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- Herausgeber: DigiCat
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
In 'The Eyes of Innocence' by Maurice LeBlanc, readers are transported to a world of mystery, romance, and suspense. The novel is a classic example of early 20th-century French literature, known for its intricate plot twists and clever character development. LeBlanc's writing style blends elements of detective fiction with a touch of romanticism, creating a captivating story that keeps readers guessing until the very end. Set in the scenic French countryside, the novel explores themes of love, betrayal, and the consequences of innocence lost. The vivid descriptions and engaging narrative make 'The Eyes of Innocence' a must-read for fans of classic literature. Maurice LeBlanc's skillful storytelling illuminates the complex emotions and motivations of his characters, drawing readers into a world where nothing is as it seems. His ability to weave together suspenseful plots with vivid imagery and timeless themes has solidified his reputation as a master of French literature. Recommended for anyone looking for a captivating read that transcends time and genre boundaries.
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The Eyes of Innocence
Table of Contents
Gilberte
I
GILBERTE
"Would you please give your name, madam?" asked the waiter.
And he handed the elder of the two travellers a sheet of paper headed, "Villa-pension des Deux Mondes, Dieppe."
"Write down the name, Gilberte," she said. "I am so tired."
Gilberte took the pen and wrote:
"Mme. Armand and daughter, from London, bound for. . . . Now that I think of it, where are we going next, mother?"
"I don't know yet."
"Oh, that doesn't matter!" said the waiter.
And he took the paper and left the room.
"Yes, Mr. Waiter," cried the young girl, with a laugh. "Mme. Armand and her daughter, arriving from England, from Germany, from Russia, coming to France and delighted, especially Mlle. Armand, who does not yet know her own country!"
"Will you find happiness here?" murmured her mother, sadly, drawing her daughter to her. "There is none left for me, since your poor father is dead; but you, my pet, my dear, loving Gilberte, what has the future in store for you?"
"Why, joys, mother darling, nothing but the greatest joys: haven't I you with me?"
They exchanged a long embrace. Then Mme. Armand said:
"Gilberte, the crossing has upset me; I feel I must lie down for a while. Go and sit on the terrace and come back in an hour. Then we will unpack our trunks and go to the post-office."
"Are you expecting a letter?"
"Yes."
"From whom?"
"How inquisitive you are!"
"Oh, mummy, you're always saying that! But are you sure that it's not you who are a little—what shall I say—mysterious? You never answer even my simplest questions."
"I shall answer them one day, child, but not before I have to ... not before I have to."
Gilberte saw her mother's face wrung with such anguish that she was silent and fondly kissed her hand. Mme. Armand went on:
"Yes, you are right. I am a little mysterious, very mysterious even; but if you only know how it hurts me to be so! Still, I will answer you this time, dear: the letter I am expecting is from your nurse."
"From my nurse? Then I was brought up in France? But where?"
Mme. Armand was silent. Gilberte waited a few moments, then put on her hat and cloak and said:
"Go and lie down, mother. You poor dear, you look as you do on your bad days. ... There, I'll leave you in peace."
"You won't go out, will you, dear?"
"Go out? I, who have never left your side? Why, I should be afraid to walk down the street all by myself! I shall be back soon, dearest."
She opened the door and went downstairs. Above the reception-rooms, which occupied a wing consisting of a single floor, to the right of the garden, was a terrace covered with tents and wicker chairs. She sat down there.
It was a mild and balmy October day. The wide, deserted beach was bright with sunshine. The sea was very calm and edged with a narrow fringe of foam.
An hour passed.
"I will go in," she said, "when that little boat disappears behind the jetty."
The boat disappeared and she rose to her feet. As she went up the stairs, a childish idea came into her head, an idea which she was destined long to remember, together with the smallest details of that terrible minute:
"If mother is still asleep," she thought, "I will blow on her forehead to wake her."
She listened at the door. Not a sound. She laughed roguishly. Then, slowly, cautiously, she opened the door. Mme. Armand lay stretched on the bed. Gilberte went up to her. For some indefinable reason, she forgot her intended joke and simply kissed her mother on the forehead.
A cry escaped her lips. Terror-stricken, she flung herself upon her mother, caught her desperately in her arms and fell fainting beside the bed.
Mme. Armand was dead.
* * *
A room in which she sobs for hours on end, heedless of all things, huddled in a little chair, or on her knees before a white-curtained bed; people who come and go; a doctor who certifies the cause of death; aneurism of the heart, beyond a doubt; the lady of the house, who tries to comfort her; a commissary of police who puts questions which she is unable to answer and who makes her look in her mother's trunks for papers that are not there: these are Gilberte's lasting memories of those two dreadful days.
Then came the singing in the church, a long road between bare, wind-stripped trees, the graveyard and the final and irrevocable parting from her who, until now, was all her life, her soul, her light. ...
Oh, the first night spent in solitude and those first meals taken with no one opposite her and those long interminable days during which she never stopped weeping the big tears that come welling up from the heart as from a spring which nothing can dry up! Alone, knowing nobody, what was she to do? Where could she go? To whom could she turn?
"The important thing," insisted the lady of the house, who sometimes came to see her in her room, "the most important thing is that you should have a solicitor. Mine is prepared to come whenever you please. I spoke to him about you; and it seems that there are formalities. Remember what the commissary said about the papers. ..."
Gilberte remembered nothing, for she had listened to nothing. Nevertheless, the persistency of this advice, repeated daily and with such conviction, ended by persuading her; and, one morning, she sent to ask Maître Dufornéril to be good enough to call on her.
Maître Dufornéril had one of those placid and good-natured faces the sight of which seems to soothe you at once. He gave the impression of attaching so much importance to the business in hand that it would have been impossible not to take at least some interest in it one's self. Gilberte, therefore, was obliged to reflect, to tax her memory, in short, to reply.
"From what I have learnt, mademoiselle, it is evident that no papers have been found enabling us to establish your mother's identity and your own. The commissary, however, told me of an envelope containing securities which he advised you to lock up carefully. Is it still in your possession?"
"I don't know. ... Mother never told me. ... Is this what you mean?" she asked.
The solicitor took two fat, leather portfolios from the mantelpiece and opened them. He was astounded at what he saw:
"And do you leave this lying about? ... Bonds payable to bearer?"
Gilberte blushed, feeling as if she had committed some enormous crime. He counted the sheets, made a rapid addition and said:
"You are very well off, mademoiselle."
"Really?" she said, absent-mindedly. "Yes ... mother said something ..."
After a peace during which he watched her with increasing surprise, he asked:
"And have you your mother's papers, your father's papers?"
"What papers?"
"Why, their birth-certificates, your own, their marriage-certificate, in fact, everything that established their position and now establishes yours."
"I haven't them."
"But they must be somewhere. ... Can you give me no clue as to where they are?"
"No. ... But I seem to remember once hearing them talk of papers that had been lost ... or rather burnt in a fire ... or else ... in fact, I can't say for certain." ...
"Come, come!" cried Maître Dufornéril. "We are on the wrong track altogether! Let us start from the beginning. Where were you born?"
"I don't know."
"How do you mean, you don't know?"
"Mother would never tell me exactly."
"But where was she born? And your father?"
"I don't know that either."
The solicitor looked up. Was she laughing at him? But, at the sight of her sad face and candid eyes, he was silent for a moment and then went on:
"You have come from London?"
"Yes."
"Did you have friends over there, acquaintances?"
"No, we lived quite alone."
"Never mind: if you give me the address of the house you lived in, we shall easily find traces of Mme. Armand."
"Mother was not called Mme. Armand in London; she was called Aubert."
"But Armand is your real name?"
"I don't think so. At Liverpool, where we lived for three years and where father died, last year, after making such a lot of money, we were known by the name of Killner. Before that, at Berlin, it was Dumas. ... And, at Moscow" ...
"You don't know the reason why your parents used to change their name like that?"
"No, I do not."
"You saw nothing in your parents' character to explain it?"
"No, nothing."
"Were they on good terms?"
"Oh, yes! They were so fond of each other! And mother was so happy!"
So happy! How positively Gilberte was able to say that! Happy indeed beside her husband, under his eyes, with her hand in his. But why was she so often caught crying? Why those hours of gloomy melancholy, of inexplicable depression? Why had she one day drawn her daughter to her, stammering:
"Ah, my child; my child! Never do anything that you have to hide: it is too painful!"
Gilberte was on the point of speaking. A vague sense of shame prevented her. Besides, Maître Dufornéril, who had taken down a few notes in his pocket-book, was beginning again:
"Give me all the particulars that can help us, mademoiselle. The smallest details are of importance."
She mentioned the towns in which they had lived: Vienna, Trieste, Milan, with their memories of a secluded life, easy of late, but so hard and difficult at first; and then, further back, Barcelona, where they had been very unhappy; and then came memories, more and more indistinct, of poverty, hunger, cold. ...
"We shall find out, mademoiselle," declared the solicitor. "It won't be an easy business, for we have to do with a combination of abnormal circumstances which baffle me a little, I admit. But, after all, it is inconceivable that we should not find out. You have to know, you must know who you are and what name you are entitled to bear. Will you trust your interests to me?"
"Yes."
"Well, first of all, you must leave this bundle of securities in my hands: I will give you a receipt for it. I will cash the coupons as they fall due and send you the proceeds when you need money. Where were you going with your mother?"
"She was expecting a letter."
"A letter? That is one clue."
"But the letter was addressed to the pôste restante; and I don't know in what name or initials."
"True ... Then what do you intend to do?"
"I intend to go somewhere at random. I have heard mother speak of Chartres, Saumer, Domfront. I shall choose one of those towns, the quietest ... no matter where ... as long as I can weep undisturbed."
"Poor child!" murmured Maître Dufornéril.
