say that she really thought of that boy as a possible heir. In spite of her hatred of all conquerors from without, was it likely that she would accept him as a conqueror, in the face of her outraged womanly feelings and her bourgeois horror of illegitimacy? And yet if he were not her son, he was at least her husband’s. And perhaps an idea of saving her empire by placing the works in the hands of that heir was dimly rising within her, above all her prejudices and her rancor. But however that might be, her feelings for the time remained confused, and the only clear thing was her desperate torment at being now and forever childless, a torment which goaded her on to seek another’s child with the wild idea of making that child in some slight degree her own.
Mathieu, however, asked her, “Am I to inform Beauchene of the steps I take?”
“Do you as you please,” she answered. “Still, that would be the best.”
That same evening there came a complete rupture between herself and her husband. She threw in Beauchene’s face all the contempt and loathing that she had felt for him for years. Hopeless as she was, she revenged herself by telling him everything that she had on her heart and mind. And her slim dark figure, upborne by bitter rage, assumed such redoubtable proportions in his eyes that he felt frightened by her and fled. Henceforth they were husband and wife in name only. It was logic on the march, it was the inevitable disorganization of a household reaching its climax, it was rebellion against nature’s law and indulgence in vice leading to the gradual decline of a man of intelligence, it was a hard worker sinking into the sloth of so-called pleasure; and then, death having snatched away the only son, the home broke to pieces — the wife — fated to childlessness, and the husband driven away by her, rolling through debauchery towards final ruin.
But Mathieu, keeping his promise to Constance, discreetly began his researches. And before he even consulted Beauchene it occurred to him to apply at the Foundling Hospital. If, as he anticipated, the child were dead, the affair would go no further. Fortunately enough he remembered all the particulars: the two names, Alexandre-Honore, given to the child, the exact date of the deposit at the hospital, indeed all the little incidents of the day when he had driven thither with La Couteau. And when he was received by the director of the establishment, and had explained to him the real motives of his inquiries, at the same time giving his name, he was surprised by the promptness and precision of the answer: Alexandre-Honore, put out to nurse with the woman Loiseau at Rougemont, had first kept cows, and had then tried the calling of a locksmith; but for three months past he had been in apprenticeship with a wheelwright, a certain Montoir, residing at Saint-Pierre, a hamlet in the vicinity of Rougemont. Thus the lad lived; he was fifteen years old, and that was all. Mathieu could obtain no further information respecting either his physical health or his morality.
When Mathieu found himself in the street again, slightly dazed, he remembered that La Couteau had told him that the child would be sent to Rougemont. He had always pictured it dying there, carried off by the hurricane which killed so many babes, and lying in the silent village cemetery paved with little Parisians. To find the boy alive, saved from the massacre, came like a surprise of destiny, and brought vague anguish, a fear of some terrible catastrophe to Mathieu’s heart. At the same time, since the boy was living, and he now knew where to seek him, he felt that he must warn Beauchene. The matter was becoming serious, and it seemed to him that he ought not to carry the inquiry any further without the father’s authorization.
That same day, then, before returning to Chantebled, he repaired to the factory, where he was lucky enough to find Beauchene, whom Blaise’s absence on business had detained there by force. Thus he was in a very bad humor, puffing and yawning and half asleep. It was nearly three o’clock, and he declared that he could never digest his lunch properly unless he went out afterwards. The truth was that since his rupture with his wife he had been devoting his afternoons to paying attentions to a girl serving at a beer-house.
“Ah! my good fellow,” he muttered as he stretched himself. “My blood is evidently thickening. I must bestir myself, or else I shall be in a bad way.”
However, he woke up when Mathieu had explained the motive of his visit. At first he could scarcely understand it, for the affair seemed to him so extraordinary, so idiotic.
“Eh? What do you say? It was my wife who spoke to you about that child? It is she who has taken it into her head to collect information and start a search?”
His fat apoplectical face became distorted, his anger was so violent that he could scarcely stutter. When he heard, however, of the mission with which his wife had intrusted Mathieu, he at last exploded: “She is mad! I tell you that she is raving mad! Were such fancies ever seen? Every morning she invents something fresh to distract me!”
Without heeding this interruption, Mathieu quietly finished his narrative: “And so I have just come back from the Foundling Hospital, where I learnt that the boy is alive. I have his address — and now what am I to do?”
This was the final blow. Beauchene clenched his fists and raised his arms in exasperation. “Ah! well, here’s a nice state of things! But why on earth does she want to trouble me about that boy? He isn’t hers! Why can’t she leave us alone, the boy and me? It’s my affair. And I ask you if it is at all proper for my wife to send you running about after him? Besides, I hope that you are not going to bring him to her. What on earth could we do with that little peasant, who may have every vice? Just picture him coming between us. I tell you that she is mad, mad, mad!”
He had begun to walk angrily to and fro. All at once he stopped: “My dear fellow, you will just oblige me by telling her that he is dead.”
But he turned pale and recoiled. Constance stood on the threshold and had heard him. For some time past she had been in the habit of stealthily prowling around the offices, like one on the watch for something. For a moment, at the sight of the embarrassment which both men displayed, she remained silent. Then, without even addressing her husband, she asked: “He is alive, is he not?”
Mathieu could but tell her the truth. He answered with a nod. Then Beauchene, in despair, made a final effort: “Come, be reasonable, my dear. As I was saying only just now, we don’t even know what this youngster’s character is. You surely don’t want to upset our life for the mere pleasure of doing so?”
Standing there, lean and frigid, she gave him a harsh glance; then, turning her back on him, she demanded the child’s name, and the names of the wheelwright and the locality. “Good, you say Alexandre-Honore, with Montoir the wheelwright, at Saint-Pierre, near Rougemont, in Calvados. Well, my friend, oblige me by continuing your researches; endeavor to procure me some precise information about this boy’s habits and disposition. Be prudent, too; don’t give anybody’s name. And thanks for what you have done already; thanks for all you are doing for me.”
Thereupon she took herself off without giving any further explanation, without even telling her husband of the vague plans she was forming. Beneath her crushing contempt he had grown calm again. Why should he spoil his life of egotistical pleasure by resisting that mad creature? All that he need do was to put on his hat and betake himself to his usual diversions. And so he ended by shrugging his shoulders.
“After all, let her pick him up if she chooses, it won’t be my doing. Act as she asks you, my dear fellow; continue your researches and try to content her. Perhaps she will then leave me in peace. But I’ve had quite enough of it for to-day; good-by, I’m going out.”
With the view of obtaining some information of Rougemont, Mathieu at first thought of applying to La Couteau, if he could find her again; for which purpose it occurred to him that he might call on Madame Bourdieu in the Rue de Miromesnil. But another and more certain means suggested itself. He had been led to renew his intercourse with the Seguins, of whom he had for a time lost sight; and, much to his surprise, he had found Valentine’s former maid, Celeste, in the Avenue d’Antin once more. Through this woman, he thought, he might reach La Couteau direct.
The renewal of the intercourse between the Froments and the Seguins was due to a very happy chance. Mathieu’s son Ambroise, on leaving college, had entered the employment of an uncle of Seguin’s, Thomas du Hordel, one of the wealthiest commission merchants in Paris; and this old man, who, despite