Turn the Tide Anthology 2019 Anders

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Books. Change. Lives.

Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover images © Peepo/Getty Images, © Frank Simon/EyeEm

The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of the individual works as

follows:
“Any Means Necessary” © 2019 by Katie Ruggle
“Deep Blue” © 2019 by Adriana Anders
“No Way Out” © 2019 by Juno Rushdan
“Beyond Home” © 2019 by Connie Mann

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any
electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval
systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or
reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and are used
fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and
not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60563–4410
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 Contents

Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Any Means Necessary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
About the Author
Deep Blue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
 Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
About the Author
No Way Out
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
 About the Author
Beyond Home
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
About the Author
Back Cover
 Any Means Necessary
A Rocky Mountain Bounty Hunters Novella
Katie Ruggle
 Chapter 1

“I hate the mall,” Molly said.

“I know.” Cara’s voice was endlessly patient, as if she hadn’t heard
this same complaint a dozen times in the past twenty minutes.
“What are all these people doing here?” Molly was honestly baffled
as she looked around at the late-summer Saturday crowd. “Don’t
they know about the internet?”
When her sister didn’t respond, Molly glanced over to see Cara’s
wistful gaze fixed on a bookstore’s back-to-school textbooks display.
A nerve twitched under Molly’s eye. “Cara.”
Cara’s head whipped around to face front, her expression filled
with sheepish guilt. She had always been hopeless at poker. “What?”
“You didn’t.”
Shooting Molly a sideways glance, Cara held out for a full two-and-
a-half seconds before her shoulders sagged. “I didn’t know what
else to do. She needed money and would’ve hit you up next. You
need everything you have for the business.”
Molly clicked her molars shut before she could blurt out the first
angry words that wanted to escape. Taking a few breaths, she tried
to keep her voice calm—and was almost successful. “Jane is an
adult. She needs to earn her own money, not scam her daughter
into giving up her tuition.”
 Cara flushed, and Molly felt a pang of regret for shaming her sister.
Molly had been just as guilty of giving in to their mother’s
machinations in the past, but this was Cara , who’d dreamed for
years of becoming a teacher. If Jane kept taking the money she
needed for college, Cara would eventually end up a sixty-year-old
who’d spent her life working as a bounty hunter instead of doing
what she loved.
“You know she would’ve just stolen it if I hadn’t given it to her.”
A rush of anger made Molly’s cheeks burn. “That’s her decision.
You’re not responsible for the bad things she does.”
“It’s fine,” Cara said, setting her chin stubbornly. “I’ll just take next
semester off. You need all the help you can find to get the business
off the ground anyway.” She made a valiant attempt at a
lighthearted smile. “I do your books, so don’t even try to tell me
you’re not grabbing every job you can get. More available hands in
the field will only help.”
Pushing back her rage at their mom’s selfishness, Molly tried to
think of a tactful way to tell her sister that, as much as she loved
her, Cara’s talents were much better used behind a desk. As far as
paperwork and record keeping went, Cara was ruthlessly competent
and organized. In the field, however, she was inept to a terrifying
degree.
Before she could come up with a gentle way to turn down Cara’s
offer of more hands-on help, a familiar figure caught Molly’s eye.
“There’s Doreen.”
Cara snapped to attention, her gaze following Molly’s to the
woman making her way to the toy store. “You sure? She looks
completely different from the person in the surveillance videos.”
“I’m sure.” Doreen might be wearing thrift-store castoffs rather
than her preferred couture suit and a brown wig over her blond hair,
but the woman couldn’t hide the slightly stiff hitch in her right hip or
her tendency to tip her head to the side when sizing up a mark.
Pulling out her phone, Molly sent a group text. Spotted at toy store. Plan
A is a go.
Cara must have finally noticed the same tells, because her breath
caught as she watched Doreen enter the store. “Whoa. That is her.
Good eye, Molly.”
As adrenaline fizzed through her, Molly gave her sister a fierce grin.
She’d deal with their mess of a mother later. Right now, she had a
skip to catch.
“Yell if you need backup,” Cara said, heading toward the escalator.
The view from the second-level railing would let her keep eyes on
the toy store.
With a wave to show she’d heard, Molly weaved between
shoppers, trying to keep her expression more casual than predatory.
It was difficult, though. They’d been chasing Doreen around
Langston and Denver for weeks. Now that she was so close, Molly
was determined to take the skip in. Doreen’s bail bond had been
decent, which meant Molly could finally pay some bills with the
bounty money…and start scraping together Cara’s replacement
tuition.
Shoving those thoughts aside, she concentrated on finding Doreen.
The toy store aisles were packed close together, and brightly colored
displays blocked Molly’s view, forcing her to search down each aisle.
The store was busy enough to make moving quickly impossible, so
Molly wound around the kids and their parents, keeping her pace
slow and pretending she was there to shop.
Her impatience pricked at her, though, reminding her of all the
times she’d thought she’d had Doreen cornered, only to have the
other woman slip the leash and disappear. This skip was slippery,
and Molly didn’t want her torturous trip to the mall to be for nothing.
As she rounded the aisle endcap, barely looking at the huge toy-car
racetrack proudly displayed there, she slammed to an abrupt halt.
Doreen stood in front of the wall of LEGOs, her usually straight
shoulders drooping and her chin dipped toward her chest. Every so
often, Doreen would touch one of the castle sets before dropping
her hand and heaving an audible, mournful sigh. An older woman,
who was picking out a simple puzzle on the other side of the aisle,
kept throwing curious glances in Doreen’s direction. Pretending to
examine the toys at the far end of the aisle, Molly stayed alert,
waiting for the right moment to grab Doreen. She didn’t want the
white-haired grandma type to be injured if there was a scuffle—or a
full-on wrestling match. Unfortunately, it appeared that the older
woman was about to step into Doreen’s trap.
Don’t fall for it, Granny , Molly warned silently, but the woman was
obviously not a mind reader. Molly mentally rolled her eyes as
Doreen, like the scam artist she was, blew out the deepest, most
heartrending sigh yet before wiping away a tear.
“Are you okay?” the white-haired woman asked, and it was Molly’s
turn to sigh. Grandma had taken the bait.
“Oh!” Pretending to jump with surprise, Doreen hastily wiped
under her eyes. “Sorry. I’m fine. It’s just…” She brushed the LEGO kit
with her fingertips again.
“What is it?” Fully lured in, the older woman took the final step to
stand next to Doreen.
“My daughter, Bailey, is turning six tomorrow, and she desperately
wants this.” Doreen nodded toward the LEGO castle as she gave a
slightly choked laugh. “She’s been pleading for months.”
The grandma smiled. “My eight-year-old granddaughter has that
set, and she loves it.”
 Molly resisted the urge to shake her head. There was a reason
Doreen was a scam artist; she was really good at it.
“She’s been really into fairy tales, especially since her dad died—”
Doreen’s voice broke, and the older woman sucked in a sympathetic
breath before patting Doreen’s arm. Doreen blinked rapidly, and
another tear tracked down her cheek. “He used to read her bedtime
stories, so I think it’s her way of staying close to him, now that
he’s…gone.”
“She’ll love her birthday present, then,” the grandma assured
Doreen, still patting her arm comfortingly.
“It’s just that I can’t…” She broke off on a sob before visibly
stiffening her shoulders. “I’m sorry. This isn’t your problem. I’m so
sorry I bothered you.”
Molly could tell that Grandma was fully caught in Doreen’s net of
lies. “No, no, dear. You didn’t bother me. I’m sorry you’re having
such a hard time with your husband’s death. When I lost my Frank, I
wandered around in a daze for a year. It will get better, but being
alone is hard, especially when you’re trying to raise a little one.”
It was all Molly could do to hold back a scoff. The only thing
Doreen was grieving was getting arrested for her last scam. She had
never been married, and she didn’t have any kids.
Molly shuffled a little closer to the two women.
“Thank you.” Reaching out, Doreen clasped the other woman’s
hand. “That means so much from another widow.” Offering a brave,
trembling smile, Doreen started turning away.
“Wait,” Grandma called after her. “You forgot your daughter’s
present.” Pulling one of the kits off the shelf, she held it out to
Doreen, who regarded it with heartbreaking sadness.
“I can’t afford it.” Doreen pressed the heels of her hands into her
eyes as she pulled in a short, shaky breath. “The factory laid me off
last week, and we were already behind on bills, thanks to the…
funeral costs. I can’t even afford to buy her a birthday cake.” Her
shoulders drooping even more dramatically, she slowly started to
turn away again.
“Wait,” the grandma said before Doreen could get far. “Let me
help.” She reached into her oversize handbag, and Molly knew she
needed to take the scam artist down immediately. She hurried down
the aisle as the older woman pulled out a handful of cash.
Doreen caught sight of Molly, and her expression went from
dawning hope to narrow-eyed comprehension in a fraction of a
second. Molly sped up to a sprint, knowing the woman was going to
run. Sure enough, Doreen spun and bolted.
Grandma gave a surprised cry as Molly lunged toward Doreen,
intending to catch her legs and bring her down. Something hard hit
the back of Molly’s head, sending her sprawling. Shaking off the
shock of the blow, she grabbed for Doreen. Her fingers brushed the
back of one of the fleeing woman’s tennis shoes, but she couldn’t
get a solid grip.
As Molly launched to her feet, she saw the LEGO box swing toward
her head again, this time hurtling toward her face. She barely
managed to get her hands up in time.
“Stop it, ma’am!” she ordered, ducking to avoid another swing as
she marveled at how much a hit from the plastic box stung. “I’m a
bounty hunter. Doreen Douglas—Ow! Stop! —Doreen skipped bail
after—Ow! —being arrested for fraud and—Would you stop? Ouch!
—fraud and theft. She’s a scam artist!”
The older woman finally stopped swinging and stared at Molly.
“Oh! She was lying about her daughter? What a terrible person. Why
are you standing here, then? Go get her!”
 Holding back a frustrated sigh, Molly took off down the aisle after
Doreen. She fought her way through the line in front of the register
and rushed to the front of the store. By the time she made it out,
Doreen had disappeared into the crowds. “Why don’t these things
ever go smoothly?” Molly muttered, yanking her phone out of her
pocket.
Left , Cara had texted. Giving her sister a thank-you wave, Molly
took off in that direction, scanning for Doreen as she threaded her
way through the shoppers. The brown wig was nowhere to be seen,
but Molly caught a flash of blond hair and made her way toward it.
Sure enough, the blond speed-walking toward the exit had Doreen’s
distinctive gait.
Molly broke into a run, knowing she had to catch the woman
before she made it through the doors and into the attached parking
garage. The distance between them narrowed, and Molly was just
starting to hope that maybe the day wouldn’t be a complete disaster
when Doreen glanced over her shoulder.
Her eyes went wide as she spotted Molly bearing down on her, and
she turned sharply, cutting through a kids’ play area. With a huff of
impatience, Molly skirted around the playground, knowing she
couldn’t tackle Doreen surrounded by toddlers. Reaching the edge of
the kids’ area, Doreen bolted, and Molly sprinted after her.
The woman is fast , Molly thought with reluctant admiration,
fighting to make it through the crowd without throwing too many
elbows. They’re innocent bystanders , she reminded herself grimly,
even if they did make her job a hundred times harder. It looked so
easy in the movies, where everyone moved out of the way, but in
real life, people tended to plant themselves and gawk, forcing her to
skirt around them instead.
 When Molly saw where Doreen was headed, she groaned. Not the
food court! Putting on another burst of speed, she made a valiant
effort to catch up. The crowded, messy food court was the last place
she wanted to be chasing a skip.
The space between them narrowed, and Molly reached out, her
fingertips just inches from the back of Doreen’s hoodie. Hope rose
again, only to be extinguished when the woman pivoted suddenly,
taking a sharp right and darting between the backs of two seated
customers. One pushed his chair back and stood, blocking the path,
and Molly was forced to quickly turn and round the table in the other
direction.
If she had any oxygen to spare, she would’ve been swearing under
her breath as the space between her and her quarry lengthened.
Setting her jaw stubbornly, she weaved between tables, digging in
and speeding up, not allowing her tiring body to flag.
“Hey!” a bass voice called, and her head whipped in that direction.
A huge guy stood to the side, his air of authority making her
immediately assume he was mall security. She’d expected the mall
cops to intervene at some point, but that was another annoying
obstacle she would have to deal with, and she kind of had her hands
full at the moment.
It took her a second to realize that her theory was off base. First,
he wasn’t in uniform. Second, he was grinning a huge, dimpled
smile. Third, and most importantly, he’d unhooked a rope that had
been partitioning the food court, opening up a beautiful shortcut for
her.
Molly grinned back at him as she darted through, wishing she had
enough breath to thank him, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“Go get her,” he said in that rumbling voice, and her smile widened
as she realized just how gorgeous this random Good Samaritan was.
Then her brain kicked back into work mode, and the stranger was
forgotten as she sprinted toward Doreen’s retreating figure, not
wanting to waste the advantage she’d gained.
Doreen took another sharp turn, but this time, Molly was ready for
it and stuck right behind her. They were reaching the edge of the
food court, and the south exit doors were twenty feet away. As
Doreen ran around the last table, Molly charged after her, so close
she could taste victory and that lovely bill-and-tuition-paying bounty
money.
Even as she bared her teeth in triumph, Molly saw Doreen grab a
little boy’s arm, yanking him into the path behind her—and right in
front of Molly. She saw his huge eyes widen as Molly scrambled to
throw on the brakes, knowing the boy was too tall to hurdle and she
was too close to stop completely before bashing into him.
Desperately, she hurled herself to the side, the edge of the table
knocking painfully against her hip before she skidded over the top
and landed hard. She was on her feet immediately, ignoring new
aches that were sure to develop into colorful bruises.
“You okay?” she asked the kid as his mom snatched him against
her. As soon as the boy nodded, she was running toward Doreen
again, but she already knew those few seconds of delay had been
too long. Sure enough, Doreen was almost to the doors. The mall
was crowded, but the street outside was even busier, and Doreen
was much too talented at disappearing—as Molly knew from painful
experience.
Still, she gave everything in that final sprint as Doreen reached for
the door handle, shooting a triumphant smirk over her shoulder at
Molly…just before someone shot from the side to tackle Doreen to
the floor.
 Doreen gave a surprised shriek as she was taken down, and Molly
slowed to a jog, her smile returning even as she sucked in air.
“Nice…job…Charlie,” she told her sister, who grinned back at her
fiercely. There was nothing Charlie loved as much as tackling a skip.
Even though Charlie and Cara were twins, their personalities couldn’t
be more different. Right now, Molly was grateful she had both of
them on her side.
“Didn’t I tell you she’d head for the food court?” Charlie asked
triumphantly, turning her attention back to Doreen, who was
squirming in her hold. Charlie latched on to Doreen’s right thumb
and pulled her arm behind her back, and the woman in her grip
went still.
“You did, but I was still hoping I wouldn’t have to be covered in
ketchup today.” Glancing down at her side, where some mysterious
brown substance stained her shirt from the slide across the table,
Molly sighed and then refocused on her sister. “Need any help?”
“Nah, I’m good. Are the deputies on their way?”
Cara jogged up, and Doreen immediately started pleading, an
artful tear streaking down her cheek. “Please help me! These crazy
women chased me down. They want to rob me!”
Cara, being Cara, gave Doreen a sympathetic smile. “Sorry, but
that’s not going to work on me. I was the one who did all the
research.”
With an annoyed-sounding grunt, Doreen dropped the act and
went back to muttering invectives under her breath.
Turning to her twin, Cara continued, “I let the deputies know. They
said they’re three minutes out.”
“Thanks.” Molly was about to ask if she’d also told Felicity when
she spotted her youngest sister heading toward them.
 “How do you always know which way the skips are going to run?”
Felicity asked Charlie as soon as she was within earshot. “I ended up
with the boring, unused exit again and missed out on all the
excitement. It’s like you’re psychic. I never get to tackle anyone.”
Charlie just gave her a Cheshire-cat grin. “It’s a gift.”
“If you want excitement,” Molly said, still catching her breath,
“you’re welcome to be the one who does the chasing next time, Fifi.
I’ll watch an exit instead. That seems like it’d be nice and peaceful.”
Felicity shot her a glare at the hated nickname. “Seems like we
need to up our morning workouts if a little jog through the mall
leaves you so out of breath.”
The rest of them groaned, especially Molly. At this point, with
fatigue making her legs shake as adrenaline drained out of her, she
couldn’t imagine even walking to the parking garage, much less
enduring one of Felicity’s grueling training sessions. She sent a text
to their other sister, Norah, asking her to pick them up at the south
entrance. Norah was a genius with tech, but she was even more
hopeless in the field than Cara was.
“I almost had her,” Molly said as she returned her phone to her
pocket. “If she hadn’t started throwing children in front of me…” She
gave Doreen a chastising look, but the pinned woman just turned
her head to the other side to avoid Molly’s gaze.
“Yeah, I saw,” Felicity said. “Who was that guy who helped you?”
Molly shrugged, glancing back toward the food court, but the
giant, smiling stranger wasn’t anywhere to be seen. “Some random
helpful dude, I guess. I thought he was a security guard, but he
wasn’t wearing a uniform.”
“Speaking of security,” Cara said in a low voice, tipping her head
toward a wide-eyed man and woman in bright-yellow shirts hurrying
toward them.
 “He definitely wasn’t security, then.” Molly straightened, pushing
back all thoughts of the gorgeous stranger, and went to deal with
the guards. Doreen might be in their custody, but the job wasn’t
done yet. Still, Molly allowed herself a small grin.
They’d done it. As slippery a skip as Doreen was, Molly and her
sisters had tracked her down and captured her. They weren’t half-
bad at this bounty-hunting gig.
 Chapter 2

“Uh…Molly?” Norah’s eyes were wide as she stared at her laptop

screen, and her voice was apprehensive enough that Warrant, their
giant shaggy dog, lifted his head from where it had been resting on
Molly’s foot.
“Yes?” Molly prompted when Norah didn’t say anything but just
continued to stare at whatever was on her screen in horror.
“Are you absolutely sure this is a skip you want to chase?” Norah
asked as she finally dragged her gaze from the computer and looked
at Molly over the kitchen table.
“Of course I don’t want to chase him. Just looking at his mug shot
scares the snot out of me.” Leaning back in her chair, Molly tugged
out the hair band holding her ponytail, releasing the heavy fall of
dark hair to tumble down her back. She started twisting the straight,
silky strands into a thick braid just to give her fingers something to
do. “I don’t have much of a choice, though.”
Norah just blinked at her, waiting for her to continue.
“Cara gave her tuition money to Mom again.”
Comprehension lit Norah’s eyes even as she winced. “Isn’t there
any other option? What if we bring in more skips that aren’t quite
so”—her gaze flickered to her laptop again, and she made a face
—“bloodthirsty?”
 “Bloodthirsty?” Molly repeated, trying to sound amused even
though she wanted to run to her bedroom and hide under the covers
for the rest of the day. “Cameron Hall is not a pirate. He’s just a…”
“Armed robber?” Norah filled in the blank with more snap than she
usually had.
“Yeah.” Giving up the attempt to lighten the mood, Molly slumped
and played with the end of her braid. After a few seconds of
mournful self-pity, she straightened. “There’s no other option. We’re
still struggling to get enough jobs to pay the bills, and Cara needs
that money soon, or she’ll have to skip a semester.” Molly worried
that once Cara left school, even if it was only supposed to be
temporary, she would never be able to go back. There’d always be
another use for that tuition money, and Cara was too self-sacrificing
to fight for her dream. It was up to Molly and her other sisters to
make sure Cara’s future didn’t get trampled by everyone else—
especially their mother.
“It’ll be fine. This guy isn’t the brightest.”
Norah clucked, and the sound made Molly grin, despite everything.
Her little sister sounded so motherly sometimes. “Those are the
most dangerous because they rely on brute force to get themselves
out of situations.”
Her smile fading, Molly firmed her resolve. It would be too easy to
let Norah talk her out of going after Hall. After all, Norah was just
echoing what Molly’s common sense had been warning her
repeatedly for the past few weeks. This guy wasn’t one of her usual
low-level, nonviolent skips. He’d been willing to point a loaded gun
at someone in order to get what he wanted. It was reckless and
probably stupid for her to go after such a dangerous skip, but she’d
considered all the possible solutions, and this was the best one. The
only problem was that it was also the most potentially deadly.
 Shaking off her own doubts that she was ready to take this step,
Molly flattened her hands on the table and pushed to her feet, giving
Norah a level look. “I’m doing this. Will you help me minimize the
chance of my death and/or major injury?”
As Molly knew she would, Norah didn’t even pause before nodding.
“Of course I’ll help. I just want to go on the record and say this is a
really bad idea, and I wish you weren’t doing it.”
“Me too.” Molly sighed before moving to stand behind Norah.
“Okay, what do I need to know about this guy?”
“He has an ex-wife in Denver, an on-again, off-again girlfriend here
in Langston, and a couple of friends—one in Thornton and one in
Aurora. I just sent the addresses to your phone.”
“At least he’s staying in the Denver area.” Molly didn’t want to
involve any of her sisters, but she needed more eyes or she’d be
doing surveillance for months. “See if Charlie or Felicity can take a
couple of those. Tell them they’re just gathering information,
though. If I hear about either of them trying to take this guy in by
themselves, there’s going to be trouble.”
Norah raised her eyebrows. “But we’re supposed to just sit back
while you take this guy in instead?”
“Yes. I’m the oldest, so I get to be hypocritical like that.” She
patted her sister on the head when Norah frowned at her. “Which
place looks the most likely?”
Although Norah grumbled under her breath, she tapped the
girlfriend’s address.
“Perfect. That’s the closest.” Giving Norah a quick side hug, she
said, “Thank you for researching.”
As Molly crouched to give Warrant a belly rub, Norah crossed her
arms. “I really don’t think you should go after this guy.”
 “Yeah, me neither, but sometimes life sucks that way.” Giving the
dog a final pat, she straightened and headed for the door to the
garage. “I promise I’ll keep you updated if anything exciting
happens, but I’m sure I’m going to spend the day staring at an
empty house.”
Ignoring more unhappy rumblings from Norah, Molly grabbed her
bag and slipped into the garage. As much as she loved her sister, it
was a relief to be alone. It was much easier to ignore her brain’s
warnings when Norah wasn’t adding to the chorus.
The drive to Hall’s girlfriend’s place only took about ten minutes.
The neighborhood was an older one, and the house was only slightly
more run-down than its neighbors. The porch of the boxy two-story
was leaning to one side, giving the whole place a lopsided feel. The
tan paint had faded to a dirty beige, and the lawn was weedy and
sunbaked.
Molly passed the house and kept driving, making an effort not to
slow down in front of it and alert anyone of her interest. There
wasn’t a park or a playground nearby, somewhere she could linger
without arousing suspicion, but there were a number of older cars
parked along the side of the road. She circled the block and then
parked a few houses down in a spot that gave her a good view of
the front of the house. After taking down all the license plates of the
vehicles parked around her, as well as the SUV sitting in the
driveway, she settled in for a long, boring wait.
Barely a minute passed before the front door swung open, and
Molly snapped to attention. She was impressed by her timing.
Usually, surveillance involved a whole lot of nothing, but she wasn’t
going to complain about the excitement.
Still, she blinked with amazement as Hall stomped out. “It’s the
middle of the afternoon, my dude,” she muttered, her eyes fixed on
her target. “You skipped out on a huge bail. You should be holed up
somewhere, hiding out. What the heck are you doing?”
A woman’s yelling voice followed him out of the house. He turned
and shouted something rude and then ducked as what appeared to
be a wine bottle flew over his head and bounced a few times on the
weedy lawn. Hall swore and stomped toward the SUV in the
driveway. He backed quickly into the street, jerking the vehicle to a
halt just inches from the side of a parked car, and then blasted
forward, shooting off in the opposite direction.
Unable to believe her luck, Molly waited until he turned right at the
end of the block before pulling her car away from the curb. She
stayed as far back as possible without losing him as they made their
way through the mostly empty residential streets, and she breathed
a relieved sigh when he turned onto busy Baker Street. She merged
into traffic behind him, grateful that his SUV was an easy-to-spot
bright red.
When he turned into the parking lot of a liquor store, she made a
humming sound. “Not sure more alcohol will help the home
situation, buddy,” she muttered as she drove into the lot of the
grocery store a few buildings down. Parking toward the back, she
waited until Hall entered the liquor store before getting out of her
car and hurrying across the lots. The sun beat down on her exposed
head, and she twisted her braid into a low bun as she walked quickly
toward the store. If she’d known she’d be making contact with a skip
today, she would’ve secured her hair before she left the house.
There was no sense giving Hall something to grab if it came down to
a fight.
The buzz of adrenaline coursed through her, making her walk
bouncier than usual as she reached the front of the liquor store. Her
nerves were strung tighter than usual, but that made sense. Hall
was far more dangerous than her usual skip. Despite that, there was
no tremor in her hand as she reached for the door handle and pulled
it open.
The rush of air-conditioned coolness brushed her overheated skin
as she stepped inside. After the brightness of the summer sun, it
took her eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dimmer interior lights,
and she stood just inside the door until her vision brightened.
The store was mostly empty and almost eerily quiet. Her boots
didn’t make any noise as she walked across the worn industrial
carpet, which ramped up her nerves even more. The man behind the
counter didn’t look at her as she approached, keeping his gaze fixed
on the worn paperback in his hands. He flipped the page, the sound
loud in the hush.
As Molly glanced down each aisle, she remembered her toy-store
search a few weeks back. Although the mall crowds had made it
harder to chase Doreen, they’d also provided a sort of safety in
numbers. If Doreen had gotten the upper hand, there was a much
greater possibility of someone stepping in to help Molly out.
The light clank of glass bottles knocking against each other made
her jump, and she immediately scolded herself. This was not the
time to lose her nerve. She resumed her search, continuing to check
aisles as she moved toward the back of the store.
No one else was there. She reached the last aisle, straightening
her shoulders and spine in preparation. This was it. She hadn’t
expected to be taking down Cameron Hall today, but this was a
perfect setup. She took a moment and texted Norah, as well as two
of the sheriff’s deputies she often dealt with. As she waited for
responses, she lightly patted her pants pocket, feeling the weight of
a pair of handcuffs. In a pinch, she could immobilize a skip while she
waited for law enforcement to arrive, but Hall was a big, mean guy.
She didn’t want to take any chances on him. If she was going to
take this step and start bringing in the high-dollar—and more
dangerous—skips, she knew she had to be smart about it.
Otherwise, she could easily get hurt…or killed.
Blowing out a hard, silent breath, she started to step forward when
the bells hanging on the front door jangled, the unexpected sound
freezing her into place. Now , right before the takedown, someone
was going to wander in? Clicking her teeth together, she glanced
over her shoulder to see who’d just entered.
When she spotted the vaguely familiar face, she went still again.
The guy was tall, and broad, and just generally enormous, with dark
hair and eyes. The amused way he was looking at her, as if they
shared an inside joke, made her cock her head and try to figure out
where she’d seen him before. She pushed away the distraction and
focused as she turned into the final aisle. Now wasn’t the time to try
to puzzle out why the stranger looked familiar.
As soon as she moved around the endcap, Hall was right there,
striding toward her, looking like a mountain of a man. Between Hall
and the new guy, this liquor store seemed to attract only the most
enormous men in Langston. She put on an innocent expression as
he approached, and his gaze flicked over her appraisingly from her
feet to the top of her head and back down again. There was a slight
gleam of appreciation in his eyes, but his pace didn’t slow. Stepping
to the side, Molly allowed him to pass, knowing she couldn’t give
him any warning before pouncing, or he’d flick her off like an
annoying flea.
As soon as he passed, she pivoted toward him, reaching for his
arm with both hands and preparing to lift her knee to slam it into the
side of his thigh, right in the spot where the peroneal nerve sat.
 “Molly Pax!” a deep bass voice called, and she immediately
dropped her arms and her knee.
Whoever that was, he was going to die.
Hall automatically glanced back at her, and she forced a smile and
a slight shrug. His hard expression didn’t change, and she held back
a shiver.
“Molly!” The guy who’d just walked into the store was hurrying
toward her, his face alight, looking as if they were best friends.
“Wha—?” She didn’t even get the whole word out, much less the
question, before he enveloped her in the biggest, tightest bear hug
in the universe.
“Molly Pax, my favorite bounty hunter! What are you doing on this
side of town? I thought you went to Booze World for your hard
lemonades.” His arms tightened until she squeaked. She wasn’t just
going to kill him; she was going to dismember him and then kill him.
Not only had he distracted her just as she was starting her
takedown, but he’d completely outed her to the skip.
Prying her face away from the broad and admittedly nicely
muscled chest, she glared up at him. “Let go of me, you oversize
doofus! You have the wrong person. I don’t know you!”
Turning her head, she saw her denial hadn’t had any apparent
effect on Cameron Hall. His whole body radiated fury as he stalked
toward the checkout.
“Seriously, what are you doing?” she hissed, breaking out of his
bear hug and charging after Hall. Now that he knew her name and
what she looked like, this was her only chance to bring him in. Hall
would never let her get close enough again. As apprehensive as
she’d been about going after him, she wasn’t about to fail.
“How can you say that, Molly?” The handsome stranger obviously
wasn’t about to quit. She briefly considered grabbing one of the
bottles of Jim Beam from the display next to them and cracking him
over the head. Maybe then he’d be quiet…at least until he regained
consciousness.
“Stop it,” she hissed over her shoulder before running to catch up
to Hall, who was just a couple steps away from the register. The
clerk was ignoring all the commotion, still caught up in his book.
Glancing over his shoulder, Hall grimaced as he dropped the six-
pack of beer and two bottles of wine he’d been holding. The bottles
crashed to the floor as Hall spun around, reaching toward the back
waistband of his jeans. Molly knew exactly what he was doing. He
was going for his gun.
“Hey! You’re going to have to pay for those!” the cashier
demanded, jerking up straight.
Molly leapt toward Hall in a last-ditch effort to save the situation,
hoping to take him down before he started shooting, but she was
plucked out of the air mid-tackle and hauled behind a display of
vodka before she could reach him.
“I’m not paying for those,” Hall snarled. Although Molly couldn’t
see what was happening, she heard the clerk whimper. “You’re
paying me . Empty the till. Now! Move!”
Molly tried to move, to go help the cashier, but there were still two
boa-constrictor-size arms wrapped around her middle.
“What in the freaking world are you doing, weirdo?” she whisper-
yelled, elbowing the stranger in the midsection and taking grim
pleasure in his grunt as she connected. “Let go!” His hold loosened,
allowing her to wiggle free.
“He has a gun!” the man hissed. “Stay here and stay down .” Not
waiting to see if she followed his commands, he moved quickly but
quietly to the end of the aisle and slipped out of sight.
 “I know he has a gun,” Molly grumbled, even though he couldn’t
hear. “He was arrested for armed robbery. Of course he’s carrying a
gun.”
Even as she muttered under her breath, trying to pretend her
heart wasn’t trying to beat out of her chest, she crouched low and
peered around the endcap. All she could see was Hall’s back, and
she grimaced. She could only assume he had the gun trained on the
clerk, and trying to take him down now could get the poor guy shot.
As she watched, Hall’s gaze jumped around—looking for her and
the grabby stranger, Molly assumed. She shifted out of his line of
sight and tapped out a text to the deputies as quietly as possible,
updating them on the situation and asking if they could speed up
their arrival. Tucking her phone back in her pocket, she returned to
the end of the aisle. Staying as low as possible, she shifted until she
could barely see Hall through the bottles of vodka, waiting until he
turned to look behind him. As he turned, the gun shifted as well,
rotating with his body until it was pointing away from the clerk.
Even as her brain screamed What are you doing? Molly launched
herself out of her concealed spot, driving herself forward as she
aimed for the weapon. Her hands latched around Hall’s wrist,
dragging down his arm as the gun went off, the expected roar
sounding like a mere pop to her ears.
Grabbing the barrel with one hand, she jerked it upward, and Hall
gave a sharp scream as his fingers snapped. His grip loosened, and
she yanked the gun free, tossing it away from them. A fist glanced
off her temple, knocking her head to the side. Hall had punched her
with his other, unbroken hand, but the angle was awkward, not
giving him the force he needed to really hurt her. Before he could
give it another try, she gave him a palm strike to the chin, knocking
his teeth together with an audible clack .
 He yelled, shaking off the hit and bunching his fist, shoving her
against the wall. Her back hit painfully against the edge of a shelf,
and she swallowed a yelp. Before she could recover, his forearm
pressed across her throat, pinning her. She forced herself to hold
still, to not fight the thick arm currently blocking her airflow. As fast
as her heart was beating, it didn’t take long for bright sparks to dot
her vision, but she still struggled to wait for her chance to knee him
in a sensitive spot.
There was a roar behind them, and then the arm across her throat
was gone. Sucking in painful, rough breaths, she blinked the
sparkles out of her eyes, staring as the stranger threw—literally
threw —Hall into a display of chip bags.
“Whoa,” she said, blinking, and then snapped out of her fog as the
wail of approaching sirens grew steadily louder. She wasn’t about to
have gone through all of this and not get Hall’s bounty. Shaking her
head to get rid of the odd floating feeling, she pounced, rolling a
groaning Hall from his side to his stomach and cranking his left hand
behind his back as she settled a knee against his spine.
The stranger watched her, his furiously protective expression
slowly returning to a more neutral one.
“You okay?” he asked.
She gave him her best you’ve got to be kidding look. “No thanks to
you. What was all that?” Since her hands were occupied with
keeping a still-dazed Hall in place, she jerked her head toward the
far aisle where the doofus had blown her entire plan out of the
water.
Now the guy was looking irritated at her—at her! “I was saving you
from getting shot. Don’t you know who he is?”
“Of course I do.” She frowned back at him, ignoring the noises
coming from the traumatized clerk. From the sound of it, the poor
guy was throwing up his lunch behind the counter. “Do you think I
just drag random people back to jail?”
His frown deepened as he propped his fists on his hips. “If you
knew that was Hall, why’d you go after him? You only pick up the
nonviolent skips.”
“Who are you, and how do you know that?”
Before he could answer, two deputies—Molly recognized them as
Darren and Maria—burst into the store with guns drawn. After they
took in the situation, Darren holstered his weapon.
“Is that Cameron Hall?” he asked the stranger. “Nice catch.”
“Hey!” There was no way Molly was about to let him get credit for
bringing in her skip. “He’s my nice catch, Darren. Me. The one sitting
on him.”
To her annoyance, the deputy gave the stranger a questioning
look. If she’d had a free hand and a convenient projectile, she
would’ve thrown something.
“Yeah, he’s hers,” the stranger agreed, surprising her. So far in
their short acquaintance, he hadn’t gone out of his way to make her
life easier. “It was impressive.”
“His gun’s over there.” Molly dipped her head toward the weapon.
“I tossed it after I disarmed him.” She gave Darren a glare.
“Sorry.” He gave her an apologetic shrug as he moved to cuff Hall,
who’d been oddly quiet. As Molly moved off of him, she saw that
he’d passed out.
“Uh-huh.” She wasn’t feeling too forgiving at the moment. Her
neck hurt. “Careful with his right hand. I broke his fingers disarming
him—Cameron Hall, the skip that I just took down all by myself, with
no help from any random weirdos.”
“Hey, I helped.” The stranger sounded more amused than put out,
though.
 Fine. She had to give him that much. “After you mucked
everything up.” She tried to hold on to her annoyance, but the idea
that she’d done it was finally sinking in. She’d brought in Cameron
Hall, a skip with a bounty large enough to pay for a whole year of
Cara’s tuition.
“I was trying to keep you from being killed.” Leaning back against
the counter, the stranger crossed his arms over his chest, and Molly
struggled even more to hold her scowl. Did guys learn to do that, to
make their biceps bulge in that specific way? Was there some kind of
class?
Shaking off her distraction, she focused on holding his gaze. “I can
do that just fine by myself. Who are you, anyway, and how do you
know my name—and what kind of skips I go after?”
“John Carmondy.” His smile was slow, curling up at the edges
before it spread to his cheeks, revealing a killer pair of dimples.
“Fellow bounty hunter.”
Tipping her head back, she groaned. Of course he was. Everything
was so much clearer now. Reopening her eyes, she directed a stern
look at him. “Were you trying to steal my skip?”
“Of course not.” She would’ve believed he was actually offended by
her accusation if it wasn’t for the amusement hidden in his voice. “I
don’t have to steal them.”
“Uh-huh.” She tried to make it clear that she didn’t believe him.
“You just happened to be in here, shouting my name and letting him
know that I’m a bounty hunter. Are you a dirty cheater, John
Carmondy? Because that’s what it looks like.”
“I am not a dirty cheater.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
His eyes gleamed with amusement. “I have never cheated. I was
helping you. Bounty hunter to bounty hunter. Brother to sister—in
the most hypothetical sense, of course. You barely needed my help,
though. I’m impressed.”
Despite herself, his compliment made her glow. She’d actually
done it. She’d taken down Cameron Hall and proven that she could
earn the big payouts. As much as she wanted to continue reveling in
that, though, she had paperwork to complete and a bounty to claim.
Turning toward the door, she couldn’t keep the enormous,
triumphant grin off her face. “I need to go get my hard-earned
money. We’ll see you around, John Carmondy.”
“Count on it, Molly Pax.”
 Chapter 3

“So…wait.” Norah frowned when Molly finished telling her sisters a

mildly edited version of the day’s events. If they knew how close
she’d come to being shot and/or beaten, they’d be upset, and Molly
tried very hard to keep her sisters content. After all the nonsense
their mom had put them through growing up, they deserved to be
happy. “Was he helping or not?”
“If he was, he’s the worst helper in the world,” Molly said, the last
couple of words swallowed in a yawn. “He sure is pretty, though.”
Charlie and Cara exchanged what Molly called their “silent twin
speech” look. “You like him?” Cara asked carefully.
“Of course not. He’s ridiculous. I just found him objectively
aesthetically appealing.”
“Riiiight.” Felicity drew out the word in the most sarcastic way
possible, and Molly tried to glare her into submission, but it wasn’t
working. She was too sleepy and drained and satisfied to hold her
annoyance, and her frown quickly shifted back to a smile.
“The important thing is that Cara has her tuition money back,”
Molly said as Cara looked both stricken and hopeful.
“I can’t—”
“Nope.”
“But there’s—”
 “You’re going back to school,” Molly said with finality. “I’ll keep it in
my account, and that way, you can honestly tell Mom that you don’t
have any money.”
Cara blinked, the stricken look fading until only hope remained.
“I’m going to pay you back.”
“Please.” Molly flipped a hand at her. “You work so many hours, I
owe you money.”
As Cara’s eyes began to gleam with the start of grateful tears,
Molly stood up, swaying slightly.
“You can be emotional tomorrow. Tonight, I’m going to take an
extra-long shower, then I’m going to bed. I’m going to sleep for a
minimum of twelve hours, and I will most likely have something
frosted and bad for me for breakfast tomorrow.”
Blinking rapidly, Cara smiled. “Sounds like a plan. I’m going to
register for classes.”
The excitement in her sister’s voice sent another ping of joy
through Molly. As she dragged herself upstairs, her brain was full of
thoughts. The business was succeeding—only just, but that was
better than being in the red. Cara wouldn’t miss any school, Charlie
and Felicity were ecstatic to keep chasing and tackling skips, and
Norah loved to research and play with their tech. Warrant was just
happy to fall asleep under the table and use someone’s foot as a
pillow.
Things were good.
So why couldn’t she stop thinking about John Carmondy?
Forget him , the practical voice in her head ordered. You probably
won’t ever see him again.
She gave a determined nod, ignoring the niggling feeling that she
was just fooling herself. John Carmondy, with his stupid muscles and
dimples and wicked sense of humor, would not be so easy to forget.
 About the Author

A graduate of the police academy, Katie Ruggle is a self-proclaimed

forensics nerd. A fan of anything that makes her feel like a badass,
she has trained in Krav Maga, boxing, and gymnastics; has lived in
an off-grid solar- and wind-powered house in the Rocky Mountains;
rides horses; trains her three dogs; and travels to warm places to
scuba dive. You can visit her at katieruggle.com .
 In Her Sights
Meet a band of bounty hunter sisters…and the men
who steal their hearts.

Bounty hunter Molly Pax fought hard for everything she has. But
now every two-bit criminal in the Rockies sees her family’s latest
misfortune as their next big break and she needs help, stat. Enter
rival bounty hunter John Carmondy: six feet of pure trouble, with a
cocky grin to match. John’s the most cheerfully, annoyingly gorgeous
frenemy Molly’s ever had…and he may be her only hope of making it
out of this mess alive.

“Vivid and charming.”

—Charlaine Harris, #1 New York Times bestselling author

For more, visit:

amazon.com
 Deep Blue
A Survival Instincts Novella
Adriana Anders
 To my brothers.
Heroes in their own ways.
 Chapter 1

Zoe shouldn’t have come out to the oil platform alone.

How many times had Jane warned her? How many times had she
promised her partner that she wouldn’t scuba dive offshore rigs on
her own? But she’d done it before, and she’d do it again.
Unless, of course, this time was her last.
Crap.
Eighty-five feet beneath the surface of the water, she spun, taking
in details she hadn’t noticed above. The absolute stillness was
disquieting, when usually the water around the rig’s coral- and
crustacean-coated legs was teeming with life. The sea turtles and
tiny reef fish that always investigated her presence were nowhere to
be seen. The only sound was her own breathing as she sucked air
from the tank, the only movements the gentle swish of sea anemone
and the flurry of bubbles rising from her mouth.
The flat, washed-out blue she usually found so calming looked
dead without the flash of garibaldi dashing between the old oil
platform’s maze of support beams like playful orange flames. Usually
they’d be swarming, but today…nothing.
It was Sea Lion Bob’s absence that transformed her sense of
general unease into full-blown worry, however. He’d greeted her
every time she’d come to check the Polaris platform reef.
Something was very wrong.
 Get out of here , her instincts screamed, even as her training
forced her to relax. A slow inhale, the sound thin under the weight
of the water, and a kick up, as languid as she could make it with the
panic weighing her limbs down. A long exhale churned the water
above, and she added bubbles to the mix by venting enough air to
rise slowly.
Relax. Stay calm.
Why hadn’t she paid attention to the niggling in her belly as she’d
driven her boat toward the platform? It was impossible to pinpoint
exactly when the feeling had started or what had set it off, but it
was undeniable. Funny how fear changed things. It turned the
platform’s shell-encrusted support beams into a phantom forest. The
pinks and purples, leached of all color, were the wan gray of death.
I’ll never come alone again , she promised the Fates or God or the
ocean itself.
As she slowly ascended, her eyes searched feverishly for some clue
as to what had turned a busy, dynamic reef into a foggy, blue ghost
town.
Had she missed something on the trip out here?
She remembered passing the two working platforms closer inland.
Nothing strange there. A few miles farther out, just before San Elias
Island, she’d spotted the Daphne and drawn her boat up alongside
her, as she did nearly every time she came this way. Blushing, of
course. Always blushing with that guy.
“Hey, Eric.”
Slow as syrup, he had leaned against the rail of his boat, lean body
indolent-looking, though his face remained serious as always.
“Evening, Zoe. Kinda late today, aren’t you?”
She had shrugged, working hard to keep her gaze above chest
level so she wouldn’t stare. What was it about this guy that made
her want to eat him up with her eyes? He wasn’t even her usual
type, which was dark and intellectual. No, this guy had Paul Newman
good looks, with the build of a roughneck. She’d bet anything his
hands were as coarse as his voice.
“Yeah,” she’d managed to shout against the wind. “Been a couple
weeks since I checked in on Polaris.”
“I noticed,” he’d said without the hint of a smile.
The words—straight, serious, and a touch accusatory—did things
to her. Good God, what was wrong with her? Those two innocuous
words made her heart race more than anything she’d done with her
last boyfriend. Ridiculous, considering that Eric showed no more
interest in her than in his fishing pole.
Besides, she knew absolutely nothing about him.
“All right.” She reached forward to pull the throttle out, but
stopped at his next words.
“You alone today?”
“Yeah,” she had to admit. “Jane’s not—”
“You diving the rig?”
“Yes.” She had sounded defensive. Weird how that came back to
her now, with a hiccup of embarrassment.
The lines around his mouth tightened, his too-blue eyes narrowed,
and he nodded once, quick and short.
“Careful. Weather headed our way.”
When his worry warmed her insides instead of sparking a snarky
Yes, sir , she’d known she should get out of there. Throwing him a
smile and a wave, she’d taken off as fast as she could. Everything
about the man said trouble—for her, at least. Oh, he’d always been
friendly and respectful, but it was the unspoken stuff that got to her,
like the hungry way he eyed her or, much more worrisome, the way
that look lit her up inside.
 She should have listened to his warning about weather, should
have turned around right there and headed back to the mainland.
Or, even better, she should have paused there longer, flirted a bit,
maybe even screwed up the courage to finally ask him out.
But she hadn’t. And now she was pushing back the panic and
slowly working through the eerie calm to the surface, which seemed
to be getting farther away with every kick of her fins.
Inhale…stop kicking. Loosen up. Be big. Exhale…
BOOM!
The sound hit her, and she threw up her hands to cover her ears.
Less than a second later, the rig’s supports shook, releasing a
blinding dust cloud that could mean only one thing—earthquake.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. At fifteen feet below the surface, she
fought the desire to head all the way up and counted down the
seconds for her three-minute safety stop.
Calm down. I’m better off in the water than on land.
Not if the platform collapsed.
She’d never been scared like this on a dive, never shivered so hard
underwater.
BOOM!
Another gray puff billowed from the platform, joining the dust
rising from the depths like smoke from a forest fire.
She didn’t have to check her gauge to know she was running low
on air.
Yeah, I’m done here.
When she broke the surface by the westernmost leg of the
platform, she yanked off her mask and smelled it immediately—some
kind of exhaust. Far above, an engine hummed, low and even, with
regular metallic clangs.
 It took about two seconds for everything to clarify. Not an
earthquake.
The relief was palpable…and short-lived.
Zoe strained to peer up at the rusting monstrosity rising above the
waves. Crap. Were they recommissioning this rig? No. No way. Not
possible. It was too old; the wells were tapped out. The company
had given her nonprofit permission to turn the Polaris into a reef. But
the drill couldn’t very well power itself.
Had Bob, the missing sea lion, somehow climbed his way up the
creaking metal and set something off?
The idea was ridiculous, but Zoe had to investigate. What if he was
stuck or hurt? Besides, that made more sense than someone
returning to drill an empty well.
Heart beating too fast, she swam back to her boat, dropped off her
scuba gear, and returned to the metal leg that provided the only
easy way up to the platform. She could hop up a few feet and then
climb the ladder, if needed. Bob had made it up to the lowest level
once. If he was there now, he could be stuck, sick, or dying. That
thought made her move faster, a little frantic.
She pushed up onto her palms, hefted herself onto the low shelf—
sharp and spiked with her beloved sea life—and squinted across to
the other legs. The metal rumbled under her feet.
No sea lion.
Where was he? She glanced up and got a face full of grime—hard
little specks of rust raining down with every angry clang of the
machine. Bob would hate this noise. She couldn’t stand the idea of
him being around here somewhere, alone, freaking out at this attack
on his home.
Zoe set her mouth and wrapped her hands around the rungs. Find
Bob, if he was around. Then figure out what the hell was going on
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 —Sortez, sortez, sortez, sortez tous! cria la Marana en sautant
avec l’agilité d’une tigresse sur le poignard qu’elle arracha des mains
de Perez étonné.
—Sortez, Perez, reprit-elle avec tranquillité, sortez, vous, votre
femme, votre servante et votre apprenti. Il va y avoir un meurtre ici.
Vous pourriez être fusillés tous par les Français. N’y soyez pour rien,
cela me regarde seule. Entre ma fille et moi, il ne doit y avoir que
Dieu. Quant à l’homme, il m’appartient. La terre entière ne
l’arracherait pas de mes mains. Allez, allez donc, je vous pardonne.
Je le vois, cette fille est une Marana. Vous, votre religion, votre
honneur, étiez trop faibles pour lutter contre mon sang.
Elle poussa un soupir affreux et leur montra des yeux secs. Elle
avait tout perdu et savait souffrir, elle était courtisane. La porte
s’ouvrit. La Marana oublia tout, et Perez, faisant signe à sa femme,
put rester à son poste. En vieil Espagnol intraitable sur l’honneur, il
voulait aider à la vengeance de la mère trahie. Juana, doucement
éclairée, blanchement vêtue, se montra calme au milieu de sa
chambre.
—Que me voulez-vous? dit-elle.
La Marana ne put réprimer un léger frisson.
—Perez, demanda-t-elle, ce cabinet a-t-il une autre issue?
Perez fit un geste négatif; et, confiante en ce geste, la courtisane
s’avança dans la chambre.
—Juana, je suis votre mère, votre juge, et vous vous êtes mise
dans la seule situation où je pusse me découvrir à vous. Vous êtes
venue à moi, vous que je voulais au ciel. Ah! vous êtes tombée bien
bas. Il y a chez vous un amant.
—Madame, il ne doit et ne peut s’y trouver que mon époux,
répondit-elle. Je suis la marquise de Montefiore.
—Il y en a donc deux? dit le vieux Perez de sa voix grave. Il m’a
dit être marié.
—Montefiore, mon amour! cria la jeune fille en déchirant les
rideaux et montrant l’officier, viens, ces gens te calomnient.
 L’Italien se montra pâle et blême, il voyait un poignard dans la
main de la Marana, et connaissait la Marana.
Aussi, d’un bond, s’élança-t-il hors de la chambre, en criant d’une
voix tonnante:—Au secours! au secours! l’on assassine un Français.
Soldats du 6e de ligne, courez chercher le capitaine Diard! Au
secours!
Perez avait étreint le marquis, et allait de sa large main lui faire
un bâillon naturel, lorsque la courtisane, l’arrêtant, lui dit:—Tenez-le
bien, mais laissez-le crier. Ouvrez les portes, laissez-les ouvertes, et
sortez tous, je vous le répète.—Quant à toi, reprit-elle en s’adressant
à Montefiore, crie, appelle au secours... Quand les pas de tes
soldats se feront entendre, tu auras cette lame dans le cœur.—Es-tu
marié? Réponds.
Montefiore, tombé sur le seuil de la porte, à deux pas de Juana,
n’entendait plus, ne voyait plus rien, si ce n’est la lame du poignard,
dont les rayons luisants l’aveuglaient.
—Il m’aurait donc trompée, dit lentement Juana. Il s’est dit libre.
—Il m’a dit être marié, reprit Perez de sa voix grave.
—Sainte Vierge! s’écria dona Lagounia.
—Répondras-tu donc, âme de boue? dit la Marana à voix basse
en se penchant à l’oreille du marquis.
—Votre fille, dit Montefiore.
—La fille que j’avais est morte ou va mourir, répliqua la Marana.
Je n’ai plus de fille. Ne prononce plus ce mot. Réponds, es-tu marié?
—Non, madame, dit enfin Montefiore, voulant gagner du temps.
Je veux épouser votre fille.
—Mon noble Montefiore! dit Juana respirant.
—Alors pourquoi fuir et appeler au secours? demanda
l’Espagnol.
Terrible lueur!
 Juana ne dit rien, mais elle se tordit les mains et alla s’asseoir
dans son fauteuil. En cet instant, il se fit au dehors un tumulte assez
facile à distinguer par le profond silence qui régnait au parloir. Un
soldat du 6e de ligne, passant par hasard dans la rue au moment où
Montefiore criait au secours, était allé prévenir Diard. Le quartier-
maître, qui heureusement rentrait chez lui, vint, accompagné de
quelques amis.
—Pourquoi fuir, reprit Montefiore en entendant la voix de son
ami, parce que je vous disais vrai. Diard! Diard! cria-t-il d’une voix
perçante.
Mais, sur un mot de son maître, qui voulait que tout chez lui fût
du meurtre, l’apprenti ferma la porte, et les soldats furent obligés de
l’enfoncer. Avant qu’ils n’entrassent, la Marana put donc donner au
coupable un coup de poignard; mais sa colère concentrée l’empêcha
de bien ajuster, et la lame glissa sur l’épaulette de Montefiore.
Néanmoins, elle y mit tant de force, que l’Italien alla tomber aux
pieds de Juana, qui ne s’en aperçut pas. La Marana sauta sur lui;
puis, cette fois, pour ne pas le manquer, elle le prit à la gorge, le
maintint avec un bras de fer, et le visa au cœur.
—Je suis libre et j’épouse! je le jure par Dieu, par ma mère, par
tout ce qu’il y a de plus sacré au monde; je suis garçon, j’épouse,
ma parole d’honneur!
Et il mordait le bras de la courtisane.
—Allez! ma mère, dit Juana, tuez-le. Il est trop lâche, je n’en
veux pas pour époux, fût-il dix fois plus beau.
—Ah! je retrouve ma fille, cria la mère.
—Que se passe-t-il donc ici? demanda le quartier-maître
survenant.
—Il y a, s’écria Montefiore, que l’on m’assassine au nom de cette
fille, qui prétend que je suis son amant, qui m’a entraîné dans un
piége, et que l’on veut me forcer d’épouser contre mon gré...
—Tu n’en veux pas, s’écria Diard, frappé de la beauté sublime
que l’indignation, le mépris et la haine prêtaient à Juana, déjà si
belle; tu es bien difficile! s’il lui faut un mari, me voilà. Rengaînez vos
poignards.
La Marana prit l’Italien, le releva, l’attira près du lit de sa fille, et
lui dit à l’oreille:—Si je t’épargne, rends-en grâce à ton dernier mot.
Mais, souviens-t’en! Si ta langue flétrit jamais ma fille, nous nous
reverrons.—De quoi peut se composer la dot? demanda-t-elle à
Perez.
—Elle a deux cent mille piastres fortes...
—Ce ne sera pas tout, monsieur, dit la courtisane à Diard. Qui
êtes-vous?—Vous pouvez sortir, reprit-elle en se tournant vers
Montefiore.
En entendant parler de deux cent mille piastres fortes, le marquis
s’avança disant:—Je suis bien réellement libre...
Un regard de Juana lui ôta la parole.—Vous êtes bien réellement
libre de sortir, lui dit-elle.
Et l’Italien sortit.
—Hélas! monsieur, reprit la jeune fille en s’adressant à Diard, je
vous remercie avec admiration. Mon époux est au ciel, ce sera
Jésus-Christ. Demain j’entrerai au couvent de...
—Juana, ma Juana, tais-toi! cria la mère en la serrant dans ses
bras. Puis elle lui dit à l’oreille:—Il te faut un autre époux.
Juana pâlit.
—Qui êtes-vous, monsieur? répéta-t-elle en regardant le
Provençal.
—Je ne suis encore, dit-il, que le quartier-maître du 6e de ligne.
Mais, pour une telle femme, on se sent le cœur de devenir maréchal
de France. Je me nomme Pierre-François Diard. Mon père était
prévôt des marchands; je ne suis donc pas un...
—Eh! vous êtes honnête homme, n’est-ce pas? s’écria la
Marana. Si vous plaisez à la signora Juana de Mancini, vous pouvez
être heureux l’un et l’autre.
 —Juana, reprit-elle d’un ton grave, en devenant la femme d’un
brave et digne homme, songe que tu seras mère. J’ai juré que tu
pourrais embrasser au front tes enfants sans rougir... (là, sa voix
s’altéra légèrement). J’ai juré que tu serais une femme vertueuse.
Attends-toi donc, dans cette vie, à bien des peines; mais, quoi qu’il
arrive, reste pure, et sois en tout fidèle à ton mari; sacrifie-lui tout, il
sera le père de tes enfants... Un père à tes enfants!... Va! entre un
amant et toi, tu rencontreras toujours ta mère; je la serai dans les
dangers seulement... Vois-tu le poignard de Perez... Il est dans ta
dot, dit-elle en prenant l’arme et la jetant sur le lit de Juana, je l’y
laisse comme une garantie de ton honneur, tant que j’aurai les yeux
ouverts et les bras libres.—Adieu, dit-elle en retenant ses pleurs,
fasse le ciel que nous ne nous revoyions jamais.
A cette idée, ses larmes coulèrent en abondance.
—Pauvre enfant! tu as été bien heureuse dans cette cellule, plus
que tu ne le crois!—Faites qu’elle ne la regrette jamais, dit-elle en
regardant son futur gendre.
Ce récit purement introductif n’est point le sujet principal de cette
Étude, pour l’intelligence de laquelle il était nécessaire d’expliquer,
avant toutes choses, comment il se fit que le capitaine Diard épousa
Juana de Mancini; comment Montefiore et Diard se connurent, et de
faire comprendre quel cœur, quel sang, quelles passions animaient
madame Diard.
Lorsque le quartier-maître eut rempli les longues et lentes
formalités sans lesquelles il n’est pas permis à un militaire français
de se marier, il était devenu passionnément amoureux de Juana de
Mancini. Juana de Mancini avait eu le temps de réfléchir à sa
destinée. Destinée affreuse! Juana, qui n’avait pour Diard ni estime,
ni amour, se trouvait néanmoins liée à lui par une parole, imprudente
sans doute, mais nécessaire. Le Provençal n’était ni beau, ni bien
fait. Ses manières dépourvues de distinction se ressentaient
également du mauvais ton de l’armée, des mœurs de sa province et
d’une incomplète éducation. Pouvait-elle donc aimer Diard, cette
jeune fille toute grâce et toute élégance, mue par un invincible
instinct de luxe et de bon goût, et que sa nature entraînait d’ailleurs
vers la sphère des hautes classes sociales? Quant à l’estime, elle
refusait même ce sentiment à Diard, précisément parce que Diard
l’épousait. Cette répulsion était toute naturelle. La femme est une
sainte et belle créature, mais presque toujours incomprise; et
presque toujours mal jugée, parce qu’elle est incomprise. Si Juana
eût aimé Diard, elle l’eût estimé. L’amour crée dans la femme une
femme nouvelle; celle de la veille n’existe plus le lendemain. En
revêtant la robe nuptiale d’une passion où il y va de toute la vie, une
femme la revêt pure et blanche. Renaissant vertueuse et pudique, il
n’y a plus de passé pour elle; elle est tout avenir et doit tout oublier,
pour tout réapprendre. En ce sens, le vers assez célèbre qu’un
poëte moderne a mis aux lèvres de Marion Delorme était trempé
dans le vrai, vers tout cornélien d’ailleurs.
Et l’amour m’a refait une virginité.

Ce vers ne semblait-il pas une réminiscence de quelque tragédie

de Corneille, tant y revivait la facture substantivement énergique du
père de notre théâtre? Et cependant le poëte a été forcé d’en faire le
sacrifice au génie essentiellement vaudevilliste du parterre.
Donc Juana, sans amour, restait la Juana trompée, humiliée,
dégradée. Juana ne pouvait pas honorer l’homme qui l’acceptait
ainsi. Elle sentait, dans toute la consciencieuse pureté du jeune âge,
cette distinction, subtile en apparence, mais d’une vérité sacrée,
légale selon le cœur, et que les femmes appliquent instinctivement
dans tous leurs sentiments, même les plus irréfléchis. Juana devint
profondément triste en découvrant l’étendue de la vie. Elle tourna
souvent ses yeux pleins de larmes, fièrement réprimées, et sur
Perez et sur dona Lagounia, qui, tous deux, comprenaient les
amères pensées contenues dans ces larmes; mais ils se taisaient. A
quoi bon les reproches? Pourquoi des consolations? Plus vives elles
sont, plus elles élargissent le malheur.
Un soir, Juana, stupide de douleur, entendit, à travers la portière
de sa cellule, que les deux époux croyaient fermée, une plainte
échappée à sa mère adoptive.
—La pauvre enfant mourra de chagrin.
 —Oui, répliqua Perez d’une voix émue. Mais que pouvons-nous?
Irais-je maintenant vanter la chaste beauté de ma pupille au comte
d’Arcos, à qui j’espérais la marier?
—Une faute n’est pas le vice, dit la vieille femme, indulgente
autant que pouvait l’être un ange.
—Sa mère l’a donnée, reprit Perez.
—En un moment, et sans la consulter, s’écria dona Lagounia.
—Elle a bien su ce qu’elle faisait.
—En quelles mains ira notre perle!
—N’ajoute pas un mot, ou je cherche querelle à ce... Diard. Et,
ce serait un autre malheur.
En entendant ces terribles paroles, Juana comprit alors le
bonheur dont le cours avait été troublé par sa faute. Les heures
pures et candides de sa douce retraite auraient donc été
récompensées par cette éclatante et splendide existence dont elle
avait si souvent rêvé les délices, rêves qui avaient causé sa ruine.
Tomber du haut de la Grandesse à monsieur Diard! Juana pleura,
Juana devint presque folle. Elle flotta pendant quelques instants
entre le vice et la religion. Le vice était un prompt dénoûment; la
religion, une vie entière de souffrances. La méditation fut orageuse
et solennelle. Le lendemain était un jour fatal, celui du mariage.
Juana pouvait encore rester Juana. Libre, elle savait jusqu’où irait
son malheur; mariée, elle ignorait jusqu’où il devait aller. La religion
triompha. Dona Lagounia vint près de sa fille prier et veiller aussi
pieusement qu’elle eût prié, veillé près d’une mourante.
—Dieu le veut, dit-elle à Juana.
La nature donne alternativement à la femme une force
particulière qui l’aide à souffrir, et une faiblesse qui lui conseille la
résignation. Juana se résigna sans arrière-pensée. Elle voulut obéir
au vœu de sa mère et traverser le désert de la vie pour arriver au
ciel, tout en sachant qu’elle ne trouverait point de fleurs dans son
pénible voyage. Elle épousa Diard. Quant au quartier-maître, s’il ne
trouvait pas grâce devant Juana, qui ne l’aurait absous? il aimait
avec ivresse. La Marana, si naturellement habile à pressentir
l’amour, avait reconnu en lui l’accent de la passion, et deviné le
caractère brusque, les mouvements généreux, particuliers aux
méridionaux. Dans le paroxysme de sa grande colère, elle n’avait
aperçu que les belles qualités de Diard, et crut en voir assez pour
que le bonheur de sa fille fût à jamais assuré.
Les premiers jours de ce mariage furent heureux en apparence;
ou, pour exprimer l’un de ces faits latents dont toutes les misères
sont ensevelies par les femmes au fond de leur âme, Juana ne
voulut point détrôner la joie de son mari. Double rôle, épouvantable
à jouer, et que jouent, tôt ou tard, la plupart des femmes mal
mariées. De cette vie, un homme n’en peut raconter que les faits, les
cœurs féminins seuls en devineront les sentiments. N’est-ce pas une
histoire impossible à retracer dans toute sa vérité? Juana, luttant à
toute heure contre sa nature à la fois espagnole et italienne, ayant
tari la source de ses larmes à pleurer en secret, était une de ces
créations typiques, destinées à représenter le malheur féminin dans
sa plus vaste expression: douleur incessamment active, et dont la
peinture exigerait des observations si minutieuses que, pour les
gens avides d’émotions dramatiques, elle deviendrait insipide. Cette
analyse, où chaque épouse devrait retrouver quelques-unes de ses
propres souffrances, pour les comprendre toutes, ne serait-elle pas
un livre entier? Livre ingrat de sa nature, et dont le mérite
consisterait en teintes fines, en nuances délicates que les critiques
trouveraient molles et diffuses. D’ailleurs, qui pourrait aborder, sans
porter un autre cœur en son cœur, ces touchantes et profondes
élégies que certaines femmes emportent dans la tombe: mélancolies
incomprises, même de ceux qui les excitent; soupirs inexaucés,
dévouements sans récompenses, terrestres du moins; magnifiques
silences méconnus; vengeances dédaignées; générosités
perpétuelles et perdues; plaisirs souhaités et trahis; charités d’ange
accomplies mystérieusement; enfin toutes ses religions et son
inextinguible amour? Juana connut cette vie, et le sort ne lui fit grâce
de rien. Elle fut toute la femme, mais la femme malheureuse et
souffrante, la femme sans cesse offensée et pardonnant toujours, la
femme pure comme un diamant sans tache; elle qui, de ce diamant,
avait la beauté, l’éclat; et, dans cette beauté, dans cet éclat, une
vengeance toute prête. Elle n’était certes pas fille à redouter le
poignard ajouté à sa dot.
Cependant, animé par un amour vrai, par une de ces passions
qui changent momentanément les plus détestables caractères et
mettent en lumière tout ce qu’il y a de beau dans une âme, Diard sut
d’abord se comporter en homme d’honneur. Il força Montefiore à
quitter le régiment, et même le corps d’armée, afin que sa femme ne
le rencontrât point pendant le peu de temps qu’il comptait rester en
Espagne. Puis, le quartier-maître demanda son changement, et
réussit à passer dans la garde impériale. Il voulait à tout prix acquérir
un titre, des honneurs et une considération en rapport avec sa
grande fortune. Dans cette pensée, il se montra courageux à l’un de
nos plus sanglants combats en Allemagne; mais il y fut trop
dangereusement blessé pour rester au service. Menacé de perdre
une jambe, il eut sa retraite, sans le titre de baron, sans les
récompenses qu’il avait désiré gagner, et qu’il aurait peut-être
obtenues, s’il n’eût pas été Diard. Cet événement, sa blessure, ses
espérances trahies, contribuèrent à changer son caractère. Son
énergie provençale, exaltée pendant un moment, tomba soudain.
Néanmoins, il fut d’abord soutenu par sa femme, à laquelle ces
efforts, ce courage, cette ambition, donnèrent quelque croyance en
son mari, et qui, plus que toute autre, devait se montrer ce que sont
les femmes, consolantes et tendres dans les peines de la vie. Animé
par quelques paroles de Juana, le chef de bataillon en retraite vint à
Paris, et résolut de conquérir, dans la carrière administrative, une
haute position qui commandât le respect, fît oublier le quartier-maître
du 6e de ligne, et dotât un jour madame Diard de quelque beau titre.
Sa passion pour cette séduisante créature l’aidait à en deviner les
vœux secrets. Juana se taisait, mais il la comprenait; il n’en était pas
aimé comme un amant rêve de l’être; il le savait, et voulait se faire
estimer, aimer, chérir. Il pressentait le bonheur, ce malheureux
homme, en trouvant en toute occasion sa femme et douce et
patiente; mais cette douceur, cette patience, trahissaient la
résignation à laquelle il devait Juana. La résignation, la religion,
était-ce l’amour? Souvent Diard eût souhaité des refus, là où il
rencontrait une chaste obéissance; souvent, il aurait donné sa vie
éternelle pour que Juana daignât pleurer sur son sein et ne déguisât
pas ses pensées sous une riante figure qui mentait noblement.
Beaucoup d’hommes jeunes, car, à un certain âge, nous ne luttons
plus, veulent triompher d’une destinée mauvaise dont les nuages
grondent, de temps à autre, à l’horizon de leur vie; et au moment où
ils roulent dans les abîmes du malheur, il faut leur savoir gré de ces
combats ignorés.
Comme beaucoup de gens, Diard essaya de tout, et tout lui fut
hostile. Sa fortune lui permit d’d’entourer sa femme des jouissances
du luxe parisien, elle eut un grand hôtel, de grands salons, et tint
une de ces grandes maisons où abondent et les artistes, peu
jugeurs de leur nature, et quelques intrigants qui font nombre, et les
gens disposés à s’amuser partout, et certains hommes à la mode,
tous amoureux de Juana. Ceux qui se mettent en évidence à Paris
doivent ou dompter Paris ou subir Paris. Diard n’avait pas un
caractère assez fort, assez compacte, assez persistant pour
commander au monde de cette époque, parce que, à cette époque,
chacun voulait s’élever. Les classifications sociales toutes faites sont
peut-être un grand bien, même pour le peuple. Napoléon nous a
confié les peines qu’il se donna pour imposer le respect à sa cour,
où la plupart de ses sujets avaient été ses égaux. Mais Napoléon
était Corse, et Diard Provençal. A génie égal, un insulaire sera
toujours plus complet que ne l’est l’homme de la terre ferme, et sous
la même latitude, le bras de mer qui sépare la Corse de la Provence
est, en dépit de la science humaine, un océan tout entier qui en fait
deux patries.
De sa position fausse, qu’il faussa encore, dérivèrent pour Diard
de grands malheurs. Peut-être y a-t-il des enseignements utiles dans
la filiation imperceptible des faits qui engendrèrent le dénoûment de
cette histoire. D’abord, les railleurs de Paris ne voyaient pas, sans
un malin sourire, les tableaux avec lesquels l’ancien quartier-maître
décora son hôtel. Les chefs-d’œuvre achetés la veille furent
enveloppés dans le reproche muet que chacun adressait à ceux qui
avaient été pris en Espagne, et ce reproche était la vengeance des
amours-propres que la fortune de Diard offensait. Juana comprit
quelques-uns de ces mots à double sens auxquels le Français
excelle. Alors, par son conseil, son mari renvoya les tableaux à
Tarragone. Mais le public, décidé à mal prendre les choses, dit:—Ce
Diard est fin, il a vendu ses tableaux. De bonnes gens continuèrent à
croire que les toiles qui restèrent dans ses salons n’étaient pas
loyalement acquises. Quelques femmes jalouses demandaient
comment un Diard avait pu épouser une jeune fille et si riche et si
belle. De là, des commentaires, des railleries sans fin, comme on
sait les faire à Paris. Cependant Juana rencontrait partout un respect
commandé par sa vie pure et religieuse qui triomphait de tout, même
des calomnies parisiennes; mais ce respect s’arrêtait à elle, et
manquait à son mari. Sa perspicacité féminine et son regard brillant,
en planant dans ses salons, ne lui apportaient que des douleurs.
Cette mésestime était encore une chose toute naturelle. Les
militaires, malgré les vertus que l’imagination leur accorde, ne
pardonnèrent pas à l’ancien quartier-maître du 6e de ligne,
précisément parce qu’il était riche et voulait faire figure à Paris. Or, à
Paris, de la dernière maison du faubourg Saint-Germain au dernier
hôtel de la rue Saint-Lazare, entre la butte du Luxembourg et celle
de Montmartre, tout ce qui s’habille et babille, s’habille pour sortir et
sort pour babiller, tout ce monde de petits et de grands airs, ce
monde vêtu d’impertinence et doublé d’humbles désirs, d’envie et de
courtisanerie, tout ce qui est doré et dédoré, jeune et vieux, noble
d’hier ou noble du quatrième siècle, tout ce qui se moque d’un
parvenu, tout ce qui a peur de se compromettre, tout ce qui veut
démolir un pouvoir, sauf à l’adorer s’il résiste; toutes ces oreilles
entendent, toutes ces langues disent et toutes ces intelligences
savent, en une seule soirée, où est né, où a grandi, ce qu’a fait ou
n’a pas fait le nouveau venu qui prétend à des honneurs dans ce
monde. S’il n’existe pas de Cour d’assises pour la haute société, elle
rencontre le plus cruel de tous les procureurs-généraux, un être
moral, insaisissable, à la fois juge et bourreau: il accuse et il marque.
N’espérez lui rien cacher, dites-lui tout vous-même, il veut tout savoir
et sait tout. Ne demandez pas où est le télégraphe inconnu qui lui
transmet à la même heure, en un clin d’œil, en tous lieux, une
histoire, un scandale, une nouvelle; ne demandez pas qui le remue.
Ce télégraphe est un mystère social, un observateur ne peut qu’en
constater les effets. Il y en a d’incroyables d’exemples, un seul suffit.
L’assassinat du duc de Berry, frappé à l’Opéra, fut conté, dans la
dixième minute qui suivit le crime, au fond de l’île Saint-Louis.
L’opinion émanée du 6e de ligne sur Diard filtra dans le monde le soir
même où il donna son premier bal.
Diard ne pouvait donc plus rien sur le monde. Dès lors, sa femme
seule avait la puissance de faire quelque chose de lui. Miracle de
cette singulière civilisation! A Paris, si un homme ne sait rien être par
lui-même, sa femme, lorsqu’elle est jeune et spirituelle, lui offre
encore des chances pour son élévation. Parmi les femmes, il s’en
est rencontré de malades, de faibles en apparence, qui, sans se
lever de leur divan, sans sortir de leur chambre, ont dominé la
société, remué mille ressorts, et placé leurs maris, là où elles
voulaient être vaniteusement placées. Mais Juana, dont l’enfance
s’était naïvement écoulée dans sa cellule de Tarragone, ne
connaissait aucun des vices, aucune des lâchetés ni aucune des
ressources du monde parisien; elle le regardait en jeune fille
curieuse, elle n’en apprenait que ce que sa douleur et sa fierté
blessée lui en révélaient. D’ailleurs, Juana avait le tact d’un cœur
vierge qui recevait les impressions par avance, à la manière des
sensitives. La jeune solitaire, devenue si promptement femme,
comprit que si elle essayait de contraindre le monde à honorer son
mari, ce serait mendier à l’espagnole, une escopette en main. Puis,
la fréquence et la multiplicité des précautions qu’elle devait prendre
n’en accuseraient-elles pas toute la nécessité? Entre ne pas se faire
respecter et se faire trop respecter, il y avait pour Diard tout un
abîme. Soudain elle devina le monde comme naguère elle avait
deviné la vie, et elle n’apercevait partout pour elle que l’immense
étendue d’une infortune irréparable. Puis, elle eut encore le chagrin
de reconnaître tardivement l’incapacité particulière de son mari,
l’homme le moins propre à ce qui demandait de la suite dans les
idées. Il ne comprenait rien au rôle qu’il devait jouer dans le monde,
il n’en saisissait ni l’ensemble, ni les nuances, et les nuances y
étaient tout. Ne se trouvait-il pas dans une de ces situations où la
finesse peut aisément remplacer la force? Mais la finesse qui réussit
toujours est peut-être la plus grande de toutes les forces.
Or, loin d’étancher la tache d’huile faite par ses antécédents,
Diard se donna mille peines pour l’étendre. Ainsi, ne sachant pas
bien étudier la phase de l’empire au milieu de laquelle il arrivait, il
voulut, quoiqu’il ne fût que chef d’escadron, être nommé préfet. Alors
presque tout le monde croyait au génie de Napoléon, sa faveur avait
tout agrandi. Les préfectures, ces empires au petit pied, ne
pouvaient plus être chaussées que par de grands noms, par des
chambellans de S. M. l’empereur et roi. Déjà les préfets étaient
devenus des vizirs. Donc, les faiseurs du grand homme se
moquèrent de l’ambition avouée par le chef d’escadron, et Diard se
mit à solliciter une sous-préfecture. Il y eut un désaccord ridicule
entre la modestie de ses prétentions et la grandeur de sa fortune.
Ouvrir des salons royaux, afficher un luxe insolent, puis quitter la vie
millionnaire pour aller à Issoudun ou à Savenay, n’était-ce pas se
mettre au-dessous de sa position? Juana, trop tard instruite de nos
lois, de nos mœurs, de nos coutumes administratives, éclaira donc
trop tard son mari. Diard, désespéré, sollicita successivement
auprès de tous les pouvoirs ministériels; Diard, repoussé partout, ne
put rien être, et alors le monde le jugea comme il était jugé par le
gouvernement et comme il se jugeait lui-même. Diard avait été
grièvement blessé sur un champ de bataille, et Diard n’était pas
décoré. Le quartier-maître, riche, mais sans considération, ne trouva
point de place dans l’État; la société lui refusa logiquement celle à
laquelle il prétendait dans la société. Enfin, chez lui, ce malheureux
éprouvait en toute occasion la supériorité de sa femme. Quoiqu’elle
usât d’un tact il faudrait dire velouté, si l’épithète n’était trop hardie,
pour déguiser à son mari cette suprématie qui l’étonnait elle-même,
et dont elle était humiliée, Diard finit par en être affecté.
Nécessairement, à ce jeu, les hommes s’abattent, se grandissent ou
deviennent mauvais. Le courage ou la passion de cet homme
devaient donc s’amoindrir sous les coups réitérés que ses fautes
portaient à son amour-propre, et il faisait faute sur faute. D’abord, il
avait tout à combattre, même ses habitudes et son caractère.
Passionné Provençal, franc dans ses vices autant que dans ses
vertus, cet homme, dont les fibres ressemblaient à des cordes de
harpe, fut tout cœur pour ses anciens amis. Il secourut les gens
crottés aussi bien que les nécessiteux de haut rang; bref, il avoua
tout le monde, et donna, dans son salon doré, la main à de pauvres
diables. Voyant cela, le général de l’empire, variation de l’espèce
humaine dont bientôt aucun type n’existera plus, n’offrit pas son
accolade à Diard, et lui dit insolemment:—Mon cher! en l’abordant.
Là où les généraux déguisèrent leur insolence sous leur bonhomie
soldatesque, le peu de gens de bonne compagnie que voyait Diard
lui témoignèrent ce mépris élégant, verni, contre lequel un homme
nouveau est presque toujours sans armes. Enfin le maintien, la
gesticulation italienne à demi, le parler de Diard, la manière dont il
s’habillait, tout en lui repoussait le respect que l’observation exacte
des choses voulues par le bon ton fait acquérir aux gens vulgaires,
et dont le joug ne peut être secoué que par les grands pouvoirs.
Ainsi va le monde.
Ces détails peignent faiblement les mille supplices auxquels
Juana fut en proie, ils vinrent un à un; chaque nature sociale lui
apporta son coup d’épingle; et, pour une âme qui préfère les coups
de poignard, n’y avait-il pas d’atroces souffrances dans cette lutte où
Diard recevait des affronts sans les sentir, et où Juana les sentait
sans les recevoir? Puis un moment arriva, moment épouvantable, où
elle eut du monde une perception lucide, et ressentit à la fois toutes
les douleurs qui s’y étaient d’avance amassées pour elle. Elle jugea
son mari tout à fait incapable de monter les hauts échelons de
l’ordre social, et devina jusqu’où il devait en descendre le jour où le
cœur lui faudrait. Là, Juana prit Diard en pitié. L’avenir était bien
sombre pour cette jeune femme. Elle vivait toujours dans
l’appréhension d’un malheur, sans savoir d’où pourrait venir ce
malheur. Ce pressentiment était dans son âme comme une
contagion est dans l’air; mais elle savait trouver la force de déguiser
ses angoisses sous des sourires. Elle en était venue à ne plus
penser à elle. Juana se servit de son influence pour faire abdiquer à
Diard toutes ses prétentions, et lui montrer, comme un asile, la vie
douce et bienfaisante du foyer domestique. Les maux venaient du
monde, ne fallait-il pas bannir le monde? Chez lui, Diard trouverait la
paix, le respect; il y régnerait. Elle se sentait assez forte pour
accepter la rude tâche de le rendre heureux, lui, mécontent de lui-
même. Son énergie s’accrut avec les difficultés de la vie, elle eut
tout l’héroïsme secret nécessaire à sa situation, et fut inspirée par
ces religieux désirs qui soutiennent l’ange chargé de protéger une
âme chrétienne: superstitieuse poésie, images allégoriques de nos
deux natures.
Diard abandonna ses projets, ferma sa maison et vécut dans son
intérieur, s’il est permis d’employer une expression si familière. Mais
là fut l’écueil. Le pauvre militaire avait une de ces âmes tout
excentriques auxquelles il faut un mouvement perpétuel. Diard était
un de ces hommes instinctivement forcés à repartir aussitôt qu’ils
sont arrivés, et dont le but vital semble être d’aller et de venir sans
cesse, comme les roues dont parle l’Écriture sainte. D’ailleurs peut-
être cherchait-il à se fuir lui-même. Sans se lasser de Juana, sans
pouvoir accuser Juana, sa passion pour elle, devenue plus calme
par la possession, le rendit à son caractère. Dès lors, ses moments
d’abattement furent plus fréquents, et il se livra souvent à ses
vivacités méridionales. Plus une femme est vertueuse et plus elle est
irréprochable, plus un homme aime à la trouver en faute, quand ce
ne serait que pour faire acte de sa supériorité légale; mais si par
hasard elle lui est complétement imposante, il éprouve le besoin de
lui forger des torts. Alors, entre époux, les riens grossissent et
deviennent des Alpes. Mais Juana, patiente sans orgueil, douce
sans cette amertume que les femmes savent jeter dans leur
soumission, ne laissait aucune prise à la méchanceté calculée, la
plus âpre de toutes les méchancetés. Puis, elle était une de ces
nobles créatures auxquelles il est impossible de manquer; son
regard, dans lequel sa vie éclatait, sainte et pure, son regard de
martyre avait la pesanteur d’une fascination. Diard, gêné d’abord,
puis froissé, finit par voir un joug pour lui dans cette haute vertu. La
sagesse de sa femme ne lui donnait point d’émotions violentes, et il
souhaitait des émotions. Il se trouve des milliers de scènes jouées
au fond des âmes, sous ces froides déductions d’une existence en
apparence simple et vulgaire. Entre tous ces petits drames, qui
durent si peu, mais qui entrent si avant dans la vie, et sont presque
toujours les présages de la grande infortune écrite dans la plupart
des mariages, il est difficile de choisir un exemple. Cependant il est
une scène qui servit plus particulièrement à marquer le moment où,
dans cette vie à deux, la mésintelligence commença. Peut-être
servira-t-elle à expliquer le dénoûment de cette histoire.
 Juana avait deux enfants, deux garçons, heureusement pour elle.
Le premier était venu sept mois après son mariage. Il se nommait
Juan, et ressemblait à sa mère. Elle avait eu le second, deux ans
après son arrivée à Paris. Celui-là ressemblait également à Diard et
à Juana, mais beaucoup plus à Diard, il en portait les noms. Depuis
cinq ans, Francisque était pour Juana l’objet des soins les plus
tendres. Constamment la mère s’occupait de cet enfant: à lui les
caresses mignonnes, à lui les joujoux; mais à lui surtout les regards
pénétrants de la mère; Juana l’avait épié dès le berceau, elle en
avait étudié les cris, les mouvements; elle voulait en deviner le
caractère pour en diriger l’éducation. Il semblait que Juana n’eût que
cet enfant. Le Provençal, voyant Juan presque dédaigné, le prit sous
sa protection; et, sans s’expliquer si ce petit était l’enfant de l’amour
éphémère auquel il devait Juana, ce mari, par une espèce de
flatterie admirable, en fit son Benjamin. De tous les sentiments dus
au sang de ses aïeules, et qui la dévoraient, madame Diard
n’accepta que l’amour maternel. Mais elle aimait ses enfants et avec
la violence sublime dont l’exemple a été donné par la Marana qui
agit dans le préambule de cette histoire, et avec la gracieuse pudeur,
avec l’entente délicate des vertus sociales dont la pratique était la
gloire de sa vie et sa récompense intime. La pensée secrète, la
consciencieuse maternité, qui avaient imprimé à la vie de la Marana
un cachet de poésie rude, étaient pour Juana une vie avouée, une
consolation de toutes les heures. Sa mère avait été vertueuse
comme les autres femmes sont criminelles, à la dérobée; elle avait
volé son bonheur tacite; elle n’en avait pas joui. Mais Juana,
malheureuse par la vertu, comme sa mère était malheureuse par le
vice, trouvait à toute heure les ineffables délices que sa mère avait
tant enviées, et desquelles elle avait été privée. Pour elle, comme
pour la Marana, la maternité comprit donc tous les sentiments
terrestres. L’une et l’autre, par des causes contraires, n’eurent pas
d’autre consolation dans leur misère. Juana aima peut-être
davantage, parce que, sevrée d’amour, elle résolut toutes les
jouissances qui lui manquaient par celles de ses enfants, et qu’il en
est des passions nobles comme des vices: plus elles se satisfont,
plus elles s’accroissent. La mère et le joueur sont insatiables. Quand
Juana vit le pardon généreux imposé chaque jour sur la tête de
Juan, par l’affection paternelle de Diard, elle fut attendrie; et, du jour
où les deux époux changèrent de rôle, l’Espagnole prit à Diard cet
intérêt profond et vrai dont elle lui avait donné tant de preuves, par
devoir seulement. Si cet homme eût été plus conséquent dans sa
vie; s’il n’eût pas détruit par le décousu, par l’inconstance et la
mobilité de son caractère, les éclairs d’une sensibilité vraie, quoique
nerveuse, Juana l’aurait sans doute aimé. Malheureusement il était
le type de ces méridionaux, spirituels, mais sans suite dans leurs
aperçus; capables de grandes choses la veille, et nuls le lendemain;
souvent victimes de leurs vertus, et souvent heureux par leurs
passions mauvaises: hommes admirables d’ailleurs, quand leurs
bonnes qualités ont une constante énergie pour lien commun.
Depuis deux ans, Diard était donc captivé au logis par la plus douce
des chaînes. Il vivait, presque malgré lui, sous l’influence d’une
femme qui se faisait gaie, amusante pour lui; qui usait les
ressources du génie féminin pour le séduire au nom de la vertu,
mais dont l’adresse n’allait pas jusqu’à lui simuler de l’amour.
En ce moment, tout Paris s’occupait de l’affaire d’un capitaine de
l’ancienne armée qui, dans un paroxysme de libertinage, avait
assassiné une femme. Diard, en rentrant chez lui pour dîner, apprit à
Juana la mort de cet officier. Il s’était tué pour éviter le déshonneur
de son procès et la mort ignoble de l’échafaud. Juana ne comprit
pas tout d’abord la logique de cette conduite, et son mari fut obligé
de lui expliquer la belle jurisprudence des lois françaises, qui ne
permet pas de poursuivre les morts.
—Mais, papa, ne nous as-tu pas dit, l’autre jour, que le roi faisait
grâce? demanda Francisque.
—Le roi ne peut donner que la vie, lui répondit Juan à demi
courroucé.
Diard et Juana, spectateurs de cette scène, en furent bien
diversement affectés. Le regard humide de joie que sa femme jeta
sur l’aîné révéla fatalement au mari les secrets de ce cœur
impénétrable jusqu’alors. L’aîné, c’était tout Juana; l’aîné, Juana le
connaissait; elle était sûre de son cœur, de son avenir; elle l’adorait,
et son ardent amour pour lui restait un secret pour elle, pour son
enfant et Dieu. Juan jouissait instinctivement des brusqueries de sa
mère, qui le serrait à l’étouffer quand ils étaient seuls, et qui
paraissait le bouder en présence de son frère et de son père.
Francisque était Diard, et les soins de Juana trahissaient le désir de
combattre chez cet enfant les vices du père, et d’en encourager les
bonnes qualités. Juana, ne sachant pas que son regard avait trop
parlé, prit Francisque sur elle et lui fit, d’une voix douce, mais émue
encore par le plaisir qu’elle ressentait de la réponse de Juan, une
leçon appropriée à son intelligence.
—Son caractère exige de grands soins, dit le père à Juana.
—Oui, répondit-elle simplement.
—Mais Juan!
Madame Diard, effrayée de l’accent avec lequel ces deux mots
furent prononcés, regarda son mari.
—Juan est né parfait, ajouta-t-il. Ayant dit, il s’assit d’un air
sombre; et, voyant sa femme silencieuse, il reprit:—Il y a un de vos
enfants que vous aimez mieux que l’autre.
—Vous le savez bien, dit-elle.
—Non! répliqua Diard, j’ai jusqu’à présent ignoré celui que vous
préfériez.
—Mais ils ne m’ont encore donné de chagrin ni l’un ni l’autre,
répondit-elle vivement.
—Oui, mais qui vous a donné le plus de joies? demanda-t-il plus
vivement encore.
—Je ne les ai pas comptées.
—Les femmes sont bien fausses, s’écria Diard. Osez dire que
Juan n’est pas l’enfant de votre cœur.
—Si cela est, reprit-elle avec noblesse, voulez-vous que ce soit
un malheur?
—Vous ne m’avez jamais aimé. Si vous l’eussiez voulu, pour
vous, j’aurais pu conquérir des royaumes. Vous savez tout ce que
j’ai tenté, n’étant soutenu que par le désir de vous plaire. Ah! si vous
m’eussiez aimé...
—Une femme qui aime, dit Juana, vit dans la solitude et loin du
monde. N’est-ce pas ce que nous faisons?
—Je sais, Juana, que vous n’avez jamais tort.
Ce mot fut empreint d’une amertume profonde, et jeta du froid
entre eux pour tout le reste de leur vie.
Le lendemain de ce jour fatal, Diard alla chez un de ses anciens
camarades, et y retrouva les distractions du jeu. Par malheur, il y
gagna beaucoup d’argent, et il se remit à jouer. Puis, entraîné par
une pente insensible, il retomba dans la vie dissipée qu’il avait
menée jadis. Bientôt il ne dîna plus chez lui. Quelques mois s’étant
passés à jouir des premiers bonheurs de l’indépendance, il voulut
conserver sa liberté, et se sépara de sa femme; il lui abandonna les
grands appartements, et se logea dans un entre-sol. Au bout d’un
an, Diard et Juana ne se voyaient plus que le matin, à l’heure du
déjeuner. Enfin, comme tous les joueurs, il eut des alternatives de
perte et de gain. Or, ne voulant pas entamer le capital de sa fortune,
il désira soustraire au contrôle de sa femme la disposition des
revenus; un jour donc, il lui retira la part qu’elle avait dans le
gouvernement de la maison. A une confiance illimitée succédèrent
les précautions de la défiance. Puis, relativement aux finances, jadis
communes entre eux, il adopta, pour les besoins de sa femme, la
méthode d’une pension mensuelle, ils en fixèrent ensemble le
chiffre; la causerie qu’ils eurent à ce sujet fut la dernière de ces
conversations intimes, un des charmes les plus attrayants du
mariage. Le silence entre deux cœurs est un vrai divorce accompli,
le jour où le nous ne se dit plus. Juana comprit que de ce jour elle
n’était plus que mère, et elle en fut heureuse, sans rechercher la
cause de ce malheur. Ce fut un grand tort. Les enfants rendent les
époux solidaires de leur vie, et la vie secrète de son mari ne devait
pas être seulement un texte de mélancolies et d’angoisses pour
Juana. Diard, émancipé, s’habitua promptement à perdre ou à
gagner des sommes immenses. Beau joueur et grand joueur, il
devint célèbre par sa manière de jouer. La considération qu’il n’avait
pas pu s’attirer sous l’Empire lui fut acquise, sous la Restauration,
par sa fortune capitalisée qui roulait sur les tapis, et par son talent à
tous les jeux qui devint célèbre. Les ambassadeurs, les plus gros
banquiers, les gens à grandes fortunes, et tous les hommes qui,
pour avoir trop pressé la vie, en viennent à demander au jeu ses
exorbitantes jouissances, admirent Diard dans leurs clubs, rarement
chez eux, mais ils jouèrent tous avec lui. Diard devint à la mode. Par
orgueil, une fois ou deux pendant l’hiver, il donnait une fête pour
rendre les politesses qu’il avait reçues. Alors Juana revoyait le
monde par ces échappées de festins, de bals, de luxe, de lumières;
mais c’était pour elle une sorte d’impôt mis sur le bonheur de sa
solitude. Elle apparaissait, elle, la reine de ces solennités, comme
une créature tombée là, d’un monde inconnu. Sa naïveté, que rien
n’avait corrompu; sa belle virginité d’âme, que les mœurs nouvelles
de sa nouvelle vie lui restituaient; sa beauté, sa modestie vraie lui
acquéraient de sincères hommages. Mais, apercevant peu de
femmes dans ses salons, elle comprenait que si son mari suivait,
sans le lui communiquer, un nouveau plan de conduite, il n’avait
encore rien gagné en estime, dans le monde.
Diard ne fut pas toujours heureux; en trois ans, il dissipa les trois
quarts de sa fortune; mais sa passion lui donna l’énergie nécessaire
pour la satisfaire. Il s’était lié avec beaucoup de monde, et surtout
avec la plupart de ces roués de la Bourse, avec ces hommes qui,
depuis la révolution, ont érigé en principe qu’un vol, fait en grand,
n’est plus qu’une noirceur, transportant ainsi, dans les coffres-forts,
les maximes effrontées adoptées en amour par le dix-huitième
siècle. Diard devint homme d’affaires, et s’engagea dans ces affaires
nommées véreuses en argot de palais. Il sut acheter à de pauvres
diables, qui ne connaissaient pas les bureaux, des liquidations
éternelles qu’il terminait en une soirée, en en partageant les gains
avec les liquidateurs. Puis, quand les dettes liquides lui manquèrent,
il en chercha de flottantes, et déterra, dans les États européens,
barbaresques ou américains, des réclamations en déchéance qu’il
faisait revivre. Lorsque la Restauration eut éteint les dettes des
princes, de la République et de l’Empire, il se fit allouer des
commissions sur des emprunts, sur des canaux, sur toute espèce
d’entreprises. Enfin, il pratiqua le vol décent auquel se sont adonnés