University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
M. DUVAL.

The father of Mademoiselle Marie Duval
was a man who had seen perhaps fifty winters—proud,
passionate, and headstrong.
During his youth he had been guilty of nearly
all the follies which are but too frequent
at that period of life; but, after giving way
to his passions for a season, he finally married,
and becoming attached to the fire-side
of home, led an irreproachable life, which
caused his youthful follies to be forgotten.
His domestic happiness, however, was not
destined to flow on without interruption, for
scarcely had he tasted of its delights, when
the partner of his bosom died, leaving him,
as a pledge of departed pleasures, Marie, an
only child. M. Duval did not marry again,
nor did he fall back into his former course
of life, but concentrating his entire affections
in his daughter, devoted his fortune
and his leisure to give her a finished education,
and to afford her all the happiness in
his power. It had been his chief delight to
see her grow up under his personal care,
and to watch the development of her mental
and physical powers; and now that she had
become a woman, all his happiness was concentrated
in her, as before it had been concentrated
in her mother, whose image was
so like her own.

It was several weeks after the interview
between Ernest and Maurice Lambert,
which we have just related, that the two
friends made their appearance at the residence
of M. Duval. Ernest, who had at
last resolved to ask the hand of Marie of her
father, was shown into the library of that
gentlemen, while Maurice remained in the
parlor with Marie.

M. Duval was not a little surprised at the
demand of Ernest, but yet he was not yet
displeased. The fortune the young man
would inherit from his adopted father, was
by no means inconsiderable; and moreover,

he knew Ernest to be every way qualified to
make his daughter happy. In effect, he
was on the point of giving his consent when
the young man interrupted him

`Before deciding,' said he, `you should
know something of my history.'

`What difference can that make?'

`None, perhaps, but yet it may. At all
events I deem it right for you to know who
I am before you accept me as a son.'

`What do you mean?' asked M. Duval
surprised.

`Perhaps you have not heard that I am
only the adopted son of of M. Clairet?'

`Indeed, I had not.'

`So it is. I was received under his roof
when I was seven years old.'

`Well?'

`Before that, I had suffered privation and
sorrow. `To be frank, M. Duval, I am the
son of a poor young girl, who loved, sacrificed
all to the man of her choice, and was
betrayed. In short, Monsieur, I am a natural
child.'

Having uttered this in a calm, low voice
Ernest remained with his arms folded upon
his breast watching the effect of his words
on his companion.

M. Duval started and turned pale. Perhaps
the recollection of his youthful vices
crossed his brain; or it may be that his regard
for Ernest was changed to contempt.

The two glanced at each other in silence
Duval was the first to speak.

`Your mother is dead?'

`My mother committed suicide?'

`Suicide!' echoed Duval.

`Ah!' exclaimed Ernest, `you are pale,
agitated—you are horror-struck, I see. But
if you knew my poor mother's history, you
could excuse her crimes, which heaven has
forgiven.'

`Go on,' murmured Duval.

`My mother was the daughter of respectable
parents, who brought her up in the patn
of virtue and rectitude. But she had a
woman's heart, and woman's weakness.
The temper came, and having made her his
own in heart, took advantage of her devotion
and love, to steal away the jewel of
honor. To hide her shame, she forsook her
home in the country, and fled hither with
her betrayer. A few months passed away,
and her lovers attention and kindness half
repaid her for the sacrifice she had made.
But he became tired of her at last, and
visited her only at long intervals. When I
was born into the world, his visits had ceased
altogether.

`I have never learned how or where she
lived during the first year after she left her
father's house. I only knew that her betrayer
supported her elegantly, for he was
a man of wealth. When he deserted her,
he sent her a purse of gold, with a note, informing
her that he should never come to
her again, and requesting that she should
never seek him out.

`Thus much of her history my mother
related to me when I was old enough to
comprehend the peculiarity of our situation,
and to have the curiosity to learn who she
was and if I had a father.

`After being abandoned by her betrayer,
my mother, ashamed to return to her father's
house, supported herself and me with her
needle. Soon the money he had left her
was gone, and she was obliged to labor day
and night to pay the rent of the little chamber
into which she had removed, and to procure
the necessaries of life.

`Although this was long ago, I have a
distinct recollection of seeing her sitting
over her work, which she plied with tears
of sorrow on her eyes. Her face was pale,
and when she looked at me, it wore an expression
of such hopeless woe, that, young
as I was, I could not refrain from throwing
my arms about her neck, and shedding
tears of sympathy upon her bosom, while I
resolved in my heart to take vengeance
some day on the author of her misfortunes.

`One day when I was about six years

old, she took me with her into the streets.
At no great distance from the house in
which she lived, we met a gentleman and a
lady, leading a little girl between them. I
should not have noticed them had not my
mother clasped my hand conclusively,
trembled violently, and sank fainting upon
the pavement.

`Alarmed, I fell by her side, and supported
her drooping head. In a moment
she recovered, and casting her eyes about
her saw the gentleman, at sight of whom
she had fainted, and who had drawn near to
learn the cause of her sudden illness.
Their eyes met. My mother uttered a faint
shriek; the gentleman started back. Dicu!
I was in the presence of my father! And
it was, doubtless his wife and daughter by
whom he was accompanied.'

At this portion of his recital, Ernest
paused and buried his face in his hands, lost
in gloomy reflection. Had he not done so
he would have heheld his companion agitated
and fearfully pale.

The young man continued.

`After this event, my mother became
more melancholy than she had ever been
before. I saw her so, and with painful solicitude
sought to drive away her sadness.
Alas! little did I dream that her reason,
having suffered so many and such terrible
shocks, was tottering from its throne!

`About two weeks after the day we met
my father in the street, I went one afternoon
to play with the children of a poor woman
with whom my mother had become acquainted.
After three or four hours' absence
from home, I returned, ran joyfully up the
stairs to meet my mother. I opened the
door: she was lying upon our miserable
bed, and I stepped softly, in order not to
awaken her. I was greatly surprised at finding
the window closed tightly, and a suffocating
smell of charcoal in the room. There
was a furnace in the corner; but the coal
had burned away to embers. I was alarm
ed, but knew not the terrible meaning
what I saw!

`As I had often done before, I crept noiselessly
to the bed in order to kiss my mother
as she slept. Heavens! how I
back with terror! Her features were
—distorted with agony! I touched
som—it was so cold that it sent
horror through my frame!

`How wildly then did I call her
name, and strive to awaken her!
did not answer me—she did not move
did not even breathe. She was dead!

`Wild with terror, I fled from the room.
A man was passing by the outer door
threw myself upon my knees before him.
told him that my mother was dying, and
besought him to come to her assistance. I
raised me up; spoke to me kindly: I knew
not what I said; but when I ran back to
my mother's room he followed me up the
stairs.

`We reached our little chamber.

`Here she is,' I said, throwing myself
upon the corpse, and covering its blackened
face with kisses.

`For several minutes I remained in
state of insensibility; I was half dead with
grief and terror. On recovering my consciousness
I looked up and saw the stranger
bending over the dead body of my mother
and gazing upon her livid features with a
glassy stare. God! why had I not noticed
his face before? It was he who caused my
mother to faint in the street—it was her betrayer,
and my father!

`With an exclamation of horror he rushed
from the room. I started after him
shook my little hand angrily to call him
back, ran to overtake him—but my strength
failed—he escaped, and I have never seen
him since!

`I returned to my mother's room; gazed
calmly upon the corpse, and, in the bitterness
of my grief and rage, swore to spare no
efforts to seek out my father—not to claim

him as such, but to take revenge on him for
my own and my mother's wrongs, when I
become a man!

`This is my history, M. Duval,' contin
Ernest, walking to and fro, excited,
I ask you frankly, if you can
your daughter's hand in mar

made no reply, but, like a per
with horror, remained gazing
man in .

`,' cried Ernest, anxiously. `Can
mine?'

M. Duval pressed his trembling hands
upon his brow, answered, in a husky voice:

`Impossible! for she is your sister!'

`My sister,' echoed Ernest, pale as death.

`Yes—for I am Belfont—your father!'