Jules could not deny himself the pleasure of that embrace. But it was not without a feeling of remorse in his heart; he felt himself small before this woman whom he was still tempted to think innocent. A sort of melancholy joy possessed him. A tender hope shone on her features in spite of their grieved expression. They both were equally unhappy in deceiving each other; another caress, and, unable to resist their suffering, all would then have been avowed.
"To-morrow evening, Clemence."
"No, no; to-morrow morning, by twelve o'clock, you will know all, and you'll kneel down before your wife--Oh, no! you shall not be humiliated; you are all forgiven now; you have done no wrong. Listen, Jules; yesterday you did crush me--harshly; but perhaps my life would not have been complete without that agony; it may be a shadow that will make our coming days celestial."
"You lay a spell upon me," cried Jules; "you fill me with remorse."
"Poor love! destiny is stronger than we, and I am not the accomplice of mine. I shall go out to-morrow."
"At what hour?" asked Jules.
"At half-past nine."
"Clemence," he said, "take every precaution; consult Doctor Desplein and old Haudry."
"I shall consult nothing but my heart and my courage."
"I shall leave you free; you will not see me till twelve o'clock."
"Won't you keep me company this evening? I feel so much better."
After attending to some business, Jules returned to his wife,--recalled by her invincible attraction. His passion was stronger than his anguish.
The next day, at nine o'clock Jules left home, hurried to the rue des Enfants-Rouges, went upstairs, and rang the bell of the widow Gruget's lodgings.
"Ah! you've kept your word, as true as the dawn. Come in, monsieur," said the old woman when she saw him. "I've made you a cup of coffee with cream," she added, when the door was closed. "Oh! real cream; I saw it milked myself at the dairy we have in this very street."
"Thank you, no, madame, nothing. Take me at once--"
"Very good, monsieur. Follow me, this way."
She led him up into the room above her own, where she showed him, triumphantly, an opening about the size of a two-franc piece, made during the night, in a place, which, in each room, was above a wardrobe. In order to look through it, Jules was forced to maintain himself in rather a fatiguing attitude, by standing on a step-ladder which the widow had been careful to place there.
"There's a gentleman with him," she whispered, as she retired.
Jules then beheld a man employed in dressing a number of wounds on the shoulders of Ferragus, whose head he recognized from the description given to him by Monsieur de Maulincour.
"When do you think those wounds will heal?" asked Ferragus.
"I don't know," said the other man. "The doctors say those wounds will require seven or eight more dressings."
"Well, then, good-bye until to-night," said Ferragus, holding out his hand to the man, who had just replaced the bandage.
"Yes, to-night," said the other, pressing his hand cordially. "I wish I could see you past your sufferings."
"To-morrow Monsieur de Funcal's papers will be delivered to us, and Henri Bourignard will be dead forever," said Ferragus. "Those fatal marks which have cost us so dear no longer exist. I shall become once more a social being, a man among men, and more of a man than the sailor whom the fishes are eating. God knows it is not for my own sake I have made myself a Portuguese count!"
"Poor Gratien!--you, the wisest of us all, our beloved brother, the Benjamin of the band; as you very well know."
"Adieu; keep an eye on Maulincour."
"You can rest easy on that score."
"Ho! stay, marquis," cried the convict.
"What is it?"
"Ida is capable of everything after the scene of last night. If she should throw herself into the river, I would not fish her out. She knows the secret of my name, and she'll keep it better there. But still, look after her; for she is, in her way, a good girl."
"Very well."
The stranger departed. Ten minutes later Jules heard, with a feverish shudder, the rustle of a silk gown, and almost recognized by their sound the steps of his wife.
"Well, father," said Clemence, "my poor father, are you better? What courage you have shown!"
"Come here, my child," replied Ferragus, holding out his hand to her.
Clemence held her forehead to him and he kissed it.
"Now tell me, what is the matter, my little girl? What are these new troubles?"
"Troubles, father! it concerns the life or death of the daughter you have loved so much. Indeed you must, as I wrote you yesterday, you /must/ find a way to see my poor Jules to-day. If you knew how good he has been to me, in spite of all suspicions apparently so legitimate.
Father, my love is my very life. Would you see me die? Ah! I have suffered so much that my life, I feel it! is in danger."
"And all because of the curiosity of that miserable Parisian?" cried Ferragus. "I'd burn Paris down if I lost you, my daughter. Ha! you may know what a lover is, but you don't yet know what a father can do."
"Father, you frighten me when you look at me in that way. Don't weigh such different feelings in the same scales. I had a husband before I knew that my father was living--"
"If your husband was the first to lay kisses on your forehead, I was the first to drop tears upon it," replied Ferragus. "But don't feel frightened, Clemence, speak to me frankly. I love you enough to rejoice in the knowledge that you are happy, though I, your father, may have little place in your heart, while you fill the whole of mine."
"Ah! what good such words do me! You make me love you more and more, though I seem to rob something from my Jules. But, my kind father, think what his sufferings are. What may I tell him to-day?"
