"He did not kill himself, he is still alive.""He is still alive," I repeated mechanically, and without a notion of what could be the relation between the existence of this brother and the tears which I had seen her shed.
"Now you know the secret of my sorrow," she resumed, in a firmer, almost a relieved tone."This infamous brother is a tormentor of my Jacques; he puts him to death daily by the agonies which he inflicts upon him.No; the suicide never took place.Such men as he have not the courage to kill themselves.Jacques dictated that letter to save him from penal servitude after he had arranged everything for his flight, and given him the wherewithal to lead a new life, if he would have done so.My poor love, he hoped at least to save the integrity of his name out of all the terrible wreck.Edmond had, of course, to renounce the name of Termonde, to escape pursuit, and he went to America.There he lived--as he had lived here.The money he took with him was soon exhausted, and again he had recourse to his brother.Ah! the wretch knew well that Jacques had made all these sacrifices to the honor of his name, and when my husband refused him the money he demanded, he made use of the weapon which he knew would avail.
"Then began the vilest persecution, the most atrocious levying of black-mail.Edmond threatened to return to France; between going to the galleys here or starving in America, he said, he preferred the galleys here and Jacques yielded the first time--he loved him;after all, he was his only brother.You know when you have once shown weakness in dealing with people of this sort you are lost.
The threat to return had succeeded, and the other has since used it to extort sums of which you have no idea.
"This abominable persecution has been going on for years, but Ihave only been aware of it since the war.I saw that my husband was utterly miserable about something; I knew that a hidden trouble was preying on him, and then, one day, he told me all.Would you believe it? It was for me that he was afraid.'What can he possibly do to me?' I asked my Jacques.'Ah,' he said, 'he is capable of anything for the sake of revenge.And then he saw me so overwhelmed by distress at his fits of melancholy, and I so earnestly entreated him, that at length he made a stand.He positively refused to give any more money.We have not heard of the wretch for some time--he has kept his word--Andre he is in Paris!"I had listened to my mother with growing attention.At any period of my life, I, who had not the same notions of my stepfather's sensitiveness of feeling which my dear mother entertained, would have been astonished at the influence exercised by this disgraced brother.There are similar pests in so many families, that it is plainly to the interest of society to separate the various representatives of the same name from each other.At any time Ishould have doubted whether M.Termonde, a bold and violent man as I knew him to be, had yielded under the menace of a scandal whose real importance he would have estimated quite correctly.Then Iwould have explained this weakness by the recollections of his childhood, by a promise made to his dying parents; but now, in the actual state of my mind, full as I was of the suspicions which had been occupying my thoughts for weeks, it was inevitable that another idea should occur to me.And that idea grew, and grew, taking form as my mother went on speaking.No doubt my face betrayed the dread with which the notion inspired me, for she interrupted her narrative to ask me:
"Are you feeling ill, Andre?"
