Luxury - Gluttony: Two of the Seven Cardinal Sins

At the same time, the marquise observed a sort of constraint in the gestures and gaze of her friend. Her countenance did not seem as serene and radiant as she hoped to see it, at the announcement of such welcome news.

Another grief evidently weighed upon Madame Dutertre, so, after a moment's silence, Madeleine, who had been watching her closely, said:

"Sophie, you are hiding something from me; your sorrow is not at an end."

"Can you think so, when, thanks to you, Madeleine, our future is as bright, as assured, as yesterday it was desperate, when — "

"I tell you, my poor Sophie, you still suffer. Your face ought to be radiant with joy, and yet you cannot disguise your grief."

"Could you believe me ungrateful?"

"I believe your poor heart is wounded, yes, and this wound is so deep that it is not even ameliorated by the good news I brought you."

"Madeleine, I implore you, leave me; do not look at me that way! It pains me. Do not question me, but believe, oh, I beseech you, believe that never in all my life will I forget what we owe to you."

And with these words, Madame Dutertre hid her face in her hands and burst into tears.

The marquise reflected for some minutes, and then said, with hesitation.

"Sophie, where is your husband?"

The young woman started, blushed, and turned pale by turns, and exclaimed, impulsively, almost with fear:

"You wish to see him, then?"

"Yes."

"I do not know — if he is — this moment in the factory," replied Madame Dutertre, stammering. "But if you wish it, if you insist upon it, I will send for him, so that he may learn from you yourself all that we owe to you."

The marquise shook her head sadly and replied:

"It is not to receive your husband's thanks that I desire to see him, Sophie; it is only to say farewell to him as well as to you."

"Farewell?"

"This evening I leave Paris."

"You are going away!" cried Madame Dutertre, and her tone betrayed a singular mingling of surprise, sadness, and joy.

Neither one of these emotions escaped the penetration of Madeleine. She experienced at first a feeling of pain. Her eyes became moist; then, overcoming her emotion, she said to her friend, smiling, and taking both of Sophie's hands in her own:

"My poor Sophie, you are jealous."

"Madeleine!"

"You are jealous of me, confess it."

"I assure you — "

"Sophie, be frank; to deny it to me would make me think that you believe that I have been intentionally coquetting with your husband, and God knows I have never seen him but once, and in your presence — "

"Madeleine!" cried the young woman, with effusion, no longer able to restrain her tears, "forgive me! This feeling is shameful and unworthy, because I know the lofty nature of your heart, and at this time, too, when you have come to save us — but if you only knew!"

"Yes, my good Sophie, if I knew, but I know nothing. Come now, make me your confession to the end; perhaps it will give me a good idea."

"Madeleine, really I am ashamed; I would never dare."

"Come, what are you afraid of, since I am going away? I am going away this evening."

"Wait, it is that which wounds me and provokes me with myself. Your departure distresses me. I had hoped to see you here every day, for a long time, perhaps, and yet — "

"And yet my departure will deliver you from a cruel apprehension, will it not? But it is very simple, my good Sophie. What have you to reproach yourself for? Since this morning, before seeing you, I had resolved to depart."

"Yes, you say that, brave and generous as you always are."

"Sophie, I have not lied; I repeat to you that this morning, before seeing you, my departure was arranged; but, I beseech you, tell me what causes have aroused your jealousy? That is perhaps important for the tranquillity of your future!"

"Ah, well, yesterday evening Charles returned home worn out with fatigue and worry, and alarmed at the prompt measures threatened by M. Pascal. Notwithstanding these terrible afflictions, he spent the whole time talking of you. Then, I confess, the first suspicion entered my mind as to what degree you controlled his thought. Charles went to bed; I remained quietly seated by his pillow. Soon he fell asleep, exhausted by the painful events of the day. At the end of a few minutes, his sleep, at first tranquil, seemed disturbed; two or three times your name passed his lips, then his features would contract painfully, and he would murmur, as if oppressed by remorse, 'Forgive me, Sophie — forgive — and my children — oh, Sophie.' Then he uttered some unintelligible words, and his repose was no longer broken. That is all that has happened, Madeleine, your name was only uttered by my husband during his sleep, and yet I cannot tell you the frightful evil all this has done me; in vain I tried to learn the cause of this impression, so deep and so sudden, for Charles had seen you but once, and then hardly a quarter of an hour. No doubt you are beautiful, oh, very beautiful. I cannot be compared with you, I know, yet Charles has always loved me until now." And the young woman wept bitterly.

"Poor, dear Sophie!" said the marquise with tenderness, "calm your fears; he loves you, and will always love you, and you will soon make him forget me."

Madame Dutertre sighed and shook her head sadly. Madeleine continued:

"Believe me, Sophie; it will depend on you to make me forgotten, as it was entirely your own fault that your husband ever thought of me a single instant."

"What do you mean?"

"Just now I provoked your confidence by assuring you that, doubtless, some happy result to you and your husband would be the consequence of it. I was not mistaken."

"Explain, if you please."

"Let us see now. Imagine, dear Sophie, that you are in a confessional," replied Madeleine, smiling, "yes, in the confessional of that great fat abbé, Jolivet, you know, the chaplain of the boarding-school, who put such strange questions to us when we were young girls. So, since that time I have often asked myself why there were not abbesses to confess young girls; but as, without being an abbess, I am a woman," added the marquise, smiling again, "I am going to risk some questions which would have been very tempting to our old confessor. Now, tell me, and do not blush, your husband married you for love, did he not?"

"Alas! yes."

"Well, you need not groan at such a charming recollection."

"Ah, Madeleine, the sadder the present is, the more certain memories tear our hearts."

"The present and the future will all be what you would like to have it. But, answer me, during the first two or three years of your marriage, you loved each other as lovers, did you not? You understand me?"

The young woman looked downwards and blushed.

"Then by degrees, without any diminution of love, that passionate tenderness gave place to a calmer sentiment, that your love for your children has filled with charm and sweetness; and, finally, the two lovers were only two friends united by the dearest and most sacred duties. Is that true?"

"That is true, Madeleine, and if I must say it, sometimes I have regretted these days of first youth and love; but I reproached myself for these regrets, with the thought that perhaps they were incompatible with the serious duties imposed by motherhood."

"Poor Sophie! But, tell me, this coolness, or rather this transformation of married lovers to friends, if you choose, was not sudden, was it? It came insensibly and almost without your perceiving it."