"But your husband?"

"I have no husband; I have only my children. While I am away you will watch over my daughter, will you not? I beg it of you."

"I promise--I swear it. She shall be my daughter."

Marthe had not the courage to combat her friend"s resolution. In her motherly love, so much tried, she understood her too well.

"Then," said Mme. Meyrin, "help me. I shall not be long. There is not a moment to lose. The train for Berlin leaves at eight o"clock. I must catch it."

In less than half an hour, after thrusting into a valise what things were absolutely necessary and sending a telegram to her mother announcing her coming, Lise was ready.

"Adieu," she said to Mme. Daubrel, giving into her arms her little daughter, whom she covered with kisses and tears. "Adieu. Pray for my son."

A few minutes later, alone, without a servant, her veil lowered as if she were a fugitive, the ex-Princess Olsdorf got into a cab, and told the driver to take her to the Great Northern Railway Station.

CHAPTER VI.

LISE AND VERA.

On returning next day from Amiens, whither he had really been, and not finding his wife in the Rue d"a.s.sas, but merely this brief note, or rather line: "Paul, my son is dying; I am going to save him," M. Meyrin was amazed, and supposed that Lise had invented the story as a cover for her flight from the house. As if a mother would dare to tell this lie.

Vera Soublaieff"s telegram, which Mme. Meyrin had not taken with her, proved at once that he was wrong. Yet for awhile he was uncertain whether or not to approve the journey. The thought occurred to him suddenly that Prince Olsdorf might be at Pampeln. He felt himself growing jealous of this man, whose worth he knew, and who, he was aware, had been deeply in love with the woman who bore his name.

Moreover, in this chateau, once hers, Mme. Meyrin would feel all the memories of her former high position. She could not fail to compare it with the humdrum life she led at Paris. The painter was humiliated in advance by the comparison.

Unwilling to see that it was only to nurse her son that the poor mother was gone, p.r.i.c.king himself on to blame her, and feeling offended at not having been at least consulted, he soon brought himself to think there was no excuse for her.

"Has she not another child with a claim on all her care?" he said to himself. "By what right does she go away like this?"

The husband thought not of his sins, of the liberty his abandonment of her had left his wife, of the sacred rights of maternal love. He took counsel only with his pride, which had just received a rough blow. He could not hide from himself that he no longer counted for anything with the woman who had loved him so well.

In his heart he had not given up the hope that Lise would return to his arms one day, more pa.s.sionate and more submissive than even, when he himself, tired of his mistresses, should make a real attempt to win his pardon. Seeing her resigned, as she had seemed to be since the scene of the Boulevard Clichy, he had come to the belief, in his stupid vanity as a "beauty-man," that some evening, if he said but a word, if he made but a sign, it would suffice to rouse again in the senses of his wife the mad love of former days. But now there was no room left for doubt; all was indeed over between them. He fell into a jealous rage and deep humiliation, which made him exclaim suddenly:

"Well, so be it. But if so, I too am free."

In this frame of mind, and acting mechanically rather than from solicitude, he went into Mme. Meyrin"s room to see his daughter. As he entered the bedroom, Mme. Daubrel, faithful to her promise, was with the child.

"Ah! pardon me; I did not know you were here," said Paul, coldly, to the young woman. "Marie is fortunate to have you, as her mother has abandoned her."

"You can not think that Lise would abandon her little girl," said Marthe. "Frightened by the news she received of her son--"

"Her son!" the painter broke in. "What if Marie were to fall sick while her mother was away?"

"G.o.d will not suffer that. Besides, am not I here?"

"Then you approve of Madame Meyrin"s going?"

"I should have acted as she has done."

"Ah! no doubt. To leave one"s husband, to desert one"s home, would appear natural enough to you, too."

At this insulting allusion to her past, Mme. Daubrel repressed an indignant exclamation and replied gently:

"It is bad of you, Monsieur Meyrin, to say that, as you well know. I can find no excuse for the woman who forgets her duty as a wife."

"Yes, you are right. I beg your pardon," said Paul, ashamed of having let his temper master him. "You see, things have come to a miserable pa.s.s. I don"t blame Lise for loving her son; but she has not reflected on what the consequences may be of her going. In the first place, she ought to have had my permission to make the journey; and, then, what will people think of me when they know that my wife has gone back to her first husband?"

It was plain that vanity was the prime factor in M. Meyrin"s nature.

"Her first husband is not in Russia," replied Marthe. "It is not known even in what country he is at this moment."

"He may return to Pampeln any day on account of his son"s illness."

"It is not at all likely."

"It might happen, and then I should play a pretty part here, while Lise-- No; I will never forgive her."

"Would you have had her leave her child to die?"

"Her child is here. Marie is her child; she has no other, since Prince Olsdorf has taken Tekla from her. Ah! how I hate that man! May G.o.d never bring me face to face with him! In deserting her home, Madame Meyrin has left me free. I shall use my liberty, I swear. She may come back when she likes. Perhaps, then, I shall be far away."

"And your daughter?"

"My daughter? You will be in the place of a mother to her until her mother, who ought never to have left her, returns."

"Oh, Monsieur Meyrin! Come, kiss her."

She had lifted up the little girl, who was smiling at her father.

Paul just touched the child with his lips, and went away hurriedly, as if afraid of yielding to Mme. Daubrel"s prayers.

At about this time, exhausted by a two days" agonizing journey, Mme.

Meyrin was taking her seat at Mittau in the carriage that her mother had sent to meet her at this station on the line from Berlin to St.

Petersburg.

The driver, an old servant at the chateau, whom she recognized and hastened to question, had no better news of her son. The young Prince Alexander was still in danger.

The eight leagues from Mittau to Pampeln seemed endless to the poor woman. Her burning eyes fixed on the horses galloping along the road, she prayed G.o.d that she might not be too late. At last, within three hours" time, she saw the imposing ma.s.s of the chateau; and soon, covered with foam, dripping with sweat, quivering, the horses were pulled up before the main entrance.

Lise sprung out, and cried to her mother, who awaited her at the top of the flight of marble steps:

"My son--how is he?"

"He is still very ill," replied the general"s wife, whom her daughter had not even thought of embracing. "Come. He is in his old room."