 age; look! See in the corner the post-mark of 
 Laval. Does that say nothing to you ? " 
 
 She shook her head negatively. , 
 
 " Then examine the writing. Take it easily, don't 
 agitate yourself, be calm." 
 
 She leaned over the paper and looked at it 
 attentively. 
 
 " You do not recognize the writing ? " 
 
 After a silence she repeated the same discouraged 
 gesture. 
 
 " You have never had in your service any domes- 
 tic, or any woman who would wish you ill ? It is
 
 218 UN MYSTEKE. 
 
 the hand-writing of a domestic or of a countryman, 
 a servant perhaps." 
 
 Estelle took the envelope in both hands with a 
 kind of timidity and brought it closer to her. 
 
 " A servant ? " ransacking her memory " No. 
 At Mme. de Polrey's I had a maid who could neither 
 read nor write." 
 
 "That is not a reason, and before that?" 
 
 " Before that I was in the convent." 
 
 She remained silent, reviewing the course of the 
 years gone by. All at once she trembled from head 
 to foot. He looked at her without daring to 
 question her ; she remained undecided for a moment, 
 then she rose and ran to her writing-desk. 
 
 She dug to the bottom of the drawer which held 
 the old relics of her childhood, and returned with a 
 petit paroissien of red morocco, worn bare at the 
 corners. The interior was filled with yellow, half- 
 destroyed pictures of sanctity; the lace paper which 
 surrounded them fell into dust as she turned the 
 leaves of the book; she stopped over a picture 
 ornamented with a silver wafer, and removed it. 
 
 The picture represented a kneeling saint, clothed 
 in a monastic costume, with her eyes raised toward 
 heaven ; below, printed in small capitals, was "Saintc 
 Rosalie." Behind the deformed and uncertain 
 writing were traced the following words. "A sa 
 petite Estelle Brunaire, Rosalie Ferel" (To little 
 Estelle Brunaire, Rosalie Ferel.) 
 
 "Rosalie," said the young woman, who had re- 
 covered her calmness. " It was Rosalie. I would 
 have hesitated to believe it." 
 
 An expression of bitterness passed over the beauti- 
 ful, thoughtful face.
 
 UN MYSTERE. 219 
 
 "Kosalie?" asked Benoist. 
 
 "The waiting-maid of my mother. I am sure, 
 absolutely sure, it is her v/riting ; besides, doubt is 
 not possible, look at the odd form of the B. I have 
 never seen anybody else who made a B in that 
 way." 
 
 Truly, the similarity of the B of Beaurand and 
 that of Brunaire was absolute ; nobody else would 
 have been able to make such extraordinary flour- 
 ishes as those which formed that consonant ; it was 
 the work of an inexperienced person who repeated 
 thus, in this way, the form of calligraphy which had 
 been taught her in her childhood. 
 
 " Rosalie, lives then, at Laval ? " asked Benoist, 
 his heart crushed and his respiration short. 
 
 " Laval ? No, she was at Vitre, in Brittany." 
 
 " Where is Vitre?" 
 
 " Very near Laval. She could have given a letter 
 to some one to post there ; I understand now ; but 
 why should she have written ? " 
 
 She remained perplexed, her head upon her hands, 
 plunged in meditation. 
 
 " She never loved me," said she, at last, " she 
 never loved me. However, she w"as an honest girl, 
 incapable of slander or cowardice; I think so, at 
 least. It seems frightful and a little foolish. But I 
 was so little." 
 
 " Do you believe that she would have calumnied 
 you to such an extent as to cause this misfortune ? " 
 
 Estelle reflected an instant. 
 
 " No," said she, " she would not have calumnied 
 me, she was strangely afraid of Hell ; she feared 
 sin more than death. She would not, voluntarily, 
 have committed such a sin,"
 
 220 UN MYSTEKE. 
 
 All at once; the young woman remembered the 
 strange apparition at Coutance. 
 
 " It was she, I am sure now, it was she, and she 
 recognized me. She had upon her face an expression 
 which I shall never forget, an expression of the 
 damned, who implore 
 
 In a few words she told Benoist of her visit to 
 the cathedral, and the impression she had received 
 from that country-woman clothed in mourning, so 
 singularly struck at sight of her, so mysteriously, 
 quickly disappeared. 
 
 "My friend," said she, in closing, " it is Rosalie 
 who wrote that letter. We must find Rosalie. 
 Whether she has calumnied me or net, it is she who 
 is the cause of the death of M. de Beaurand." 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 Who of us, struck by a catastrophe, would not 
 turn with infinite pleasure to discovering the cause 
 of the misfortune which it had heaped upon us? 
 Estelle trembled, in thinking that the death of Ray- 
 mond had brought so many sorrows into her life; 
 would her misfortune to-day become more aggra- 
 vated, or would the future become clear for her, 
 even become splendid under a happy and grand 
 love? 
 
 " Since it is thus," said Benoist, who had followed 
 upon the serious face of the young woman her 
 thoughts, which were now so clear, " and since it 
 has appeared to be so dark, and we ought to learn 
 it, we shall have to find Rosalie, at any price, and 
 make her confess." 
 
 "Would she speak?" asked Estelle; "she is a 
 strange girl. It might be that she would refuse
 
 UN HYSTERE. 221 
 
 absolutely to tell me that which she has confided to 
 the dead." 
 
 u In that case, one would find means to intimi- 
 date her," said Benoist, thinking of Andre Bolvin. 
 It is averred that a letter written by her was the 
 cause of the death of M. de Beaurand ; if she re 
 fuses to inform us of it of her own free will, we 
 shall have recourse to justice." 
 
 " Justice ? " repeated Estelle. " The noise would 
 awaken around that tomb a scandal, my name and 
 my person would again be raised to public curiosity. 
 Ah, my friend, have I not already suffered enough ? 
 Spare me, I pray you, this new bitterness." 
 
 " However," insisted Benoist, " in order to wash 
 away all calumny, a certain publicity is necessary." 
 
 " We shall see, we shall see. While waiting, I 
 beg of you guard the secret of our success. We 
 will work alone, and if anything horrible be re- 
 vealed let us be, if possible, alone in the knowl- 
 edge of it. If you only knew how much I am 
 afraid of all things at present ! I hope for but one 
 thing, and that is that I shall be no more in their 
 minds." 
 
 " That will not be difficult," sai(J the young man, 
 smiling, " but we shall see later. Then, you are 
 going to Vitre ? " 
 
 "You will come with me," answered she, without 
 the least embarrassment. "I can not undertake 
 such a venture alone, and who will aid me, if not 
 you ? We shall leave to-morrow morning." 
 
 " You desire it ? Have you foreseen the conse- 
 quences ? " 
 
 Estelle indicated with a sign of her band that 
 she had thought it all over.
 
 222 
 
 UN MYSTEBE. 
 
 "Then you will go alone; I will go this evening 
 in an hour. You will iind me at Vitre to-morrow 
 afternoon ; I will meet you at the station." 
 
 She looked at him regretfully ; certainly she 
 would have preferred not being separated from him, 
 she was so strong and assured in his presence. But 
 she felt that he was right. 
 
 " To-morrow," said she, taking his hand. 
 
 " Bring the picture and the envelope," the young 
 man advised as he left. 
 
 She did not close her eyes for a minute during 
 that long night. The morning of the next day, 
 under pretext of going to Saumeray, she was taken 
 to the railway, and at three o'clock, upon the plat- 
 form of the station of Vitre, she perceived Theo- 
 dore, who awaited her.
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Independent of the particular emotion which agi- 
 tated her, it was a strange and new feeling for 
 Estelle to find herself alone with a man, far from 
 Paris, far from all with which she was familiar. 
 Her first emotion was, however, one of pleasure. 
 "While in the car, since morning, she had felt so 
 heavily the weight of solitude that the sight of her 
 friend gave her extreme pleasure. 
 
 He took her immediately to the little hotel, old 
 and odd, but of a scrupulous cleanliness, situated 
 opposite the station, and they went to the second 
 floor by an obscure stairway. She entered the clear 
 and joyous room, into which he followed her. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said he to her, "for not 
 being able to offer you a salon. There are none in 
 Yitre where I could receive you." 
 
 She smiled without embarrassment ; the beautiful 
 room of the inn, with its armoire d glace and its 
 round table of mahogany, did not seem to her in the 
 least to resemble a bed-chamber; the bed itself, 
 high and massive, was draped with blue India cal- 
 ico, with flowered designs which brought to her im- 
 mediately an idea of a monument such as she had 
 never before known. 
 
 She seated herself in the only arm chair in the 
 room, and he drew a straw chair in front of her, on 
 the other side of the table. 
 
 " Arriving this morning at a very early hour," 
 said he, " I have already spoken to the authorities, 
 and I fear that Rosalie is not at Yitre."
 
 224 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 The animation in the features of Estelle disap- 
 peared, and was replaced by a pallor which scared 
 Benoist. 
 
 " But we shall be able, at least, to get track of 
 her," he hastened to add. " She has lived here, they 
 told me ; but I have not had enough time to find out 
 when she left, if so much as that she is not here." 
 
 " It is something to be certain of that," said 
 Estelle, recovering courage. 
 
 " Well, if you wish, we will go to a house which 
 they have pointed out to me, where there is a woman 
 who knows her, and who is even a relation of her, 
 I believe." 
 
 " Immediately," answered the young woman, 
 rising. 
 
 They went together down the hilly streets of the 
 little, aged town, which was so pretty with its 
 antique houses under the porches upon the side of 
 the street. At the windows early geraniums, rose 
 bushes laden with flowers, served as curtains to 
 guarantee against curiosity the women who were 
 seated with their work in their hands, as one sees 
 them in the old Dutch pictures. 
 
 Estelle looked to the right and to the left into the 
 houses, trying to find the features of Rosalie, who, 
 during the night which she had passed without 
 sleep, had been urged upon her memory with a sur- 
 prising distinctness. From time to time a face 
 attracted her attention, causing her to stop quickly; 
 the placid face of a Bretonne would then turn toward 
 her, questioning with curiosity the face and the cos- 
 tume of the pretty Parisienne, who would pass, 
 bowing her head slightly, as though, intimidated.
 
 UN MYSTERE. 225 
 
 Thus they arrived at the church of Notre Dame, 
 with its elegant exterior pulpit, then they turned the 
 corner and entered a narrow court, with a moss- 
 covered pavement. Theodore opened a door and 
 Estelle found herself in a large and high hall, 
 superb remains of the Renaissance. 
 
 The rosy flesh of newly killed pigs hung near the 
 window, looking delicious; under the mantel of the 
 fireplace, which was as elegantly carved as a jewel 
 of a goldsmith, but the delicate details of which were 
 covered by numerous coats of dirt and smoke, an 
 old lady was seated upon a stool, trying to warm 
 her bony and wrinkled hands with the imaginary 
 heat of some chilled coals. Upon seeing this man of 
 state! v height and that elegant woman cross the 
 
 / O O 
 
 threshold, she fixed upon them eyes that were almost 
 blinded and of a pale green color. Estelle thought 
 of the Fates who held in their hands the destiny of 
 mankind. 
 
 " Pardon me, Madame," said she, understanding 
 that her voice would be less disqueting to the old 
 woman than that of her companion, "are you 
 not related to Rosalie Ferel?" 
 
 The okl woman moved her weak' eyes from one to 
 the other, and at last rested them upon Estelle, but 
 <li<l not answer. A pork-dealer, a large man, came 
 from the next room and answered the question. 
 
 " Rosalie was the waiting-maid at my mother's 
 house," said Estelle, not without slight embarrass- 
 ment ; habituated to act in all frankness, she suffered 
 upon trying to hide a part of the truth. "I would 
 like to see her; I have something to say to her." 
 
 " Rosalie was waiting-maid with Mme. Brunaire,"
 
 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 caid the old woman, immediately, who seemed not 
 to have understood or heard. " Mme. Brunaire," 
 she repeated, with emphasis. 
 
 " She was my mother," replied Mme. de Beaurand, 
 softly ; " she has been dead 
 
 " O ! a long time," said the good woman, decis- 
 ively, without removing her eyes. "It isn't for her 
 that you are wearing mourning ? " 
 
 " It is for my aunt," said Estelle, who did not dare 
 to look at Benoist. She felt that, accompanied by a 
 man, it would be impossible for her to declare her- 
 self a widow. 
 
 Happily the old Fate did not disturb herself about 
 that, taking them for husband and wife. 
 
 "You are the little Brunaire," said she, still 
 motionless. " But then what do you want of .Rosa- 
 lie?" 
 
 " Say it is to give her some money," murmured 
 Benoist, in English in the ear of his companion. 
 
 She threw a look of distress at him; he under- 
 stood that she could not forge a story and main- 
 tain it. 
 
 " Madame," said he, " is of age and in possession 
 of her fortune. She would like to do something for 
 the old waiting-maid of her mother." 
 
 " Ah," said the old woman, whose eyes left Estelle 
 and fixed themselves upon the young man. 
 
 " And for that," he continued, " we would like to 
 know where Eosalie lives. Did she not live in 
 Vitr6?" 
 
 " Yes," answered the large man, " but it is five 
 years since she went away." 
 
 Estelle and Benoist exchanged a look.
 
 UN MYSTERE. 227 
 
 " Has she gone to Laval," asked the young woman, 
 quickly. 
 
 The man threw a look of astonishment at her. 
 
 "Laval; no, why? I don't believe that during her 
 life, she ever put her foot in Laval." 
 
 Estelle felt her heart fail her. Theodore went to 
 her and slightly grazed her dress to make her under- 
 stand that he was there and that she should not 
 lose courage. 
 
 " But you go there, do you not ? " said she to the 
 man, smiling. 
 
 The pork-dealer laughed aloud. 
 
 " I," said he, " I go there to buy my hogs when 
 there is a fair. Yes, surely, I go there." 
 
 " There was a fair there but a short time ago. Did 
 these pigs come from Laval ? " 
 
 "No, Monsieur, I bought these here," said the 
 man, flattered to find a Parisian interested in his 
 business. " I sold those from Laval last week. The 
 fair is held upon the first Monday of the month." 
 
 The light came quickly to Estelle's eyes, she was 
 married upon Tuesday, and then the letter must 
 have been put into the post at Laval, upon Monday, 
 by the pork-dealer. 
 
 " Did she remain here long last year," asked she, 
 entering into the spirit of the examination. 
 
 "Indeed, no," replied the large man, willingly, 
 " she came upon the last day of April to stay a little 
 while, and then I clo not know where she went, she 
 went away at the end of a we@k just as I returned 
 from the fair." 
 
 * You put her letter in the post ?" said Benoist, 
 affected, notwithstanding himself. " YOU Ijave ngt; 
 forgotten? '>
 
 228 UN HYSTERE. 
 
 " Surely I have not forgotten." 
 
 " Do you know to whom it was addressed?" con- 
 tinued the young man, whose throat was dry from 
 emotion. 
 
 " Well no, Monsieur, since I can neither read nor 
 write." 
 
 Benoist took a long breath. 
 
 In order to shelter herself from the eyes of the 
 old lady, Estelle went to the mantel-piece, which she 
 feigned to examine with much attention. 
 
 " It is a beautiful mantel," said the pork-dealer, 
 " and a great many people come to see it." 
 
 Estelle, in order to recover herself, followed with 
 her fingers, the elegant sinuosities of a stone arabes- 
 que; her heart beat so loud for a few moments that 
 she was afraid that she would be unable to hear any- 
 thing. 
 
 " Rosalie was born in this house, was shenot?'> 
 asked Benoist. 
 
 " No Monsieur, it was not here, since her mother 
 came here when she was still very young." 
 
 "Where did she come from ? " 
 
 " From Mont-Saint-Michel, Monsieur." 
 
 " I thought she was always going to live here," 
 said Estelle, almost shivering. 
 
 " She returned after the death of her mistress, but 
 she is worried. I do not know about what and she 
 went away. 
 
 "Where?" asked Benoist, who believed that the 
 visible emotion of his companion would inspire sus- 
 picion in the old woman. 
 
 "For many places, Monsieur, if Madame will 
 remember, she was an odd girl, with an extraordinary
 
 UN MYSTERE. 229 
 
 character. She had an idea of making pilgrimages 
 and I imagine that she has gone to visit several of 
 the churches." 
 
 "But now, where do you think she could be found? 
 We would like to give her that which belongs to her 
 without waiting for her. " 
 
 " This is no affair of mine, " said the pork-dealer, 
 with embarrassment. " Say, mother, do you know ?" 
 
 The Fate extended her arms toward Estelle, who 
 leaned against the mantel-piece, almost fainting. 
 
 " Then it is true that you are the little Brunaire ?" 
 said she, fixing upon the young woman her dead 
 eyes, full of the deep suspicion of a country woman. 
 
 " It is true ? " said Estelle, with the accent of one 
 who is sincere. 
 
 " Swear to it, " insisted the old woman, in a sharp 
 tone "In the name of the Father, Son and Holy 
 Ghost. " 
 
 "I swear," said Estelle, repeating the formula. 
 
 The Fate made a sign and fixed upon her a look 
 which pierced her like an arrow, a look which seemed 
 fantastic in her dull eyes. 
 
 " Show her the picture, " said Benoist softly. 
 
 The young woman sought in .the little morocco 
 sack, from which she had not been separated, since 
 the evening before, and drew from it the missal. 
 She opened it and gave to the good woman, the 
 picture of Saint Rosalie, saying : 
 
 " She wrote my name here, herself. " 
 
 The old woman and her son examined the picture 
 with evident respect, turning it over and over in their 
 awkward but kindly hands. At last the pork-dealer 
 gave it to Estelle.
 
 230 UN MYSTEEE. 
 
 " We cannot read, " said he, " but very surely it is 
 Rosalie, since you say so. That is enough. " 
 
 The old woman was mollified. 
 
 " If it was only to trouble Rosalie, you see, " said 
 she, " I would not let you know where she is. She 
 is a little feeble-minded, but she is not bad. Rosalie 
 ought to be at Mont-Saint-Michel, in the old house 
 of her grandmother, which she inherited a short time 
 ago. You might write to her. It is immediately 
 in front of the parish church. Saint-Michel is a long 
 ways from here. " 
 
 Benoist took the liberty of taking Estelle's arm and 
 passing it through his own, for he was afraid she 
 would fall. 
 
 "We thank you very much, Madame and Mon- 
 sieur, " said he. " We hope you will excuse us and 
 we wish you both good afternoon. " 
 
 The pork-dealer, slightly astonished at seeing the 
 conversation terminated so abruptly, conducted them 
 to the street and followed them with his eyes to the 
 first corner. 
 
 When they were out of sight, Theodore looked at 
 Estelle, who allowed herself to be led like a child. 
 
 'You are trembling violently," said he to her, 
 with an extreme kindness, " but we must go on for 
 they are looking at us." 
 
 She went silently to the hotel, which happily was 
 not far distant, and there in the blue room she let 
 herself fall into the arm chair, completely exhausted. 
 
 " You have need of rest, " said he, making a move' 
 ment to leave her. 
 
 She looked at him with supreme energy. 
 
 will leave for JMont-Saint-Michel, " said she.
 
 TIN MYSTRE. 231 
 
 "at this same instant, if there is a train, that they 
 may not have time to warn Rosalia so she may escape. 
 I am sure now that she has done something horrible, 
 and I can not sleep until I have found it out. " 
 
 " So be it," said Benoist, simply, as he went out to 
 prepare for their departure.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 In the twilight the train carried Estelle and her 
 friend alone in their apartment of the first class; 
 alone, really alone for the first time, since they knew 
 of their reciprocated love. 
 
 They were seated ms-d-ms; the young woman 
 leaned her head back against the cushions trying to 
 sleep ; at the end of a few moments she opened her 
 eyes and met the eyes of Theodore fixed upon her 
 with a tenderness which touched her heart. 
 
 She tried to speak to him but the sound of the mov- 
 ing train hindered his hearing ; moving, he seated 
 himself near her and both silently looked from the 
 open window upon the Breton landscape and upon the 
 woods and the sheep covered landes, feebly lighted 
 by a narrow ray from the moon which glanced 
 before them. 
 
 Tiie air had the softness and the penetrating 
 charm of spring; the furz and genista in flower 
 shone like great masses on pale gold in the dim 
 light ; the little hidden banks under the weeping 
 willows gave forth a delicate fog lightly floating 
 over the bare branches ; the earth seemed bashfully 
 happy, like a young bride still enveloped in her 
 nuptial veil. 
 
 Estelle felt even the same. Her soul came out 
 from a dark winter, since now, she was loved, she 
 loved, nobody could divest her of that with which 
 she was blessed. 
 
 Rocked by the movement of the train, she felt 
 
 232
 
 tJN MYSTERE. 233 
 
 herself carried toward a goal which was not Mont- 
 Saint-Michel, but which was love ; and of that she 
 had no fear. Her marriage might be many months 
 distant, of that she cared not, because she felt hei\ 
 self cherished and protected, notwithstanding. The 
 troubles of the past had given place to a serenity 
 which the nearness of a possible frightful discovery 
 could not darken. 
 
 Benoist confusedly divined her thoughts and 
 dared not trouble them. He felt they were so high 
 and holy. From time to time they exchanged a 
 look with a sort of half smile and fell back into 
 their reveries. At a station where the train stopped 
 for p, few minutes, a breath of fresh air entered the 
 car, making Estelle's hair wave and the intoxicat- 
 ing song of a nightingale lost itself in space like the 
 appeal of a loving soul. 
 
 Estelle straightened up, sighed and looked out 
 from the train. The car started slowly, some affect- 
 ing notes still came to her ears, then she could hear 
 nothing but the regular, "oiling saccade of the car 
 over the rails. She lookod at Benoist, quickly, 
 Benoist held his hands to her and she gave hers to 
 him with trouble mixed with felicity. 
 
 " You will bo mine Estelle ?" said he lowly, but she 
 heard it, however. " I have suffered much for you, 
 more than you have suffered for me, for I hated you, 
 and you were too good to hate. I hated you, I 
 believe, from the day of your marriage. . . "While 
 Raymond was speaking to me of you, that day I felt 
 a sort of envy, believing him blinded by his love. 
 At the moment, doing violence to my real sentiment, 
 I said to myself, it would be terrible if these two
 
 234 UN MYSTERR, 
 
 charming souls should not be happy with each other, 
 but soon a bad thought came to me: I did not think 
 that you would be happy. When I saw Raymond 
 dead, lying prone, I hardly dare tell you. I do 
 not know, but my sadness was mixed with a sort of 
 
 relief . Yes, Estelle, I had thought, not at that 
 
 moment, but a few minutes after, that you never 
 were his ; and I am persuaded that it was an instinct- 
 ive aversion which guided me. I wished ill to you, 
 
 I had in myself voluntarily calumnied you . 
 
 You smile instead of casting me off, you understand 
 that in hating you, I loved you?" 
 
 She looked at him, her eyes sparkling with tears, 
 and outside the Breton landscape continued to roll 
 by without too much haste, for the little lines were 
 not distinctly drawn : the heavens were soft and 
 clear, of a light gray peculiar to countries near the 
 sea. He continued : 
 
 " To love you, that idea could not come to me. It 
 was pure folly. I affirm to you that I never thought 
 of it, but as I hated you, it was necessary to explain 
 why the thought of you never left me for one min- 
 ute. I persuaded myself that my affection for Ray- 
 mond made it my duty to follow you; I found a 
 mean delight in it a wicked pleasure which you 
 cannot imagine." 
 
 She listened to him, half smiling, with a depth 
 of confidence impossible to describe ; that, since he 
 loved her, he should thus show her his naked soul. 
 
 "Do you know how I came to know I loved 
 you?" continued he. "It was my mother who told 
 me. You will love my mother, Estelle ; you never 
 had a better friend. Since the day I told her of my
 
 UN MYSTERE. 235 
 
 suspicion, she has not ceased to defend you. That 
 envelope how many regrets, how much remorse it 
 has brought me she said that I should give it to 
 you, immediately. If I had listened to her, I might 
 possibly have spared you many sorrows ; but I felt 
 vaguely that if I should give it to you I should then 
 have no pretext for following you, for thinking of 
 you all the time. I was blind, I was deaf, I was a 
 fool, I hated you and I adored you, Estelle." 
 
 " My friend," said she allowing him to raise to his 
 lips the hands which she had placed in his. 
 
 She withdrew them softly, the lamp in the car had 
 just gone out and the half obscurity revealed the 
 modesty of the young woman ; he followed her eyes 
 to the west where there still remained pale reflection 
 in the sky. 
 
 "The day which will break to-morrow," said he, 
 " may bring you care for all your life ; it may mix 
 you in a fault, in a crime ; you may never find your- 
 self such as you are at this moment : it will leave 
 upon you an ineffacable stamp. Before that time 
 I wish to say to you as I will repeat to you here- 
 after, whatever comes, I love you, I have confidence 
 and you shall be my wife." 
 
 "Ah," cried Estelle, suddenly overcome with 
 anguish, " why did Raymond abandon me ; what 
 could have been his sorrow, crime or shame? He 
 ought to have 7 lived to protect me, to defend me. 
 Dead, as he is, I can not pardon him, leaving upon 
 me the responsibility of his act, he has deserted his 
 colors. I know what you were going to say. Do not 
 say it will release that man from his crime toward 
 me, who married him without love and only that he 
 might be happy."
 
 236 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 " He is dead," said Benoist, softly. 
 
 She inclined her head upon her breast, closed her 
 eyes and remained silent. lie understood that she 
 was praying. 
 
 The train slackened its speed ; a more lively air 
 bore to them the perfume of the sea; outside the 
 heavens were studded with stars. Estelle opened 
 her eyes. 
 
 " My dear," said he to her, " what can be our future 
 destiny? The day which is ended has bound us 
 together indissolubly ; from this hour before God 
 and before our consciences, we are married." 
 
 " Then so be it," said she gravely. 
 
 The train stopped, they descended upon the plat- 
 form, deserted at that late hour; notwithstanding 
 the efforts of the hotel keepers to keep him, Benoist 
 engaged a driver, half asleep, and a rickety carriole. 
 A quarter of an hour afterward, they were rolling 
 over the sand toward Mont-Saint-Michel. Resting 
 against each other, in a calm happiness which 
 destroyed all apprehensions, they went in the night, 
 the clear night of the last days of May, balmy and 
 pure as the respiration of a new born child ; a soft 
 zephyr whispered and sighed through the old fences 
 of the fields disputed by the sea; the tufts of 
 heather and of tamarind, grew here and there in 
 the desert pastures. This landscape, saddened in the 
 day time, took under the clearness of the number- 
 less stars a soft, yet powerful charm. 
 
 The milky- way extended toward the southeast like 
 a luminous cataract Jailing from the heavens into 
 a bottomless gulf behind the earth : it seemed so 
 near that one could almost catch it in the hand; but
 
 UN MYSTERE. 237 
 
 the profound azure seemed deep between, the con- 
 stellations. All at once, upon her left Estelle saw 
 the mast and cordage of a boat drawn in black. 
 
 "We are very near," said Benoist to her in a low 
 voice. 
 
 Since leaving Pontorson, they had not exchanged 
 a word. Their driver quickened the pace of his 
 little horse with his voice and his whip. They 
 turned an angle and space opened before them. 
 
 " Look," said Benoist. 
 
 The silhouette of Mont-Saint-Michel was drawn 
 against the sky with a powerful distinctness, not- 
 withstanding the night. It was a time of the high 
 tide, of tranquil waters, without a ripple, flooding 
 the old sea walls and reflecting the stars of silver 
 from the zenith in gold upon the darker sea. The 
 shoes of the horse clicked upon the stones of the 
 road and almost before they had time to know it, the 
 massive portal of the fortress opened before them. 
 
 Notwithstanding the advanced hour, they found a 
 lodging house ; a quarter of an hour afterward they 
 were in a house situated near the fortress; upon 
 separating for the night, they silently pressed each 
 others hands. 
 
 Estelle opened her window and looked out. The 
 land formed a black band at some distance ; one 
 could see toward the north a line of little hills ; 
 nearer, the sea, scintilated with stars. 
 
 At the end of a minute or two, the young woman 
 perceived that the tide was running out very fast. 
 One after another the stars disappeared, replaced by 
 a gray, dull beach ; here and there a little pond still 
 retained the reflection of a star; but it would sud-
 
 238 UN MYSTEBE. 
 
 denly vanish. A soft sound, like a smothered sigh, 
 announced the movement of the mysterious water. 
 
 / 
 
 Above the head of Estelle, the hushed voice of 
 her friend could be heard; his room was in the 
 upper story. 
 
 " The sea-stars are going out," said he, in a low 
 voice, in the great silence of that memorable night; 
 " one after the other, like tired travelers who wish to 
 sleep. Thus your sorrows, thus your troubles. And 
 above, the real stars remain in their impassive 
 serenite, like immortal love. Sleep Estelle, without 
 fear." 
 
 " Thanks," said she, in a voice almost like a sigh. 
 
 She closed her window and slept a peaceful 
 sleep.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 The bells awakened Estelle, who ran to the win- 
 dow. The gladness of the daylight laughed outside; 
 the birds sang in the trees ; the gardens upon the 
 edge of the ramparts cast their perfume upon the 
 air ; the sea-gulls careened around the old hill with 
 triumphal cries. She dressed very quickly. 
 
 The servant came up to her room with a server, 
 upon which were coffee and milk, which she placed 
 in a neighboring unoccupied room, of which the 
 young woman might make a salon. 
 
 " I will tell Monsieur, } r our brother, that he ma^ 
 descend for breakfast." 
 
 Estelle smiled, surely, Benoist not being her hus- 
 band, must be her brother. That thought, which 
 rendered homage to her purity, had the effect of a 
 delicate compliment offered her by innocent hands. 
 
 Benoist descended , he also had slept well, and his 
 mind possessed all the clearness, all the resolution 
 necessary to carry on the hazardous work which he 
 was about to undertake. In a, few words he ex- 
 plained his plan of campaign. 
 
 "Let me have the envelope," said he ; "if Rosalie 
 is not disposed to admit it, I shall be better able to 
 frighten her than you. If there should be any 
 distressing thing in it, I may then soften the bitter- 
 ness. At least, if you would not 
 
 " I would not have a secret in which you could 
 not participate," said Estelle, firmly. "Act as 
 seems best to you, I will await you here." 
 
 239
 
 240 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 He went out. At that morning hour, the old, low 
 houses which lined the single Eue du Mont, had 
 almost all upon their thresholds two or three white- 
 headed children, chubby and dirty faced, who ate 
 with gusto, the long berry-covered pieces of bread, 
 and looked upon the gentleman with satisfaction. 
 Near the little parish church he stopped in indecision ; 
 only one house, similar to the others, had no children 
 upon the steps, neither at the windows, closed from 
 eave to foundation ; it seemed uninhabited. 
 
 " Rosalie Ferel ? " asked he of a neighbor who was 
 throwing grain to some chickens. 
 
 " It is there," said she, pointing to the darkened 
 house ; " but she is at mass, which will very soon be 
 over." 
 
 He thanked her and waited, in the midst of the 
 general indifference of a population, surfeited with 
 the pleasure of seeing strangers. At the end of ten 
 minutes, the women commenced to come from the 
 church, singly ; Benoist looked at them with atten- 
 tion, sure, from the description, he would know 
 Rosalie. 
 
 She appeared with her head covered with a black 
 mantle, whose folds fell straight upon her drugget 
 skirt. The old waiting-maid had taken upon herself, 
 the costume of the country-women with their slightly 
 crude manners. She was meagre and very pale, more 
 so than Benoist had expected. 
 
 " There is a gentleman there, who wished to see 
 you, Rosalie," said the officious neighbor. 
 
 She stopped short, and looked at the man w T ho 
 saluted her; a slight color mounted to her lips and 
 flashed over her forehead ; only her eyes retained
 
 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 their cold gray and the expression of an animal that 
 knows it is trapped. 
 
 " You wish to speak to me ?" said she, in a voice 
 full of anxiet} T . 
 
 " Yes, Mademoiselle." 
 
 She cast a look around her as if she wished to 
 escape ; then, with a gesture of hopeless resignation, 
 she took her key from her pocket, and without 
 letting her eyes rest on Benoist, she said to him : 
 " Come." 
 
 They entered the little house, simple, cold and 
 poor, but of rigorous cleanliness. She closed the 
 door and said to him: " Be seated." 
 
 They were in a narrow, low room, lighted by a 
 window with two little greenish panes; a table, 
 four chairs and a large bureau composed all the 
 furniture ; through an open door, one could see in 
 the next room, larger and better furnished, a cur- 
 tained bed covered Avith violet India calico. Rosalie 
 went into that room and returned immediately. 
 
 She had taken off her mantle. Her angular face 
 was shaded under a simple bonnet of white muslin. 
 She wore over her dress of black drugget, a violet 
 cotonnade apron of deep color, a fichue of the 
 same color, black printed with white, as a sign of 
 mourning. 
 
 Her face kept the expression of a frightened 
 animal, however, she made great efforts to make 
 herself appear calm. Her voice betrayed her, for 
 she tried several times before succeeding in pro- 
 nouncing : " What do you wish of me ? " 
 
 Benoist took from his pocket the envelope which 
 Estelle had given him and without saying a word
 
 242 TIN MYSTERE. 
 
 placed it upon the table. Rosalie looked at it as 
 though fascinated, she bent over to see it better. 
 Upon recognizing her own handwriting, she recoiled 
 to the window and supported herself as do the 
 animals in their dens, looking at her terrible visitor. 
 
 "You remember that's;" said Benoist, himself 
 almost frightened at her attitude. 
 
 She made an affirmative sign of the head. 
 
 " You wrote it 2 " 
 
 She continued to look at him, but answered not. 
 
 "What was there in the letter? " asked the young 
 man, in a severer tone. 
 
 " You know very well," said the lips, without pro. 
 nouncing a sound. 
 
 " Tell me," insisted Benoist. 
 
 "No," said Rosalie, with, an energetic movement 
 of her whole being. " It is too much to have written 
 it. I will not tell it ! " 
 
 " You will have to, however/' said he. " Come 
 here!" 
 
 She remained motionless; he went to her, took 
 her by the hand and seated her without her resisting. 
 Great drops of perspiration ran down her cold face 
 upon the mourning handkerchief. 
 
 " Tell me what was in the letter? " 
 
 "Never," said she, crossing her arms over her 
 narrow, flat breast. 
 
 " You were the cause of the death of a man," said 
 Benoist, in a menacing tone. 
 
 She shivered, her lips moved ; but she said nothing. 
 
 "Monsieur de Beaurand killed himself, because he 
 read your letter," continued he, unpityingly, "It is 
 you who killed him."
 
 TTN MYSTEKE. 243 
 
 She made the sign of the cross, moved her lips; 
 but said nothing. 
 
 " Mme. Montclar died of sorrow a week ago, 
 because of you. Did you know her ? " 
 
 Rosalie made a negative gesture. 
 
 " She was the aunt of Monsieur de Beaurand; she 
 loved him as a son. Did you know M. de Beau- 
 rand?" 
 
 She repeated the same gesture. 
 
 " Then why did you write that letter to him ? " 
 
 She remained motionless, her lips pressed tightly 
 together. 
 
 "Answer!" said he, with authority, "or we will 
 have recourse to justice." 
 
 " The justice of men counts for nothing,' 5 said 
 she slowly; " it is the justice of God only which is of 
 value." 
 
 Benoist looked at her with a sort of internal rage. 
 Was he powerless to make her speak? She was 
 careless ; absorbed in her terror. 
 
 "Do you know what you have done ?" said he 
 loudly. " It was you who wrote the letter, it is on 
 account of you that Mme. de Beaurand is dead and 
 it is an innocent person who is 'accused of having 
 killed him." 
 
 Rosalie looked at him and a little color came to 
 her lips. 
 
 " Yes, they have said that it is his wife who killed 
 him. Behold what you have done ! " 
 
 The face of the unfortunate became discomposed 
 and she gave forth a smothered moan. 
 
 "Estelle?" 
 
 " Yes, Estelle. Have you been so miserable ? 
 Have you no fear of God 1 "
 
 944: UN MYSTERE. 
 
 Rosalie interrupted him. 
 
 " They say that it is Estelle ? It is not true. It 
 is I who wrote the letter. Estelle could not have 
 known." 
 
 " Then tell me what you wrote, that the innocence 
 of Estelle may be proclaimed," said Benoist, seeing 
 that he was gaining some ground. 
 
 Rosalie shook her head. " It is impossible," said 
 she ; " they can not be told that ; they should not 
 know the truth." 
 
 " For the honor of Estelle." 
 
 " Estelle would not wish it." 
 
 She relapsed into silence, with a despairing look 
 and tightly closed lips. Fright had so overcome 
 her at the first blow that she had not even dreamed 
 of asking Benoist who he was and by what right he 
 questioned her, the sight of the envelope was suf- 
 ficient to paralyze her. 
 
 " But Estelle is miserable. Estelle is accused and 
 all on account of you. Have you no shame 2 " 
 
 " I know, I saw her at Coutance. It seemed to 
 me that it was my damnation that arose before 
 me." 
 
 "Then tell the truth!" 
 
 " I can not ! " 
 
 Benoist arose, resolved to use his last argument. 
 
 " You are responsible before God and before man." 
 
 She violently interrupted him. 
 
 " Before men, nobody knows. Before God ? I 
 have confessed and I have received absolution." 
 
 " Though he who gave it you did not know that 
 one who was innocent was accused of your crime. 
 You did not tell him that ; God has not pardoned
 
 TJN MTSTERE. 245 
 
 you. If Estelle would not pardon you, take care 
 of Hell, Kosalie. 
 
 At that word, the unfortunate seemed to move 
 upon herself. 
 
 Benoist saw that the word had terrified her. 
 
 " Bring peace to your conscience," said he, 
 approaching her; tell the truth. You will not 
 tell it to me ? Do you prefer to tell it to Estelle." 
 
 " Estelle ought not to know," groaned Kosalie, 
 hiding her face covered with tears, with her flesh- 
 less hands. Oh Heavens! Have I not suffered 
 enough because of the sins of others ? Go away, I 
 do not know you. You have nothing to do here, 
 and as for Estelle, I can tell her nothing. I am 
 grieved, yes, I am grieved that she has suffered on 
 account of that ; but go away." 
 
 "It is well," said Benoist coldly. "I came in a 
 spirit of peace ; but if you prefer to go to prison." 
 
 " That is well," said she, with indifference. 
 
 " And afterward to Hell ; for you it is who killed 
 M. de Beaurand. They can not give you absolution 
 for such a crime. You never told the priest that he 
 killed himself after having read your letter." 
 
 He had struck rightly. Rosalie was completely 
 overcome. 
 
 " You may see," continued the young man, tri- 
 umphantly. " You have wished to deceive the 
 justice of God ; but you will be punished for it." 
 
 " I had not wished to kill M. de Beaurand," 
 retorted Rosalie, with vehemence. " I only hoped to 
 hinder the marriage, and I did my duty because it 
 was right. If he killed himself it was not my fault," 
 
 f< You say that, but it is not true. It is a lie,"
 
 246 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 " I have never lied," replied Rosalie, exasperated. 
 
 " It is an abominable lie ! You can not make me 
 believe it. You are nothing but a liar ! " 
 
 He had followed upon the face of the miserable 
 one the effect of each of his words, which burned her 
 like a red hot dart. At the last word she arose. 
 
 ''I, a liar? "Well, wait. For to me, it is all the 
 same ; wait, and leave me in peace." 
 
 She opened the bureau with a singular vigor. 
 From under a pile of cloth she took a yellow paper, 
 and threw it upon the table angrily. Benoist took 
 it and opened it. 
 
 It was the copy of a letter, written upon very 
 cheap paper, with erasures and blots. The first 
 words were, " Monsieur Raymond de Beaurand." 
 
 Andre Bolvin would have said, the letter had come 
 and placed itself in the envelope. 
 
 " Go now," said Rosalie ; " go." 
 
 Benoist took his hat and went out, carrying the 
 letter with him. He staggered like a drunken man, 
 and knew not where to go. Following a by-street, 
 he climbed upon the rampart. There, in a half light, 
 he found a bench of stone and seated himself. Under 
 the blue sky, while the birds sang in the branches 
 of a fig tree, upon the edge of the high walls of 
 Merveille, he read the letter which had caused the 
 death of Raymond.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 M. RAYMOND DE BEAURAND. 
 
 Monsieur: I have seen the announcement of your marriage in 
 the papers. You should not marry Mile. Estelle Brunaire. I 
 was the waiting-maid of Mme. Brunaire during fourteen years, 
 and I know all that passed during that time, when the General de 
 Beaurand commenced to pay court to my poor mistress. When 
 the General was dead Mme. Brunaire told rne that it was her hus- 
 band who had assassinated him. You see, then, Monsieur, that 
 you can not marry Mile. Estelle, who is your sister, by the fault 
 of her mother. I write this to let you escape from a great sin 
 already committed; my conscience does not permit me to keep 
 silence when I can hinder this unhappiness. You may not 
 believe me; however, you should, for I never have lied. Ask 
 Mile. Estelle if she remembers Rosalie, and of a fright which I 
 gave her one evening at Saumeray, when she heard me call her a 
 cursed child, a daughter of sin, because I was angry with her. 
 Ask of her, also, how her mother was with her always severe and 
 harsh, because she had remorse for her sin. Besides, if Mile. 
 Estelle has continued as she was, you have only to look at her; 
 she resembled the General like two drops of water, while small 
 it was striking, and I was ashamed when I took her out walking, 
 so much was I afraid that some one would perceive the likeness. 
 She has the same eyes, the same brow and the same mouth. 
 Many times I had wished that she should have the small-pox that 
 she might be disfigured; at least, that she might not show to the 
 world the shame of her poor mother. I hope that this letter will 
 arrive in time to hinder the wrong. Do not strive to know me; 
 I would be quiet now that I have discharged my conscience. I 
 pray always for the soul of my poor mistress, who had so much 
 sorrow, and I pray also that you may be delivered from yours. 
 Your Servant, ROSALIE FEREL. 
 
 Benoist was motionless, the letter in his hand ; the 
 sunlight and the shadows played upon the paper 
 through the leaves of the fig tree, moved by a light 
 breeze; two or three children coming out of the 
 neighboring garden, looked at him with curiosity, 
 
 247
 
 248 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 and then retired, afraid of seeing him in such a place 
 motionless. With eyes lost in the shadowy horizon, 
 he sat, buried in thoughts. 
 
 This then was the secret of the odd trouble which 
 the portrait of the General had thrown upon him. 
 Those black eyes which had haunted him almost to 
 madness, those eyes painted upon the canvas which 
 had given him the illusion were those of Estelle, 
 proud and soft, but living. Rosalie was right, all 
 proof was useless before a resemblance so pro- 
 nounced. Benoist understood that his friend had 
 not doubted for an instant, he who carried the face 
 of his father engraven upon his heart, who looked 
 at that portrait ten times a day, he who loved pas- 
 sionately must have looked deeply into the eyes of 
 his affianced. 
 
 He understood why Raymond died without ex- 
 planation. What could he say i To whom could 
 he confide the horrible revelation, and why should 
 he do so? Loving Estelle as he did, he could not 
 think that she, his sister, was his wife. The presence 
 of the idea of an eternal separation had made him 
 wish rather to die, carrying the secret with him. 
 
 Souvenirs, almost effaced, returned to his mem- 
 ory; how upon seeing Mme. Montclar near the 
 young woman, he was astonished at finding in them 
 such resemblances, differing only in age and in hair, 
 but alike in height, in face and in appearance, with 
 the same black eyes of which the resemblance to 
 him now appeared so evident that he was totally 
 surprised at never having thought of it before. 
 " You are a true Beaurand," said Mme. Montclar, 
 often. Alas ! Yes, Estelle was a true Beaurand.
 
 UN MTSTERE. 249 
 
 The bell tolled the hour. Benoist thought of his 
 friend, who awaited him with the feverish anxiety 
 of the condemned. Should he reveal the truth to 
 her? Could he hide it from her? What would he 
 say to her? Would she accept his silence, or a 
 defeat ? 
 
 He felt that he could not deceive her, besides after 
 what she had suffered, a new sorrow counted little ; 
 certainly it would hurt her upon learning the fault 
 of her mother ; but she understood well now why 
 her mother cared nothing for her. And for the 
 memory of Kaymond, he had no right to keep 
 silent. 
 
 The young man arose, and with slow steps took 
 his way to the little hotel. Estelle had patiently 
 awaited him, seated near the window,, with eyes 
 fixed upon the changing horizon, without knowledge 
 of the hours passing. The fever had left her, she 
 had resigned herself to learn something horrible 
 and every minute which left her in her ignorance 
 was still a benefit. 
 
 Upon seeing her friend enter, she arose, he made 
 her re-seat herself with a gesture, friendly and pro- 
 tectorial, and softly without a word he put the letter 
 in her hand. 
 
 Frightened, she looked at him, the eyes of Benoist 
 showed a tenderness, a pity unbounded. 
 
 " Tell me what it is," murmured she, I would like 
 better that it come from you." 
 
 " I can not," said he. " Eead. You may call me 
 when you please." 
 
 Ho leaned over her and for the first time, kissed her 
 white forehead, then went out and seated himself 
 upon a step of the stairs.
 
 250 TIN MYSTERE. 
 
 She read, immediately blinded by tears that she 
 mechanically wiped away, O ! poor Raymond, what 
 must he have suffered during those few minutes, the 
 last of his life! She now understood how her por- 
 trait became torn and thrown in the fire-place, what 
 bitterness, what renunciation. And also, in the 
 depth of her soul, she now understood why she 
 could not love him as he had wished. And she 
 blessed him for having given by his silent death, a 
 last proof of respect and tenderness. 
 
 Time rolled by, Benoist became frightened at not 
 hearing her move. Softly opening the door, he 
 looked at her. She raised her head and made one 
 motion. He ran to her and clasped her in his arms 
 that she might weep at ease, from her full heart. 
 
 After an instant of abandonment, she dried her 
 eyes and seated herself in a chair, he drew near her 
 that he might speak to her in a low voice. 
 
 " Behold, the mystery is cleared and I almost regret 
 knowing it. However, it is a great source of comfort, 
 that of having to weep" she hesitated, then con- 
 tinued, blushing "for Raymond, instead of blaming 
 him. But my situation for myself is only more 
 miserable. I am now nobody. I was Mile. Brunaire, 
 Monsieur Brunaire was not my father. I was Mme. 
 de Beaurand, M. de Beaurand could not have been 
 my husband. I have right to no name, I am no 
 longer anybody." 
 
 " You are a Beaurand whatever may happen," 
 said Benoist, with a beautiful smile which warmed 
 the heart of Estelle, " and soon you will be my wife." 
 
 " My friend," said she, immediately, " can you un- 
 derstand how I feel the weight of these names
 
 UN MYSTERE. 251 
 
 which are not mine, and of the fortunes to which I 
 have no right?" 
 
 " Be reasonable, Estelle," said Benoist, trying to 
 calm her; "do not exaggerate these things." 
 
 "Ah, you. can not understand that which gives me 
 so much horror. It is the fortune of the man who 
 assassinated General de Beaurand. You can not say 
 that I have right to that at least. I can keep neither 
 one nor the other. I would that all were already 
 finished." 
 
 "Patience," said Benoist, "you have many things 
 to do, but it will take time." 
 
 Some one knocked at the door and while Estelle 
 was drying her tear-stained eyes, he went to open it. 
 The servant of the inn brought to him the good wo- 
 man whom he recognized as the neighbor of Rosalie. 
 
 After the departure of Benoist, Rosalie became 
 dizzy ; her brain, enfeebled, by a prolonged mental 
 tension, had been very much injured by the scene 
 which had just taken place, and when she wished to 
 rise she fell to the floor unconscious. 
 
 The neighbor, curious like all neighbors, had 
 waited for some time after the departure of Benoist, 
 hoping to see her leave the house or, at least, open 
 the door, following the usual Norman and Breton 
 custom that she might have more light; but her 
 waiting was fruitless. After about an hour she de- 
 cided to knock at the door, being unable to contain 
 herself longer. Hearing no response she went in 
 that she might appease her disquietude and found 
 the unhappy one lying near her chair. 
 
 To carry her to her bed was not difficult, for her 
 emaciated body hardly weighed more than that of a
 
 252 UN MYSTEKE. 
 
 child. She half undressed her, chafed her hands, and 
 seeing that it did no good, ran for the apothecary, 
 not without making much noise over the incident. 
 
 "When Kosalie opened her eyes, a half-dozen of 
 gossips surrounded her, each one with her own 
 favorite remedy. Notwithstanding her feebleness, 
 she sent them away, retaining only the neighbor 
 who put the room in order ; at the end of a moment 
 she realized what had happened, seated herself upon 
 the bed and drew the covers over her. 
 
 How had she been able to give that letter to one 
 unknown to her. Who was that man who had 
 spoken to her of Raymond and of Estelle? She 
 was overcome with fright, and imprudently she 
 allowed to escape the secret which she had kept 
 so closely. 
 
 "Listen," she said to her who watched her, 
 " you will have to find the man who was here but a 
 short time ago. You saw him, you would know 
 him. Tell him to come to talk with me immediately." 
 
 " I will," answered the good woman, " but where 
 
 does he live?" 
 
 " Find out," said Eosalie with impatience, " Mont- 
 Saint-Michel is not so very large. One can very 
 quickly go the rounds." 
 
 Enchanted with having a part to play in an affair 
 which seemed to be of an interesting nature, the 
 neighbor started on the rounds of the hotels, com- 
 mencing at the nearest one. As she liked to gossip 
 very much, a certain amount of time elapsed before 
 she had found him. At last, by the description, the 
 servant of the inn recognized Benoist and conducted 
 Jber to him.
 
 253 UN MTSTERE 
 
 After having listened to the somewhat diffuse 
 story of the officious person, Benoist turned toward 
 Estelle. 
 
 " Let us go," said he ; " if there is anything else 
 that you wish to know, Rosalie will doubtless tell 
 you." 
 
 They descended toward the little house ; for the 
 first time Benoist passed Estelle's arm through his, 
 that he might prevent her slipping upon the glassy 
 stones ; she seemed very happ} r upon feeling herself 
 thus protected, her saddened soul reposing upon 
 him with an exquisite sweetness. Her eyes and her 
 heart were full of tears at the thought of her sorrow; 
 but in the depths of her heart she felt that the future 
 would compensate for the past. It was thus, that, 
 sustained and encouraged, she crossed the threshold 
 of the cottage of her who had caused the death of 
 two beings whom she loved.
 
 CHAPTEK XXXIV. 
 
 " Here is the gentleman and the lady, " said the 
 neighbor, opening the door. 
 
 Rosalie opened her eyes and was struck dumb at 
 the sight of Estelle. She had wished to arise, her 
 clothing, which hardly closed over her, was covered 
 by her black mantle, which hid her whole costume. 
 Under the rigid pleats which fell to the ground, 
 seated upon a straw chair, she looked like a black 
 statue of sorrow. Her eyes were fixed upon the 
 young girl with a frightful stare. 
 
 " Rosalie, " said Estelle, moved at seeing in such a 
 condition the only woman who had well or ill cared 
 for her in her childhood. 
 
 " Look at her, Monsieur, " said Rosalie to Benoist, 
 pointing toward her. " Look at her. She is the liv- 
 ing portrait of her father. " 
 
 Benoist softly pushed the neighbor aside who 
 went out and closed the door. 
 
 " What do you wish of me? " said he, returning. 
 
 <k I do not know you sir, " said Rosalie, " I gave 
 you the letter, I was wrong : you must give it back to 
 me." 
 
 Without saying anything, Estelle took from her 
 paroiasienne the letter which she had put in the envel- 
 ope by the side of the picture and gave it to her old 
 nurse, who took it quickly and tore it into a thousand 
 pieces. 
 
 " Now, " said she, " there remains nothing at all of 
 the secret of your family. I like this better, I have 
 
 "354
 
 UN MYSTERE. 255 
 
 been careful of the copy of the letter, I know not 
 why. When I was so much tormented I re-read it in 
 order that I might say that I had done well. Is it 
 my picture which you have in your book ? You have 
 kept it? You have not forgotten me? Tell me, who 
 is the gentleman who is with you?" 
 
 " I was the friend of .Raymond, " said Benoist, in a 
 grave voice, "I am the fiance of Estelle. " 
 
 Rosalie's eyes went from one to the other. 
 
 " Then there must be no secret between you. It is 
 well," sighed she, with a slight relief. 
 
 " Rosalie," said the young woman, " why did you 
 write'so late ? sooner, and much unhappiness might 
 have been avoided." 
 
 " It was not my fault, " said the wretched one, 
 quickly, re-commencing with the real beings that 
 combat which thirteen months before she had raised 
 within herself. " It was not my fault. I was at 
 Vitre at the house of my aunt when I found a num- 
 ber of the "Petit Journal" which announced your 
 marriage. I only looked at the date and I wrote 
 immediately. That marriage could not take place. 
 It was an abominable sin, so I wrote immediately and 
 when my cousin went to Laval, I gave him the letter 
 to post. I did not wish that Monsieur de Beaurand 
 should know where I was and come and annoy me 
 with questions. I wished only to do my duty and 
 be in peace. Peace! Ah! Siegneur Dieu! I have had 
 no more for a single day, for a single minute. I did 
 not know, as for myself, if he had married when he 
 received the letter. I wished to hinder the marriage. 
 Could I have thought that the unfortunate would 
 take his own life? "
 
 256 UN MYSTEKE. 
 
 " How did you get his address? " asked Benoist. 
 
 Eosalie looked at him reproachfully. 
 
 "I had put enough of those letters in the box, for 
 General de Beaurand. Ah, Monsieur, I had my part 
 in the sin at another time. But I was young, I did 
 not know, and it was for the love of my poor mis- 
 tress. And I think that I have expiated it. And 
 then when I read in the paper three days later you 
 will understand that I bought one every day after the 
 letter, in order that I might know what happened 
 when I learned that the poor man had killed him- 
 self, I thought I should go insane. " 
 
 She made with her thin arms a gesture of 
 despair, then let them fall, and the folds of her 
 mantle fell over her like the wings of a bat. 
 
 " I immediately took this mourning, and I have 
 not slept a night since that moment that commenced 
 as soon as the sun set. I said to myself, ' it is your 
 fault,' and then I would answer, * it was, however, 
 necessary that he should know it. I could not allow 
 such an act of sacrilege to take place.' And be- 
 tween questioning and answering myself I felt the 
 fire in my head, and I thought I should die imme- 
 diately; while I was in that state I was sure of being 
 guilty of a mortal sin, and then " 
 
 Her face contracted under the horrible fear of 
 Hell, which had been the torture of her life. 
 
 " I felt safe nowhere but in the church, and there, 
 I felt, was safety. I made vows and I made pilgrim- 
 ages. But they close the churches at night, and 
 it was at night that it came to torment me. And 
 then one evening at Coutances I saw Estelle in 
 mourning and that thrust a dagger in my heart.
 
 UN MY8TERE. 257 
 
 It seemed so utterly impossible that she had married 
 her brother. I could not comprehend the idea. 
 When I saw her in mourning I then at least compre- 
 hended that she was a widow, though she did not 
 know. That affected me as I can not describe. 
 Have you had much sorrow ? tell me, " said she sadly 
 as she looked at the young woman. 
 
 " I loved Raymond like a brother," said she, " I 
 have wept very much for him." 
 
 " As a brother ? " said Rosalie, leaning toward her 
 with her face transfigured. "Only as a brother? 
 And he killed himself immediately upon returning 
 from the church ? The good God has had a little 
 pity for me." 
 
 She closed her eyes that she might taste a little 
 of the internal gladness which transpired through her 
 emaciated face. Estelle and Benoist exchanged a 
 look. Evidently Rosalie was not responsible. The 
 peculiar excitement had made her alike insensible to 
 reproaches and to reason. 
 
 " Rosalie," said the young woman, softly, striving 
 for a last proof, " they have accused me of a crime; 
 it was your imprudence that was the cause of it." 
 
 "The cause? The cause was , in the sin of the 
 father and the mother. You have expiated for them, 
 you should be content." 
 
 " However, they accuse me of having killed Ray- 
 mond. It is very cruel, Rosalie." 
 
 " Killed ? " said the wretch, shivering, " killed your 
 brother? Oh that is horrible. Who told you so? 
 What have you said?" 
 
 " Nothing. I supported all in silence, hoping that 
 one day the truth might be known, and now I can 
 say nothing. I shall continue to bear it."
 
 258 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 Rosalie let her he:id fall upon her breast and 
 seemed to be thinking profoundly. All at once she 
 let herself slide from the chair and fell upon her 
 knees before Estelle. 
 
 " Pardon me," said she, in a broken voice, " par- 
 don me that I may sleep; that I may have some rest. 
 Nobody but you could pardon me, and some one 
 must pardon me, without which I shall lose my 
 soul. Your fiance thought it. I had wished to 
 deceive God, I who never deceived anyone. I have 
 not said in confession that M. de Beaurand had 
 killed himself. I thought that had nothing to do 
 with the affair. I wished to prevent a crime and I 
 did well. My confessor said so. When he asked me 
 if the marriage had taken place I told him that I 
 did not know. That was a horrible lie ; but then I 
 did not want anybody to know that I was the cause 
 of the death of M. de Beaurand. No. I could not 
 have borne that, and I never spoke his name. And 
 I now see that it was that which choked me. The 
 dead could not speak and there you only were left 
 of the family. Tell me that you will pardon me for 
 the death of your brother and I will believe you." 
 
 She prostrated herself upon the floor shrouded in 
 her mantle of a thousand pleats. 
 
 Estelle felt the tears of pity rise to her eyes. Why 
 be rigorous with that poor, failing form ? The fatal- 
 ity that had weighed so heavily upon the people of 
 the family could it not be pacified by a word of 
 pardon ? 
 
 " Rosalie," said Estelle, bending over to touch her 
 with her hand, " in the name of the dead, I forgive 
 you."
 
 UN HYSTERE. 259 
 
 The wretched woman would rise, but she had not 
 strength enough. Estelle and Benoist took her by 
 the arm and seated her in a chair ; she could hardly 
 breathe. 
 
 " Thanks," said she ; " thanks I will sleep." 
 
 She closed her eyes and fell back. In a moment 
 she seemed to recover. 
 
 " Now," said she, " I can confess all. I can say 
 also that you have pardoned me; that will help 
 me in my confession. I thank you very much." 
 
 She spoke simply, humbly, as she might have done 
 for an act in every -day life. 
 
 "Do you need anything ?" asked Estelle, surprised 
 at such a lack of conscience. " Have you any in- 
 come ? " 
 
 " My poor mistress left me an annuity," answered 
 Rosalie ; " I want for nothing but sleep at night. 
 I am pleased at having seen you. It is this gentle- 
 man whom you are going to marry ? He has not a 
 bad manner, even though he frightened me greatly. 
 Oh, a fright ! " 
 
 She shivered and turned her eyes. 
 
 " It was because of fear that I gave him the let- 
 ter. You see, for the rest, Estelle, I am tranquil. I 
 have no other mortal sins upon my conscience. I 
 have not been a thief, nor arrogant, nor angry, nor 
 anything. But they made me tell a falsehood. Of 
 myself I have never told an evil thing, except in the 
 times of my poor mistress, to serve her. And I had 
 but one fear, and that was of not telling the truth, 
 and I have lied to God. When that gentleman told 
 me that I was a liar, I lost my head. I became en- 
 raged. At last, it is finished. God will pardon me, 
 will He not?"
 
 260 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 " Yes," said Estelle, profoundly affected by her 
 frank uprightness and for the confident faith of the 
 poor creature. He will pardon you, because you 
 have always intended to do right, even when I was 
 little. Adieu, Rosalie. Be in peace." 
 
 They went out of the cottage ; the pure air strik- 
 ing their faces gave them a peculiar sensation, as 
 though they had been for a long time shut up in a 
 cave, damp and dark. Instinctively Benoist con- 
 ducted his companion toward the deserted ramparts, 
 where they seated themselves together upon the 
 stone bench, where he had read the letter. 
 
 " What do you wish to do now ? " said he. 
 
 Estelle was looking away, toward the east. 
 
 " Return to Paris," said she, " and go to the tomb 
 of Raymond. You see, my friend, I have not enough 
 tears for the unfortunate. My heart bleeds when I 
 think of his last moments." 
 
 "He lived happily," Benoist remarked, sadly. 
 
 Estelle said nothing, and he saw that she was cry- 
 ing under her veil. 
 
 " Cry, my dear," said he, affectionately ; " these 
 tears are honest and pure, fraternal tears which 
 do you honor." 
 
 She understood that he had ceased to be jealous. 
 
 " Then," said she, mastering her sorrow, " what 
 are you going to do ? " 
 
 " Accompany you to Paris ; then I shall go and 
 see my mother." 
 
 She questioned him with a look, and contented 
 herself with a mute response. 
 
 " And you ? " questioned he. 
 
 " As for me, I do not know what. Soumeray
 
 TIN MTSTERE. 261 
 
 frightens me. I find there only the souvenirs of my 
 childhood, and it is those above all which I wish to 
 forget. At the hotel de Beaurand I am horrified, I 
 no longer have an asylum. However, it will take 
 several days for me to plan my life. I ask of you 
 still one thing more, my friend ; with all the fortune 
 of the de Beaurands, I would erect something that 
 Avould be of use a hospital or an asylum. Rather 
 an asylum for those who have neither parents nor 
 friends. It shall be to the memory of Raymond 
 and of his father. I have thought of it for a long 
 time, and at present I am resolved. There remains 
 to me the fortune of my mother the only one to 
 which I have any right." 
 
 " It shall be done," responded Benoist. " I only 
 ask you to wait for a short time that I may see my 
 mother, that I may speak with her." 
 
 Estelle bowed her head. 
 
 " Very well," said she. " Your mother would not 
 have me for a daughter if she knew the truth, but 
 nevertheless " 
 
 " My mother is honest and kind," said Benoist. 
 " I have great faith in her justice. But whether she 
 consents or not, Estelle, I said to you, you are mv 
 wife." 
 
 An hour afterwards, they departed from Mont- 
 Saint-Michel.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 Upon arriving at Paris upon the morning of the 
 next day, Benoist assured himself first that Estelle 
 arrived home safely, then about ten o'clock, he went 
 to the office of Andre Bolvin. 
 
 The young deputy, without saying a word, listened 
 to the secret confided to his honor. When all had 
 been explained he looked at his guest. 
 
 " I told you that the secret was relative to Mme 
 de Beaurand ; only the history is a little rare and 
 curious. The misfortune is that I can see no way in 
 which Mme. de Beaurand can be done justice by the 
 public." 
 
 " She does not think of it," replied Benoist, coldly ? 
 " she is above public opinion. I have promised to 
 tell you the truth if I should ever succeed in finding 
 it out myself. I have succeeded, and moreover, I 
 wish to reveal to him who suspected her the proofs 
 of her innocence which are the most striking." 
 
 " You dislike me," said Bolvin, with a shade of 
 regret, " and I believe that Mme. de Beaurand will 
 never pardon me, nevertheless " 
 
 "Mme. de Beaurand always pardons," said Be- 
 noist, rising. 
 
 After a short silence, Bolvin looked at his guest 
 openly. 
 
 " Will you tell her that I present to her my most 
 humble apology and that if she will herself inform 
 me of its acceptance I shall esteem myself happier 
 than I have merited being ? " 
 
 263
 
 UN MYSTERE. 263 
 
 " I will tell her," replied he. 
 
 They separated and Bolvin upon returning to his 
 desk, much mortified as he was to show such light- 
 ness with regard to so grave a thing, could not avoid 
 affirming to himself with entirely professional satis- 
 faction that he had been right in supposing that the 
 real cause of the suicide rested in Estelle. 
 
 Benoist, immediately took the train, in order to ar- 
 rive at Pressoirs that afternoon. His mother, whom 
 he had informed by telegram, awaited him with a 
 secret impatience, well hidden under her ordinary 
 aspect of busy serenity. When they were alone 
 together in the large dining-room, shaded at that 
 season by the tall cytisus, the bunches of which stopped 
 the least air from entering by the windows, Theodore 
 placed his chair almost against that of Mme. Benoist 
 and told her slowly in its fullest details the sad his- 
 tory of that tragical family. 
 
 She listened without interruption with lips pressed 
 tightly together. Her knitting had escaped from 
 her diligent hands and not a movement in her be- 
 trayed the least emotion. When the story was 
 ended, she raised toward her son her beautiful 
 bright eyes veiled with a slight dampening of tears. 
 
 "You say that she pardoned that wretched 
 woman?" said she, softly. 
 
 " Entirely, and with good will. You see, mamma, 
 you can not know how good she is, she is as good as 
 you." 
 
 Without allowing herself to be moved by that 
 tender word, she began her kitting. 
 
 " She wishes to found an asylum with the prop- 
 erty of the Beaurands ? " said she, at last ; " well
 
 TIN MYSTERE. 
 
 that's good, she is right; but the money of her father 
 or the husband of her mother, I should say what 
 is she going to do with that ? " 
 
 " I do not know, she has told me that that fortune 
 is odious to her." 
 
 " She ought to return it to the family of that gen- 
 tleman. One can always find relations nearer or 
 farther. That money belongs to them, it does not 
 belong to her." 
 
 " You see, mamma, that she has had the same idea 
 with regard to it." 
 
 Mme. Benoist knitted a few stitches silently and 
 then stopped. 
 
 " My son," said she, " I understand well what you 
 have told me. That lady is very good, and I esteem 
 her very much. But, in any event, her mother was 
 lacking in her duties. I would have nothing to say 
 against having her for a daughter-in-law if there was 
 nothing to be said about her family. You see, one 
 might learn no matter what about General de 
 Beaurand; but with her, it is another thing; I had 
 not expected that, my child." 
 
 " Mother," said the young man, with extreme soft- 
 ness, "she is innocent." 
 
 " I did not say she was not ; but all the same that 
 torments me much, very much, mv son." 
 
 " Mamma," said he, with a caressing inflection, 
 which deprived his words of the least appearance of 
 reproach, " it is you who taught me my duty towards 
 her when I was unjust and prejudiced." 
 
 u Be still," said Mme. Benoist, softly ; " I know it." 
 
 The wind pushed against the windows the bunches 
 of the cy tisus, which seemed to ask to enter ; a little
 
 UN MY8TERE. 265 
 
 bird struck its wings against one of the window- 
 panes, which gave forth a sharp sound, and it perched 
 upon a branch, singing. 
 
 " Mother," said Benoist, " she is alone. Alone in 
 the world with her dead, in a house full of distress- 
 ing remembrances. And, notwithstanding all the 
 fortune which remains to her, she has no place to 
 
 go." 
 
 The old lady, with a sign of her head, indicated 
 that she understood. 
 
 " She has no one but me in the world, mamma ; no 
 one but me to love her and console her. I had 
 thought that she had us two. I had thought that 
 you would be to her a mother, such as she never had. 
 She loves you very much. She is full of respect and 
 kindness. If you will not consent to have her for a 
 daughter I believe that she will die of grief and sor- 
 row; but she would not have for you one word of 
 reproach. She is so good." 
 
 " "Would you blame me," said Mme. Benoist, look- 
 ing at him from the bottom of her soul. 
 
 " I would suffer much, mother more than I can 
 tell ; for I love her as my father loved you ; but I 
 would not blame you, since it would be for the 
 honor of the family." 
 
 " "Would that stain be nothing to you ? " asked the 
 old lady, in a severe tone. 
 
 " Nothing, because Estelle has none from her 
 mother. From her head to her feet, soul included, 
 she is a Beaurand, and the Beaurands were honor 
 itself." 
 
 Mme. Benoist did not answer and remained 
 thoughtful.
 
 266 UN MYSTERE. 
 
 The little bird had ceased to sing ; obstinately it 
 came to the window, which it struck with blows, 
 redoubled, of beak and wing, before the obstacle it 
 recoiled, frightened. 
 
 Mine. Benoist arose, opened the window wide, 
 waited an instant to see if ifc would return ; then 
 seeing that it had gone away, looked outside. 
 
 Under the arch of the cytisus could be seen upon 
 the edge of the horizon the valley smoking under 
 the sun. 
 
 The heated earth, the roses in bloom, the grass 
 ready to be mowed, showed an abundance of vigor 
 and of the life which filled her aged heart. She 
 thought of her young years, of the love which she 
 had for her husband, of the joys which her son, de- 
 voted almost to sacrifice, had brought to her. 
 
 Without a sound she left the dining-room, while 
 Theodore, with his elbows upon the table, thought 
 with a tenderness full of profound pity of Estelle, 
 alone in her mansion, always alone ; above all, alone, 
 since his mother would not consent to accept her as 
 a daughter. 
 
 The door opened in a short time, and Mme. 
 Benoist returned. She had taken off her bonnet of 
 linen and put on the lace hat reserved for Sunday 
 mass. Dressed in a gown and a mantle of rich black 
 silk, she was no longer the vintner of Pressoirs, but a 
 beautiful old lady of the province. 
 
 " Let us go and find her," said she to her son, who 
 took her arm. 
 
 After a visit to the tomb of the de Beaurands, 
 which she had covered with flowers, Estelle returned 
 to the hotel. She looked at it now as a sort of
 
 UN MYSTEKE. 267 
 
 curiosity, as though it were a strange home to which 
 she had been called for a moment, and to which she 
 should no longer return. 
 
 She occupied the afternoon in seeking, among 
 the things which belonged to her, those which were 
 dear, that she might take them away, and that she 
 might arrange all the rest for the numerous personnel 
 of the large house. After a short dinner, she called 
 the domestics to the office, and went over alone, in 
 the light of the descending day, the many rooms of 
 the rez-de-chaussee. 
 
 Many remembrances returned to her. Slowly, 
 often stopping, Estelle re-lived the thirteen months 
 which she had just passed. All her moral existence 
 was enclosed there. She separated herself from 
 them without regret, having suffered too much to 
 not desire to forget ; the future would be the part 
 of the good and the bad hours. 
 
 Upon the threshold of Raymond's room she hesi- 
 tated. Should she awaken the now sleeping impres- 
 sions at the risk of opening the wounds of her heart ? 
 Duty commanded, however, that she destroy all the 
 papers of Raymond remaining upon his desk, and 
 that no hand should touch them* She entered. 
 
 Across the threshold, a very mysterious sentiment 
 without bitterness brought tears to her eyes ; but she 
 still preserved control of herself. The large room 
 was already darkened ; upon the mantel the can- 
 delabra was filled with candles. Slowly, as with 
 respect, but with a firm hand, Estelle lighted them 
 all, threw a burning paper into the fire-place, and 
 commenced her holy work. 
 
 One after the other she opened the drawers of the
 
 268 UN MTSTERE. 
 
 writing-desk, and threw into the flames all that they 
 contained, except the cross of the General and the 
 military medallion of Raymond, which she placed 
 apart. Letters and diplomas burned together, all 
 that had been dear or disliked, all that any profane 
 eye should not see. 
 
 When the last spark had ceased to run in the 
 blackened paper, Estelle arose, took a few steps for- 
 ward, and looked at the portrait of the General. 
 
 A sad and sweet emotion overcame her ; her hands 
 were clasped before her, and her eyes sought, in the 
 depths of the eyes of the portrait, a response to her 
 mute question. 
 
 She had not known a father ; that word, for her, 
 void of sense, had taken a great importance on the 
 lips of Raymond. It was a struggle for her to 
 understand the honor which he bore for his dead 
 father. By respect for the memory of the General, 
 by affection for his son, she had religiously collected 
 all that he had communicated to her during the time 
 of their courtship. 
 
 And that was all that she knew of her father. 
 
 " My father," said she to him, " would you have 
 loved me ? " 
 
 It seemed to her that at that thought the proud 
 and soft eyes of the portrait, so like her own, re- 
 proached her for having questioned it. " It was upon 
 them that Raymond fixed his last look," thought 
 she, suddenly. " What did they say to him ? " 
 
 Upon the remembrance of that tragical day, she 
 shuddered. The place where the blood had run, 
 staining his room, was still marked upon the newly- 
 scraped floor. Estelle sought for it with her eyes,
 
 UN 1IYSTERE. 269 
 
 and kneeled upon it, her eyes fixed upon the portrait 
 of the General. 
 
 " My father," said she, " my dear father, I would 
 have loved you much." 
 
 She burst into tears and gave way under her 
 broken heart. Too many sorrows, too many 
 thoughts weighed upon her innocent youth ; the 
 weight which was so heavy upon her shoulders, 
 would it never be removed by a pitying hand ? Now 
 she realized the weight of the shame and the blood. 
 
 A sound of voices near the door made her rise 
 quickly. Some one knocked. Drying her tear- 
 stained face, she told them to enter. 
 
 Mme. Benoist appeared upon the threshold, fol- 
 lowed immediately by her son, whose noble figure 
 Estelle perceived in the shade. At the sight of that 
 little woman in black, she felt her mortal load to fly 
 away, as though it had wings. The apparition of an 
 angel dressed in glory could not have appeared more 
 luminous to her. 
 
 " My daughter," said Mme. Benoist, " will you 
 come with us ? " 
 
 She fell into the arms that were opened to her. 
 
 FINIS.
 
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