Le Monsieur De La Petite Dame | Page 8

time, Madame broke
out to Bertha with small ceremony:--
"What a fool that young man is!" she exclaimed. "He sits and fairly
devours you with his eyes. It is bad taste to show such an insane
passion for a married woman."
It seemed as if Bertha lost at once her breath and every drop of blood in
her body, for she had neither breath nor color when she turned and
looked Madame de Castro in the face.
"Madame," she said, "if you repeat that to me, you will never see me
again--never!"
Upon which Madame snapped her up with some anger at being so
rebuked for her frankness.
"Then it is worse than I thought," she said.
It was weeks before she saw her young friend again. Indeed, it required
some clever diplomacy to heal the breach made, and even in her most

amusing and affectionate moods, she often felt afterward that she was
treated with a reserve which held her at arm's length.
By the time the horse-chestnuts bloomed pink and white on the Avenue
des Champs Élysées, there were few people in the Trent and Villefort
circles who had not their opinions on the subject of Madame Villefort
and her cousin.
There was a mixture of French and American gossip and comment,
frank satire, or secret remark. But to her credit be it spoken, Madame
de Castro held grim silence, and checked a rumor occasionally with
such amiable ferocity as was not without its good effect.
The pink and white blossoms were already beginning to strew
themselves at the feet of the pedestrians, when one morning M.
Villefort presented himself to Madame, and discovered her sitting alone
in the strangest of moods.
"I thought I might have the pleasure of driving home with Madame
Villefort. My servant informed me that I should find her here."
Madame de Castro pointed to a chair.
"Sit down," she commanded.
M. Villefort obeyed her in some secret but well-concealed amazement.
He saw that she was under the influence of some unusual excitement.
Her false front was pushed fantastically away, her rouge and powder
were rubbed off in patches, her face looked set and hard. Her first
words were abominably blunt.
"M. Villefort," she said, "do you know what your acquaintances call
you?"
A deep red rose slowly to his face, but he did not answer.
"Do you know that you are designated by them by an absurd title--that
they call you in ridicule 'Le Monsieur de la petite Dame?' Do you know

that?"
His look was incomprehensible, but he bowed gravely.
"Madame," he answered, "since others have heard the title so often, it is
but natural that I myself should have heard it more than once."
She regarded him in angry amazement. She was even roused to rapping
upon the floor with her gold-headed cane.
"Does it not affect you?" she cried. "Does it not move you to
indignation?"
"That, Madame," he replied, "can only be my affair. My friends will
allow me my emotions at least."
Then she left her chair and began to walk up and down, striking the
carpet hard with her cane at every step.
"You are a strange man," she remarked.
Suddenly, however, when just on the point of starting upon a fresh tour,
she wheeled about and addressed him sharply.
"I respect you," she said; "and because I respect you, I will do you a
good turn."
She made no pretense at endeavoring to soften the blow she was about
to bestow. She drew forth from her dress a letter, the mere sight of
which seemed to goad her to a mysterious excitement.
"See," she cried; "it was M. Ralph Edmondstone who wrote this,--it
was to Madame Villefort it was written. It means ruin and dishonor. I
offer it to you to read."
M. Villefort rose and laid his hand upon his chair to steady himself.
"Madame," he answered, "I will not touch it."

She struck herself upon her withered breast.
"Behold me!" she said. "Me! I am seventy years old! Good God!
seventy! I am a bad old woman, and it is said I do not repent of my sins.
I, too, have been a beautiful young girl. I, too, had my first lover. I, too,
married a man who had not won my heart. It does not matter that the
husband was worthy and the lover was not,--one learns that too late.
My fate was what your wife's will be if you will not sacrifice your pride
and save her."
"Pride!" he echoed in a bitter, hollow voice. "My pride, Madame!"
She went on without noticing him:--
"They have been here this morning--both of them. He followed her, as
he always does. He had a desperate look which warned me. Afterward I
found the note upon the