My mother belonged, by her own family, to a totally different sphere of society from that into which her marriage with my father had introduced her.At first she did not feel any regret for her former circle, because her extreme beauty secured her a triumphant success in the new one; but it was another thing when her intimacy with Termonde, who moved in the most worldly and elegant of the Parisian "world," was perpetually reminding her of all its pleasures and habits.My father saw that she was bored and weary while doing the honors of her own salon with an absent mind.He even found the political opinions of his friend echoed by his wife, who laughed at him for what she called his Utopian liberalism.Her mockery had no malice in it; but still it was mockery, and behind it was Termonde, always Termonde.Nevertheless, he said nothing, and the shyness, which he had always felt in my mother's presence increased with his jealousy.The more unhappy he was, the more incapable of expressing his pain he became.There are minds so constituted that suffering paralzes them into inaction.And then there was the ever-present question, what was he to do? How was he to approach an explanation, when he had no positive accusation to bring? He remained perfectly convinced of the fidelity of his wife, and he again and again affirmed this, entreating my aunt not to withdraw a particle of her esteem from his dear Marie, and imploring her never to make an allusion to the sufferings of which he was ashamed, before their innocent cause.And then he dwelt upon his own faults; he accused himself of lack of tenderness, of failing to win love, and would draw pictures of his sorrowful home, in a few words, with heart-rending humility.
Rough, commonplace minds know nothing of the scruples that rent and tortured my father's soul.They say, "I am jealous," without troubling themselves as to whether the words convey an insult or not.They forbid the house to the person to whom they object, and shut their wives mouths with, "Am I master here?" taking heed of their own feelings merely.Are they in the right? I know not; Ionly know that such rough methods were impossible to my poor father.He had sufficient strength to assume an icy mien towards Termonde, to address him as seldom as possible, to give him his hand with the insulting politeness that makes a gulf between two sincere friends; but Termonde affected unconsciousness of all this.
My father, who did not want to have a scene with him, because the immediate consequence would have been another scene with my mother, multiplied these small affronts, and then Termonde simply changed the time of his visits, and came during my father's business hours.
How vividly my father depicted his stormy rage at the idea that his wife and the man of whom he was jealous were talking together, undisturbed, in the flower-decked salon, while he was toiling to procure all the luxury that money could purchase for that wife who could never, never love him, although he believed her faithful.
But, oh, that cold fidelity was not what he longed for--he who ended his letter by these words--how often have I repeated them to myself:
"It is so sad to feel that one is in the way in one's own house, that one possesses a woman by every right, that she gives one all that her duty obliges her to give, all, except her heart, which is another's unknown to herself, perhaps, unless, indeed, that-- My sister, there are terrible hours in which I say to myself that I am a fool, a coward, that they laugh together at me, at my blindness, my stupid trust.Do not scold me, dear Louise.This idea is infamous, and I drive it away by taking refuge with you, to whom, at least, I am all the world.""Unless, indeed, that--" This letter was written on the first Sunday in June, 1864; and on the following Thursday, four days later, he who had written it, and had suffered all it revealed, went out to the appointment at which he met with his mysterious death, that death by which his wife was set free to marry his felon friend.What was the idea, as dreadful, as infamous as the idea of which my father accused himself in his terrible last letter, that flashed across me now? I placed the packet of papers upon the mantelpiece, and pressed my two hands to my head, as though to still the tempest of cruel fancies which made it throb with fever.
Ah, the hideous, nameless thing! My mind got a glimpse of it only to reject it.
But, had not my aunt also been assailed by the same monstrous suspicion? A number of small facts rose up in my memory, and convinced me that my father's faithful sister had been a prey to the same idea which had just laid hold of me so strongly.How many strange things I now understood, all in a moment! On that day when she told me of my mother's second marriage, and I spontaneously uttered the accursed name of Termonde, why had she asked me, in a trembling voice: "What do you know?"What was it she feared that I had guessed? What dreaded information did she expect to receive from my childish observation of things?
Afterwards, and when she implored me to abandon the task of avenging our beloved dead, when she quoted to me the sacred words, "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord," who were the guilty ones whom she foresaw I must meet on my path? When she entreated me to bear with my stepfather, even to conciliate him, not to make an enemy of him, had her advice any object except the greater ease of my daily life, or did she think danger might come to me from that quarter?
