EDITION DE LUXE




ARTHUR




BY

EUGÈNE SUE




ILLUSTRATED




NATIONAL LIBRARY COMPANY

NEW YORK




_Copyright, 1899_

By FRANCIS A. NICCOLLS & CO.




[Illustration]




CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER
I. The Post-road
II. The Cottage
III. The Curé's Tale

HÉLÈNE
IV. The Bereavement
V. Hélène
VI. The Avowal
VII. The Letter
VIII. The Portrait
IX. The Pavilion
X. The Contract

MADAME LA MARQUISE DE PËNÂFIEL
XI. Portraits
XII. The Gentleman-riders
XIII. The Opéra
XIV. A Friend
XV. Projects
XVI. The Green Album
XVII. Prima-sera
XVIII. On What the World Said, and on Coquetry
XIX. On Parlour Christianity
XX. The Parlour
XXI. The Avowal
XXII. Contradictions
XXIII. Marguerite
XXIV. Days of Sunshine
XXV. Suspicion
XXVI. An Encounter
XXVII. The Exhibition
XXVIII. The Departure

LORD FALMOUTH
XXIX. Plans
XXX. The Yacht
XXXI. The Voyage
XXXII. The Combat
XXXIII. The Doctor
XXXIV. Friendship




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

"'I HELD THE BRIDLE'"
"'I SAW THE HORSE AND HIS RIDER TURN A SOMERSAULT'"
"'I THRUST THE BARREL AGAINST HIS CHEST AND FIRED'"




ARTHUR, Vol. I.




INTRODUCTION




ARTHUR.




CHAPTER I


THE POST-ROAD


A strange chance put me in possession of this journal. I had established
myself for several months in a central city in one of our southern
departments, whose shore is bathed by the Mediterranean, and I was
desirous of purchasing a country place in that marvellously picturesque
land. I had already looked at several pieces of property when, one day,
the notary, who had been giving me some necessary directions for one of
my explorations, said to me: "I have just received notice that at about
eight leagues from here, in one of the most beautiful situations in the
world, neither too far nor too near to the sea, there is a country house
for sale. I know nothing of it whatever; but if you would like to see
it, monsieur, here are the precise directions how to find it. You will
have to arrange the affair with the curé of the village of ----."

"What!" said I, "with the curé? You don't suppose that it is the
presbytery that is for sale?"

"I know nothing about it," answered the lawyer; "but, judging from the
high price that they ask, I hardly think it can be a parsonage.
Besides," added he, with a sly and convincing look, "it seems as though
there would be a thousand ways of arranging an advantageous and private
sale, because it is sold in consequence of sudden departure or a sudden
death, I don't know exactly which; the fact is, there have been told so
many absurd and stupid stories on the subject, that I should make myself
ridiculous in repeating them all to you. What is certain, however,
monsieur, is that such an opportunity is always a good one, and my
correspondent assures me that there has been no end of money spent on
the property."

"A swift departure! A sudden death! Who, then, lived on the place?" I
asked.

"I know nothing, absolutely nothing. My correspondent tells me nothing
more, and 'tis by the greatest accident that he has even heard of this
good opportunity; because out of a hundred people in this department,
you will scarcely find ten who could tell you anything about the village
of ----."

I know not why, but for some reason this information, vague as it was,
excited my curiosity; I decided to set forth immediately, and
consequently ordered horses to be put to the carriage.

"Oh," said the notary, "I advise you not to think of venturing to travel
in a carriage over those dreadful roads. 'Tis a post-road, to be sure,
but the nearest relay to ---- is still five leagues off, and to get
there they say one has to go through regular sand-pits, where one sinks
so deep that 'tis a thousand chances to one if you ever get out again.
If you take my advice you will go on horseback."

I took his word for it, and had a portemanteau fastened behind my
saddle, and thus, preceded by a postilion, I started for the village of
----, which was eight leagues from the city where I was staying.

I got over the first three leagues in about an hour, changed horses at
the relay, and then struck into the open country.

It was towards the middle of the month of May, a delicious morning,
cooled by a gentle northerly breeze. The roads, deep with a sand as
yellow as ochre, though detestable for carriages, which would sink in to
the hubs of the wheels, were not at all bad for horseback riding. The
farther I advanced towards the interior of the uncultivated and wild
country, the more nature became grand and majestic, though perhaps at
the same time somewhat monotonous. Before me stretched out great plains
of rose-coloured heather towards a horizon of bluish mountains; to the
left were numerous wooded hills, while to the right was a continuous
curtain of verdure, formed by the willows and poplars which bordered a
shallow but very clear stream, always fordable but very swift, which we
were continually crossing; for it wandered with many turnings across the
road, which sometimes descended between high banks, covered with
hawthorn, mulberry, and wild rose bushes, sometimes, emerging from these
hollows, ascended to the plain that could be seen straight before us as
smooth as a tennis-court.

"Have you ever been to ----?" I asked my guide, whose strongly marked
face, extreme neatness, and easy seat denoted a soldier whose term of
service was over. I had heard his companions at the post call him "the
hussar," and everything about the man was such a contrast to the
negligent appearance and noisy familiarity of the rest of these
Southerners! "Have you ever been to ----?"

"Yes, monsieur, twice in my life," he replied, stopping his horse and
placing himself a little behind me; "I went there once two years ago,
and then I went there three months ago, but _dame!_ the two goings were
not much alike!"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, the first time," said he, in an excited way, still animated by the
remembrance of such a glorious journey, "that was the fine ride! _Cent
sous_ for the guide! A courier! Six horses to the berlin!"

And by way of illustration my guide began cracking his whip in a way
that almost deafened me.

Not being content with this manner of describing the rank of the
travellers, I asked him:

"But who was in that carriage? Who paid the courier?"

"I don't know, monsieur, the blinds of the berlin were pulled down. On
the seat behind sat a man and a woman, both elderly folks who looked as
though they might be confidential servants."

"And the courier, had he nothing to say?"

"The courier? Not he, a ferocious looking fellow with never a word to
say! The only time I heard him speak was when he ordered the horses, and
that didn't take long, _allez_, monsieur! He jumped from his horse, put
two louis d'or in the hand of the _maître de poste_, and said: 'Six
horses for the carriage and one riding-horse, _cent sous_ for the guide,
forty sous paid in advance.' And then off he went at a gallop."

"And he never gave his master's name?"

"_Non_, monsieur."

"What sort of livery did the courier wear?"

"Stop a bit, monsieur, and I'll try to remember. Yes--a green jacket,
with gold braid on all the seams, a cap just like the jacket, red silk
sash, coat-of-arms on his buttons, a hunting-knife--moustaches--oh, the
whole business--grand style--but too fierce to suit me, _parole
d'honneur!_"

"And since then have you never found out who you led to ----?"

"_Non_, monsieur."

"And the carriage, when did it come back?"

"But, monsieur, it never did come back."

"What!" said I, much surprised, "but there must be a good many country
houses at ----?"

"_Non_, monsieur, there is only one in the place; all the rest are only
little huts for the peasants."

"Then there is another road besides this one?"

"Oh, _non_, monsieur; this is the only possible way of getting back."

"And nobody ever came back this way?"

"_Non_, monsieur."

"It is most extraordinary! And how long ago did all this happen?"

"Very nearly two years, monsieur."

"Now tell me about your other journey," said I to my guide, hoping to
get at some explanation of the mystery.

"Oh, that is a journey never to forget! I'll remember that one for many
a day! Ah, the old scoundrel! The old brigand! The sly old fox!"

"_Voyons_, come, tell me about it, _mon garçon_; the thought of it
seems to put you in an ill temper."

"Ill temper! You better believe it does, and a good reason. It is not so
much for the trick he played on me as for the mean way he did it,--and
then to think of his having called me his good friend, the old monster!
_Son bon ami!_

"You shall hear the whole story, monsieur.

"That ride was about three months ago. It was my turn next to ride. I
was warming myself in the stable between my horses, for it was very
cold. About eleven o'clock in the morning I heard click-clack,
click-clack, a cracking of the whip for all the world as if for another
hundred sous for the guide, and the voice of Jean Pierre all out of
breath calling out, 'Two carriage horses!'

"'_Bon_,' said I, 'here is a good thing and it is my turn to go; 'so I
went out to get a look at the traveller.

"Well, there stood a sort of an old gig with a leather apron, a thing we
used to call a berlingot; the whole affair so covered and spattered with
mud that you couldn't tell its colour.

"I said to myself: 'Good! 'Tis a doctor who is hurrying to see some one
at the point of death.' But, _saprejeu!_ What do I hear but the voice of
the dying man himself calling out from the depths of the berlingot,
calling as loud as it could call--half a cough--half a sniffle:

"'Ah, beggar of a postilion! Ah, miserable wretch! Do you mean to kill
me tearing over the roads like this?'

"The fact is Jean Pierre had dragged the old thing along at such a pace
that the hubs were smoking.

"'Hope you've got the worth of your money, _not'-bourgeois_,' said Jean
Pierre, in a furious voice to the old berlingot.

"'There'll be four francs for the guide, won't there?' said I to Jean
Pierre, who was unhitching his horses and swearing like a pagan.

"'Four francs! Not much! Ah, no, not much; the old beast only pays
twenty-five sous.'

"'Twenty-five cents? The tariff? And you galloping him along as though
he were a prince?'

"'Yes; and the only thing I'm sorry for is that I couldn't jounce him
any faster.'

"'You are a great stupid,' said I to Jean Pierre.

"'You'll do just as I did.'

"'Not much,' said I to Jean Pierre.

"Well, they finally brought me my mount. I had named him Devastator
because he was continually committing injuries to others. It was a way
he had, that beast; man or horse, 'twas all the same to him, so that he
could get in a bite or a kick, in front or behind, anywhere in fact.
Poor Devastator!" added my guide, with a sad sigh.

Then he continued: "They brought me my horse, and before mounting him I
saw a great, dried-up, bony hand as dark as walnut-wood stretched out of
the leather apron of the berlingot to pay Jean Pierre his twenty-five
sous.

"Seeing Jean Pierre get only his twenty-five sous, I shuddered--and I
said to myself:

"'All right, old consumptive, you're going to get a famous promenade for
your twenty-five sous. We're going to take it at a walk.'

"'Where are we going, monsieur?' I asked the berlingot, for I saw no
one, even the big, dried-up, yellow fist had disappeared.

"'We are going to ----,' answered a voice, but so feebly, so faintly,
that it was as the voice of a dying man; and then the voice added,
always half coughing, half sniffling, 'But I must tell you one thing, my
good friend--'

"His good friend!" repeated my guide, in a rage.

"'I must warn you that the slightest jolt gives me frightful pain; I am
almost dead from the horrible bumpings that your miserable comrade has
inflicted on me. I wish to travel gently, very gently, at the least
little trot, slowly, do you understand? because'--and he coughed as
though he were breathing his last--'because the least little shock might
kill me--and I mean to pay only the tariff that the law allows,
twenty-five sous for the guide, my good friend.' And thereupon he began
a fit of coughing as though he were about to expire, the old wreck!

"'Ah, you only pay twenty-five sous! And you call me your _bon ami!_
Aha! So it hurts you to go too fast, does it? Wait a bit! Wait a bit,
old miser!' said I, as I jumped a-straddle Devastator's back. 'I'll give
you your gentle trot, yes, a nice gentle little trot!' And crack! off I
go full blast, and I joggle the old gig as though I meant to shake it to
pieces, but fast, ah, but so fast, that if the old fox had been paying a
thousand francs to the guide (as they say the great Napoleon used to
do), he could not have gone any faster. And let me tell you that I took
in all the ruts and gullies on the way.

"Pretty soon I got the horse into a real gallop,--oh, something like a
gallop! _V'lan!_ You should have seen the jumps that the old berlingot
took in flying over the ground; but to do justice to every one, I will
say that the old berlingot must have been solidly built not to have gone
all to pieces a thousand times."

"Unhappy man," said I to my guide, "you might have killed that poor sick
man!"

"Kill him! Ah, well, yes! Kill him indeed, the old brigand! I had no
such good luck as that; but we went at such a pace, monsieur, that in
spite of these sandy roads, and with only one extra horse, I got him to
---- (and that is two posts and three-quarters) in an hour and a half."

"The devil you did!" said I. "Well, that was a ride!"

"But hold on, monsieur. Wait till you hear the end. The voice in the
berlingot told me not to go into the village; so when we got to a hill
about two hundred yards from ---- we came to a halt, and I unhitched
poor Devastator for the last time, for he was foundered and died
afterwards, died from that race; so dead that my master put me on the
retired list for fifteen days, and that same scamper cost me more than a
hundred crowns; yes, me, poor devil as I am!

"But you must admit, monsieur, that it is hard lines to be made to take
twenty-five cents, and then to be called '_mon bon ami_' by such a
scoundrel as that. One is apt to forget himself."

"Continue," said I.

"Well, monsieur, I unfasten my horse and open the door, expecting to see
my old invalid lying fainting in the bottom of the old wagon, for I
hadn't heard a sound for the last hour. Thousand thunders! what do I
see? A great strong fellow who was clacking his tongue against the roof
of his mouth, and corking up a bottle of rum; and who says to me, in a
great deep voice fit for a cathedral singer:

"'Hey, stupid, now you have learned how one can travel like a prince at
the lowest figure. Ever since leaving Paris I have made three leagues
and a half every hour, without a courier, and never have paid more than
twenty-five sous.' And so saying, he jumps out of the carriage as
lightly as a stag, the monster!"

I could not prevent myself from laughing at this strange way of getting
over the ground swiftly and cheaply, and my guide continued:

"You understand, monsieur, how furious one was only to be paid
twenty-five sous, and to be called _mon bon ami?_ The more the sly old
fox begged to be taken gently, the more one wished to get even with him
by jolting him over the road at the devil's own gait; while all the time
the faster one went the better he was pleased, old miserable! Hey,
monsieur, did you ever hear of such an old bandit? One must be without a
heart to pretend to be ill when one is vigorous and solid as an old
post-horse! But that is not all yet; I asked him where he was going. He
replied:

"'Wait for me here, and if I am not back in an hour you can go about
your business.'

"'And how about the carriage?' said I.

"'If I don't return, you can take it back to the post-house, and some
one will come to get it.'

"'And your baggage?'

"'I take it with me.'

"And he showed me a long box, flat, square, and quite heavy, which he
carried under his arm, and then he disappeared in the undergrowth, which
is very thick in that place.

"In this cursed village there is no inn, so I fed my horses and waited;
but poor Devastator was so blown that he couldn't eat. I was hungry
enough, however, and so I took a bite, and at the end of an hour my old
deceiver had not got back. Well, I wait two hours and no one comes yet,
so I start for the village which is in the distance, for say I to
myself, he must be in the country house of the folks of the six horses
and the courier. So I ring at the little door, and then at the big
door,--nobody. I knock and pound as though I meant to break the door
down,--nobody.

"Finally I got tired, and came back and waited another half-hour; still
nobody came. My faith! So then I went back to the post-house. We put the
old berlingot under a shed, and from that time until now no one has been
to claim it. So probably the old brigand finds himself well off where he
is, and where you are going, monsieur; but all the same it is a curious
kind of a town,--folks go there, but nobody ever comes back."

Like my guide, I was much struck by this strange story, and became more
and more curious.

"But that man," said I, "the last one that you took to ----, was he very
old?"

"Pretty well on, about fifty years I should say, dry as a chip, hair
perfectly white, but eyes and eyebrows black as charcoal. And now I
think of it, when I asked him about his baggage, and he showed me the
big box, he laughed,--ah, but such a laugh, he almost foamed at the
mouth; and I noticed that his teeth were very pointed and wide apart,
which they do say is a sign of wickedness; but that doesn't surprise me
when a man is infamous enough to offer the guide twenty-five sous, and
then to call him his _bon ami!_"

"And what did he wear?" I asked, in spite of myself, more and more
interested in the recital.

"Oh, he was well clothed: a great dark-coloured redingote, a black
cravat, and the cross of honour. With all this a face the colour of
copper and a large bony frame, quite in the style of my old commandant
Calebasse, chief of squadron in the Ninth Hussars,--a great old tough,
all muscles and bones."

"And have you never heard him spoken of since?"

"_Non_, monsieur. Ah, I forgot to tell you that while I was waiting
there I heard something like two or three shots. That is all; perhaps
some one was shooting thrushes in the vineyards."

The heavy square box had made such an impression on my mind that I
shivered, thinking that here, perhaps, had taken place in this lonely
spot some bloody and unwitnessed duel, had not the ruse resorted to by
this personage, in order to be driven rapidly and at little expense,
seemed to contradict all idea of a combat. Such a foolish idea seemed
unnatural in such a solemn time. What struck me as extremely singular
was that no one had returned from this strange village, where, as my
guide said, "folks go, but never come back."

However, the notary had assured me that the only important habitation
was the one that was offered for sale. What, then, had become of the
travellers in the first carriage? And where was he who went in the
berlingot?

I puzzled about it all until my head felt dizzy, and I longed to be at
---- so as to clear up this strange mystery.

When my guide had told me about the carriage with the blinds pulled
down, I had thought of a runaway match, but the courier and the servants
seemed ill suited to the secrecy desired in an elopement.

However, this old man who arrived two years afterwards, his strange
manners, the pistol-shots, and then the sudden disappearance of every
one,--certainly these were extraordinary circumstances and my curiosity
was at the highest pitch.

"Here we are at last at ----, monsieur," said the guide. "You will admit
that there is a fine view. And, see, monsieur, it is right here near
this dead plantain-tree that I set down the old fellow of the
berlingot."

We had, in fact, arrived on the heights which overlook the village of
----.




CHAPTER II


THE COTTAGE


Seen from the hilltop, the little village was beautiful to behold. Its
few houses, all half-way up the hill, were built of a yellowish stone,
over which grape-vines were climbing. Some of the houses were roofed
with red tiles; others had thatched roofs, on which were growing every
sort of beautiful green and velvety moss, mingled with tufts of
wall-flowers in bloom; while all this rustic picture was framed in great
groups of plantains, live-oaks, and Lombardy poplars, from the midst of
which rose the modest church tower of gray stone.

I descended by a steep, winding path, and very soon arrived in the
little village square. On the left, I saw the gate of the cemetery; on
the right was the church porch, and noticing very near the latter a
house rather larger than the rest, and which only differed from them by
its remarkable cleanliness, I decided that it must be the presbytery. I
got off my horse and knocked. I had not been mistaken.

A woman, clothed in black, still young, but horribly misshapen, and very
ugly, whose face, however, appeared to have an expression of extreme
goodness, came to open the door for me. She asked, in a very pronounced
Southern accent, what I wished.

"I have come, madame," said I, "to see the country place that is for
sale in the village. M. V----, the notary, sent me to see M. le curé,
who, he tells me, has the property for sale."

"My brother will be back in an instant," replied the woman, with a sigh,
"and if you would like to rest while waiting for his return, be pleased
to follow me into the presbytery."

I accepted her offer, and, leaving my guide and his horses, I entered
the house.

Nothing could have been more simple, more cleanly, more barren, than the
interior of this humble home; notwithstanding which one could not help
noticing traces of thoughtful solicitude for the comfort of the master.

I accompanied the curé's sister into a low hall, whose two
white-curtained windows opened on a pretty little green garden.

The simple furniture of this room shone with cleanliness; a single
armchair, covered with old embroidery, placed near a little table, on
which stood a book-rack made of black wood, and an ivory crucifix,
seemed to be the habitual seat of the priest. His sister's chair and her
spinning-wheel stood near the other window. She seated herself, and
began to spin, without vouchsafing a word. Believing her to be silent
out of reserve, or from shyness, and wishing, besides, to satisfy my
curiosity which the guide had so roused, I asked the woman if the place
had been for sale a long time. The priest's sister answered me, with
another sigh:

"It has been for sale for the last three months, monsieur."

"But, madame, do not the owners live in it any longer?"

"The owners," replied she, with a look of intense sadness, "_non_,
monsieur, they do not live there any more." And, seeing that I was about
to continue my questions, she added, with tears in her eyes: "Excuse me,
monsieur, my brother will tell you all about it."

More and more astonished, but not daring to insist, I fell back on
ordinary topics of conversation, the view, the beautiful situation, etc.
In about half an hour some one knocked; it was the curé. His sister
went to open the door for him, and informed him of the reason of my
visit.

The priest, who was about thirty years old, wore the severe costume of
his class. He was not misshapen, but in other respects was extremely
like his sister. There was the same ugliness joined to the look of
excessive goodness and sweetness, added to which was a frail and
suffering appearance, for he was small, delicate, and pale. His Southern
accent was less pronounced than that of his sister, and his manner,
though reserved, was more polite than hers.

The abbé received me with a coldness which I attributed to his fear of
finding me only another troublesome person come out of idle curiosity to
inspect the place; for from the few words that his sister had let fall,
I believed that some fatal event had taken place in this house, and that
the curé might think that I, having heard some vague rumour, had come
to find out some more circumstantial details.

Wishing to put him at ease, I told him frankly, and at once, that I was
looking for a little country home, very isolated, very quiet, very
lonely; that I had heard of this one as fulfilling all these
requirements, and that I had been sent to him for full information on
the subject. The glacial coolness of the abbé did not melt at my
advances. After exchanging some insignificant remarks, he simply asked
me if I would like to see the house.

I told him that I was absolutely at his orders, and we then rose to go
out.

Then his sister took a bunch of keys from out of a closet, and gave them
to him, saying, with tears in her eyes, "_Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!_ Joseph,
this will be a great trial to you, for you have not been there since--"

The young priest pressed her hand tenderly, and replied, with
resignation, "It can't be helped, Jeanne. It had to come sooner or
later."

So we went out.

The stubborn silence in which the curé persisted, as to the events
which had excited my curiosity, was very distasteful to me; but, feeling
that the least question on a subject which affected so profoundly these
simple people would be unkind, and most probably useless, I decided to
remain strictly in my rôle of a visitor and a prospective purchaser. We
went out of the presbytery, and, climbing up a steep little street,
arrived before a small door, on each side of which extended a long and
very high wall.

The appearance of everything was quite primitive. This wall of undressed
stone, joined together by firm cement, seemed half ruined; the door was
worm-eaten, but when the abbé had once got it open, I entered upon a
perfect paradise hidden by this same high wall, and I began truly to
understand and admire more than ever the wise though selfish taste of
the Orientals, who strive to make the outside of their habitations the
most insignificant, and even dilapidated, in the world, while, on the
contrary, they adorn the interior with the most dazzling and refined
luxury.

This custom has always seemed to me charming, as a contrast firstly,
and, secondly, because I admit that I have never understood this lavish
decoration with painting and sculpture of the outside of homes, where it
simply is done for the gratification of the passer-by, who usually
returns his thanks by covering with filth these architectural and
monumental beauties. This, too, is a contrast, but one that displeases
me. In a word, does it not seem to be better taste to hide some
delightful retreat, and there enjoy happiness in secret, than to make a
vulgar display and pompous parade before the eyes of all the world, and
only excite the envy and hatred of every one?

But to return to the paradise of which I was speaking. As soon as the
little door was opened, I entered with the curé; he closed it
carefully, and said, "This, monsieur, is the house."

Then, doubtless overcome by some sad remembrances, and wishing to give
me leisure to examine everything, he crossed his arms on his breast, and
remained silent.

As I have said, I was overcome with astonishment, and the sight was so
charming that I forgot all my curiosity in gazing on so lovely a scene.
Of the high wall of which I have spoken not a stone was to be seen, so
entirely was it hidden by a long clipped arbour of linden-trees and a
high row of immense oaks.

And there in the centre of a vast velvety lawn stood a middle-sized
house of the most irregular construction.

The main body of the building was of but one story in height; on the
right was a rustic gallery which formed a greenhouse, and ended in a
sort of pavilion which only seemed to be lighted from the roof; on the
left, at right angles to the main house, and much higher than it, was a
long gallery with four Gothic windows of stained glass. This gallery
ended at a very high tower which overlooked the rest of the house.

Nothing could be more simple in appearance than the arrangement of this
cottage; but these buildings were, so to speak, simply the framework,
for all the elegance and beauty of the building came from an innumerable
quantity of brilliant climbing plants, which--except the openings of the
windows, where great branches of jasmine and honeysuckle waved before
the tracery of the woodwork--had taken possession of the house, and
covered it with a mantle of gay flowers of every colour, from the ground
floor to the summit of the tower, which seemed like the trunk of some
immense tree covered with vines. Then a large flower bed of red
geraniums, tender lilac heliotropes, and oleanders ran all around the
base of the walls, hiding with its thick leaves and brilliant blossoms
the thin stalks of the climbing plants, which only display their
variegated treasures at some height from the ground.

Scotch ivy, climbing roses, the Virginia creeper, gobeas with their blue
bells, clematis with its white, starry flower, entwined themselves
thickly around the rustic pillars of the greenhouse and the supports of
the front porch, which was also of wood, and was reached by ten steps,
carpeted with fine Lima matting. On each step was an immense vase of
Japanese porcelain, white, red, and gold, each one containing a large
purple flowering cactus, and, as the stems of these plants are always
rough and straggling, the charming little Smyrna convolvulus with its
orange-coloured bells hid in a yellow and green tracery the barrenness
of the cactus plants. The porch led up to an oaken door of very simple
design, on each side of which stood a large Chinese settee made of reeds
and bamboo.

Such, then, was the aspect of this truly enchanting cottage, this fresh
and sweet-smelling oasis, which bloomed like an unknown and magnificent
flower in this provincial solitude. It is impossible to express in words
all the splendour of the picture which drew from nature alone all its
dazzling richness of colour. Who can describe the thousand caprices of
the Southern sun, glittering on the bright enamel of so many shades of
colouring? What can give an idea of the murmuring of the breeze, which
seemed to caress with its kisses the undulating, expanding corollas? And
this nameless perfume made up of all these different odours, and the
sweet smell of moss and verdure, added to the penetrating aroma of the
laurel, the thyme, and the green trees, who can express it in words?

But what would be harder still to describe, would be the thousand
different and overpowering thoughts which came into my mind, as I
contemplated this most adorable retreat that a man tired of the world's
pleasures could have imagined; for I was witness to the fact that this
enchanting spot was sad, deserted, abandoned, in spite of so much
sunshine, verdure, and flowers; that some frightful misfortune had
without a doubt surprised and crushed those who had cherished such sweet
dreams of happiness. The choice of such a solitary spot, so far from any
great city, the luxury and good taste of everything, showed plainly that
the resident of this lovely home expected to spend many long and happy
years in serene meditation in this beautiful solitude, so dear to
thoughtful or unhappy minds.

These ideas saddened and absorbed me for some time. Awakening from my
reverie I looked at the curé; he seemed paler than ever, and quite lost
in thought.

"Nothing could be more charming than this house, monsieur," said I.

He trembled suddenly, and replied politely but still coldly, "In truth
it is charming, monsieur." And with a heart-breaking sigh, he added,
"Would you like to see the interior of the house?"

"Is the house furnished, monsieur?"

"Yes, monsieur, it is to be sold just as it is, that is, all but some
family portraits, which will be withdrawn." And he sighed again.

We entered by the vine-covered porch of which I have spoken.

The first room was an entrance-hall, lighted from above, and filled with
pictures which appeared to be excellent copies from the best Italian
masters. Some bas-reliefs and a few marble statues, antiques of a pure
style, stood in the corners of the hall, and four admirable Greek vases
were filled with flowers, now withered, alas! for there were flowers
everywhere, and in this hall they must have marvellously suited the
treasures of art.

"This is the antechamber, monsieur," said the curé.

We passed through it, and entered a room furnished with the beautiful
carvings of the Renaissance; four large paintings of the Spanish school
hid the tapestries on the walls, and flowers had once filled the great
jardinières which stood before the windows.

All of the rooms were comparatively small, but the accessories were of
the greatest elegance and in the best taste.

"This is the dining-room," said the curé, continuing his glacial
nomenclature. Then we passed by an open door, only closed by portières,
into a salon, whose three windows opened on to that part of the park
that I had not yet seen.

The salon had a gilded frieze, and was hung with cherry-coloured satin
damask. The furniture was of the best epoch of the reign of Louis XIV.,
and was also gilded, and several consoles of marquetry, covered with
every kind of splendid porcelain, completed the ornamentation of the
room.

But what pleased me above all was that this luxuriousness, which one
might expect to find in a city residence, was in such a delightful
contrast to the almost wild solitude of the place, especially
contrasting with the grand, though pleasing, landscape which could be
seen from the windows of the salon.

It was an immense prairie of the beautiful fresh green grass that I had
already so much admired. Across this field meandered a clear and swiftly
running river, doubtless the one I had crossed so many times before
arriving at ----. On each side of the meadow extended a great curtain of
oaks and of lindens, leafy and green to the very ground, while two or
three groups of silvery-barked birch-trees were studded here and there
over the field, where several fine Swiss cattle were peacefully grazing;
finally, on the horizon overlooking several ranges of hills, one could
see the cloudy and bluish crests of the mountains which form the last of
the chain of the Eastern Pyrenees. The view was truly magnificent, and,
as I have said, this grandiose nature, framed as it was in the satin and
gold of this pretty salon, had a most singular effect on me.

"This is the salon," said the curé, and then we entered the greenhouse,
which was built of rustic wood. There we saw a great number of exotic
plants planted deeply in the ground, so that in winter this conservatory
must have looked like a beautiful alley in a garden. There was a door at
the far end of the alley, before which the curé stopped.

Instead of opening the door he retraced his steps. But I said to him,
pointing to the door, which was beautifully carved in a Gothic
design,--Flemish work no doubt, for it was as delicate as lace,--"Where
does that door lead to, monsieur? Can one not see that apartment?"

"You can see it, monsieur, if--you absolutely desire to do so," said the
curé, with a sort of grieved impatience.

"I certainly wish to see it, monsieur," I replied; for the more closely
I examined the house the more interested I was becoming. All that I had
so far seen had revealed to me not only the greatest elegance and
refinement, but noble habits of art and of poetry. I felt sure that no
vulgar mind could have so selected and so ornamented his residence.

"Be so kind then, monsieur, as to enter without me," said the abbé, as
he handed me a key. "It was her--" Then with an effort controlling
himself, he said, "It is the morning-room, the living-room."

I entered.

The room, which had evidently been ordinarily used by a woman, had
remained in absolutely the same condition in which its occupant had left
it. On a tapestry frame was a half finished piece of embroidery; further
on stood a harp before a music-stand still laden with music; on a table
were a vinaigrette and an unfolded handkerchief; an open book was lying
on the workbasket. I looked at it: it was the second volume of
"Obermann."

Profoundly touched by the thought that some frightful and sudden
misfortune should have ended an existence which seemed to have been so
poetic and so happily occupied, I continued to observe with the most
minute attention everything that surrounded me. I saw a tolerably large
bookcase filled with the works of the best poets of France, Germany, and
Italy. Near by stood an easel, on which was the most delicious sketch of
a child's head that one could imagine,--the adorable little face of a
child of about three or four years old, with blue eyes and long brown
hair.

I know not why it should have occurred to me that only a mother could
have made such a picture, and that she only could have thus painted her
own child.

All these discoveries, while they saddened me exceedingly, only excited
more and more my interest and my curiosity. I therefore determined to
use every possible means of finding out the secret so obstinately kept
by the curé.

This portrait of a child, of which I speak, was placed near one of the
windows that lighted the room. Without thinking of what I was doing, I
drew the curtain to one side. What did I behold? At about a league's
distance, certainly not more, there was the sea, the Mediterranean!
which sparkled like a great azure mirror, and reflected the glowing
sunshine,--the sea that one beheld between the slopes of the two hills.

The view was magnificent, and I thought how it must have revealed all
its splendours to the poetic soul which had left in this home so many
touching traces of its noble and elevated nature.

I turned away my head for a moment from this majestic spectacle to rest
my eyes, in order to enjoy the more a second view of the scene. I then
perceived an object that I had not at first noticed. It was the portrait
of a man. It was placed on an easel, which was draped with blue velvet.
In the sort of oval formed at the top of the easel, where the two
branches met in a curve, I saw a monogram composed of an A and an R,
surmounted by a count's crown.

This portrait was drawn in pastel. As I have some knowledge of painting,
I easily recognised the same hand that had sketched the child's head.

The head, set on its long and slender neck, stood out pale and clearly
from a background of a dark, reddish brown, while the costume was
entirely black, fancifully cut after the manner of the Van Dyck
portraits. This young and bold face had such a striking expression of
great intelligence, resolution, and grace, that I shall never be able to
forget it.

The face was of a long oval, the forehead high, prominent, and
uncovered, smooth, except a very decided line which separated the
eyebrows, whose arch was almost imperceptible, so straight were they.

The hair was light chestnut brown, fine and silky, thrown back, and
slightly waving at the temples. The large, very beautiful velvety brown
eyes, with their iris of orange, looked almost too round, but their
proud, deep, meditative expression seemed to denote a mind of the
highest order; finally, an aquiline nose, and a square, prominent, and
dimpled chin, would have given to the physiognomy a haughty and almost
hard look, if around the thin and scarlet lips a subtle and almost
imperceptible smile, very charming to see, had not softened, lighted up,
so to speak, those features which were too energetic and too decided.

For some moments I stood lost in contemplation before this expressive
and beautiful face, wondering if this could be the hero of the
mysterious adventure that I was trying to discover. Then I noticed that,
with the exception of the eyes, which in the child were blue and long,
there were many traits of resemblance between this unknown man and the
delicious sketch of the angelic child which stood near by. But very soon
I heard the trembling voice of the abbé, who, still standing outside,
wished to know if I had seen everything sufficiently. I rejoined him, he
closed the door, and we once more traversed the gallery.

It was childish, no doubt; but as we passed the door of the salon, I
noticed something which oppressed me cruelly. It was a gilded cage, in
which I saw, lying dead, several poor little bengalis and love birds.

Sadly depressed, and more and more interested, I longed to take the
priest into my confidence, by expressing to him how much I was touched
by all I had seen, I, who knew not even the names of those who had lived
here; but whether he could not control his emotion, or whether, he
thought it a profanation to speak of his grief before a stranger, he
evaded all my efforts to open the subject, and said to me, with a great
effort:

"All that remains to be seen now, monsieur, is the other gallery, which
leads to the tower, where there is another study."

We went back through the entrance-hall, then through a library, through
the long Gothic-windowed gallery, which was filled with pictures,
sculptures, and curiosities of every sort, and thus arrived at the
tower, which communicated with the gallery by a short flight of steps.

I entered. This time the abbé accompanied me resolutely, though I could
see that from time to time he wiped with his hand his eyes, which were
moist with tears. In this vast circular hall, everything revealed
studious and reflective tastes.

It was furnished in a severe style; there were many valuable arms, and
four large family portraits, which seemed to include five centuries,
with an interval of a hundred and fifty years; for the oldest portrait
recalled the costume of a warrior of the end of the fourteenth century,
whereas the costumes of the others belonged to the seventeenth,
eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries, the most recent representing a man
who wore the dress of a general of the Empire, with the _cordon rouge_
across his breast.

I noticed, also, many maps and topographical plans, all marked with
abridged and hieroglyphical notes; but what I saw first of all was a
woman's portrait, placed on an easel, exactly like the one I had already
seen, only it had no crown carved on its summit, there being simply the
interlaced initials M and V. By a happy idea of the painter, this
portrait, painted on a gold ground, recalled, by its naïve expression,
one of the adorable heads of the Virgin, which belong to the Italian
school of the end of the sixteenth century. All that Raphaël had ever
dreamed of candour and purity in the expression of his Madonnas, beamed
from this divine face.

The smooth and shining brown hair was parted simply over a charming
forehead, where it was encircled by a little golden chain; then
following the line of the temples, which were so dazzlingly clear one
could almost see the blue veins, it fell in soft masses below the
delicately rosy cheeks.

Her large blue eyes, which were serenely pensive and almost melancholy,
seemed to follow me with a gaze that was calm, noble, and good. Her rosy
lips were not smiling, but they had an expression of serious
graciousness impossible to describe, while their form, as well as that
of the straight and thin nose, was exquisitely beautiful and of an
antique purity of line.

A tunic of very pale blue, which barely showed the snowy whiteness of
the shoulders, and was fastened around the well-shaped form by a circlet
of dull gold, completed this portrait, which was a model of elevated
simplicity, charm, and poesy.

After examining a long time this ideally perfect face, I found in the
eyes an expression which reminded me of the child's face, for the eyes
of that angel were also of a deep and clear blue, but the lower part of
its face and the broad forehead recalled the man's portrait which had so
much interested me.

I know not why I should have imagined that the child belonged to these
parents. But where was he? Where were now the father and mother? The
father with his proud and resolute beauty; the mother so sweet and pure?
Had he, had she, had both, or all three, perhaps, been overtaken by a
frightful misfortune?

"Ah," said I, "if looks are not deceptive, in what an Eden these noble
beings must have lived!" What could one desire more than to live thus
with a beloved child in the midst of this delicious and profound
solitude, embellished by all the treasures of nature and art?

To have enough appreciation of happiness and goodness, to be able to
live alone among geniuses of every kind; to be able, when the heart
longs for silence, to sit rapt in silent ecstasy, to pass from one
delight to another; to speak to one another of love, through the sublime
voices of the divine poets of all the ages, or through the celestial
harmonies of the great masters whose melodies enchant us when called
forth by a loving hand; to compare the exquisite beauty of the idolised
being, the expression of her features, with all the wonders of art, and
to be able to say with pride, "She is still more beautiful!" to be able
to draw forth from this threefold source of inspiration, and to behold
our love, fecundated by the divine dew, become each day more radiant and
more expansive; to glorify the Creator in everything, in the felicity we
enjoy, in the woman we love, in the magnificent nature which delights
our eyes and charms our soul,--oh, what a glorious existence it must
have been, that led by these two beings!

But the sad voice of the abbé recalled me from these imaginings.

I sighed and followed him, quite determined to penetrate his secret.

Very soon the sky became overcast. The morning, which had been
beautiful, became sombre; great clouds swept over the sky and some drops
of rain began to fall.

"There is no inn here," said the curé, "you are on horseback, monsieur,
there is a mountain storm gathering, and, if a hurricane comes on, the
little river, which you found fordable, will become in a few hours a
rapid torrent. Allow me to offer you such poor hospitality as I can in
the presbytery until the violence of the storm is over. Your guide and
his horses will find a shelter in the barn."

I accepted his offer, delighted by the hope that I might have an
opportunity of satisfying my curiosity. We entered the house.

"_Eh bien_, Joseph?" said Jeanne to the curé, overcome with emotion.

"_Hélas!_ Jeanne, may God's will be done! But it was a great trial to
me, and I had not the courage to enter her room."

Jeanne wiped away her tears, and began to busy herself about receiving
me as well as possible in their modest home.

Very soon the storm broke with the greatest violence, and I finally
decided to spend the night at the presbytery of ----.




CHAPTER III


THE CURÉ'S TALE


After a sojourn of three days at the presbytery of ---- I had so far
gained the curé's confidence that he opened his heart to me, and
related all that he knew as to the history of those persons in whom I
had become so singularly interested.

I will try to tell the tale in his grave and simple words.

"I had been the curé of this parish for about four years, monsieur,
when the house that we have been to look at was bought by an agent, for
M. le Comte Arthur de ----, whose portrait you have seen. I am still
ignorant as to his family name, but I presume that the count was of a
noble and ancient lineage. I judge so, at least, from his title, and
from the almost religious respect he paid the old family portraits which
hung in his study.

"Before the arrival of Count Arthur (for I never heard him called by any
other name) in the village, there came a confidential servant,
accompanied by an architect and several workmen from Paris, who changed
the plain and unpretending country house that then stood here into the
charming habitation you have so much admired. When this was finished the
workmen all went away, and the confidential man alone remained to await
his master.

"Although it was neither in accordance with my avocation nor my nature
to seek information about the people who came to dwell in our little
village, it was impossible to avoid hearing certain rumours, spread
abroad, no doubt, by the foreign workmen. According to these tales, the
count, who was very rich, was coming to live among us with a lady who
was not his wife. Moreover, the life of this gentleman had been, they
said, of such scandalous and shameless immorality that, though he had
not positively been banished from good society, the sort of repulsion
which he inspired, because of certain adventures, was so great that he
felt it would be better for him to live henceforth in retirement.

"You can easily conceive, monsieur, that my first impression, if it was
not hostile, was certainly very unfavourable to this stranger. It is
true, I did not know him, but supposing that these rumours had some
foundation, here he was coming, I say, to set a bad example to our poor
mountaineers, in whose eyes the fortune and rank of the newcomers would
seem to authorise their culpable behaviour.

"These thoughts gave me a great distrust of the count, and I promised
myself, if by a scarcely probable chance he should make me any personal
advances, to meet them with a severe and inexorable coldness, thus
protesting against the immorality of the life he was leading.

"It was two years ago, then, that the count established himself here
with a young woman and a child, whose portraits you have seen. A few
days after his arrival I received a note from him, asking the favour of
an interview. I could not very well refuse, and consequently the count
presented himself at the presbytery. Although my resolution, my habits,
my character, my principles, and the way I have of looking at certain
things and certain men, all prejudiced me against him, I could not help
being immediately prepossessed by his remarkable individuality. You have
seen his portrait, monsieur. I was also captivated by his grave,
polished, and dignified manners, and, above all, by the extent and
nobility of mind which he revealed in the long conversation we had
together, that very first day.

"He began by saying that, coming to dwell in the village of ----, he
considered it a duty and a pleasure to pay me a visit, and that he would
be under a great obligation to me if I would be willing to supervise the
disbursement of twenty-five louis a month which he wished to place at my
disposition, either for the poor of the parish or for the amelioration
of their condition in whatever way I judged most suitable. He also
begged me to talk things over with the doctor of the village, who would
probably know more of the suffering and necessity of the poor than any
one else.

"He furthermore begged me to believe that any request destined to
lighten suffering or prevent misfortune would be heard and granted by
him with the greatest gratification. What shall I say, monsieur? How
shall I tell it to you? The count showed himself to be such a wise and
enlightened philanthropist that, notwithstanding my resolutions and
prejudices, I could not help being struck with astonishment, almost with
admiration, at the sight of a man, still young, and who had, so they
said, surfeited himself on all the pleasures which the rich and
fortunate in this life enjoy, who was able to understand so truly the
sorrows and misery of the obscure, and how to go about helping them in
the surest way.

"But alas! at the end of this conversation, which had held me under an
inexplicable charm, though I struggled against it in vain, my dislike
returned stronger; and I know not to this day whether to my glory or to
my shame, for the count avowed to me shamelessly, as though wishing to
proclaim his impiety, that he 'had no faith in our religions,' but that
he respected them sufficiently to amuse himself with them, and that I
must therefore understand that I need never expect to see him in church.

"What did he mean by those words, 'he had no faith in our religions?' I
ignore the meaning still. Did he mean the religions of Europe? Did he
wish to have it understood that he was neither Catholic nor Protestant,
nor a member of any one of the dissident sects which diverge from
Catholicism, though clinging still to it by the root of Christianity? I
am still ignorant of his creed, though I saw him in his last dreadful
hour.

"As I have told you, monsieur, this resolution of his, never to take
part in the celebration of our holy mysteries, caused me a feeling of
indignation. I saw in it only a disdainful pretext used to hide a total
indifference or a culpable estrangement. Thus I could only see a
scarcely meritorious commiseration in the liberal display of almsgiving,
which his brilliant position and fortune enabled him to make at no
personal sacrifice.

"I was wrong in this, because he confined himself not merely to the
bestowing of gold; he had discussed at length with me the misery of the
poor, and had sought my advice as to the best means of being helpful;
but as I keep telling you, his want of faith in our religion rendered me
unjust, oh, very unjust, as you will see, for I allowed the blow of my
righteous indignation to fall on one who was completely innocent.

"On the Sunday following my conversation with the count, I saw kneeling
in the church the young woman who lived with him, and who, they said,
did not bear his name. This was the truth, as I have since found out.
The liaison was culpable in the eyes of God and men; but alas! if the
crime of these unfortunate beings was great, their chastisement was
terrible.

"Pardon me for being so touched by this remembrance. I was telling you,"
said the abbé, as he wiped away his tears, "that I saw, one Sunday,
this lady kneeling in the church.

"I mounted the pulpit stairs, and went so far in my sermon as to make
direct and even cruel allusions to the detestable immorality of the rich
of this earth, who hoped, I added, to extenuate their faults by
disdainfully throwing alms to the poor. I exalted the poor unfortunate
who prays, believes, and divides the bread for which he is famishing
with one more miserable than himself; while I had only a few cold words
of eulogy to give to the rich man, whose beneficence is only of his
superfluity. I did more; I went further; I exalted the peaceful and
virtuous existence of the poor man who seeks forgetfulness of his ills
in the sweetness of a union blessed by God, and I raised my voice
violently against the rich, who seem to trample underfoot all received
morality, and take a wicked delight in setting at defiance those duties
which, in their impious pride, they regard as beneath their station, and
only suitable for the lower classes.

"Ah, monsieur, I do not reproach myself for those bitter words, for they
but expressed my horror of a conduct which at this hour I think as
criminal as I did then. But can you believe it? since that time I have
been weak enough to bitterly repent of all I then said.

"That Sunday, on hearing my discourse, to which my indignation lent
great energy, the eyes of all our mountaineers were turned towards this
unfortunate woman who was humbly kneeling in their midst. She bent her
head lower, and covered her face with the folds of her veil, while from
the convulsive movements of her shoulders she seemed to be weeping
bitterly. I was elated with triumph, for I thought I had awakened the
spirit of remorse in a guilty soul. When holy service was over I
returned to the presbytery.

"While I had no fear for the anger of the count, who might justly take
offence at my allusions, I was nevertheless preoccupied as to the effect
on him of my discourse.

"The next day he came to see me.

"When my sister came to announce his visit, I could not help feeling a
certain emotion, but his manner was as cordial as on the former
occasion. He said not a word about the sermon of the previous day, but
spoke about the needs of our poor people. He had come to speak to me of
a project he had of establishing a school for the children of the parish
under my direction, communicated to me his ideas on the subject, showed
what I thought to be a wise and remarkable distinction between the
education which ought to be given to children who were destined to
manual labour, and that which would be suitable for those who intended
to follow the liberal professions. He disclosed in this conversation,
during which I again fell under his charm, the highest and broadest
views, and a spirit of maturity and justice. Then he quitted me.

"Alas! monsieur, how inexplicable are the weaknesses of our poor human
nature! I was almost offended by the count's apparent indifference to my
sermon, whereas he showed, by the moderation of his behaviour, a
respectful submission to the duty which my convictions and my nature
imposed on me.

"Soon afterwards, one of the great festivals of the Church drew nigh. I
went to the church to hear the confessions of our mountain people, and
as I was about to enter the confessional I saw among the peasants this
same woman, who was humbly kneeling like all the rest on the cold, moist
stone floor. She waited there a long time, and came in her turn to the
penitential tribunal.

"I am far from indulgent towards our peasants, but I know not why I
should have felt myself disposed to be unusually severe to a person
whose rank seemed to place her above them. The lady's voice was
trembling with emotion, her accent was timid and sweet; and without here
disclosing one of our greatest, one of our most sacred secrets, since,
alas! monsieur, I only tell you the facts which have since been made
public by a frightful event, I recognised that day, and from
thenceforth, a most noble and repentant soul, but at the same time most
weak and guilty in its criminal attachment to the count. This attachment
resembled a sort of exaltation which, were it not almost a profanation
of the words, I might describe as holy and religious.

"What more can I tell you, monsieur! After six months' residence in our
part of the country, the count and this lady, whom our peasants in their
grateful simplicity called 'l'Ange Marie' (for no one had ever heard her
called by any name but Marie),--the count and this lady had been so
charitable that one could hardly find an unhappy creature in the whole
parish. What is more, such was the strange confidence that our
mountaineers had in the inexhaustible beneficence of this sweet soul,
that if sometimes I would seek to deter them from some perilous hunting
excursion by reminding them of their families, should any of them
perish, they would reply to me, 'Father, the Angel Marie will take care
of them.' In short, this lady had become the providence of the village,
and the poor folks relied on her goodness as on the _bon Dieu._

"At the end of a year this beloved and blessed lady fell dangerously
ill. At the sad news, I cannot describe to you, monsieur, the fear or
the despair of our peasants, the prayers, the _ex-voto_ which they
offered for her, the desolation which reigned in the village.

"Fearing to compromise the rigorous severity of my character, although
the count had been to see me every day I had never been to return any of
his visits; but when that lady was very ill, and asked for me, and the
count came and besought me to go to her, I could not refuse to do so. I
found her apparently dying.

"It was a dreadful moment. Never until now had her piety been revealed
to me in all its depth and fervour. I consoled her, I exhorted her. For
eight days we watched her with the greatest anxiety. Finally, her youth
saved her.

"I cannot describe to you, monsieur, the frightful state of mind of the
count during this illness. One night, when we had given up all hope of
saving the sick woman, he terrified me, for, by some words which escaped
him, I realised that, should death be the result of this illness, he
would throw himself from the region of high aspirations and generous
sentiments into an abyss of the greatest perversity, and in that moment
I believed in the reality of all the stories I had heard told about the
count. At last l'Ange Marie was restored to health. Little by little
beauty returned to this noble and charming face, where remorse for a
great fault and the consciousness of a great happiness constantly
struggled for supremacy. Ah, monsieur, as I have said, I had fully
determined never to return to that house, fearing to compromise my
dignity, but I continued to go there. I was wrong, no doubt, but perhaps
in the sight of God I may be forgiven, for that woman and the count were
so charitable to the poor. Thanks to him and thanks to her, I was
enabled to do so much good that I have faith in the pardon of God for
not having repulsed the hand that scattered abroad his alms with so much
kindness and discernment.

"And then, poor priest as I was, I loved science, I was a student, and
there was no one in the village with whom I could converse, while in the
count I discovered one of the most brilliant intellects I have ever
encountered, I will not say among men, for I am very inexperienced in
men and things, but in the books that I had read. His learning was vast,
profound, and almost universal. He appeared to have travelled a great
deal, and yet not to have neglected public life, for when by chance we
would discuss some political question, he would discourse with a
powerful and energetic conciseness. His judgment was clear, penetrating,
and went straight to the point; but strange to say, whether from
reflection, indifference, or contempt, he appeared to be devoid of all
party prejudice or sentiment of caste; it amounted to what you might
call a frightful impartiality. What alarmed and shocked me the most was
that I never heard him pronounce a single word which might lead one to
believe that he entertained the slightest faith in any form of religion.
Although it was tacitly understood between us that we were never to
discuss religious opinions, it would sometimes happen, in the course of
the conversation, he would let fall some words on these formidable
questions which would seem so coldly disinterested that I should, for
the hope of his salvation, have preferred an attack or a denial of these
eternal truths; for then his conversion might have seemed possible at
some future time, whereas this icy indifference left me no hope on that
subject.

"And yet his conduct was a practical example of the most splendid
application of the principles of Christianity, it was the spirit without
the letter. Neither did I ever hear between him and l'Ange Marie any
religious conversation whatever, although their child was piously reared
by its mother in our faith. Though I have frequently seen the count's
eye moistened with tears when the woman he loved would join the hands of
this little angel and make it repeat its prayer to God, I think his
emotion was caused more by the sight of the beautiful face of the child,
and the innocent accents of its voice, than by any devotional words it
may have uttered.

"The lady had received a solid and varied education. She had a
remarkable mind, and, above all, an ineffable indulgence which reached
all classes.

"If the count, whose speech was sometimes biting or sarcastic, attacked
some person or event, contemporaneous or historical, she would always
try to discover in the vilest soul, or the saddest event, some kindly
feeling, some generous instinct, which might serve as an excuse. Then
tears would come into my eyes as I fancied it must be self-reproach, an
unceasing remorse, which rendered this poor woman so forgiving to every
one, as though, feeling her own guiltiness, it was not for her to raise
her voice in accusation of whomsoever it might be.

"And the count, monsieur, if you could have seen with what profound and
respectful tenderness he addressed her! How he would listen to her! With
what delicate pride he knew how to appreciate and draw out all that was
great and noble in the mind and heart of the one he loved so well! How
his face would beam, at the sight of her! Many a time I have seen him
thus silently gaze on her, and then, as though words failed him to
express his admiration, he would join his hands and raise his eyes to
heaven, with a look of indescribable happiness.

"Ah, monsieur, how many long and happy evenings have I thus passed in
the intimacy of these two persons, so culpable and yet so virtuous! How
many times has this fatal and bizarre contrast almost troubled my
reason! How many summer evenings, in quitting them, have I, instead of
returning to the presbytery, gone to wander on the mountain slopes, to
meditate in silence in the sight of God alone! 'Oh, Lord,' cried I, 'how
impenetrable are thy ways! This woman is an adulteress, and is fully
conscious of her fault, since she constantly deplores it. She is very
guilty in thy sight and in the sight of men, and yet, what life could be
more exemplary, more beneficent, more practically touching and virtuous,
than the one she leads? How many times have I not heard her chanting
hymns in thy praise, in a voice so filled with religious fervour as to
carry conviction of her faith! Oh, dear Lord, what dangerous things are
vice and crime, when they clothe themselves under such deceptive
appearances! Must we hate them more? Ought we to have pity on them?
Should they not deserve our pardon? And he, that strange man who says he
has no faith in our religions, of what religion is he? What can be that
ignored religion which imposes on him a life of such goodness and
generosity, which makes him so humane, which causes him to be loved and
blessed by every one? From what unknown source does he derive those
principles of a wise and far-reaching charity? And yet they say that he
has respected nothing that men hold holy and sacred, that he has
trampled underfoot every law of social life. And it must be true, for if
his love of to-day is unlawful, his former life was more criminal still;
they say so, and I believe it; for, as by a flash of lightning one can
see the immensity of the abyss, so, in that fearful moment in which he
feared to lose the one he loved, I had penetrated into the depths of his
soul, and I had shuddered with terror. And yet his conduct has never
given the lie to the nobility of his sentiments. Oh, God, thy ways are
impenetrable!' I repeated more undecided than ever, as I humbled myself
before the mysterious designs of Providence. I was soon to have a
terrible proof of how his inexorable justice inevitably reaches the
guilty.

"Alas! monsieur, my tale is nearing its end, and that end is a frightful
one.

"Three months ago, one evening, I was talking with my sister about an
occurrence which had greatly alarmed me. Two peasants had assured me
that they had seen an old man, with white hair and black eyebrows, whose
face was the colour of copper, and who appeared to be very vigorous for
his age, climb over the wall of the count's garden. Soon afterwards they
had heard two pistol-shots. I had just made up my mind to go and find
out what it all meant, when some one came rushing in and begged me to go
with all speed to the count. Ah, monsieur, imagine my terror! I found
the count and the lady, each one pierced by a ball. One of the two shots
had also reached the poor little child, who was lying in the sleep of
death in his cradle.

"The count had not two minutes to live. His last words were these:
'Marie will tell you all--care for her first.' Then he turned towards
the lady and said, 'Adieu, Marie!--alas!--'tis for ever! Ah,--it is my
fault! If I only had believed you--However--!' And he was dead.

"The lady scarcely survived him a quarter of an hour; and, before
expiring, she confided to me this terrible adventure, to the end that
justice might be done, and to prevent a false accusation of the
innocent.

"In a word, as you have perhaps already guessed, monsieur, the old man
was the husband of this unfortunate woman. Availing himself of the
fearful right which the law gives him, finding his wife and the count
seated near the cradle of their son, he had fired on them twice at close
range. The same ball that killed the mother had killed the child."

"But the old man, what became of him?" I asked the curé, whose story
had greatly affected me.

"I never could find out, monsieur. All that I know is, that a little
Genoese schooner, which had been riding at anchor off the coast for
about eight days, got up sail the evening of this triple murder."

You can conceive the interest this recital awakened in me, and you may
easily fancy that, after hearing the terrible story, I had very little
desire to purchase a place which was connected with such a sad past, and
which seemed to me to be accursed.

I remained at the presbytery until, the time allowed by law for a
private sale having passed, the house was sold to a retired merchant,
who, finding the furniture out of date, put it up at auction.

I bought at the sale, as souvenir of this sad adventure, the harp on
which Marie used to play, a marquetry cabinet which had belonged to the
count, and a few other articles of small value, which I begged the curé
to accept. According to the count's wishes, as expressed in his will,
the price of the house and of its contents (with the exception of all
the family portraits, which were to be burned) was left to the commune
of ----, to be employed in the assistance of its poor.

I left the village full of sad reflections on the mournful tale I had
heard. I had sent to my home the marquetry cabinet.

One day, as I was examining the latter very minutely, I discovered a
drawer with a double bottom. In this secret place was hidden quite a
voluminous manuscript. It was the count's journal.

These fragments appeared to me remarkable in their spirit of analysis,
and by a succession of adventures, very simple, very natural, and
perhaps worthy of interest and study, inasmuch as they portray some
facts common to the lives of most men.

They consist of the following fragmentary sketches, which I will try to
give as nearly as possible in all their simplicity and curious
scepticism. The memoirs seem to include a period of about twelve years.

Although they relate the life of this _inconnu_ from the age of twenty,
and seem by the last date to have been continued until the day preceding
his death, one can see by the note that the story of the first seven
years was written by the count only about five years before his death,
while the history of the last five years constitutes a journal written
almost day by day, and according to the circumstances.

The handwriting of this journal was fine, correct, and often hastily
current, as though the hand and mind had been carried away by the rush
of memories. At other times it was calm and distinct, as though traced
by an iron hand. On the margins were an infinite number of portraits and
silhouettes sketched with a pen with much facility and grace, which must
have been excellent likenesses. Finally, interpolated here and there
were many letters in various handwritings, which were evidently intended
to verify the truth of the statements in this singular manuscript.




HÉLÈNE




CHAPTER IV


THE BEREAVEMENT


I was twenty years old, and had just returned from a long sojourn in
England and in Spain, where I had gone under the guidance of my tutor, a
good, modest, firm, and enlightened man.

On my return to Serval, our country-seat, where my father had been
living for many long years in retirement, I found him seriously ill.
Never in my life will I forget the sight of him on my arrival.

The château, which was extremely secluded and overlooked a straggling
village, raised itself in solitary grandeur on the confines of a great
forest. It was a vast Gothic edifice built of bricks which had become
black with age. The interior was composed of vast echoing apartments,
which were but dimly lighted by their long diamond-paned windows.

The servants were all in mourning for my mother, who had died while I
was still absent. They were almost all elderly retainers of the house,
and nothing could have been more lugubrious than the sight of them
walking silently about in those immense gloomy rooms, where their
figures were scarcely perceptible against the red or dark green hangings
which covered the walls of that ancient habitation.

On descending from the carriage I was received by my father's _valet de
chambre_, who said not a word, but his eyes were filled with tears. I
followed him, and traversed a long gallery which had been the terror of
my childhood's nights as it had been the joy of its days. I found my
father in his study. He tried to raise himself to embrace me, but his
strength failed him, and he could only stretch out his arms to me in
welcome. He appeared to me frightfully changed; when I had quitted him
he was still alert and vigorous; I found him weak and broken down. His
tall frame was bent, he had become very thin, he was pale and
expressionless, except that a nervous smile, caused by the continuity of
his sufferings, gave to his naturally severe face an indescribable
expression of habitual pain.

I had always greatly feared my father. His mind was vast, serious,
meditative, concentrated, and occasionally coldly ironical. His
knowledge was prodigious on every sort of subject. His character was
masterful. In manner he was grave, thoughtful, and taciturn, but
extremely cold. High principled to a striking degree, his devotion to me
was extreme in every act of his life, but he was never demonstrative.
Thus he had inspired me with a profound and timid veneration, a
respectful gratitude, rather than a confiding and expansive affection,
such as I felt for my mother.

Having quitted the service while still young, in spite of the wishes of
Napoleon, who admired his iron will and indefatigable activity, my
father had almost always resided at his château, but, strange as it may
seem, he received no company. The Reign of Terror in '93 had so thinned
the ranks of our family that, with the exception of a sister of my
father, we had no near relations, simply some very distant connections
whom we never saw. Now that my age and experience permit me to
appreciate and compare my souvenirs, I can say that my father remains in
my mind as the only really misanthropic man I have ever met; for he was
not one of those misanthropists who like to live among men for the
pleasure of telling them how despicable they are, but he was a
misanthropist who had positively fled society, and broken off all
connection with his kind. I have searched in vain among my childish
memories to find that my father possessed a single friend, or even what
might be called an intimate acquaintance.

My mother, my aunt, and my cousin Hélène, who was three years younger
than I, were the only persons who, from time to time, came to see us.
This is no exaggeration, my mother has assured me of the fact; during
the thirty years' residence of my father at Serval, not a single visitor
ever came near the place.

My father was a great hunter, but always went alone; he was passionately
fond of horses and extended agriculture. These occupations, as well as
my education, which he personally superintended, until he gave me a
tutor, and sent me to see the world, filled up his whole leisure. Then
his fortune was considerable, and as he never would consent to have an
intendant, he, with the assistance of my mother, whose sense of order
was extremely keen, attended to the administration of his property
himself; the rest of his time was taken up with reading, scientific
experiments, and long, solitary walks.

When I started for that fatal voyage, during which I was to lose my
mother, she had seen in a dream a warning of her death, and had told me
about it; but we hid it from my father, not because she feared him, but
because, having always had a certain awe of his superiority, she dreaded
his severe sarcasm, which never spared any poetical, exaggerated, or
romantic sentiment.

I was thus prevented from taking a last farewell of my mother. I say
nothing of my grief; she was the only person in the world to whom I had
ever dared to tell everything freely and confidentially.

My aunt and her daughter Hélène had come to reside at Serval after my
mother's death, almost in spite of my father, whose habitual need of
solitude and silence seemed to become stronger as he became more and
more feeble.

I led in those days a most distressing and harrowing life. Every morning
my father would send for me to come to his bedside; his _valet de
chambre_ would then bring him the great strong box, where were kept the
books containing the administration of our property, and day by day he
would explain to me the state of affairs with an icy clearness which
chilled me to the heart. One day he made me read aloud his will, with
the same appearance of insensibility. My voice was choked with the
effort I made to suppress my sobbing; he did not even seem to notice it.
He would generally end this sort of initiation into the future
management of the fortune he meant to leave me by some counsels he would
give me in a brief manner, a long silence following each sentence.

These conversations revealed the most direct and exact judgment, and the
deepest and truest knowledge of the miseries, or, as he said, the moral
necessities of the human race, for a very striking trait of my father's
character was the calm and disinterested manner with which he could
discuss the inherent weaknesses of our species. According to his idea,
we were obliged to admit that certain facts, certain low and selfish
instincts, from which even noble minds could not escape, were the
consequences of our moral organisation. He thought it as idle to hide or
deny this defect as it would be to blame men for being attainted by it.

Thus, if any one ever asked of him a favour, he would generally consider
that he would in return only receive ingratitude; nevertheless, he would
render the service with the most perfect benevolence.

To sum up all, the moral sense of the conversations I had with him, and
which on his part consisted of short, concise, and decided phrases,
affirmed that the pivot on which everything turned was gold, since the
noblest characters when pressed by need would descend to the lowest
degradation, even to infamy,--it was necessary to remain rich so as to
be sure of remaining honest; that there was an object in every
sacrifice; that every man was corruptible, but that the time or the
price of each man varied according to the nature of the individual; that
all friendship had its negative pole, and that, therefore, it would be
folly to count on a sentiment which would assuredly fail you in your
need; and, to conclude, I should, according to these direful maxims,
count myself as fortunate in the fact that I had neither brother nor
sister, and was thus free from the guilt of venial fratricide, man being
so constituted that he scarcely ever sees anything in fraternity but a
diminished inheritance; "for," said my father, "there are very few, even
of the purest souls, who can deny having thought, at least once in a
lifetime, in calculating the fortune that they were to divide, 'If I
were the only one!'"

I can not express how these axioms, in one sense strictly true perhaps,
but of an affirmation so exaggerated and so disheartening, filled me
with dismay, when I heard them coldly stated as a proposition by my
dying father.

My tutor, who was a man of good sense, but of mediocre intellect, had
never in his life started any philosophical discussion in my presence.
Upon such subjects my mind had thus far remained unawakened and inert,
but, being prepared by education and by a precocious habit of reflection
due to my solitary life, and the experience I had gained by travel, was
ready to receive the germs of any idea, good or bad, which the ardour of
my imagination would inevitably cause to expand.

It was thus that these discouraging and bitter sentiments took deep root
and became the sole source of all my thoughts. Later in life I was
enabled to modify them, to graft on them, so to speak, other ideas, but
the later buds partook of all the bitterness of the original sap.

After one of these melancholy seances with my father, which generally
lasted about two hours, he would allow himself to be dressed, or rather
to be wrapped in warm and very light clothing (for his old wounds had
become open and heavy clothing caused him to suffer cruelly); then,
seated in a bath-chair, he would have himself rolled up and down in the
sunny paths of the park.

Through a strange caprice, my father, who had hitherto taken the
greatest pleasure in keeping this park in luxurious beauty, prohibited,
so soon as he believed himself to be seriously ill, every one from
making the most necessary and ordinary improvements.

Nothing can be imagined more desolate than the aspect of these wide
driveways, which were now taken possession of by grass and weeds; of
these arbours and bowers of elm-trees, which, formerly clipped so
symmetrically, were now abandoned and left to grow in every wild way; of
these great flower beds, where all the dead summer flowers, that should
have been pulled up by the roots at the beginning of autumn (for it was
now that season), were still displaying their tall blackened stems.

Nothing, I repeat, could have been more dismal than this spectacle of
neglect and ruin around a house which was still inhabited. My father had
even forbidden any one to make the most ordinary repairs to the house
itself. If a shutter was unhinged or a chimney blown down by a storm, it
was allowed to remain just as the wind had left it. After his airing,
which my father generally took in silence, his head bowed on his breast,
while beside him walked either I, my aunt, or Hélène, he would be
taken into his study. I can see the room still, lighted by its three
great windows which opened on the park, its numerous old family
portraits, its pictures and priceless curiosities. A great black
bookcase filled one entire side of the room; from the ceiling swung a
great chandelier of rock-crystal. But what gave the place its look of
utter desolation was the same sort of neglect which devastated the park.

The pictures and the furniture were heavy with dust; a _valet de
chambre_ having once dared to dust a few articles, my father had flown
into such a rage that the dust was allowed to settle where it pleased
from that day, and the spiders to spin their webs where they pleased.

My father would remain there alone during two or three hours, after
which we would go and take him out for a second promenade, which was the
only time when he would seem to arouse himself from the sullen apathy
into which he had fallen.

The object of our promenade was to go to a vast enclosure where some
horses were allowed to run at liberty. There were, I believe, seven or
eight, of which three were old hunters which had been favourite mounts
during many years; the others were carriage horses, also very old. As
soon as my father had known that it would in future be impossible for
him to either ride or drive, he had caused his horses to be turned loose
in this enclosure; one of the clauses of his will expressly ordered that
these horses were to remain at liberty and never to be worked any more
until their death.

As I said before, it was on these occasions alone that my father ever
had anything to say. He would sometimes speak of one of his hunting
parties, where a certain horse had distinguished himself; he would
recall some road that another had travelled over with surprising speed;
then, the promenade over, he would return home to dine. Although for
quite a long time he had only been able to take the lightest
nourishment, he insisted that his table, of which he was rather vain,
should be served with the same dainty abundance as when he was in
health, but he never partook of anything. My aunt and Hélène assisted
at these silent repasts, where we were waited on by the old white-headed
servants, dressed in their funereal black. My father never spoke at
meal-times, and as we had noticed how the least noise seemed to distress
him, we confined our conversations to exchanging a few remarks spoken in
an undertone.

After dinner, which was soon over, we would go into the parlour, and,
getting out the chess-board, I would sit down to it opposite my father.
I would arrange the chessmen and we would begin the pretence of a game;
for my father was entirely too absent-minded to really play any more. At
long intervals he would push one of his men from one square to another
on the board, and for the form of it I would advance one of mine,--all
this was done in perfect silence; for it was a sort of mechanical
occupation rather than an amusement that my father sought in this
simulation of chess-playing. While we were so occupied my aunt would
read and Hélène seat herself at the piano for about an hour's time.

This musical hour, except the visit to the horses' pound, was the only
other incident of our daily life which appeared to make any impression
on my father; for as he continued to push about his pieces in an aimless
way, he would say to Hélène, in his low and penetrating voice:
"Hélène, I should like you to play such or such an air for me."

Sometimes, though very rarely, he would ask her to repeat the same piece
for him two or three times, when he would place his elbows on the
chess-board, and, hiding his head in his two hands, would seem lost in
meditation.

One day, only after having asked a second time for a song, I noticed
when he raised his venerable head, where suffering had marked such deep
lines, that his eyes were filled with tears.

The airs which he liked best to have Hélène repeat to him were few in
number and very old-fashioned. I remember among others "Pauvre Jacques,"
the cavatina of "Don Juan," one of the Beethoven symphonies, and two or
three romances by Paësiello. One of these last, a simple, sweet, and
sad melody called "La Mort d'Elvire," seemed to affect him more
profoundly than any of the others, so that he would say, after a deep
sigh, "That is enough, Hélène. Thank you, my child." And as soon as
the music ceased, a deep silence would fall on us.

It would be impossible to describe the melancholy thoughts which the
daily repetition of such a scene caused to spring up in my mind. I would
listen with rapt attention to those old songs, whose simple rhythm
suited so well the freshness and purity of Hélène's voice.

The room in which we assembled in the evenings was called the salon of
the Crusader, because above the great fireplace of carved stone was the
representation of one of our ancestors, who bore the holy cross. This
apartment was very large, and its walls were all tapestried with dark
red damask.

As my father's eyesight was very bad, we had two lamps, covered with
green silk shades, placed on the piano in a manner to light the music
desk only; thus, while the rest of the room remained in almost total
obscurity, Hélène, seated at the piano, shone out in beautiful
clearness.

I can still see her beautiful blonde hair, her pretty throat, which
looked so white against her large black fichu. And I can see my father
as he sat by the chess-board, his head bowed in meditation, only visible
in the red and dancing light reflected from the fire on the hearth.

Towards ten o'clock my father would ring for his servants, who then
assisted him to his own rooms, whither I accompanied him, and helped him
to his bed.

I slept in the room next to his, and very often in the night, being
restless and agitated, I would get up to listen to his breathing. I
would creep up cautiously to his bedside, but always found him with
wide-open eyes, whose gaze was fixed on mine, for he never slept. This
frightful insomnia, which the doctors attributed to the abuse of opium,
and which they attempted in every manner to overcome, this continuous
insomnia was what caused him to suffer the most. The tears still come
into my eyes when I recall the tone of calm resignation with which he
would say to me, "I am not asleep, I am not in need of anything,--go and
rest yourself, my child." I sometimes shudder as I remember that for a
period of seven months my father never slept a moment. Each day and each
night he waited for the end, which he could see was slowly approaching.
I have already said that his knowledge was almost universal; for this
reason, although he had no practical knowledge of medicine, he was,
unfortunately, sufficiently acquainted with its principles to understand
and judge with certainty of his own condition.

Eight months before his death he astounded the doctors by discussing
with them his disease, and showing them his reasons for believing that
it would inevitably end fatally,--even the time he probably had to live.
And, however, with the terrible conviction that every day was bearing
him nearer to the tomb, he never showed the least weakness nor the
slightest regret. Never a complaint, never a word in allusion to his
approaching end! Silence, always silence! and his life until the day of
his death was such as I have described.

The day before this frightful event, he caused me to go through a long
and serious examination on the manner in which I was to manage my
fortune; this with remarkable lucidity and apparent satisfaction. He
then said to me: "I have doubled the means my father left me; this
increase of fortune has been my steady object in life, because my
constant aim has been your future happiness. Make a good use of these
riches if you are able. Remember, my child, that gold is all-powerful:
honour and happiness. Above all things, try to live alone; that is the
great science of life. If you should find a woman like your mother,
marry her, but be on your guard against adorers who will simply be after
your fortune; in a word, never trust in any appearances before having
sounded their secret depths." Then showing me his great secretary, he
added: "You are to have that piece of furniture burned, just as it
stands, with all it contains. I have taken out all our family papers,
and you should be perfectly indifferent as to the rest. Adieu, my child,
I have always been satisfied with your conduct."

And as through my tears I spoke to him of eternity, of my grief if I
should have the frightful misfortune to lose him, he faintly smiled and
said to me, in his calm and steady voice: "My child, why do you speak to
me of these vanities? There is nothing eternal, there is nothing even
durable in human feeling, joy and gladness are but transitory
emotions,--grief and sadness are still more fleeting. Remember this, my
poor child. You are generous and affectionate--you love me tenderly--you
are grievously afflicted at the thought of losing me. Your actual grief
is really so intense that it hides from you for the time being the
coming separation,--and yet this diseased body can not, ought not, to
continue to live; sooner or later after I am gone, you will begin to
regret me less; little by little you will turn your mind to other
thoughts, then you will begin to be consoled,--and after awhile I shall
be forgotten!"

"Never," I exclaimed, and, throwing myself on the foot of his bed, I
took his hand and covered it with my tears.

He placed his hand, which was already cold, on my forehead, and
continued: "Poor dear child! Wherefore deny that which is
self-evident,--why try to escape the inexorable law of our race? In this
series of changes which, starting at violent grief, ends by
forgetfulness, there is nothing as I see it either odious or guilty.
Nothing is more natural, nothing is more consistent with our human
nature. More than this, one of these days you will be able to enjoy the
wealth I am leaving you without the slightest feeling of sadness. You
will remember me, I hope and desire, from time to time, but seldom, and
without anguish. The remembrance of me will never interfere with your
enjoyments, your pleasures, the pursuits of your daily existence; so at
last I shall count in your bright young life only as the dust of the old
tree, which, having lived its time, now only serves as a nourishment to
its young shoots. Nothing is more simple, more human, more natural, I
tell you so once more."

"Ah, never believe such a thing as that," I cried out in terror. "This
fortune will be hateful to me,--nothing will ever be any consolation to
me."

But my father added:

"Make no foolish promises, my son; eighty thousand francs a year can
never be hateful, and the most poignant grief is capable of consolation.
Do I not know it from my own experience? Did not I feel thus when my
father died? Will your sentiments not be the same as mine were? And if
you ever have a son, will he not feel the same grief when you die?
Believe me, my child, true wisdom consists in being thus able to
envisage the inexorable reality of things, and never to indulge in vain
hopes. When you once understand this truth, when it once causes the
phantom of falsehood to dissolve, then you will neither hate nor despise
men for being thus constituted, because you know yourself to be like
them,--you will then pity them and help them, for you will often feel
greatly unhappy! If you find men ungrateful, alas! look into the depth
of your own soul, and you will often see such base ingratitude that you
will be enabled to forgive others. Understand this, my poor child, that
to forgive all is to know all. Finally, a time will come when the sight
of their unknown or hidden vices will be so saddening or repugnant to
you that you will do as I did, you will leave them and live alone. Then,
my child, instead of having constantly before your eyes the harrowing
sight of the moral infirmities of mankind, you will only have your own,
and in the contemplation of a splendid nature, in meditation, in the
inexhaustible and maternal sweetness of study, you will be able to
forget and forgive the sins of our poor humanity."

The day after this conversation, my father was no more.




CHAPTER V


HÉLÈNE


In recalling these souvenirs of my past life, I have no other aim than
the firm determination, if that be possible, of reviewing, as a cold and
disinterested spectator, the scenes of my most secret thoughts, as well
as the struggles of my instincts, whether good or evil; not to be
ashamed to own up to a single one of them, no matter how base or paltry.

I believe myself to be neither better nor worse than the common run of
men, and what gives me the courage to admit everything to myself is the
conviction that possesses me, that, should the greater number of men ask
themselves the same questions, and reply to them with the same
frankness, their answers would in most instances be the same as mine.

To go back to the death of my father: my grief was most profound, but it
was not my predominating sentiment at the first. My first sensation was
a sort of terrified stupefaction at finding myself, at twenty-two years
old, perfectly free, and master of a large fortune. My next feeling was
an inexplicable anguish at the idea that from henceforth I was without
any natural protector. Come vice or virtue, glory or obscurity, my life
from henceforth would interest no one; besides, the eccentric life my
father had led, isolated for so long from all the world, had placed me
almost in the position of a stranger to that society which my rank and
fortune entitled me to enter. The future seemed to extend itself before
me like a vast desert crossed by a thousand paths, but no souvenir, no
interest, nor even any family or caste patronage could I claim which
might show me which of these paths was the right one.

As in all else, thanks to the lapse of time, this impression was fated
to be modified and then radically altered; but the transition was a long
one.

Some time later this timidity gave place to, or rather was mingled with,
a tinge of pride, as I considered that all the great domains of our
family belonged to me alone, and that, though the responsibility of
their regency might be burdensome, it would be its own compensation.
When still very young I had mechanically acquired a habit of
self-interrogation, so when I perceived that my profound affliction had
begun to take on these first tints of personality, I shuddered as I
remembered those terrible words of my dying father, "You are generous
and kind, you love me tenderly, and yet, sooner or later after my death,
you will begin to miss me less and less, then you will be entirely
consoled, and finally you will forget me altogether."

I have heard stories giving many examples of men to whom a tragic and
premature end had been foretold, and who, goaded by some unexplainable
fatality, had taken upon themselves the task of realising these sad
predictions. It is the same way, I believe, with certain thoughts which
are repugnant, even hateful to you, against which you struggle vainly,
and to which you finally succumb; thus it was with the prediction of my
father; I fought against it a long time, but at last I was conquered.

But this struggle was certainly one of the most distressing periods of
my life. To recognise little by little the uselessness of our grief, to
become cruelly convinced of this formidable vulgarity, that those
feelings which nature has most deeply rooted in our hearts can fade,
wither, die, and disappear under the icy breath of time,--ought not such
thoughts to cut us to the quick? Are they not heart-breaking? Such were
the thoughts which caused me to curse my ingratitude, but my curses were
in vain.


It was the month of January, for I had remained all the winter at
Serval, with my aunt and Hélène. Every morning I mounted my horse and
went for a long ride in the forest, where I would spend three or four
hours. The gray, cloudy, foggy weather pleased me, the wide driveways
covered with snow, or littered with dead leaves, which the wind
scattered hither and thither, had a dreary aspect which suited the
colour of my thoughts. Leaving the reins loose on my horse's neck, I
would ride along in a state of utter abstraction, scarcely thinking of
anything,--of the future, of the road I meant to follow,--making no
plans whatever, for I was still too much dazzled by my newly attained
importance. I had lived for so long a time entirely dependent on my
father, having no will but his, making no plans but his; even during my
long voyage his will, represented by that of my tutor, had governed me
so incessantly that the absolute and perfect freedom I now enjoyed was
both overpowering and alarming. After one of these long rides I would
return to find Hélène and her mother awaiting me; we would talk about
my father, and my aunt would try to persuade me to overcome the
repugnance I felt in attending to business; but as all these business
transactions reminded me too cruelly of the many conversations I had
with my father on these subjects, I could not bring myself yet to
consider all these details, but left them to the charge of my tutor.

At the end of the third month my grief had lost much of its bitterness.
I began, so to speak, to awake and look around me, my ideas became
clearer and more definite as to the use I was to make of my newly
acquired liberty,--this freedom which still disturbed and made me
anxious, but which alarmed me no longer.

The thread of our thoughts does not always escape exterior and purely
physical influences. I was beginning to find this out. Springtime was
approaching, and I felt as if with the dreary winter the first
bitterness of my sorrow would pass away, and that vague projects and
sweet hopes for the future would blossom with the smiling foliage of
May.

We were now getting on towards the middle of April; since my father's
death I had never been able to make up my mind to visit the village
cemetery, in which stood our family monument, so fearful was I of the
cruel impression such a visit would have upon me. One day, as I deplored
my weakness, Hélène said to me, "Try to be more courageous, Arthur;
come, I will go with you."

As Hélène's mother was not very well, she could not go with us; so we
set forth together. My emotion was so violent that I was trembling and
could scarcely stand. Hélène, who was, perhaps, quite as much unnerved
as I, showed it less. When we arrived at the entrance door of the vault,
I fainted away.

When I came to myself, I saw Hélène kneeling beside me. I felt her
warm tears fall on my cheek, for she was holding my head in her two
hands. For the very first time, strange as it may seem, in spite of the
sacredness of the place, in spite of the heartrending thoughts with
which I was prepared to be overcome, for the first time in my life I was
struck with Hélène's beauty. This first sensation passed rapidly as a
dream, and my deep sadness again possessed me. I remained weeping for a
long time, and then we returned to the château.

After that I went with Hélène almost daily to the cemetery, and,
instead of my sharp and violent grief, I began to indulge in a sweet
melancholy, which was not without a certain charm. I began to admit to
myself with a sense of pleasure that I was ineffably grateful for the
memory of my father, and I blessed him with pious admiration for having
been able to show me always such deep and far-seeing affection, having
such terrible convictions as he had on the forgetfulness of the living
for those who are no longer among them.

Emerging from my state of stupor, I began at length to appreciate the
splendid position that he had made for me, and I promised that I would
remain eternally grateful to him, but after awhile, as I began to
contemplate my position in all its brilliancy, I would sometimes
tremble, as I thought I discovered in the depths of my mind a frightful
reaction of egotistic satisfaction.

I have told what a long time it was before I began to notice Hélène's
beauty. Though this may have been strange, you must remember that she
had always seemed to me like a sister. When I had started on my travels
she was at a convent school, almost a child; and during the last few
months of my father's life I had been so cruelly preoccupied with his
sufferings, and Hélène had shown such a devoted and filial affection
for him, that the sort of fraternal feeling I cherished for her had
never changed.

Hélène was three years younger than I; she was blonde and pale; her
manner was kindly, but cold, and her large blue eyes, her aquiline nose,
her large, fine forehead often bent forwards, gave her an imposing and,
at the same time, a melancholy expression. As a child she had always
been quiet; hers was a silent and self-contained nature, indifferent to
the joys and pleasures of her age; always very sedentary and very
nonchalant, she laughed seldom, and dreamed a great deal. Her eyebrows
were of a darker shade of blonde than her magnificent hair,--they were
thick, and perhaps too well marked. Her foot was charming, and her hand,
though rather long, was of antique beauty; her tall, slight, and willowy
figure was remarkably perfect, but she held herself very badly, and
almost always, through indolence, kept her white and round shoulders
bowed forwards, in spite of her mother's continual scoldings. As to her
mind, I had never paid any attention to it before; she had always shown
herself thoughtful and solicitous in the affection she evinced towards
my father, and, as I have said, her behaviour to me was always of a
sisterly kind.

She was altogether of an affectionate and tender nature, charitable and
benevolent towards every one, but she was very proud and high-spirited
at times, and extremely susceptible to the slightest allusion she
suspected any one about to make on the subject of her poverty. I very
well remember that, before my father's death, Hélène had sulked at me
for quite a long time because I had been stupid and thoughtless enough
to say before her that young girls without fortunes were almost always
from their birth destined for gouty old fellows who were tired of
society, and wanted some nice young girl of good family who would be
willing to pass the rest of her life in their peevish society.

Hélène's mother, who was my father's sister, was a weak, heedless
woman, but she was good, witty, and very _distinguée._ Her husband held
for a long time a high diplomatic position, but being very prodigal, a
gambler, loving display and all that was luxurious, in his desire to
represent his country as sumptuously as possible, he had entirely wasted
his own fortune as well as that of his wife; so that the latter was left
at his death, if not in absolute poverty, at least in honourable but
poor circumstances.

I had never in my life taken into consideration the disproportion of
fortune that existed between Hélène and myself. Neither did I think
about it at all, when I began to notice her beauty, for I believe that
one of the most salient traits of the young who find themselves rich
without any labour is to try to colour everything with a golden tinge
reflected from their own gay prism.

From the moment when I saw that Hélène was beautiful, without
attempting to analyse the sentiment I was perhaps already beginning to
feel, I became quite another being; I shortened the duration of my
horseback rides, I began to be very careful as to my toilet, and often
felt ashamed when I remembered my former negligent ways in regard to
dress.

My aunt had a friend who was also a widow and the mother of a daughter
about Hélène's age. This daughter was threatened with serious lung
trouble, which caused her mother the greatest alarm and distress. I had
heard my aunt speak of her poor friend, and instinctively feeling that I
would have more opportunities of being alone with Hélène, were our
family circle larger, I asked my aunt to invite her friend and her
daughter to come to Serval, and remain for some time where the air was
perfectly pure. My aunt accepted this invitation joyfully, and very soon
Madame de Verteuil and her daughter, a poor child of eighteen, not at
all pretty, but with such a look of suffering resignation as to be
deeply interesting, came to live with us at the château.




CHAPTER VI


THE AVOWAL


Two months after the arrival of Madame de Verteuil at Serval, the sad
aspect of the ancient house was entirely changed; to my eyes all was
blooming, gay, radiant,--I was in love with Hélène.

Several of our neighbouring landowners, who had been alienated by my
father's misanthropic disposition, made friendly advances towards me,
and I felt so perfectly happy that, with the easy good nature happiness
brings, which really is indifference for all that does not concern our
love, I accepted their kindly visits, and very soon Serval, without
being gay, was at least much more cheerful and lively than it had been
for many a long year.

I was so entirely absorbed in my love that I scarcely gave a thought to
the great change that had taken place in my grief. It was just nine
months since I had lost my father, and already the remembrance of his
death, at first so constant and so bitter, was beginning little by
little to fade away. I had begun by going every morning to the cemetery,
then I went only once in awhile, sometime later I substituted for this
pious visit some few hours spent in meditation before my father's
portrait. I had caused this portrait to be placed in a frame which
closed with two folding panels, thinking it a profanation to leave the
image of those we hold most dear exposed to the gaze of the thoughtless
and indifferent; besides, I considered that such contemplation, from
which we hope to receive elevated and serious thoughts, should be
premeditated and not due to our having by chance given a hasty look at
the beloved face. The frame which contained the portrait became for me,
thus, a sort of tabernacle, which I never opened without a solemn and
pious sense of meditation. But alas! these contemplations, daily at
first, soon became less frequent, from the very fact that my eyes could
not become accustomed to look with indifference on this sacred image,
which I gazed on more and more rarely. I can never explain the almost
frightened impression with which I would unlock the panels: my heart
would beat violently on beholding the pale and stern face of my father,
who seemed to step out of the canvas with his imposing look of calmness
and sadness, and to reproach me for my ingratitude and forgetfulness of
his memory, which, alas! he had predicted.

Then, quite terrified, I would close the frame suddenly, and would weep
bitter tears over my indifference; but these harrowing regrets lasted
but a short time, and I would be overcome with shame as I said to
myself: "For the time being I am grievously distressed, and yet
to-morrow, this evening perhaps, I shall have forgotten him altogether
and shall be smiling and happy in the society of Hélène."

No, nothing can give an idea of the painful resentment such a thought
caused me. It was an insult to my grief, showing me the uselessness of
it, even at the very moment of my truest and most heartbroken despair.

At last, I tell it to my shame, having gone a whole month without
opening the picture-frame, I had the inconceivable cowardice to really
dread a sight of it, so much did I fear this sort of apparition. At a
later day I braved it, however, and you will see how the act,
insignificant as it was, reacted on all my ensuing destiny.

These impressions, which I can now coldly analyse, excited and confused
me at the time; but though I was steeped in the intoxication of a first
love, I could yet feel their painful and deadening influence.

I have said that I loved Hélène; the phases of this love were very
strange, and revealed to me feelings of the most miserable selfishness,
pride, and incredulity, which, until then, had been dormant in my heart.

Never, alas! will I dare to blame my father for having given me those
terrible counsels of which I have spoken. My future happiness was his
most ardent desire, but as certain vigorous wild plants, transplanted
into a soil too poor to nourish them, exhaust it quickly, and fade away
before bearing either flower or fruit, so my moral nature was evidently
not strong enough to profit by such formidable teachings. In the case of
my father, these fierce and sombre convictions blossomed at least with
flowers of benevolence and pardon for all; in my case the generous and
hardy sap was wanting, and the stalk was destined to remain in all the
barren nakedness of its dried-up bark, and never to bring forth a
flower.

Let us return to Hélène, even though some of these recollections now
cause me to blush for shame.

It was my heart's first love, and, like every first love, it was naïf,
thoughtless, careless, allowing itself to float idly on the smiling and
pure stream of passion, lulled by the harmony of the first wakenings of
the heart, and, like the old mythological emblem, with eyes closed for
fear of seeing the horizon.

These three months, with their freedom from all thought of the future,
were, nevertheless, delightful, and it is with delight that I recall the
smallest detail of their happy moments. Soon after the arrival of Madame
de Verteuil and her daughter at Serval, I asked Hélène one day to ride
on horseback, like her friend, who took that exercise for her health. I
had caused two very gentle ponies to be brought from England, for
Hélène was extremely timid. Before I could prevail on her to accompany
Mlle. de Verteuil and myself on one of our excursions outside of the
park limits, it was necessary, in order to overcome her first alarms,
for me to walk beside her pony for quite a long time.

Nothing could be more charming than the little shadows of fear that
would creep over her lovely face, the upper half of which, shaded from
the sun by a large straw hat, was seen in a luminous golden half
obscurity, while her red lips and rosy chin shone in the bright
sunshine. She always wore white dresses and a wide gray moiré sash to
mark the waist, which was so slender and flexible that she would bend
like a reed before the breeze at each jolt of the little black Scotch
pony, whose thick mane and long tail went streaming in the wind.


[Illustration]


I held the bridle, and Hélène, at the least movement of little Black,
would suddenly place her hand on my shoulder. This foolish timidity
caused much merriment to Mlle. de Verteuil, who, much braver than her
friend, and wishing to encourage her, would often gallop off and leave
us alone.

We usually took these promenades on the green turf of a long avenue of
leafy oak-trees. As long as Mlle. de Verteuil remained with us I was gay
and talkative, and Hélène, who was naturally dreamy, would brighten up
and become quite animated; but as soon as Sophie left us we fell into
interminable silences, of which I was quite ashamed, but which seemed to
me perfectly blissful.

I soon afterwards wrote to a friend in London to send me some fine
horses, several grooms, and two or three carriages of different sorts.
My season of mourning was about to end. The arrival of all these
equipages made a sort of little fête at Serval. I had kept it a secret,
and I well remember Hélène's childish and simple pleasure, when one
beautiful evening in August, upon expressing a wish to drive in the
forest, she saw, instead of one of our ordinary carriages, a charming
calèche, with four black horses, harnessed _en d'Aumont_, and mounted
by two little English postilions, dressed in pearl gray velveteen.

She climbed into the chariot, accompanied by her mother and her friend.
I rode beside them on horseback through that magnificent forest, and we
returned slowly to the château, in the beautiful moonlight, which shone
so picturesquely through the long, dark avenues of grand old trees.

While speaking of this drive, I should wish to state that I have never
met with a woman who seemed more in keeping with luxurious surroundings,
or, rather, one who heightened the effect of luxury more than Hélène;
she possessed such stateliness, joined to such an enchanting and
involuntary grace, that it was impossible to think of her except as
constantly surrounded by every object of the best and most cultivated
taste.

Thus without being extraordinarily beautiful, Hélène would have become
one of those rare women, whose dress, equipage or home, we never think
of admiring, no matter how supremely elegant they all may be,--the
pervading woman harmonising and assimilating all these beautiful
accessories. So many people are simply an advertisement of, or a
contrast to, their wealth, and so few know how to cast upon their luxury
that beautiful reflection, which, like a ray of sunshine, embellishes
even the most magnificent object!

One evening, on returning from our drive, and as we were waiting for tea
to be served, Hélène proposed that we should remain without lights in
the salon, and that the windows should be opened so that the soft rays
of the moonlight might shine into the room; to this her mother gave
consent. Nothing was ever more melancholy than this vast apartment thus
illuminated; so that from talking gaily, we gradually all became silent.

My aunt had spoken of my father; this remembrance saddened us all,
though in different ways: my aunt remembered that she had lost a much
loved brother; Madame de Verteuil, in thinking upon his death,
remembered the state of her daughter's health, and the sad fate which
probably menaced her; while I was once more overcome with shame of my
guilty forgetfulness.

We were soon all perfectly silent; I was seated beside Hélène, my head
on my hands. I know not why, but I began to reproach myself for the
display I was already beginning to make. I experienced a puerile remorse
in thinking how, instead of taking our drive in the great heavy carriage
that had belonged to my father, with his faithful old servants seated on
the box, I had been riding in a light, elegant, modern turnout, with
foreigners seated on the backs of my horses. Certainly nothing could be
sillier or more inane than such ideas, and yet they affected me quite
painfully.

After some time passed in reflection, I let my hand fall on to the arm
of my chair, and found that I had placed it on the hand of Hélène; I
blushed, and my heart began to beat strangely. When Hélène felt my
hand, hers became suddenly cold, as though all the blood in her veins
had rushed towards her heart. I dared neither take away my hand nor
press hers, which I could feel growing warmer and warmer until presently
it became burning hot. By the nervous trembling of her beautiful arm I
could count the throbbing of her breast. I was entirely overcome and was
filled with both unutterable joy and sadness.

Oh, ingenuous serenity of first emotion, what can ever replace thee! Oh,
spring, so pure at thy source! How delicious is thy cool freshness when
murmuring peacefully along, furtive and undiscovered, under the tufts of
green leaves; but, alas! how soon does all this charm vanish when,
coming boldly out of the shade and reflecting alike every shore, the
current of thy troubled waters is soiled by the débris they carry
along.

I loved Hélène passionately, I idolised her, and yet, I had not dared
as yet to make her an avowal of my love.

One day when we were out walking with Mlle. de Verteuil, who had been at
the convent school with Hélène, we began by I know not what chance to
speak of anniversaries and fêtes; suddenly Sophie de Verteuil
exclaimed, as she looked towards me: "Do you remember, Hélène, our
great excitement when we were little girls and celebrated _his_ fête?"

Hélène blushed scarlet, and, with a shrug, replied to her friend, "I
don't understand you." The poor child said no more, and we came back
home quite soberly.

The next day, meeting Mlle. de Verteuil in the library, I asked her to
tell me the meaning of those words which had, the day before, made such
an impression on Hélène. After hesitating a long time, she ended by
avowing that, when at the convent, Hélène had every year celebrated my
fête with childish solemnity. The preparations consisted in buying a
great bouquet of flowers, that she tied up with a fine ribbon, on which
she had mysteriously embroidered the initials of my name; after which
she would place the bouquet in an old marble vase, which stood in a
lonely corner of the convent garden; here she would spend the hours of
her recreation in prayer before her shrine, begging God to grant me a
prosperous voyage.

Mlle. de Verteuil never tired in telling me of Hélène's terror of
being surprised whilst embroidering the ribbon, and of her thousand and
one attempts (sometimes unsuccessful) to procure a fine enough bunch of
flowers.

How can I tell how it came about that these childish doings told so
simply by Mlle. de Verteuil filled me with delighted surprise and
touched me to the heart? For before starting on my voyage, during a
short visit that Hélène made to Serval, I had never considered her as
anything but a child.

From the evening when I had, by accident, felt her hand under mine,
Hélène appeared to avoid me; her habitual taciturnity became greater;
her manner, until then sweet and equable, became brusque; she would
remain for hours shut up in her own room with the blinds closed in
perfect obscurity.

I was very unhappy myself; I was restless and preoccupied; I believed
that an avowal on my part was all that was wanting to render Hélène
calm and happy; but a timidity which I was not able to overcome sealed
my lips to such a declaration.

One evening, however, when Hélène was less dejected and less sad than
usual, I went with her for a horseback ride. I vowed to myself that I
would have the courage to tell her of my love,--I would tell it as soon
as we were riding in the great avenue of oaks I have spoken about. We
arrived there,--my heart beat fearfully, but I dared not speak.

Ashamed and mortified, I came to a new decision, and I told myself that
the marble temple at the end of the avenue should be the place where I
would make a second attempt.

When we arrived there, I became dizzy, my heart seemed to stop beating,
I could only say in a choking voice, "Hélène!" then I became dumb.

She turned her great moist eyes on me; she appeared paler than usual;
her bosom heaved; she looked at me as though her gaze would penetrate
the depths of my heart.

"Oh, Hélène!" I began again, and I know not what insurmountable
timidity prevented me from saying a single word more.

She then, with a look of grief and despair I can never forget, cried
out, "Ah, you will never love any one! You will be miserable always!"

Then, as if frightened at her own words, she gave a stroke of the whip
to her pony, and dashed off at a gallop. Rooted to the spot, I watched
her as she rode, and saw her rapidly approaching a gate which closed the
end of the avenue. I sat there and shuddered; but she, who was usually
such a coward, jumped her horse over the barrier at a single bound, and
I soon lost sight of her in the depths of the forest.

When I found myself alone, the words uttered by Hélène with so much
bitterness, "Ah, you will never love any one! You will be miserable for
ever!" caused me a grievous sense of pain. I understood now that my
silence had amounted almost to a declaration of love.

Then at last, remembering her confusion and her reticence, I began to
believe that she also loved me, and the sort of avowal she had made
filled me with such delight that, intoxicated with joy, I wandered about
here and there like a crazy man, with no thought, no plan for the
future, but happy,--oh, who can tell how happy?--ineffably happy and
radiantly proud.

At last, night having come, I returned to the château. On entering the
parlour, Hélène was there; her cheeks were glowing, her eyes shone
with a strange light; seated at the piano she was playing very slowly,
and with great expression, "The Last Thought," by Weber, that musical
phrase of so much sweetness and melancholy. When Hélène saw me she
said, "Come, admit that I frightened you, did I not?" And, without
waiting for me to answer, she stopped playing the morceau, as though
fearing it might betray the sadness of her thoughts. She began a
brilliant waltz, singing to the music from time to time with a voice
which was noticeably tremulous.

Her mother and Mlle. de Verteuil looked at each other, as stupefied as
myself by this sudden access of gaiety, which was so unlike Hélène.

Hélène paid no attention, but continued playing her waltz with all the
noisy liveliness of a child.

Somehow all this unnatural joyfulness wounded and shocked me, so wild
did Hélène appear. In fact, after this spasmodic behavior had gone on
about half an hour, she became suddenly very pale and then fainted away.

A week after this scene Hélène knew of my love and had acknowledged
her love for me.




CHAPTER VII


THE LETTER


The three months that followed our avowal passed like a dream. These
moments were certainly the happiest of my life. Everything was in
harmony with our innocent young love,--the delightful season of the
year, our sumptuous and picturesque home. Every adjunct of our daily
life was of the most luxurious and elegant kind, a sort of poetry in
action always of an inestimable value,--the gilded frame which adds to
the effect of even the most beautiful painting.

In the midst of the park was a large lake. I had a gondola or barge
constructed, rigged with awnings, curtains, and carpets; besides, there
were soft cushions and a tea-table; here very often, when the evenings
were fine, Hélène, her mother, Sophie, and I would spend delightful
hours. In the middle of the lake was a small wooded island, crowned by a
kiosk for music, and frequently I sent to the neighbouring town, where
there was a military garrison, for three excellent German musicians who,
hidden in the pavilion, played us lovely trios for alto, flute, and
harp.

In order to be alone in the barge, and to prevent feeling the motion of
the oars, I had it towed at the end of a long rope fastened to a small
boat, which two of the men servants rowed ahead of us.

How often thus rocked by the waves, dreamily listening to the drip of
the distant oar, breathing the aroma of the tea, or cooling our lips
with snowy sherbets, we would suddenly be enchanted by a sudden burst of
harmony coming to us from the island, while around us the fields and
great forest-trees were bathed in the clear moonlight!

How many long evenings have I passed thus at Hélène's side! How
intoxicating were these waves of melody, now sweet and sonorous, now
dying in sudden silence! I remember that these pauses caused us to feel
the most delicious sadness. The ear at last becomes weary of sounds, no
matter how harmonious they may be, but music, interrupted now and then
by a pause, which gives one the time to think of what has gone before,
to listen, as it were, in your heart to the echo of those last plaintive
vibrations,--music thus interrupted has an added charm, and makes one
sigh for more.

During these delightful moments I was always seated at Hélène's side,
holding her hand in mine; and we thus, by a gentle pressure, which was
for us a mute language, exchanged our heartfelt and varied thoughts;
sometimes even--intoxicating and chaste privilege!--I seized the
opportunity, which a moment of obscurity afforded me, of leaning my head
on Hélène's white shoulder. Her slender figure would then bend in a
more languishing curve than ever.


But, alas! these beautiful dreams were doomed to have a bitter
awakening.

It was at the close of a November day; I was on the way home to the
château, on foot, with Hélène, Mlle. de Verteuil, and my tutor, who
had now become my intendant.

The weather was dark and cloudy; the sun was about to set; we were
walking along the edge of the forest, which was already here and there
brightened by the tints of autumn.

The silvery-barked birch-trees seemed to be showering down golden
leaves; the thorn-bushes, the creepers, and the wild blackberries had
all turned a beautiful glowing red.

To the right of us was a newly ploughed hillside, whose deep brown tones
contrasted violently with a broad zone of orange-coloured light thrown
on them by the setting sun; overhead great masses of deep blue-gray
clouds piled themselves up like aerial mountain chains. Here and there,
where weeds were burning on the hillsides, the light spirals of their
smoke arose in white clouds, and slowly mingled with the vapours of the
evening mists. To complete all, on the crest of the hill some cattle
were slowly moving along to the monotonous jangling of their bells. As
they stood out, so black, against the horizon, crimsoned as it was by
the last glow of daylight, they seemed to be of colossal size.

Why was it that such a scene, so calm and peaceful, should have affected
me so painfully? Hélène was thoughtfully leaning on my arm. After a
long silence she said: "I do not know how to explain it, but I seem to
be chilled to the heart."

Absorbed as I was by the sad thoughts I was trying to conceal from
Hélène, this community of impressions struck me forcibly. "It is only
nervousness," said I; "it is because of this dark and dismal weather."
After this we continued our walk in silence.

In truth, I am ashamed to avow the cause of my discontent; it was
childish, weak, even silly. It was the first time in my life that I was
taken possession of by that insurmountable desire for independence and
solitude, whose influence I so often felt in after life, sometimes even
in the midst of the utmost gaiety and dissipation. I loved Hélène,
almost to adoration; every moment spent away from her was torture to me,
and yet on that day, without any reason, and not out of spitefulness,
Hélène having been as sweet and affectionate towards me as she always
was, for some unknown reason I felt that I was really unhappy. It made
me wretched to think that I should be obliged to appear in the salon
that evening to be polite to my guests, and to reply to the tender
appeals of Hélène.

After being so impressed by the melancholy aspect of nature, it would
have been pleasant to be able to spend my evening in dreaming,
meditating, reading, in the midst of profound silence, one of my
favourite books; but, above everything, I wanted to be entirely alone.

Nothing was to prevent my going to my own rooms and remaining there; but
I knew that there were people in the house. I should have to give some
reason for my behaviour; I should have to answer questions, kindly ones,
no doubt, as to my state of health, but which would be intolerable to
me; therefore, I made up my mind that I was a perfectly miserable being
because I would not be able to spend my evening all alone.

I only cite this puerile fact for the reason that this capricious and
strange desire for solitude, amid the happy life I was then leading, was
so unusual at my age that it now seems to me to have been an inherited
taste. While on this theme, I remember that my mother told me how,
before his retirement to Serval, when, on account of his position, my
father was obliged to see a great deal of society in Paris, that on
reception days his moroseness and habitual misanthropy would take
possession of him to an extraordinary degree; and yet, when he would
once force himself to make the plunge, if I may say so, no one could
receive, with more grace, more entire politeness, more delicate and
perfect tact. It was, my mother said, as though all these three or four
hours of hypocrisy, that he knew he would have to go through with,
worked him up to a frightful state of exasperation beforehand; and yet,
when remarking on his gracious and noble face, his charmingly affable
and dignified manners, strangers would suppose that he could never be
contented to live except in the world of society, where he appeared to
such rare and excellent advantage.

But I must return to that sad November day, when, for the first time, I
experienced that extraordinary desire for isolation.

We at last reached the château.

As I was going up to my room to dress, one of my aunt's maids told me
that my aunt begged me to come to her room for a few moments. I had no
reason to dread such an interview, and yet I felt a great weight at my
heart. I hastened to my aunt's room; she was seated beside her
work-table, on which I noticed an open letter; I noticed also that she
had been weeping.

"My friend," she said, "there are very wicked and very infamous people
in this world. Read this." Then she handed me the letter, and replaced
her handkerchief over her eyes.

I read. It was an anonymous and "friendly" warning to Hélène's mother,
charitably informing her that my familiar intimacy with her daughter had
brought irreparable ruin to her reputation. In a word, she was given to
understand, by means of the confused phraseology usual in such cases,
that Hélène was "looked upon as my mistress," and that, by her
unpardonable weakness and carelessness, my aunt had countenanced the
odious rumour.

It was false, absolutely false; it was a horrible calumny; but I was
stunned, for I saw in an instant that appearances would give a terrible
credit to the accusation.

I felt as if I were wakened from a dream. I have told how I allowed
myself to be swept on by the current of this sweet and chaste affection
with neither forethought nor reflection, with all the delightful
inconsistency of happiness. This letter put the reality before my eyes
and I was crushed.

My first movement was noble and generous. I tore up the letter, saying
to my aunt, "Believe me, the reputation of my cousin Hélène shall be
vindicated in the most satisfactory manner."

My aunt smiled sadly, and said to me, "My friend, you must feel that
after such rumours we must live separate lives; to remain at Serval any
longer would be to justify these calumnies. I know my daughter, and I
know the purity of your sentiments; this is sufficient for me. But, my
child, appearances are against us; the confidence I so legitimately have
in your honour would be called weakness and carelessness. I should have
remembered, alas! that the purest life has always been at the mercy of
those who desire to cover it with disgrace. You know our position.
Hélène is poor; she has nothing in the world but her good name. May it
please God that these frightful lies have not gone so far as to do fatal
and irreparable injury!"

"Has Hélène been told of this?" I asked my aunt.

"No, my friend; but she is of sufficiently strong mind to be told
everything without concealment."

"Well, then, my aunt, promise me to be gracious enough not to tell her
until to-morrow."

My aunt consented to my request and I went up to my own room.

You may readily suppose that my vague and passing wish for solitude
quickly vanished now that I was in real mental distress.

The dinner was a sad affair; afterwards we returned to the salon.
Hélène loved her mother too well and was also too fond of me not to
perceive at once that we were worried; besides, I had not, in those
days, enough dissimulation to hide my resentment.

A thousand confused ideas were working in my brain; I could come to no
decision; I recalled my long talks with Hélène, our frequent solitary
walks, which were authorised by the familiarity of relationship and
dated from our childhood; I thought of our simple pleasures, the
involuntary preference I had always shown for Hélène's society; when
walking she always had my arm; when on horseback I was always at her
side; in fact I never quitted her. I saw then that to the most
unprejudiced eyes such persistent attention must have gravely
compromised Hélène. Then again, I remembered the thousand looks and
signals arranged, beforehand between us, mute and amorous language not
destined to escape the notice of the visitors we received. Fatal charm
of first love, so engrossing as to leave us no thought except of
ourselves! stupefying atmosphere in which we had been living so happy
and so free from all care, and which we foolishly believed was
impenetrable to the idle gaze of the world!

As the veil with which until then my conduct had been hidden was
gradually raised, I began to understand my inconceivable
thoughtlessness, and, like all young people, I began to exaggerate my
imprudence still more. I saw Hélène's future life ruined; because, as
she was without worldly goods, the irreproachable purity of her life was
doubly precious to her. Then in a transport of joy I remembered her
love, the sweet and devoted affection which dated from her childhood,
her serious and noble qualities, her kindness, her beauty, her exquisite
elegance. Finally, I thought of how Hélène, though perfectly innocent,
might appear guilty in the eyes of the world, and how, as it was through
my fault that this blight might fall on her reputation, the only
possible reparation which was worthy of my offering and of her
acceptance was the offer of my hand.

Then I beheld myself living peacefully and happily in our old château
at her side, living as we had always lived,--what a marvellously calm
and radiant horizon! As I contemplated such a future my soul seemed to
expand and become more noble. A voice seemed to say to me: "Thou art on
the threshold of life; two ways are open before thee: the one
mysterious, vague, indefinite; the other fixed and assured. In one the
past allows you to judge as to what the future will be, it is the
beginning of a happiness which only depends on you to follow. See what a
sweet and smiling existence,--the serenity of a country life, family
souvenirs, a peaceful home. Thou art rich enough to live surrounded by
all the prestige of luxury and amid the benedictions of those to whom
thou may'st bring help and comfort; Hélène has loved thee since her
infancy, thou lovest her. See, there is thy happiness; lay hold upon it.
If this chance escapes thee thy life shall be given over to all the
storms of thy passions."

It was with ecstasy that I listened to this species of revelation, and
for a moment happiness seemed assured to me should I decide to pass my
life thus at the side of Hélène.

These convictions were so tranquillising that my face beamed with joy,
my features bore the impress of the purest felicity; I was so
transported with my happiness that I cried out in response to my most
secret thoughts:

"Oh, yes, Hélène, all this shall come to pass; this is my life's
destiny."

Imagine the astonishment of my aunt, of Madame de Verteuil, of Sophie
and Hélène, on hearing this sudden and unintelligible exclamation.

"Arthur, you have gone mad," said my aunt.

"No, my good aunt, never in my life have I said a wiser thing." Then I
added, "Remember your promise." And kissing Hélène's hand, I said to
her as I said every evening, "_Bon soir_, Hélène." Then I left the
salon and went to my own room.

I have told how for a long time I had not dared to open the frame
containing my father's portrait; but my happiness made me so brave that
I found myself courageous enough to look upon that face which had so
terrified me.

And, besides, I thought that on such a solemn moment in my life I should
take counsel with my father; so, trembling in spite of my resolution, I
opened the frame of the portrait.




CHAPTER VIII


THE PORTRAIT


It was night; the light from the candles shone brightly on the portrait.
Why was it that, in spite of my joyful state of mind caused by my
decision in regard to Hélène,--why should I feel so suddenly overcome
with sadness as soon as I beheld the austere face of my father? Never
had his sad and gloomy nature impressed me more powerfully. His high and
bare forehead was preëminent; the deep-set eyes, overshadowed by their
thick gray eyebrows, stared at me with piercing fixedness; the high
cheek-bones, the hollow cheeks, the proud and severe expression of the
mouth, even the dark colour of the vestments, hardly distinguishable
from the background,--all was as I had last seen it and produced the
same effect on me. I could see nothing but that pale face shining out of
the obscurity.

I knelt down and remained a long time in meditation.

When I raised my head something quite natural in itself frightened me so
badly that I shivered involuntarily. I fancied I saw, or rather I really
did see, something like a brilliant tear roll down the cheeks of the
portrait, and then fall in a cold drop on my hand, which was placed on
the frame.

No words can express my terror; I remained for some moments paralysed
with fright.

Then, overcoming this childish alarm, I went nearer to the portrait, and
discovered that the combined heat and moisture of the room had caused a
sort of dew to form on the canvas, which had been kept closed for such
a length of time. I smiled sadly at my fright, but the impression had
been so violent, that I could not get over my resentment. As I became
more calm, I seated myself before the portrait.

Little by little my long conversations with my father returned to my
mind; so did his cold-blooded maxims, and his doubts as to the reality
and duration of any earthly affection. As I had so recently felt my
heart expand and dilate with pleasure, so now I felt it contracting with
agony. The remembrance of my indifference, of my forgetfulness,
disgusted me with myself; but wishing to escape from the circle of these
bitter fancies, I attempted to consult my father mentally on the
decision. I had just arrived at the point of marrying Hélène. Still
thinking of that future which appeared so smiling and beautiful, I fixed
my eyes on that pale and mute visage, and wildly demanded of it an
answer to my questionings. I implored its approval of my resolution, but
its imperturbable and disdainfully sad smile froze my blood.

"I love Hélène with the deepest, purest love," I cried, extending my
hands towards the portrait. "I am not deceived as to my feelings; the
noble and generous resolution I have taken will certainly secure my own
and Hélène's happiness,--is it not true, my father?"

And I waited eagerly for an answer from these motionless features,
believing in that momentary hallucination that I would receive a sign of
affirmation.

But the white and wrinkled forehead bowed not; then I thought I could
hear from the most secret recesses of my heart the steady voice of my
father, saying:

"You loved me once with this profound, unchanging love; I have done more
for you than Hélène has, I have given you both life and fortune. And
it is in the enjoyment of that fortune I am forgotten! Poor child!"

Overcome with terror, I continued:

"But Hélène loves me sincerely, does she not, father?" And as I
steadfastly gazed on the motionless figure, whose silence so overpowered
me, I repeated in my anxiety:

"Do you not believe in her love? I am, then, mistaken in what I suppose
to be the love I bear to her, since you stare upon me thus, oh, my
father!"

"Did I not warn you against trusting in the admirations your fortune
would excite, and tell you never to trust to deceitful appearances?"

"But, great God! what deception can Hélène be capable of,--such a
noble and candid young girl, she who always loved you as a father and me
as a brother? Has she not given herself freely to me, confiding in my
love, careless of all the rest, and so absorbed by it that she has even
recklessly exposed her reputation--her sole treasure--to the evil tongue
of slander?"

Alas! pardon, oh, my father! Perhaps it was but a base and sordid
instinct of my own which I mistook for your answer. Doubtless, ashamed
to acknowledge my own baseness, I was willing to attribute to your
influence the vile, infernal thought, this first horrible doubt which
has come to trouble for ever the smiling and pure stream of my beliefs;
pardon, father, pardon once more, if in that moment when, overcome with
anguish, I asked you, "What reason can Hélène have for feigning love
for me?" my brutal selfishness answered, "Your fortune, for Hélène is
poor!"


Since that fatal day, constantly tormented by an incessant and absorbing
idea, for ever tortured by doubt,--that two-bladed sword which wounds
both him who wields it, and him against whom it is raised,--I have
persistently sought, and, to my sorrow, generally believed myself to
have discovered, the most infamous motives hidden under the most
innocent appearances, the most odious projects under the most expansive
and generous devotion. I have very often, alas! pitilessly killed with
a word the tenderest and sweetest enthusiasms; but never, O God! never
can I forget the grievous, heartrending shock with which scepticism tore
out from my heart its sacred and primal faith.

From that instant, it was as though a funereal crêpe was banded over my
eyes, disfiguring everything I looked at. Hélène's face, so candid and
pure, now seemed filled with falseness and cupidity. The blackest plot
was unfolded to my view: my aunt's carelessness was a base calculation;
that letter, drawing her attention to the rumours in circulation, was a
part of the scheme; then, with a cruel pride, I applauded myself for
having been so clever as to discover and overturn this shameless compact
into which they had all entered against me; they had taken me, then, for
their dupe.

Then, by a swift and inexplicable reaction, all my love was turned to
hatred and despite; the tenderest effusions appeared to me as
disgraceful pretences. Oh, shame! Oh, grief! my execrable doubting went
so far as to disbelieve in the childish affection that Hélène had
demonstrated when in the convent; and in my secret heart I even dared to
accuse Madame de Verteuil and her daughter with being the accomplices of
Hélène and her mother, and to have invented that episode in order to
blind me the more surely.

Certainly the supposition of so base a deception was odious and stupid;
it was horrible and incredible to be thus possessed with doubt when
barely twenty-three years old; when, in all my life so far, no bitter
experiences, no past deceptions justified me in such scepticism!


Alas! it was a sorry benefit, for one cannot deny that, when clothed in
such a cuirass of doubt, and armed with such wise distrust, one braves
with impunity the falsehoods and deceits of the world. But, as the steel
corselet, while protecting you from the enemy's sword, renders you
insensible to the warmth of a friendly hand, so unbelief, that iron
armour, so cold and polished, protects you from the deceitfulness of a
scoundrel, but makes you, alas! impenetrable to the ineffable belief in
pure affection.

Since now I can analyse and get to the root of the influences,
instincts, or natural organisation, which were the causes of this sudden
germination and development in my mind of the distrust henceforth to be
the centre around which all my thoughts were to gravitate, no matter in
how apparently indubitable a position I might be, I can remember my
father telling me frequently: "I am glad to see that you distrust your
own motives. When we can distrust ourselves, we can defy others, and in
this there is great wisdom."

Then, by a singular contrast, my mother, blinded by maternal pride,
which sublime egotism is to women what personality is to men, after
vainly attempting to work me up to a fit of self-glorification, would
say, sadly: "My poor, dear child, I am in despair when I see how little
confidence you have in yourself; by dint of distrusting yourself, you
will lose your belief in others, and that will be a terrible
misfortune."

Now I am certain that my insurmountable self-distrust was one of the
principal causes of my doubting others; having no faith in the opinions
people professed to have of me, for they seemed false and exaggerated, I
consequently was always on the watch for some interested or underhand
reason for their admiration of me. What confirmed me in this opinion is,
that I have never found more persistent, more imperturbable believers
than among foolish and vain people. The want of intelligence of the fool
prevents him from observing, reflecting, or comparing, while the
conceited man's self-satisfaction never permits him to doubt as to the
certain and prodigious effect he is sure of producing.

To return to my projects of a union with Hélène: from the day that
doubt entered my mind, my plans were for ever changed.

I passed a sleepless and unhappy night.

The next day I was weak enough to avoid my aunt and Hélène; I mounted
my horse early in the morning, and went to one of my farms, where I
spent the whole day.

I returned home late in the evening, and, pretending to be excessively
tired, I did not appear in the salon.

On entering my room, I saw on my study-table these words in Hélène's
handwriting (they were in a book which she had returned me): "My mother
has told me all. I will be at the pavilion of the pyramid to-morrow
morning at nine o'clock. Meet me there. Ah, how much you must have
suffered!"

Though in my state of mind such an interview would be painful and
distasteful, I could not very well avoid it, therefore I resolved to go.




CHAPTER IX


THE PAVILION


The pavilion where I was to meet Hélène was situated in the depths of
the forest; to get there I had to traverse long, dismal paths, all
choked up with dead leaves. The morning mist was so heavy and thick that
I could hardly see ten steps before me, though it was nine o'clock. My
meditations of the night before had confirmed me in my doubt and my
decision. Having once admitted that Hélène's conduct was the result of
base cupidity, it became, unhappily, only too easy to misinterpret all
her actions. Thus the involuntary avowal that had escaped her lips, that
chaste cry of love which had long been withheld and hidden in her tender
heart, became in my eyes nothing more than a shameless enticement.

What shall I say? That, as I walked along to the pavilion, my ideas were
a frightful mixture of selfishness, wounded pride, and cruel
resolutions, also of bitter regret to have dispelled so fair an
illusion, to have lost all hope of consoling myself some day by the
remembrance of a pure and disinterested first love. What is horrible and
ridiculous to admit is, that never for a moment did the thought that I
might be mistaken ever enter my mind; that, having admitted the
possibility of evil, I should also be willing to admit the chances of
good; that, after all, taking no account of Hélène's character and the
nobility of her mind, there were a thousand circumstances, a thousand
reasons, which would prove beyond a doubt that her love was pure and
without a selfish thought; and, then, my fortune being part of my
condition, was not Hélène obliged to take me as she found me, and,
finding me rich, love me, rich though I was?

But, no, my one idea was so fixed in my mind, and possessed me with such
brutal ferocity, that I never attempted to find a single excuse in
favour of the woman I so cruelly suspected.

Long years have passed since then, and now that I review my past
conduct, I have the consolation of knowing that it was not to avoid the
fulfilment of my duty that I forced myself into this blind faith in
evil; for I knew that the stories in circulation had an appearance of
truth to the eyes of the world, though they were utterly false in every
respect. I knew that I owed it to Hélène to make the reparation my
first impulse had shown me was the right one. She was my relative, she
had been like a daughter to my father. I knew her excellent qualities,
and I had been convinced that I would become the happiest man in the
world, should I become her husband.

But my conduct towards her was not dictated by one of those sordid
instincts which we are ashamed to admit but whose tool we allow
ourselves to become. Later in life I should not have been able to
deliberately deceive myself, but then I was so young, so confident in my
incredulity, and I remember perfectly that what caused me the most
smarting mortification was not the fact that I had been duped, but the
unspeakable regret that I had not been able to inspire Hélène with a
real affection.

At last I arrived at the pavilion. When I entered I found Hélène
waiting for me seated near the door; she was wrapped in a black cloak,
and trembling with cold. When she saw me she rose, and, holding out her
hands to me, said, in a tone of the deepest sadness: "Ah, you have come
at last! How much we have suffered these last two days!"

Then, no doubt struck by the stern and unkind expression of my features,
she added, "Good God! What is the matter, Arthur? You frighten me."

Thereupon, with that mocking and silly cruelty fit for children, or
happy, selfish people, who have never suffered, I put on a gay and
careless manner, and, kissing her hand, replied: "What, I frighten you!
That is not the effect I hoped to have on you in such a charming
rendezvous!"

The ironical way in which I uttered these words was so different from my
habitual way of addressing Hélène that she opened her great eyes in
astonishment, knowing not what I meant. Then, after a moment of silence,
she added, "Arthur, my mother has told me all."

"Ah, indeed!" I answered, with indifference. Then, closing the collar of
her mantle, I added: "Take care, the fog is very damp and penetrating;
you might catch cold."

The poor child thought she must be dreaming.

"What!" said she, joining her hands in stupefaction, "you don't see that
it is all horrible, infamous?"

"What does it all matter, since it is all a lie?" I answered, without
changing countenance.

"What does it matter? Does it make no difference to you that the woman
who is to bear your name should be dishonoured before she becomes your
wife?"

At these words, which seemed to me the height of effrontery and the
flagrant proof of the truth of my suspicions, I was seized with an
uncontrollable desire for revenge, all my scruples vanished, and to-day
I bless the hazard that retained on my lips the horrible words that came
into my mind. Fortunately for me, I was disposed to be ironical, and I
contained myself.

"Hélène," said I, "our conversation should be grave and serious; be so
good as to listen to me. You who are candour, loyalty, and
disinterestedness personified," said I, with an accent of disgusting
insolence,--which she never even noticed, so far above all suspicion was
she conscious of being,--"I beg of you, answer me with perfect loyalty;
our whole future is in the balance."

With that instinctive divination which rarely is mistaken, Hélène
guessed at my treachery, for she cried out in anguish: "Stop, Arthur,
something extraordinary is passing in your mind. I have never seen you
with such an icy, defiant look; you alarm me! In heaven's name, what
have I done to you?"

"You have done me no harm; but since you mean to bear my name, since you
expect to be my wife,--and I am infinitely obliged to you for the
confidence you have in the future, it does honour to both of us," I
continued, with a smile which terrified her,--"you must reply to my
questions."

"Good God, with what a look you say that, Arthur! I don't understand;
what does it all mean? What must I answer?"

"Hélène, when for the first time you began to interest yourself in my
presence, or my future, when you began to love me, what was your object,
your motive?"

"My object, my motive? I tell you again that I don't understand you,"
said she, shaking her head; then overcome with astonishment: "Stop,
Arthur, you are torturing me; in the name of your mother, explain
yourself clearly. What do you want of me? What is the meaning of all
these questions?"

"Very well, then! I will follow your example, and speak with equal
frankness, liberality, and clearness; like you I give free rein to my
sudden impulses, without the least _arrière-pensée_, without the
slightest calculation; and as there is no doubt about your becoming my
wife, and when that delightful hour arrives we will wish to be in each
other's confidence, I will tell you how and why I have loved you, but
before doing so I mean to exact from you a similar confession. It will
be a mutual exchange of generous and tender sentiments which will be a
consolation to my poor troubled heart, do you not think so?" I said all
this with a cold, cruel, and ironical manner which wounded the poor
child to the quick, and distressed her greatly, though she could not
understand the withering allusions with which I blighted her pure and
unselfish love.

Now that I can calmly reflect on this scene, I shudder to think how much
Hélène must have suffered in hearing me speak to her thus for the
first time. I can see her yet, standing pale, cold, and trembling with
anxiety in the middle of that pavilion, with its rustic furniture and
its open windows where the thick fog was drifting in; I blush with shame
when I remember that it was to an acknowledged enemy, defiant and
determined to interpret everything to his own justification, she was
summoned to reveal all those chaste and tender feelings which had
preceded her avowal,--those treasures unknown to the lover which
disclose the joys, alarms, and pains that he has unwittingly caused.

At last, Hélène, overcoming her agitation, said:

"Arthur, I cannot conceive of what is passing in your mind; you wish me
to tell you how and why I have loved you. Ah!" said she, her eyes filled
with tears, "it is very simple. _Mon Dieu!_ When I was still a very
little child, I heard my mother constantly speaking about you, of the
solitary life your father made you live, without any of the amusements
suited to your age, without any young friends, occupied almost all the
time with serious study, and deprived of almost every joy and pleasure
of youth. The first impressions of you were that you were very unhappy
and much to be pitied, and I pitied you because, in knowing how much I
possessed, I thought of all that you missed: I had young companions whom
I loved; my mother, always tender and good, entered into all our
childish pleasures. So that sometimes, without knowing wherefore, I felt
ashamed of myself for being so happy while you were living a life that
seemed to me so forlorn and isolated.

"I think that was the beginning of my dislike of playing with the other
children, their games displeased me because I knew you to be deprived of
companionship; in a word, Arthur, it is because you seemed to me so much
to be pitied that I was so much interested in you. Later, when you
started off on your first voyage, the dangers you encountered, and which
I, no doubt, exaggerated, made me tremble for your life and redoubled my
affection. That was the time Sophie told you of, when at the convent
school I was childish enough to celebrate your birthday, and when every
day I would pray to God for your safety. Still later, when your poor
mother died, it seemed as though that fearful loss was to bind you to me
all the nearer, for then I believed you were entirely alone, unhappy,
and deprived of the only person you could confide in. It was then that
we came to live here, to dwell with your father. My mother had often
told me that, though excessively good to us, your father was cold and
severe. In fact, he seemed to be so grave, so sad, and you were always
so timid and so uneasy in his presence, so gloomy after the
conversations you had with him every morning, that I pitied you more
bitterly than ever, and my love for you increased as I thought of all
the trials you had to suffer.

"However, as much as I dreaded your father I could not prevent myself
from loving him; he suffered so much! And besides, in showing myself
always attentive and thoughtful to him, I meant to prove my love to you.

"Finally, Arthur, when you had the misfortune of losing him, seeing you
quite alone in the world, I fancied that from thenceforth my fate was
allied to yours, that the destiny of my life had always been and should
always be to love you, to make you happy, that henceforth my heart was
to become your only refuge. You had never told me that you loved me, but
I thought that you did, that it must be so, that such a thing was
inevitable, seeing that my vocation was the consecration of my life to
your service; so each day I confidently awaited an avowal on your part,
and when, despairing of ever hearing that avowal, I exclaimed
unintentionally, 'Ah, you will never love any one! You will never be
happy!' it was because I had an involuntary presentiment that you would
be unhappy all your life, if you would not love me,--love me who loved
you so dearly, who believed myself necessary to your happiness! Since
then you have declared to me that you love me. I have been happy,--happy
beyond expression; but that has been no surprise to me.

"Yesterday my mother caused me the greatest pain by repeating to me all
those frightful calumnies. Not seeing you all day, I believed that you
were as much distressed as I, that you shared my grief in this matter.
This is all I have to tell you, Arthur, this is how I came to love you,
the way I love you now; but be merciful and cease to torment me thus,
become what you have always been to me! Why are you so changed? I
beseech you to tell me--what have I done?"

While Hélène was telling me all this with such naïve and truthful
simplicity, I had never taken my eyes off her; instead of being touched
by her tender recital, I had been watching her with all the cruel and
wary suspicion of a hostile and prejudiced judge; however, when she
raised her beautiful eyes, so gentle and moist under their long lashes,
she looked into mine with such candid assurance and so much serenity,
that I must have been blind indeed, not to have read in them the noblest
and deepest love.

But, alas! when one is possessed by stubborn doubt, everything that
tends to destroy that doubt irritates you beyond measure, and appears to
be dictated by perfidy and falsehood; you persist all the more in your
conviction, because you believe you would be tricked if you gave it up.
The most undeniable truths become adroit lies, and the noblest and most
sudden inspirations become so many snares deliberately set for you. It
was thus with me, so I continued to play the unworthy part I had imposed
on myself.

"That is all very perfectly and cleverly thought out," I replied. "The
causes and effects follow each other in the most perfect and logical
succession; the fable is very plausible, and a stupider man than I would
believe the whole story."

"The fable! What fable?" said Hélène, who could not conceive my
suspicions.

But without answering her, I continued:

"Since you can reason so wisely, how was it that you never reflected
that, in permitting me to show you such assiduous preference, it was
possible for you to be gravely compromised?"

"I never thought of it, I never reflected, because I loved you; besides,
how could I think that anything we did was wrong, when I was certain of
your affection?"

"Then from the very beginning you meant to marry me?"

Hélène scarcely seemed to hear me, and said:

"What did you say, Arthur?"

"I said this," said I, impatiently, "that you felt perfectly sure that I
meant to marry you?"

"But," replied Hélène, more and more surprised, "I don't understand
the meaning of the questions you ask me, Arthur. Think of what you are
telling me! Heavens! after our vows of love! Have I ever had any doubts
of you--of--?"

Then interrupting herself, she cried out:

"Ah, don't vilify yourself like that!"

Her perfect assurance, or rather the blind confidence she had in my
loyalty, so shocked my stupid pride that I had the horrible courage to
add ('tis true that I spoke slowly and that my lips became dry as I
uttered the words):

"And in those fine projects of our union, which will probably never
amount to anything more than projects, did you never think of my
fortune?"

When I had once uttered these hateful words, I would have given my whole
life to recall them, for so long as I had only thought them, I had not
perceived the whole of their ignoble significance; but when I heard
myself answer in this way the ingenuous, noble, and touching avowal just
made by Hélène, who when yet a child had only loved me because she
thought me unhappy,--when I realised the incurable wound I had given
this generous girl who was so proud, so shy, and so sensitive, I was
seized with horrible and vain remorse.

Alas! I had plenty of time to realise the horror of my position, for
Hélène was a long time in understanding my words, and still longer in
recovering from her stupefaction when she had at last understood them.

But when I saw depicted on her beautiful face those expressions of
grief, of indignation, and of utter contempt which gave it a majestic
and even a threatening look, I felt in my heart such violent emotion
that, joining my hands together, I fell on my knees before Hélène, and
cried out:

"Pardon! Pardon!"

But she, still seated there with cheeks aflame and sparkling eyes,
leaned towards me; then, taking my two hands, she shook them violently
as she fixed on me a look of implacable disdain which I shall never
forget, then she said, slowly:

"I had designs on your fortune,--I--Hélène!"

She gave to those two words, "I--Hélène!" such an accent of scorn and
wounded pride, that, overcome with shame, I bowed my head before her and
broke into sobbing.

Then she, without adding another word, arose quickly and went out from
the pavilion with firm and steady step.

I remained where I was, utterly annihilated. It seemed to me that from
henceforth my life was irreparably devoted to evil and misfortune.

In spite of which I was resolved to see Hélène once more.




CHAPTER X


THE CONTRACT


For four days after the scene in the pavilion, it was impossible for me
to see either Hélène or my aunt; I knew only from their women servants
that they were both extremely ill.

Those days were frightful ones for me. Since the fatal moment when I had
so brutally crushed the tender and delicate affections of Hélène, my
eyes had been opened. I had repeated word for word her innocent recital
wherein she had told the history of her life, that is to say, the story
of her love for me; the more I analysed each phrase, each expression,
the more I became convinced of the purity of her sentiments, for I
remembered many occasions when she had manifested the rarest delicacy.

Then, as it always happens when all hope is for ever ruined, her
precious qualities shone with a brighter lustre. I saw and recognised,
one by one, all the chances of happiness that I lost. Where should I
ever find so many conditions of felicity united,--beauty, tenderness,
grace, elegance? And then the thought of the future without Hélène
terrified me. I knew that I was neither strong enough to live a retired
and solitary life, or to traverse without misfortune the thousand
experiences of an aimless and adventurous existence.

I foresaw the violence of my passions,--everything would tend to lead me
into excesses. I was independent, rich, and young; yet, however
desirable such a life of pleasure might be for another in my position,
the idea of it was distressing to me; it was a torrent which I could see
rushing along, but knew not whither it would lead me. Would it plunge
into a bottomless gulf? Or, later, calming the impetuosity of its
waters, would it become a peaceful current?

Then, hard and defiant, as I had just found myself capable of becoming
towards Hélène, who was so noble and so good, in what love would I
ever have faith in the future? I should never even be able to enjoy
those rare moments of effusive confidences that sometimes shine so
brilliantly from out the stormy clouds of passion. In a word, isolation
alarmed me,--it would crush me under its weight of coldness and
dullness,--and without knowing the reason, the life of society
affrighted me. Like a wretched man, seized with vertigo, I saw the abyss
in all its horror, and yet a fatal and irresistible attraction dragged
me towards it.

Filled with such thoughts and such fears, I determined to make every
attempt to destroy in Hélène's heart the dreadful impression I must
have left there.

The fifth day after that fatal scene I was permitted to pay a visit to
my aunt. I found her very pale, very much changed. In our long
conversation I confessed everything to her, my frightful doubts and what
had caused them, my heartless conduct towards Hélène, her indignation
and scorn upon hearing my miserably sordid suspicions. But I also told
her under whose influence I had yielded in acting so cruelly; I recalled
to her the soul-chilling maxims of my father; I sought an excuse by
telling her of the indelible impression those precepts had made on me; I
showed her what an unfortunate position Hélène would hold in the eyes
of the world, should she persist in her determination to have no more to
do with me. These rumours were calumnies, as we knew, but they existed;
and then on my knees, and in the name of Hélène's future, I begged her
mother to intercede in my behalf.

My aunt, being kind and generous, was touched, for my grief was profound
and real; she promised to speak with her daughter, to try and overcome
her objections, and to induce her to accept my hand.

Hélène continued to refuse to see me.

At last, two days afterwards, my aunt came to inform me that, having at
last overcome Hélène's violent objections to seeing me, she had
induced her to grant me an interview, but she was entirely ignorant as
to what decision Hélène would come.

I went with her mother to her room. I was in a state of excitement
impossible to describe. When I entered, I was greatly shocked at
Hélène's appearance; she seemed to have suffered greatly, but her
manner was cool, calm, and dignified.

"I have sent for you, monsieur," said she, in a firm and penetrating
voice, "to inform you of the decision I have taken after much
reflection. It is very humiliating to me to remind you of an avowal
which was so cruelly received, but I owe it to myself and to my mother.
I loved you, and believing myself sure of the nobility and truth of the
sentiments you had declared to me, trusting in the elevation of your
nature, more from instinct than reflection, I had placed such blind
confidence in you that our affectionate relation to one another passed
in the eyes of the world for a guilty love,--so that at this very hour,
monsieur, my reputation has been shamefully defamed."

"Hélène, believe me," I cried, "that my whole life--"

But imperiously making me a sign to be silent, she continued, "I have no
one in the world but my mother to protect me; and, besides, if the most
unfounded calumny always leaves an indelible stain, a calumny which is
based on undeniable appearances ruins a woman's character for ever. I
find, myself, then, monsieur, placed between dishonour, if I do not
exact from you the only reparation public opinion ever accepts, or a
miserable existence, in case I accept from you this reparation; for the
doubts that you have expressed, and the words you have spoken, will
remain engraved in my mind for ever and ever."

"No, Hélène," I cried out, "the tenderest and truest words, the most
sincere repentance will chase those dreadful words from your heart, if
you will only be generous to be guided by a heaven-sent inspiration!"
And I threw myself at her knees.

She made me rise, and continued, with a _sang-froid_ which chilled my
blood: "You must understand, monsieur, that, being perfectly indifferent
to the opinion of a man whom I no longer esteem, and clear in my
conscience, I prefer to pass in your eyes as mercenary--"

"Hélène! Hélène! have pity on me!"

"Than to pass in the eyes of the world as infamous," she added;
"therefore, that reparation which you have offered me, I accept it."

"Hélène, my dear child," said her mother, throwing herself into
Hélène's arms, "Arthur, too, is generous and good; he has been out of
his senses; have pity on him."

"Hélène," said I, with exaltation, "I know your character,--you would
have preferred dishonour to that life with a man you despise, if your
instinct had not told you that, in spite of a moment of frightful error,
I was still worthy of your love!"

Hélène shook her head, and, blushing with the recollection of the
indignity put upon her, added:

"Do not believe it. At such a solemn time, I neither wish to deceive
you, nor ought to do so. The wound is incurable; never, no, never, shall
I forget that once you suspected me of being vile."

"Yes, yes! you will forget it, Hélène, and I know in the depths of my
heart that the future will be as happy as the past."

"I shall never forget it, I tell you," said Hélène, with her habitual
firmness. "So reflect upon what you are about to do. There is still
time; nothing binds you, except your honour. You can still refuse me
what I have required you to do; but do not believe that I shall ever
change. I tell you that for all the remainder of my life my heart is
separated from yours by a dreadful abyss."

"Believe it then, be it so," said I to Hélène, for I felt reassured by
the promptings of all my former tenderness. "Believe it if you must!
What does it matter to me? But your hand,--but the right to make you
forget all the misery that I was the cause of, this is what I claim,
this what I desire, what I accept, what I beg of you on my knees."

"You really wish this?" said Hélène, fixing a penetrating look on me,
and seeming for a moment to hesitate.

"I implore it of you as I desire my eternal salvation; I beg it of you
as my life's only destiny! Ah," said I, with the tears in my eyes, "I
beg it of you with as much religious fervour as though I were asking it
of God."

"Then it shall be so; I grant you my hand," said Hélène, as she turned
away her eyes to hide the first sign of emotion she had exhibited since
the beginning of our interview.


I was the happiest of men. I knew too well Hélène's susceptibility not
to have expected all these reproaches. Her heart had been so cruelly
stricken that the wound would remain for a long time open and bleeding.
I knew that it would take many days, many years of tender and delicate
care to heal this wound; but I felt so certain of my love, so happy in
my belief in the future, that I had no doubt as to my success. Noble and
loyal as I knew Hélène to be, her promise showed me that, though she
still felt resentment, she had not lost all esteem for me; that she had
read my secret thoughts, and was persuaded that, in expressing the
horrid thought which had so grievously distressed her, I had only been
the involuntary echo of my father's pessimistic maxims.


We soon after started for the city of ----, where Hélène and her
mother had always lived.

Our marriage, which was announced with certain formality, was set for a
date in the near future, for I had besought Hélène to hasten the happy
moment as much as the exigencies of the necessary publicity would allow.

My heart beat high with hope and love. Hélène never appeared so
beautiful. Her ordinary expression of sweetness and tenderness had given
place to a proud and melancholy look, which gave to her features an
expression of superiority. I saw grandeur and noble self-esteem in the
determination she had shown in thus braving my offensive suspicions,
being conscious all the time of her own innocence. So I allowed myself
to form all kinds of smiling plans for the future. I was almost pleased
by the coolness with which Hélène continued to treat me, because I
took it as a sign of a generous nature which suffers all the more keenly
because of its more exquisite sensibility.

The cruel indecision which had so alarmed me when thinking of my future
had changed into a serene and peaceful certitude. All was radiant on the
horizon. It was to be a life such as I had dreamed of and already begun
to experience at Serval; a calm and contented existence; and then every
victory I should win over Hélène's sad resentment would be a delight.
I thought, with inexpressible joy, that I would have to begin all over
again to gain Hélène's love. With what pleasure I contemplated the
means I would take to heal that sad wound! I felt in myself such a
wealth of tenderness, of devotion, and of love that I felt certain of
bringing back to that adorable face its old look of confiding and
ingenuous goodness, of fixing for ever on those charming lips their
ineffable smile of other days, in place of the serious disdain which
they now expressed. I hoped to see that stern and scornful look soften
little by little,--from scornful become severe, then sad, then
melancholy--kindly--tender--and finally to read in its smiling azure
this blessed word, Pardon!


Everything delighted me, even to the most trifling details of the
preparations for our union; I was as interested in them all as a child.
As I did not wish to be separated from Hélène, I had written to a
friend of my mother, a woman of the most perfect taste, to send me from
Paris everything she could think of that was elegant, select, and
splendid for the wedding _corbeille_ of Hélène.

I remember how all these presents were brought by my intendant from
Serval, in two of my carriages. I had made a great show of this ceremony
of presentation. The two carriages, the servants, and the horses were
all gaily decorated, and went at a respectful walk to the door of
Hélène's house, to the great admiration of the townsfolk.

When all these marvels of taste and sumptuousness were spread out in my
aunt's salon, and Hélène came in, my heart beat with joy and
excitement as I watched to see her look of surprise at the sight of such
beautiful presents.

The look was indifferent, absent-minded, even ironical.

At first this caused me horrible chagrin; my eyes filled with tears; I
had, alas! spent so much time, so much thought, in the selection and
presentation of these first gifts. But very soon I began to think that
nothing could be more natural and to be expected from Hélène, as I had
always known how little she cared for useless luxury. After having
accused her of mercenary motives, how could she be pleased at this
foolish display of my wealth?

At last the day for signing the contract arrived. In provincial towns
this is a great solemnity, and numerous friends were invited to assist
at this function.

Hélène was still at her toilet, we waited for her some time in my
aunt's salon; while I was receiving all sorts of stupid congratulations
with the most politeness I could summon, the notary came and asked me if
nothing was to be changed in the conditions of the contract, so strange
did they seem to his clerk; I replied "no," with a great deal of
impatience.

In this contract, which I had kept secret, I had left to Hélène the
whole disposition of my fortune. The only thing that surprised me was
that Hélène should have allowed me to make such an arrangement, but I
attributed this to the extreme repugnance she must feel to enter into
any business details. At last Hélène appeared in the salon: she was
rather pale and seemed somewhat moved. I can see her still as she
entered, wearing a simple white dress, with a pale blue sash. Her
splendid hair fell on each side of her face in soft fair curls, and was
simply twisted up at the back of her head, Nothing could have been more
enchanting, fresher, or more charming than this apparition, which seemed
to suddenly change the aspect of everything in the salon.

Hélène sat down beside her mother and I seated myself at her side.

The notary made a gesture recommending silence, and began the reading of
the contract.

When he came to the clause in which I willed all my fortune to Hélène,
my heart beat fearfully, and covered with confusion, almost shame, I
cast down my eyes, fearing to meet her glance. At last that clause was
read.

Every one was aware of the mediocrity of my aunt's fortune, and
therefore my generosity was received with a murmur of approbation. It
was only then that I at last dared to raise my eyes and glance at
Hélène; she saw me, and the look she gave me caused me to shudder, so
cold was it, so disdainful, almost malicious.

The reading of the contract was over.

Just when the notary arose to present Hélène with the pen in order
that she might affix her signature, she arose, and, standing erect and
imposing, said these words:

"I wish now to say that, for a reason which does not reflect on the
honour of M. le Comte Arthur, my cousin, it is impossible for me to
bestow upon him my hand." Then, turning towards me, she handed me a
letter, saying: "This letter will explain to you the motive of my
conduct, monsieur, for we need never meet each other again." And bowing
with modest confidence, she left the room, accompanied by her mother,
who shared in the general amazement.


Every one left the room.

You can imagine what commotion and scandal such an adventure as this
would make in the little town and in the whole province.

I found myself alone in the salon,--I was completely crushed. It was not
until some moments afterwards that I remembered Hélène's letter and
concluded to read it.

This letter, which I have kept ever since, was as follows. Eight years
have passed since then. I have experienced very varied and distressing
emotions; but I yet feel an aggrieved and vindictive glow when I read
these lines so filled with an uncontrollable and overwhelming scorn.


"After the calumnious reports which had attainted my reputation, and
which were brought about by the levity of your conduct towards me, it
was needful that I should have public and notorious reparation; I have
had it,--I am satisfied. In seeing me thus renounce, voluntarily, a
union which, so far as money was concerned, would have been so
advantageous to me, the world will easily believe that marriage was not
necessary for my rehabilitation, since I have openly declined it.

"You have been very blind, very presumptuous, or else devoid of all
generous resentment, since you have been able to believe for a moment
that I did not altogether and for ever despise you from the time you
said to me,--to me, Hélène, who had loved you from childhood, and who
had just made you an avowal in all confidence and loyalty: 'Hélène,
you planned it all; your vows, your affection, your souvenirs, were all
falsehoods and deceptions; it is only an infamous speculation, for all
you care for is my fortune.' Such suspicion kills the most intense
affection. I would have pardoned you for anything else, deception,
inconstancy, _abandon_, because, no matter how culpable or criminal a
passion may be, the very word passion serves as an excuse for it; but
that cold, hostile, and hideously selfish distrust, which, brooding over
its treasure, can suspect the most generous feelings to be caused by
base cupidity or a sordid nature, is unpardonable. You lie and
blaspheme, when you dare to invoke the memory of your father. Your
father was unfortunate enough to believe in evil, but he was generous
enough to do good. Do not speak to me of repentance. Your first thought
was a vile one. All the rest came on reflection, from shame of your own
baseness. I think all the worse of you on this account, for you have not
even energy enough to persist in evil; you are ashamed of it, but not
sorry for it."


I can never give an idea of the confusion, the rage, the hate, the
despair, that took possession of me after I had read this letter, and
found myself so mocked at and unjustly accused; for, after all, this
doubt had entered my mind from some superhuman influence, I did not feel
that I was vile. My regret, my resolve to marry Hélène in spite of her
disdain, the disposition I had made of my fortune, proved to me that I
was capable of noble and generous inspirations.

Nevertheless, on remembering how tenderly I had been loved, and
beholding myself so deeply despised, I understood that all hope was
lost; and then I felt, as before, a sort of vertigo come upon me as I
saw such a sudden change come over my life; it was as though from that
moment I resolutely abandoned myself to destruction, and, with a
heartbroken cry of regret, I exclaimed:

"Hélène, you have been pitiless to me; perhaps one day you will have
to answer for my ruined life."


That same night I set forth for Paris, wishing to arrive there in
midwinter and in the heart of the season, when I could benumb my griefs
by the distractions of its exciting and dissipating life.




MADAME LA MARQUISE DE PËNÂFIEL




CHAPTER XI


PORTRAITS


A year after my arrival in Paris, the peaceful days that I had passed
with Hélène at Serval seemed like a beautiful dream, so much in
contrast with my new sensations that I hardly cared to recall it. From
that time I was convinced that the pretended "pleasures of memory" are
all falsehoods, for from the moment we begin to regret the past, memory
is only a bitterness, and, by comparison, the present becomes
distasteful.

The publicity of Hélène's refusal had deeply wounded both my love and
my vanity. I was too proud to admit that I was unhappy, and so I
succeeded in forgetting my imagined wrongs. I soon became transported
with delight at finding myself so completely my own master, and in
musing on the employment of my newly found liberty. Then I readily found
a way to excuse myself for my ungrateful neglect of my father's memory.
I told myself that it was in pious obedience to his counsels that I had
brought to naught the mercenary projects of Hélène, for I still
sometimes found a miserable consolation, or, rather, a base excuse, for
my behaviour in devising new and unworthy motives for the conduct of
that good girl, who had now left her native province to travel in
Germany with her mother.

However, as formerly, in spite of my regret for the past, its
remembrance soon became dim, and then was entirely obliterated from my
mind.

It was most probably the excitement of the Parisian life which brought
about this forgetfulness of those happy days which were so dear to my
heart.

I had not come to Paris as an unsophisticated provincial. I had spent
two brilliant seasons in London, and, thanks to the long and intimate
relations of my uncle with our ambassador, an intimacy which my father
and my aunt had reminded him of in introducing me to him when I was on
my voyage, I had been presented to the best and most aristocratic
society in England.

Now the English aristocracy, proud, overbearing, and justly vain of its
incontestable superiority in wealth and influence to all the other
aristocracies of Europe, is excessively reserved towards strangers who
seek to enter its charmed circle; but when one has gone through this
ordeal, nowhere is one treated with more perfect cordiality or put more
at one's ease.

Nevertheless, in the "_vie Parisienne_," which cannot in any way pretend
to rival or approach that splendid existence that one leads in London,
there is to be found that which must be sought vainly in London or
elsewhere; it is a fascinating charm not to be explained, which even the
most calm and stolid natures seldom escape.

Parisian society, in its real acceptation and perfect flower, is limited
to the elegant and refined existence led by the élite of five or six
salons, in the one or two quarters of the city that are the rendezvous
of all pleasure-seekers of the upper class.

On my arrival in Paris, I fortunately did not have to undergo that
apprenticeship to material life which generally costs strangers so much
money and so many disappointments. My father had lived there such a long
time that, being well informed as to the most comfortable mode of
existence, I was able to avoid mistakes. Thus, instead of housing myself
at a high price and with very little space in one of those swarming and
noisy apartment-houses five or six stories high, which begin on the
ground floor in a magnificent store, and end in a miserable garret, I
rented a little house near the Champs Élysées, brought my horses and
servants from Serval, and started my establishment in a proper way.

I called on several relatives or distant connections of my family, who
received me with great cordiality, some on account of my name and the
respect they bore to my father, others because they had daughters to
marry, and I was doubtless in their eyes what is called a "great catch;"
while some were polite because idle people are always delighted to have
one more visitor on their list, and thus to be able to pass one more of
their unoccupied hours.

Among these last was to be found M. le Comte Alfred de Cernay; one of my
former London friends who knew him intimately had given me letters to
him, and had given me very credible information about him, whose
character I found had been truthfully described.

I may as well describe him here, for, though not an eminently
distinguished man, M. de Cernay was the very type of a "man of fashion,"
in the best and least vulgar acceptance of the word. Now, a man of
fashion of our day is a person of a well-recognised type. M. de Cernay
was about thirty years old, of a very handsome face, and not wanting in
ready wit of a certain kind. He was subtle, something of a scoffer,
though at the same time he affected a high-toned good nature which gave
him the reputation of being a "good fellow," though people said that he
had to reproach himself with some perfidious actions and several
mischievous falsehoods. He was very elegant in his dress, though, with
some attempt at originality of appearance, he tried to look unlike other
men; however, he always looked extremely well dressed. He was a good
judge and very fond of horses, had the handsomest turnouts you could
wish to see, and posed for as distinguished a sportsman as a man of
fashion.

M. de Cernay was very rich, very selfish, and uncommonly well versed as
to business, which latter quality is particularly noticeable among men
of our epoch, and which seems to exclude all ideas of beauty or display.
M. de Cernay denied himself nothing; he lived luxuriously, but he paid
his servants himself, and settled all accounts, being inexorable for
every outlay that did not pay, at least in outward show, for what it was
worth. He was a wily speculator, and had no scruples about serving a
notice on any one of his farmers who was behind with his rent. He made
out his leases himself, for (must the enormity be made public?) he had
studied law in the most profound secrecy, under the direction of an old
attorney. But it must be admitted that no glimpse of this legal
knowledge was visible in the count's behaviour. His manners were
perfect; he came of an ancient and noble race, and was as much of the
"grand seigneur" as one can be in these days; and his sense of saving in
superfluities and economy in luxuries was only known to the few people
who had to ask some favour of him, and those are the last ones to tell
of having been refused such a service.

Nothing can be wiser nor more praiseworthy than to live with so much
prudence and foresight. I insist on this significative peculiarity
because it belongs to our epoch, which is becoming so strictly material
and positive. Nowadays nobody ruins himself. It is considered very bad
form to be in debt, and nothing appears more ridiculous and shameful
than that wild and disorderly existence (sometimes even indelicate and
dishonourable), which was for a long time tolerated as a type of what
was called "delightful French gaiety," of the vagabond life of those
"harebrained but good-hearted" fellows, who, on the contrary, had very
cool heads and very bad hearts, and were generally the greatest villains
in the world.

Now, on the contrary, nothing is considered better form than to talk of
one's property, of your lands, the improvements you mean to make, your
agricultural experiments, the care of your forests and woodlands, and
the beauty of the cattle that you raise in your fields. Every one
nowadays talks like an overseer, and every one is right, because these
last named personages are the only ones who are living like masters in
the few magnificent old residences that yet remain in France. The time
that is spent at the country place is prolonged every year, and there is
an evident reaction towards the life at the château for eight months of
the year, and life at the clubs in Paris during the winter months.

But to return to M. de Cernay, he was a very great, and, above all, a
very intelligent gambler. This seems in contradiction of those
principles of order and economy of which I have just spoken? Not at all.
For most men of the world, play is only a frightful challenge that is
thrown to fate, a means of burning excitement and terrible emotions; it
is more of a necessity than an amusement.

Men have their money for play, which is a given sum that they never
exceed. It is a capital which they try to render as profitable as
possible by good management, by running no great risks, and by studying
the chances and combinations of the game with an incredible ardour; in
comprehending its every detail, and in playing constantly, so as to keep
in good practice; also by experimenting with the deepest attention in
order to make new discoveries; so that in this way the capital brings
in, if the season has been a good one, from fifteen to twenty per cent,
to a cool, prudent, and skilful player.

And, besides this, play having become an affair of exact science, of
interest, and generally of perfect honesty, the forces of the players
are generally so equally matched that one can allow himself the
excitement of a stake of twelve or fifteen hundred louis, because it is
well known that at the end of a bad season the losses and gains are
about equal.

Nothing is more curious in our epoch than this strange struggle between
a wise and cool forethought which looks to the future, and the ardent
passions natural to men; which they find in this way the means of
satisfying to a certain degree, by a sort of insurance against bad
luck.[1]

M. de Cernay, they say, has been very successful with women; but in
growing old, as he said, he had found it more satisfactory, as it gave
him more liberty and saved him from worry, besides giving him more
chances for display (this was one of his salient points), to put to one
side a certain sum of money annually, for his favourite of the season.
This amount, which he never went beyond, he laid regularly at the feet
of one of the theatrical beauties most in vogue.

I had sent my card with the letters of our mutual friend to M. de
Cernay. Two days after he came to see me, but I was out; a few days
later I called on him one morning. He lived alone in a very pretty
house, which seemed to be the very triumph of all that was comfortable,
joined to an elegant simplicity. His _valet de chambre_ begged me to
wait an instant in a salon, where I noticed some beautiful hunting
scenes by Géricault.

Five minutes after my arrival, M. de Cernay entered. He was tall,
slender, and graceful, with a most agreeable face, and manners which
were those of the most polished society.

The count received me charmingly, spoke to me of our mutual friend, and
offered me his services in the most obliging way. I perceived that he
was watching me closely. I had just arrived from the provinces, but I
had travelled a great deal and had lived a long time in England; thus he
was hesitating, I thought, to find out if he should treat me as a
provincial, or as a man already in society. I believe what decided him
to treat me as the latter was the vexation which I thought he felt at
not seeing me more overpowered with his great elegance. Envied,
imitated, flattered, he perhaps found me too much at my ease, too
polite, and not sufficiently astonished.

Now I admit that this slight shade of vexation on M. de Cernay's face
caused me to smile.

He asked me to have a cup of tea with two of his friends, and an Italian
renegade who had taken service with Méhémet-Ali. This Italian, he
said, was a man of great bravery, who had gone through the most
extraordinary scenes and romantic adventures, been obliged, in fact, to
assassinate two or three women and as many men, to save himself and
escape from a delicate situation.

I was very little astonished at hearing about this peculiar person, for
I had already been told that M. de Cernay had a perfect mania for
celebrities of every kind; and that no sooner did an Arab, a Persian, an
Indian, or any foreigner of distinction arrive in Paris, than M. de
Cernay would fly to be presented to him. Was it by way of attracting
attention to himself, that he liked to be surrounded with extraordinary
acolytes, or had his reputation as a fashionable man reached beyond the
shores of the Ganges and Nile? I can't say why, but the fact was so.
"Will you stay and take tea with me?" said, therefore, M. de Cernay.
"Leaving aside my renegade, you will meet one of the most eccentric and
clever men that I know of, and one of the silliest and most ridiculous:
the first one is Lord Falmouth, the other is M. du Pluvier."

"I have frequently heard Lord Falmouth spoken of," said I, "and I shall
consider myself very fortunate in being able to meet him; but I thought
he was in India?"

"He has only been back for the last month," said M. de Cernay; "but you
must be aware of the way he decided on that voyage. You may perhaps know
that Falmouth always goes to bed at six in the morning. Well, one day,
about eighteen months ago, he waked up about four o'clock in the
afternoon; he had slept very badly, was restless, excited, nervous;
besides, he had just been winning enormous sums at play, and so was
deprived of those feelings of interest which sometimes awaked him from
the lethargy of his colourless life; the fact is, he was more than
usually bored to death. He calls his _valet de chambre_ and asks him
what the weather is like. The weather was gloomy, dismal, foggy. 'Ah,
this everlasting fog! Never a ray of sunshine!' says Falmouth, yawning
fearfully; then in his coolest way he adds, 'Send for the horses.' The
horses arrive, his travelling carriage is always in readiness; they
harness the horses; his _valet de chambre_, who is accustomed to his
master's ways, packs up the trunks, and two hours afterwards my lord
came down-stairs and said to his hall porter, 'If any one asks for me
you can say I have gone--'and he hesitated a moment between
Constantinople and Calcutta. Finally deciding for the latter, he said,
with a yawn, 'Gone to Calcutta.' In fact he had gone there, and there he
remained for three months, and now he comes back as imperturbable as
ever, as if he had simply gone off to Baden and back again."

"Lord Falmouth is an extremely distinguished man?" said I to the count.

"He has a great deal of _esprit_ and of the best kind," he answered me,
"a prodigious amount of learning, and a no less marvellous practical
experience of men and things, having travelled in the four quarters of
the globe, and seen all the courts of Europe as only an English peer can
visit them. Son of one of the greatest lords in the three kingdoms, he
possesses five or six hundred thousand francs of revenue in his own
right; and yet, with all this, Falmouth is the only really blasé and
bored man that I know of, he has exhausted everything, nothing amuses
him any more."

"And M. du Pluvier," said I to M. de Cernay, "what is he like?"

"Oh, M. le Baron Sébastien du Pluvier," said the count, with a scornful
and mocking air, "M. du Pluvier is I don't know who, and he comes from I
don't know where; I was forced to be presented to him. He has
disembarked from some old castle in Normandy, I believe, with his
miserable twenty or thirty thousand francs income, which he is stupidly
going to melt away in this hell of Paris, in two or three winters. He
will be one of those numerous pale meteors which shine for an instant in
the blazing sky of the great city, and suddenly disappear for ever, in
darkness and forgetfulness, amidst the jeers of those they leave behind.
But he is a good speaking-trumpet; as soon as I want to spread abroad
any absurd rumour or any news from that other _monde_, I pick up M. du
Pluvier, put him to my mouth, and--well, he does the rest! I don't mind
making fun of him, because he is not contented with being a fool, but he
must be conceited and vain as well. You should see the mysterious way in
which he shows you the envelopes he receives that are sealed with coats
of arms, all addressed to him, by the way; you should hear the tone in
which he asks you, as he plumes himself with pride, 'Do you know the
handwriting of the Countess of ----? of the Marquise of ----? of the
Duchess of ----?' (Such an ordinary word as madame is beneath his
notice.) And then the little man will show you such and such
handwritings, which are letters from lady patronesses, enclosing tickets
for charities, balls, lotteries, nobody knows what; for all the women of
my acquaintance, to whom I introduce him, are sure to victimise him
without the smallest scruple, so that he is the most ridiculously
philanthropic fellow that I know of.

"But," said M. de Cernay, interrupting himself, "I hear a carriage, I
would wager it was Du Pluvier; you shall see something that is worth
admiring."

We then went to the window, and saw entering into the courtyard an open
carriage drawn by two very handsome horses; but both carriage and
harness were loaded down with ornaments in the worst possible taste. His
men, dressed in liveries all covered with gold braid, looked like church
beadles, and all this ridiculous and dazzling parade was to go and take
lunch with a man in the morning.

Very soon M. du Pluvier entered noisily. He was a stout little man,
short, puffy red as a cherry, fair, and, though he only looked to be
about twenty-five, he was quite bald. His eyes were greenish and dull;
he spoke loudly with a Norman accent; he was dressed with the most
ridiculous show and pretension, wore jewels, a waistcoat with silver
embroidery, and more than I can think of that was out of place. M. de
Cernay presented us to one another, and as soon as he had spoken my name
M. du Pluvier exclaimed: "Ah, _parbleu_, I have seen you some place."

This impoliteness shocked me, and I replied that I did not believe that
I had ever had that pleasure, as I certainly should never have forgotten
him.

A few moments after Lord Falmouth was announced.

He had come on foot, and was dressed with the most perfect simplicity.

I shall never forget the singular impression that he made on me. His
face was pale, regular, white and expressionless as marble, and was
illuminated, so to speak, by two brown eyes, which were placed very near
to his nose; his slightly mocking smile also impressed me, and, without
attaching any importance to the idea, the thought of a vampire came into
my mind, for I could not have imagined a more suitable body had I been
making a sketch of that fantastic creation.

M. de Cernay presented me to Lord Falmouth, and we exchanged the
customary politenesses. We were only waiting now for the Italian
renegade, that the count called his assassin, to sit down to the table.

At last the _valet de chambre_ announced M. Ismaël; it was the
renegade.

He was of medium height, brown, nervous, magnificently costumed as an
Egyptian, and had a very handsome face, though its expression was
sombre. Ismaël could not speak a word of French; his language was
composed of vulgar Italian and some scraps of the Frankish tongue.

Very soon the _maître d'hôtel_ of M. de Cernay opened the doors of the
dining-room.

The lunch was served in the English style; the silver was from
Mortimer's, the porcelain was old Sèvres, and the glassware from Venice
and Bohemia.

Ismaël ate like an ogre and never uttered a word; but as there was
nothing to drink on the table except tea, coffee, and chocolate, he
bravely asked for wine, and drank it freely.

M. de Cernay seemed to be very much annoyed at the obstinate silence of
his assassin, whom M. du Pluvier kept continually worrying with
grotesque phrases, such as "_mamamouchi_," which he probably had
borrowed from the reception of M. Jourdain.

Not responding to these advances, Ismaël, from time to time, would
growl like a chained-up bear, and glance impatiently aside at Du
Pluvier, who seemed to irritate him extremely.

All this time I was talking to Lord Falmouth, and I remember that our
conversation was principally about a remark he had made me, and to which
I assented, on the subject of the rococo style of luxury, almost
feminine indeed, that many young men had begun to use in the interior
decoration of their apartments. He laughed very heartily to think that
all these mirrors, framed in gold and surrounded by cupids, doves, and
garlands of flowers, would nevermore reflect any but masculine faces,
looking innocently out from clouds of cigar smoke. While, by way of
contrast, instead of making use of all this magnificence, instead of
doubling the charm by surrounding it with mysterious luxury, instead of
exposing all these beautiful creations of art to the vulgar gaze, if one
of these young beaux had to wait, with amorous impatience, for one of
those sweet and secret apparitions that deserve to be surrounded with
all that is beautiful and luxurious, it is generally way off in some
dirty part of the city, in some mean and out-of-the-way hole, that are
passed those rare and enchanting hours, which stand out in glowing
colours among the other pale souvenirs of our lives.

We concluded, then, with this aphorism, that for a man of tact, of
taste, and of experience, the known and visible dwelling should be all
that is comfortable and severely simple; but the unknown and invisible
abode, the hidden diamond of our lives, should be a triumph of luxury,
and all that was dazzlingly beautiful and rare.

After breakfast we went into the smoking-room (the universal use of
tobacco makes this sort of subdivision of an apartment necessary), which
was furnished with large armchairs and broad divans. It was ornamented
with an admirable collection of pipes and tobacco of all kinds, from the
East Indian hookah, glittering with gold and precious stones, to the
vulgar clay pipe, the _brûle-gueule_ of the Parisian workman; from the
brown and perfumed leaf of the l'Atakia or Havana, with its pale amber
shade, to the strong and black tobacco, called Régia, whose pungent and
corrosive savour some palates are depraved enough to like.

There was to be that day a race of gentleman-riders in the Bois de
Boulogne; M. de Cernay was one of the judges, and invited me to go. He
was to take his lion, Ismaël, in his phaëton.

M. du Pluvier made me shudder by offering me a seat in his mountebank's
chariot, but I escaped this man-trap, for I had fortunately ordered my
cabriolet to wait for me. Then M. du Pluvier fell upon Lord Falmouth,
who replied with his usual _sang-froid_, "I am sorry not to be able to
accept, my dear M. du Pluvier, but I have to start immediately for the
House of Parliament."

"To the House of Peers? Very well, I can take you there. What difference
does it make? My horses are made for that."

"And they would do it beautifully," replied Lord Falmouth. "But
unfortunately I am going to London; I wish to speak on the East Indian
question, and as the discussion will open to-morrow night, I want to get
there on time. I have found out at what hour the packet-boat leaves, and
I expect to be in London to-morrow afternoon."

I was still smiling at such a singular excuse, when we heard the
jingling bells of post-horses, and very soon Lord Falmouth's travelling
coupé entered the courtyard. I looked at M. de Cernay with surprise,
and, while Lord Falmouth was out of the room giving some directions to
his man, I asked the count if it was true that Lord Falmouth was going
to London.

"He is really going there," said M. de Cernay. "He often takes the
notion of speaking on some political question which pleases him, and
which he always treats with unquestionable authority; but he so detests
both London and England that he leaves his carriage at Westminster,
takes his seat, makes his speech, gets into his carriage, and returns to
Paris."

Lord Falmouth just then returned. He was gracious enough to ask me to
call on him at some future time. His courier started off, and he got up
into his carriage.

"The race is to come off at two o'clock," said M. de Cernay. "The
weather is superb. I have sent my horses around to the Porte Dauphine;
if you would like to take a turn in the Bois, I have a horse that is at
your service."

"Many thanks," said I, "I have sent my horses there, too. But will this
race be an interesting one?"

"It is, unfortunately, only too interesting: two miles to run, three
hedges four and a half feet high, and, to finish, a barrier fixed at
five feet to leap over."

"That is impossible!" I cried out. "For finish a barrier five feet high!
But there are not two horses out of a hundred that could take such a
leap, with any degree of certainty, after such a race; and if the horse
should fail to take the bar, the rider would be instantly killed."

"That is just it," said the count, with a sigh. "I am in despair at
having been chosen judge, or rather witness, of this deadly challenge
which may cost the life of one or both of these brave gentlemen, perhaps
both, but it was absolutely impossible to refuse."

"What do you mean by that?" said I to M. de Cernay.

"Oh," replied he, "it is quite a romance and a secret as sad as it is
incredible; but I can tell you about it now, for if for certain reasons
no one has yet been told of it, in an hour from now, on beholding the
last terrible obstacle in this race, which is undertaken through a
pretext, every one will see what is really a duel between the two young
riders, and will easily guess the cause and the object."

I tried to read in M. de Cernay's face whether or not he was speaking
seriously; but if he were joking my penetration was at fault, so much in
earnest did he seem to be.

"I will tell you," said he, "the real story about this race, which is
quite extraordinary.

"One of the prettiest women in Paris, Madame la Marquise de Pënâfiel,
has among the number of her adorers two who are rivals, and whose
devotion to her is well known, or, rather, guessed at. Having one day
exchanged some hasty words in regard to a mutual rival, who was each
one's enemy without helping the cause of either, and being too well-bred
to fight about a woman they both loved, and who would be seriously
compromised by the scandal of a duel,--to avoid this inconvenience and
gain the same object, they chose this deadly way of settling their
quarrel.

"Their chances are equal, as they are both splendid riders and have
magnificent horses, but the result is not to be doubted; because if
there is any horse capable of running a race of two miles, and leaping
over three hedges, and yet being equal to taking a jump over a fixed
barrier five feet high, it is almost impossible that there should be two
horses who would be so tremendously lucky. Thus, you see, there is no
possible chance that this race can end in any other way than by a
terrible accident. If they escape this time, they will try it again at
some future day, as a duel is begun over again after the principals have
vainly exchanged shots."

All this seemed to be so strange, so unusual,--though there was no
reason why it should therefore be absolutely impossible,--that I was
quite stupefied.

"And Madame de Pënâfiel," I asked M. de Cernay, "does she know
anything of this fatal contest of which she is the cause?"

"Certainly she does; and to give you an idea of her character, it is not
at all impossible that she may come to look on."

"If she should come," said I, this time with a very marked smile of
incredulity, "Madame de Pënâfiel will find it quite as natural as to
assist at the bloody fights of the toreadors of her own country; for,
from her name and her ferocious disregard of our customs, I judge that
this savage marquise is some Spanish amazon of the very bluest
blood,--one of those black-eyed daughters of Xérès, or of Vejer, who
to this day carry a knife in their garter!"

M. de Cernay could not refrain from a laugh, and said to me:

"You are not anywhere near the truth. Madame de Pënâfiel is a
Frenchwoman, born in Paris, and a Parisienne in every sense of the word.
Furthermore, she is a very distinguished person, and allied to some of
the best families in France. She is a widow, and her late husband, the
Marquis de Pënâfiel, was a Spaniard."

"Come, now," said I to the count, laughing in my turn, "I see how it is;
you are trying to awaken an interest, a romantic and fantastic interest,
about a race of which you are to be the judge. I wonder all Paris does
not go to look on."

"I assure you I am speaking in all seriousness," said he, and he really
looked solemn.

"But seriously, then, I might be made to believe that a woman could not
help it if two crazy men wanted to break each other's necks, but I never
will believe that any well-bred woman would go to look on at such a
contest, when she knew that she was the cause. She would lay herself
open to the greatest blame, and to universal contempt."

"In the first place, Madame de Pënâfiel cares very little about what
people say; and, secondly, she is the only person who knows the real
cause of this species of duel."

"But, even admitting that she has no fear of her secret being betrayed
by this event, she shows herself to be abominably heartless and cruel."

"Oh, she has the hardest and coldest heart imaginable; think of it, when
she is only twenty-five, and as beautiful as an angel!"

"And how comes it that you have not dissuaded these two intrepid young
men from this foolish danger? For if, as you say, every one knows why
they run this race, all their generous desire to shield the lady amounts
to nothing."

"To tell you the truth," said the count, "they did not tell me their
secret. I found it out by a strange accident, therefore could not allow
myself to make the smallest observation on what I was presumed to know
nothing about. I spoke seriously to them, but as to putting too much
stress on the dangers of the race, it was almost as much as to doubt
their courage, and thus it was impossible. If they had consulted me, I
should have told them that they were behaving like two crazy men,
because no one would ever be got to believe that for two hundred louis,
which was announced as the stake, two men of their fortune and position
would almost risk losing their lives; consequently, every one would be
wild to discover the real motive of their duel, and that would cause a
great scandal, and bring discredit on Madame de Pënâfiel."

"How do you know, then, that this race has anything to do with her?" I
asked the count.

"How do I know it? Every one says so; and as for me, I have been
acquainted with Madame de Pënâfiel for a long time, and my certainty
on the subject is based on the pretended indifference with which she
behaves to both of these young men, for on some occasions I have known
her to show the deepest dissimulation."

There was, in all this story of M. de Cernay's, such a strange mixture
of likelihood and improbability, that I found it hard to decide whether
I believed it or not.

"I can scarcely believe," said I, "from what you have told me, that
Madame de Pënâfiel can really be in good standing. Who goes to see
her?"

"She entertains the most distinguished men and women in society, for she
has one of the handsomest houses in Paris, an enormous fortune, and
receives in an almost royal style; besides this, her salon has great
weight in intellectual circles, but all this does not prevent Madame de
Pënâfiel from being detested according to her deserts."

"And what kind of a woman is she outside of all this? Is she clever?"

"Enormously clever, but she can say very sharp, very biting things; and
then she is scornful, capricious, excessively overbearing, for she is
used to having everything give way to her, because certain positions are
so elevated that, whether or no, you are expected to be obsequious. It
is needless to tell you that her coquetry passes all limits, and as to
describing her, she has the most ridiculous pretensions. She undertakes
to know all about--guess what! The abstract sciences, art, everything
you can imagine! Oh, I assure you, she is a strange, charming, and
ridiculous woman. As I am one of her very good friends, I would propose
to you to call and be presented to her, warning you, however, that she
is as dangerous as she is peculiar; but she is so capricious and
changeable that I cannot promise that you will be well received, for
what she refuses to-day she cries for to-morrow.

"But," said the count, as he looked at the clock, "it is getting to be
late, it is two o'clock; let us send for the carriages." And he rang the
bell.

We all went out. The miraculous turnout of M. de Pluvier went ahead, and
the little man threw himself triumphantly into it, missing the step as
he did so.

I had fancied that for the last few minutes M. de Cernay showed signs of
uneasiness. I imagined that he was somewhat curious to find out if I was
worthy (by my horses at least) to gravitate around such a brilliant
planet as he.

As my cabriolet drew up, M. de Cernay looked it over with a
connoisseur's glance. It was very simple, very plain, the harness was
all black; but the bay horse was very large and of perfect form, and his
action was almost equal to the celebrated "Coventry's."[2]

"_Diable!_ but that is a beautiful turnout, and you certainly have there
the finest cabriolet horse in Paris!" said M. de Cerval, in a tone of
approbation, in which there seemed to be just the smallest possible
shade of envy.

From that moment I felt that the count had placed me high in his
estimation. His phaëton drove up; he got into it beside Ismaël.

It is impossible to describe the elegance and lightness of this charming
light green carriage. Neither could anything do justice to the ensemble
of the turnout, which consisted of one gray and one sorrel horse of
medium size. All was perfect, even to the two little grooms of exactly
the same build and size, who mounted lightly to the back seat. It was
the first time I had seen horses with their manes docked, and this
especially suited M. de Cernay's horses, so arched and full of race were
their necks. We set off for the Bois de Boulogne.


[Footnote 1: In contrast to our present manners, I cannot help quoting
this note of Madame la Princesse de Henin to Madame de Créquy, which is
given in the delightful and witty Souvenirs de Madame de Créquy. "I
shall not say 'you who know everything,' because you are weary of that
formula, but you who are ignorant of nothing, my dear, have the goodness
to explain to me something which I cannot understand, and which, it
seems, is important to my financial interests (pardon for such a
reason). I will begin by telling you that M. Lally is at St. Germain,
and that Madame de Poix does not know how to answer the question that
vexes me; her children are away; and so you will see why I write to you
at the far end of Paris. The Chevalier de Thuysi writes to me word for
word: 'I warn you to be on your guard against M. Lefèvre; I have been
notified that he is about to settle his accounts.' (I must tell you that
this Lefèvre has become my man of business.) But what can the chevalier
mean by this warning? Tell me, I beg of you, what does it mean to 'hand
in his cheque-book?' for these are his words. Madame de Poix thinks it
is a metaphor of some sort, and that is all we can guess."]


[Footnote 2: A famous carriage horse of Lord Chesterfield's.]




CHAPTER XII


THE GENTLEMAN-RIDERS


True or false, M. de Cernay's story had awakened my curiosity to such a
point that I was in the greatest hurry to arrive on the race-course.

We started off for the Bois de Boulogne. It was a beautiful day in
February; the sun was shining brightly; the pure fresh air, not too cold
to be pleasant, gave a healthy colour to the ladies who were riding in
open carriages on their way to the races.

We stopped at the Porte Dauphine to mount our saddle-horses. Mine had to
submit to another examination from M. de Cernay, who was apparently
confirmed in the good opinion he had formed of me. This you may be sure
flattered my vanity.

As for his own horses, they were, like everything else he owned, perfect
in every respect.

M. du Pluvier proved himself to be the demonstration of a theory of
mine, namely, that there are some men so constituted that they
inevitably make themselves ridiculous; he was hardly on his horse's back
before he allowed himself to be run away with. We supposed him to be
some distance behind us, when he suddenly shot by us like an arrow. We
watched him for some time, but his horse, turning into a cross-road,
gave him such a shock that he lost his hat, and then he disappeared.

We arrived tranquilly on the ground with Ismaël, laughing at this
mishap. I should mention the fact that De Cernay, being the owner of a
beautiful black Arab horse, and wishing to be as gracious as possible to
his "lion," had offered it to Ismaël as a mount. The renegade had
accepted, and his characteristic, dark face, and strange, brilliant
costume contrasted violently with, and served, as no doubt M. de Cernay
had foreseen, to accentuate the Parisian elegance of the latter.

Once on the ground, I got off my horse and mingled with the habitués of
the races, among whom I found several of my acquaintances. It was then
that I saw the frightful obstacle which was to be leaped over, after the
two miles had been run and the hedges crossed.

Fancy a beam raised five feet above the ground, and nailed across two
perpendicular posts like a gate across a road.

It was then that the story M. de Cernay had told me, strange as it was,
and contrary to all our usual customs, began to seem credible, and to
explain why these two young men were about to run such a terrible risk.

There was quite a crowd of people around the barrier, who were quite as
incredulous as I. They asked each other why two young men, who were rich
and in the best society, should risk their lives in such a way as this.
They wondered if the race was for an enormous sum of money, as that
might in a certain way justify such foolish bravery; but the purse was
but two hundred louis.

At last, after many foolish conjectures, several of the spectators, who
were conversant with the happenings in high life, arrived, either from
their own convictions or from being prompted by M. de Cernay's
story,--arrived, I say, at the same conclusion as he did, and gave the
same interpretation to this deadly duel.

This hypothesis was very generally admitted; because, in the first
place, it had the irresistible attraction of maliciousness; and,
secondly, because any explication of the silliest as well as the most
serious question, which appears to solve the long and vainly sought
answer to the enigma, is hailed with delight.

So that very soon I heard here and there such exclamations as the
following: "Is it possible?" "Ah, really! now that explains it all."
"What utter folly!" "What thoughtful tact!" "How foolhardy to run such
risks for a scornful coquette!" "It is just like her to permit such
behaviour!" "The devilish little marquise! It is disgusting!"
"Incredible!" etc.

I had not the time to question M. de Cernay as to any details about the
performers in this extraordinary entertainment, so while the public was
venting its indignation on Madame de Pënâfiel, I happened to notice
Sir Henry ----, a great sportsman of my acquaintance, and thought that
perhaps he could give me some interesting information.

"Well," said I, "this race will be exciting enough, I hope! Can you tell
me which is the favourite?"

"Opinions are very equally divided," said he, "so that there does not
seem to be any favourite. As for the horses, they both come of good
stock; one, Beverley, is by Augustus out of Cybele, and the other,
Captain Morave, is by Camel out of Vengeress; both of them have spent
two hunting seasons in England. As for the gentleman-riders, they are
the Baron de Merteuil and the Marquis de Senneterre, and have each
acquired a tremendous reputation among the upper crust of the habitués
of Melton. They are said to equal our intrepid Captain Beacher, who
broke his last sound limb (the left forearm) in last year's
steeplechase, at St. Albans. One must be brave to face such danger. I
have seen many races, I have been to hunts and steeplechases in Ireland,
where they have stone walls instead of hedges, but the walls are never
more than three or four feet high. To tell the truth, I have never seen
anything worse than that bar," said Sir Henry ----, turning again
towards the terrible barrier.

At every moment new carriages were arriving, and the crowd of spectators
becoming greater. This crowd was divided into two distinct parties; the
first, which was the greater majority, consisted of persons who knew
nothing of the rumours of society, and only saw in this race a sort of
show, whose peril they never suspected.

The smaller number, enlightened as to the reason and object assigned to
this challenge, understood perfectly well the danger these
gentleman-riders were about to expose themselves to.

But I must say that all of the spectators, especially these last, were
waiting for the hour of the race with an impatience that I shared with
them, and was almost ashamed of. Very soon the crowd rushed towards the
centre of the circle.

Messieurs de Senneterre and de Merteuil had just got out of a carriage,
and were mounting their horses to go to the starting-point.

M. de Merteuil looked to be no more than twenty-five, of an elegant and
graceful figure, and a charming face; he was calm and smiling, though
rather pale. He wore a silk jacket, half black and half white, with a
cap to match, his breeches were of pale yellow buckskin, and, to
complete his costume, he wore top-boots. He rode Captain Morave.

Captain Morave was a splendid bay horse, in such good condition that you
could almost see the blood circulating in the veins under his fine,
silky coat, which fairly reflected the light. You could have counted
each one of his strong muscles, so divested of all superfluous fat was
his firm flesh.

M. de Merteuil stopped a moment at the winning-post, to speak to M. de
Cernay. M. de. Senneterre's horse was cooler, and did not need the
quarter of a mile gallop that M. de Merteuil was taking on his way back
to the starting-place. So he was riding a very pretty piebald back,
curiously marked with black and white. He was about the same size as M.
de Merteuil, and had quite as pleasant a face. Under his long overcoat
could be seen his purple silk jacket; Beverley awaited him at the start.
He approached his rival with a smile on his lips, and held out his hand.
They shook hands with apparently the greatest cordiality, which I
thought was dissimulation, but in good form, considering the terms on
which they were supposed to be.

These two charming young men created a universal and disquieting
interest, so real was the peril they were about to face in this
thoughtless, heedless way. In fact, no matter what it undertakes,
bravery is always admired. An elderly gentleman with white hair, and of
very dignified appearance, approached M. de Merteuil, and evidently made
some remarks to him about the perils of the race. His observations were
received with the most perfect politeness, but had no effect, for, in
the presence of that attentive crowd, Messieurs de Merteuil and de
Senneterre could not now seem to shrink from danger, whatever it might
be.

At last, it was time to go to the starting-place. One of M. de Cernay's
friends went with the gentleman-riders to superintend the weighing, and
give the signal.

The assemblage was now worked up to a breathless state of curiosity, for
now it was about to be satisfied.

At this moment, hearing a confused murmur of voices, which was fast
becoming a clamour of noise and confusion, I turned and beheld that
unfortunate man, Du Pluvier, who, hatless, his hair streaming in the
wind, his body thrown backward, and his legs forward, was stiffening
himself with all his might, and trying to stop his runaway horse; who,
dashing across the open race-course like an arrow, very soon disappeared
in one of the contiguous paths, amidst the shouting and derision of the
spectators.

This, ridiculous episode was hardly finished when another object
attracted my attention.

I saw a very handsome orange-coloured coupé drive up, drawn by two
magnificent black horses of the largest size, and yet of the finest race
and style. The silver mountings of the harness glittered in the sun, and
on the ample blue draperies of the coachman's seat I noted two
coats-of-arms, richly embroidered in coloured silk, surmounted by the
crown of a marquis worked in gold. I was gazing curiously into this
carriage, when M. de Cernay, who was passing near me, said, "I was sure
of it, there is Madame de Pënâfiel. It is infamous!" And, without
giving me time to question him, he rode up to the door of the carriage,
around which several men of Madame de Pënâfiel's acquaintance were
pressing. She seemed to receive M. de Cernay with rather a careless
affability, giving him the tips of her fingers. The count was very
talkative and gay.

I looked again into the carriage, and could see Madame de Pënâfiel
distinctly.

Through the white blonde veil which fell from her simple little mauve
capote, I saw a very pale face, very regularly oval, and of a creamy
white. Her large eyes, which she kept half closed, were of a changeable
greenish shade, almost iridescent, and her eyebrows were beautifully
arched above them. Her smooth, white forehead was slightly prominent,
and was framed in a mass of light chestnut hair, whose golden shade
reminded one of a portrait by Titian. Her nose was small but rather too
straight, and her mouth, though rosy, was large, and the thin lips were
so disdainfully closed that her face had an expression which was at the
same time weary, sardonic, and scornful. The nonchalant pose of Madame
de Pënâfiel, half reclining in her carriage, all wrapped in a black
cashmere shawl, increased this look of languor and want of interest.

While I was gazing at Madame de Pënâfiel's features, she hardly seemed
conscious that De Cernay was speaking to her. Suddenly she turned her
head, in an absent-minded way, in the opposite direction from the count.
At once her pale face brightened, and she leaned forward towards M. de
Cernay, as though to ask him the name of some person she glanced at,
with a look of lively curiosity.

I followed the direction of her eyes, and saw Ismaël, whose horse was
impatiently rearing, though the renegade, who was a splendid horseman,
had him well under control. The long flowing sleeves of his red and gold
vestment were fluttering in the wind, and his white turban set off his
handsome dark face. He frowned savagely while striking his horse's sides
with the blades of his Moorish stirrups. Seen thus, Ismaël was a type
of fierce and powerful beauty.

I turned my head, and saw Madame de Pënâfiel, who, until then, had
been so uninterested, watching with the greatest anxiety every movement
of the renegade.

All at once, the horse of the latter reared so suddenly on its hind legs
that he was on the point of falling over backwards.

When this happened Madame de Pënâfiel threw herself back in her
carriage, and covered her eyes with her hand. However, as Ismaël's
horse did not fall, Madame de Pënâfiel, whose face for an instant had
shown how terribly alarmed she was, became quite serene again, and fell
back in her careless attitude.

All this scene took place in less than five minutes, and yet it gave me
an uncomfortable feeling. Under any other circumstances, the curiosity
Madame de Pënâfiel had shown in noticing Ismaël, whose picturesque
costume and brilliant colouring attracted universal attention, would
have appeared the most natural thing in the world. It was perfectly
natural, too, when the renegade's horse almost fell on him, that she
should have been suddenly terrified; what struck me as strange and
peculiar in her conduct, was that she should manifest so much solicitude
about a man she was not acquainted with, while at the same time she
could be hard-hearted enough to come and look on at a deadly struggle,
which might end in the death of one of those young men who were in love
with her.

As soon as Ismaël's horse became quieted, Madame de Pënâfiel resumed
her nonchalant and bored attitude, then giving M. de Cernay a nod, she
closed the windows of her carriage, probably because she was afraid of
the cold, which was getting to be severe.

At this moment some men on horseback hurried towards the race-track,
crying, "They are off!"

M. de Cernay instantly stepped to the winning-post; a murmur of
excitement and curiosity ran through the assemblage; every one kept
clear of the space on each side of the terrible bar, which reared itself
on the hard and stony ground; while two doctors, sent in case of
accident, stood beside the dismal litter which is one of the obligatory
accessories of every race-course.

After having felt any of the thousand emotions which are excited by a
race,--the vanity of ownership, the real affection a man has for a noble
horse, the pride of a looked-for triumph, the fear or the hope of losing
or winning large sums of money,--we can easily understand the breathless
suspense that pervades the crowd at such a scene.

But on this occasion every spectator seemed to have an immense and
fearful interest at stake, so convinced was the crowd of the fearful
danger these gentlemen were running. I remember that, with the tact that
exists, and always will exist, among well-bred people, not a single bet
was made between any members of the upper classes who were witnesses of
this race, for its issue might be so fatal that the only thing thought
of was the chances of escape these young men might have, for they were
well known to all.

Every one waited eagerly for their appearance. All the opera and field
glasses were brought to bear on the two-mile track, for nothing could be
clearly distinguished.

At last a universal outcry showed that the jockeys had been sighted.

At the farthest end of the course we could see them bending over their
saddles. When they got to the first hedge they leaped it together. Then
they ran neck to neck over the distance between the first and second
hedges.

Then we saw the two horses' heads as they neared the second hedge,--then
the two riders who passed over it royally--both at once!

It was a magnificent race; the applauding was tremendous, but the
nervous excitement was even greater,--we were breathless, we were
frightfully oppressed.

At the third hedge M. de Merteuil had the advantage of a length, but
after the leap M. de Senneterre caught up with him, and they were now
again head to head, and were nearing the last terrible barrier with
incredible speed.

I had gone into the counter alley some feet from the winning-post, so as
to see the faces of the two rivals.

Very soon we heard the dull resonance of the ground under the shock of
the galloping horses. Like a flash they passed before me still head to
head. They were sweeping over the ground at a marvellous pace, their
coats were scarcely damp, their nostrils were open and trembling, their
heads were stretched out, their tails down, and their ears set back on
their necks.

The gentleman-riders, pale, bent over their horses' necks, clutched the
pommels with their bare hands, and pressed their horses between their
muscular legs with almost convulsive energy.

As they passed before me they were neither of them ten feet from the
bar. At this moment I saw M. de Merteuil give a vigorous blow of the
whip to his horse, attacking at the same time with the spur, intending
in this way to lift him over the bar with greater certainty. The brave
horse leaped instantly forward before his rival could get to the bar,
for he was then about half a length behind; but whether his strength
gave out, or whether he had been imprudently urged at that moment,
instead of being allowed to gather himself together so that he might
take more time to the leap, Captain Morave charged so blindly at the
beam that he struck it with his fore feet.


[Illustration]


Then, hearing that great crowd utter a single and formidable cry, I saw
the horse and his rider turn a somersault, and roll on the track, at the
moment when M. de Senneterre, either on a better horse, or a better
rider, dashing up, made Beverley take an enormous leap, and cleared the
bar, which he soon left far behind him, as it was impossible for him to
stop the impetuous speed of his horse for some seconds.

Every one immediately surrounded the unfortunate M. de Merteuil. Not
daring to go near him, so much did I dread such a sight, I turned to
where I had seen Madame de Pënâfiel. Her carriage had disappeared.

Did she leave before or after this horrible accident?

Soon this dreadful murmur, "He is dead!" went through the throng.




CHAPTER XIII


THE OPÉRA


M. de Cernay having invited me to fill a vacant seat in a box at the
Opéra, which he and Lord Falmouth leased together, I was glad to
accept, and went there the very night of this unfortunate race, which,
by the way, happened on a Friday.

As I ascended the staircase, I was accosted by a certain M. de
Pommerive, who was an amusing sort of parasite in good society. He was
from fifty to sixty years old. He had more curiosity and malice than any
man I ever knew, and, besides, was the greatest gossip and liar that you
can imagine.

"Well," said he, as he joined me with an air of great consternation, "do
you know what has happened? That unfortunate M. de Merteuil is dead! Ah,
_mon Dieu, mon Dieu_, what a dreadful misfortune! I have just been
dining with Count ----; I can't remember a single thing I have eaten, I
was so overcome!"

"It was a frightful accident!"

"Frightful, frightful, frightful! But what is worse still, is the cause
of the challenge. You know what people say?"

"I know what they say," I replied, "but I do not know the facts of the
case."

"It amounts to the same thing," said M. de Pommerive; "but don't you
think it was the height of insolence in Madame de Pënâfiel to go to
that race? Because she has one of the most elegant houses in Paris,
because she is witty enough to say the most clever and cutting things,
this imperious marquise thinks she may be permitted to do anything she
pleases. It is revolting! My word of honour,--she ought to be made to
feel it! And since, after all, people will go to her house, because they
are well received and dine well there, it would be a shame, it would be
an indignity, it would be positively wicked, I say, to be quiet about
such a scandal. We would all seem to be the slaves of her caprices;
perfect slaves!" said he, with indignation.

"You are quite right," said I; "you show your independence, and your
noble contempt for benefits that you have received; nothing could be
more manly. But do they really say that De Merteuil and De Senneterre
had any quarrel about Madame de Pënâfiel, and that their challenge was
in consequence of it?"

"Certainly; people say so, every one repeats the same story, and every
one believes it though they themselves, that is to say Senneterre, for
he is the only one left, will never admit it. I met him awhile ago as I
went to inquire for that poor De Merteuil, who only lived two hours
after his fall. I met Senneterre at the door looking perfectly
wretched,--such a face!

"I began to sound him about Madame de Pënâfiel, but he had sufficient
control over himself to pretend not to understand a word I was saying.
But after the way Madame de Pënâfiel treated them both on the
race-course, Senneterre could not admit the real cause of the challenge
without being thought a fool."

"How could that be?" said I.

"What, haven't you heard the good story about the marquise and the
Turk?" exclaimed M. de Pommerive, suddenly elated with joy.

As I had scarcely taken my eyes off Ismaël during the whole period of
the race, I was curious to know how much of his story could be true; so
I told M. de Pommerive that I had heard nothing at all about such a
story.

Then that infernal mountebank began the following tale, accompanying it
with ridiculous gestures and malicious pantomime, so as to make it more
mischievous by making it amusing.

"Imagine, then, my dear monsieur," said De Pommerive, "that at the very
moment when these two unfortunate young men were about to risk their
lives, from an exaggerated sense of what was due to her reputation,
Madame de Pënâfiel was amusing herself by falling suddenly in love
with a Turk. Yes, monsieur, for an infernal scoundrel of a Turk, who is
as handsome as he can be, and whom De Cernay is infatuated with, nobody
knows why. But to get up such a sudden passion for a Turk; can you
conceive of such a thing? I can readily believe it, for every one knows
how capricious and how blasé she is, that marquise! Nothing that she
could do would astonish me. But women generally try to hide such
exhibitions of their feelings,--not she, not at all."

"That is a very strange story," said I.

"There is not the slightest doubt about its truth," replied he. "Cernay,
who was one of the judges, told me all about it, for it was of him that
Madame de Pënâfiel had asked, with almost indecent haste, who was that
Turk; for no sooner had she laid eyes on that remarkable specimen, then
she had no eyes, no thoughts, for any one else. (Here M. de Pommerive
spoke in a falsetto voice in supposed imitation of Madame de
Pënâfiel). 'Ah, _mon Dieu_, how handsome he is! Where did he come
from? Ah, what an adorable costume! Ah, how different from your hideous
clothes! (She never thinks anything is handsome.) _Mon Dieu_, what an
adorable face! What a noble figure! Oh, there is nothing of the common
herd about him! What daring! How splendidly he holds his horse,' etc. I
suppress the etcetera," added De Pommerive, as he returned to his
natural voice, "because it would take me until to-morrow to repeat all
of her impassioned exclamations. But, can you believe it? She ordered
her driver to go up as close as possible, so that she might see him
nearer, that lovely Turk, that adorable Turk!"

"You are quite right. It was a sudden and violent passion. It was almost
African," said I to M. de Pommerive, hardly able to keep from laughing
outright at this truthful recital.

"Ah, but wait," said he, "you have not yet heard the best of the story!
Thanks to Madame Pënâfiel's cursed curiosity, one of her carriage
horses ran against the crupper of the Grand Turk's horse, and the latter
began to rear, to plunge, to paw the air with his fore feet; then, the
marquise, almost fainting with alarm, terrified for the safety of her
dear, delightful Turk, commenced to utter shrieks and lamentations.

"'Take care!'" exclaimed Pommerive, in his former falsetto, imitating
Madame de Pënâfiel's cry of alarm. "'Take care! Hold his horse! Ah,
heavens, the poor man! I have killed him! It was my fault! Save him,
save him! Help, help! If he is killed I shall never forgive myself!
Ismaël! Ismaël!' Till at last," said M. de Pommerive, "the marquise
was so beside herself that she was half hanging out of the window of her
carriage, waving her arms, and stretching them out towards her dear
Turk, with such an accompaniment of sobs and stifled cries that people
took her for a woman who had suddenly become insane. She was as pale as
death, her features were all convulsed, and, with her eyes starting
almost out of her head and streaming with tears, you can imagine what
she looked like and what a sensation she created. All that might have
passed for overexcitement or weak nerves, and thus have simply appeared
ridiculous, if we who knew the whole story did not know it to be worse
than ridiculous, it was abominable; for since Madame de Pënâfiel had
braved public opinion so far as to come and look on at the race, of
which she knew herself to be the cause, she might have behaved decently,
and not made a spectacle of herself in such an indecorous way, and for
whom, pray? _Bon Dieu_, for a devil of a Turk, that five minutes before
she didn't know from Eve nor from Adam!"

Every word of De Pommerive's story was revoltingly stupid and false;
there were twenty people, at least, who could deny it with as much
certitude as I. But when it came to calumniating and belittling Madame
de Pënâfiel, from whatever motive I knew not, these absurdities would
probably find an echo among people of the best society, for calumny
needs no foundation, and can feed upon itself.

"Well, what have you got to say to it? Is it not abominable?" said De
Pommerive, snorting with indignation, and panting with fatigue from his
efforts in mimicry and the strain on his voice.

"I have got to say this, my dear M. de Pommerive," said I, "that your
information is entirely unreliable, and your story utterly false. I am
simply astounded, that a man of your sense and experience could have put
the least particle of faith in such a romance."

"How is that?"

"I was at the race; by accident I was standing very close to Madame de
Pënâfiel's carriage and I saw her all the time."

"Very well, and what then?"

"Madame de Pënâfiel did what any other woman would have done in her
place; she simply asked, in an indifferent sort of way, the name of the
man whose striking costume had necessarily attracted the attention of
every one, and when the Egyptian's horse reared, and he was in danger of
being thrown off backwards and killed, by having the horse fall on him,
Madame de Pënâfiel was naturally overcome with terror for a minute or
so. She covered her eyes with her hand, and threw herself back in her
carriage without saying a word; this is the exact and entire truth."

M. de Pommerive looked at me in a mysterious manner, which he tried to
render as sly as possible, and said to me, as he half closed his
deceitful eyes under his gold spectacles:

"Come, come, you are also under her spell, she has bewitched you too,
you are in love with her already. The devil take me if that woman ever
does anything else; she is a veritable siren."

All this was so silly, and I had spoken so seriously, that I became
flushed with impatience and anger; but containing myself on account of
M. de Pommerive's age, I said to him, very coldly:

"Monsieur, I do not understand you, neither do you understand me. What I
have told you about Madame la Marquise de Pënâfiel, whom I have not
the honour of being acquainted with, is the exact truth. In the tale you
have told me, she is made the victim of a malicious falsehood. You
should be very much obliged to me for correcting your information, and
enlightening you as to the truth of this ridiculous calumny."

Just then M. de Pommerive interrupted me, and made me many
incomprehensible signals, then he bowed very low several times to some
one that I did not see, for we were standing in the corridor, and I had
my back turned to the staircase.

At the same instant, a man's voice said, very politely, and with a
foreign accent:

"I beg pardon, gentlemen, but madame wishes to pass."

I turned quickly. It was Madame de Pënâfiel, accompanied by another
lady; they were on their way to their opera box, and I was standing in
the passage-way. I stepped to one side and bowed; M. de Pommerive
disappeared, and I kept on to my box.

I was very much irritated, for I thought that perhaps Madame de
Pënâfiel had heard what I was saying. Perhaps, after all, some of the
other stories people told about her were partly true, and I was ashamed
and angry with myself for having undertaken to defend a woman that I did
not know; then giving credit to others for being distrustful and
calculating like myself, I was enraged to think that Madame de
Pënâfiel might fancy I only spoke thus because I knew she was near me,
and wanted to make a favourable impression on her.

When I reached my box, I hid behind the curtain, and looked around the
tiers of boxes for Madame de Pënâfiel. I saw her very soon in a box on
the first tier, which was hung with blue damask. She was seated in a
gilt armchair, and wore over her shoulders a long ermine-lined cloak.
The other lady I had seen was near her, and an elderly gentleman sat in
the back of the loge.

Very soon Madame de Pënâfiel took off her cloak, and handed it to the
old gentleman. She wore a dress of straw-coloured crêpe, very simply
made, and she had a great bouquet of Parma violets in her corsage, and
another in her hair, which was caught in bandeaux just below the
temples, and then fell in soft curls on her neck and shoulders. Her
complexion, which was heightened by the slightest touch of rouge, was
perfectly dazzling by lamplight, and her two great, half closed eyes
shone under their long black lashes.

Hidden behind my curtain, I watched Madame de Pënâfiel through my
opera-glasses. The expression of her face was as it had been that
morning,--restless, nervous, and even somewhat anxious or weary. She
held her head bent over a bouquet of violets, which she pulled to pieces
in an absent-minded way.

Her companion was a striking contrast to her in every way. Imagine a
young girl of not more than eighteen, in the very first bloom of youth.
Her countenance was frank and sympathetic, and her features regular. She
wore a white dress, and her black hair was parted smoothly over her
forehead. Her eyebrows were dark and well defined, and her astonished
blue eyes gleamed with the infantile wonder of a young girl who, for the
first time, enjoys with pleased and eager curiosity the splendour of
scenery and the rapture of music.

From time to time, Madame de Pënâfiel would speak to her, scarcely
turning her head towards her; the young girl would reply with the
greatest deference, though she seemed constrained.

As for Madame de Pënâfiel, after having glanced carelessly around the
theatre two or three times, she seemed to become perfectly unconscious
of the beautiful music of "William Tell," which was being performed that
night. She appeared so disdainful, so tired of the sameness of pleasure,
her pale face, in spite of its youth and harmonious outline, expressed
such indifference and vexation, that I was seized with this conviction,
"There is a woman to be pitied."

They were near the end of the second act of "William Tell," and were
singing the magnificent trio of the Three Swiss. Never had this
wondrously powerful _morceau_ been sung with so much spirit and
ensemble, never had it created more enthusiasm; the young girl at Madame
de Pënâfiel's side bent forward eagerly towards the stage in rapt
attention. All at once she raised up her head in a proud and resolute
way, as though her gentle and timid soul had involuntarily felt the
enthusiasm and bravery which this sublime trio is meant to inspire.

Perhaps Madame de Pënâfiel was jealous of the deep emotion of her
companion, who had scarcely taken notice of the last few words which had
been addressed to her, for when the marquise spoke to her again, it was
to say something so unkind that I saw tears shining in the young girl's
dark eyes, and a shadow pass over her face; then, shortly afterwards,
she took up her silk mantle, and, wrapping it around her shoulders, she
went out with the old gentleman who had accompanied Madame de
Pënâfiel. He probably put the young girl in the carriage, for he very
soon returned alone.

I was pondering on the meaning of this scene, of which I had doubtless
been the only attentive spectator, when M. de Cernay came into our box,
and said, quickly, "Well, is it true then? Is Madame de Pënâfiel here
to-night? It seems she is perfectly wild about my assassin; it is quite
delightful! People are talking of nothing else; the news spread with
telegraphic rapidity. But where is she? I am sure she is looking as
though she knew nothing whatever about it."

"It certainly would be quite impossible to appear more indifferent," I
answered M. de Cernay. The count stepped forward, looked at her through
his glass, and said:

"That is true. There is no one in the world can brave a thing out as she
can! The very evening after poor Merteuil's death, after all the stories
that are going around,--for it is the talk of all Paris,--to dare to
come here to the opera, in her own box! It passes everything!"

I carefully noticed M. de Cernay's face, and believed I saw there an
expression of spite, not to say hatred, which I had already seen when he
spoke of Madame de Pënâfiel. I had a great mind to tell him that no
one knew better than he that every word of the story about Ismaël was
false and stupid, and that Madame de Pënâfiel could not behave in any
other way than in following the course she was now pursuing; for, if the
stories were true, she owed it to her self-respect to give them the lie
by affecting an entire indifference; while if they were false, her
indifference was perfectly natural.

But as I had no reason to take up her defence a second time, I contented
myself with asking some questions about her, after the count's strange
indignation had spent itself.

"Who is that very pretty brunette that was with Madame de Pënâfiel
until just now?" I asked.

"That is Mlle. Cornelia, her companion. The Lord knows what a life she
leads, that poor girl; her mistress treats her with the greatest
cruelty, and with unequalled tyranny. She pays dearly for the bread she
eats, so they say. She has been living with her three years, and is so
afraid of her that she doesn't dare to leave her."

This strange reason made me smile, but I kept on.

"And who is the old gentleman with the white hair?"

"He is the Chevalier don Luiz de Cabrera, a relation of her husband's.
During the lifetime of the marquis he lived at the residence of De
Pënâfiel, and he continues to live there as a sort of chaperon for his
cousin. He looks after the way the house and equipages are kept up,
though she is ridiculous enough to keep an equerry, absolutely like in
the days of the old régime, an old fellow that doesn't eat in the
servants' hall, but has his meals served in his own room. I tell you she
can't do like other people,--the foolish things she does are incredible.
But," said the count, interrupting himself, "who is that lady entering
her box? Ah, it is Madame la Duchesse de X----. She has gone to be
polite to her, so as to be able to take some one with her to the concert
to which all Paris would like to be invited, because Madame de
Pënâfiel has so bewitched Rossini that he is going to play for her an
unpublished morceau. Ah, who is going in her box now? Why, to be sure,
it is old, fat Pommerive. The old beggar! He goes to pay his compliments
in hopes of a dinner at the Hôtel de Pënâfiel, and after uttering his
thousand platitudes he will go away and tell stories that he ought to be
hung for."

"Is he one of her friends?" I asked M. de Cernay.

"He is one of her diners,--that is all; for he has the worst tongue that
exists in the world, perfidious as a snake, never spares any one.

"But is it not a pity," continued the count, "that Madame de Pënâfiel,
who has so many charming qualities, is beautiful, witty, too witty in
fact, and has an enormous fortune, should manage to make herself so
universally disliked? She does just what she pleases and cares for no
one's opinion; so she only gets what she deserves."

"It seems to me," said I, "that a visit from such an important personage
as Madame la Duchesse de X---- shows that if people detest her they take
care to keep it to themselves."

"That can not be helped,--society is so indulgent," the count answered
me.

"Yes, indulgent to its own pleasures," I said to him; "but there is one
thing that surprises me: it is not that every one slanders Madame de
Pënâfiel, who seems, though she may have her faults, to have
everything else in the world to create envy; but why, for the sake of
strengthening her position, she does not marry again!"

Whatever was the reason I know not, but when I had spoken in this way,
M. de Cernay's face flushed up, and he looked confused as he answered
me, "Why do you put such a question to me?"

"Simply because there are only two of us in this box, and so I have no
one else to question."

The count perceived the foolishness of his question, but he continued:

"You must not fancy that I am as intimate with Madame de Pënâfiel as
all that. But see, fat old Pommerive has left her box now, and there he
is in the box of those two beautiful women who are such devoted
friends,--Orestes and Pylades in petticoats. Ah, see, what can he be
telling them with his ridiculous gesticulations, and his side-glances at
Madame de Pënâfiel? How the ladies are laughing! Good Heavens! what a
silly buffoon that man is, and at his time of life, too, it is
disgusting."

By Pommerive's pantomime, I easily recognised the story about Ismaël,
which he probably meant to tell every one in the house.

"By the way," said M. de Cernay to me, with a smile, "although I am not
sufficiently intimate with Madame de Pënâfiel to know why she does not
marry again, I know her quite well enough to present you to her if you
wish for an introduction, and if she does; which is more than I can
answer for, because she is fanciful and has her whims; but as I am going
to pay her a visit, I can ask her, if you say so."

Thinking how ridiculous and in what bad taste this request would seem to
Madame de Pënâfiel, should she have overheard my defence of her, and
fearing lest M. de Cernay would really do as he threatened, I said to
him, quickly and very seriously:

"For a reason which I do not wish to give, I beg you, indeed I really
desire you, not to mention my name to Madame de Pënâfiel."

"Really!" said the count, as he looked at me attentively; "and why not?
What an idea!"

"I must beg you most seriously not to do anything of the kind," I
repeated slowly, as I wished to impress M. de Cernay with the fact that
I did not wish to be mentioned at all.

"Very well," he said, "it shall be as you wish; but you are wrong, for
you will miss an opportunity of seeing how fascinating she can be."

He went out, and I also went to pay my respects to several of my lady
acquaintances. The scandal of the hour was that Madame de Pënâfiel was
responsible for the death of M. de Merteuil, and that now she had fallen
a victim to a sudden passion for Ismaël. Nobody could talk about
anything else. To all the women who repeated this story to me, with
numerous variations on the theme, and various exclamations on such
hard-heartedness and levity, I replied (presuming that all these fair
ladies were assiduous guests at all of Madame de Pënâfiel's
entertainments)--I replied, I say, with a melancholy tone, that nothing
could be more deplorable, more odious, more unfortunate, but that,
thanks to the respect society owed to its own dignity, this shameless
marquise, who had fallen so furiously in love with a Turk, would be
surely made to suffer for her abominable behaviour; for surely no
self-respecting woman would ever again set her foot inside the door of
the Hôtel de Pënâfiel. Then I bowed and returned to my loge.

I found M. de Cernay there, and M. du Pluvier, who had finished his
involuntary race of that morning by a fall, which, fortunately, was not
a dangerous one.

"Ah," said the count, "this is worse than all."

"Is it another coat of black for Madame de Pënâfiel?"

"You do well to laugh; I was hardly in her box when who do you think she
asked me to introduce to her,--guess?"

"How should I know?"

"Guess. It is the strangest thing, it is unheard of, inconceivable,
prodigious!"

"It is unheard of, inconceivable!" repeated M. du Pluvier, imitating De
Cernay.

"It was not you, Du Pluvier," said the count, "you need not be uneasy;
guess again." Speaking to me then, he said, "Come, try and find out."

"I do not know."

"Ismaël."

"Ismaël!"

"The very same."

"Oh, what a good story!" cried out Du Pluvier, "what a good story to
tell!"

I will admit that what the count said surprised me so much that I in my
turn asked him if it was not a joke. He answered me quite seriously that
it was true, and he appeared somewhat annoyed at such a request.

"Ah, _mon Dieu_, she asked it without the slightest hesitation: she said
in the most careless and trifling way (to hide the importance of the
request no doubt), 'M. de Cernay, your Turk is very interesting, you
must bring him to see me.'"

"She said that to you, seriously?"

"Very seriously, I give you my word."

This affirmation was made in such a grave way that I believed it.

M. du Pluvier started off like an arrow to repeat this next proof of
Madame de Pënâfiel's inconsequence, and by the end of the opera this
final chapter was added to the rest of the entertaining recital.


I went to call at one of the embassies, and then returned home.

As soon as I was alone and left to reflection, I felt that I had been
terribly saddened by the events of the day.

I had seen something of the world and society; but this heaping up of
falsehoods, absurdities, deliberate assertions of what was known to be
untrue; this furious slandering of a woman, who seemed to authorise it
by certain frivolous actions which were unexplainable; these men who
could repeat every malicious and odious thing that they heard about her,
and then go the next instant and bow before her in servile homage,--all
this, though it was as old as humanity, was none the less vile and
disgusting to me. However, by a strange contradiction, I felt that I was
becoming interested in Madame de Pënâfiel, for the very reason that
she occupied so high a position that none of these hateful stories would
ever reach her ears. What is the most frightful thing in these society
slanders, which attack persons whose importance commands the respect, or
rather the base flattery, of every one, is that those in high places
live in an atmosphere of lies and hatred, the air they breathe is
saturated with falsehood, and yet they are unconscious of it all.

Thus it was impossible, seeing the gracious smiles of the women, the
obsequious bows of the men who greeted her as she left the Opéra, it
was impossible that Madame de Pënâfiel should ever dream of a
thousandth part of the miserable scandal of which she was the subject.
As I was saying, all this was miserable, and left me in a state of
overwhelming sadness. I had just passed a whole day of that life of
pleasure, as it is called, that luxurious existence which is only
permitted to the few to enjoy, and now I found myself at the end of it
with this frightful void at my heart. Then, following this train of
thought, I compared this false, hollow, sterile, and glittering life
with the vivifying, expansive, and generous existence that I had led at
Serval! Poor old paternal château! Peaceful and smiling horizon,
towards which my heart always turned when overburdened with grief or
wounded by heartlessness!

Oh, what desperate remorse I felt as I thought of Hélène, whom I had
lost by an infamous doubt; of that noble girl, so adorable in her halo
of candour, and so chastely surrounded by her atmosphere of angelic
purity that nothing had ever clouded, but which, for a moment only, on
one memorable morning, had been obscured by her love for me! Hélène!
Hélène! One of those divine natures which are born and die, like a
swan on some solitary lake, pure and spotless.

And then descending from the high sphere of thoughts that shone with
such pure lustre, I tried to find some means of dulling the sad memories
they awakened in my breast. I tried to hope that, at some far-off day,
my heart might find consolation, and I thought of the involuntary
interest I already began to feel in Madame de Pënâfiel. But I felt
that, for a woman who had been so blasted by calumny, so tarnished with
abuse, however undeserved, it would never be possible for me to feel the
ardent, deep, and holy love of which one is as proud as of a noble
action.

When the world throws discredit on a woman's reputation, that modest and
sacred veil which even a breath can destroy, that first flower of life,
so delicate and ethereal, it smirches by its vile accusations her good
name, and it destroys for ever her future chances of happiness; for she
is henceforth deprived of the sad consolation of inspiring a devoted,
sincere, and enduring love. It forces her into the degrading caprices of
short-lived attachments, in which are to be found neither respect nor
faith. For what man will ever see in a woman, who has been suspected of
such shameful actions, anything but a charming fantasy, the desire of
yesterday, the joy of to-day, and the forgetfulness of to-morrow? Who in
her presence would dare to give way to those bursts of passionate
confession, during which one longs to tell the one woman he believes
worthy of his confidence, the joys, the sadness, the mysteries, the
ravishments of the soul that she fills with love, and that only God can
understand? Who is there, that in the midst of such moments of rapture,
would not dread to hear the echo, the mocking and sinister echo, of all
these slanderous tales about the woman at whose feet he is about to
throw himself, to whom he longs to kneel?

What reverence can we have for the idol we have so often seen treated
with disrespect, outraged and insulted?




CHAPTER XIV


A FRIEND


One morning, five or six days after the evening I had seen Madame de
Pënâfiel at the Opéra, M. de Cernay entered my room. He was radiant.

"Well," said he, "she has gone away. She has left Paris. She went
yesterday, in the very height of the season. Does not that strike you as
peculiar? But it was the only thing left for her to do; the scandal was
too great. Society has laws that can not be disobeyed with impunity."

"How is that?" said I to him. "Why has Madame de Pënâfiel quitted
Paris?"

"It is probable," he replied, "that some of her relations, out of
respect for the good name of their family, have charitably told her
that, until the bad impression she has made by her ridiculous and sudden
passion for Ismaël, and by De Merteuil's death, was somewhat forgotten,
it would be proper for her to go and spend some time at one of her
country-seats; contrary to her usual custom, she has acceded to this
advice, and gone to conquer her love in some solitude."

"Did you ever present Ismaël to her, as she requested you?"

"Impossible," replied the count, "he is as savage as a bear, capricious
as a woman, and stubborn as a mule. I never could prevail on him to
accompany me to the Hôtel de Pënâfiel, so I fancy it is more out of
spite than from any respect of public opinion that Madame de Pënâfiel
has decided to leave town."

I admit that this sudden departure in the middle of the gay season
seemed as strange as the request to be presented to Ismaël. But while I
wished to continue on a subject which interested me, I was weary of all
this revolting gossip, so I said to the count:

"What sort of a man was the Marquis de Pënâfiel?"

"A very illustrious and powerful lord of Aragon, grandee of Spain, and
ambassador to Rome; it was there he met for the first time Mlle. de
Blémur, now Madame de Pënâfiel, who was travelling in Italy with her
uncle and aunt."

"Was the marquis young?"

"He was about thirty-five years old," said the count, "besides being
very handsome and agreeable, and a grand seigneur in every way; and yet
they say it was not a love match, but only a marriage of _convenance._
M. de Pënâfiel had a colossal fortune, but Mlle. de Blémur was
enormously rich. She was an orphan and her own mistress. Why, then, did
she decide to marry a man she did not love? Nobody knows. The marquis
had always been extremely desirous of living in France; so as soon as
they became engaged he hastened to Madrid to see the king and hand in
his resignation, then he left Spain for ever, and came to Paris, where
he married Mlle. de Blémur. After they had been married two years, he
died of some long sickness that ends in 'is,' whose diabolical name I
don't remember."

"And before her marriage, what did people say about Mlle. de Blémur?"

"Well, although she was as beautiful as the graces themselves, she had
already made herself unpopular by her coquetry and her affectations, but
above all by her pretensions to scholarship, which were worthy of one of
the _femmes savantes_ of Molière; for she had made her uncle, who did
whatever his niece desired, give her masters in astronomy, chemistry,
mathematics, and I know not what all besides! So, thanks to the fine
education she had received, Mlle. de Blémur thought she had the right
to behave with great contempt, and ridicule the men of her acquaintance
who had not studied all those wonderful things. Now you easily see how
many friends she made by her airs of superiority; but all this did not
prevent her being flattered and surrounded with admirers, for, after
all, one is willing to put up with a great deal from an heiress who has
four hundred thousand francs a year in her own right, and who is of such
a disposition that she will marry anybody she may take a fancy to; so
that when she married a foreigner she made enemies of all the young men
who had aspired to her hand."

"That I can readily believe, so many hours and so many sighs were all
thrown away. But, at least, this enmity was patriotic," said I, with a
smile. "Then this marriage was only one of convenience, you say,
although M. de Pënâfiel was very agreeable."

"It seemed to be so," replied M. de Cernay. "They were never very
demonstrative to each other; but when the marquis became ill, Madame de
Pënâfiel showed great devotion to him; that means nothing, however, as
you very well know."

"It means a great deal of devotion or a great deal of hypocrisy, for she
probably had as many lovers before her widowhood as afterwards."

"People believe she had, at least, and people are not often mistaken,"
said the count; "but she is clever, and so careful! She never writes any
but most trifling and insignificant little notes to any one. As for
Ismaël, her conduct towards him has been an incomprehensible folly,
which is quite unlike her usual behaviour, and can only be explained by
the violence of the sudden passion he inspired; there is a story, too,
of her having disguised herself, and gone to some little house, in a
distant, lonely part of town. In a word, it is very evident to sensible
people that, if Madame de Pënâfiel was in love with any honourable
man, she would not hide it; but as, on the contrary, she permits every
sort of contradictory rumour to be spread abroad concerning her, in
order to mislead investigation, there can be no doubt that she gives
herself up to the wildest fancies, and carries on the worst intrigues in
secrecy. Then, why is she such a coquette? Why does she always take such
pains to make herself agreeable? If you ever go to her house you will
see how it is. Now when a woman has such a passion for being
fascinating, she is never contented with disinterested admiration."

"But," said I to M. de Cernay, "what has become of the winning man in
that extraordinary race, which, by its publicity, must have greatly
upset the mysterious ways of Madame de Pënâfiel? M. de Senneterre,
what has become of him?"

"Oh," said the count, "Senneterre was sacrificed, shamefully sacrificed;
for, to say nothing about her crazy passion for Ismaël, she is capable,
merely in a spirit of contradiction, of weeping for the dead lover, and
hating the living one. A proof of this is that Senneterre has now the
tact and good sense to insist upon it that Madame de Pënâfiel had
nothing whatever to do with the race, which, he now tells every one who
will listen to him, came about by a wager he made with that unfortunate
De Merteuil, when they were both in high spirits.

"He says they had both been dining with Lord ----, and as they left,
each one had begun to boast of the rare accomplishments of his horse,
each one praising his own. They talked until they became excited, and
the fatal challenge was the result of their boasting. The next day, when
their enthusiasm had somewhat cooled down, they recognised the danger of
their proposition; but neither wished to appear to shrink from it, and
so from pure bravado they carried out their plan. That is all a very
plausible tale, but it is not true, at least I do not believe it, for I
know the real cause of their duel, and you must admit that De
Senneterre's story is probable. After all, though, after hearing what
rumours have connected Madame de Pënâfiel with their race, he is only
behaving like a gallant gentleman in denying it all as he does."

Many years have passed since all this happened, and I still wonder how
such puerile gossip should yet be so distinctly remembered.

It is because they formed a part of a very painful experience in my
life, and because they were the exact type of certain sorts of
conversations, and an example of the discussions, the praises, the
attacks, and the malicious falsehoods that interest and occupy the minds
of idle society people. If this statement of mine seems overdrawn or
exaggerated, you have only to remember the last piece of gossip you
heard yesterday, or your conversation of this morning, to find that I am
right.

But to return to M. de Cernay. As there was, after all, an appearance of
logic in the absurd propositions of which he was the cause, as well as
the echo,--in fact, quite enough logic to appease the conscience of
slander,--I did not attempt to defend Madame de Pënâfiel to the count.
What was more, I fancied that I saw the cause of his persistent attacks
on her; for all these rumours, that had been holding the best society in
Paris spellbound for the last five or six days, had evidently no other
author than he.

As for the other long conversation on the antecedents and character of
Madame de Pënâfiel, I only repeated it because it exactly coincided
with all that I had heard said, and it might be taken as the general
opinion of the world as to Madame de Pënâfiel.

"Let us hope," said I to the count, "that Paris will not be very long
deprived of the society of a woman who furnishes such a wonderful
subject for conversation. We certainly will give her the credit of
having entertained everybody for the last five or six days, for no one
else has been spoken of."

"I would lay a wager that you wanted to see her back again," said M. de
Cernay, as he gave me an inquisitive look.

"Without wanting to see her very badly, I am willing to admit that she
inspired me, if not with interest, at least with curiosity."

"From curiosity to interest there is but a single step, and from
interest to love there is but one more, and so I am sure that you will
become at last wildly in love with Madame de Pënâfiel. But take care!"

"In spite of all the dangers I might encounter, I should be delighted to
think that your prediction could be fulfilled; for there is nothing in
the world so happy as a man who is in love, even if he is hopelessly in
love."

"That is just the reason why I have thought it right to let you know the
real character of Madame de Pënâfiel, so that you might be on your
guard if you ever were presented to her. Really, I should have been
sorry to see you fall a victim to her fascinations," said the count to
me, with such an expression of kindliness that I could hardly believe it
to be feigned. "Between gentlemen," said he, "there are certain services
one should render one another; but really, it must have been the great
interest I take in you, or the desire I have to be useful to you, that
made me warn you so frankly; because really--" and the count hesitated
for a moment, and then began again in a serious way, in which there
seemed to be a real tone of affectionate solicitude:

"Come now, would you like to know just what I think?"

"Certainly I would," said I, quite surprised at this sudden transition.

"Well, then, you know that between men there can be nothing more stupid
than complimentary speeches; in spite of which I mean to tell you that
there is something about you which attracts one from the very first, but
after that charming first impression there seems to be something in your
manner, something that is either stiffness, coolness, or a haughty
reserve, that repels people. You are young, but you have neither the
enthusiasm nor the trustfulness of youth. There is a contrast in your
nature that I have not yet been able to explain. When you take part in a
conversation of young men who are jovial, careless, and free, your face
brightens up, you say things that are wilder and gayer than the gayest
and the wildest; and then, when you have said the last words, you put on
an air of coldness, of weariness, and seem as though you were bored to
death, so that no one knows what to think of gaiety which is so closely
followed by such gloomy sadness. So I will frankly tell you that it is
devilish hard to take you into one's confidence, no matter how much one
would like to."

You can be sure that I did not believe a word that the count said about
my wonderful powers of attraction, and as I could not understand why he
should want to flatter me, except for some purpose of his own, and as
these compliments seemed stupid and vulgar, I decided to show him how I
felt about it, and to show myself in such a light that he would spare me
any such confidences in the future.

"You are right," said I to the count. "I know that it is not easy to be
confidential with me, for I am by nature very hypocritical, and, knowing
myself, put very little faith in others. Consequently, it is quite
impossible that any one should ever feel attracted towards me or that I
should ever desire such sympathy."

The count looked as though he were seriously astonished; then he said,
in an injured tone:

"Your dissimulation is not very dangerous, since you acknowledge it."

"But I have never wanted to be dangerous," said I, smiling.

"Ah, so; and where do you suppose you are going to find any friends if
you talk like that?"

"Friends? And pray, what would I do with them?"

There probably was, in the expression of my features, in the tone of my
voice, such an appearance of truthfulness, that the count was really
surprised.

"Are you speaking seriously?" said he.

"Very seriously, I assure you; what is there to astonish you in such a
question?"

"And you are not afraid to confess such an opinion?"

"Why should I be afraid?"

"Why?" replied the count, with a bewildered look. "Come, it is a paradox
that amuses you. It is very amusing and original, no doubt, but I am
certain that in your heart you do not believe a word you are saying."

"Very well; let us talk about something else."

"No, but seriously," he replied, "can you really mean to say, 'Of what
use are friends?'"

"Certainly I do. For example, what good am I to you? What good are you
to me? Suppose we were never to meet after to-day, what would you lose?
What would I? When I say you and I, I generalise. I mean, so far, at
least, as I am concerned, those commonplace, trite affections for people
we really care nothing about, to which the world gives the name of
friendships."

"I grant you that one can easily get along without any such friendships
as those, or, rather, that they are so easy to find that nobody takes
the trouble to seek for them. What I mean is real, true, deep, devoted
friendship."

"Nisus and Euryalus, Castor and Pollux?"

"Yes. Would you say 'what to do with them' if you were ever fortunate
enough to meet with such friends?"

"I should surely say, 'What shall I do with them?' For, suppose I should
ever find a Nisus, I know I never could become an Euryalus, and I hope I
am too honest a man to accept what I never could return.

"But, suppose I should really find that true, deep, sincere friendship
that you spoke of just now. It would be perfectly useless and even a
dead weight while I was happy, for then I hate confidences; so it would
only be of any use to me when I was miserable. Now it is mathematically
impossible that I shall ever be miserable."

"How can that be?" said the count, more and more amazed.

"For a very simple reason. My health is perfect, my name and connections
place me on a level with any one, my fortune is in landed property, I
have always two years' income ahead of my expenditures, I never play
high, I never loan money,--how, then, am I ever to be miserable?"

"But then you imagine there are no other troubles than physical pain or
material embarrassment? And the sorrows of the heart?" said the count,
and he really looked grieved. But I answered by such a burst of laughter
that he seemed stunned; then he said:

"If you can look at things like that, it is evident that you will never
need anybody, and all I can say for you is, that I pity you very much.
But, come now," said he, almost impatiently, "admit that if I came
to-morrow to ask a favour of you, you would not refuse me, even if you
should grant it only out of respect of the world's opinion; that is all
the world cares for."

"But even admitting that I would render you a service, what would that
prove? Only that you had need of me, not I of you--"

"And thus you believe you will never be in need of any one?"

"Yes, that is my principal luxury, and I hold fast to it."

"So let it be; your fortune is in land, it is safe; your position is
equal to the very best, you do not believe in any heartaches, or, if
they should come, you will suffer alone; but, for instance, suppose you
ever have to fight a duel, you will have to ask some gentleman to be
your second; that is a great obligation! You see you may need others to
help you in this world."

"If ever I have a duel, I shall walk into the first barracks I come to,
I shall pick up the first two non-commissioned officers or soldiers that
I lay my hand on, and there I shall have two excellent seconds, and ones
that no man of honour could take exception to."

"What a devil of a man you are!" said the count to me. "But suppose you
are wounded, who will come to see you?"

"Nobody, thank the Lord! In physical suffering I am like a wild beast, I
want only solitude and the dark night."

"But in the world, to talk to, to live with, to live in the world you
must live with others."

"Oh, for all that, the others will not fail me any more than I shall
abandon them. The world of society is a concert, where the most
miserable musicians are placed on the same footing as the greatest
artists, and where each one plays his one note, but such chance
acquaintances cannot be called friends. Such attachments are like
strong, free-growing plants, which have neither sweet perfume nor
brilliant colouring, but which are ever green, and which we are not
afraid of crushing; the proof is that, after all we have been saying to
each other, we will remain on the same good terms as heretofore;
to-morrow we will shake hands before everybody, we will talk about
Madame de Pënâfiel's adorers, or of anything else you may please; and
in six months we will call each other 'dear fellow,' but in six months
and a day, should you or I disappear from this happy earth, either you
or I would be perfectly indifferent to the other's disappearance. And it
is perfectly natural that this should be the case. Why should it be
otherwise? What right have I to exact any other sentiment of you? And
why should you require it of me?"

"What you say is very uncommon; every one does not think as you do."

"I hope they do not for their own sakes. I fancy that I am like no one
because I am like all."

"And, no doubt, with such principles, you despise all alike, both men
and women."

"In the first place, I do not despise men," said I, "for a very simple
reason; I am no better nor worse than another, and I have often had a
mental struggle to decide one of those questions which prove a man's
honesty, or show that he is a scoundrel."

"Well?" said the count.

"Well, as I have always been very severe in my self-examinations, I have
often doubted my own motives more than those of other people; thus,
being no better than other men, I cannot despise them. As for women, as
I know no more about them than you do, it is impossible for me to give
any opinion on the subject."

"No more than I?" said De Cernay, who was evidently displeased. "I know
nothing about women?"

"Neither you, nor I, nor any one can say that he perfectly understands
women," said I, with a smile. "What man is there who even knows himself?
Where is one who knows how he would act under any conceivable
circumstances? How much less, then, could he pretend to understand not
women, but a single woman, even were she his mother, his mistress, or
his sister? Of course, I do not discuss this subject with every one, nor
am I expected to go through such a catechism, which would be about as
reasonable as a manual for learning to speak a language, in which every
conceivable question is given with its proper answer."

"In that you are quite right," said the count; "but stop, I am delighted
at a chance of making you contradict yourself. I am going to do you a
kindness: you would like to know Madame de Pënâfiel; some one, either
I or another, will have to present you to her."

"Nothing could be more amiable," said I, "and though I am a bankrupt in
friendship, I certainly would find some means of requiting such a
generous offer. Madame de Pënâfiel is charming; I believe all the
wonderful tales you have told about her. I know that it is considered a
compliment to be invited to her salon, which is very exclusive; but
really and truly, I beg you, as I would any one else, not to ask her to
receive me."

"What reason have you for doing so?"

"Because whatever pleasure I might receive from being acquainted with
her would be more than overbalanced by the humiliation I should feel in
case she refuses to meet me."

"What childish vanity!" said the count. "Not very long ago Lord Falmouth
wished to present to her the young Duke of ----, who is related to the
royal family of England. Would you believe it? Madame de Pënâfiel
flatly refused to see him."

"You are too well-bred, my dear count, not to understand that my
position places me on a certain social footing, and that I ought not to
risk such a refusal. You may think me foolish, but it is thus; don't let
us speak of it again."

"Yes, one word more," said the count; "will you wager two hundred louis
that, when she returns, you will be presented to, and received by Madame
de Pënâfiel inside of a month?"

"At my own request?"

"No; on the contrary."

"How could it be on the contrary?"

"Certainly it could. I bet you that Madame de Pënâfiel, meeting you
frequently in society, and seeing that you take no pains to be presented
to her, will manage, out of pure contradiction, to have it brought about
in spite of your opposition."

"That would be a triumph to be very proud of,--but I do not believe it
will ever happen. In fact, I have so little confidence in it that I will
accept your wager, which is this: A month after her return, I shall
_not_ have been presented to Madame de Pënâfiel."

"But," said De Cernay, "it must be understood that, if such a
proposition comes from her, you are not to refuse."

"It is so understood," said I, interrupting him. "I certainly would
never answer so honourable and flattering a proposal by a rudeness; so,
as I repeat to you, I will accept your wager."

"Your two hundred louis are as good as mine," said the count as he left
me. "But stop a moment," he added, as he held out his hand; "thanks for
your frankness."

"What frankness?"

"What you said about friendship,--your thoughts on the subject which you
expressed so bluntly. It shows that you are very honest."

"With discretion, or rather dissimulation, honesty is my other virtue,"
said I, shaking his hand cordially. And so we parted.




CHAPTER XV


PROJECTS


After M. de Cernay had gone, I felt grieved to think of his friendly
advances and how I had repulsed them. But what he said about my great
attractiveness seemed a ridiculous untruth, and made me distrust him.
Then the bitter hatred with which he pursued Madame de Pënâfiel gave
me but a poor idea of the kind of a friend he would make.

Perhaps I was mistaken, for women, in men's eyes, are outside of the
law, if that can be; and the unkind things they say about women to each
other, and which they say with a certain self-glorification, in no way
injure their reputation as men of honour. M. de Cernay might then have
possessed all the good qualities of a warm and steadfast friend; but it
was impossible for me to receive him as such, or to behave to him in any
other way.

I took great satisfaction, too, in having been able to conceal my real
nature from him, and to have given him an absolutely false idea, or a
singularly indefinite one, of myself.

It was always hateful to me to be understood or divined by people I
cared nothing about; and for an enemy to do so was dangerous. Indeed, I
liked to have even a friend kept out of my secret thoughts.

If there is in our moral organisation a culminating point, the source
and termination of all our thoughts, our longings, our desires, if we
are conscious that any one idea, whether good or evil, is steadily
throbbing with every beat of our heart, this palpitating spot is the one
that must be most sedulously hidden, most carefully defended from sudden
attack, for there is the weak, the sore place, the infallibly vulnerable
spot in our nature.

If envy, pride, or covetousness are your predominating characteristics,
you should attempt to appear modest, kind, and disinterested, as
compassionate and generous persons sometimes hide their kindliness under
a rough exterior; for through education we instinctively conceal our
vices and our virtues, as nature gives to certain animals the means of
protecting themselves when attacked in their weakest place.

I had therefore pretended to the count that I was a terrible egotist and
cynic, simply because I still felt an unconquerable yearning towards
virtue and generosity. But, alas! it was only a yearning. The terrible
lessons my father had taught me, besides filling my mind with distrust
of all good motives, had developed to the highest degree my vanity and
susceptibility. In fact, what I most dreaded, was to be taken for a
fool, should I follow the enthusiastic instincts of my nature.

But though day by day suspicion and vanity were drying up the germs of
these noble instincts, their souvenir still remained with me, and, like
fallen man, I remembered the lost Eden. I could understand, though I
felt it not, all the divine ravishment there must be in self-sacrifice
and confidence.

On my part there was a continual aspiration towards an ethereal, radiant
sphere, from the midst of which the most devoted friendships, the most
passionate loves, smiled on me.

But, alas! my implacable, shameful, distrusting spirit would whisper in
my ear that all these adorable apparitions were but deceitful
appearances, and his icy breath would dispel in an instant the
enchanting visions.

I knew that I did not deceive myself as to my own nature. What was mean,
selfish, and weak in it, was stronger than what still remained of noble
and generous sentiments.

My conduct towards Hélène had proved this to be the case. The man who
can calculate and meanly weigh the result of his impulses, who refuses a
generous feeling of attraction, for fear of being repulsed, is devoid of
strength of purpose, liberality, and kindness.

Distrust is the next thing to cowardice. From cowardice to cruelty there
is only one more step. I was to suffer miserably for my distrust of
others, and to cause others to suffer as well.

And yet I was not of a hateful or spiteful disposition. I was filled
with the most pleasurable sensations when I had secretly rendered any
one a service that I was not afraid of having to blush for. Then I loved
to contemplate the beauties of nature, which is a sentiment that
thoroughly wicked and perverse souls are not capable of. The sight of a
magnificent sunset gave me intense delight. I was happy when I found the
description of noble and generous actions in the books I read, and the
deep sympathy I felt proved that all the noble cords of my heart were
not yet broken. As much as I admired Walter Scott, that sublime
benefactor of unhappy minds, whose genius leaves one so refreshed and
purified, just so much did I detest Byron, whose sterile and desolating
scepticism only leaves a taste of gall and bitterness.

I had so just an appreciation of every kind of trouble or affliction
that I carried my delicacy and fear of wounding the feelings of the
unfortunate or lonely to a ridiculous length. I was seized with pity and
tenderness for no apparent reason. I felt sometimes an immense need of
loving some one, of devoting my life to some one. My first impulses were
always sincere and unselfish; but then came reflections and second
thoughts to blight everything. There was a perpetual struggle going on
in my mind and heart. One said: Believe, love, hope; and the other said;
Doubt, despise, fear.

I was in this way constantly impelled by two opposite forces. I seemed
to feel with my mother's heart and think with my father's mind; but the
intellect was always stronger than the affections.

I also possessed the terrible faculty of comparing myself with others,
by the aid of which I found a thousand reasons why I was not lovable,
consequently I considered every one in the light of a flatterer.

My mother had adored me, and I had forgotten my mother; or, rather, I
only thought of her when I was in desperate trouble. But when I was
completely happy, when my vanity was satisfied, and I was dazzled with
my own importance, all such pious recollections as I had momentarily
evoked vanished into the shade of the maternal tomb.

I owed everything to my father, and I only remembered him to curse the
fatal experience he had given me. Hélène had loved me with the truest
and purest affection, and I had returned her innocent love by insult and
suspicion.

Thus being always ungrateful, suspicious, and forgetful, what right had
I to expect from others love and devotion?

In vain I would say to myself: "My father, my mother, and Hélène loved
me just as I was; why, then, should not others do the same?" But my
father was my father, my mother was my mother, and Hélène was Hélène
(for I very properly placed Hélène's love for me among the innate,
natural family affections). And yet the aversion with which I had
inspired her had been so great that the love she had borne me in her
heart from her earliest childhood was destroyed in a day.

Ah, that was a fearful and useless punishment, and I had been both the
victim and the executioner; but all my useless grief had made me no
better, nor more useful to myself or my fellow men.


I will return to Madame de Pënâfiel. I had not told my plans to M. de
Cernay, because his intervention might be useful to me, and I knew that
the best of all accomplices is one who is unconscious and perfectly
honest. I felt the greatest desire to become acquainted with this
strange woman, in spite of all the ill things that were said of her, or,
perhaps, because, in at least one instance, I had known that they were
slanderous exaggerations; but my defiant and proud nature saw an
insurmountable obstacle in this very desire.

When I had undertaken to defend Madame de Pënâfiel against the attacks
of De Pommerive, that night at the Opéra, when he was telling his story
about Ismaël, she might have heard me. Now if this were the case, I
thought that to ask to be presented to her would be the height of bad
taste, as my discussion with De Pommerive might appear simply a prelude
to such a request.

My scruples may have been exaggerated, but they were real, and I had
firmly resolved to make no attempt to be admitted to the circle of
Madame de Pënâfiel's acquaintances. I hoped, however, that if she knew
that I had defended her she would appreciate my reserve, and, with the
tact of a well-bred woman, would find some very simple way of having me
presented to her, for she would frequently meet me in society. In this
way my self-respect would not suffer.

What made it all the easier for me to reason in this way, and wait for
developments, was the fact that, on the whole, my desire to meet Madame
de Pënâfiel was not strong enough to preoccupy my mind so as to
exclude all other interests. If I should receive a refusal, it would not
greatly disappoint me.

Neither did I fear in any sense (except in the improbable possibility of
my falling very much in love with Madame de Pënâfiel) that danger with
which M. de Cernay had threatened me. I did not believe there could be
any danger for me, because I was certainly able to hide any wounds my
vanity might receive, and was surely able (so wise and suspicious did I
think myself) to see through any of her attempts at deception, in case
she meant to play me false. Only I felt that, in case I meant to range
myself among the number of her adorers, so many and so invisible though
they appeared to be, it would be well that, on her return from her
voyage to Brittany, I should be, or at least seem to be, interested in
some one, so as to appear to sacrifice another to Madame de Pënâfiel,
for a woman is always the most pleased when, in addition to doing her
homage, a man sacrifices a former affection for her sake. Then there is
not only triumph, but triumph over another woman.

I therefore resolved, that before Madame de Pënâfiel returned, I would
become assiduous in my attentions to some well-known woman of fashion,
to one who had some officially recognised admirer.

I insisted on both of these conditions, for, in this way, my supposed
interest would be talked about all the more and the sooner.

This was a very simple calculation, inasmuch as, when my pretended
admiration should be noticed, rumour would, with its usual charity and
veracity, instantly proclaim the downfall of the former admirer, and my
promotion to his place.

I decided, then, to persuade some fashionable lady to receive my
attentions.


What really saddened me was that, as I coldly calculated such a series
of lies and deceptions, I perfectly understood their meanness. I had not
the excuse of passion, not even any very great desire of pleasing Madame
de Pënâfiel. It was simply as a means of distraction, and the
necessity of occupying my restless and discontented spirit, that I
forced myself to seek, in the miserable chances and changes of mundane
life, some unforeseen event that might save me from the mournful and
deadening apathy that was crushing my life out.

Strange enough, when I was once in for it, I recovered my spirits, my
youthfulness, my gaiety, and many joyful hours of contented vanity. It
seemed as if there were two of me, so astonished was I to hear myself
talk in this extravagant way, and then, as soon as I was left alone with
my reflections, my mind became agitated by my old painful, baseless
worries, and by a thousand uncertainties as to myself, every one, and
everything.




CHAPTER XVI


THE GREEN ALBUM


Whoever has been in society must know that, without any
self-glorification, it is not at all difficult for any man who is fairly
well-bred and properly presented to attract the attention of a
fashionable woman, if he firmly wishes to do so.

What a singular existence is that of a woman of fashion, a life made up
of a series of efforts to charm the most selfish and ungrateful half of
the human race. When once a woman is recognised as a leader of fashion,
when it is admitted that she dresses well, and always in the latest and
most becoming style, that she is charming or witty, the poor woman no
longer belongs to herself. She is simply one of the stars of that
brilliant crown that Paris wears on its forehead every evening.

She is obliged to show herself at every fête; joyous or sad, she must
be there, always there; her dress must be the most elegant, her hair
must be dressed in the latest way, her face must wear its sweetest
smile; she must be always gracious and accessible, polite to every one;
the stupidest fool in the room has a right to expect to be received as
though she were enchanted to meet him.

There is a regular warfare between women of fashion,--a quiet but bitter
warfare, in which flowers, ribbons, precious stones, and smiles are the
weapons. It is a mute but terrible struggle, full of cruel suffering,
unshed tears, unknown despair; a struggle that leaves deep and painful
wounds, for wounded pride leaves incurable scars. But what does it
matter? If one wishes to reign as sovereign over this society of the
chosen few, she must be more charming than this one, more coquettish
than this other one, more polite and suave than all the rest, but, above
all, she must show no preference for any one, for, as she wishes to
please all, she must permit every one to believe that he will be the
favoured one.

But you should hear him, this favoured one, the last favourite, the
favourite of to-day, of to-night, of the last waltz, the last cotillon,
the winner in that charming contest, in which flowers have battled with
flowers, and graces with graces. You should see him in his ugly black
coat, as he sits at supper, telling the other favourites (who tell him
other tales in return) all the delightful things he has had said to him;
how he only has to throw his handkerchief among so many eager beauties,
who rival each other in their attentions to him; his disdain for them
all.

In listening to these mysterious and veracious confidences, one is
sometimes tempted to ask, Where am I? and who are these men talking
about? and to admire more than ever the self-abnegation of women, who
give themselves body and soul to fashion, that cruel and brutal goddess,
whose priests are these men, and who renders only indifference or scorn
for all these years of youth spent in her service. But as I also wished
to appear to profit by the abnegation of one of these charming victims,
among all the beauties that were blooming at that time, I attached
myself to a very pretty young woman. She was blonde, fresh, and rosy,
too rosy almost, but she had beautiful large black eyes, that were both
tender and bright; her lips were scarlet, and she had beautiful white
teeth, real little pearls set in coral, and she showed them on all
occasions, and was quite right.

The only thing that I did not like was her adorer, a splendid young
fellow, as handsome as possible, who, unfortunately for himself (and for
her, poor woman, for it showed her bad taste), was called "Beau
Sainville." That epithet, "beau," is fearfully ridiculous, and if one is
ever unlucky enough to take it seriously, by attempting to live up to
it, one is ruined for ever.

Certainly, if I had had more leisure to choose, I should have selected a
more worthy rival than Beau Sainville, but the lady was pretty and
facile, and I had not much time to spare, so I was obliged to appear as
his adversary in this contest for her heart. As I had supposed, he was a
perfect fool, and when I was presented to the lady he honoured with his
attentions, he began almost immediately to manifest every sort of
ridiculous jealousy.

Wishing to show what he probably considered his rights, he began to
treat the poor young woman in the rudest and most compromising manner,
which distressed me very much, for I could not offer her any
compensation for her loss, neither did she desire any. But at last she
became justly provoked at the brutal behaviour of her strange adorer,
and, to avenge herself, flirted with me in an innocent sort of way. Very
soon M. de Sainville did more for me than I had even hoped, for after
two or three scenes, in which he gave vent to his wounded feelings, he
passed from wounded dignity to cold irony and rude indifference;
finally, he went and made love, with all his might, to another poor
young thing, who didn't know what to make of it.

So that although it was almost entirely untrue, the world very soon gave
me the credit and glory of being preferred to Beau Sainville. It served
me right for my duplicity, but I had to stand it. As for the proofs the
world had of my good fortune, they were of the most positive evidence,
such as the world always can show on like occasions. First, I had once
called for the carriage of the lady because there was no one else at
hand; then she had offered me a place in her loge at one of the small
theatres; I had hastened to offer her my arm, and we had made the tour
of a crowded reception-room together in sight of all Paris; finally,
last and flagrant proof, she had remained at home one evening, instead
of going to a concert, and my carriage had been seen that same evening
standing at her door. In the face of such convincing evidence, it was a
duly established fact that I was the luckiest of mortals.

In the midst of this felicity, I learned, through M. de Cernay, of
Madame de Pënâfiel's return. In order to win his wager, the count
served my purposes uncommonly well, whether Madame de Pënâfiel had
overheard my defence of her or not.

As soon as she came back to Paris, therefore, M. de Cernay never saw her
without commenting on my strange behaviour, in neglecting to ask for a
presentation, especially as I moved in precisely the same circle, and
could hardly help meeting her every evening, to say nothing of my
knowing that the count was one of her intimate friends, and would gladly
procure me this favour, which so many desired. But, said M. de Cernay,
it was rumoured that I was seriously attached to a charming young woman,
who, no doubt, had made me promise never to go near the Hôtel
Pënâfiel, which was supposed to be a sort of palace of Alcina, from
which no one came out except in a state of enchantment, and hopelessly
in love.

At last, by dint of heaping up so many silly stories, and constantly
harping on this one subject, or from some unknown reason, Madame de
Pënâfiel became either tired of hearing him, or provoked at my
apparent indifference. As she was habitually sought after and flattered,
she began to think my neglect was a want of respect to herself and to
social customs.

Finally, as M. de Cernay was one day discoursing as usual on my strange
behaviour, she said to him, haughtily, and with some show of injured
dignity, "That although she knew it was difficult to be admitted to her
circle, it would have been a proof of respect worthy of a well-bred man,
whom she met so frequently, to have at least manifested a desire to
visit the Hôtel Pënâfiel."

I remained deaf to these insinuations of the count; and so Madame de
Pënâfiel, like any woman who is seeing every one obedient to her
slightest whim, became so irritated by my reserve, that one day, when I
was conversing to a circle of her lady friends, she came and entered
into the conversation, and did all in her power to cause it to become
general. I said not a word to her, and as soon as I could do so with
politeness I bowed, and retired from the circle. A few days afterwards
she spoke of this to the count, and complained of my ill manners. He
replied that, on the contrary, I was very formal, and had, probably, not
thought it either polite or well-bred to address a lady to whom I had
never had the honour of a presentation.

Madame de Pënâfiel turned her back on him, and for the next fortnight
I heard nothing more of her.

Although my curiosity was extreme, I would not, for the reasons I have
given, make any advances. I kept strictly to my rôle, and led the count
to believe that I was happy in the possession of the fair blonde's
affections, and that through weakness, or to show the extent of my
devotion, I had promised to take no step towards a presentation to a
woman who was known to be so dangerous and seductive as Madame de
Pënâfiel. I feared, too, that I would meet with a refusal, as I had
shown so little eagerness at first, and that now it was too late to
alter my behaviour.

About fifteen days after this last conversation with the count, Don Luiz
de Cabrera, the relative of Madame de Pënâfiel, whom I had frequently
met at the count's and in general society, and with whom I had become
quite intimate of late, wrote to tell me that a beautiful collection of
intaglios he had bought in Naples, and which he had spoken to me about,
had arrived, and if I would take breakfast with him some morning we
could examine these antiquities at our leisure.

The Chevalier Don Luiz lived in the entresol of the Hôtel de
Pënâfiel, where he was almost constantly occupied in scientific
research. He only went out occasionally to accompany his cousin, and
then only when she desired him to do so.

As the chevalier resided in the house of his cousin, I thought I saw in
this invitation, which was, in reality, very natural and simple, a
hidden meaning of which Madame de Pënâfiel was cognisant.

The Chevalier de Cabrera gave me the impression of a sly, clever,
secretive, and sensual old man, who, being only possessed of a moderate
fortune of his own, found it suitable and convenient to purchase all the
luxuries of a magnificent existence by performing the light duties of a
chaperon to his cousin, for such seemed to be his vocation at the Hôtel
de Pënâfiel. It is needless to say that this immense establishment
contained everything one could imagine that was sumptuous and elegant.

The chevalier was a great connoisseur, and his apartment was filled with
every sort of curiosity. He showed me his intaglios, which were
remarkably beautiful, and we talked of pictures and antiquities.

It was nearly one o'clock, when there was a knock at the door, and the
_valet de chambre_ of Madame de Pënâfiel came from his mistress to ask
the chevalier for the green album. Don Luiz opened his eyes very wide,
and said that he had not the album, that he had given it back to madame
la marquise a month ago. The servant went away, and we continued our
conversation.

Very soon there was another knock; the _valet de chambre_ came back to
say that madame la marquise wished to have the green album, the one that
was ornamented with enamel, and which she was sure the chevalier had
never returned to her.

Don Luiz knew nothing about it, he wished himself with the devil. He
took a pen, and, asking my pardon, wrote a few words to his cousin, then
he gave the note to the lackey. Again we resumed our interrupted talk.
But again we were disturbed for a third time. Now it was Don Luiz's
_valet_ who opened the door, and announced "Madame la marquise!" Madame
de Pënâfiel was dressed in a street costume, as if she were just going
out. We rose, and I bowed respectfully.

"Really, my dear cousin," said she to the old chevalier, acknowledging
my bow with a polite but very cold smile, "really I must want my album
very badly to be willing to enter your alchemist's den; but I am sure
you must have those drawings, and I am going out and would like to take
them to Madame de ----, as I promised her I would, for I always try to
keep my engagements."

There were new protestations on Don Luiz's part. He was sure he had
returned the book. New researches took place, which led to nothing
except my presentation to Madame de Pënâfiel by the chevalier.

It was impossible for me to say anything else but that I had long
desired this honour, to which commonplace remark she answered, in a
lofty way, that she received on Saturdays, but that she was always at
home Wednesdays _en prima-sera_, and hoped I would not forget to come.

To this I replied by another bow, and the usual phrase, that it was too
great a favour to be forgotten.

Then the chevalier offered her his arm to her carriage, which was
waiting under the porte-cochère, and she drove off.

I never knew whether the chevalier was her accomplice in that forced
presentation.

As I have said, Saturday was the day of general reception at the Hôtel
de Pënâfiel, but Wednesday was the marquise's day of _prima-sera._ On
these evenings she only received until ten or eleven o'clock the few
friends who came to call before going to more formal entertainments
elsewhere.

The next day but one would be one of these Wednesdays; I awaited it
impatiently.

I forgot to say that I sent M. de Cernay the same day the two hundred
louis that he had won.




CHAPTER XVII


PRIMA-SERA


Before starting for the Hôtel de Pënâfiel, I compared my present
state of anxiety and distrust with the careless abandonment of my former
life, and the days I spent with Hélène, when, no matter at what time I
entered the old salon at Serval, I was sure of being received with
pleasant smiles from every one.

Without dreading this interview with Madame de Pënâfiel, I knew that,
although by common consent she was abused and calumniated, her salon was
held in high consideration. It had great importance in the fact that its
judgment was not to be impeached; right or wrong, its stamp was the
valuation that would henceforth be accepted by the world.

The number of such salons, whose influence is so great that it
irrevocably decides the rank of each individual in good society, is
already restricted, and grows less every year. The reason is this, there
are no longer any men who are willing to submit to its restrictions. The
life of the club and the representative chamber, that other great
political club, has swept away the life of the salon. Between to-day's
speech and that of yesterday, between a game of whist or a revenge of
two or three thousand louis, the anxious and absorbing interest in a
race in which a favourite horse is entered for an enormous sum, there
remains very little time for that intimate, flowery, and elegant
conversation, which has no "echo in the country," as the monomaniacs of
the tribune say, and helps you neither to win nor lose at whist or on
the turf. And then the life of the salon is a constraint. You must
appear in evening dress to go and smother in a heated reception, and
then be frozen while waiting for your carriage; whereas it is so much
easier and pleasanter to stretch out in a soft armchair at the club,
where you take a comfortable nap after dinner, from which you awake
refreshed, and ready for an exciting game of whist, with no interruption
but that of your cigar.

However, at the period of which I write, there were still a few houses
where people conversed, and the Hôtel de Pënâfiel was one of these
eccentricities.

Madame de Pënâfiel, among all her defects, was not what was called a
bluestocking, but she was something worse, for she was a woman of real
erudition, and a linguist, speaking three or four languages well, and
having high scientific attainments, they said. If I had no better ground
for believing all this than the word of a savant such as De Cernay, I
should have had my doubts as to its truth, but I recalled a strange
circumstance which was a proof of Madame de Pënâfiel's learning.
Having been fortunate enough when in London to meet the celebrated
Arthur Young, he had spoken to me with great admiration of a young
compatriot of mine who was remarkably well read, although very pretty
and in the best society. He said she had complimented him in the most
intelligent and scientific manner on his famous theory of Interferences,
but had attacked him on the subject of the syllabic or dissyllabic value
he applied to hieroglyphics, in which his system was entirely at
variance with that of Champollion.

This had struck me as very singular, especially when told me by such a
great savant, and I had even made a note of it in my diary.

It was only on my return to Paris, and some time after having seen and
heard of Madame de Pënâfiel, that I confusedly recalled the
conversation of Arthur Young. I then got out my note-book, and found
these details, as well as the name of the marquise.

All that I had heard of Madame de Pënâfiel was far from creating a
pleasant impression. Her strange caprices, her artistic and perpetual
desire to attract attention, her poses, which they said were constantly
studied to the end of making a beautiful portrait of herself, her
fantastic disposition, her scientific studies, were all unbecoming in a
woman of her standing, and were all thoroughly distasteful to me.

Women who are constantly talked about and discussed from various points
of view are rarely influential; all they really care for is to exhibit
their various qualities. A woman who is serious, dignified, and calm, of
whom nobody says or knows anything, can have much more influence and be
more imposing.

And then a man who is naturally cold and reserved, even though he may
not be a social success, will always be well received and perfectly on a
level with the best company that he meets, for it is only the extremely
agreeable or the very ridiculous who attract much attention.

I repeat, then, that it was without any embarrassment, but with a great
deal of rather ill-natured curiosity, that I presented myself at the
Hôtel de Pënâfiel one Wednesday, after the opera.

The house was kept up in a really princely way. In the vestibule, which
was lofty and decorated with statues and immense marble vases filled
with flowers, were several footmen, who wore powder and liveries of blue
and orange, braided with silver.

In a vast antechamber, where there were some fine paintings and
magnificent Faïence vases also filled with flowers, was another
footman, whose livery was orange colour with a blue collar, and braided
on all the seams with silk passementerie, and embroidered with the crest
of De Pënâfiel. Finally, in a third waiting-room, were two _valets de
chambre_ who, instead of being clothed in funereal black, wore suits of
light blue plush, lined with orange-coloured silk and ornamented with
crested gilt buttons.

When I was announced, there were with Madame de Pënâfiel five or six
ladies and two or three men.

She was dressed in black on account of some court mourning or other, and
had jet ornaments in her soft brown hair. I thought her dazzlingly
beautiful and, though I may be mistaken, that she blushed beneath her
rouge when she received me in her most formal and ceremonious manner.
Perhaps it was the blush that made me think her so beautiful. After I
had spoken a few polite words, the conversation which my arrival had
interrupted was continued.

They were discussing the latest scandal, in which a woman's honour and
two men's lives were at stake; the story was told in the most guarded
language, but with so feeble an attempt at disguise, and such
transparent withholding of details, that to have mentioned proper names
outright would have been less significant.

As it almost always happens by one of those coincidences that luck
brings about, just as every one was having his little word or sharp
little witticism on the subject, the husband and wife who were being
discussed were announced. This conjugal entrance astonished no one. It
was explained by an unexpected return to Paris, which necessitated a
first visit.

Though every one who was in the salon was quite used to such impromptus,
there was for a second an embarrassing silence, but Madame de
Pënâfiel, with the most natural and perfect ease, addressed me as
though we were continuing an interrupted conversation:

"You think then, monsieur, that this new maëstro's opera shows great
promise?"

"It shows that he possesses a talent of unquestionable charm and
melancholy, madame," I replied, quite naturally. "Perhaps the music is
wanting in vigour, but it is full of sweetness and inexpressible grace."

"And pray who is the new musical luminary?" said, in an impertinent way,
the young woman who had just entered the room, and who had been the
subject of the previous discussion.

"M. Bellini, madame," said I, with a bow, wishing to save Madame de
Pënâfiel the trouble of answering.

"And the title of the new opera, madame la marquise?" asked the husband,
with an air of great interest, and unwilling to drop such a subject for
conversation.

"I forgot to tell you, madame, that the name of the new opera is 'La
Norma,'" I hastened to say, addressing Madame de Pënâfiel. "The
subject is the love of a priestess of the Gauls." Madame de Pënâfiel
immediately took up this theme, and enlarged on it in a very
entertaining way, showing what a good subject it was for a drama.

She then seized the opportunity of showing her erudition on the religion
of the Druids; she talked about the Celtic stones, and I felt sure that,
by an easy transition, she would soon arrive quite naturally at the
syllabic value of hieroglyphics, and the discussion of which Arthur
Young had spoken. It so happened that I chanced to be very much
interested in this study, for my father, who was an intimate friend of
M. de Guignes, had in his last years been a student of those
alphabetical problems. I could have continued the conversation by
drawing Madame de Pënâfiel into a discussion, in which she probably
would have shone at my expense; but her pretension to being learned
shocked me, and I warded off a hieroglyphic attack, which I thought
imminent, by declaring my perfect ignorance of the subject, whose
aridity I said frightened me.

My avowal of ignorance seemed to lift a weight off the minds of the
other men present, because they would have been mortified at being left
out of such a conversation, which would show an unusual fondness for
studies that were quite beyond an ordinary education. I do not know
whether Madame de Pënâfiel was provoked at my speech, which had lost
her the opportunity of showing her learning, or if she believed my
ignorance was affected. She did not pretend to hide a slight movement of
annoyance, but, with great tact and infinite skill, she resumed her
conversation about the Druids, passing from the Celtic inscriptions to
the picturesque costume of the priestesses of the Gauls, their long,
clinging robes, and the charming effect of the holly leaves in either
blonde or brown hair. She brought down the conversation naturally from
the scientific heights on which she at first had started to the vulgar
plains of every day costume, and then it became general. I admit that
these transitions were skilfully managed by Madame de Pënâfiel, and
that any one but a person who was well-read, clever, quick, and used to
society, would have failed entirely.

I was far from being astonished, for I had not expected to find candour
and inexperience, so as I was tired of so much senseless babble, and saw
that this was not the opportunity I desired of studying and observing at
my ease this person, who was said to be so singular, I rose to go out
unperceived, as a new arrival was being announced; but Madame de
Pënâfiel, near whom I was seated, said to me as she saw that they were
bringing the urn and the waiters into the other little salon:

"Monsieur, will you not have a cup of tea?"

I bowed and remained.

That night there was a grand ball at the house of one of those
easy-going foreigners, who, on the express condition that they may be
permitted to remain in their own salons, and look on at the fête which
is given at their expense, are willing to lend their houses, their
servants, and their supper to the fashionable circle, who take it all as
a matter of course.

Almost all of Madame de Pënâfiel's visitors were going there. I was
hesitating about going also, when, as good luck would have it, Lord
Falmouth was announced.

I had not seen him since his sudden departure for the House of Lords,
where he went to speak on the India question which interested him. There
was such a difference between his original mind and most of the people
I met habitually, that I decided to remain longer than I had at first
intended at the Hôtel de Pënâfiel.

After tea, Lord Falmouth and I were left alone with madame la marquise.
I have forgotten to mention that, in a far-off corner of the salon,
behind the marquise's armchair, unobserved and forgotten, there was a
distinguished young stranger, Baron Stroll, who seemed very timid, and
who, to hide his embarrassment, had been for the last half-hour turning
over the pages of the same album. The young baron was quite red, and his
eyes were staring fixedly, while he held his hat tightly between his
knees. Lord Falmouth called my attention to him, and said, in a low
voice, with his mocking air, the well-known words of the Vizier Maréco
to the Sultan Chaabaam, who was looking at the goldfish: "Let him alone,
he has got occupation enough for another hour yet."

Madame de Pënâfiel had not noticed this stranger, for, as I say, he
was seated behind the very high back of her armchair, beside a table
that was covered with albums; for she did the honours of her salon too
well to have neglected a guest. She began the conversation by graciously
reproaching Lord Falmouth for not coming to see her oftener. To which he
replied that he was unfortunately so stupid, and so terribly
communicative, that out of a hundred persons that he wanted to converse
with, only one or two were strong-minded enough to resist the contagion
of his stupidity, and not to become as dull as himself after a quarter
of an hour's conversation. It was a dreadful effect he had on most
persons, and he deplored it with the most comical humility, and
reproached himself for having made an infinite number of victims, whose
names he cited as living witnesses of his fatal influence.

"Ah, madame la marquise," he said, shaking his head in a disconsolate
way, "I have done a great deal of mischief by my stupidity, as you can
plainly see."

"There is no doubt of it, but you are very much to be blamed for having
only half killed your victims, for they come to life again, and annoy
people in every sort of way," said Madame de Pënâfiel, "and
unfortunately the species is as varied as it is abundant and tiresome.
Really there is nothing I know of that is more positively distressing
than the presence of a bore; there is something in his dreadful
influence that is painful to you, that saddens you in a twofold manner,
as you might feel remorse for a wicked deed you had not committed."

"For my part," said Lord Falmouth, "I ask your forgiveness for the
stupidity of such a trivial comparison; but we are not able to control
our impressions. Well, when it happens that I have to submit to a bore,
I feel exactly the same sensation as when I hear any one sawing a cork;
yes, it is a sort of dull, grinding, squeaking, monotonous sound, which
makes me quite understand the ferocity of Tiberius and Nero. Those
tyrants must have been uncommonly bored by their courtiers."

"As far as I am concerned," said I, "one of my weak points is that I am
very fond of stupid people. When you talk with a clever person, you are
always filled with regret when you come to the end of the conversation.
Whereas, if you are trying to talk to a fool, oh, there comes a moment,
a precious, single moment which compensates you for more than you have
suffered! It is the moment when a kind Providence takes him off your
hands."

"The fact is," said Lord Falmouth, "that we should look upon such a
trial in the light of discipline or mortification, and then it would be
of benefit to us. But never mind, if, by saying a word, a single word,
they could all be annihilated, would you be sufficiently philanthropic
to speak that word, madame la marquise?"

"Annihilate them?" said Madame de Pënâfiel. "Annihilate them bodily?"

"Certainly, for they are already annihilated spiritually. I mean to
annihilate them altogether, flesh, and bones, and cravat," said Lord
Falmouth.

"In fact, that is all there is to them. But it would be a very violent
remedy. Still, if by pronouncing a single word-- It is very tempting,"
replied the marquise.

"A single word," I said to her,--"by pronouncing, let us say, your name,
as they utter some sacred word to chase away an evil spirit."

"But it would be a dreadful massacre," she said.

"Very well, madame, but have we not just decided that stupidity is
deadly?" said Lord Falmouth. "Then you need have no scruples, and
afterwards you will be able to breathe more freely. You will find how
much purer the atmosphere will be, cleansed of all its malarial germs,
that bring on attacks of dismal gaping. You will be able to go freely
and fearlessly everywhere."

"Come, I think I will be tempted to say 'Let there be no more bores,'"
replied the marquise; "for, truly, it is a perpetual source of anxiety.
One has to be always on guard as to what one is saying, and it is an
intolerable annoyance. But, with all this folly, you have reminded me of
a very strange story that I lately read in an old German book, which
might be taken for a touchstone, or thermometer, to measure human
selfishness by, if every one would but truly answer the question asked
in the story.

"The story tells of a poor student in Leipsic, who, in a fit of despair,
invoked the wicked spirit, who appeared, and proposed to make this
strange compact with him.

"'Every wish of yours shall be granted, but on this condition, that you
pronounce aloud this word, _Sathaniel_; and that every time you utter
the word one of your fellow creatures shall die; a man in some distant
country shall die. You will not see him suffer, and no one in the world
but yourself will know that the realisation of your desires has cost the
life of one of your fellow men.' 'And may I choose the country, the
nation of my victim?' said the student. 'Certainly.' 'Shake hands,
master, it is a bargain,' said he to the demon. Now the Turks were
besieging Belgrade at that period, and it was at their expense that the
student satisfied all his wishes, which amounted to fifty or sixty
thousand Turks. It is a very vulgar story," said the marquise, "but I
should like to know if there are many human beings who, if they were
assured of secrecy, could resist the temptation of pronouncing the fatal
word, if they were sure of realising an ardently desired wish."

"It is simply what might be called a venial homicide," said Lord
Falmouth; "and, as for me, if the wish was worth the trouble, if it were
some impossible thing, as if, for example, it were a question of being
honoured by your friendship, madame la marquise, I certainly would not
hesitate at such a trifle as the life of some obscure inhabitant of
Greenland, for example, or a Laplander, because, as he is the smallest
sort of a man, the sin would no doubt be less."

The marquise smiled and shrugged her shoulders, saying to me, "And you,
monsieur, do you think that most men would hesitate very long between
their wish and the fatal word?"

"I believe there would be so little hesitation, madame, even among the
most honourable of men, that if in our golden age the wicked spirit
should make such a proposition, the world would become a wilderness in
eight days; and, perhaps, you, madame, you and Lord Falmouth and I,
would be immolated by the caprice of one of our intimate friends, who,
instead of taking the trouble of going all the way to Greenland for a
victim, would treat us in a neighbourly way."

"But I have an idea," said Lord Falmouth; "suppose that the caprices and
desires of humanity, by dint of satisfying themselves on the human race,
had reduced the inhabitants of the world to two people in some far
corner of this earth, a man who passionately loved a woman who detested
him in return, and that Satan, according to his system, said to him: 'My
terms are still the same; pronounce the redoubtable name, she will love
you, but she will die, and you will have caused her death.' Should the
man say the word?"

"To pronounce the word would be to prove that he loved desperately,"
said I to Lord Falmouth.

"Yes, if he were a good Catholic," said Madame de Pënâfiel; "because
then he would have purchased love at the price of eternal punishment,
without which it is only ferocious selfishness."

"But, madame, permit me to observe that, since there is a question of
Satan, it is evident that they would both be good Catholics."

"You are quite right," replied Lord Falmouth, "and your observation
reminds me of the joyful and hopeful exclamation of a poor man who was
saved from shipwreck. On getting to land, the first thing he saw was a
gallows. 'God be praised,' said he, 'I have landed in a civilised
country.'

"But," said Lord Falmouth, "is it not enough to bring one to the verge
of despair, to think that even now there are some people so happily, so
wonderfully endowed, that they spend three or four hours every morning
trying to see the devil,--evoking and invoking the evil one? I lately
came across one of those credulous individuals in the Rue de la
Barillerie. I assure you he is perfectly convinced that one of these
days he will succeed, and I must admit that I greatly envy him his
credulity, for he has an occupation that he will never become tired of;
for a constant desire sustained by unfailing hope seems to me to come
very near to perfect happiness."

"But," said I to Lord Falmouth, "did not your great poet Byron amuse
himself with such follies at one time?"

"Byron! Ah, do not speak to me of that man!" exclaimed the marquise,
with a look of dislike that almost amounted to hatred.

"Ah, take care, monsieur," said Lord Falmouth, smiling. "With no ill
intention, you have called up a diabolical spirit, that madame la
marquise will have to exorcise, for she detests him."

I was quite astonished, for I was far from expecting to find Madame de
Pënâfiel an anti-Byronian. On the contrary, everything that I had
heard of her fantastic and bold character was quite in harmony with that
disdainful and paradoxical genius. I therefore listened very attentively
to the rest of her conversation. She continued, with a scornful smile:

"Byron! Byron! so cruel and so desperate! What a hard and wicked heart!
When we think how, by some inexplicable fatality, every youthful mind,
with its wealth of imagination, wastes itself in admiration of this
scornful and insatiable demon, it is enough to convince us of the law of
contraries."

"There is nothing truer than the attraction of contraries," said Lord
Falmouth. "Does the charming little butterfly, for example, intelligent
little aerial creature that he is, does he ever fail, so soon as he
perceives a beautiful, bright, hot flame, to hasten with all the speed
of a son of Zephyr and Aurora, and roast himself in an ecstasy of
delight?"

"I cannot bear to think," said Madame de Pënâfiel, in a state of
exaltation, that made her more beautiful than ever, "I cannot bear to
think of so many noble and trusting souls being made for ever desperate
by the malevolent genius of Byron! Oh, how well he has depicted himself
in Manfred! Manfred's Castle, so dark and desolate, well represents
Byron's poetry. It is his terrible spirit. You enter this castle full of
confidence, its wildness and grandeur captivate your imagination, but
when you are once within its walls, under the spell of its pitiless
host, all regret is in vain; he despoils you mercilessly of your purest
and fondest beliefs. And then, when the last spark of faith is extinct,
and your last hope is torn from you, the great lord chases you away with
an insulting smile; and should you ask him what he is to give you in
return for all these riches of your soul, that he has thus profaned and
destroyed--"

"Madame," said I, allowing myself to interrupt her, "Lord Manfred
answers, 'I have given you _doubt,--doubt,_--the wisdom of the wisest.'
But," I added, being curious to see if Madame de Pënâfiel shared in my
admirations as well as my antipathies, "if you have such a strong
dislike to Byron, does not his noble country offer you an antidote to
his dangerous poison, in Walter Scott?"

"Oh," said she, as she clasped her hands with almost infantile grace,
"how charming it is, monsieur, to hear you speak thus! Is it not true
that the great, the good, the adorable Scott is the counterpoise of
Byron? Ah, when wounded to the heart you fly in despair from the
terrible Castle of Manfred, with what grateful relief do you find
yourself in the smiling and peaceful abode of Scott, that kind old man,
so grave and so serene! How tenderly he receives you, how touching is
his pity for you, how he comforts and consoles you! In what a pure and
radiant light he shows you the world, exalting all that is noble, good,
and generous in the human heart! He raises your self-respect as much as
Byron has degraded it. If he can never restore your lost illusions,
which, alas! is an impossibility, he can, at least, tranquillise and
soothe your incurable grief by his beneficent stories. Is it not,
monsieur, true glory to be as great as Walter Scott? Which man is more
truly grand and powerful, he who afflicts or he who consoles? For, alas!
monsieur, it is so easy to get people to believe in evil," added the
marquise, with a grieved expression.

Though all this was very true and very well stated, it would have seemed
too prearranged for a conversation, had there not been something else
that surprised me more.

No doubt every one has felt the same inexplicable sensation. It is this:
you feel, for the space of one or two seconds, that you have positively
seen or heard already the things you are seeing or hearing, although you
have the absolute certainty that the place you see or the person who
speaks has never been seen or heard by you before.

The opinion that Madame de Pënâfiel had just expressed on Byron and
Scott gave me this strange sensation. It was so like my own that it
seemed the echo of my own thoughts. At first I was almost stupefied, but
reflecting that, after all, it was but a simple and natural comparison
between two minds that were diametrically opposed to one another, I
continued calmly, for I was determined not to be influenced by my
feelings, although Madame de Pënâfiel had been very eloquent, and
really seemed to feel what she said.

"No doubt, madame, the genius of Byron is very saddening, and that of
Scott very consoling, and one seems very superior to the other; but
these despairs and consolations are quite superfluous nowadays, for at
the present epoch nobody is distressed or pleased by such trifles."

"How is that?" asked she.

"It appears, madame, that we no longer live in the age of imaginary joys
and misfortune; we have come to the wise conclusion of substituting
reality and material comfort for dreamy, foolish ideality and passion;
so in all probability we are much nearer happiness than we ever have
been before, for there is nothing more difficult, more impossible to
realise, than the ideal, while, with a little common sense, every one
can arrange for himself a comfortable existence according to his own
taste."

"Then, monsieur," said Madame de Pënâfiel, with some show of
impatience, "you deny the existence of passion? You say that in our day
it does not exist?"

"I was mistaken, madame, if I said that, for there is still one passion
remaining, and only one, and in this one passion all others are
concentrated. Its influence is tremendous; it is the only one which,
being well managed, carries any weight in society nowadays; it controls
our customs so completely that, though we are still a thousand leagues
away from the gracious ways of the great period of gallantry and
pleasure, the passion that I speak of, madame, is able to change every
salon of Paris into a Quaker meeting or an assemblage of American
citizens."

"How could that be?" said she.

"To be brief, madame, would you wish to see the strictest prudery reign
in all conversation? Would you wish to hear endless invocations (by
unmarried men, you understand) on the sanctity of marriage and the duty
of married women? Would you wish to see the Utopia dreamed of by the
sternest moralists realised?"

"For my part, I should like to see it once, just for a minute or two,"
said Lord Falmouth, pretending to be alarmed at the idea, "but that
would be sufficient; I should utter a protest if it were to last any
longer."

"Tell us what this passion is, monsieur," said Madame de Pënâfiel,
"this passion that can perform all these miracles,--what is it?"

"It is selfishness, or the passion for material comfort, madame; a
passion that can be translated by a trivial and very significant
word,--money."

"And how will you utilise the excessive love of money in the development
of this excessive and threatening virtue, of which you have drawn such
an exaggerated picture that I am still quite overcome?" said Lord
Falmouth.

"Just as they do in your country, monsieur, by punishing every
infraction of duty by an enormous fine. How else can it be done? In our
epoch of materialism we no longer fear anything except that which
touches our daily life, our pocket; this being the case, the system of
fines applied to the maintenance of good morals will certainly be the
most powerful social lever of the period. For instance, imagine that a
confirmed, inexorable moralist was determined to put a stop, suddenly
and brutally, to those weaknesses that society pardons,--a man entirely
devoted to his sense of duty, or, if you like it better, take a man who
is very ugly, very tiresome, and consequently very envious of certain
charming sins that he has never been lucky enough to commit, but that he
is determined to exterminate,--suppose that this blood-thirsty moralist
is a legislator, and that one day in the halls of state he discloses a
most deplorable state of affairs, and then demands and obtains, after
some discussion, from the majority, whom you can, without any great
stretch of imagination, suppose to consist of men who are also very
ugly, old, and tiresome, the passage of a bill organising a secret
police, destined to ferret out and unmask every act that threatens
private life: imagine that finally a law is promulgated, which punishes
by a fine of fifty thousand francs the tender crime whose victims fill
our tribunals, and that the fine shall be doubled in case of a second
arrest. This fine is not to be offered in the shameful form of damages
to the injured party, but employed, let us suppose, in the education of
abandoned children,--so that the superfluous would help the
necessitous."

"And do you believe, monsieur," cried the marquise, "that the ignoble
fear of paying a given sum would render the majority of men less
attentive, less devoted to women?"

"I believe it so firmly, madame, that I can give you an excellent sketch
of the two very different aspects of a salon, filled with the same
persons, on the day before and the day after the promulgation of such a
law.

"The day before you would see all the men smiling, expansive, charming,
using their softest tones and tenderest looks to prove by every grace of
look and accent the amorous principles of such logic as this: 'Whatever
is pleasant is right.' 'Discretion is the only virtue.' 'Your heart was
not consulted when they gave you your tyrant.' 'There are certain
feelings that are inevitably sympathetic.''Your soul longs for its twin
sister, take my soul.' (This piece of a soul, by the way, has enormous
moustaches, or side-whiskers.) 'When it has reached a certain stage,
guilty love becomes a sacred duty,' etc. I will excuse you, madame, from
hearing a variety of other excellent reasonings, which generally do not
deceive those that hear them, any more than those that give utterance to
them.

"But on the evening after the promulgation of this terrible law, when
there would be danger of the fine, what a difference! As all those
pretty paradoxes of night before last might end, after all, in the
payment of a heavy sum, and as that sum would reduce by just so much the
luxury and comfort which are the necessities of an essentially material
life, while love is only a delightful superfluity, you would see all the
men suddenly become serious, pompous, dignified, frightened at the
slightest attempt at conversation from a woman, if she was at all
removed from the rest of the company; prudish and scared as schoolgirls
before their head teacher, you would hear them cry out aloud so that
every one could hear them, and in their most solemn voice, the voice
that they use when they make political speeches, refuse requests, and
later scold their wives and children with: 'After all, good morals are
the foundation of society.' 'We must draw the line somewhere!' 'There
are some duties that a gallant man ought to respect.' 'I had a mother
once.' 'I shall be a father some day.' 'There is no real pleasure except
in the satisfaction of conscience,' etc. For I will spare you, madame, a
quantity of other formulas more or less moral, which, as soon as the
question of a fine came up, might be translated thus: 'Ladies, I know
that you are all as charming as possible; but I love my opera box, my
house, my table, my stable, my gaming, my journey to the summer resorts
or to Italy, my pictures, my bric-à-brac; shall I risk all of these for
a few moments of felicity, as rare as it is intoxicating? No!'"

"It is infamous," said the marquise; "out of a hundred men, not one
would answer in this way."

"Permit me, madame, to be of an absolutely opposite opinion. I believe
the men of our day are pitilessly attached to material comfort, and
willing to sacrifice everything else to it, and, more than all the rest,
that which is called love."

"You believe that?" said Madame de Pënâfiel with profound
astonishment. "You believe that? And how old might you be, monsieur?"

The question was so strange and so impolite, besides being so difficult
to answer without being extremely ridiculous, that I bowed respectfully
and said at haphazard:

"My star was so favourable, madame la marquise, that I was born the day
before your birthday."

Madame de Pënâfiel drew herself up with a haughty expression of
impatience, and said, in a lofty way, "I was speaking in earnest,
monsieur."

"And it is in all seriousness, madame, that I have the honour of
answering; the question that you were so kind as to ask is too
flattering a proof of your interest to allow me to answer it in any
other way."

"But how do you know my age?" she asked me, with surprise and curiosity.

"It will be many long years from now, madame, before this secret need
give you any uneasiness, and, by that time, I hope that I shall have
been so long in your good graces that I shall have forgotten all about
it."

At this very instant a terrible sneeze, all the more sonorous from
having been restrained, was heard in the direction of the young
stranger, who, as Lord Falmouth had predicted, had been turning over the
pages of the same album for the last hour, in profound silence. The
noise caused Madame de Pënâfiel to start with surprise, and she turned
her head quickly, when, to her great consternation, she saw M. de
Stroll. But she made such profound and gracious excuses to the young
baron for her apparent neglect of him, that he found her conduct quite
natural, and seemed rather pleased to have sneezed so loud.

It was now late, and I left.

I was waiting for my carriage in one of the entrance salons, when Lord
Falmouth and M. de Stroll came to find their servants.

"Well," said Lord Falmouth to me, "what do you think of Madame de
Pënâfiel?"

Whether from false shame at having to acknowledge myself already under
the spell, or from pure dissimulation, I answered, pleasantly: "Madame
de Pënâfiel appears to be extremely unassuming in manners, she
possesses a candid mind devoid of all pretentiousness, an enchanting
personality, and has an innocent way of saying just what she thinks."

"Upon my word," replied Lord Falmouth, with his grave irony, "your
judgment is a true one, as true as that we are now standing at noonday
in the middle of a thick forest listening to the songs of the birds."
Then he added, seriously: "The most infernal thing about her is her
falseness. I am quite sure that she does not believe a word of all she
said to us about Scott and Byron, for she has about as much heart as
that," said he, striking with his cane the base of a colossal Japanese
vase filled with flowers that he was standing near; "or rather," he
said, taking from the vase a beautiful crimson camellia, and holding it
up to me; "she resembles this flower,--colour and brilliance, nothing
more; no more soul than this flower has perfume. After all, though, when
she wants to, she can talk very charmingly. But people say you should
hear her when one of her guests has just left,--how she can take them to
pieces! One of these days we will play at that game; you shall go out
and I will stay behind, then I will tell you all that she has said about
you, and you shall do as much sometime for me."

Just then our carriages came up. Lord Falmouth went off to the club to
make a night of it; after a moment's hesitation as to accompanying him,
I decided to go home.

In spite of Lord Falmouth's opinion and what I myself had said about
Madame de Pënâfiel, I had quite agreed with her, and what she said
about Byron had made a deep impression on me; for I thought that I
detected hidden under this discussion, the signs of mental anguish and
heartfelt loneliness, and this gave me much to reflect upon, because I
believed I had perceived something of her true character, which was
absolutely in opposition to all that they said about Madame de
Pënâfiel.




CHAPTER XVIII


ON WHAT THE WORLD SAID AND ON COQUETRY


There is nothing more difficult, not to say impossible, than to
successfully defend in society a poor young woman, who is so unfortunate
as not only to occupy a prominent position both as to name and fortune,
but who is beautiful both in face and figure, has a remarkable mind, is
talented and extremely well informed.

When once she has unchained the world's wrath, on account of this
insolent reunion of advantages, her every action, the best as well as
the most unimportant, her virtues, her graces, all are criticised with
the most artistic perfidy, and people are only lenient in regard to her
defects.

There is nothing more saddening than to observe the contrary effect of
this persistent belittling. If the woman against whom such unanimous
hatred is shown is the mistress of a splendid home, every one is eager
to go there, no effort is too great to gain admittance to her circle of
friends. Is she considered too fast? What does it matter? All the
mothers take their daughters to call on her, no doubt in order to return
good for the evil that they themselves have done, and to show that they
pay no attention to the scandals they themselves have spread abroad.

These remarks are spoken apropos of Madame de Pënâfiel, whom I began
to see quite frequently, and very soon saw every day.

As it usually happens, I found her totally different from the
descriptions that had been given me. She had been described as haughty
and imperious, I had found her only dignified; ironical and scornful, I
had never seen her so except towards low-lived persons, who well
deserved such treatment; unkind and hateful, she had seemed to me kind
and pitiful; fantastic, capricious, and morose, I had seen her sad, but
very rarely.

Now this marked dissimilarity between what I heard and what I saw, ought
it to be credited to the deep dissimulation with which Madame de
Pënâfiel was accused? I do not know.

I do not know even if I was in love with Madame de Pënâfiel, but I
felt for her, as I became more and more intimate, a very lively
interest, caused as much by her fascination, her mind, by the simplicity
with which she admitted certain defects, as by the persistent way that
she was continually attacked, a persistence that had cost me many
violent discussions.

It is not without a certain amount of vainglory that I recall this
circumstance, for nothing is more frequent than the cowardly way that we
join the backbiters, when they tear our absent friends to pieces.

Besides, I had begun to discover the falseness of the many absurdities
that at first I had given credence to.

Thus when I knew her well enough to speak confidentially, I told her
frankly that her presence at that fatal race, where M. de Merteuil had
been killed, had appeared strange to every one.

With a surprised look she asked me why?

I told her that, as M. de Merteuil and M. de Senneterre were both her
intimate friends, her devoted admirers indeed--

But without giving me time to finish, she exclaimed that it was an
outrageous falsehood, that she received M. de Merteuil and M. de
Senneterre only on her days of reception; that she hardly ever saw them
in the morning; that she was ignorant of the danger they ran. Knowing
nothing of their wager, she went to the race as she had gone to many
another, and only was prevented remaining until the finish because she
was cold.

In reply, I told her of the rumour and the public opinion in consequence
of it, which was as follows: "She had known both Messieurs de Merteuil
and de Senneterre to be in love with her, having inexcusably encouraged
their rival attentions; she was thus responsible for this murderous
challenge, and her careless departure from the ground before the end of
the race had given as much offence as her presence on the race-course;
finally, her appearing that night in a conspicuous box at the Opéra was
the height of disdainful heartlessness."

Madame de Pënâfiel could not at first believe these miserable stories;
when I had convinced her she was greatly distressed, and asked me how it
was that well-bred persons could be so stupid or so blind as to think
that a woman of her position and breeding could play such a part.

To this I answered that good society resigned itself with most Christian
humility, and, forgetting all the experience that the world had taught
it, was willing to descend to the most stupid and commonplace credulity,
the moment there was any question of believing a slander.

I then told her the story of Ismaël. She said that she had in fact
noticed and admired, as an artist might have done, his characteristic
costume, and that for an instant she had been afraid of seeing the
unfortunate man thrown from his horse. But when it came to the rest of
the tale, and the conviction of the public that she had asked to have
Ismaël presented to her, she burst out laughing and told me how she had
said at the Opéra to M. de Cernay, who it seems was quite provoked,
"Nothing nowadays is more vulgar than these Chasseurs and Heiduques;
when you have shown off your lion sufficiently, and have had all the
benefit you care for in parading him as a contrast to yourself, you can
send him to me, and I will have him sit behind my carriage with a _valet
de pied_; it will be very original and something new."

"Very well, madame," said I, laughing too, "here is the rest of the
story: While Messieurs de Merteuil and de Senneterre were risking their
lives to please you, with perfect indifference to their rash struggle,
whose object you knew, you had no eyes for anything but the Turk, your
admiration was expressed in a thousand signs and transports that were
almost frenzied. When that evening you appeared at the Opéra, after the
death of one of your devoted admirers, your first thought was to beg M.
de Cernay to present Ismaël to you. Finally, taking the advice of your
friends and wishing to escape the deep impression that this savage
foreigner had made, you had the resolution to leave town suddenly, and
take refuge way off in Brittany."

Madame de Pënâfiel asked me if it were not M. de Cernay who had
started these false and slanderous reports. As I attempted to elude this
question, though there was no reason why I should protect the count, she
said, after an instant's reflection:

"Confession for confession. M. de Cernay, after having paid me some
attention, ended by making me an offer of marriage, which was not
accepted any more than a declaration of love would have been. For as I
had no desire to do a foolish thing, I could not think seriously of
committing such an irreparable mistake. As M. de Cernay had no more
reason to be vain of my refusal than I had to be vain of his offer, the
secret was scrupulously kept between us; now that he calumniates me it
shall be a secret no longer; use it as you see fit and 'give your
authority,' as my venerable friend, Arthur Young, would say. Now as to
this hurried journey to Brittany, you may have noticed at the Opéra
that night that I spoke rather sharply to that poor Cornelia, my lady
companion. I had told her the day before that I meant to start for the
country. She began to make a thousand objections, on the weather, the
cold, etc., and ended by making me angry, because if the weather was
good enough for me it was good enough for her. Now, it was not
absolutely to escape the terrible Turk that I was going away, but simply
to pay a last visit to the woman who had nursed me. She was ill and
believed herself dying unless I would come to see her, which she thought
was the only thing that would restore her to health. As I am very much
attached to this excellent creature, I started off, and what is very
strange is that now she is perfectly well again, so I am not at all
sorry that I was courageous enough to undertake such a tiresome journey
in midwinter."

I made Madame de Pënâfiel laugh when I told her how deeply I had
pitied her companion for having to submit to such tyrannical treatment,
etc., the night I saw the poor young girl's annoyance at the Opéra.

I only cite these particulars, as I believe them to be specimens of the
absurd rumours which are often absolutely credited in the social world,
and which are capable of doing so much injury.

I could not understand this perpetual resentment against a young woman
who, the more intimately I became acquainted with her, the less I
understood her character; for, although she was always agreeable, and
possessed a singularly cultivated mind, she was frequently paradoxical,
and had some pretensions to scientific knowledge (this was considered
one of her failings). Moreover, she very rarely showed any genial
cordiality or real enthusiasm.

As to her innermost sentiments, she appeared to be constrained or
oppressed, as though weighed down by some sad secret; then, again, she
would evince traits of deep-felt commiseration and kindness, which did
not seem spontaneous or natural, but, rather, the result of comparison
or the recollection of some great misfortune, as though she said, "I
have suffered so much that I am worthy of compassion."

At other times she gave way to the most violent explosions of contempt
for all these spiteful and envious persons, and would break forth with
the most cutting sarcasms, sparing no one. This was one of the reasons
of her having so many bitter enemies.

A circumstance that I thought strange was that, in spite of all that was
said about her levity, I had never seen a single man who appeared to be
on terms of intimacy with her, or any one in whom she could be supposed
to take any affectionate interest.

If, then, I loved Madame de Pënâfiel, it was not with that fresh,
pure, passionate love I had felt for Hélène, it was a sentiment in
which love and curiosity were strangely allied to distrust; for,
although I condemned the absurd calumnies of the world, I was often
quite as foolish and quite as unjust as other people.

Although I had seen Madame de Pënâfiel constantly for nearly three
months, I had never breathed a word of gallantry. This was as much
through calculation as distrust. I had found her to be so essentially
different from the portrait the world had drawn of her, that I could not
help thinking at times of what I had heard, and wondering if she were as
false as she was accused of being. Therefore, I wished to study her more
fully, before allowing myself to be carried away on the current of a
declaration, whose refusal I did not wish to risk, for I am ready to
declare that Madame de Pënâfiel was very seductive.

Among her other delightful faults, what charmed me most was her
coquetry, which was quite peculiar.

It was not shown by any pretended demonstrations of solicitude, or by a
flattering way of receiving a friend, flattery which is usually as
deceptive as it is encouraging. No; her nature was too proud and
independent to permit her to stoop to such means of winning admirers.

Her coquetry was entirely in the perfect gracefulness that she wished,
and knew how, to impart to her every motion, to those poses that were
apparently the least studied. No doubt all that grace was calculated,
reasoned out, if I may say so, but habit had so harmonised the
enchanting art with the native elegance of her manners that it was
impossible to gaze on anything more charming. Besides, when it is a
question of exquisite manners, naturalness can never bear a comparison
with studied politeness, any more than the pale wild flower of the
eglantine can compare in size, colour, and perfume with the cultivated
hothouse rose.

Madame de Pënâfiel admitted, with delightful sincerity, that she took
the greatest pleasure in dressing beautifully and tastefully, so that
she might look pretty; that she loved to see her graceful attitudes
reflected in a mirror; and that she did not see why a woman should be
ashamed any more of adorning her body than cultivating her mind,--that
people should study how to take an elegant and proper pose as well as to
speak properly and wittily.

She declared that she practised these graces more to please herself than
others, who, she said, never knew how to flatter her properly, while she
herself knew exactly how much she was entitled to; so she preferred her
own admiration, and always craved it.

One would scarcely believe to what a point Madame de Pënâfiel carried
this art of making pictures.

Thus, as she was very fond of painting, she had a sort of parlour, which
was at the same time a salon, library, and studio. It was arranged with
perfect taste, and here she preferred to receive. According to the way
she felt, her toilet, or the events of the day, by means of shades and a
clever combination of old stained glass windows, the room would be more
or less lighted, and with the most admirable and poetical knowledge of
light and shade and the many intelligent resources of artistically
opposed colourings.

For example, if she were nervous and pale, and all clothed in white, her
beautiful brown hair with its golden gloss arranged in bandeaux, if she
happened to be seated in a half light, which fell from above, and threw
great shadows in the apartment, you should have seen how this dim light,
falling on her fair forehead, her pale pink cheeks, and her ivory
throat, left all the rest of her face in a marvellous half-tone. Nothing
could be lovelier to look at than such a white and vapoury figure,
shining in soft light upon a very dark background.

Then, besides this, carefully arranged light would glitter here and
there like sparks of fire, on the gilded carving of an armchair, on the
glossy folds of some piece of satin, on the tortoise-shell and
mother-of-pearl of a piece of furniture, or on the polished surface of
the porcelain vases that were filled with flowers. The light thus
distributed not only gave the appearance of a charming picture to this
elegant figure, but to all its surrounding accessories. This manner of
lighting an apartment pleased me very much, because it coincided with my
own ideas, for, if there is anything shocking, it is the complete
ignorance, or the deplorable neglect architects show in this matter.

Thus, without taking into consideration the style or the epoch, or, if a
woman is concerned, her appearance or the type of her beauty, an
architect thinks he has done everything, and has done it to perfection,
when, by means of two or three enormous windows, ten feet high, he has
thrown a dazzling sheet of light from every side of a room, enough to
blind one. Now in this prodigal and unskilful way light is neutralised,
and loses its effect; it neither shows off pictures, materials, nor
sculptures, because, shining indifferently on all, it gives value to
none.

In a word, as résumé, it seems to me that an apartment--not a place of
reception, but of intimacy--should be lighted with as careful study, as
much art, as though it were a picture.

Therefore, a great many things must be sacrificed in the shadow and the
half-tone, in order to bring out the high lights. Then the eye and the
mind are refreshed and rested, as they gaze with pleasure, love, and a
sort of poetic contemplation, on such an interior.

It is a real picture, a living picture, that we admire as though it were
painted on canvas.

But it needs a certain elevation of the mind, a certain instinctive
ideality, perhaps an exaggerated sense of the beautiful, to cultivate
this domestic art, and find in it the constant sources of meditative
enjoyment, which are incomprehensible to most people.

If I insist upon speaking of this peculiarity, it is because I was much
pleased with this similarity in Madame de Pënâfiel's tastes with my
own, and it showed her coquetry in such a way that I loved her to
adoration.

I remember that nothing angered me more than the rudeness of all the men
of her acquaintance, who were all perfectly furious on the subject of
what they called her intolerable and hateful coquetry. It was, they
said, with strange ill-nature, it was a ridiculous pretension on her
part, a sort of wager that she had made with herself, to be always
gracious and charming. Never was she to be seen unless she was
exquisitely dressed; all was prearranged and studied out, from the dim
light to the colouring of the curtains, which harmonised with her
complexion as though she expected to clothe herself with them. And then,
oh, horror! on her writing-table there were natural flowers in a vase,
and, could you believe it? they were chosen to match the colour of her
hair, as though she meant to wear a head-dress of natural flowers! But
that was not all. She had a foot as small as a child's, the finest arms
that ever were seen, and an exquisite hand. Well, was it not
intolerable? No one could help noticing and admiring her foot, her arm,
or her hand, for she was so clever that these charms were always in
evidence. It was odious, scandalous, not to be put up with.

Now, even if all this were true,--and in a certain way it was
true,--could there be anything in the world more absurd or idiotic than
to hear a lot of men, dressed in the careless and even untidy way that
is permissible nowadays for morning visits, and who went like
caterpillars--an old expression that might be revived--to pass an hour
at a lady's house, to hear them, I say, complaining bitterly because she
had received them surrounded by all that taste, art, and refinement
could add to her natural graces?

For my part, on the contrary, I took the greatest pleasure in these
delightful coquetries of Madame de Pënâfiel, in the contemplation,
even though it were simply as a work of art, of such a delicious living
picture, which was sometimes so animated, sometimes so sad and
languishing.


I forgot to say that among the most violent detractors of Madame de
Pënâfiel were several young Christians of her acquaintance. Since I
have written these words, they require some explanation; for the young
Christian of the salon, a pretentious and grotesque type, that will soon
be displaced by another equally ridiculous, deserves to be properly
described, so that his exhilarating personality may be handed down to
posterity.




CHAPTER XIX


ON PARLOUR CHRISTIANITY


Parlour Christianity is divided into two classes: the first, pretentious
and grotesque, and the second, respectable, because its members have at
least an exterior, a language and manners that are not in too ridiculous
a contrast with their specialty.

These mundane apostles can also be divided into two sorts,--the young
Christian who dances, and one who does not. This classification will be
sufficient to enable one to recognise them at a glance.

The first, the dancing Christians, are more or less plump and rosy,
curled, frizzled, cravated, stiffened, starched, and perfumed. They are
the beaux, the cavaliers, the lions of parlour Christianity, of
tea-table Catholicism; they eat, drink, talk, laugh, sing, shout, dance,
waltz, galop, dance the cotillon and mazurka, and make love (when they
get a chance) as enthusiastically as the most austere Lutheran or the
most hardened sinner. Some of them, remembering that David danced before
the ark, have even gone so far as to study the cachucha, no doubt with a
view of rendering Christian homage to that adorable dance, which is so
popular in Spain, the most Catholic of countries. Some of them, however,
more strict than these, before consenting to rival the most agile of the
"Majos," have demanded that cachucha shall be rebaptised "the
inquisition." The question is now under consideration.

However this may be, when we see these young apostles in kid gloves and
high pompadours arrive, all panting, from a galop, and abandon
themselves to a delirious waltz, devouring their partners with their
eyes; when we see them afterwards trying to forget or remembering their
charming partners in the exciting intimacy of the Pierettes of the Bal
Musard, we can hardly believe that they are very much more Christian
than Abd-el-Kadir.

But thanks to certain indiscreet revelations on the topography of divine
religions, to certain compromising confessions as to the duration of
eternal punishment, and more than all, by their triumphant fatuity, we
divine, we almost can see the supernumerary angel under the terrestrial
veil of these young Christians.

The only thing I can reproach them with is that they do not take more
pains to conceal the fact of their intimacy with Jehovah, their
hand-in-glove acquaintance with a kind Providence, that they have lots
of influential friends up there, and that the seraphim are their most
humble servants.

But, while waiting orders to return to the King of kings, who, in a
moment of generosity, kindly loaned us these plump cherubs to lighten
our sorrows, these young Christian dancers practise our profane joys
faithfully, without, however, neglecting their sacred pleasures. In
fact, the young Christian dancer should possess his chronicle of church
and sacristy, as an habitué of the Opéra keeps his record of all that
goes on behind the scenes. The dancing Christian should know all the
fashionable preachers, their manners, their habits, anecdotes of their
private life; should be able to tell how the Abbé ---- does not write
his own sermons; how Abbé ---- has ousted the Abbé ----; how Abbé
---- is very graceful or very awkward when he preaches; how rudely one
of the vicars of St. Thomas of Aquinas squabbled with his curé; how
some pious soul discovered, on the hat of a lady who is no longer young,
but youthful looking and well preserved, several yards of splendid old
lace that she herself had offered to the jovial curé of S----, to make
an altar cloth for his church. The dancing Christian should, in a word,
know which are the best places in church to see and hear the preacher;
he must never lose the first hearing of a sermon or a conference, and
must always be on hand afterwards, to report as to its success or
failure, exactly as though it were a new opera that was under
discussion.

Thanks to this perpetual haunting of the pulpit and the sacristy, and to
the vigour of his calves, the young Christian dancer, who is recognised
as such, enjoys all the privileges that are attached to his eccentric
position.

Always a Christian, everywhere a Christian, at a ball, at the theatre,
at the table, in the country, in town, standing, sitting down, in bed,
dreaming or awake, he is intolerant, inquisitorial, indignant; he
assigns you at once your place, either in heaven or hell; he fulminates
fearful anathemas on the new Gomorrah while he drinks his punch, or
cries "Babylon! Babylon!" as he sups like an ogre. Finally, with a
terrible cry of desolation, he announces the near and threatening
probability of the last judgment, and then goes off to dance the
cotillon.

After which, worn out, overcome by the fatigues of the sermon and the
ball, he goes to bed, and is very soon oppressed by a frightful
nightmare. He dreams he is a father confessor, and that his last
partner, with whom he discussed the honest modesty of Joseph fleeing
from Potiphar's wife, comes to confess to him that she committed all
sorts of ravishing sins with a Jansenist, two Calvinists, eleven deists,
and she does not know how many atheists.

Far from the dancing Christians who flourish under the brilliant
chandeliers, blooms the young Christian who does not dance. If the
former are the Cavaliers of this parlour religion, the latter are its
Puritans,--grave, pale, austere, thin, dismal, negligent, more bashful
than St. Joseph, it would give them real pleasure to cover themselves
with ashes, but they go about dragging here and there their melancholy
and their religiously pure and transparent lives. Taking no interest in
our profane joys, which they witness but do not associate in, they are
entirely taken up by their divine aspirations, their celestial visions;
they are tolerant, kind, and full of pity for human error; these are the
tender Fénélons of this mundane church, while the dancing Christians
are the merciless Bossuets, for the dancing Christian is implacable,
unapproachable, impossible. As soon as there is any question of human
weakness, not in himself, but in another, there is no compromise, no
mean term, it is the devil and hell, the devil with his horns and tail;
it is perfectly clear, there is no escape.

The Christian who does not dance is extremely fond of purgatory.
Extremes disgust his pious soul. He is scrupulous and charitable, he
would hesitate a long, long time, he would need the proof of many
dreadful iniquities, before he could bring himself to say positively,
"Alas, my poor, dear brother, it appears to me that, unless you amend
your ways, you will one of these days be claimed by the great devil of
hell."

The dancing Christian, on the contrary, sends you off there at once and
for ever, for the smallest little sin, with frightful assurance.

As for the future of the human race, the Christian who does not dance
seems still to have some hopes that the world will be saved in spite of
the crimes and errors of mankind. He presumes, though he will not assert
it positively, that at the last judgment, there may be a general amnesty
which will remit the sins of the damned. The Christian who does not
dance seems to count on the inexhaustible mercy of God, who is as kind
as he is powerful, he says, and one might think that he was very well
informed as to celestial politics; but the dancing Christian, who comes
to take part in the conversation while eating an ice, overturns with a
single word all these pleasant and comforting thoughts. Then he holds
forth only threats and menaces. There is no more hope,--nothing but the
smell of sulphur and bitumen which give you a foretaste of a future of
eternal flames, eternal pitchforks, and everlasting gridirons. There is
nothing left for poor human beings but to weep with despair and to moan
over their fatal destiny, and so, while awaiting the terrible
predictions of the young Christian dancer, they give themselves up to an
endless galop, or an orgy in the two worlds of society, worthy of
Belshazzar's feast.




CHAPTER XX


THE PARLOUR


I have now reached an event in my life that was very blissful and yet
cruel. The thought of it still causes me many a sigh of pleasure and of
pain.

I found myself one day, for no reason whatever, in a singular state of
hatred and distrust. I felt greatly provoked with Madame de Pënâfiel,
because I began to perceive that the thought of her influenced me more
than I meant it should. This irritated me, for I feared that I had as
yet formed no real opinion as to her true nature, and it made me uneasy
and apprehensive.

That day, when I went to the Hôtel Pënâfiel, contrary to the usual
custom of the house, which was marvellously strict, when the footman had
opened the door from the vestibule, I saw no _valet de chambre_ in the
waiting-room who could announce me. Before reaching the parlour, one had
to pass through three or four other rooms, which had no doors, but only
portières. Not expecting me, she could scarcely hear me coming, as the
carpets were so thick as to entirely prevent the sound of my footsteps.

I had reached the portière which shut off the parlour, and could see
Madame de Pënâfiel before she perceived me, unless the reflection from
a mirror had betrayed my presence. I shall never forget my astonishment
at the sight of her pale and woebegone countenance. She looked weary,
sorry, hopeless, if a face is capable of expressing all three of these
feelings at the same moment.

I can see her still. She usually sat on a little low armchair. It was of
gilt wood, covered with brown satin embroidered in little roses. In
front of it was a long ermine rug, on which she placed her feet, and
beside it against the wall was a little cabinet of buhl, whose upper
half opened with doors like a bookcase; these doors were half open, and
within them I saw, to my great astonishment, an ivory crucifix.

She had probably slid from off her chair, for she was half kneeling,
half seated on the ermine rug, her hands were clasped on her knees, and
her face was turned towards the crucifix, while a ray of light that
shone on her forehead showed how intense was her sadness.

Nothing could be more beautiful or touching than the sight of this young
woman, surrounded by all the prestige of luxury and elegance, and yet
crushed under the burden of an untold sorrow.

After my first sensation of astonishment I was lost in sad
contemplation, and with much distress I attempted to imagine what could
be the cause of her grief.

But alas! almost immediately, by some mysterious fatality my habitual
distrust, added to Madame de Pënâfiel's reputation for duplicity,
suggested that this scene was only a tableau arranged for my benefit.
That hearing me approaching, she had assumed this melancholy attitude,
from what motive I will explain later.

I know that it was absurd and ridiculous to believe in such a deliberate
piece of coquetry when apparently overcome by such a weight of sorrow;
but whether it was the result of her habitual desire to appear charming,
or was merely accidental, it would be impossible to see anything more
perfect than the expression of her uplifted eyes, shining so beautifully
through the limpid crystal of her tears; her slender, graceful form thus
bending on the carpet, her swan-like throat with its lovely curve, and
even her charming foot with its high instep, that was exposed by the
disorder of her costume, as well as her ankle and the lower part of a
delicate limb bound with the ribbons that fastened her black satin
slippers,--the whole picture was ravishing.

After my first astonishment and my doubt as to the reality of her grief,
my only feeling was one of admiration at the sight of so much
perfection.

I hesitated for an instant, to decide whether I would enter suddenly, or
whether go back to the door of the salon, and, by coughing slightly,
give warning of my approach. Deciding on the latter, immediately I heard
the doors of the little cabinet close suddenly, and in an alarmed voice
Madame de Pënâfiel called out:

"Who is that?"

I advanced, giving many excuses, but saying how there had been no one to
announce me. She answered:

"I beg your pardon, but as I felt far from well, I had ordered no one to
be admitted. I supposed my orders had been carried out."

I could only offer a thousand excuses, and turn to go away. But she
said:

"If the companionship of a poor nervous and miserable woman does not
alarm you, I beg that you will stay. It would give me real pleasure."

When she told me to remain, and said that she had given orders to let no
one in (which explained the absence of the _valets_ in the
waiting-room), I had no more hesitation in believing the scene of the
crucifix was a piece of acting, and that the servant's orders were to
let no one enter but me.

Of course this fine piece of reasoning was but the height of folly and
impertinence, such a thing being quite improbable, but I preferred being
conceited enough to think a woman of Madame de Pënâfiel's position
capable of deceiving me by a miserable comedy, than to believe that she
was suffering one of those terrible hours of mental agony, when we can
only implore the aid and protection of God.

If for a moment I had reflected how often I, who also was young and in
the enjoyment of every worldly pleasure, had been subject to just such
an overpowering sense of causeless chagrin, the sad state in which I
found Madame de Pënâfiel would have been quite clear to my mind. But
no, my incarnate distrust and fear of deception paralysed my reason and
generosity.

So without a moment's hesitation, instead of sympathising with such
deep-felt grief, I came to the following conclusions, which, infamous as
they were, seemed at the time perfectly probable. Alas! they were all
the more dangerous for that very reason.

"Being so capricious," said I to myself, "Madame de Pënâfiel is
provoked that I have not yet declared myself, not that she cares the
least in the world for my devotion, but that it spoils her plans. Though
seeing her constantly for the last three months, I have never spoken of
love. I cannot discover any other admirer. If what the world says is
true, it is not because she is virtuous, but because she delights in
mystery.

"She wishes to utilise me, and to be revenged for my pretended
indifference, by using me as a cloak to hide her real love affair from
the eyes of the world. It is a very easy thing,--finding her alone,
overwhelmed with sorrow, the least I can do is to ask the cause of her
distress, to offer what consolation I can, and thus to be led on to a
declaration which would suit her plans, and make me her plaything.

"Or else, having discovered my sadness, and the spells of melancholy I
often succumb to and of which I never speak, she simulates this fit of
despair, so that from sympathy, I will be led to some misanthropic
confessions about my lost illusions, my sad soul, etc., perhaps other
things more ridiculous still, and then she means to deride my
sentimental maunderings."

Now when I was once firmly convinced of such suppositions, I declared
that nothing I could say would be too outrageous. I would show her that
I would not submit to be used as her tool.

All these reasons were completely absurd, these cowardly, underhand
motives. Now that I can calmly think it over, I wonder why I never
thought that, to have arranged such a scene, she needed to be sure of
the day and the hour of my visit, and that to take me as a cloak to hide
another affection would compromise her as surely as the liaison she
endeavoured to hide, finally, that the mere pleasure of forcing a
confession of my trials, which I had the good sense to keep to myself,
would certainly not be worth such a clever piece of dissimulation.

But when it is a question of monomania (and I think that my intense
distrust amounted to monomania), wise and sensible ideas are the last
that ever come into our minds.

It was all in vain, then, that I had laughed at those wicked stories
that had been constructed from the most ordinary occurrences. Without
for a moment reflecting on my inconsequence, I was about to do what was
a thousand times worse than forge a slander. I was about to calumniate
that sacred thing, grief; to profit by what I had accidentally
discovered. Involuntary witness of one of those hours of extreme
sadness, in which noble souls give vent to their sorrow in the solitude
of their chamber, I was about to question the truth of this sorrow which
in secret had prayed to God for what he alone could give,--consolation
and hope.

It was with such a spirit of doubt and sarcasm, and with the wicked
brutality of those enemies of hers, whom I far surpassed in both of
these qualities, that I seated myself, with a scornful air, on a chair
that stood opposite to Madame de Pënâfiel, who had risen and resumed
her seat. I remember almost every word we said.




CHAPTER XXI


THE AVOWAL


Madame de Pënâfiel remained very pensive for a few moments, and seemed
gazing into vacancy; then, as though she had come to a sudden
determination, she said with a familiarity that our three months of
intimacy would excuse:

"I believe that you are my friend?"

"A most devoted one, and a very happy one to be able to tell you so,
madame," I replied in a mocking way, to which she paid no attention.

"By the word friend I do not mean an acquaintance, a person who really
cares nothing for us, a friend in the usual sense of the word; no, I
think better of you than that. In the first place you have never uttered
a word of gallantry to me, and for that I thank you sincerely; you have
spared me that insulting species of courtship, which, I know not why,
some persons think they have the right, or, perhaps, the permission, to
honour me with." She said this with a sad smile. "You have enough tact,
sense, and generosity to understand that a woman who has been the victim
of odious calumnies finds nothing more offensive than such idle
compliments, which only add fresh insult, because they are apparently
authorised by the injurious reports that preceded them.

"I believe your mind is sadly precocious through bitter experiences. I
know that, though you are much in the world, you have none of the
world's petty hates and jealousies. I think you are neither conceited
nor even vain, and that you are one of those honest men who never try to
discover any hidden motive for a confession; also that you will take no
thought of my behaviour should it seem strange. Besides," she continued,
with an air of mournful dignity that impressed me deeply, "as to be
taken into a woman's confidence is one of the ways in which an honest
man is most honoured, I have no fear of speaking freely to you.

"You are kind and generous; I know that you have often defended me
bravely and loyally, and, alas! I am unaccustomed to be so defended. I
know how one evening at the Opéra-- Oh, yes, I overheard what you
said," she continued, as she saw how astonished I was. "That was the
reason I took the initiative in having you presented to me, and your
reserved manner of accepting my hospitality gave me a high opinion of
your dignity. Thus I have every confidence in you, and will consider you
a true friend; for I must speak,--I must tell some one," she said, with
an accent of despair,--"I must tell you--yes, you--why I am the most
unfortunate of women."

She burst into tears and hid her face in her hands.

There was that in her words, and in the pitiful look that accompanied
them, something so touching, that in spite of my ill temper I was moved
to compassion. Instantly, though, returned the evil thought that this
was only the rôle she was playing to force me to a declaration. I
hastened to say, in a very supercilious manner, that I hoped I was
worthy of her confidence, and if my devotion or my advice could be of
the least use to her, I was entirely at her service, and other such
commonplace and glacial speeches.

As she did not appear to notice the chilly way I received her complaint,
I saw only another reason for thinking she was deceiving me, and had
scornfully resolved not to be interrupted in her rôle, but to play it
to the end, and I was excessively irritated.

Now that I know all, I can understand her inadvertence, but at the time
it was a positive and aggravating proof of her duplicity.

She was inattentive, because the relief caused by the disclosure of a
long hidden trouble is so exquisite that, overcome by the blessed
effusion, we neither know nor care for the impression we produce.

It is only later, when the heart, already lighter, feels refreshed by
this divine outpouring, that we look up hopefully, expecting to see in
our friend's eyes some sympathetic tears, or some expression of
commiseration.

Thus, when two friends meet after a long and painful separation, in the
rapture of the first embrace neither thinks of noticing if the other is
changed.


Having thus, as it were, broken the ice, Madame de Pënâfiel continued,
after passing her hand over her tearful eyes:

"It would be very easy for me to explain the extraordinary confidence I
have in you. I know that, although you have often defended me from
slander, you have never attempted to reap any advantage from your loyal
conduct; then the isolation in which you live, although moving in the
gay world, your reserve, your superiority of mind, which is unlike
others, and entirely your own, virtues and defects,--everything tends to
my accepting you as a sincere and generous friend, to whom I can tell
all my sorrows and all I suffer."

Without showing the least feeling, I replied that she could count on my
discretion, which was trustworthy, and besides, as I had no one to talk
to, it was all the more safe. "For," said I, "we are only indiscreet
with our intimate friends, and I cannot reproach myself with having a
single one."

"That," said she, "is the very reason why I am encouraged to speak to
you as I do. I fancied that you also were alone, that you also had some
secret chagrin that you dared not speak of, suffering from your isolated
position as I do from mine, for, like you, I have no friends; people
hate me, they say wicked things about me, and why? _Mon Dieu!_ have I
deserved such treatment? Why is the world so unjust and cruel towards
me? Whom have I injured? Oh, if you only knew! If I could tell you all!"

Her complaining seemed so childish and weak, her reticence so ill
calculated to excite my curiosity, that, assuming a cheerful manner, I
began an apology for the world in general.

"Since you give me permission to speak as a friend, madame, allow me to
say that we must not be too fierce in our attacks on society. Ask
yourself what we exact from society. Fêtes, excitement, smiles, homage,
flowers, and gilded salons. With all these, the greatest possible
latitude in regard to morals, and all the liberty we desire. Now, if
society gives us all these, and you must admit that it does, has it not
done its entire duty? Then why this constant complaining and railing at
the poor world, when all we can reproach it with is its prodigality?"

"But you know very well that they are all false. Those smiles, that
homage, those attentions, are all lies, you know it! If you receive at
home, when the last visitor leaves, you say, 'Well, that is over!' If
you go to a brilliant reception, as soon as your foot touches the sill
of your own home you say again, 'Well, that is over!'"

"Thank Heaven, madame," I answered, pretending not to understand her,
for she appeared surprised at my sudden conversion to mundane pleasures,
"I assure you I am never so miserable as to be glad that a fête is
over. If I ever say, 'Well, it is over!' on my return, it is because I
am fatigued with enjoyment, of which, as I said, the world is only too
prodigal. As to what you call its deceit and falsehood, it is perfectly
right in not being willing to exchange its graceful and pleasing
exterior for one that would be horribly disagreeable. Besides, it does
not really lie, it but speaks its own language, a language that we
perfectly understand. Society is not selfish and exacting, but you are.
Why should you wish to insist upon its changing its charming manners,
and adopting your romantic ideas of friendship, of endless love, which
would make it stupid, and which it does not care for? Trust yourself to
it, enter gaily into its giddy whirl, and it will lighten your burdens,
and make your life bright and joyful.

"If it lies about you to-day, what matter? To-morrow's falsehood will
obliterate the story of to-day. Do you fancy it even believes its own
stories? Does it not worship you? Is it not always at your feet? Why
should you attach more importance to its words than it expects you to?
'Please and be pleased' is the world's motto. A very convenient one, and
easy to follow. What more can you want?"

Madame de Pënâfiel sat staring at me in amazement, remembering, no
doubt, the many serious conversations we had on this subject, and,
surprised at the sudden levity I affected, she said:

"But when calm reflection succeeds to the bewildering pleasures of
society, and we analyse these delights, how vain and unsatisfying they
are. What are we then to do?"

"I am quite in despair, madame, at not being able to answer that
question. I enjoy these pleasures that you apparently despise, and hope
to enjoy them for a long time yet, and more than any one, for it is in
the lightness and the ease with which the world's fetters are broken
that their charm consists. 'Pardon the outrageous stupidity of the
comparison,' as Lord Falmouth says, but if ever the used-up expression,
'a chain of flowers,' was justified, it was in applying it to the
obligations of society, which are as bright, as gay, as frail, and as
easy to wear. But it is what the world calls love that charms me most,
madame. It is the story of the phoenix who is constantly reincarnated,
always more golden, more empurpled, and beautiful than before. Is not
everything about this love charming, even its ashes, poor remains of
love-letters that give out a perfume even as they are consumed? Is
anything more delightful than the fact that in this adorable world love
follows the divine law of metempsychosis? For, if to-day it dies of old
age, after a month's duration, to-morrow it is born again more exquisite
than ever, under another form, or for another form."

Madame de Pënâfiel could not yet understand why I should affect such
gaiety, when she had just made me the confidant of her sorrows. I could
see by her expression that my heedless and unkind words made a painful
impression. At first she supposed I was joking, but, as I continued my
speech with such an impertinent air of conviction, she knew not what to
think, and, looking me in the face, she said, in a voice that was almost
a reproach:

"Then you are perfectly happy!"

"Perfectly, madame, mundane life never appeared to me under the form of
a more radiant and seductive vision."

Madame de Pënâfiel gazed at me for some moments with her great
astonished eyes, and then said, in a firm and very decided way: "All
that is not true; you are not happy; it is impossible that you should
be. I know the truth; why will you not admit the truth, and then I could
tell you--" Then she hesitated and cast down her eyes as though she were
on the point of revealing a secret.

"If it will give you the least satisfaction, madame," I replied,
smiling, "I will hasten to declare myself the most unfortunate,
melancholy, dismal, sophisticated of mortals, and from henceforth I will
go about proclaiming only, Anathema! Fatality!"

After contemplating me for some moments with inexpressible amazement,
she said, as though speaking to herself: "Can I have deceived myself?
Was I mistaken?" Then continuing, "No, no, it is impossible, if you were
as happy and indifferent as you pretend to be, would I not have known it
instinctively? Would I have opened my heart to you and exposed my grief?
Would I have risked a confession only to have derision in return? No,
no, my heart whispered the truth when it said, 'Speak to him, tell him
all, he is your friend, a friend who will pity you, for he also is
lonely and wretched.'"

Her strange persistence in making me acknowledge some imaginary sorrow,
in order to deride me afterwards, astonished and irritated me.

"Madame," I said, "why do you persist in believing me to be so
miserable?"

"Why, why?" said she, quite impatiently. "Because there are some
confessions that one never makes to the gay and careless; because, to
understand the bitterness of certain woes, there must exist some sort of
harmony between the soul that bewails its grief, and the one who hears
its complaining; because, had I thought you careless, merry, flippant,
happy in the enjoyment of the life of frivolity whose charms you were
just now vaunting, I never would have dreamed of telling you why I am so
wretched, or explaining the secret of a life which must seem fantastic
and bizarre. I would never have wished to tell you, as to a devoted and
true friend, a brother, indeed, the reason I am so overwhelmed with
sorrow."

I had reached such a point of irritation and distrust, that when she
said the words "friend, brother," another idea suggested itself to me.
Remembering Madame de Pënâfiel's reticence and a thousand other
incidents which had passed unnoticed until now, I decided that her
nameless sorrow, her disgust for everything, her weariness of the world,
resembled very strongly an unrequited passion, and that she was in love,
but that her love was not returned. I therefore believed her willing to
make me the discreet confidant of her pains and longings.

This last hypothesis woke the most violent and mortal jealousy in my
breast, and showed me plainly the extent of my love for Madame de
Pënâfiel, as well as the ridiculous rôle I was expected to play if my
last supposition were true.

I was about to reply, when, by moving the folds of her dress, she
uncovered on the carpet at her feet a medallion, which had probably
fallen from the buhl cabinet, when, in order to hide the crucifix (and,
perhaps, the medallion as well), she had so suddenly closed its doors.
It was a man's portrait, but I could not see the features.

I had no longer the least doubt, all my other imaginings vanished before
this evident proof of Madame de Pënâfiel's duplicity; then, tortured
by jealousy and wild with anger and wounded pride, I arose, and said,
with perfect coolness:

"You are my friend, madame?"

"Oh, a very devoted and sincere one," she replied, with such a joyful
look of gratitude.

"Then I can speak freely to you?"

"Speak as you would to a sister," she said to me, as she held out her
hand, smiling, and pleased to find that at last we understood each
other.

I took her beautiful hand and kissed it; then I continued:

"As to a sister? Well, let it be so, for no doubt, in this amusing
comedy, you expect me to take the part of an honourable but stupid
brother, who bemoans with his sister her unrequited love."

She looked wildly at me; her hands fell again on her knees; she was
unable to utter a word. I continued:

"But we will not speak of that. I wish to tell you, as a friend, the
various convictions which, thanks to my knowledge of your frankness,
have passed through my mind since I saw you bowed at the foot of the
crucifix. As for that charming pantomime, I must say that you were in a
most artistic pose. Your eyes raised to heaven, your clasped hands, your
tears,--it was a beautiful piece of acting; so, as I had no faith in
your grief, but a great deal in your talent for mystification, I waited
to see the comedy acted out."

"A comedy!" said she, not seeming to understand my words.

"A mystification, madame, of which I should have been the ridiculous
object, had I been weak enough to offer to console you, or to make you
any sentimental speeches on the subject of melancholy, misanthropy, lost
illusions, and other strange nightmares that were supposed to be wearing
my life away."

"This is all very dreadful!" said she, as though stunned by a blow. "I
am horrified, and yet I do not understand--"

"Then I must speak more clearly, madame. The confession you wished me to
make was to serve as amusement for your friends, when you should tell it
in your charmingly malicious way,--like the way you told me about M. de
Cernay's offer of marriage."

"But what you are saying is horrible!" she cried, wringing her hands in
alarm. "Could you believe--?"

"Yes, I believed it at first, but after your confession of disgust for
the world, and a nameless sorrow, which I now can easily understand, I
recognised that the second rôle I was to play was even worse than this;
for, in the first rôle, I was to force a woman of your rank to play a
comedy to puzzle me, and it was so well performed, that I was quite
proud to serve in any capacity that would give you an opportunity of
exercising your rare talent for serious comedy."

"Monsieur," cried Madame de Pënâfiel, rising to her full height, "do
you understand that you are speaking to me?" But she suddenly changed
her haughty accent, and, clasping her hands, said: "It is enough to make
me insane. I beseech you, explain yourself. What is it that you mean?
Why should I wish to puzzle you? What rôle did I wish you to perform?
Ah, be merciful, and do not blight the only moment of confidence, the
only appeal for sympathy that I have given way to for so many long,
weary months. If you only knew."

"I know," said I, in the fiercest and most insulting way, as I
approached her, so that I might place my foot on the medallion, and
crush it,--"I know, madame, that if I were a woman, and a man should
scorn my love, I would rather die of shame and despair than to make the
first comer, who cared nothing about them, such humiliating confessions,
as weak and silly for the one who tells them as they are revolting and
wearisome to the one who is obliged to hear them."

"Monsieur, how dare you be so audacious? How dare you to suppose--?"

"This!" said I, pointing with a scornful look at the portrait at her
feet; then, pressing my boot on the medallion, I crushed the crystal.

"It is a sacrilege!" cried out Madame de Pënâfiel, quickly stooping to
seize the portrait, which she took in her two hands, and turned on me
her eyes that were blazing with indignation.

"It may be sacrilege, madame, but I treat your divinity as well as he
treats you." Then I bowed myself out.




CHAPTER XXII


CONTRADICTIONS


After this interview, my anger and jealousy were for some hours so
furious that the only thing I regretted was not to have been even more
cruel and insolent to Madame de Pënâfiel.


By the violence of these transports of rage, I recognised the extent of
my love for her,--a love whose depths I had not before sounded.

This medallion that I had discovered was to my eyes sufficient proof of
the truth of my last suspicions, and if they were true, why should not
those other stories be true, that had distressed me so at first? Now I
no longer believed that she had wished to force me into confiding in her
so that she might mock at me afterwards. I thought that another refused
to requite the love that I would have given my life to obtain.

Then the calm of reason succeeded to the tumultuous excitement of
passion; I could think calmly of my real position towards Madame de
Pënâfiel. I had never alluded in any way to the great affection I bore
her; why, then, should I be astonished at her confession, and the secret
I thought I had discovered? How could I have treated her so? A woman,
suffering perhaps from an unreturned affection, an incurable love, who
was ignorant of my feelings towards her, and, relying on my generosity,
came to me, if not for consolation, at least for my sympathy and pity.
But my watchful jealousy and my anger were not to be quieted by these
wise reflections. Who was that man whose portrait I had meant to crush?
I had been in constant attendance on Madame de Pënâfiel for a long
time, and I had seen no one that I could suppose to be the object of
this unrequited passion that I suspected.

Her grief and her regrets, therefore, had existed for a long time. I
understood now many singularities that were never clearly seen before,
and that were so variously interpreted by the world, her sudden
silences, her ennui, her disdain, her wild outbursts of enthusiasm which
some souvenir would evoke, and which, as often as not, ended in fits of
regret or despair. There was some object in her coquetry and her
constant desire to please, but when could this mysterious personage
enjoy the sight of all these charms? I sought the answer to this enigma
in vain, though I remembered the reticence of her last conversation, and
her embarrassment when, no doubt, she was on the point of telling me her
secret sorrow.

But who could be the object of this fervent and unfortunate passion? Of
this love that had caused her for the last few weeks a more profound
grief than ever before?

Loving Marguerite as I loved her, ought I to attempt to offer her the
tenderest of consolations? Might I hope to supplant in her heart this
painful souvenir? Would I succeed if I made the attempt, should I dare
to try? Tortured by regret and despair, this unhappy woman, who was so
noble and refined, had become so susceptible through suffering, and so
shy, that, for fear of wounding her sensitive nature, I could not,
without the greatest tact, speak to her of a happier future.

And yet, in asking me to bewail her sufferings, had she not with rare
delicacy and tact understood that certain great misfortunes invest one
with such dignity, such majestic sorrow, that the most devoted, the most
loving are compelled to be silent, and to wait until the victim of this
royal grief speaks first, as other princes are obliged to do, and says,
"Come to me, for my misfortune is great."


What hope could I now have, even supposing Madame de Pënâfiel to have
given way to a secret liking for me when she addressed me with such
confidence? My language to her had been so brutal, so strange, that it
was impossible for me to imagine what the consequences might be.

Sometimes the very excess of my insolence reassured me. My answers had
been so insulting, so violent, such a contrast to my former behaviour
towards her, not to seem incomprehensible. Knowing her own merit,
surrounded by every attention, and constantly flattered, she must have
been more astounded than angered by my words, and she is probably still
at a loss to discover the key to my conduct.

I am not sure whether this thought was inspired by hope or despair. But
though I felt thoroughly ashamed of my impertinence, I ended by
persuading myself that the outrageousness of my conduct, far from
injuring my prospects, might be of great service to me, and, had I
planned it all, I could not have managed it better.

In every love affair, the main thing, I think, is to excite and fill the
imagination. To attain this end there is nothing more successful than a
contrast. Therefore, it is above all things necessary that the
impression you are to make should be essentially different from all
those hitherto received, though at some later day, by your devotion and
love, you may have to obliterate any bad impression you have made in the
beginning.

If a woman has ordinarily but few friends, and is unused to flattery,
there is no better way of captivating her mind, and afterwards her
heart, than by the most extreme carefulness of her comfort, by the most
delicate attentions; her vanity rejoices in these thousand respectful
and tender proofs of solicitude, to which she had never been accustomed.
It is in this manner we can explain the frequent and wonderful success
of men who are no longer young, but who have great refinement and
persistence. Such men can completely subjugate young girls, and even
young married women.

On the other hand, does a woman fill a high position? is she continually
and basely flattered? Then severity and haughtiness often have a
powerful effect on her. Some women have to be treated as clever
courtiers treat princes, with a certain amount of firmness, even
brusqueness. If the rude outspoken language does not please them at
first, it surprises, astonishes, and often subjugates them; for it is
such a contrast to the commonplace and stupid things they hear every
day, from every class of men, that it is frequently far from injuring
the man who dares to make use of it. Applying these thoughts to my
position, I said to myself: "The hardness and disdain with which I
received Madame de Pënâfiel's confidences, my anger at the sight of
the portrait she attempted to hide, can easily be attributed to the
violence of my love, which she has, no doubt, guessed by this time; now,
rages caused by love are always excusable, especially in the eyes of the
woman who is loved, and as Marguerite is high-minded and generous, she
will understand how miserable I was when I believed her about to
entertain me with a tale of her unrequited affection."

Sometimes, arguing in another way, I thought I might be mistaken, and
that, after all, Madame de Pënâfiel was not in love with any one else.
Then my old suspicions returned, and I wondered why I should ever have
dismissed them. This portrait was only one of the accessories of the
comedy I accused her of acting. Then, as I had but a poor and mean
opinion of myself, which was not improved by the realisation of my
latest conduct, it was, I believed, impossible that Madame de Pënâfiel
should have any sympathy for me, so I tried to explain her apparent
confidence by assigning her the meanest motives.

This aroused my anger more than ever, and I applauded my insolence.

In the midst of this uncertainty and anxiety this restless and agonising
fever, I received the following note from Madame de Pënâfiel:


"I am waiting for you. Come--you must--come immediately.

M."


It was nine o'clock, I started off instantly almost wild with joy. She
had sent for me. I might still hope.




CHAPTER XXIII


MARGUERITE


On entering the room, I was overcome with astonishment at finding Madame
de Pënâfiel in almost the same attitude as when I left her.

Her face was deadly pale, fearful to see; it was like a marble mask.

This sickly paleness that had so suddenly changed her appearance, this
expression of grief and resignation, touched me so deeply that all my
reasonings and all my miserable suspicions vanished in an instant; it
seemed as though I loved her for the first time with the most confiding
and sincere love. I had no thought, even of asking her forgiveness for
all that was hateful in my behaviour towards her.

I had no thoughts to waste on the miserable past. By I know not what
magic, all I thought of now was how to console her for some dreadful
grief of which I knew nothing. I was about to throw myself at her knees,
when she said, in such an altered voice that I scarcely recognised it,
although she attempted to give it an accent of firmness:

"I have sent for you, because I wished to see you for the last time, I
wished to ask you the meaning of the strange words you said to me this
morning,--that is, if you can explain them to yourself; I wished to tell
you--"

Here her pale lips contracted tremulously, with that involuntary
movement one feels when with tearful eyes an attempt is made to prevent
sobbing. "I wished--" said Madame de Pënâfiel in a faint voice. Then
as she could say no more, as she was weeping, she hid her head in her
hands, and I only heard these words pronounced in a stifled voice, "Ah,
poor unhappy woman that I am!"


"Oh, pardon--pardon, Marguerite!" I exclaimed, falling at her feet; "but
do you not know how I love you--how I love you!"

"You love me?"

"Wildly, madly!"

"He loves me! He dares to say that he loves me!" she said, with
indignation.

"This morning the secret of my soul was twenty times on my lips; but
when I saw how unhappy you were--when I listened to your confession--"

"Well!"

"Well! I believed, yes, I believed, that it was love for another, a love
that was not returned, scorned perhaps, and that such unrequited love
was the cause of all the grief which you said was without cause and
unreasonable."

"You believed that,--you!" and she raised her eyes to heaven.

"Yes, I believed it; and then I became wild with hate and despair, for
every one of your confessions was a wound, an insult, an agony to
me,--to me who loved you so fondly."

"You could believe that,--you!" repeated Marguerite, gazing on me with
painful emotion, while two tears trickled slowly down her pale cheeks.

"Yes, and I believe it still."

"You believe it still. But you must think me infamous. Do you not know?"

"I know," I cried out, interrupting her, "I know that I love you to
distraction. I know that another man causes you such suffering as I feel
for you. Well, then, such thoughts have made me desperate, and I am
going away."

"You are going away?"

"Yes, this very night. I did not dare to see you again. I need all my
courage, and I will have it."

"You are going to leave me! But _mon Dieu! mon Dieu!_--and I!"--cried
out Marguerite, and she joined her hands in a gesture that was both
suppliant and despairing, and then fell on her knees before a chair that
stood near by.


How can I ever tell the joy that was awakened in me by that last word of
Marguerite's, "and _I_!"

It was not simply an avowal of love that I heard, but the agonising cry
of her broken heart, which no longer had any hope but in my affection.

Although I still believed her to be under the influence of an unrequited
passion, I had not the courage to renew the scene I had witnessed in the
morning. Still I could not refrain from saying, sadly:

"And that portrait?"

"Here it is," she replied, handing me the medallion, whose crystal was
half broken off.

When I held the portrait between my hands I endured for a moment the
bitterest anguish; I dared not look at the face, fearing to see the
likeness of some one that I knew. When I had overcome this childish
terror, I looked at it. It was the face of a stranger! I saw a noble and
handsome face whose expression was both mild and severe; the hair was
brown, the eyes blue, the whole physiognomy expressed refinement and
grace; the costume was very simple, the only decoration being a broad
orange ribbon with white edges, and a golden medal worn on the left side
of the coat.

"And whose portrait is this?" said I, sadly, to Marguerite.

"It is the portrait of the man I most loved and respected,--M. de
Pënâfiel."

She burst into tears and hid her face in her hands.

Then I understood it all, and believed that I should die of shame and
remorse.

This one word tore the veil from the past, and showed me the frightful
injustice of my suspicions.

"Ah, how you must despise and hate me!" I cried out in my distress. She
gave no answer, but held out her hand that I knelt before and kissed
with as much veneration as love.

After some time Marguerite became calm. Never in my life can I forget
the first look she gave me when she raised her tear-stained face towards
mine; in that look there was reproach, pardon, and pity.

"You have been very cruel, or else out of your mind," said she, after a
long silence, "but I cannot be angry with you. I should have told you
everything; twenty times at least, I have tried to do so, but I was
afraid, you were so ironical and cold, your sudden and extraordinary
conversion to the pleasures of the world,--everything repelled me."

"Ah, I believe it, I believe it, how can you ever pardon me? But, yes;
you will forgive me when I tell you how much I have suffered by this
frightful suspicion. Ah, if you knew how unjust and hateful grief can
make a man! If you knew what it was to say, 'I love her to distraction,
I idolise her, there is not a charm of her mind, her soul, or her person
that I do not appreciate and admire, she is for me all in all,--and yet
another--' ah, can you not see how such an idea is enough to set one
wild, to make a man wish to die? Think of it, and you will have pity on
me,--you will excuse because you will understand my rages, which I
scarcely am ashamed of because I was wild from suffering."

"Did I not pardon you when I said to you, 'Return,' after that frightful
morning?" said she, with the greatest gentleness.

"Oh, my life, my whole life shall be spent in expiation of this hour of
folly. Marguerite, I swear that in me you will have the most devoted
friend, the kindest brother; let me only come and worship you, let me
come each day to contemplate in you the treasures of nobility, candour,
and goodness that for an instant I misunderstood. You shall see that I
am worthy of your confidence."

"Oh, now I believe you, and you shall know everything. I will tell you
all, I will tell you what I have never dared to confide to any other;
and yet you must not think that I am about to tell you any extraordinary
secret. Nothing is simpler than what you are going to hear. It is only
the proof of the saying, 'If the world can always discover false and
guilty sentiments, it never believes there are any sentiments that are
natural, true, and generous.'"

"Ah, what shame, what remorse must it ever be to me to have shared such
stupid and malicious prejudices! Why did I not listen to the inward
voice that said to me, 'Believe, have faith in her?' With what noble
exultation could I now have said, 'I alone was able to understand her
pure and generous nature!'"

"Comfort yourself, my friend, for I will teach you how to understand me.
Does not that show that I have more confidence in you than you have in
yourself? If I am willing to tell you all, does it not prove that you
are the only person whose good opinion I care for? So if I desire to
explain to you the apparent singularity of my life, which has been so
misunderstood, it is because I wish, I hope, in the future to be able to
give utterance to every thought in your hearing. This avowal requires
some knowledge of the past; listen to me, then, my story will be short
because it is true.

"I was a very rich heiress, free to choose whom I wished, spoiled by the
homage that was paid as much to my fortune as to myself. At eighteen I
had never loved any one. On a voyage I made to Italy, with M. and Madame
de Blémur, I met M. de Pënâfiel. Though he was still young, he was
the Spanish ambassador to Naples at a time when political troubles were
very complicated; this will show you what a superior man he was. When,
in addition, he was handsome,"--here she showed me the portrait,--"with
charming manners, high principles, an extremely noble character, perfect
taste, superior education, appreciative sense of all the arts, an
illustrious name and a large fortune, you will be able to know his
worth. I met him, I appreciated him, I loved him. The incidents of our
marriage were very simple, for all interests were united. Only, soon
after our first interview, he begged me to tell him if I authorised him
to ask for my hand, as, knowing that I was entirely free in my choice,
he wished to spare me any advances that my uncle might have to make in
his name. I told him very innocently the great joy his proposal was to
me, but I besought him to give up a career that would necessarily keep
him always at a distance from France, and to promise not to live in
Spain. His answer was noble and prompt. 'I will sacrifice cheerfully my
dreams of ambition,' he said, 'but not the interests of my country. When
my mission here is accomplished, I will return to Spain to thank the
king for his confidence in me, and render him an account of what I hope
to be a successful negotiation; then I will belong entirely to you and
do as you think best.' It was thus that he acted. He obtained all that
his government had wished, went to Madrid to make his adieux to the
king, returned, and we were married. I shall not speak again of our
happiness, but I will now tell you that it was perfect and mutual.
However, as in the eyes of the world the arrangements had been so
suitable, the world would never admit that it had been a love match, but
insisted that it was simply a marriage of convenience."

"That is true, at least it is what I have always been given to
understand; indeed, it is generally believed that, while you and M. de
Pënâfiel were always the best of friends, your existence was, as often
happens, quite apart from his."

"How false! What an absurdity! but it must have been believed, for our
happiness was so simple and natural that the world, not understanding
true love, could not give us credit for it. Besides, we liked to make a
sort of mystery of our felicity, so how could society, accustomed as it
is to scandal, suppose for an instant that a young wife and a charming
husband of equal position and birth could go the length of adoring and
wishing to live for one another? Alas! though, nothing was ever more
true."

"Now, at last, all is explained clearly to my mind. Do you remember the
absurd and malicious interpretation of that race and the story about
Ismaël?"

"Of course I do."

"Very well; your marriage was interpreted with about as much truth. As
nothing was more evident than the irreproachableness of your conduct,
slander arranged for you a mysterious subterranean life. I assure you it
is astonishing to listen to. They even told of disguises and a little
far away house in the suburbs."

"If I was not so sad, I would smile with you, my friend, at all these
wicked falsehoods, but I have got to a period in my souvenirs when all
is so cruel, so distressing," and she held out her hand to me, "that I
have hardly courage enough to speak of it. After three years of complete
and passionate happiness,--after--"

Marguerite could say no more, she burst into tears, and it was some
moments before she continued.

"Yes, yes, I know," said I to her as I knelt before her, "I know how
admirable and devoted you were all that dreadful time. Now that I have
looked into your soul, now that I know who it was that filled it, and
fills it still with his souvenir, I understand how agonising such an
eternal separation must be to you."

After a few moments of silence Marguerite began again: "Thanks, thanks,
for understanding me thus. _Mon Dieu!_ Since that dreadful moment this
is the first time that my grief is not unbearable, my tears not bitter,
for I can relieve my heart by speaking of my sorrows. I can tell how
much I loved and how much I have suffered. Alas! while in the midst of
so much felicity I needed no friend to talk about it, but since,--oh,
since all this affliction has come to me I have been so lonely! If you
only knew what a life I have led! Obliged to hide my grief, my sad
regrets, as I used to hide my delights! To whom could I tell them? Who
was there to console me? The world sometimes has pity for a guilty love,
but for a sacred sorrow like mine it has nothing but abuse, for it is
either ridiculous or a lie. Weep thus for one's husband! Regret him so
bitterly! Live only in the remembrance of one who was so dear! Who ever
would believe that? And then why should I speak of it? And to whom? My
relations were quite too worldly to understand my grief; and then I had
been so selfish in my happy days that I had never tried to make friends.
He--he alone was all I cared for. To whom would I have cared to tell how
happy I was? To him, and to him alone! Besides, with all the
carelessness of boundless felicity, I never even thought that misfortune
could come near me."

"Alas, poor friend, how miserable you must have been! To suffer alone is
so frightful!"

"Yes, yes, I have suffered, believe me. Sometimes, through a timidity of
which I am ashamed, I was afraid of being alone. In the darkness and
silence my grief would almost overpower me. It grew upon me that at
times I was terrified, and then I took refuge in society. I detested it,
but I needed its noise and excitement to take my mind off thoughts that
were strained to such a point that I feared for my reason. When this
strain was over and I was calm once more, I railed at the vain joys of
the world for having caused me to forget my grief. I lamented my
cowardice, and thus my days passed in constant moods of contradiction.
This is not all. I knew that my sorrows were the cause of slanderous
tales, and yet I neither would nor could justify myself. Oh, if you only
knew how cruel it is to have nothing but the truth as a defence,--the
truth which, in your eyes, is so sacred, so venerated, that it would
seem a profanation to tell it to the incredulous and careless."

Marguerite again wept silently. She continued, after a pause: "Now you
can understand my disdain for every one and everything. Soured by my
trouble, I became irritable and capricious, and as no one understood the
cause, I was called fantastic. The people that surrounded me seemed
vulgar when compared to the one whose souvenir shall always be sacred;
and so they said I was scornful or deceitful. The useless coquetry that
I was reproached with, and to which they assigned the worst motives, was
but another tribute to his memory. I wore these beautiful clothes
because he loved to see me wear them. All these beautiful surroundings,
these flowers, this half-light in which he used to veil my features,
alas! they were all so many precious souvenirs. Finally, those
scientific smatterings that people chose to call pretentious were only
sad reflections of past days, for, being a savant himself, he loved to
talk to me of his various attainments.

"What more can I say, my friend? Living alone, the manner of my living
seems too ostentatious, and so I am called haughty and vain, and yet it
is because this house was his home that I keep it up as he did. Now you
know the secret of my life. Before I met you I cared very little whether
the world approved of me or not. I was called a vain, extravagant flirt.
What did it matter? I cared nothing for their odious tales; they were
perfectly uninteresting to me; but since I have learned to appreciate
all your good qualities, and have seen how easily you were influenced by
the world's ill-natured opinion of me, I set such price on your esteem,
your affection, that I could not bear to have you judge me as others do.
And besides, you have often generously undertaken to defend me, and I
wished to prove to you that your natural instincts were noble and just.
And now I have still a painful confession to make to you."

"Marguerite, I implore you--"

"Yes," she continued, blushing, "I have struggled against it a long
time. This morning, when you found me so wretched, so forlorn, I had
been praying God for strength to resist the need I felt of
rehabilitating myself in your sight."

"Why, oh, why? Am I not worthy of your confidence?"

"Yes, yes, you are; you always will be. I believe it, but I reproached
myself bitterly that I was not so sure of the purity of my motives, the
sincerity of my regrets, to remain indifferent as to the effect the
world's calumnies might have on you, for I tremble for the future."

Here there are many pages missing in the "Journal."




CHAPTER XXIV


DAYS OF SUNSHINE


There are but few persons, I imagine, who have not created for
themselves a sort of intimate language, which they use to separate and
classify the different emotions and events of their lives. It was thus
that I gave the name of "days of sunshine" to those few fortunate hours
that brightened my existence, which were fixed in my memory in such
vivid colours that even the remembrance of them sufficed to cheer the
dullest days of my after life.

At such times, when, by a turn of her wheel, fortune seems to amuse
herself by raising a man to the very height of his fondest desire, on
such "days of sunshine" everything that happens to us is not only just
as we would wish, but the environment is such that our senses are doubly
gratified.

And who is there that has not had his day of sunshine once at least in
his life? One of those days when everything is beautiful and splendid,
when the soul is filled with an ineffable sense of satisfaction, and
Nature herself seems to contribute to our felicity? When if a
long-cherished friend said, in a trembling voice: "To-night!" the night
was so beautiful, the heavens so clear, the woods beautiful in their
fresh foliage, the flowers glistening, the air saturated with perfume,
and everything that you gazed on was smiling and peaceful.

No shadow of sadness came to obscure your luminous aureole. Is it
needful to say how such rare and divine harmony delighted you? New and
happily turned expressions came spontaneously to your lips; your lively
wit sparkled in a thousand graceful pleasantries; when that is silent
your heart murmurs ineffable tenderness. You feel yourself to be so
brave, so proud, so gifted, that to your dazzled eyes the future is
boundless, the perspective illimitable and glorious, and you say to
yourself, "No misfortune can come to me while I am under the guidance of
the radiant genius who shelters me with his golden wings."


Since Marguerite had declared her love, a love so long and sadly
struggled against by every souvenir of her past happiness, my incurable
distrust had succumbed, at least for the time being, to the most
intoxicating proofs of her affection.

There never were happier or more beautiful days than those that followed
this avowal.

Almost every evening, on returning home, I had written in my journal a
memento of these charming days.

Therefore it is with tender and respectful emotion that in writing this
memoir I transcribe these fragments which were written during one of the
most delightful periods of my life.




I


APRIL, 18--.

I have been fortunate enough to-day to spare Marguerite a moment's
annoyance, but poor Candid is dead.

I have just seen him die. Brave, noble horse! I loved him well!

George does not weep for him, he is in a stupid despair; he said to me
in English, with a horrified look as he pointed to the expiring beast:
"Ah, monsieur, to die like that! and never to have run against any one,
never to have run a race!"

Poor Candid! his end was peaceful, he went down on his knees, then he
fell over, two or three times he raised his noble head and opened his
great bright eyes,--then he half closed them, gave a sigh, and was dead.

I never loved a horse so well, nor will I ever care for another one as I
did for him, he was so intelligent and beautiful, he had so much energy
and adroitness, besides being perfectly intrepid! He never balked at
anything; was there an obstacle at the sight of which another horse
would have hesitated, he came up to it proud, calm, and brave, and
leaped over it as though it were play.

And then he looked so free and joyous under the bridle, one would have
said that the valiant animal was under no restraint, but wore the bit as
an ornament.

Poor Candid! his courage was my pride! Confiding in his strength, I
dared to face dangers that otherwise would have affrighted me.

Trusting in his speed and stubborn energy, I accepted every wager. Poor
Candid! it was his speed and stubborn energy that were the causes of his
death.

He was the only horse I owned that could have done what he did, what
very few would have attempted; he accomplished his task valiantly and
gained me a smile from Marguerite.

Poor Candid! I did not know to what risk I exposed him, and now--I do
not know whether I should have the courage to do it again. This is the
cause of Candid's death:

This morning we went with Don Luiz to see the Château of ----, that
Marguerite wishes to purchase; this château is at a distance of three
leagues and a half from Paris. In visiting the apartments I gave my arm
to Marguerite, and we were followed by Don Luiz and the overseer of the
château.

When we were in the library, we noticed a very fine portrait of a lady
of the seventeenth century; the hands were adorable in their delicacy
and beauty of form.

They were so adorable that they resembled Marguerite's.

She denied it; so I begged her to take off her glove and let us compare
her hands with those of the portrait. They were strikingly alike. How
could I see such beautiful hands without kissing them?

We heard Don Luiz's step, and we continued our examination of the
library.

After seeing the château we returned to Paris. As Marguerite felt
tired, she asked me to come and spend a quiet evening with her. I
promised to do so.

When I arrived there I found her pale and sad; she was evidently quite
overcome.

"What is the matter?" said I to her.

"You will laugh at me,"--she had tears in her eyes,--"but I have lost a
bracelet that belonged to my mother; I had it on this morning. You know
how I prize it, and will understand how grieved I am. I have sought for
it everywhere. It is nowhere--nowhere!"

As she told me this, I remembered confusedly having seen, when
Marguerite took off her glove, something that shone brilliantly, and
which fell to the floor just as I was kissing her hand in the library,
but, being so enchanted by the kiss, I paid no attention to anything
else.

"I am so foolishly superstitious about the possession of that bracelet,"
said Marguerite, "that I will be dreadfully unhappy if it is really
lost, but what hope can I have? Have I any? Ah, pardon, my friend, for
my showing such sorrow for anything which does not concern you, but if
you only knew how much that bracelet meant to me-- Ah, what a sad night
I shall spend, how unhappy I shall be!"

There flashed through my mind one of those ideas that come to us when we
are desperately in love. I had a very fast race-horse,--it was Candid;
it was three leagues and a half from Paris to the Château of ----; the
night was fine, the moon shone clear, the road was a splendid one. I
wished to spare Marguerite not only a night, but an hour, even a few
moments of grief, by finding out in the least time possible if the
bracelet had been left in the library of ----, even at the risk of
killing my horse.

"Pardon for my selfishness," said I to Marguerite, "but your distress
and the loss you have sustained have reminded me that I foolishly left
the key in the lock of a little chest which contains important papers. I
have every confidence in my _valet de chambre_, but others besides he
might enter my room. Permit me, then, to write a note, that I will send
back by the carriage, to tell him to get the key, and bring it to me."

I wrote the following words:

"George is to saddle Candid instantly, he must go to the Château de
---- and ask the overseer if he has not found a bracelet in the library.
When George gets this note it will be ten o'clock, by eleven o'clock you
must either bring the bracelet or the answer to the Hôtel de
Pënâfiel."

The letter was sent.

It was rather more than three leagues and a half to the Château de ----
from Paris. He would have to travel seven leagues in an hour. Such a
thing was possible with a horse like Candid, but it was a hundred to one
that it would ruin him. Until ten o'clock I had sufficient control over
myself to amuse Marguerite and take her mind off her loss.

Eleven o'clock struck, George had not returned. At five minutes past
eleven a _valet de chambre_ came in, bringing on a waiter a small
package, which he presented to me.

It was Marguerite's bracelet.

I cannot express the transports of joy with which I received it.

"You will pardon me," I said to Marguerite, "the tardiness of my
servants. Not knowing the value you set on that bracelet, I stole it
from you, but seeing your extreme annoyance, I pretended that I had
forgotten my key, and wrote to my _valet de chambre_ to send me a little
package that he would find in my coffer."

"Oh, I have found it, I have found it! I forgive you!" cried Marguerite,
in a transport of joy; then, holding out her hand, she added: "Ah, how
kind you are to have taken pity on my weakness, and how I thank you for
having sent to your house for the bracelet, in order to save me a few
moments' distress."

I admit that, in spite of Marguerite's joy and gratitude, I was horribly
anxious when, at half-past eleven, I quitted the Hôtel de Pënâfiel.
At midnight, my anxiety was all over. Poor Candid! He had just expired,
I told George, by way of explanation, that I had laid a wager for three
hundred louis that Candid could go to ---- and back by night in an hour.




II


APRIL, 18--.

I met Marguerite in the Champs Élysées. She spoke of horses, and said
to me: "Why do you not make Candid run oftener? They say he is so fast,
so handsome, and that you are so fond of him,--oh, so fond, that I am
almost jealous," she added, laughing.

At this moment M. de Cernay, who, like myself, was on horseback, rode up
to the side of Madame de Pënâfiel's carriage. He bowed to her, and
said to me:

"Is this true that I hear? Is Candid dead?"

Marguerite looked at me with amazement.

"He is dead," said I to M. de Cernay.

"That is what I was told, but it does not surprise me,--to travel more
than seven leagues at night, in an hour and four minutes! No matter how
full-blooded a horse was, it would be hard for him to stand such a trial
as that, and when he was not in condition! And your wager was for three
hundred louis, I believe?"

"Yes, three hundred louis."

"Well, between us, you have done a foolish thing, for I have seen you
refuse more than that for him, and very properly, too, for you would
never get such a horse for five hundred louis. I tell you this because
he is dead now," he added, with great simplicity.

"A horse's reputation, then, seems to be like that of a great man," I
said, laughing, "jealousy prevents him from being appreciated while he
is alive."

Marguerite's expressive look almost repaid me for the loss of Candid.




III


APRIL, 18--.

What a bewildering day! It has been so filled with happy hours that I
fondly listen to their distant echoes in my heart.

It has been a radiantly beautiful day. As we had agreed upon yesterday,
I met Marguerite in the Bois; her face, which is still rather pale,
seemed to bloom afresh in the sunlight. She was on foot, and before
joining her I followed her at some distance in the Alley of the Acacias.
Nothing could be more elegant than her walk, or than her figure, whose
suppleness and grace was only half hidden by the shawl that was wrapped
around her. I also watched for some time her little feet, as, at each
step, they raised the flowing edge of her dress.

I joined her, and she blushed deeply when she saw me. I am more than
ever convinced of the value of this symptom. As soon as it ceases, as
soon as the sight of the beloved one no longer causes the blood to rush
from the heart to the face, real love, ardent and young, has
disappeared; a weak and chilly affection has come in its place;
indifference and forgetfulness are not far off.

I gave her my arm. As she scarcely touched it, I begged her to lean on
it more.

The air was pure and mild, the turf was beginning to look green, the
violets to blossom. We spoke very little at first. From time to time she
turned her face up to mine, and looked smilingly at me, while her large
eyes seemed to swim in clear crystal; then her nostrils would dilate, as
she said, eagerly, "Oh, how good it is to breathe thus the springtime
and happiness!"

When we saw the Heights of Calvary we talked about the country, the
great forests, the fields, and the beautiful and vast treasures of
nature. Our conversation was often interrupted by long pauses. After one
of these, she said to me: "I wish you could come to Brittany; we would
take long, long walks together, and I would plant you in our woods, so
that later, when I was all alone, I should gather in a rich harvest of
tender recollections."

I replied that I had nothing to tell her in return for such charming
flattery, and I was really glad it was so, for nothing is more tiresome
than those persons who repay you instantly, by returning a pretty
compliment or delicate attention, as though they wished to rid
themselves at any price of an intolerable debt. We met several men and
women of our acquaintance on foot as we were. After they had passed us
and we had exchanged bows, we laughingly declared that we would like to
know what they were saying about us.

While telling of our walk, I wish to say that Marguerite told me that
Paris was becoming odious to her; that she had formed a fine project,
but would not disclose it to me until the first of May. Impossible to
make her tell any more.

At four o'clock the old Chevalier Don Luiz rejoined us, and we all three
continued our walk for awhile. Madame de Pënâfiel and I each had some
visits to make and so I left her. That night she was to go to a ball,
and we agreed that I should go to see her at ten o'clock to have the
first glimpse of her toilet, of which she made a great mystery.

On leaving Marguerite I called on Madame de ----. Our happiness is
already very well known. Formerly, people would speak very freely about
Madame de Pënâfiel in my presence; now no one ever pronounces her name
before me, or, if they do so, it is always accompanied with the most
exaggerated praise. I noticed this for the first time at Madame de
----'s.

One of her friends who has just arrived from Italy, and is ignorant of
the latest liaisons in society, said to her, after having received
information about several ladies of his acquaintance: "And what about
Madame de Pënâfiel? I hope you have got some good story to tell me
about her. Come, tell us who is the fortunate or unfortunate man of the
hour? Tell me all about it. You owe that much to a man who arrives from
the antipodes and knows nothing of what is going on; besides, unless I
have some information I shall make some terrible blunders."

"But you are crazy," replied Madame de ----, blushing deeply, and
glancing towards me; "you know how I perfectly detest such gossip,
especially when it is about one of my best friends; for my affection for
Marguerite dates from our childhood." She said this very meaningly.

"One of your best friends! Ah, that is charming, ah, yes," replied this
stupid man, who understood nothing. "One of your best friends, 'tis very
good! But then, you know they say, 'Who loves well chastises well,' and
you used to tell me hundreds of entertaining tales about her, each one
more spiteful than the other."

Madame de ----'s embarrassment was so great that I took pity on her.

"Then I am not the only one that you have attempted to draw into that
trap," I said to her, laughing.

"A trap?" said the newcomer.

"A trap, monsieur," I answered, "a trap baited with malice, into which
even I, who am one of Madame de Pënâfiel's sincerest and most devoted
friends, had almost fallen."

"Ah, do you believe me capable of such treachery?" replied Madame de
----, smiling, but not understanding my meaning.

"Certainly, madame, I think you are, for it is an excellent way of
discovering our friends' partisans; you pretend to have heard some
dreadful scandal concerning an intimate friend, and, according to the
way your acquaintances defend or attack the truth of your statement, you
can judge of their kindly or inimical feelings; so that afterwards, when
your friend hears their protestations of affection, she will be able to
accept them at their true value."

"Ah, you are terribly indiscreet," said Madame de ----, with the
pretence of a smile. The newcomer from Italy was quite astounded.
Another visitor entering, I went out.


At ten o'clock I went to Marguerite's. I hoped I should have to wait for
her, for I find it delightful to be for awhile alone, and dreamily enjoy
the quiet of a salon in which the beloved one passes so much of her
life, and then to see it suddenly illumined by her presence. But I had
not this pleasure, for she was already there and waiting for me. This
victory that I had won over the important and pleasing duties of the
toilet, this delicate and unusual attention of being ready to receive
me, gave me the greatest delight.

Marguerite was adorable. She wore a dress of pale green moire, trimmed
with lace and bows of rose-coloured ribbon, from the centre of which
blossomed great pink roses. One of these flowers was in the corsage, and
another one in her hair. She brought me one of her bracelets to fasten
for her, which I did, but not without imprinting a kiss on that
beautiful arm so white and round.

I wished her to tell me her great secret of the first of May, but she
said that this springtime of hope must still remain a mystery.

I told her about my morning visit to Madame ----, and we both laughed at
it; but Marguerite said she was too happy now to care for the falsehoods
that were said of her. Then we spoke of a very beautiful foreigner, who
had made a great sensation in society, and she thanked me gaily for
having shown so much attention to that charming person.

"And why should you thank me for that?" I asked.

"Because when a man flirts with other women, it is a sure sign that he
is absolutely certain of the heart of the one woman he loves. Thus, you
see, I am very proud to have inspired such confidence, and such
security."


At eleven o'clock she ordered her carriage.

As I was expressing my gratitude at this opportunity of being entirely
alone, Marguerite answered: "This is nothing; wait until my first of
May."

I went for a short visit to the Opéra. It was very brilliant. I found
M. de Cernay in our box. What he calls my good fortune continues to
annoy him; for he never forgets to tell me how pleased he is to see her
so seriously attached to me; it was sure to happen one day or another.
Besides, she must be tired of leading such a life of excitement. Her
craze for Ismaël was but a piece of folly; her inclination for M. de
Merteuil was only a caprice; her other mysterious but well-known
adventures were simply to satisfy a wild imagination, while the
affection she had for me was quite another thing.

According to my custom, I obstinately denied my good fortune, whereupon
M. de Cernay accused me of dissimulation, of trying to hide what all
Paris was aware of. He finished by predicting that, if I persisted in
remaining so secretive, I would never have a friend in the world. This
prediction really caused me serious annoyance.

I went to Madame de ----'s ball to join Marguerite. On entering the
salons I had not to go far to find her. Who can explain that instinct,
that strange faculty, thanks to which an instant and a single look
suffice for a man to discover in a crowded room, among hundreds of other
men and women, the person of all others he desires to meet?

Marguerite was conversing with Madame de ----, when I discovered her.
She received me with a perfect graciousness and a marked preference,
although she was surrounded by several others. I speak of this
peculiarity, because most women who have special interest in some
particular man think they show a great deal of tact in receiving the one
they care for most with affected indifference or even positive rudeness.

Madame de ---- is very lively, intelligent, and gay, of a frank and
sensible disposition, indulgent, but not commonplace, and very fierce
and disagreeable, when any of her absent friends are attacked.
Marguerite and I are fortunate enough to be favourites of hers. They sat
down on a small sofa, and I taking a chair behind them, we made a
thousand amusing remarks about every one and everything. Finally we
spoke of pictures, and Madame de ---- said to me:

"I know that you have a charming collection of paintings. Why do you not
give us a supper some evening and invite some of our friends, so that we
can all admire your marvels?"

"With the greatest pleasure," I replied. "But it must be understood that
I will not invite any of the husbands; they spoil everything, like a man
in a ballet."

"Quite the contrary," she said to me, "it will be very entertaining, for
in many liaisons there is as much tiresome stupidity and jealousy as in
conjugal life. Many husbands are very amiable, and the only thing
against them is that they are husbands." After having discussed the
question for some time, we agreed to invite a reasonable proportion of
both husbands and lovers.

It was getting late. Marguerite begged her cousin, Don Luiz, to call the
carriage. While she was waiting for it, I threw her cloak over her
beautiful shoulders, and said, in a low voice, "At eleven o'clock,
to-morrow?"

She blushed deeply, and softly pressed my hand when I gave her the fan.

I understood what it meant.

Don Luiz offered his arm, and they went away.

Returning home, I have just written the details of this day, which was
apparently so devoid of interest and yet has been filled with charming
episodes. Yes, a series of charming little episodes. Nothing in
themselves, but the making of a memorable day when linked together. It
is, then, a bouquet composed of a thousand happy souvenirs as
intoxicating as the perfume of a thousand sweet-smelling flowers.




IV


APRIL, 18--.

I went to her house at three o'clock.

I found her as tender and affectionate as ever, but serious, pensive,
and almost sad.

There was no regret or reproachfulness in this sadness; it was a calm,
melancholy mood, a sweet reverie. All her thoughts were elevated and
serious.

I was amazed at this change in her.

In the souls of certain women there are inexhaustible treasures of
delicacy.

With them everything is purified by sacrifice and idealised by the
religious ardour of their love, by a sentiment of sacred duty that they
find in loving, and a melancholy contemplation in which all thought of
the future overwhelms them.

With us the horizon is much more restricted. When once our passion and
our vanity are satisfied by possession, nothing can be more positive,
more decided, than our sensations. The best of us are sometimes tender
and grateful, but most of us are sated and sulky. With some women,
however, it is just the opposite; they are happy and sad by turns,
generally more sad than happy, for melancholy predominates in their
nature, and what they feel is inexpressible. It is both joy and despair,
regret and hope, burning shame and purest love, terrible remorse, and
the intense desire to surrender herself once more.


I remained a long time with Marguerite. Our conversation was
delightfully intimate. She asked me about my family, about my father.
For awhile I was very much saddened by such unaccustomed thoughts. I
confessed everything to her, my ingratitude and indifference to his
memory.

Then Marguerite could not restrain her tears, and said to me: "You
believe, though, in the eternal duration of other affections, since you
dare to ask for my love."

I was so intensely happy that I succeeded in reassuring her as to the
future, and when her melancholy mood had passed she spoke with ineffable
and almost maternal tenderness of my projects, of her annoyance at
seeing me lead such a barren and idle life, whose uselessness she
believed to be the source of all my unhappiness. I replied that at the
present hour her reproaches were without foundation, and that she should
no longer think of me as idle or unhappy, for, as I was to spend my time
in worshipping her, I would be the happiest and best occupied of men.

And as to all this I added a thousand lively speeches, Marguerite took
my hand, and said, with an inexpressible look of goodness, love, and
kind reproach in her lovely eyes, which were filled with tears: "You are
very gay, Arthur!"

"That is because I am so happy, so supremely happy."

"It is strange," said she. "I, too, am happy, completely happy. And yet
you see I am weeping. I have to weep."


Then we talked of signs and omens, and, finally, of divination and
fortune-tellers. As we were wont to do, we discussed the worn out theme,
Is there such a thing as foretelling the future? We ended by coming to
the decision that to-morrow we would meet at Mlle. Lenormand's in the
Rue de Tournon, and have our fortunes told.

I left Marguerite's at half-past six. She forbade me to come again in
the evening, as she said she wished to spend it in writing letters.


When I was alone, and only influenced by my own thoughts, I was more
than ever surprised at the great difference between the impressions of
men and those of women.

After such a morning of sensual intoxication, Marguerite needed silence,
reverie, and solitude, while I felt a positive want of noise,
excitement, and animation. Though intense, my happiness was exuberant. I
felt gay, talkative, amiable, perfectly contented with everything. In
such a mood the gay world, with all its joy and splendour, was the only
place to display my felicity.

Before going to one or two soirées, I went to the theatre to hear the
second act of "Othello." I saw Madame de V---- alone in her box. She
looked, as she always does, charming and exquisitely dressed.

There is nothing prettier ever seen than a beautiful, smiling woman's
face, standing out in brilliant light, against the dark background of an
opera box.

In the entr'acte I went to pay Madame de V---- a visit. She received me
very graciously, I would almost say in a coquettish and provocative
manner, if it were not her usual way, she being born coquettish and
provoking as some women are born blonde or brunette. She is so original,
and bright, and wild, and says everything in such a graceful, lively
way, and with such innocent maliciousness, that people are willing to
forgive her for anything she does.

She began by a lively attack on my devotion to a certain marquise,
saying that the belle marquise was fortunate in being one of her
enemies, as otherwise she would have taken great satisfaction in
disturbing the serenity of our love scenes.

"How is that? You refrain from revenge because she is an enemy?"

"Certainly, we save those nice little treacheries for our best friends,"
said she, "and it is a great pity, for in twenty-four hours, if I chose,
I could make you so much in love with me that you would have to be tied
hand and foot."

"But you did that long ago, and without taking the least trouble," said
I. Then, through one gallant speech to another, I rang the praises of
those ephemeral amours of former days, of those heart to heart
communions which were so ravishing, but which in our days were
unfortunately so rare. Charming meetings, with no yesterday nor
to-morrow, and which leave only a delicious souvenir,--a single pearl.

"I don't agree with you," said she, very gaily; "when it comes to
pearls, I prefer a necklace to a ring."

"Yes, madame; but all the pearls of a necklace are exactly alike, of
equal size, and very monotonous, whereas some pearls are inestimable,
merely on account of their singularity, and are worth more than a whole
necklace."

"That is the reason, no doubt, monsieur, why you have always seemed to
me so precious and peculiar."

Thanks to our chatter, "Othello" was hardly listened to. I say this to
my shame. People were beginning to leave the boxes. "Come, let us be
going," said Madame de V----, "my husband is not here, and I am all
alone again."

"Your husband,--I can understand that, for you know they say, 'It is
only the rich that undervalue their wealth,' but what does surprise me
is that--"

And as I hesitated, she said, very deliberately: "What surprises you is
that M. de ---- is not here to give me his arm and call the carriage for
me; is not that what you wished to say?"

"That is just what, through ferocious envy and a tigerish jealousy, I
did not wish to say at all."

"I have sent him hunting for a week, so as to take him into my good
graces once more," replied Madame de V----, negligently, "for his
absences are delightful."

"Delightful for every one, for I shall be indebted to him for a charming
privilege, if you will accept my arm to go to the door."

"Certainly I will; I was waiting for you to offer it."

"And will my privileges stop at such a small favour as that? Alas!"

"You are very curious and very indiscreet."

"Perhaps so, I should like to be curiously eager, and then indiscreetly
happy."

"But," said she, without answering me, and pointing out a woman whose
appearance was perfectly ludicrous, "look at that poor Madame B----.
They all say she has such stupid eyes. Ridiculous! I think they are the
brightest eyes in the world, for they look as though they wished to run
away from her ugly head."

I forget all the other malicious observations she made, laughing aloud,
as we descended the staircase, she on one step, and I on another.

At last, just as she was leaving, she reminded me that it was a long
time since I had been to see her sketches; that she was very proud of
the progress she had made, and would like to have my opinion on the
subject.

"Madame, I shall be delighted either to criticise or admire so many
marvels, only as I am very severe, and like to give my opinion frankly,
I should be seriously annoyed by the presence of a third party; so I
hope you will close your doors to visitors while I am there."

"But, monsieur, that would seem like a tête-à-tête, a rendezvous."

"Exactly so, madame."

"And my servants?"

"Tell them you do not wish to see any one but your notary."

"And you would pass yourself off--"

"For the notary, for an attorney, for anything you please; if necessary
I will get a package of papers and green spectacles, and then we can
talk as long as we please, without raising any suspicions,--we can talk
business."

"About a will, for instance."

"Certainly, the will of poor ----, whose inheritor I would so like to
be."

"Heavens! how well you act your rôle!" cried Madame de V----.

Just then her carriage was called.

"Very well," said I, as I accompanied her, "then you will expect to see
your notary at three o'clock to-morrow?"

"He can come, and perhaps I will be able to see him."

"Are you going to Madame T----'s concert to-night?"

"No, I am on my way home."

"What, so early?"

"Yes, I have to put my papers in order, for to-morrow I shall have an
interview with the most terrible and tiresome of lawyers."

Saying these words, and still laughing, she got into her carriage.

I went under the portico to wait for mine; there I was accosted by fat
old Pommerive, who in passing me said: "Faithless, already! It is very
soon, or very late."

I shrugged my shoulders, and smiled.

I went to the concert, the crowd was too great. For my part I cannot
enjoy music unless I am comfortably seated. I have just returned and
found a long and tender letter from Marguerite awaiting me.

In our conversation of this morning I chanced to say how fond I was of
Parma violets. I find two enormous baskets of them in my salon.

Such a souvenir, such a delicate attention, touches and charms me, but
it does not make me feel really ashamed of my assiduity towards Madame
de V----, who is so pretty and so charmingly vivacious.

However, I read Marguerite's letter with the greatest fondness; it is
tender and sweet, and full of melancholy; she has spent a long, quiet
evening thinking only of me. In the postscript she reminds me that
to-morrow at three o'clock we are to meet at Mlle. Lenormand's to have
our fortunes told.

Now it is at three o'clock that I have promised Madame de V---- to go
and see her drawings. What is to be done? Certainly, I do not mean to
compare the profound and real affection I have for Marguerite with the
intense but ephemeral fancy I have taken to Madame de V----, who is as
great a flirt as she is seductive and pretty.

I am perfectly sure of Marguerite's love, it is a sincere and lasting
affection; the passing fancy that I feel for, Madame de V---- could in
no way interfere with such a tender and serious intimacy. When a woman
is known to be as changeable and inconstant as Madame de V----, a lost
opportunity is lost for ever. Hazard is her god. I certainly will go to
see her to-morrow. I can easily find an excuse for putting off our visit
to Mlle. Lenormand until day after to-morrow. What excuse shall I give?
Business with a notary? No, that would be too childish a pretext. What
am I to say? I have decided at last, but by way of compensation I shall
write Marguerite a most passionate love-letter.


I have just read over the letter I mean to send Madame de Pënâfiel. It
is very well written, full of feeling, of tenderness and passion, and it
is unfeigned and entirely truthful. I feel every word in it is true. How
strange it is that at this moment, when I have fully made up my mind to
deceive her, my love is greater and more sincere than it ever was
before! There is no reason why I should deceive myself about this. I can
almost hear my own thoughts. This is the real truth, I love Marguerite
more than I have ever loved her. Formerly I might have hesitated at some
sacrifice she imposed on me, now I would gladly give up anything she
might ask of me, and yet, I repeat, I am planning how to be false to
her!

Does such an idea cause me any shame, remorse, or regret? No.

Would I hesitate an instant if I thought that Marguerite would discover
my infidelity, and be distressed by it? No.

In my infatuation for Madame de V----, is there any noble feeling and
real affection? No; it is an ardent desire which I know will be as
quickly extinguished as it was kindled.

And yet, see what a strange thing it is, I say it again, I love
Marguerite better than ever. Why should this love be stronger than
before? Is it an illusion, a deceitful phantom called up by the
consciousness of my deceit? Is it not an excuse that I am trying to find
for myself! Am I only pretending that I care for her so much? No, no, I
search my thoughts, and it seems that I assuredly love her more than
ever.

What a singular contradiction in my soul! What a perverse nature! Can it
be that my love for Marguerite will become greater and greater,
according to the grief I feel I shall cause her?




V


APRIL, 18--.

Days of sunshine? Alas! no; these radiant days of happiness that had
lasted more than two months were about to be obscured by dark clouds.

What a strange day this has been!

This morning, on awakening, I received a note from Marguerite. She is
quite irritated at having this fortune-telling postponed. As to-day was
the anniversary of her birth she believed it to be the most suitable,
because the most lucky or unlucky.

As she wished to make some purchases in Saxony and Sèvres porcelains,
she begged me to meet her at half-past two at ----'s, which was then the
most fashionable china store, to give her my opinion in the selection.

I went there.

In going with her to look at some marquetry furniture in the back part
of the store, we were left alone for a few moments. Marguerite then
asked me to come to her in the evening, when she promised she would tell
me about her secret plan for the first of May.

I thanked her tenderly. She appeared prettier than ever before; she wore
a straw hat trimmed with lace and _bleuets_ that was exceedingly
becoming.

I left her at three o'clock, and went to see Madame V----.

In spite of our foolish bargain of the day previous, according to which
I was to assume the character of a notary, if I wished to enjoy a
tête-à-tête, I gave my own name to the servant, and I found her
alone.

She showed me her water-colours, which were really clever, for Madame
V---- is a very gifted woman. However, I pretended to think them very
ordinary, the drawing incorrect, the colour bad and too glaring, and the
handling weak and undecided.

"You know nothing about it," said she, laughing. "I have a great deal of
talent; but as you paint also, it is because you are jealous."

"We can never agree on this subject, madame; you consider your
water-colours good, I think they are very bad. Don't let us speak of
them again. Let us find some other subject on which we can agree."

"And what subject can we agree on, monsieur?"

"Your intelligence and your beauty."

"You are very much mistaken, monsieur; for now that you have so unjustly
criticised my drawings, it is my turn, and I frankly tell you, that,
though you may think me charming, I am sure that I am detestable, for I
have a thousand bad qualities. So as I am perfectly sure we will never
agree on this subject, let us talk of something else."

"Alas! you are too hard on yourself, madame; unfortunately for me, you
have not all the charming imperfections I could wish,--one imperfection
at least."

"You are certainly crazy; do you wish to know how wicked I can be?"

"It is the thing of all others I most desire."

"Listen, then, to me, and don't interrupt me. One of my intimate
friends, who was as bad as I am, wished to be revenged on a lady of her
acquaintance,--the reason doesn't matter to you. My friend was
beautiful, or rather pretty, gay, giddy; you may call these good
qualities or faults just as you please, and you can add that she was
very entertaining and charming, and with plenty of 'go,'--excuse the
vulgarity of the word,--and there you have her portrait.

"The woman on whom my friend wished to be revenged was also beautiful,
but pretentious, haughty, false to the last degree; she was, however,
seriously interested in a man who was--why should I not say it?--was
agreeable, but rather eccentric, in fact, not just like every one else;
to-day he would be gay, amusing, and amiable; to-morrow sulky, peculiar,
and tiresome. In one of his reasonable days, a day of good humour, and
good sense, he showed himself to be very fond of my friend, who found
him, she tells me, a very nice fellow, perhaps too nice. These being the
circumstances, she came to ask my advice--"

"And you told her, I hope, what I should have advised her myself, to
revenge herself on this haughty woman by making the eccentric man happy
in secret. A schoolgirl would have known that much. The easiest way is
always the best."

"Do not interrupt me, please. As my friend wished for my advice, I tried
to sound the character of the eccentric man, to see if he were true and
sincere, or indiscreet and a trifler."

"Well, madame?"

"Well, monsieur, I found him to be one of the few men that a woman can
trust, who understand and appreciate everything, admit everything, and
say just what they think, but who are quite incapable of betraying any
confidence that may have been placed in them. 'If he is all this,' said
I to my friend, 'you have only one thing to do,--be rash, inconsequent,
bold, be what we women never are, outspoken and true to yourself; say to
your eccentric friend, you wish to please me, but I know you are
interested elsewhere. Now I have no desire to share your affections, but
if I accept them I mean to make it impossible that you should ever have
a reconciliation with the person you are to sacrifice to me. I demand
that you send me all of her letters with a very compromising letter of
your own; do this for me, and "live and be happy ever afterwards."'

"That was my advice to my friend," said Madame de V----. "Do you think
it was terribly immoral?"

"I could answer you, madame, by continuing your allegory, and instantly
inventing a friend of my own who might be that very same eccentric man
your friend told you about, but it is not worth while. Come, let us not
confuse ourselves, let us speak plainly. You know me well enough to know
me safe. Do you ask me to commit such treachery? Is it only on such a
condition that you will consent to all I mean to ask?"

"Monsieur, you must be crazy!"

"Not at all."

"Why should you suppose that what I said about my friend was only a
pretext to speak of my own feelings? Why should you dare to think that I
have any intention of accepting your attentions?"

"Very well, just as you please. You can fancy that the eccentric man was
speaking and not I."

"Ah, that is sensible; now at least we can understand each other. Would
you have told my friend that she was asking you to be a traitor, and if
she said yes, what would you answer?"

"That, for her sake, I would gladly commit every sort of
infidelity,--but not treason."

"And if my friend would only bestow her favours at such a price?"

"That could never be."

"Why not?"

"Because I would only consider such a proposition as a joke, and would
obstinately refuse to be a party to such pleasantry."

"Why would it be a pleasantry?"

"Because there is not a woman living who would be capable of such a base
thought."

"That is putting it very strong."

"That is what I think."

"No living woman?"

"Not one."

"But I just told you that I gave such advice to my friend."

"Permit me to think that you are mistaken."

"You are unbearable! The thought was mine, and that was the advice I
gave her, I tell you."

"It is impossible for me to believe you; I know how high-minded you are.
You should not expect me to believe you when you so slander yourself."

"Suppose I should say such a thing to you?"

"To me?"

"Yes, to you."

"I cannot suppose what would be impossible."

"But I do say it to you now."

"Seriously? You say such a thing seriously? You offer me such
conditions?"

"Yes; seriously."

"Well, then, you are trying to make a fool of me."

"You are very humble, certainly."

"On the contrary, I am very proud to prove to you that I am incapable of
such a piece of cowardice. But come, let us quit speaking of others; let
us talk of ourselves. Accept my attentions; take me unconditionally, or
rather on condition of making me the most faithless of men."

"And those letters?"

"Again? Don't you suppose I can see that all this is a very clever trick
to prove me; to find out if I am perfectly trustworthy; that you can
safely confide in my discretion and my love? Between you and me, I think
it augurs well for our future happiness,--all these precautions on your
part."

"You are not wanting in confidence, at least."

"Do you consider it vanity to hope and desire?"

"Those letters? Those letters?"

"Now you are joking again. As to this trial you have seen fit to submit
me to, I forgive you for it, for what woman could ever have a particle
of confidence, esteem, or affection for a man who was capable of such a
treacherous act? Would she not be certain that at some future day her
own letters--?"

"Certainly; she might fear the same fate for her letters if she were
ever fool enough to write any," said Madame de V----, with a
self-possession that astounded me.

Before the end of our interview I discovered that I could not hope to
win any favour from Madame de V---- except on these treasonable
conditions.

This calculation on her part was doubly odious to me, because it wounded
my vanity. It proved that Madame de V----'s desire to be revenged on
Madame de Pënâfiel (for which she had never given any reason) was
stronger than any passing affection she ever had for me.

I left Madame de V---- a very much disappointed man. I had counted on an
interview which, if not more decisive, would have at least been more
tender. Madame de V----'s reputation for levity was such that I had
expected an unconditional surrender, whereas the conditions she exacted
were as exorbitant as they were inadmissible.

It is strange, though, that, as yesterday when contemplating this
infidelity to Marguerite, my love for her was stronger than ever, so
now, after being checked in my miserable attempt to betray her, my
affection seems to be on the wane. It is only ephemeral, this change in
me. I exaggerate, perhaps, but it is the truth. As I think of the
evening I am about to spend with her, I feel that I would be much more
amiable, much more affectionate, if I had something to reproach myself
with and to hide from her. I feel that I acted honourably in refusing
what Madame de V---- hoped for, but my conscience is not satisfied with
that much, for I really love Marguerite much better than her enemy, and
so I have sacrificed nothing. Still, I can not help feeling violently
angry with Marguerite for having caused Madame de V---- to hate her so,
for if this hatred had not existed, I should have been able to enjoy
this short-lived passion, which I feel sure would have been charmingly
piquant.

Nothing could be more unjust, more selfish, or more ridiculous than the
irritation I feel towards Marguerite for having deprived me of a
pleasure which might have been a serious menace to her happiness.

I admit these are base sentiments, but this is how I feel, and it is in
such a state of mind that I am about to go to Marguerite. How will it
end? I know not, but I am filled with sad forebodings.




CHAPTER XXV


SUSPICION


Fatal, fatal night! Why do I attempt to recall thee? The remembrance is
still so vivid. Such grief is never to be forgotten.

It was half-past nine when I reached the Hôtel de Pënâfiel, and I was
cross and sullen.

"How late you are!" said Marguerite, with a smile, as she approached me
in this friendly way; "but I am so eager to tell you my secret, my
project for the month of May, that I don't mean to waste any time in
scolding you. Sit down there near me, and be very quiet."

Pleased with this command which gave me an opportunity of hiding my
ill-humour, I kissed Marguerite's hand, saying, in a very serious voice
which she believed to be feigned:

"See how solemn I am, and how very attentively I am listening."

"What I am waiting for is to see how quickly your gravity and
attentiveness will vanish when you hear the unexpected news I am about
to tell you," said Madame de Pënâfiel, laughing. "No matter; don't
interrupt me. I wanted to go this morning to see Mlle. Lenormand, not
only about my birthday, but because I was curious to know if that
wonderful mind-reader would be able to foretell the greatest happiness
of my life, that I have ever dreamed of, was about to be realised. This
is my dream: the first of May I quit Paris."

"You are going away!"

"Be silent," said Marguerite, putting her pretty finger on her lips;
"see how excited you are already; what will it be by and by? I shall
begin again: I am going away the first of May, taking no one with me but
a confidential man servant, and my old _femme de chambre_, Mlle. de
Vandeuil. The apparent object of my journey is a visit of some months to
one of my country places in Lorraine that I have not seen for a long
time."

"I understand."

"You do not understand at all. When I get six leagues away from Paris I
halt; I leave my carriage with my maid's father, who is devotedly
attached to me, and I return to Paris. Guess where?"

"Truly, that is more than I can tell."

"To a modest and pretty little villa in a far distant quarter, and there
I am to install myself under the name of Madame Duval, a young widow,
who has come from Brittany to Paris to attend to a lawsuit. Well, what
did I tell you? You are even more astonished, more startled than I
expected," said Marguerite.

It was neither astonishment nor stupefaction that I felt, but something
very different. Whether it was the irritated state of mind that I was
in, or my natural distrust, I know not, but no sooner did I hear of this
plan of hers than I suddenly remembered one of the scandalous stories
that I heard about Madame de Pënâfiel, and the mysterious doings that
they said had taken place in some little villa that she possessed.
Marguerite had denied it, like so many other absurd falsehoods, which,
not being able to produce any evidence, were reduced to inventing a
thousand wonderful incidents. Lulled by the ideal happiness that I had
been tasting for the last two months, this brief season of felicity and
forgetfulness, I had put away from my mind all thoughts of the past.
While near this charming woman, I had blindly believed that which is so
convenient, so pleasant, and so wise to believe, that I was her only
love. I had blindly believed the noble explanations she had given me for
her conduct. I had even forgotten the cowardly and miserable suspicions
that had made me so cruelly unjust towards her. Why, then, did I
suddenly fall, on hearing of this project, into my former abominable
state of distrust? I know not why, alas! But doubt took possession of my
mind.

"As soon as I am settled in my little home," continued Marguerite, "I
will have a visit from my brother; this brother,--it is you, for you
must remain ostensibly in Paris, from time to time you must show
yourself at the Opéra, in society; then quickly leaving these brilliant
but tiresome scenes, you will come quietly here, every day, and spend
long hours with your well-beloved sister, all the time that you can
spare from your mundane apparitions. Well, Arthur, what have you to say
to this wild scheme, this folly? Will it not be charming? Oh, my friend,
if you only knew the childish joy I have promised myself in such an
existence, when so intimately shared by you, what happiness we will find
in this obscurity, this mystery, in our long walks, in our evenings,
spent far from an importunate and jealous world, in these long days
which will belong to us alone, and which we will fill with such varied
pleasures!

"For you must know, Arthur, that we are to have a salon, where we will
be able to paint, and make music, where you will find the books you care
for, and I, those that I like. The house is small but comfortable, the
garden is large and shady. Our household--don't sneer too much at these
minor details--our household will consist of my _femme de chambre_, and
another woman that she is to engage, and a man servant for you. I am
promising myself already the greatest satisfaction in being able to
prove that one can be perfectly happy, though living in the simplest
way, and to judge for myself how so many modest lives are spent in a
manner that we rich never even suspect; indeed, dear friend, I mean to
live there until you are weary of the solitude of such a life. And then,
though it seems childish, I think it will be very amusing to live alone
so near Paris. It will amuse me, if our happiness leaves me any time for
amusement.

"Besides, such a project as this can succeed nowhere except in Paris,
for if we were both to disappear at the same time, our secret would very
soon be discovered; by remaining in town you will put every one on the
wrong track. What will be best of all, will be to hear the comments on
my absence, the stories of every sort that will be told, and the proofs
of their veracity. _Mon Dieu!_ When I think of all that you are going to
hear I envy you. You see I have abused the right I claimed in not being
interrupted; it is so hard to be silent when the subject is a long
desired pleasure,--desired, yes, with all the strength of love and
hope," added Marguerite, with enthusiasm, as she held out her hand to
me.

I had scarcely heard what she said. Her projects, as I have said, had
awakened those horrid suspicions that for two months of supreme delight
were dormant in my breast. The profound and pious adoration of her
former husband, which I had taken as an explanation of Marguerite's way
of living, was nothing but a vulgar fable invented to deceive me. I
believed more obstinately than ever in the truth of all the stories I
had heard. I was enraged to think that, in a moment of sentimental
confidence, I should have forgotten all my wise maxims, and lost my
powers of penetration and sagacity. An overpowering resentment filled my
heart. Taking for granted that what Marguerite had just proposed to me
with so much affectionate graciousness had been proposed to others in
the same manner, and with the same pretended simplicity, and revolting
from such gratuitous falsehood, I saw that I would be playing a most
detestable rôle should I pretend to believe in this sudden desire for
love in a cottage, which I was supposed to have awakened in Marguerite's
heart. Gathering all my hatred and scorn into one ironical frown, I
replied:

"Your plan is certainly a very charming one, and your idea of a
mysterious retreat in the heart of Paris would be very original if it
were not a copy. For my part, there are certain circumstances that would
make such a plan seem very flat and uninviting."

"_Mon Dieu!_ How can you treat my proposal with such coldness?" said
Marguerite, noticing my changed appearance. "I longed so to please you,
I hoped you would share my pleasure, I was so happy, so intensely happy,
in this future of mysterious love."

"That delightful joy shows the perpetual youth of your feelings. Were it
not for this rejuvenating power of yours, you would, probably, be rather
weary of mysterious love by this time!"

"What do you mean to say?"

"I mean to say that it would not be the first time your beautiful and
secret retreat had witnessed such mysterious and passionate love scenes
as those in which I am expected to enact the hero's part."

"Truly, I do not understand you, Arthur,--ah, for Heaven's sake, explain
yourself! I know not why, but you seem to have turned me to ice."

"You wish for an explanation? So shall it be. To hear the answer to
well-known riddles is another one of your whims, but it is no more than
a fancy for trying each successive lover's devotion by a dose of
solitude. It is the last experiment, and, if successful, each man can be
classified according to his merit."

"Arthur, I told you I did not understand you, your cold, ironical look
distresses me, it recalls that dreadful day when-- Speak to me, tell me
what is on your mind, explain yourself. _Mon Dieu!_ What can I have done
to offend you so? Does this plan displease you? I give it up, then, let
us think no more about it; but in Heaven's name, tell me what is the
matter? What has changed you so suddenly? Yesterday, this very morning
even, you were so kind, so affectionate, your last letter was so full of
tenderness!"

"Yesterday, and even this morning, I was a blind fool; I am as great a
fool as ever, perhaps, but at least I have my eyes open."

"Your eyes open!" said Marguerite, stupidly.

"As to my last letter, you know as well as I, perhaps better, that
though it may be difficult to act a lie in speech and look and gesture,
nothing can be easier or commoner than to lie in studied phrases, and
with plenty of time at our disposal. Thus, when I wrote you that last
letter, so full of tender things, you say, I had just obtained the
promise of a rendezvous with Madame de V----."

"Arthur, Arthur! this is very cruel pleasantry. It may be amusing to
you, but you surely can not know how cruel it is to me."

"It does not amuse me at all, madame; and it is no pleasantry. I swear
it is not. On the contrary, I am speaking very seriously, as a friend,
so that you may no longer be deceived by my falseness, or I be your
dupe."

"Dupe? dupe of my falseness?"

"Yes."

"My falseness! my dupe! What strange language from you! And why should
you be my dupe? What does it mean? It is inexplicable. And why should
you say such things to me? _Mon Dieu!_"

"You know why I say such things better than I do. It is because I am not
the first one of your lovers to whom you have proposed this entertaining
suburban _pastorale_."

Marguerite clasped her hands and let them fall on her knees. She stared
at me with wide-open eyes, that were full of sorrow and amazement. But I
was quite determined to go on, though my heart was beating wildly, and
the souvenir of my last meeting with Hélène flashed through my mind
like a scorching tongue of flame.

"You see, my dear friend, amid the distractions of society, one can find
time to play the lover, and have the good sense to ignore all former
occupants in the beloved one's affections; for why should we worry about
the past? Does it belong to us? We have the future, and the devil knows
what it has in reserve for us.

"As for filling in any reputable way the part of the 'lover without
ancestry,' in that mystery play of yours, with you and your femme de
chambre as spectators, performing as others have done this rôle of
lover in your play, 'Love in a Cottage,' one must be a better comedian
than I am. Really, my dear Marguerite, I fear I should not act as well
as my predecessors, and I wish to retain the good opinion you have
always had of me."

"Ah, good God, am I dreaming? It is a frightful dream, and it has made
me ill," said she, placing her trembling hands on her head.

My heart was beating as though it would break. I was partly conscious of
the terrible distress I was causing this sweet woman, as with crushing
irony and coarse insolence I destroyed the beautiful picture her love
had painted. I shuddered to think of how she must suffer, if this really
was her first affection since her husband's death. But my furious
distrust worked itself to a higher and higher pitch, at the remembrance
of all the odious stories I had heard told of Marguerite, and by my fear
of being cheated, being taken for a dupe; so I stifled these gleams of
reason, and found no words too strong to express my scorn of what I
called the outrageous duplicity of this woman.

She soon was completely overcome, and fell to weeping bitterly.

She showed no signs of indignation at my words! She could tolerate such
insults! Truth would not have been so patient; only falsehood is
cowardly. She had given herself to me; why not to others? These were the
only thoughts that her silent and tearful grief awoke in me.

She wept in silence for a long time.

I said no word of consolation. I stood there staring at her with my
frowning look of anger towards her and irritation towards myself.

Suddenly Marguerite raised up her pale face, looked around as if dazed,
rose up, and took two or three steps forward, saying:

"No, no, 'tis not a dream; 'tis reality. It must be." Then, as though
her strength had all gone from her limbs, she sank on an armchair.

Wiping her eyes, she said to me, in a steady voice: "Pardon me this
weakness. It is the first time since I told you all that you have ever
treated me in such a manner. I believe, though, that you are not so
cruel as you seem. It is impossible that you should cause me such
suffering, unless you have a very good reason to believe in my
treachery. No, that were impossible! So I shall not be angry with you.
You have been deceived. You have heard some slanderous story, and you
have believed it. Ah, well, dear friend, neither you nor I will throw
away our future chances of happiness on some such miserable falsehood.
You will therefore confide in me, and tell me what has caused this
distrust, of what I am suspected, and what proofs you believe you have
of my falseness. You will tell me what is this accusation, and with a
single word I will destroy it. Do you hear me? With a single word, for
the language of truth is irresistible. Again I tell you, Arthur, I am
not angry with you. To treat a woman as you have treated me, when
radiant with hope and love she came to offer you-- No, no, we will say
no more of that. But to treat a woman with such scorn and severity, you
should have some serious proof of her treachery. Say then, tell me, tell
me, I beg of you, what have I done?"

This calm and noble language only irritated me the more, as it made me
ashamed of my conduct. Could I dare to tell her that it was only my
miserable, incurable spirit of doubt, only the vague recollection of a
slanderous story, only the spite I felt at not succeeding as soon as I
hoped with Madame de V----, that had provoked my brutal and insolent
words? Thus I was too proud to admit that I had acted like a crazy man,
and continued to be cruel and unjust,--or, rather, fiendishly spiteful.

"Madame," said I, in a lofty way, "I am not called on to explain my
convictions; they are quite sufficient for me, and I shall stick to
them."

"But they are not sufficient for me! Some one has told you lies about
me, and I wish to justify myself!"

"No one has told any lies. I believe what I have to believe."

"He believes! Great God, he believes! You are not ashamed to believe
that I have ever spoken to another as I have to you? And you dare to
believe that I am so vile, so cowardly, so base, as to spend my whole
life in a continual series of falsehoods, that infamy has become a
matter of habit?"

"There is neither infamy nor cowardice, neither baseness nor falsehood;
you have made a great many men happy, none can know how happy better
than I. You have related to me a lovely story of conjugal fidelity,
which even survived the dear departed one, exactly like the widows in
Malabar.

"This souvenir of the dear absent one, who was adored, fêted, caressed,
as though he were still living, was a rather free translation of your
life which was so amorously spent. It was a very clever plan you laid to
entrap me into the belief that I was the only one. I replied to your
wiles by a trick of my own, which was simply to pretend that I was your
fool, and did not see through your schemes; besides, I was supposed to
be the first to triumph over the poor dear marquis,--not a very
flattering contest,--with a dead man--"

"How dare you!" cried out Marguerite, interrupting me, and standing
erect, majestic, almost menacing, her eyes flashing, and her cheeks
blazing with indignation. Then leaning suddenly on a console, she said,
in a low voice, as though crushed by remorse: "I have deserved this, I
have deserved it all. Suffer, miserable woman; who will ever pity you
now?"

In the midst of the tumultuous waves of hate and anger that were surging
in my breast, I was seized with the deepest sense of pity and terror;
perhaps I should then have returned to my senses and listened to the
voice of reason, when Marguerite, having wiped away her tears, said, in
a solemn voice: "For the last time, monsieur, do you believe in a single
one of the scandalous stories you have heard about me? Take time to
answer, for your answer will decide my destiny and your own!"

This threatening tone drove me perfectly wild. I became almost
crazy,--the puppet of an insane fury.

Going close up to Marguerite, I said, as I held her by the waist:

"Positively, dearest, indignation is as becoming to you as one of Madame
Baudrand's bonnets; you never looked so beautiful. Come, my angel, my
feminine Don Juan, let us deceive yesterday's lovers and those of
to-morrow, let us commit one more infidelity in honour of the poor dear
marquis--"

At first she looked at me with amazement, then, with a heartrending cry,
she repulsed me violently, and disappeared in her bedroom, locking the
door after her.


I came home like a drunken man.

I had only a confused recollection of what had taken place.

That night I was taken ill with a violent attack of fever. I was
delirious all night long. The next day my valet handed me a sealed
package.

It contained the letters I had written to Marguerite.

"Who brought this?" I said to him.

"Mlle. Vandeuil, monsieur, at two o'clock this morning."

"And Madame de Pënâfiel?"

"Madame la marquise started off last night in her carriage. Her people
do not know her destination."




CHAPTER XXVI


AN ENCOUNTER


It would be useless to tell of all my remorse and regret after the
departure of Madame de Pënâfiel. I went over again (only on another
theme) all the tortures which followed my rupture with Hélène. Only,
before I finally renounced for ever that noble girl, there remained to
me the hope of at some time obtaining her hand; while now I knew I
should never see Marguerite again. As it always happens, the affection
she had shown me appeared in all its intoxicating sweetness when I had
lost it for ever, and by a fatal contradiction I knew that I loved her
more passionately than ever.

I dwelt with a sort of cruel enjoyment on all I had so unworthily
sacrificed, not to distrust, but to a species of monomania as wicked as
it was stupid; to be sure, it had brought terrible suffering on me, but
what of that? A crazy man suffers, too; but is the harm he does any the
less harmful?

What more can I say? The vision of that seductive woman appeared more
beautiful, more voluptuous, than ever before. The saddening vulgarity of
the saying that we only know the worth of happiness when we have lost
it, was the dolorous theme upon which my despair played every sort of
variation.

Overcome by such crushing regrets, what could I do?

Alas! when a man is of such an unfortunate disposition that neither
love, ambition, study, nor social obligations suffice to occupy his mind
and his heart, above all, when he despises or misunderstands that
beneficent spiritual nourishment which religion offers him as a salutary
and never failing aliment, his soul, thus deprived of all life-giving
principles, reacts upon itself. Then nameless chagrins, mournful and
pale ennui, gnawing doubts, phantoms of despair, are almost always born
of these gloomy, solitary, and sickly nocturnal meditations.

If, on the contrary, man applies that self-destroying energy to the
rigorous observance of the laws imposed on him by God and humanity, if
he succeeds in thus limiting his career to the fulfilling of his duties,
in tracing out for himself a definite and straight road which ends in a
hope of immortality, his life becomes logical, and is the natural
consequence of the principles which govern him and the goal towards
which he aspires. Then all becomes an admirable sequence, each deed has
its cause and its effects. Instead of wandering miserably, with neither
interest, hope, nor restraint, he advances towards a definite object.
False or true, at least he is travelling along a road, and if the
magnificent perspectives in which it ends, and on which he gazes so
eagerly, are only a dazzling mirage, what does it matter, since this
divine and consoling mirage has led him on to the end of his existence,
his heart filled with joy, with hope, and with love?


Alas! these noble thoughts vainly filled my mind; I felt neither the
desire nor the energy to follow them.

So that I fell again with all the weight of my dejection into the void.
I understood my disease, but had not the courage to try to cure it. I
acted with the weakness of those sick people who, stubborn in their
sufferings, obstinately prefer a constant pain to the heroic but
beneficent action of the knife or the fire.


I led a miserable life; in the daytime I closed my door to the few
visitors that my reserve and selfish happiness had not alienated.
Sometimes I would give myself up to violent exercise, I would ride on
horseback, I would have a furious bout at fencing, so as to tire myself
out, thinking thus to dull the mind by fatiguing the body.

Then when night came, I felt a strange and melancholy pleasure in
enveloping myself in a cloak, and thus wandering alone about Paris,
especially when the weather was cloudy or stormy.

I gave myself up on these occasions to a sort of scornful rage, as
ridiculous as it was puerile, whenever I would pass before a splendid
residence, or a brightly lit up theatre, where the carriages were
rapidly driving up from every direction. I, too, if I desire it, can
have my place in these gay salons, amid this splendid and envied throng;
if I so willed it my restive horses would now be bearing me to these
very fêtes! The existence I scorn would be the joy and pride of most
men, and yet, from I know not what caprice, which thus insults the
ready-made happiness that fate has bestowed upon me, I prefer to wander
thus on foot, dragging my incurable sadness through these muddy streets.

A woman who was both beautiful and young, noble and clever, who united
in herself all that could flatter a man's vanity, has deigned to ravish
me with the most perfect love, and, after two months of ideal bliss,
without reason or shame, I have insanely and brutally trampled this love
under my feet with anger and scorn! And now I have no longer the courage
to be angry and spiteful; I weep; I am the most miserable of men; I go
about, hiding myself like a criminal; and these indecent creatures, who
shamelessly wander about here and there in the mud, they dare to speak
to me,--to me. To me, who at this very hour might be at the feet of a
woman who is admired by all for her elegance, wit, and beauty! A woman
who offered me the realisation of my fondest dream of happiness, and
who, perhaps, might even now be holding my hand in hers, saying in her
enchanting voice, while her eyes became humid with love, "My life is
thine,--my life and my soul!"


Truly it was frightful, and yet, through the strange perversity of my
unfortunate nature, I took a sort of gloomy and inexplicable delight in
contrasting this dismal and abject present with such a dazzling and
bewildering past.

One night, five or six days after Marguerite's departure, I was at the
height of one of these painful paroxysms of grief. The night was dark, a
drizzly, cold rain was falling; I enveloped myself in my cloak, and went
out.

I had never been aware of the dismal aspect of the streets of Paris at
this hour; nothing could be more forlorn and lugubrious than the pale
reflection of the street-lamps on the pavements, as they shone on the
fetid mud that covered the sidewalks, and in the stagnant water of the
gutters. Wandering thus, I often thought of the miserable state of a
homeless man, without bread, without resources, wandering thus as I
wandered. I will admit that, when such thoughts assailed me, if I met on
my road, in such stormy weather, some poor woman carrying a child
already bearing the impress of misery, or some lean, old, trembling
beggar, I would bestow on them liberal alms; and, although vice was
probably the cause of their miserable condition, I always felt a moment
of the greatest satisfaction in seeing with what a stupefied look they
would touch a piece of gold. And then the whole terrible picture of
misery would expose itself to my view! Not the misery of the man who,
building a hut of leaves, or hiding himself in the cleft of a rock, can,
at least, breathe pure and invigorating air, and have the consolation of
the sunshine and solitude; but the sordid and swarming misery of great
cities, which herds together in infected shelters in order to keep warm.

Then an insurmountable terror would come over me as I would imagine
myself by some unforeseen calamity forced to live the same life
pell-mell with these unfortunate creatures who are depraved as much
through poverty as crime.

I would become pale with affright at such a thought, for the most
laborious condition, with a life in the open air, and solitude, had no
terrors for me, but when I thought of this herding together, the hideous
and perpetual contact of prisoners and _galériens_, for example, I was
sometimes so wild and so terrified that it was an overwhelming relief to
me to return to my home, which I found all lighted up, and where
attentive servants, my books, my pictures, my portraits, all the peace
and comforts of seclusion, awaited me, and where I could fly as to a
haven of refuge.

Oh, then it was that on my knees I gratefully thanked my father for all
he had done for me in leaving me rich. It was but a poor sort of
gratitude, which had need of being thus terrified before it could awaken
in my heart and revive for an instant those souvenirs which were already
so far distant and so forgotten!


But to return to my nocturnal promenades. One night, as I almost
aimlessly wandered along the streets, I arrived at the Boulevard de la
Bastille. The moon threw an uncertain light through the flying clouds
that obscured her disc, for it was very windy, and a drizzling rain was
falling steadily. It might have been about nine o'clock.

Among some of the detached houses, situated near the old garden of
Beaumarchais, I noticed one because it seemed newer than the others, and
singularly clean and neat. It was very small, and a railing breast-high
protected a little square garden like those we see before houses in
England. Opening on to the garden, and at one of the corners of the
house, was a green door with a brass knocker; the house was only one
story high above the ground floor; three windows down-stairs, and three
on the upper floor. In the closed shutters I noticed three small holes,
destined, no doubt, to allow the light to enter; a bright light shone
out from these openings, which were just on a level with my eye. I gave
way to momentary idle curiosity, and peeped in.

The curtains had been drawn aside, and I could see through the
window-panes the interior of the apartment.

But what was my astonishment, good God, when I recognised Hélène!

I was stupefied, for I believed her to be still in England with her
mother.

For an instant I turned away my eyes, for I was breathless with emotion.

My heart beat so violently that its pulsations were painful; but,
prompted by burning curiosity, I looked again.

Oh, how beautiful Hélène had become! She was no longer frail and
stooping, as formerly; her shoulders were broader, her form more
developed and rounder, but her waist as small and as supple as ever.
Then her fresh and rosy cheeks, her calm, fair forehead, her whole
person, revealed an appearance of quietude and serenity which, I admit,
gave me a terrible shock; for I knew that she had altogether forgotten
me,--since she seemed no longer to suffer.

She wore a black silk dress; her beautiful blonde hair fell in thick
curls on her forehead and neck, and, as always, she wore the daintiest
slippers.

As my eye became gradually used to looking through such a small space,
the horizon which I could take in became larger, and how can I tell what
I felt, when through an open door I saw a child's cradle!

Hélène, seated in an armchair, her pretty feet crossed one over the
other, was reading by the light of a lamp, whose green silk shade
reminded me of our salon at Serval. From time to time she placed her
book on her knees, and, with a movement that thrilled me with sweet and
bitter souvenirs, she rested her round white chin on the back of her
left hand, whose little finger was raised along the side of her cheek,
where the polished finger-nail shone like a pink shell.

From time to time Hélène gave an uneasy glance towards the clock, and
then again towards the fire, which burned cheerfully on the hearth;
sometimes, too, she listened attentively to any sound that might come
from the cradle, then she would go on with her reading; while reading
she would mechanically pull at one of the elastic, silky rings of her
long, fair hair and bring it up to her lips; which was another one of
her childish tricks, for which her mother had often taken her to task,
and which, alas! was another sad souvenir of my happy days at Serval.
The interior of this little parlour was of the greatest simplicity;
beside Hélène, on a table which was covered with a pretty cloth, I
recognised a Saxony vase, which had belonged to her mother. It contained
one of her favourite flowers. The walls of the room were papered with
red, and covered with a quantity of water-colours and sketches in simple
oak frames. Besides these there were many plaster casts from
well-selected antique models, and two or three beautiful proofs of
Rembrandt's etchings. These were all the ornaments of the apartment.

While I was examining all this with the most painful interest, I heard
the noise of an approaching carriage, and hastily fled.

I had scarcely got back to the boulevard when a cab stopped before the
house, and a very tall man, whose face I could not see, descended from
it, passed very close to me, and opened the little green door, which
quickly closed after him.

Then, more curious than ever, I went back to the window blinds, but the
light had entirely disappeared.

After taking a note of the number of the house, I returned home.

It would be useless to attempt to tell what a state this new
complication of sadness put me in.

So Hélène was married; but to whom? Where was her mother? How was it
that I, her nearest relative, had never been informed of this union?
Hélène's aversion to me must be very obstinate, since she had never
taken the trouble to treat me with mere formal politeness. But who was
this husband of hers? Judging from what I had seen, he must be a man of
very limited means. Could Hélène live happily in this way? Alas! her
charming face, so placid and contented, told me how happy she was. For I
knew from experience what grievous and deep traces sorrow had imprinted
on her features.

She was living happily, then! Happy without me! Happy, though apparently
poor! Could that be possible? Did wealth count for so little in making
up the sum of our life's pleasure? No wonder I had inspired her with
such odious scorn, when I had so meanly accused her of being mercenary.

I passed a wretched night. Fortunately for me, my impatient curiosity to
know more about Hélène's circumstances diverted my grief by turning it
into another channel, if I may say so.

Wishing to know as fully as possible every detail regarding my cousin, I
thought over every way in which I could discover something about her.

I had in my service a man who had served in the capacity of courier when
I had travelled; he was a young fellow of great activity, adroitness,
and intelligence. For a moment I had an idea of calling on him to
secretly find out all I wished to know; but fearing that in some way he
might annoy Hélène, I decided to do everything myself.

Success seemed hardly possible, for the house was isolated. There were
neither any neighbours nor any janitor to question, and for nothing in
the world would I have gone to call on Hélène. I decided, though, to
carry out my plan.




CHAPTER XXVII


THE EXHIBITION


The means I employed in finding out who was Hélène's husband were very
simple, and a lucky chance helped me to the discovery. The next morning
I went in a cab, whose blinds I carefully closed, to a point just
opposite the little house of the Beaumarchais garden, to see if some
unforeseen circumstance would not help me in my projects. I did not have
to wait long; about nine o'clock a man, carrying a package of
newspapers, knocked at the green door and handed a paper to an elderly
woman, whom I recognised as having been in my aunt's service.

I ordered my driver to follow the news-carrier; and when, after having
distributed three or four other papers to several houses on the
boulevard, he went off into a side street, I got out of the cab and
accosted him:

"Tell me the names of the five people to whom you have just left your
papers. You will earn two louis."

The man looked at me stupefied.

"I am asking you this because it is a bet I have made," said I.
"Besides, this information, which you can give me if you choose, can't
make any possible difference to you," and I put the two louis in his
hand.

"My faith, monsieur, I'll give it to you willingly; as the bands of my
papers are all printed, it will not be any great harm in showing them to
you."

I took a pencil, and wrote down the names as he read them off to me. He
named three or four which were perfectly uninteresting to me, and,
finally, giving the number of Hélène's house, said, "M. Frank,
artist." I asked him, in order to put him on a false track, if, in the
list of his subscribers who lived on the boulevard, there was not a M.
de Verneuil.

He examined his list, replied that there was no such person, thanked me,
and I returned home almost happy.

The name Frank was evidently that of a foreigner; Hélène must then
have married during her voyage to Germany, and married an artist who, to
all appearances, was as yet very little known, for I had never heard his
name before.

I went, however, that very day to the exhibition of paintings, hoping to
find in the catalogue some notice of Hélène's husband.

What inexplicable interest made me do all this? Almost certain that
Hélène was happy, my discoveries could only result in misery to
myself; but, whether I saw in all this interest in Hélène only a means
of distracting my thoughts from the remembrance of Marguerite, or
whether I was only following the influence of a sentiment which was
still smouldering in my heart, I awoke from the apathy which had been
dulling my senses for so many days, and began my investigations with an
energy that astonished me.

The exposition was drawing to its close; I entered the gallery, where
there were very few people. I opened the catalogue, and there I found
the name of M. Frank, Boulevard Beaumarchais, No. --. One painting and
two water-colours were inscribed with his name.

One was a fragment from a scene in Goethe's "Egmont."

The painter had chosen the end of the charming interview between Claire
and Egmont, who, at the request of his naïve mistress, has come to the
humble abode where she dwells with her mother, clothed in all the
splendid vesture which he wore to the court. "What splendour," cries
Claire, as she admires, with childish joy, the dazzling costume of the
man she loves with such profound and candid passion. "And this velvet,"
continues she, "and these embroideries! I know not where to begin. And
the collar of the Golden Fleece! You told me once that it was a
distinction of great merit. I can compare it, then, to your love for me,
for I wear it here, next my heart."

This is the notice of the picture as it was printed in the catalogue.


_No. --. M. Frank, Painter._
_Claire and Egmont._


_Claire._--Ah, let me be silent! Let me embrace thee! Let me fix my eyes
on thine, and there find all things,--consolation, hope, joy, and
sorrow. (She clasps him in her arms and gazes on him.) Tell me, tell
me,--it seems so strange,--art thou, then, Egmont? Count Egmont? The
great Egmont, who makes such a stir in the world, who figures in the
Gazette, who is the hope of the country?

_Egmont._--No, Claire, I am not he.

_Claire._--How?

_Egmont._--Listen, Claire! Let me sit down! (He seats himself, and she
kneels before him on a footstool, rests her arms on his knees, and gazes
in his eyes.) That Egmont is a morose, solemn, cold Egmont, obliged to
be for ever on his guard, to appear now this and now that; harassed,
misunderstood, and worried, when people think him gay and light-hearted;
beloved by the people who know not their own minds, surrounded by
friends in whom he does not confide, observed by men who desire to
supplant him, toiling and tiring himself for no object nor any reward.
Oh, let me hide him, let me not speak of his feelings. But this Egmont,
Claire, is calm, sincere, happy; he is loved and known by the best of
hearts, which he knows and loves in return, and which he presses to his
own with boundless confidence and love. (He takes her in his arms.) This
is thy Egmont.

_Claire._--Thus let me die; the world has no further joy.


The choice of subject for a picture has always appeared to me to show
the real limit of an artist's intelligence; there is his thought, his
poesy. Now I admit that the scene as described by the catalogue was
admirably depicted.

I looked for the painting, nevertheless, with a secret hope that I
should find it mediocre and unworthy the high inspiration the artist had
demanded from one of the _chef-d'œuvres_ of Goethe.

Hélène had seemed to me too happy. If I had found her sad, this wicked
and envious thought would never have entered my mind.

I sought this picture for a long time. At last I discovered it placed in
a most unfavourable light, and half hidden by the gigantic and massive
frame of a large portrait.

Frank's canvas was what is called an easel picture; it was about three
feet high by two feet and a half wide.

I have said that, to my shame, I arrived before the picture with a
determination to find fault with it; but what immediately caused my
malevolent feelings to disappear in an instant was, first, my surprise,
and then my involuntary admiration, as I recognised the sweet face of
Hélène, who had, doubtless, posed for the personage of Claire.

It was Hélène, whose charm and unspeakable grace were still more
idealised by the divine power of art, for art alone can give to the
features it reproduces, and reproduces with fidelity, that inexplicable
character, grandiose and almost superhuman, which is to the living
features that which historic perspective is to events.

The more I examined the picture, the more I admired, in spite of the
pangs of my hateful jealousy, a talent full of freshness, melancholy,
and elevation, joined to an intimate knowledge of nature and the
passions.

As to Egmont, no one could find a physiognomy more masculine and more
expressive. If the slight frown on the forehead showed the indelible
trace of political cares, though his pallor betrayed the absorbing and
concentrated reaction of that ambition which Egmont concealed under
frivolity, one saw that at least, when he was at the side of Claire,
free from all annoyances, forgetful of his hazardous schemes, he came to
cool his burning brow by the soothing touch of this angel of devotion
and candour, who, as Goethe tells us, had so often lulled this great
child to sleep.

The count's smile was full of calmness and serenity, his eyes were
bright with confidence and love; his pose, so joyfully casting aside
court etiquette, was one of graceful negligence, while with his two
beautiful hands he pressed those of Claire, who, kneeling before her
Egmont, with her elbows on his knees, was gazing upon him with idolatry.
In this profound and admiring look of Claire, you could imagine her
saying, "I, poor, obscure girl, I am beloved of Egmont,--of the great
Egmont." Simple and enchanting modesty, which makes that young girl's
love so chaste, so humble, and so passionate!

As to the accessories of the picture, their extreme simplicity had been
carefully and skilfully thought out, so as to show to all the more
advantage Egmont's splendid costume. It was the interior of a poor
Flemish house, there was Claire's spinning-wheel, some pieces of
furniture with well-polished twisted columns; on the left a little
window with leaded panes, which was shaded by the hop-vine that,
climbing on the outside of it, half hid the bird cage that hung there.
It was from this window, no doubt, that Claire had seen Egmont for the
first time, when, passing by mounted on his beautiful battle-steed at
the head of his army, the count, with his unparalleled grace, had
saluted her with his golden sword, and a bow of his waving plumes. And
finally, above the high chimney piece, with its serge curtain, one could
see a rude and naïve popular print representing the great Egmont.
Wretched picture as it was, Claire had often dreamily gazed on it,
little thinking that one day the great captain would be at her knees! Or
rather that she would be kneeling before Egmont; for it was with
admirable sagacity that the painter had thus chosen Claire's attitude,
as symbolising the love of that admirable child, who, so timidly
kneeling, shows her gratitude for the love she bestows.

A soft exquisite light illumined the picture, which was almost all
painted in a beautiful clair-obscure, for the colouring, though bold,
strong, and vigorous, was of a marvellous harmony and mellowness; in the
accessories there was nothing bright or staring to attract the eye.
Claire wore the simple black dress of a young Flemish girl, and Egmont's
costume was of brown velvet, embroidered with silver; thus all the
interest of the picture was absolutely concentrated on those two
admirable faces.

I must admit that, in spite of the ill-feeling I had entertained for
Frank, with the exception of M. Delacroix's "Charles the Fifth," the
"Marguerite and Faust" of Ary Scheffer, and "The Children of Edward" by
M. Delaroche, I had scarcely ever been more profoundly touched by the
irresistible power of genius.

Giving myself up to its charming influence, thinking only of enjoying
its beauty, I lost myself in the thousand impressions this picture
awakened in me; but when this first effervescence of involuntary
admiration was somewhat calmed, my envious feelings returned with a
sharper sting than ever, for I appreciated all there was great and
elevated in the talent of Hélène's husband.

I looked in the catalogue; this beautiful picture had not yet been sold.
A mean frame, whose cheapness was noticeable and displeasing to me,
surrounded this _chef-d'œuvre_, which was barely visible, consigned as
it was to the very end of the gallery among all the miserable daubs
which are thrust to one side. I judged from this fact that Frank was but
little known. He had probably just arrived from Germany, without friends
and without protection, and had simply abandoned his picture to all the
hazards of the exposition.

They say that some of the most talented men die unknown, or live
misunderstood. I do not believe this. A first attempt may not be
successful, but true merit inevitably rises at last to its own level. I
made this reflection, which I believe a just one, as I thought bitterly
that sooner or later the remarkable talent of Frank would become
recognised, and that his obscurity, over which I was now rejoicing,
would be but a thing of the past.

I looked again in the catalogue for the numbers and subjects of his
water-colour sketches. Like the painting, they demonstrated the poetic
intelligence of the artist.

The subject of one was from Shakespeare's "King Lear;" the other was
from Goethe's beautiful drama of "Goetz of Berlichingen."

Not far from Frank's oil-painting I discovered these two sketches, which
were of large dimensions.

The subject of the first was that sad and touching scene, in which
Cordelia, the noble daughter of the old king, notices in her father the
return of reason, the cruelty of his other daughters having driven him
crazy.

He exclaims:

"Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight! I am mightily abused. I
should e'en die with pity, to see another thus. I know not what to say,
I will not swear these are my hands. Let's see, I feel this pin prick.
Would I were assured of my condition!"

"Oh, look upon me, sir," sweet Cordelia replies, "and hold your hands in
benediction o'er me; no, sir, you must not kneel," she cries, holding in
hers her father's hands, who, pale and trembling, wishes to kneel before
his daughter, saying: "Pray do not mock me. I am a very foolish fond old
man, forescore and upward, not an hour more nor less; and, to deal
plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you,
and know this man; yet I am doubtful: for I am mainly ignorant what
place this is; and all the skill I have remembers not these garments;
nor I know not where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me; for, as
I am a man, I think this lady to be my child Cordelia."

"And so I am, I am," cries Cordelia, weeping, and wetting his hands with
her tears.

"Be your tears wet? Yes, 'faith. I pray, weep not: if you have poison
for me, I will drink it. I know you do not love me; for your sisters
have, as I do remember, done me wrong: you have some cause, they have
not."

All the fearful sadness of the poor king, all the courageous tenderness
of Cordelia, were exhaled from this beautiful drawing, which bore the
imprint of the sombre and melancholy genius of Shakespeare.

The other water-colour offered a remarkable contrast to the first;
there, one beheld the wildness and rusticity of the German nature. The
scene was laid in the vast and antique kitchen of old Goetz's château,
which had been transformed into a magazine and hospital during the siege
of his feudal habitation by the troops of the Empire.

Elizabeth, his wife, is busy in attending to the needs of a wounded man;
the men are all on the ramparts, and so the women and children are
hurrying here and there, moulding bullets or preparing food for the
besieged. Old Goetz has just entered. His rude physiognomy, frank and
warlike, shows the stubbornness and bravery of this man of iron; armed
with his breastplate, he has placed, for an instant, his casque and his
arquebuse on a massive oak table, on which is stretched out the half of
a deer, that no one has had the time to cut up. Goetz passes one of his
great hands over his forehead, from which he wipes the moisture, and in
the other hand holds a large pewter mug, from which he means to quench
his thirst and renew his strength.

"Thou hast a hard time, poor wife?" says he to Elizabeth. "I hope to
have it a long time," she answers; "but we will hardly hold out." "Some
charcoal, madame!" asks a servant maid. "What for?" "To melt bullets, we
have no more." "How are you off for powder?" "We waste none of our
shots, madame."

In order to give an idea of the powerful and varied beauty of the
principal figures in this drawing, it will suffice to say that they
perfectly expressed the savage energy which Goethe ascribes to them.


As I returned home, thinking of this unknown man, who had held me so
long under the irresistible spell of his talent, my jealousy, my hateful
irritation, gave way to a sort of sadness, which was calmer, but harder
to bear. For the first time in my life, I was ashamed of my own
idleness, as I compared the pure and elevated emotions, the noble
resources, that the man I detested, this Frank, must find in his art, to
the aimless life I was dragging along in such obscurity, without even
having enough vulgar common sense to enjoy the sensual delights that
were offered me.

I could not, however, hide from myself the fact that regret and envy
were the sole motives of such reflections. Had Hélène married a man
who was rich, idle, and well born, in the same social position as
myself, I should never have had such thoughts; therefore, I was enraged
when I reflected that fame would put an enormous and insurmountable
distance between this Frank and myself. Sooner or later, he would be
able to bestow on Hélène, not only the fortune that I could have given
her, but the distinction of a great name, a name to be illustrious for
ever, perhaps one of those glorious names that thrills with pride the
woman who bears it!

Oh, how frightful all this seemed to me! For me there was no
consolation, no possible hope. I found consolation, however, in this
thought, which came to me through dragging to the surface every shameful
and mean thought that was buried deep in my envious soul.

I hoped that Frank, in spite of his talent and his poesy, would prove to
be of a vulgar and repulsive appearance. Besides, he could never have
received that refined education, which results in elegance in the
smallest details of daily life, a charm which Hélène, who was a woman
of such distinction, knew so well how to appreciate. Remembering, with a
childish maliciousness, how few of the men of talent or genius I had met
had an education and charm of manner on a level with the splendours of
their mind, I had hopes that Frank would not be among the number of
these privileged few.

Shall I dare to tell it? It was with the greatest conceivable impatience
that I waited for night to come, so that again I might take my station
before the shutters of Hélène's house, and find out if I had been
mistaken on the subject of Frank.

Nothing could be wilder or more ridiculous than this kind of espionage.
And, besides, why should I wish to continue in the fatal round? Why open
a wound which was already so sore? I know not, but my curiosity was
insurmountable.

I could not go too soon before Hélène's house, for fear of attracting
the attention of people who might pass by. It was, therefore, ten
o'clock at night when I reached that lonely boulevard.

The light was shining clearly from the little holes in the shutters. I
crept quietly up to the house.

The little salon was lighted up; but at first I did not see Hélène.

Near the mantelpiece a man was drawing, by the light of a lamp. This man
could be no other than Frank.

On beholding him, I felt myself torn to pieces by jealousy and hatred,
for I could see that he was very young and remarkably handsome. The
clear light from the lamp shone on his profile, whose noble contour
showed a striking and extraordinary likeness to the portraits of
Raphaël at twenty-five.

His mouth had a smile both sweet and serious, and his eyelashes were so
long that they threw a shadow on his delicate pale cheeks. His hair was
chestnut brown, and, as was the fashion among German students, he wore
it falling in soft curls on his neck, whose grace and elegance were
apparent; for Frank wore a sort of black velvet jacket, belted around
the waist with a purple silk cord. His long, white hand, which from time
to time dipped a paint brush into a glass cup, was admirably shaped.

Nothing could be more despicable than my real despair at the revelation
of Frank's beauty. But are the secret and disgraceful sores of pride any
the less agonising, because they are hidden out of sight, in the very
recesses of our hearts?

But with the insatiable avidity of despair, that wishes to drain its
bitter cup to the dregs, I looked again into the parlour, leaning my
burning forehead against the damp panel of the window blinds.

I cast my eyes towards the door which led into that other room; where
the day before I had seen the cradle, I now saw, through that door which
was standing wide open, Hélène sleeping beside her child.

Frank kept on with his drawing, though from time to time he would give a
tender glance towards the enchanting group.

Never in my life shall I forget the sublime spectacle of this noble
young man working thus in the silence of night, and the sacred
tranquillity of the domestic hearth, to assure the existence of the wife
and child who were sleeping so peacefully under his protection.

All the blackness of my envy could not withstand a scene so simple and
so grand. My soul, until then cold and inflexible, was gently and
insensibly penetrated by admiration. I understood how much hope and
strength this young man must possess in order to struggle, talented and
unknown, against the evil days now present and the terrible uncertainty
of future success.

How beautiful Hélène was while thus sleeping! How blissful seemed her
slumbers! What an angelic calm was on her closed eyelids; what serenity
on her pure white brow, encircled by the waves of blonde hair; with what
maternal grace she abandoned one of her beautiful hands to her child,
who, still asleep, clasped it with his little fingers! Hélène had, no
doubt, hesitated to withdraw it for fear of awakening him. What a
serious charm her features had taken on! It was the melancholy and sweet
smile of the young wife, happy and proud in her dignity of being a
mother.

How despairing was my regret! With what bitterness I again recalled all
I had lost as I contemplated this touching and chaste picture, in
admiring that home which was so poor and yet seemed so blessed of God.


I know not how long a time I remained absorbed in such thoughts, but it
must have been late when I again looked into the salon, for Frank was
standing and contemplating his work with the fugitive and pleased look
of an artist who is charmed and proud of his work. This satisfaction,
rapid and ephemeral as it is, which only lasts a moment, reveals to the
artist in that one moment the resplendent beauty of his work in all its
perfections. Then, strange phenomenon, this divine lustre once gone,
this consciousness of genius once extinct, the artist loses all
remembrance of it. It is no more than a vague and far-off dream, whose
memory excites him without reassuring him, and he becomes crushed to
earth under the terrible doubt as to the real worth of his
talents,--eternal torture to a sensitive soul who can compare the
limitations of art to the grandeur of nature.

After having contemplated his drawing, Frank smiled sadly, covered it
over, and went towards a little secretary which stood on the other side
of the fireplace. He opened a drawer, took out a purse, and, having put
to one side some pieces of gold, he sighed as he looked at the little
that remained.

Almost at the same instant he glanced quickly and sadly at his wife and
her child; then with his forehead bent on his hands he remained for some
time with his elbows on the mantelpiece.

I understood it all.

No doubt this brave man was experiencing one of those terrible alarms
during which the reality of his position crushes him with its chilling,
deadening weight. The radiant wings of his bright genius, which for a
moment he had spread out so gloriously, had dashed against that hideous
phantom, which always stands like an open sepulchre,--want! And he had a
wife, a child,--and that wife was Hélène!

However, after a moment of reflection, Frank proudly raised his
beautiful head; his eyes, though moistened with tears, shone with
courage and with hope. It may have only been by chance, but his gaze, so
touching, and so full of energy, fell on "The Descent from the Cross,"
by Rembrandt, one of the engravings which ornamented the salon.

Thus, as he contemplated this symbol of suffering on earth, Frank's
features gradually became serene and grave. Perhaps he was ashamed of
his weakness and discouragement, when he remembered the immeasurable
sorrow and the angelic patience of the One whose Calvary was so high and
whose cross was so heavy.

I returned home sadder but less unhappy. Some kindly feelings cooled the
burning regrets that were consuming me. I no longer had the heart to
begrudge Frank his happiness; nor did I rejoice over his poverty when I
had seen how courageously he bore it. The love I bore to Hélène, the
remembrance of my mother, who had loved her so much, of my father, to
whom she had been like a daughter, brought better and more generous
thoughts into my mind. I wished that I might be of some service to them
both, and to this end I went the next day to see Lord Falmouth.




CHAPTER XXVIII


THE DEPARTURE


My idea was to beg Lord Falmouth to buy for me, in his own name, the
oil-painting and the two water-colours by Frank; and afterwards to
order, still in his name, a set of drawings on subjects from the works
of Schiller, Shakespeare, Goethe, and Walter Scott.

My object was to assure the future for a certain length of time to
Hélène and Frank by this easy and pleasing work, which would not
interfere in any way with that inspiration necessary to more serious
labours, and in doing this I hoped to liberate this noble young man from
those sad and annoying preoccupations which often react with fatal
effect on even the greatest geniuses.

I addressed myself to Lord Falmouth in preference to any other man,
because, in spite of his reputation as a man who was perfectly blasé,
and his disdainful and profound scepticism of all and everything, he was
the only man among my acquaintances that I dared to take so much into my
confidence. I had noticed in him--doubtless to give credit to that
common saying, that extremes meet--a great inclination, not to feel, but
at least to contemplate, all emotions that were young, innocent, and
happy.

It was anything but easy to get to see him before four o'clock in the
afternoon, the hour at which he got up; however, he received me.

"Where do you come from?" said he; "for the last eight days no one has
caught a glimpse of you anywhere. I know very well that Madame de
Pënâfiel has left town, but you are not the kind of man to be
inconsolable; besides, a departure is always flattering--when one stays
behind."

"I want to speak to you very seriously," said I, fearing that if our
conversation took on such a bantering tone, he would interpret the
service I was about to ask of him in a false manner.

"What is it, then?" said he.

"In two words, then, it is this: A young foreign painter of great
talent, but who is absolutely unknown here, has married my first cousin,
who was like a sister to me, who grew up at our home, whom I wish you to
believe that I respect as much as I love. An unfortunate lawsuit against
my aunt, a suit which I may be said to have instigated and gained, much
to my regret, by the abuse of a procuration, which my lawyers made use
of without my knowledge, has caused a great deal of coolness between my
cousin and myself, at least on her part; for, not knowing the whole
truth, she believes my conduct to have been frightfully grasping. The
amount I gained by this suit is very little for me, but it would be a
great help to my cousin and her husband, who I admit to you are poor. On
the other hand, as we never see each other any more, and as I know what
a proud, sensitive nature the young woman has, it is absolutely
impossible for me to restore to her what I have gained in spite of my
wishes. I have then thought of a means which will conciliate everything,
if you will only be so extremely obliging as to come to my aid. This
young painter has exposed an oil-painting and two water-colours which
show a great and incontestable talent; but his name is unknown. I wish,
then, that you should buy the pictures as though for yourself, and
furthermore, that you command under your own name a set of drawings from
different works of Goethe, Schiller, Shakespeare, and Scott, for the sum
of fifty thousand francs. You see it is an indirect manner, not of
giving back the money that cursed lawsuit gained for me (for that is
impossible), but at least of being of some use to my cousin and her
husband, whom fortunate circumstances and certainty of work will surely
place in the position he merits."

In keeping with his imperturbable nature, Lord Falmouth never manifested
the least surprise, neither did he make the slightest objection, but, in
the most amiable way, promised to do what I had requested him, and we
agreed to go the next day to the gallery to see Frank's pictures.

More than this, he promised that he would immediately recommend the
artist to five or six of his friends, who were great connoisseurs, and
who would very soon be able to elevate Frank from his obscure position,
if he really possessed the talent that I gave him credit for. I went
then the next day to the Museum with Lord Falmouth. He had formerly been
very fond of pictures himself, but, being bored with everything, was
quite indifferent to them now. He was struck, however, with the
indisputable talent which was so suddenly revealed in Frank's works; he
admired above all the painting of Claire and Egmont, criticised it with
marvellous appreciation, and admitted that, though he had distrusted my
enthusiasm, he was obliged to recognise in it the work of a great
painter.

Lord Falmouth was to go to see Frank the next evening, having written
him a note that morning to find out if he could be received. Under the
pretext of taking Lord Falmouth the money I destined for these
purchases, I called on him, urged to do so by my curiosity to know
Frank's answer. It was very simple, but very dignified, and neither full
of that pretended modesty, that obsequious humility, which, too often,
ruin the finest minds.

"If you will come and take supper with me," said I to Lord Falmouth, as
I was leaving the salon, "after your visit to our great artist, I will
wait for you. But not later than six o'clock in the morning," I added,
laughingly.

"I will be at your house before midnight," he replied, "however
extraordinary that may seem to you. The fact is, that for the last five
or six days I have not been playing any more; I am in constant good
luck, and that is a bore. Play for its own sake seems to me decidedly
stupid. I have not the courage to play high enough to ruin myself, and,
considered simply as an amusement, the loss and gain are not worth the
trouble."

"And at what o'clock do you go to see Frank?"

"I am going at nine o'clock, for that is what he asks me to do in his
reply to my letter. By the way, you will perhaps think me peculiar or
ridiculous," added Lord Falmouth; "but I always notice the way a letter
is written, and even how it is folded, for I gain from these small
indications very sure knowledge as to the _savoir-vivre_ of the writer,
and on this score our young painter appears to be a perfect gentleman."

I left Lord Falmouth.

I shall not attempt to hide the fact that this last observation on his
part, apropos of these trifling circumstances, which he found so full of
meaning, and which I had also noticed in Frank's letter, awoke in my
breast, and in spite of all my good and generous intentions, a new and
cruel fit of envy.

Then, prompted by this new access of jealousy, I began for the first
time to insult my noble conduct towards Frank and Hélène; I mocked at
my delicacy with bitter irony. I said that I was a ridiculous fool to do
all this for people who most likely never spoke of me except with scorn;
then, by a miserable chain of thought, I arrived at a state of mind in
which I was again capable of bringing up accusations against Hélène.
If she had consoled herself so soon, it was because she had never really
loved me; in spite of my love, my regret, my remorse, she had been
merciless to me; her refusal of my hand was only a high-strung display
of her false pride. She was still prouder than she was egotistical and
mercenary, I said to myself. Fortunately, she will never know the source
of this help, and, with the exception of Lord Falmouth, whose discretion
I can count on, and from whom I have hidden the veritable pretext of my
conduct, no one shall ever be aware of my silly generosity. And after
all, I added, seeking to find by no matter what means a selfish motive
for my conduct, "I have got the painting and the drawings; and when
Frank will have become a celebrity, they will be very valuable, and I
shall have made a good speculation!"

It was thus, alas! that I found the means of withering and falsifying my
good action, through the odious fear I had of being the dupe of a high
and honourable sentiment.


In spite of these fancies which for awhile dimmed the only ray of
happiness whose blest influence had come to refresh me, I wished to see
Hélène once more, if it were possible, and also to be an invisible
witness of the manner that she and Frank would receive Lord Falmouth.

I took up my station there, on the boulevard, at nine o'clock, not
daring to approach the house until after the arrival of Lord Falmouth. I
did not wait long; very soon a carriage stopped, it was his. Again I
leaned my forehead against the window-blinds.

By a noticeable display of good breeding, which showed me that Hélène
was still the same, there had, evidently, been no preparations made in
her modest home, there was nothing to indicate an expected visit from a
Mæcenas. Everything was arranged with its usual taste and simplicity.

When Lord Falmouth entered, he bowed respectfully to Hélène, who
received him with a polite dignity which was full of charm. Frank, in
his manner, seemed to understand perfectly the exact point where the
pride of an artist should give place to the affability of a man of the
world. Then, no doubt at the request of Lord Falmouth, he showed him
some of his sketches, and I noticed that Lord Falmouth's face, which was
usually so expressionless, brightened up with something that looked
almost like enthusiasm, as he contemplated I know not what drawing;
while Hélène blushed with pride and pleasure on hearing these praises
which Frank was receiving with so much modesty and serious good
breeding.

After a half-hour's visit, Lord Falmouth took leave of Hélène, who,
without rising, returned his bow in the most affable manner. Frank rang
the bell, accompanied Lord Falmouth as far as the door, and bowed to
him. I hid myself when Lord Falmouth came out, and until he had entered
his carriage, then I returned to the window.

Frank and Hélène were no longer in the salon; they had both gone to
look on their child, and I saw them smiling, as they stood besides its
cradle, and gazed on it with loving eyes, as though they wished to
bestow on the angelic little creature the unexpected good fortune which
had come to them.


For one last time I looked towards the house with grief in my heart, and
then silently bidding farewell to Hélène, I hastened away.

On returning home I waited for Lord Falmouth impatiently, for I wished
to know the impression Hélène and Frank had made on him. He was soon
announced.

"Do you know," said he to me on entering, "that your cousin is a _très
grande dame?_ that it would be impossible to find more grace or more
distinction? that she converses most agreeably, and that I can easily
conceive your anger with your lawyers for causing you to gain a suit
that could bring distress to such a charming woman?

"And what about Frank?" I asked him.

"Our great painter? Before the year is out that man will have risen to
his proper level. I am sure of it; and his position will be a fine one.
I predict this more from his conversation than from his admirable
picture, though we talked but little, after all; but in some of the
sketches he showed me, and in some beautiful ideas that he developed
very simply and naturally, I beheld veritable ingots of the purest and
finest gold, which only awaited the stamp of the mint to become more
valuable and splendid still. And with all this, everything in their
simple home is in such good form and breathes such an air of native
elegance that it is quite touching to see these two beautiful young
people, so reserved, so noble, and so dignified in their poverty. I
thank you for the sweetest impression I have felt for these many years.
Your errand is done, the pictures are yours, our Frank is going to set
to work on the drawings; as to the price, he is to draw on my banker at
sight. I also ordered two pictures for myself, for he rekindled in me
the love of art, and I am going to send two or three eminent
connoisseurs to see him, who will know how to help him, so that you will
see him in six months earning all the money he wants, and then he will
lose the only thing that spoils him, which is the proud reserve of his
manner; for fortune expands great minds, whereas it shrivels up narrow
ones, until they are all that is sublimely ridiculous and insolent."

The praises bestowed On Frank, by a man who was as habitually cold and
reserved as Lord Falmouth, caused me intense suffering, because they
confirmed in an unmistakable way all the good qualities I had, in spite
of my malevolence, discovered in Hélène's husband. I thanked Lord
Falmouth for his kindness, but he appeared to perceive my unkind
thoughts, and said:

"You seem to be worried."

"I really am; and as you are one of the few men to whom one may tell the
truth, I am willing to admit it," said I.

"To tell you the truth, I like you better so disposed than if you were
very gay," he replied. "I don't know why, but I am bored more than usual
these last few days." Then after a long pause: "Does the life you are
leading here amuse you enormously?" said he.

"Great God, no!" I exclaimed.

"Speaking seriously?"

"Oh, very seriously."

At this moment supper was announced.

"Be so good as to have all we will be likely to need placed on the
side-tables, and send away your servants; we will talk more freely,"
said Lord Falmouth, in English, as we were going into the dining-room.

"Thanks to God," said he, "I never have such a good appetite as when I
am bored to death. It seems as though I had at such times to nourish the
beast that is within me."

"I am also very gourmand, but in fits and starts," I replied, "and then
I go to impossible lengths, and when I would like to find an inventive
and creative genius I only stumble on a cook. And you may laugh if you
please; but I need to have an excuse to really dine conscientiously, if
you will allow me to say so; for example, after a long hunt, when I can
stretch out in a great armchair. I then feel a real sensual enjoyment;
but to make a study of my dinner, to seriously reflect on what I am
going to eat, that is too limited a pleasure; for one soon falls into
repetition and then comes satiety."

"Well," said Lord Falmouth, "I had once a veritable Christopher
Columbus, in his way, who discovered for me unknown worlds, but
unfortunately he is dead, poor fellow! Not a suicide like your Vatel,
but in a real duel with the head butler of M. de Nesselrode; for my poor
Hubert deeply despised all that concerned the pantry; he would sometimes
busy himself there by way of pastime, for amusement, he would say. He
pretended that the _pudding glacé à la Nesselrode_ was the result of
one of these leisure hours, and that his rival was simply a plagiarist.
But alas! how sad is our fate here below! My poor Hubert was doubly the
victim, for the name of the great diplomat who christened the pudding is
the only name that it bears in the legend of good livers."

"What a singular thing it is," said I to Lord Falmouth, "that duelling
and suicide should descend so low, and how truly it is said that the
passions only change their names!"

"Ah, for my poor Hubert the cuisine was a real passion. To satisfy
hunger was only a vile trade, he said, but to make people eat when they
were not hungry, he considered a fine art, and one he placed higher than
many another."

"And he was quite right," said I to Lord Falmouth; "for if we all were
virtuous enough only to care for sensual pleasures, how deadly stupid
life would be! The most admirable thing about the cravings of physical
appetite is that they can always be appeased, and being satisfied, bring
us a torpor, a dullness, which has a certain charm, while the desires of
the mind, its most splendid imaginings, only fill us with regret and
bitterness."

"I think as you do," said Lord Falmouth, "it is evident that every
abstract thought pursued too long a time only leaves us in a state of
lassitude and chagrin, because it is not given to the human species to
comprehend the eternally true, nor to attain to the eternally perfect,
while a physical appetite liberally satisfied leaves the organisation
calm and contented, because in this man has fulfilled an exact want of
nature."

"That is true; thought wears one out and destroys one."

"And besides," said Lord Falmouth, as he slowly emptied his glass, "all
this time life is passing, every day we exclaim, 'What a bore!' but that
doesn't prevent, Lord be praised! the hours from gliding along all the
same."

"And so we arrive," said I, "at the end of our term of life, day by
day,--hour after hour."

Lord Falmouth made a gesture of resignation, filled his glass, and
pushed the decanter over to me.

We remained this way some moments without speaking a word. Lord Falmouth
was the first to break the silence. He said to me: "Is your travelling
carriage in order?"

"To be sure it is," said I, very much surprised at such a sudden
question.

"Listen," said he, as though he were speaking of the most ordinary
topic. "At the present hour you are extremely unhappy. You have not told
me why, consequently I am ignorant as to the cause of your grief. Paris
is as hateful to you as it is a bore to me. I have sometimes dreamed of
a wild project which I have always wished to carry out, so seductive has
it seemed to me, but to do so I need a companion who feels in himself
the energy and desire to attain to new and powerful emotions, perhaps at
the risk of his life." I looked steadily at Lord Falmouth. He continued
to drain his glass in little sips. "I needed, in order to put this plan
into execution, to find some one who, in order to become my associate,
would be ready, as the country folks say, to go to the devil,--not
through want, but from a superabundance of the joys and good things of
this life."

I continued to watch Lord Falmouth, thinking that he was joking; he
remained just as calm and serious as he always was.

"Well," said he at length, "are you willing to be that companion?"

"But what is it that I am expected to undertake?" I asked him, with a
smile.

"I can not tell you yet; but if you accept my offer this is what you
will have to do: First you must expect to travel a year or more, or
even--"

"Or even for all eternity. Yes, I understand. And afterwards, what
else?"

"You are only to take with you one man, but he must be trustworthy,
healthy, and brave."

"I have such a one among my servants."

"Very well; then you must bring fifteen or twenty thousand francs, not
more."

"What else?"

"Provide yourself and your man with the best possible arms."

I continued to smile as I watched Lord Falmouth. "It is getting to be
serious," said I.

"Allow me to finish, afterwards you can act as you see fit," he
continued. "You must provide yourself with excellent arms, get your
passport, and send immediately for your horses."

"What! start off to-night?"

"This very night,--this very hour; you must give me what I need to write
to my _valet de chambre_, my waiting man will take it to him, and will
return with all I shall want and my carriage, for it is important that
you should have your carriage and I should have mine."

"Ah, come, now, are you speaking seriously?"

"Give me a chance to write, and you shall soon find out."

And in a few moments Lord Falmouth had written his letter, and one of
his men had started off with it.

"But," said I, "my clothes--my trunks?"

"If you will take my advice you will only carry with you the necessary
linen for your voyage."

"But how long is that journey to be? What road do we take?"

"The road to Marseilles."

"Are we going to Marseilles?"

"Not exactly, but to a little port which is near that city."

"And what to do there?"

"We are to embark."

"And in what direction are we to sail?"

"That is my secret; trust in me and you will not regret it. However, I
should tell you, perhaps," added he, in a tone which moved me deeply, "I
ought to tell you without any silly trifling, that you will do as well
to arrange any business you may have on your mind, in case of our not
returning."

"You mean I am to make my will?" I cried out, laughing at such an idea.

"Do as you please," said Lord Falmouth, in the most uninterested way
possible.

Still continuing to believe this voyage in the light of a mystification
in which I was willing to indulge him, I was so desirous of quitting
Paris, where such cruel souvenirs continued to sadden my life, that I
decided to write a few last words as a measure of prudence; however, I
said to Lord Falmouth:

"Oh, I see, it is a bet you have made, to get me to make my will."

"Then don't make it," said he, without changing his expression.

I knew that on several occasions Lord Falmouth had started off in this
impromptu way on very long voyages. I thought then, that, perhaps, after
all, he felt the desire for a sudden change. Now his companionship was
very agreeable to me, and the object of the voyage, which he tried to
hide from me (doubtless to excite my curiosity) by an appearance of
mystery, might suit me very well. Perhaps, though, it might have
unforeseen consequences, and so I might as well write a few directions
in case we should not return, as he said.

This sudden determination looks as strange to me to-day as were the
results it brought about; but I had been so forlorn lately, I was so
perfectly free from any attachment, any affection, any duty, that the
suddenness of the determination pleased me, as any strange new thing
pleases us when we are but twenty-five years old.

I sent for my old tutor, and left him my directions and full power to
attend to my affairs.

At the end of an hour's time my preparations were all finished, and the
carriage of Lord Falmouth was waiting for us. I got into it with him.
Our men servants were to follow us in mine.

Ten minutes afterwards we had left Paris.




LORD FALMOUTH




CHAPTER XXIX


PLANS


I left Paris with Lord Falmouth under the weight of an overwhelming
sorrow. Although indifferent at leaving a worldly life for a
peregrination, of whose mysterious end I was still in ignorance, the
memory of affections so incompletely severed, which I was leaving behind
me, would, I knew, pursue me and overtake me in the midst of the
distractions of this journey.

Hélène, Marguerite! sad names which fate cast at me every day as a
cruel joke, a remorse, or as a challenge,--I could not forget you, and
my conscience avenged you!

Once cracked, let the cup be broken! It matters not. But what folly to
cast it still full at their feet! To feel one's lips parched and dry
when one might still drink from a fresh, pure spring! It was frightful.
In analysing my impressions, I recognised everywhere my instinct of
habitual egotism. Never, never did I dream of the horrible wrong that I
had done to Marguerite or to Hélène. I thought always of the great
happiness, the loss of which I deplored.

I was leaving Paris, but I was still held, so to speak, in spite of
myself, to this centre of bitter regrets, by a thousand invisible ties.
If I sometimes allowed myself to entertain the hope of again seeing, of
one day finding, Marguerite again, suddenly the reality of the past came
to check my heart's throb, by one of those quick, heavy, so to speak,
electric blows, which go straight to the soul and make the whole being
tremble painfully.

I was also overcome when I contemplated with what indifference I thought
of my father; and yet if I thought of him, it was to make a sacrilegious
comparison between the trouble that his death had formerly caused me and
the grief of love which I felt.

Must it be, alas! confessed to my shame? In considering with an
experience so unfortunately hasty these different kinds of griefs, this
last pain seemed to me less intense, but more bitter; less deep, but
more violent; less oppressive, but more poignant than the first.

There are, I believe, two orders of suffering: suffering of the heart,
legitimate and hallowed; suffering of pride, shameful and miserable.

The first, however desolating it may be, has no bitterness; it is
immense, but one is proud of this immensity of grief, as one would be of
the religious accomplishment of some great and sad duty!

Then, also, the tears caused by this suffering flow abundantly, and
without any trouble; the soul is disposed to the most touching emotions
of pity, or is full of commiseration and of love; in a word, all
misfortunes are the cherished and respected sisters of our misfortune.

On the contrary, if you suffer for an unworthy cause, your heart is
drowned in hatred; your concentrated grief resembles dumb fury which
shame bridles with a sharp bit that vanity conceals; envy and hatred
gnaw you, but your eyes are dry, and the unhappiness of others can alone
draw from you a sad and mournful smile.

Such, at least, were the two shades of grief, very defined, which I felt
after the death of my father, and after my rupture with Hélène and
Marguerite.

That was not all. Scarcely had I left Paris with Lord Falmouth, than, by
a miserable caprice, I regretted having undertaken this journey; not
that I feared its results, but I should have preferred to be alone, in
order to have looked my sorrow well in the face, to have struggled with
it hand to hand, and, perhaps, to have triumphed over it.

I have often found when one suffers, nothing is more fatal than to wish
to be distracted from one's grief.

If during some moments you become stupefied by your misfortunes, the
awakening is horrible.

When you find yourself suddenly precipitated into an abyss of moral
suffering, after the terrible shock which stuns, which bruises even the
most delicate fibres of your heart, that which is, above all, most
frightful, is this sudden night, black and profound, of the soul, which
does not permit one to see even the thousand wounds by which it is torn.

Frightfully bruised, you lie annihilated in the midst of a chaos of
nameless pains; then, little by little, thought follows the vertigo. As
sight becomes accustomed to distinguishing the objects in the gloom, you
begin, so to speak, to recognise yourself in your despair.

Then, sinister and fading as spectres, slowly one by one the harrowing
regrets of the past spring up around you, and the charming visions of a
future which will never be; then appear before you the phantoms of the
happiest, the most radiant, the most brilliant hours of former
times,--for your grief forgets nothing,--the most distant echo, the
faintest perfume, the most mysterious murmur, all are mercilessly
reproduced in your thoughts; but this mirage of a lost happiness is
strange and sinister. You believe you see a magnificent landscape,
bathed in azure, of light and sun, across the glassy pupil of a dying
man, and all seems veiled in a gray and sepulchral mist.

The suffering is then in its paroxysm, but it can only diminish; it is
sharp and penetrating, but it can be analysed; your enemies are
numerous, are threatening, are terrible, but you see them, you can fight
them.

You struggle so, or, like a wounded wolf, which, in the depths of its
cave, awaits his recovery only in time, wrapped in your solitary
suffering, you can, near or far, assign a term to your grief, and hope,
at least, in forgetfulness. Forgetfulness,--this only inexorable reality
of life! Forgetfulness,--this fathomless ocean, wherein come unceasingly
to be lost all sorrow, all love, and all curses.

And yet, strange impotency which is called human philosophy! You know
that one day,--that soon, perhaps,--time must efface many griefs, and
this certain conviction can in no way calm or alleviate your torment.

It is for this reason, I repeat, that it has always seemed to me that to
divert oneself from one's sorrow, instead of confronting it resolutely,
is to begin each day this cruel initiation of suffering, instead of
exhausting it by its own excess.

It will therefore be seen that, in the disposition of mind in which I
found myself, this journey, adventurously undertaken, might sometimes
seem to me painful.

We had travelled the whole night. We were about forty leagues from
Paris. Falmouth awakened soon, took me by the hand, and said: "Night
induces counsel. Now that I reflect upon everything, my plan may seem
very stupid to you. I also wish to tell you my secret while we are still
quite near to Paris, in order that you may be able to return there
to-night, if what I have to propose is not agreeable to you."

"Let us see,--tell me this mysterious plan."

"Here it is, then," replied Falmouth. "Do you know the Yacht Club?"

"Yes,--and you are, I believe, one of its members."

"Well, as such I own a charming schooner now moored off the Islands of
Hyères, near Marseilles. This schooner is armed with eight carronades,
and equipped with a crew of forty men."

"It is, then, a veritable cruise which you propose to me?"

"Almost; but you should first know that the crew of my yacht, from the
captain to the last sailor, is entirely devoted to me."

"I can readily believe it."

"You should know further that my yacht, which is named the _Gazelle_, is
worthy of its name; it does not sail, it bounds over the water. It has
three times beaten the brig of Lord Yarboroug, our president, in the
races at the Isle of Wight, and has taken the prize of the Yacht Club;
in a word, there is not a warship of the royal navy of France or of
England, that my yacht cannot distance as easily as a race-horse
outstrips a cart-horse."

"I know that nearly all these pleasure-boats of your aristocracy swim
like fishes; but what more?"

"Life now seems to you weary and monotonous, does it not? Well, would
you like to give it some savour?"

"Without doubt."

"But first," said Falmouth, with an air of grave sarcasm, "I must
declare to you that I am not the least in the world friendly to the
Greeks; on the contrary, I have a leaning, and a very marked inclination
towards the Turks."

"What?" I said to him, in astonishment. "And what connection is there
between our journey and the Turks or friendliness towards the Greeks?"

"A very simple connection: I am going to propose to you to go to
Greece."

"For what?"

"Have you heard of Canaris?" said Falmouth.

"Of that intrepid corsair, who has already burned all the Turkish
vessels with his fireships? Certainly."

"Ah, well, and have you never been tempted to go to see that?"

"But go to see what?"

"Go to see Canaris set fire to a Turkish vessel?" replied Falmouth, with
the most indifferent air in the world, and as if it had been a question
of taking part in a race, or visiting a manufactory.

"I confess," I replied, unable to suppress a smile, "that until the
present moment I have never had such a curiosity."

"It is surprising," replied Falmouth; "for myself, for six months I have
dreamed only of Canaris and his fireships; and I have had my yacht
brought from the Isle of Wight to Marseilles with the only intention of
gratifying this fancy; so that if you consent to it we will set out from
Marseilles for Malta, on board my schooner. Once arrived at Malta, I
shall obtain authority from Lord Ponsonby to serve with my yacht, in aid
of the Greeks, although, I repeat, I am not friendly to the Greeks, and
go to increase the squadron of Lord Cochrane. Now if you wish, for a few
months, we will lead a life on board ship, which will have a little of
the life of wandering knights or of pirates. We shall find there
dangers, combats, tempests,--who knows? Finally, all kinds of things
new, and a little adventurous, which will take us out of this worldly
life which weighs upon us, and we shall perhaps have the pleasure of
seeing my fixed idea realised, that of seeing Canaris burn a Turkish
vessel, for I shall not die satisfied until I shall have seen that. What
do you say to it?"

Although I thought Falmouth's taste a singular one, experimenting with
incendiaries, I saw no serious objection to his proposition. I was
unacquainted with the Orient; my thoughts had often wandered with love
towards its beautiful skies. This idle and sensual life had always
charmed me; and then, although having travelled much already, I had no
idea what a voyage somewhat serious might be, and I felt a sort of
curiosity to know how I might face some great danger.

Aside from the risks which one might run in associating with one of
Canaris's expeditions, I knew that, since the Grecian insurrection, the
Archipelago was infested with pirates, either Turks, renegades, or
Algerians, and that a boat as weak as Falmouth's had every chance of
being attacked. Upon the whole, this proposition did not displease me,
and I replied, after a long silence, the result of which Falmouth
appeared to await with impatience:

"Although, be it said to my great shame, the curiosity to see Canaris
burn a Turkish ship is not positively what decides me, I agree entirely
with your plan, and you may consider me one of the passengers on your
schooner."

"Then we shall be together there for a long time!" said Falmouth to me.
"So much the better, for I have to free you well from prejudices."

I looked at him with surprise, and begged him to explain himself; he
evaded.

The object of our voyage decided, it was expedient that we should set
out from the Hyères Isles for Malta upon our arrival at Marseilles.

Little by little the sight of exterior objects, the experiences of the
journey, calmed or rather benumbed my sufferings; but it was with
uneasiness that I yielded to this sort of transient well-being. I knew
that my griefs would soon return, keener than before. This beneficent
sleep must have a cruel awakening. It must be said, too, that Falmouth
showed the most affectionate cordiality, the most amiable cheerfulness
of a most even character.

His conversation and his wit, moreover, pleased me greatly; I had
sincerely appreciated his delicacy and his gracious kindness at the time
of his relations with Hélène's husband.

In spite of my apparent coldness, and my continual sarcasms against
friendship,--this sentiment to which I pretended to be so
indifferent,--I felt at times drawn towards Falmouth by a lively
sympathy.

Then, I repeat, this voyage appeared to me under a charming aspect;
instead of regarding it as a disagreeable and tiresome distraction, I
had golden dreams in thinking of all that might be agreeable, if I saw,
if I met in Falmouth a tender and devoted friend.

There were the long and intimate conversations of the voyage, hours so
favourable for disclosing one's inmost thoughts, and for confidences;
there were the cruises, fatigues, even perils to share as brothers in an
unknown country,--confidences, cruises, fatigues, perils, that might be
so pleasant to recall later, in saying to each other, "Do you remember?"
Sweet words, sweet echo of the past which makes the heart leap!

"Without doubt," I said to myself, "the satiety of pleasures is bad, but
at least happily surfeited are they who, satiated with all the
delicacies of the most refined existence, have the valiant caprice to go
to temper again their souls at the conflagration of Canaris."

Interpreted in this manner, was not this voyage noble and grand? Was
there not something touching and chivalrous in this community of dangers
so fraternally shared?

When I quietly yielded to these impressions their beneficent influence
softened my heart, so grievously occupied; a precious balm shed itself
upon my wounds, I felt better; I still sorrowfully deplored the past,
but I no longer hated it, and the generous faith that I had in myself
for the future soothed the bitterness of my regrets.

Finally, during the pure and pious aspirations of my heart towards a
consoling friendship, I could not express the happiness which
transported me; as God embraces with a single glance all the ages of
eternity, with the sudden radiance of my young hope it seemed to me to
disclose all at once the horizon of the happiness which I imagined, a
thousand new raptures, a thousand enchanting joys, with these words, "a
friend." I felt awaken within me the noblest instincts, the most
generous enthusiasm. I was then, doubtless, well worthy of inspiring and
of sharing this great and lofty sentiment, for I felt all the sympathy
of it, I understood all the pious duties in it, and I experienced all
the happiness of it.


But, alas! this ecstasy lasted but a short time, and from this radiant
sphere I often fell again into the black abyss of the most detestable
doubt, of the most humiliating scepticism.

My distrust of myself and my fear of being the dupe of the feelings
which I experienced became magnified to the most suspicious monomania.

Instead of believing Falmouth attracted to me by a sympathy equal to
that which I felt for him, I sought to learn what interest he could have
had in inviting me to accompany him. I knew his fortune to be so large
that I could not see in his offer any desire to diminish by half the
expense of the voyage that he wished to make by proposing to me to
undertake it with him. Nevertheless, in thinking of the contradictions
of human nature, so extreme and so inexplicable, and of the more than
modest simplicity which Falmouth assumed at times, I did not regard this
miserable afterthought as absolutely inadmissible.

Without disclaiming this shameful supposition, I still saw in his
proposition the disdainful indifference of a man, blasé, who would take
by chance, indifferently, the arm of the first who came along,--take a
long promenade, provided this first comer followed the same direction as
himself.


Such were the mental reservations which often came in spite of myself to
blemish a future which I sometimes dreamed of as so beautiful!

Oh, my father! my father I how fatal is the terrible gift which you have
made me, in teaching me to doubt! I have put on your armour of war, but
I have not been able to fight with it; it crushes me under its weight.
Driven back, turned back upon myself, I feel my feebleness, my misery,
and I exaggerate it still more.


We arrived at Marseilles and soon at the Hyères Islands without any
remarkable episode.




CHAPTER XXX


THE YACHT


As we stopped in Marseilles only to change horses, we soon arrived at
the Hyères Islands. We found Falmouth's yacht moored in the bay of
Frais-Port in the Porquerolles harbour.

The _Gazelle_ was a marvel of luxury and elegance; nothing could be
prettier or more coquettish than this little boat. The whole interior
had been reserved for Falmouth's habitation. This apartment was very
commodious, consisting of a saloon and two bedrooms, each with a
bath-room. The cabins of the captain and the lieutenant of the yacht
were forward. The crew numbered forty sailors; they wore blue jackets
with buttons bearing the Falmouth arms; red woollen sashes fastened
their white trousers, and broad black ribbons floated from their straw
hats.

On the deck of the schooner, dazzlingly clean, were eight carronades of
bronze carefully fixed on their mahogany carriages; swivel-guns of
copper, an armory symmetrically furnished with guns, pistols, sabres,
spears, and axes, completed the armament of this pretty boat.

The captain of the yacht, whom Falmouth presented to me, and whom he
called Williams, was a tall, robust man of about twenty-five years of
age, with a gentle and open face. He was--so Falmouth told me--the son
of one of his Suffolk farmers. The greater number of the sailors
belonged also to his county, where my lord owned much property near the
sea. The lieutenant, a younger brother of Williams, was named Geordy.
Younger by five or six years, he strongly resembled his brother, with
the same appearance of strength, quiet, and gentleness.

The manner of these two young officers towards Falmouth was extremely
respectful; they called him "my lord" and he addressed them with a
familiarity that was friendly and almost paternal.

It was early in the month of June; the weather was magnificent; the
wind, quite brisk and very favourable to our voyage, was from the north.
After having consulted Williams as to the time of our departure,
Falmouth decided that we should set sail the following morning.

In order to take a route towards the south it was necessary that we
should reconnoitre the western coasts of Corsica, Sardinia, and of
Sicily, and put into port at Malta; then, after having seen the governor
and taken a pilot on board we would set sail to the northeast, and enter
the Grecian Archipelago, in order to reach Hydra, where Falmouth hoped
to meet Canaris.

The bay of Frais-Port, where the _Gazelle_ was moored, was situated
south of Porquerolles, and frequented only by fishing-boats or small
Sardinian ships which cruised along its shores.

When we reached this harbour, we found there, at anchor, some distance
from the _Gazelle_, a large mystic, flying a Sardinian flag.

Night came on, the moon rose with all its dazzling brilliancy in the
centre of a magnificent starry heaven; the air was perfumed with the
odour of orange-blossoms from the gardens of Hyères.

Falmouth proposed a walk along the shore, so we set out. We followed a
range of perpendicular rocks, rising from twenty-five to thirty feet
above the shore which they outlined, and upon which the large waves of
the Mediterranean broke, and died peacefully.

From the height of this sort of natural terrace, we discovered, at some
distance before us, an immense sea, whose sombre azure was furrowed by a
zone of silver light,--for the moon was still rising radiant and bright.
In the west we could distinguish the entrance of the bay of Frais-Port,
where the yacht was moored, and in the east the mountainous point of
Cape Armes, whose white cliffs cut boldly into the deep blue of the sky.

We were much impressed by this calm and majestic picture; no sound
disturbed the profound silence of the night, except from time to time
the low, monotonous murmur of the waves breaking on the beach.

I had fallen into a deep reverie, when Falmouth pointed out to me, by
the light of the moon, the mystic of which I have spoken, advancing out
of the bay, towed by its long-boat. Some minutes later it cast anchor at
the extreme point outside the port, as if it wished to hold itself in
readiness to set sail at the first signal.

"Our yacht will pass the night alone in the bay," said Falmouth, "for
the mystic appears disposed to set sail."

"Between ourselves, your _Gazelle_ will have little regret for its
company," I replied, "for I have seen this boat by day, and it would be
impossible to meet a ship of worse appearance; compared with your
elegant and coquettish schooner it has the air of a hideous beggar
before a pretty woman."

"So be it," answered Falmouth, "but the beggar has good legs, I can tell
you. I, too, have noticed this boat; it is frightful, and, therefore, I
am sure that it travels like a dolphin. See, look at the immense spread
of the lateen sails which it has just hoisted."

I interrupted Falmouth to show him, thirty feet below, his Lieutenant
Geordy, who, advancing cautiously along the shore, seemed afraid of
being seen. He had to cross a part of the beach lighted by the moon.
Instead of walking directly, he made a détour, in order to crouch
behind some masses of rock which bordered the shore in this place, and
dragged himself crawling along.

"What the devil is Geordy doing?" said Falmouth, looking at me with
astonishment.

We continued to follow Geordy with our eyes; suddenly we saw him stop,
throw himself into the cleft of a rock, and lie close to the ground.

With an instinctive act of imitation, Falmouth and I stopped at the same
time. Then, hearing the sound of voices, we cautiously lifted our heads,
and saw the long-boat which had towed the mystic approach and touch at
the point of the bay.

A dozen sailors, wearing long caps of red wool and brown jackets with
camail, manned this small boat. A sailor seated at the stern steered it;
he was clad in a black mantle, whose turned-up hood would not permit us
to distinguish his features; however, his whole appearance gave me an
unpleasant impression.

When the towboat reached the shore, the man with the mantle remained
alone, and threw a rope to the sailors, which they fastened to a rock.

These men first looked carefully and suspiciously about them, then
passed rapidly towards the large rock which concealed Geordy.

At their approach he took from his pockets a pair of pistols.

Falmouth and I exchanged glances, uncertain as to what we ought to do;
the rock was perpendicular, its slope far distant; in case of attack, it
seemed impossible to help Geordy other than by our cries, and even if
they put these sailors to flight, in ten minutes their boat could reach
the mystic and set sail with him.

We were in this state of perplexity when the sailors stopped in front of
the rock which served as a hiding-place for Geordy. With iron levers
they laboriously raised a large stone, which closed an opening,
doubtless very spacious, for they hastily took from it several boxes and
some very heavy barrels, which they carried to their boat.

At the risk of being discovered, Falmouth burst into a shout of
laughter, saying to me:

"These are bold smugglers, who have concealed their booty for fear of a
visit from the custom-house officers or the French coast-guards, and who
are preparing to put to sea to-night with this forbidden fruit. That
explains why they have a ship which can travel so fast."

"But," said I, "if that were so, why does the lieutenant of our brig,
who is neither a coast-guard nor custom-house officer, come to watch
also?"

"You are right," replied Falmouth; "I am wrong there; let us, then, see
the end of all this."

Ten minutes after the transportation of the boxes, the long-boat, so
loaded that it sank almost to the level of the water, set out for the
mystic, which had just hoisted its last sail.

Scarcely had the craft stood away, than Geordy leaped from his
concealment, and ran rapidly in the direction of the bay where the yacht
was moored; but this time the lieutenant, instead of gliding behind the
rocks, followed the edge of the beach, and the seamen of the long-boat
saw him by the light of the moon.

Immediately the man with the black mantle, seated at the helm, arose,
left the rudder, took a gun, and quickly covered Geordy.

A flash shone in the darkness as the shot was fired. Although a second
shot followed the first, Geordy appeared not to have been wounded, for
he continued to run until, by a turn in the shore, he was lost to our
sight.

"Let us return to the yacht," said I to Falmouth. "There will, perhaps,
be time to board this mystic, and obtain justice for his attack."

Hurrying precipitately along the range of rocks, we saw the long-boat
continually urging the oars, in order to reach their boat.

In a few moments it had reached it, was hoisted aboard, and the ship,
spreading to the north wind its great sails like two immense wings, soon
disappeared in the dark shadows of the horizon.


"Too late," said Falmouth, "there they go."

We hastened to a miserable inn, situated near the wharf of Frais-Port,
and there we found Geordy. He was not wounded.

"Explain to me now," said Falmouth to him, "what you were doing on
shore, and why those wretches fired two shots at you?"

Geordy, surprised to find that Falmouth knew this circumstance, gave him
the following details:

It appears that this Sardinian mystic was already moored in the bay when
the yacht arrived, expecting soon to set sail. Although they pretended
to have the ballast on board, and were returning from Barcelona to Nice
without cargo, the presence of the English schooner seemed to change the
captain's mind.

His stay at Porquerolles becoming more and more prolonged, Williams and
Geordy had good reason to be surprised that such a poor merchant ship
should lose so much valuable time; moreover, its crew consisted of
twenty men, a singularly large number for a vessel of its size, which,
lying unemployed, could hardly afford to pay for such an armament. The
two Englishmen, wishing to judge for themselves as to what this boat
might be, went aboard, under the pretext of asking a slight service of
the captain. They had been able to examine the interior of the ship,
which seemed to them much better adapted to racing than to commerce; but
they saw neither arms nor munitions of war, for all was open from the
hold to the bridge; they had in vain tried to meet the captain, who was
no other than the man with the black mantle. But he had constantly
avoided an interview. Finally, in their trifling visit aboard this
mysterious boat, as well as in their inspection of the captain's papers,
the French custom officers had found nothing to suspect.

Geordy said among the men who formed the crew were five or six Italians;
the rest were Spaniards and Americans, and appeared to be pirates of
sinister and patibulary countenances. That which above all had
contributed to excite the suspicions of the Englishmen, was that nearly
every day, during the absence of the captain for a certain time, the
crew of his ship was increased little by little, and the boat had set
sail with nearly fifty sailors, an exorbitant number of seamen for so
small a ship.

"But," said Falmouth to Geordy, "why did you watch them so this
evening?"

"As these people, whom I believe to be pirates, prepared to set sail at
the same time as your Grace's yacht, or, perhaps, before," replied
Geordy, "I suspected that at the time of departure they would perhaps go
ashore to seek some concealed arms, since we had seen none on board; so,
when I saw them presently leave the ship with their long-boat and go
towards the rocks at the north, I ran along the shore, and arrived in
time to prove what my brother Williams and I had thought to be true."

"That is to say, these people are really pirates," said Falmouth.

"Without doubt, my lord; the boxes are filled with arms, the barrels
with powder; they had found a means of putting them there before the
first visit of the French custom officers."

"And have you heard them talk?"

"Yes, my lord, I heard an American sailor say to his companion, when
showing him the barrels of powder, 'There is the glue which will catch
the English fly,' that is to say, your Grace's schooner."

"It is marvellous," I said, smiling to Falmouth; "we are still in port,
and yet danger threatens us already. You are indeed marked by fate."

"I understand their plan perfectly," replied Falmouth. "They calculate,
without doubt, to replace their ugly mystic with my pretty _Gazelle._ It
would be an excellent acquisition for them; for once possessors of my
yacht, no ship-of-war could overtake them, and no merchant ship could
escape them."

"It is superfluous to add," said I, "that as our presence would
incommode them so much, they would, doubtless, throw us into the sea for
fear of indiscretions."

"It is one of the usual customs of this kind of an exchange, but we
shall find a way of preventing them," said Falmouth. Then he added, "I
have no need, Geordy, once at sea, to recommend you to constantly watch
the horizon, in order that we may not be surprised by these scoundrels.
You are at all times a vigilant and brave seaman, the worthy brother of
Williams. You have both been rocked from infancy upon the salt water, so
I sleep tranquilly when the yacht is in your hands. I have seen you both
face to face with many dangers, in the midst of frightful tempests. Ah,
well, would you believe," added Falmouth, turning to me and pointing to
Geordy, "would you believe that with this quiet and timid manner he and
his brother are lions in danger?"

At this praise Geordy smiled modestly, cast down his eyes, blushed like
a young girl, and went to join his brother Williams to prepare
everything, for we were to set sail from the bay of Porquerolles the
next morning at sunrise.




CHAPTER XXXI


THE VOYAGE


It was three days since we had left France; the wind, until then
favourable, had become contrary ever since we sighted Sardinia.

Without being positively sure of being attacked by the mysterious ship
whose departure had been so sudden and so hostile, Falmouth had
recommended the captain of his yacht to be constantly upon his guard.
The carronades of the _Gazelle_ were loaded with grape-shot, the arms
prepared on the false deck, and at night a sailor remained on watch to
prevent any surprise.

I could not but admire the calmness and sweetness of the two young
officers of the schooner, their silent activity, and the feeling full of
tenderness which seemed to attach one to the other, and to put--if so it
may be called--in their most indifferent actions a touching union.

I remarked, also, that when the management required that Williams or
Geordy should give an order before Falmouth, their voices preserved a
respectful accent for the lord as long as they were obliged to give
orders in his presence. This shade seemed to me to be an exquisite tact,
or rather the expression of a very refined nature.

Geordy obeyed his elder brother Williams with a joyous submission.
Nothing could be more charming to observe than the mutual affection of
these two brothers, constantly exchanging looks as they attended to the
details of their service, with rare sagacity, or rather with marvellous
congeniality.

I had the curiosity to inspect the forward cabin which they occupied.

I saw there two hammocks as white as snow, a small table, and a
wash-stand shining like a mirror; two portraits, coarsely but naturally
painted,--the one, their mother, with a grave, sweet face (both
resembled her greatly), the other, their father, whose masculine and
open countenance showed good humour and loyalty. Between these two
portraits, and for ornament alone, their arms were fastened to the oaken
wainscoting of their little room.

Often when the schooner, well under way, ploughed its furrow of white
foam across the quiet waters of the Mediterranean, Williams and Geordy
would seat themselves side by side upon a gun, and there, with locked
arms, serious and pensive countenances, they piously read an old Bible
with brass fastenings, resting it upon their knees, and only
interrupting their reading to cast an occasional melancholy glance upon
the broad and solitary horizon,--a distraction which was an act of
homage to the greatness of God.

At other times, when this religious reading was finished, the two
brothers would fall into long talks.

One day I had the curiosity to overhear one of their conversations. I
seated myself near the cannon, where they usually sat, and, after
exchanging a few words with them, I pretended to be asleep.

I heard them then exchanging innocent confidences of their hopes,
recalling pleasant memories of their country, encouraging each other to
serve Falmouth well, this noble protector of their family, for whom they
showed this respectful, almost filial, attachment that is maintained
sometimes among us for several successive generations by followers of
the family (in the feudal acceptation of the word)[3] for the noble
houses which patronise them.

When the two brothers spoke of the lord, it was always without
irreverence, without envy, and, more than all, without any bitter and
jealous reflection upon their own obscure and poor condition.

Once they related some particulars in the life of Falmouth which struck
me with surprise. This man, whom I had believed so blasé as to all
human feelings, had a thousand times manifested the most generous
kindness, the most exquisite delicacy. Williams and Geordy spoke of it
with admiration.

In proportion as I lived more intimately with Henry, my surprise
increased.

Each day I discovered in him the noblest qualities, so opposite to the
fictitious or real character under which I had known him before. His
disposition was of a serenity without its equal; his penetration, his
ingenuity, prodigious; his mind of a rare dignity.

Soon, in our long conversations, I noticed that his irony became less
sharp, his observation less caustic, his scepticism less implacable; it
might be said that little by little he put off pieces of armour which he
recognised as useless.

It was with pleasure that I saw Falmouth's character so completely
transformed.

I felt touched by the cordial and touching persistency with which he
sought my friendship. I enjoyed eagerly this lively and sincere feeling,
whose consoling sweetness I experienced for the first time; no sacrifice
could be too great to assure myself of this precious affection in the
future, and as I experienced it generously, bravely, I felt worthy to
inspire it.

Pleased with my confidence, it was with a tone of deepest gratitude that
Falmouth thanked me for having believed in his friendship. In this way
passing our life, the one well supported by the other, he told me, all
one's troubles could be defied; for the deceits of love, of pride, of
ambition, always so painful because they are self-centred, would lose
all their bitterness by being poured out into the heart of a friend.

The accents of his voice were so true, his features had an expression of
such sincerity, that I had entirely forgotten my mistrust; I yielded
with happiness to the impulse of an affection which I had never known
before.

Then came the endless conversations, whose attractions I know not how to
describe. Falmouth's imagination was lively and brilliant, his wit well
embellished. We both possessed quite varied and extended knowledge; we
never for a moment felt wearied with one another, in spite of the long
hours of the voyage.

In proportion as our intimacy increased, my faith in myself and in
Falmouth increased. I felt happy and better, a new future opened before
me; I had plenty of courage not to subject this happiness, so fresh and
young, to a withering analysis. I gave myself up innocently to
impressions which I found so pure and so refreshing.


We had been at sea five days.

One evening, quite late, towards eleven o'clock, having left Falmouth in
the saloon, I ascended to the deck to enjoy the freshness of the night,
and seated myself in a yawl suspended in the stern of the schooner.

I had been some time absorbed in my dreams, when the sailor on watch
hailed an approaching ship.

I arose.

The watch hailed a second time.

Almost immediately I saw sailing silently towards us, and at a very
short distance from us, a ship, whose immense sails I recognised as
those of the Sardinian boat of the bay of Porquerolles.

The night was clear, the boat sailing rather fast; upon the deck of this
long, narrow ship a great number of men were crowding against one
another. From the mast was hung a ship's lantern. Lighted by its red,
uncertain reflection, I distinguished at the helm, and holding the
tiller, the man with the black cowl that I had already noticed during
the approach of the long-boat.

Strange encounter, the consequences of which were to be still more
strange!


The mystic withdrew; the noise of its track died away.

For a few minutes I could follow it with my eye, thanks to its white
sails; then they became less distinct, and, finally, altogether effaced,
until I could see only a luminous point in the darkness, which in time
disappeared with the play of the ship's sails, like a star under a
cloud.

Upon the appearance of this suspicious boat, Williams had ordered his
brother to look for Falmouth.

"Well, Williams," said the latter, mounting the bridge, "we are again
meeting our ugly acquaintance of Porquerolles!"

"The mystic has just passed athwart us, my lord."

"And what do you advise?"

"Save for the order of your Grace, my advice would be to put ourselves
at once on defence, for I think that this pirate, held like ourselves in
these quarters by the contrary winds, will attack us, not believing us
ready to receive it, and reckoning, moreover, upon the number of its
crew."

"Let us prove, then, to these pirates, that they are mistaken, my brave
Williams, and that forty John Bulls are worth more than this gang of
scoundrels, than this cosmopolitan specimen of gallows-game. Ah, well,"
added Falmouth, seeing me, "here, my friend, is something which works
admirably; this adventure delights me. It is an excellent introduction
to our frolic with Canaris; it is the overture of our opera!"

"In truth _dilettanti_" I replied, "let us prepare to do our part, and
seek for our arms."

I descended to my room.

Falmouth entered almost as soon as I.

Inasmuch as he had appeared to me pleased and resolute on deck, so now I
found him with an air sad and troubled.

He took my hands with emotion, and said: "Arthur, I am now in despair
with this folly!"

"Of what folly do you speak?"

"If you should be wounded, dangerously wounded," casting upon me an
affectionate glance, "I should never forgive myself."

"And do you not run the same risks?"

"Without doubt; but that you, you should suffer the consequences of my
mad freak,--it is that which I find horrible!"

"What an idea! Are we not making this voyage 'Dutch treat?' Ought we not
to share all? Why, this is an accident on the way,--nothing more. Were
we not agreed to seek adventures like veritable knights-errants? And
finally, had not you, yourself, just now the air of one well pleased
with this meeting?"

"I was then before my people, and I did not wish them to guess my
thought,--but to you I can say all. Ah, well! now I am in despair with
all this; and instead of amusing ourselves with vain boasting, I wish
very much to profit by the speed of my schooner to--"

"Do not think of it," I cried. "What would they say at the Yacht Club?
That one of its members had run before a pirate! And then, my dear
Henry," said I, laughing, "remember that your fears are not very
flattering to my honour."

"Ah, stop,--that is dreadful! For the first time in my life, I find a
friend such as I have dreamed of, and through my own fault I risk losing
him," cried Falmouth, throwing himself on a chair and burying his head
in both hands.

"My dear Henry," I replied, deeply touched by his tone, "on the
contrary, let us thank this chance which has furnished us this proof.
Does not the emotion that we both feel show us that this friendship is
already first in our hearts? Could we have found a similar revelation in
the ordinary uniform life of the world? Believe me, we see in this a
good fortune; let us bless it and profit by it. It is by fire that pure
gold is proved."

A sailor descending precipitately, came to beg Falmouth to ascend to the
deck.

When he had gone, Henry threw himself into my arms with effusion, and
said: "You have a noble heart,--my instinct has not deceived me."

I remained alone.

If Falmouth feared the chances of this combat for me, I also feared them
keenly for him.

This uneasiness revealed to me all the strength of the affection I bore
him.

By what miracle had this friendship so suddenly developed? How came its
roots to be already so deep, in spite of my distrust, in spite of my
habitual incredulity?

I do not know, but it was so, and we had travelled together scarcely one
month.

Perhaps this rapid progress would seem less surprising, if one
considered the secret instinct which had attracted us to each other
before our departure.


I took up my arms.

I had then a moment of frightful agony.

In thinking of the danger we were to run, I feared being cowardly, or,
rather, that my courage might not reach the height of a noble sacrifice;
I asked myself if, in supreme danger, I could sacrifice my life to save
Falmouth's, and, I confess to my shame, I dared not reply with
certainty.

It is true, I knew myself to be brave, with a cool, stubborn bravery. I
had had a duel in which my calm energy had done me honour: but was that
true courage? Can a man, well born, refuse a duel? Can he bear himself
becomingly, except through good breeding or pride?

I did not know, therefore, if I should have the thoughtless, fulgurating
courage which turns to danger as steel to the magnet, which exalts
itself still more in a bloody conflict, and which, hovering above all
danger, directs its blows with a sure hand, choosing its victims.

I believed I felt, in a word, the cool and inert bravery of the
artillery man, who, near his battery, awaits a bullet without turning
pale, but not the excited intrepidity of the partisan who, sword in
hand, throws himself, with ferocious zeal, into the midst of the
carnage.

And, nevertheless, it was doubtless into a hand to hand combat in the
boarding of a ship that we were to defend our lives. And if I
failed,--and if before these foreigners, if before Falmouth, I should
appear cowardly, or weak! If my instinct of self-preservation should
make me stupid!

No, I could not say what dreadful thing I might bring upon myself in
this moment of hesitation and uncertainty. But I confess that which I
feared most was, that in case Falmouth's life might absolutely depend
upon my courage, I might find myself unequal to this noble duty.


[Footnote 3: That is to say, forming part of the house, not considered
as servants; pages, riding-masters, and esquires were domestics in this
acceptation.]




CHAPTER XXXII


THE COMBAT


I again ascended to the deck.

I had taken a double-barrelled carbine, and a heavy Turkish damaskeened
battle-axe, formerly bought as an object of curiosity, and which, under
these circumstances, became an excellent weapon, for, besides its heavy
blade, it ended in a very sharp iron spear.

I tried to discover the pirate, but whether because the ship had put out
its light, or because it had greatly prolonged its tack, I could no
longer see it. The yacht's crew had been promptly armed.

By the glimmer of some gun-lighters, fixed by their iron points in some
buckets filled with water, we saw the sailors placed in charge of the
guns, standing near the carronades; others, placed on either side of the
schooner, were loading their guns, while an old gray-haired boatswain
had just taken the tiller from the hands of one of his much younger
comrades, whose experience was, doubtless, not sufficient to enable him
to take this important post, during the combat.

All this took place in profound silence; one could hear only the dull
noise of the ramrods on the wads, or the sound of the butt end of the
muskets on the bridge. Williams, at the stern, stood on his
quarter-deck, giving the last order. Geordy, charged with the direction
of the gunners, superintended this part of the service.

Falmouth stood on the bridge. He had again put on his mask of habitual
indifference.

"All is ready, my lord," said Williams to him. "Does your Grace wish to
fight this pirate under sail or shall we board her?"

"Which do you prefer, a fight on board or a fight under sail?" Falmouth
asked me, as if he were asking me to choose between Bordeaux or Madeira
wine.

"I am absolutely indifferent," I replied, smiling; "let us act without
ceremony; trust to the judgment of Williams, it is safer."

"What do you think, Williams?" demanded Falmouth.

"That we keep under sail. With the artillery of your Grace's yacht we
can destroy this pirate without its being able to approach us, or do us
much harm; for I do not suppose it could have taken artillery aboard."

"And the boarding?" asked Falmouth.

"I believe my lord knows the crew of the yacht well enough to be certain
that, after a good contest, the pirates will be repulsed, or perhaps
that their boat will remain in our power. But," suddenly cried Williams,
pointing to a white spot with the end of his spy-glass, "the ship has
put about; here it is returning upon us, my lord."

In fact, I soon saw its white sails appear in the darkness as it rapidly
approached.

I loaded my carbine, put my axe near me, and waited.

I remember perfectly what I saw in my radius of action, not having had,
I confess, the courage to isolate myself enough from my personal
preoccupations to comprehend this bloody scene.

I was standing at the stern and off the side of the yacht.

A few feet in front of me, at the foot of the mizzenmast, with his back
to me, an old sailor worked the helm.

Williams, on his quarter-deck, was giving some orders to a boatswain,
who listened hat in hand. Falmouth, mounted on a cannon, holding to the
shrouds with one hand, his gun in the other, was looking in the
direction of the mystic.

The most profound silence reigned on board the yacht; this was a moment
of grave and solemn expectation.

As for me, that which I felt reminded me very much, if I may be excused
this childish comparison, of the uneasy emotion that I felt in my
childhood when I was waiting minute by minute the shot from a gun fired
in the scene of a play.

Then, must I acknowledge another weakness in my character? I had never
faced any danger without imagining immediately all its fatal risks for
myself. As in the duel of which I have spoken, a maddening duel, I
thought not of death, but of the hideous mutilation which might result
from a wound. At the moment of the boarding of this vessel, I had the
same preoccupation. I saw myself with horror deprived of an arm or a
leg, and thus made a repulsive object of pity to every one.

A light touch on the shoulder aroused me from my reflections.

I turned around; Falmouth, without interrupting the "Rule Britannia"
which he whistled between his teeth, showed me with the end of his gun
something white on the horizon which was gradually approaching us.

I began to distinguish perfectly the mystic.

Suddenly, I was dazzled by a sheet of light which for a moment
illuminated the horizon, the sea, and all that I saw of the yacht. At
the same time I heard the successive detonation of many firearms and the
whistling of bullets passing near me.

From the sharp noise, from the crackling which followed the detonation,
from some splinters of wood which fell at my feet, I knew that the balls
had lodged either in the masts or in the hull of the ship.

My first motion was to turn back, my second to prepare and to fire in
the direction of the mystic, but reflection restrained me.

My impatience, my curiosity, then became intense. I say curiosity,
because this word alone seems to me to well express the eager impatience
which agitated me.

I felt my veins throb violently, the blood rush to my heart, and my
forehead flush.

Hardly had the echo of the detonation died away than the pirate came out
of a thick cloud of smoke, having one of its sails half-brailed.

It was a strange spectacle.

By the uncertain light of the moon, the body of this ship and its
rigging was outlined in black upon the whitish cloud that the wind blew
towards us.

An instant afterwards the ship lay alongside the yacht from stern to
bow, almost touching her.

By the light of the ship's lantern we could see the man with the black
cowl still at the helm; with one hand he worked the tiller, with the
other he pointed to the yacht, and I heard him call in Italian to the
pirates who were pressing tumultuously to his side: "Fire no more; board
her! Board her!"

According to the manœuvres of the pirates, the boarding would take
place on the right, and all the crew of the yacht precipitated
themselves from this side.

The gunners seized the cords which operated the pan-covers of the
carronades.

I covered the man with the black cowl perfectly with the muzzle of my
carbine.

At the moment when I pressed the trigger, Williams shouted, "Fire all!"

I fired, but was unable to see the effect of my ball.

A great explosion shook the yacht. It was the four starboard carronades
loaded with grape-shot, which were fired almost at short range on the
mystic pirate, without doubt at the moment when they boarded the yacht,
for the latter received so violent a shock that I was almost thrown
down.

Several balls whistled around my head.

A heavy body fell behind me, and I heard Falmouth call to me, in a
feeble voice:

"Take care of yourself."

I turned anxiously towards him, when a man, wearing the Catalan bonnet,
leaped upon the deck, caught me with one hand by my cravat, and with the
other fired a shot from a pistol so near me that the priming burned my
hair and beard.


[Illustration]


Making a quick movement and throwing myself backward, I averted the ball
which grazed my shoulder. I was holding my carbine loaded with one shot.
At the moment when the pirate, seeing he had missed me, struck me on the
head with the butt end of his pistol, I thrust the barrel of my carbine
full against his chest, and fired.

The concussion was so strong that my arms were benumbed.

The pirate wheeled violently, stumbled against me, and fell on his back,
gasping convulsively.

I turned about and trod upon some one; it was Falmouth, who was lying at
the foot of the mainmast.

"You are wounded?" I cried, throwing myself upon him.

"I believe that I have something like a broken thigh; but pay no heed to
me!" he exclaimed. "Take care! there comes another of those robbers, I
see his head, face him or you are lost!"

My heart was broken at the sight of Falmouth extended on the deck.

I did not for a moment dream of the danger I was running; I wished first
of all to rescue Henry from a certain death, for being thus unable to
defend himself, he would be inevitably massacred.

Fortunately I saw the scuttle, which had not been closed (it was an
opening three feet square, which communicated with the common saloon). I
immediately took Falmouth under the arms, dragged him as far as this
opening, in spite of his resistance, for he struggled, crying:

"There is that brigand, he is going to leap upon you!"

Without replying, and using all my strength, I seated him on the edge of
the scuttle, his legs hanging within, and said to him, "Now let yourself
slide, you, at least, will be in safety."

"Too late! You have lost your life in saving me!" cried Falmouth, with a
tone of anguish.

As he said these words, with a last effort I made him slide into the
interior of the chamber, where he had nothing more to fear.

All this had happened in less time than it has taken to write it.

I was still down on one knee, when an iron hand seized me by the neck, a
strong knee pressed against my loins, and at the same time some one gave
me a violent blow on the shoulder. This blow was followed by a sharp
sensation of cold.

My boarding-axe was on the deck at my side; I seized it, and, in making
a desperate effort to raise myself, I struck behind me, and by chance a
furious blow, without doubt, reached my adversary, for my axe was
stopped by a hard body, and the hand which held me slackened its hold at
once. I was then able to straighten myself.

Scarcely was I on my feet when the man with the black cowl, who had
attacked me when I lowered Henry into the saloon, threw himself upon me.

I was without arms. Having let my boarding-axe fall, we laid hold hand
to hand, and an exciting struggle began.

His mantle, with the cowl turned up, enveloped him almost entirely, and
concealed his face. He twisted one of his legs strongly around mine, in
order to throw me; then squeezing me in order to choke me, he attempted
to lift me from the deck and throw me over the side of the schooner.

If he was strong, I was no less so.

The ardent desire to avenge Falmouth, the anger, and, shall I so call
it? this puerility, the disgust of feeling the breath of this brigand on
my cheek, gave me new strength.

Disengaging one of my hands from both his powerful ones, I could
fortunately take the pirate by the throat. There I felt the cord of a
scapular. I twisted it around my hand and quickly gave it two or three
turns.

I probably was beginning to strangle my enemy, for I noticed that his
embrace weakened, when, by a lucky chance, a motion of the boat made us
both stumble.

Already exhausted, the pirate fell, his back arched on the gunwale,--a
last effort, and I was about to succeed, I was about to throw myself
upon him with my whole weight, when he madly bit me in the face.

Although at this instant several shots flashed a bright light, and the
cowl of the pirate was a little loosened, I could not distinguish his
features, for his face was covered with blood.

Only in throwing me backward I saw that his teeth were singularly white,
sharp, and separated.

Hurling myself again upon him, I succeeded in lifting him from the deck,
placing him lengthwise on the gunwale, and at last in throwing him over
the railing of the yacht.

But when he saw himself thus suspended above the sea, the pirate made a
last effort, held with one hand to my neck, the other to my hair, and
held me seized in this way, he outside the boat, and I within.

I was seeking to disengage myself when I received a violent blow on the
head.

The hands of the man with the cowl relaxed, and I swooned.




CHAPTER XXXIII


THE DOCTOR


Very irksome is the task which I have imposed upon myself.

Here again is one of the phases of my life which I wish to be able to
utterly efface from my memory,--one of those moments of terrible
vertigo, during which--

But the hour of this fatal revelation will arrive, alas, too soon!

Stunned by the blow which I had received, I swooned at the moment when
the captain of the pirates fell into the sea.

When I revived I was in bed in my chamber, my head and shoulder
enveloped in bandages.

Falmouth's physician, of whom I have forgotten to speak, a grave and
very learned man, was near me.

My first thought was for Henry.

"How is Lord Falmouth?" I asked the doctor.

"My lord is doing very well, sir; fortunately his wound is not
dangerous."

"Has he not a broken hip?"

"A very great contusion, more painful, perhaps, than a fracture, but
less serious."

"And the pirates?"

"They have escaped, and again set sail, after having lost five of their
crew in this attack, but, doubtless, they have a great number of
wounded."

"And have we lost many?"

"Three sailors and a boatswain have been killed, besides which, nine of
our sailors are wounded more or less seriously."

"It seems to me to be day; what time is it, doctor?"

"Eleven o'clock, sir."

"Indeed, I believe I am dreaming,--all this has passed, then?"

"This night."

"And where are my wounds?"

"A wound on the head, and a blow from a poignard on the left shoulder.
Ah, sir, an inch lower, and this last would have been mortal. But how do
you feel this morning?"

"Oh, I feel a little smarting in my left shoulder; that is all; but
Falmouth, Falmouth?"

"My lord will not be able to walk for several days. In spite of his
wound, he has desired to help me in caring for you and in watching this
night, but since one o'clock his strength has left him, and I have
ordered him to his room. He is sleeping now. As soon as he awakens he
will wish to be near you again, for he is in great haste to express his
thanks to you, sir."

"Do not speak of that, doctor."

"Why not speak of that, sir?" exclaimed the doctor. "Have you not, in
the midst of this mad combat, forgotten your own safety, to drag my lord
from great peril? Have you not been wounded in accomplishing this act of
friendship? Ah, sir, will my lord ever forget that it is to you that he
owes his life? And we, ourselves, shall we ever forget that it is to you
that we owe his preservation?"

"The attack, then, was very vigorous, doctor?"

"On all sides, it was terrible; but our sailors, however inferior in
number, have intrepidly repulsed it. In a word, their bravery rivalled
yours, sir; for your coolness, your struggle hand to hand with the
captain of those pirates, have been the admiration of all of our crew."

"And you assure me that Falmouth's wound is not dangerous?"

"No, sir; but if you will permit me, I will go and see if he needs me."

"Go, go, doctor, and return and tell me when I may see him."

I remained alone.




CHAPTER XXXIV


FRIENDSHIP


Henry owed his life to me!

I cannot tell with what pride I continually repeated these words:

"I have saved Henry's life."

How I blessed the fortunate chance that permitted me to prove to
Falmouth that my friendship was warm and true.

Until then, though I was entirely absorbed in my affection for him, I
felt that there was wanting some great sacrifice, which would be a
solemn consecration of my devotedness.

If my act had any value in my own eyes, it was because I should stand
higher in his. It showed me that I was capable of a generous resolution,
and reassured me on the firmness of my attachment to Falmouth.

Now, with a nature like mine, to believe in myself was to believe in
him; to think of myself as a true, warm, and devoted friend, was to
believe myself capable of inspiring true, ardent, and devoted
friendship.

I felt that intrepid confidence of the soldier who, being perfectly sure
of his conduct under fire, waits impatiently and securely for another
occasion to show his courage. The reaction of this self-reliance was so
great that it influenced even my former sentiments.

Proud of my conduct towards Falmouth, I understood that Hélène and
Marguerite had loved me for qualities they saw in me, and which I had
never discovered until now. For the first time I knew real happiness. I
at last was able to understand all the devotion these two noble beings
had bestowed on me.


An hour after the doctor left me, the door of my chamber opened, and I
saw Falmouth, who was carried in by two of his servants.

His armchair was scarcely at my bedside, before Henry threw himself in
my arms.

In this mute embrace, his head was leaning on my shoulder, and I could
feel his tears and his trembling hands; he was only able to say these
words: "Arthur,--Arthur,--my friend, my friend!"


Although this was so long ago, and black care has dimmed the radiance of
that happy day, nothing has ever wiped out the remembrance of it, which
is still vivid enough to quicken my heart's pulses and thrill me with
delight.

It would be impossible to tell with what delicacy and effusion Falmouth
expressed his gratitude. Words can never describe his accent, his look,
nor his voice.


The head winds lasted for several days longer, and prevented our
reaching Malta as soon as we had hoped.

Lord Falmouth's wound was healing rapidly, but mine was making very slow
progress towards improvement.

Henry, in the meantime, tended me with the most affectionate solicitude.

With what sad anxiety would he watch the doctor's face, when my wound
was dressed every morning! How many eager questions he would ask as to
the probable time of my recovery! How much impatience he showed when the
doctor would shorten or prolong the date.

Shall I speak of the many trifling, but charming ways in which he
revealed his affectionate thoughtfulness for my comfort, all of which I
appreciated and enjoyed?

Falmouth told me the whole story of his life, and I hid nothing from him
in relation to mine.

He was twelve years older than I; he spoke eloquently and convincingly.
He had seen much of the world, and his words began to have great weight
with me, as he spoke with singular authority.

Nothing could be more elevated or liberal than his moral or political
convictions.

I was overwhelmed with astonishment and admiration, in thus discovering,
every day, some new jewel of exquisite feeling, lofty reason, or deep
learning, under the cold and sarcastic exterior that Falmouth usually
affected.

What a surprise it was to find, under the sceptic and mocking mask of a
Byronic Don Juan, the warm and valiant heart of Schiller's Posa, with
its ardent and holy love of humanity, its sincere faith in the good. He
had the same generous faith in men, the same splendid plans for the good
of humanity.

If Falmouth now appeared to me in this new light, it was because, during
our long voyage, we had touched on all these subjects.

Until this period of my life, I had been totally indifferent to all
political questions. I now began to feel the vibration of a new chord in
my being, as, transported with indignation, Henry told me of the long
arguments he, a peer of England, had sustained in Parliament, against
the Tory party, which he considered the disgrace of his country.

It was impossible to remain unmoved before such eloquent emotion, such
keen regret as Falmouth's. He deplored the futility of his efforts, but
most of all his culpable weakness in having abandoned the contest before
his party had given up all hope of obtaining a victory.

I enter into all these details because they lead to one of the most
painful episodes in my life.

For two days Falmouth appeared to be lost in thought. Several times I
besought him to confide the subject of his preoccupation to me. He
always answered with a smile, that I was not to worry, as he was working
for both of us, and that I should very soon know the result of his
ponderings.

In fact, one morning Henry entered my room with a solemn air, gave me a
sealed letter, and said, with emotion: "Read this, my friend,--it
concerns your future, our future."

Then he pressed my hand and went out.

Here is his letter.

Here are the few simple pages, where Falmouth's noble soul revealed
itself in all its greatness.

What was my answer?

Alas! it is the most abominable of my souvenirs.




END OF VOLUME I.




ARTHUR

CONTINUED




[Illustration]




CONTENTS

LORD FALMOUTH--_Continued_

CHAPTER
I. The Letter
II. Distrust
III. The Duel
IV. The Pilot

DAPHNÉ--NOÉMI--ANATHASIA
V. The Island of Khios
VI. Days of Sunshine--The Palace
VII. Days of Sunshine--The Greek National Dance
VIII. Belief
IX. Recognition
X. Comparisons
XI. The Departure

THE PRINCESSE DE FERSEN
XII. The Alexina
XIII. The Princesse de Fersen
XIV. The Tradition
XV. The Adieux
XVI. A Minister in Love
XVII. The Tuileries
XVIII. The Bear and the Pacha
XIX. The Interview
XX. A Mission
XXI. Diplomacy
XXII. Irene
XXIII. The Grove
XXIV. Days of Sunshine
XXV. A Woman in Politics
XXVI. Society Gossip
XXVII. The Last Evening

MARIE BELMONT
XXVIII. Marie Belmont
XXIX. The Portrait
XXX. The Flight




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

"He landed me on the shore in a dying condition"
"This is a letter from the princess"




Arthur, Vol. II.




LORD FALMOUTH--Continued




ARTHUR




CHAPTER I


THE LETTER


_Lord Falmouth to Arthur._

"ON BOARD THE YACHT _Gazelle._"

13 June, 18--.

"I might have told you all that I now mean to write, dear friend, but
that I desire you to keep this letter.

"If the projects that I now propose are ever realised, we will read this
with pleasure some future day and remember that it was the
starting-point of the glorious career that I have imagined for both of
us.

"If, on the contrary, fate should separate us, these pages will remain
as the true story of the circumstances that inspired the sincere
attachment I have for you.

"The first time I met you was at a breakfast given by M. de Cernay. Your
agreeable conversation pleased me at first; then, from a peculiar habit
of thought I noticed in you, I saw that, with all your charm and
cordiality, you would remain for ever separated from your fellow men by
an unsurmountable barrier.

"From that moment I began to take a lively interest in you.

"I knew from experience that eccentric characters such as yours suffer
cruelly from the isolation to which they condemn themselves; for these
proud, sensitive, and easily offended natures can not readily assimilate
themselves with the rest of mankind,--they are constantly being wounded
or taking offence, and they instinctively create for themselves a
solitude in the midst of society.

"I left for England under the domination of such thoughts as these.

"In London I met several of your friends, who spoke in such a way as to
confirm the opinion I had formed of you.

"I found you some months after in the house of Madame de Pënâfiel, in
whom you seemed much interested.

"As at that time I shared the ill-feeling that was manifested in society
towards her, and you had not yet told me of her real worth, I was
astonished to see you, of all men, seeking happiness in a liaison with a
woman who was recognised as a flirt, for I thought that your great
susceptibility must of necessity be continually wounded in such a
relation with Madame de Pënâfiel.

"Men like you, my friend, are endowed with such extraordinary tact,
finesse, and clear-sightedness, that they are very seldom mistaken in
the women on whom they choose to bestow their affections. Is not this
true? Were not Hélène and Marguerite both worthy of your love?
Therefore, let me advise you in this much, always trust blindly in your
first impressions.

"I tell you this because I feel how much I love you, and it must be that
you instinctively love me, too.

"Pardon me this digression; let us return to the marquise.

"As long as I saw that you were happy I was only interested in you
because so much evil was said about you.

"But very soon this war that was being waged against you became so
general and violent, the calumnies were so fierce, that I began to
believe Madame de Pënâfiel was worthy of your love and that you
deserved hers. Later, you told me everything and I recognised my first
error; then came your cruel rupture.

"You have been cruelly punished for your doubts! May Heaven forgive you!

"When you asked me to assist you in helping the husband of your cousin
Hélène, the delicacy of your conduct towards him was so touching that
you took a higher place in my estimation, a profound admiration; yes, my
friend, I admired your disinterestedness more than your manner of
acting, because I had discovered that through a fatal quality in your
nature you would always find some means of belittling in your own eyes
all the merit of this generous act, and that you would not even have the
satisfaction of your own conscience.

"For a long time I have been contemplating a voyage to Greece; I saw
that you were unhappy and I believed the moment favourable to propose
that you should join me in this journey. I shrouded it in mystery in
order to excite your curiosity, and when you finally decided to
accompany me I was very happy.

"Why was I so happy, my friend? Because, without at all resembling you,
bad luck, or my own exigencies, had until now deprived me of tasting the
joys of friendship, and I felt myself drawn towards you by a great
similarity of character and mind; because I believed that this voyage
would be a useful distraction for you; and because I found in it a
precious means of binding you to me in fast and enduring bonds of
affection.

"I knew that I should have great difficulty in overcoming your distrust,
that I would have deep-rooted doubts to conquer, but that did not
discourage me, for I had great faith in the persistence of my attachment
and the sagacity of your heart; it had chosen Hélène and Marguerite
for you to love, why should not I be chosen as your bosom friend?

"However, when I saw what slow progress I was making in your affections,
I was afraid that you did not see through the coldness and indifference
that I habitually affected.

"Little by little, though, you began to trust me, and a few days after
our departure from France we were like brothers.

"The rapid growth of our friendship did not surprise me; there was
between us such an affinity, our souls were so magnetised by sympathy,
that at the first contact they were joined for ever.

"Once sure of your affection, I began to examine my treasure at my
leisure.

"I was like those antiquaries who, when they finally come into
possession of a long-coveted rarity, spend hours in examining and
admiring its beauty. It was thus that I learned to appreciate your
learning and good sense. It was then that I undertook to awaken the good
instincts that I believed existed in your nature.

"I was not mistaken. When I had once made this discovery, you were no
longer in my eyes a poor, nervous, and irritable child, that we love
because it is weak and suffering, but a proud and venturesome young man,
with a strong mind, great intelligence, and persuasiveness, who had all
defects that were the natural opposites of his virtues.

"The Sardinian mystic attacked us. I had a fearful presentiment, and
wished to avoid the combat. That was impossible, and I now thank the
fates, for you are almost well again, and I owe my life to you.

"Yes, Arthur, I owe you the life of my body in that I exist; I owe you
the life of my soul, because you have become my friend.

"Do you know that unless I felt the strength of my gratitude I should be
alarmed.

"For a long time I have been seeking a way to increase your happiness,
you have done so much for mine.

"My task has been difficult, for you are possessed of every
advantage,--youth, intelligence, name, fortune, and a generous and noble
disposition. But I had perceived a fatal tendency which would annihilate
all these rare gifts.

"There was the source of all your misfortunes. That was the stream I
must ascend to its source, and turn in another direction. If I can only
deliver him from this spirit of doubt, I said to myself, would he not
then be indebted to me for the enjoyment of all those advantages which
doubt now renders useless?

"You have often told me that your fits of defiance and misanthropy were
the sole real misfortunes of your life; but do you know what causes
these spells of moroseness? The moral inaction in which you live.

"You have a lively, ardent imagination, and, as you give it no aliment,
it feeds on you as its victim.

"From this continual reaction of your mind on your heart, from this
insatiable need of occupying your thoughts, is born the fatal habit of
self-examination, that entices you to such horrid study of your own
conduct, and the spirit of analysis that leads you to the discovery of
such unworthy motives in others.

"Believe me, my friend, for during many nights I have reflected deeply
on your character, and I think I say the truth; believe me, from the
moment you give some noble and glorious object to this devouring
activity that possesses you, it will be with delight, with ineffable
confidence that you will indulge yourself in the tenderest of
sentiments. You will then believe blindly, for you will have no time to
spend in doubt.

"Before knowing your real value, this voyage to Greece seemed a
sufficient occupation for you; but now that I understand you better, I
feel that this journey is no more in proportion with the powers of
conception I recognise in you. Now that I can count on you as on myself,
new horizons are open to my view. It is not in sterile enterprises that
I would employ our courage and our intelligence. I have a higher mark,
perhaps you will call it a chimera; but reflect awhile, and you will
recognise that there are many chances of its proving successful.

"The problem I set myself to solve was this: To render you happy without
harm to myself, that is to say, without having to give you up; to give
occupation to your fine mind, so that it should not stand between our
friendship, and to put to some useful employment those precious gifts
which, left idle, change their nature and become hurtful like some
generous substances that fermentation changes into poisons. When I spoke
to you about England, of her future, of the part I took in the struggle
that was to decide the fate of nations, I noticed that you were
attentive, curious, moved; noble and eloquent words escaped your lips;
you suggested new ideas, which had all the simple boldness of
inspiration. I studied your actions, your features, your accent, and all
convinced me that if you wished, my friend, you could have a powerful
influence on men. Your learning is great, you have studied well, you
have an ardent and proud nature, an independent position, and a worthy
name. Listen to my project.

"We will go first to Malta, and there we will wait until your recovery,
and take the rest that you need. We will give up the fire-ship of
Canaris, and will return to England.

"When you were travelling in my country, you were not interested in any
serious study; this time, under my guidance, you will study the workings
of the English government, her interests, her economics, etc. Then we
will go and continue the same studies in Germany, in Russia, and the
United States, in order to finish your political education.

"If I had not confidence in your precociousness, my friend, I might tell
you not to be alarmed at this serious programme. As we are both young,
rich, gay, intelligent, healthy, and bold, we will go, like two brothers
who can rely on each other, advancing steadily to our goal, enjoying, in
turn, study and pleasure.

"Our social position, and the studies we propose to take up, will oblige
us to come in contact with persons of every degree in the social scale,
and will force us to meet in each country that we visit all that is best
in rank, intellect, and fortune. Can you imagine what is to be the
far-off horizon of this brilliant existence, of this ambitious use of
all your faculties, the lowest as well as the highest? Do you know what
is to be your recompense for such persistent occupation, which is to be
mingled with worldly pleasures, and constantly shared by the most
affectionate of friends? Do you know? Perhaps the destinies of a great
people may be entrusted to your care; you may become a cabinet minister,
a premier.

"As to the means we are to employ to attain this end, which may appear
to you unattainable, we will talk about it, and you will find that with
your name, your fortune, your long political studies, the experience of
men and things that we will have gained in our travels, will open every
door to you, whether you wish to present yourself in the Chamber of
Deputies, or wish to enter a diplomatic career by accepting some
important post.

"In any case, my friend, your decision shall be mine. If you remain at
Paris as a member of the government, I will accept, at the court of
France, a mission that I have heretofore refused; if you desire to be
attached to some foreign court, I can confidently rely upon having
sufficient influence to be sent to join you there.

"I know that our position is such that neither you nor I have need of
these places in order to meet again, and continue the intimacy that we
have enjoyed; but, as I have already told you, we must fight with all
our strength against your mortal enemy, which is idleness, and fight in
a manner worthy of your intellect. Now, my friend, can we have a nobler
ambition than the interests of our own two countries, to see our
friendship serve as a bond of union for their interests, and make them
but as one, as it has served to unite our hearts.

"And say not that this is a dream, a chimera. Men of but mediocre
ability have reached the end I propose to you. Even though the success
of the journey is uncertain, is not the route a delightful one? How full
of future enjoyment will your attempts have been, even admitting that
they have failed in their object.

"Come, come, Arthur, take courage; make a noble use of the gifts that
have been so liberally bestowed on you; and, above all, my friend, fly
from that deadly inaction, which has such a fatal influence on your
peace of mind and your heart.

"Oh, yes! Escape from it; for now I assure you your friendship is so
dear to me, your happiness so precious, that there is nothing in the
world I would not attempt to see them both secured to you, and sheltered
by a noble ambition.

"These are my projects,--these are my hopes. What do you think of them,
my friend? I have written all this to you because I fear that, should I
speak thus, a jest, a doubt on your part, would dull my eloquence, and,
as my first aim is to convince you, I have taken this means of being the
only speaker.

"By way of being peculiar until the very end, I beg that you will send
me a written answer.

"According to your acceptance or refusal of this offer of my sincere
friendship, your letter will mark one of the happiest or most
unfortunate days of my life.

"H. F."




CHAPTER II


DISTRUST


Before receiving this letter I was perfectly happy; I was filled with
confidence and a sense of security in Falmouth's affection for me; I had
perfect faith in my love for him; why should these simple and touching
pages have turned such a brilliant day into the gloomiest night?

I read over the letter twice.

What struck me at first was the sublime and inexplicable devotion of
Lord Falmouth, who, to save me from the idleness he considered fatal to
my happiness, invited me to share his voyages, his studies, and even the
career that he hoped I would be successful in.

What astonished me very much (indeed, it almost offended me), was the
derisive exaggeration in which he spoke of my merits, which, according
to him, were quite sufficient to make a cabinet minister of me, or an
ambassador, at least.

Unfortunately, I was not born to comprehend such magnificent exaltation
of friendship; for Falmouth's offer was so exorbitant, so out of
proportion and above any proof I had been able to give him of my
affection, that several times I said: "Can it really be to me that he
makes such an offer? What have I ever done to deserve it?"

If what I had done for him was quite unworthy such devotion, what motive
could he have in making me such an offer,--so much for so little?

It was not without a hard struggle that I gave myself up to such
questions, for I could foresee a terrible access of suspicion.

Several times I attempted to turn my thoughts away from the fatal
declivity towards which they were dragging me, but I felt myself
approaching nearer and nearer the fatal abyss of doubt.

Overcome with alarm, I was on the point of going to Henry, and begging
him to save me from myself. I would ask him to explain all that was
beyond my comprehension in his admirable devotion, to lift me to his own
level, for I was so unused to this radiant and all-powerful friendship,
which I could not gaze on without becoming dizzy. But a false and
miserable shame held me back. I thought it weak and cowardly, and a
humiliating proof of inferiority, when it would have been a touching
proof of my confidence and reliance.

In spite of myself, I had the horrible feeling that my affection for
Falmouth would share the same fate of all my former affections. This
friendship had attained its greatest development, it was about to fill
my life with delight, enlarge my future. It was fated that I should
destroy it.

I was possessed by a strange sensation,--it was as if my spirit were
falling rapidly from an ideal sphere, peopled by the most enchanting
beings, towards a dark and boundless desert.

A physical comparison will explain this moral impression. The wings that
had so long sustained me in the region of divine faith suddenly failed
me, and I fell on the arid and desolate soil of analysis in the midst of
the ruins of my first hopes. The faith I had until now preserved of the
purity and holiness of friendship was to augment these melancholy ruins.


The more I pondered on Falmouth's admirable proposition, the more I
admired its careful, almost paternal solicitude, the less worthy of it I
found myself.

I could neither understand nor believe that the service I had rendered
him in saving him from threatened danger was worth so much
self-sacrifice on his part. This train of thought very soon led me to
denying that there was anything really deserving in my conduct towards
Henry.

Strange monomania! Contrary to those men who commit base acts, and then
employ every means of proving that their conduct was honourable, I
succeeded, by dint of sophisms, in vilifying in my own sight an action
for which I should have been proud.

After all, said I to myself, what enormous service was it, that Falmouth
should make me such a magnificent offer? I saved his life, true; but I
would have saved Williams, or the meanest sailor on his yacht, had he
been in the same danger.

It was, then, simply an instinctive movement on my part, and not the
result of any fixed purpose.

And then had that action been any sacrifice on my part? No, I had not
hesitated an instant. Then there was very little merit in it, because
value of an action can only be judged by the sacrifice it involves.

A millionaire, giving a gold piece to a beggar, does nothing that
appeals to our sympathy; but the beggar, dividing his louis with one who
is more unfortunate than himself, appears sublime.

When I once began to consider the truth of such paradoxes, I never could
stop.

My bravery was none the less belittled in my eyes.

When I behaved with so much bravery in my struggle with the pirates, did
I for an instant think of sustaining the name of Frenchman or the honour
of my country before those Englishmen, of chasing from the sea those
pirates that infest it, of showing Falmouth that, in spite of the moral
weakness of my nature, I at least possessed the courage of action? No; I
had simply obeyed the instinct of self-preservation; I had struck blow
for blow. I wished to kill, in order not to be killed. Therefore, there
was no more greatness nor bravery in my conduct than in the desperate
rage of the animal that is brought to bay, and turns ferociously on its
enemy.

Then as a last argument against myself, I said: Why is my heart filled
with bitterness and sadness? Had my action been really grand, the high
sentiments it aroused in me would not already have vanished, to give
place to such doubts about Falmouth and myself.

Alas! the terrible conclusion of all these accursed doubts was not far
off.

Now that I can reflect on my cruel blindness, I think that I must have
been urged on to this pitiless analysis by a miserable jealousy that I
dared not admit.

Not being capable of such devotion as that of Falmouth, I doubtless
wished to account for it by some vile motive.

Perhaps I wished to escape from his influence that I was beginning to
dread.

I made a sort of inventory of what Falmouth offered me, and what he owed
me. It was almost like the catalogue of articles left by a dead man.


This was very evident, that the price Falmouth set on the service I had
rendered was exorbitant.

Why did he offer me such an exorbitant price?

I had so reviled myself, I felt so ignoble and debased, that I could not
believe a word of what he said about the sympathy he felt for me. Had he
not told me that, by a delicate sense, he had always been able to select
the choice souls for whom he felt an affinity?

How, then, should such a generous nature feel any attraction towards me,
so unworthy, so incapable of inspiring affection?

What interest had he to feign this exaggerated affinity?

His name is much more illustrious than mine, his fortune is enormous,
his position is of the highest. It is not vanity, then, that draws him
towards me.

His courage is well known, he needs no one to defend him.

His mind is lively and original, and for years he has lived alone. He
does not want me to amuse him by my conversation.

I was a long time, I admit, trying to discover what was Lord Falmouth's
motive.

Suddenly, by dint of plunging into the abyss of hideous instincts, an
infernal idea came into my mind.

I had a moment of execrable triumph: I had guessed it.

I thought all could be explained, all could be understood by this
abominable interpretation.

I was seized with a horrible vertigo.




CHAPTER III


THE DUEL


I wrote the following hasty lines in answer to Lord Falmouth's admirable
letter.

I rang the bell and sent him the note.[4]


Just as it has always happened, no sooner was the letter gone than I
came to my senses, and when I was able to think of the infamous outrage
I had committed, I was overcome with horror.


What if I were mistaken?

I would have given my very life to have been able to recall those
dreadful lines.

It was too late.

My cabin was only separated from Lord Falmouth's by a slight partition.

Seized by the most frightful anxiety, I listened. When the servant who
had taken my letter to Falmouth closed the door, there was a dead
silence. Then suddenly an impetuous movement upset a chair, and I heard
Falmouth start towards the door with heavy and uncertain steps, for he
could scarcely walk as yet.

He was coming.

My heart beat as though it was going to break.

His heavy steps came nearer.

I felt that I was breaking into a cold perspiration.

I was afraid!

My door was suddenly opened. He entered holding himself up on his cane.

In all my life--no, never in all my life shall I forget the look of
fiery rage that gleamed in his eyes. His face was like a marble mask lit
up by two blazing eyeballs.

"Defend yourself!" cried he, in a voice that shook with indignation, and
holding out my letter in his hand; "where is your weapon?"

A frightful remorse seized me, so violent was it that a cowardly
retraction of my infamy was on my lips.

"Henry!" said I, in despair, pointing to my letter, "pardon!"

"Pardon! You don't mean to fight?" cried Falmouth, in a fury.

The blood rushed to my face, the shame of being thought a coward
exasperated me, and I answered, "Monsieur, I will fight with whatever
weapon you choose."

"Thanks for such extreme politeness. What weapon do you fight with? I
have had enough of this," repeated he, savagely.

I was almost bursting with rage, but remembering that Falmouth was on
his own yacht, I controlled myself.

"Both you and I," said I, "are too badly wounded to use our
swords,--pistols would be the most suitable arm."

"That is quite true," said Falmouth, as he sank into an armchair.

He rang the bell.

One of his servants entered.

"Beg Mr. Williams to come below," said Falmouth. The _valet_ went out.

"Williams and Geordy will be our seconds," said Falmouth, imperiously.

I gave a mechanical sign of assent,--I was annihilated.

Williams came down into the cabin.

"Where are we, Williams? What is the nearest land?"

"The wind has been from the north all the morning, my lord, and we are
well on our way to Malta. If it keeps on at this rate, we will get there
to-morrow evening."

"Try, then, my brave fellow, to get us there as soon as possible,--and
give me your arm to help me back to my own cabin."

I was alone.

There is no need to say that I was plunged in despair.

Revived by a burning fever, my wound began to give me terrible pain.

Tossing every moment on the great waves that the north wind had raised
up, and which were growing higher momentarily, the schooner leaped
wildly forward.

This ploughing the sea caused me such agony that I could scarcely help
screaming aloud. The doctor came to see how I was getting on, and from
childish obstinacy I hid my suffering.

The man was paid for his services by Falmouth. I was determined to
accept his services no longer.

What hours I passed! Great God, it was horrible!

The excitement that I had undergone, added to the fever, had raised my
nervous sensibility to such a degree that, doubled up in bed, I hid my
face in my hands, for the light was intolerable to me, and I wept
bitterly. Usually tears were a relief to me, but these were bitter and
scalding.

Then, when my despair was at its height, I contrasted it, in my usual
way, with my sensations of only a few hours before. I compared that
which was with that which had been,--that which might have been,--had I
not with my own hand crushed, blighted, deliberately destroyed so many
new opportunities for happiness!

Instead of hiding my shame in solitude and darkness, instead of these
dreary and sad thoughts and this isolation which my own outrageous
conduct had brought upon me, I should be tranquilly seated by my
friend,--my heart filled with grateful affection.

This man who now hated and despised me, who eagerly awaited the hour
when he should wipe out with my blood the insult he had received, would
be still there at my side, kind and solicitous for my comfort. These
groans, wrung from me by physical suffering and which I tried so hard to
stifle, would have been answered by the pitying voice of a brother in
his attempt to comfort me.

And to think, great God! I cried out, that the reality of my dream of
friendship was so near! To think that once again in my life, by the most
unheard-of combination of circumstances, I had only to accept the
happiness that was offered to me!

To think that once again a fatal monomania had forced me to exchange all
these promises of felicity for the most fearful and lifelong remorse!

Then seeing that my grief was incurable, ideas of suicide came into my
mind.

I reproached myself for being only a burden to myself and every one
else. I asked myself, Of what use am I, and what have I done with the
advantages that fortune had bestowed on me,--youth, health, strength,
wealth, intelligence, and courage?

To what use had I put these precious gifts so far? To ruin all those who
had loved me.

Thus I resolved that in this duel with Falmouth I would blindly expose
my life and respect his.

I felt that in firing on him I should commit fratricide.

By a strange caprice I wished to read his letter once more.

Inexplicable fatality! for the first time I understood its
greatness,--its imposing generosity.

Then it was that I finally understood the irreparable, tremendous loss I
had sustained. But alas, alas! it was now too late, all was over, the
end had come.


[Footnote 4: The whole of this letter is carefully erased in the Journal
of an Unknown.]




CHAPTER IV


THE PILOT


For the last few moments, the plunging of the yacht had become worse and
worse. I could hear a continuous roaring, which became constantly more
violent. Very soon there were flashes of lightning, followed by the deep
rolling of distant thunder.

Sometimes I heard the hurried steps of the sailors overhead, then again
the sound was hushed, and I heard the loud voice of Williams, giving
orders.

I could no longer doubt of it; we were overtaken by a tempest. I could
no longer remain inactive.

Feeble as I was, I tried to get up, hoping that the fresh air would do
me good. I rang the bell, and, with the aid of my _valet de chambre_,
succeeded in dressing.

I had almost completely lost the use of my left arm.

I went up on deck. Falmouth was not there.

The waves were furious.

Though it was only four o'clock, it was so dark that I could scarcely
see.

On the horizon, the immense undulations of the waves were outlined
against a band of gleaming light, the colour of red-hot iron.

Above this strip of blazing sky, the clouds were piled in heavy masses
of ochre and black; the vault of the firmament was reflected in the sea,
and the waves seemed to have lost their azure or emerald transparency,
and looked like solid mountains streaked with foam.

The wind whistled through the ropes loudly and furiously. Though blowing
a gale, the wind was hot, and the water that it raised up in solid
sheets, and dashed over the deck of the yacht, was warm.

Very soon the doctor came up on deck. "You are very imprudent," said he
to me, "to leave your cabin."

"I was stifling down there, doctor, the motion of the ship made me
almost crazy. I feel better up here."

"What frightful weather!" said the doctor. "If we can only get to Malta
to anchor before night!"

"Are we not some distance off yet from that island?"

"We are very near, but that heavy cloud prevents our seeing land. In
about an hour the yacht will put up a signal for a pilot, provided that
in such a storm they can hear our cannon and see our signal."

An hour afterwards the sky became more clear.

We saw ahead of us, on the horizon, high hills, which were still covered
with clouds; Williams said this was Cape Harrach, the northern point of
the island of Malta, on the height of which was built the tower of
Espinasse, which was used as a lookout. Williams then brought the yacht
to, and fired several shots to call for a pilot.

"The wind is so strong," said the doctor, "that the pilots of Harrach
don't dare to put out to sea."

In spite of which, after several salvos from the ship, we saw appear and
disappear on the crest and in the trough of the waves a little lateen
sail which was skilfully managed.

"Those Maltese must be intrepid sailors," said the doctor, "for, in
spite of this tremendous sea, they are coming right out in the teeth of
the wind."

The pilot-boat approached nearer and nearer, but as it was sometimes
hidden by the high waves, and only reappeared after a long interval, at
each one of its progressive appearances on the wave's crest it would
seem to become unaccountably larger. This was a very natural
circumstance, but it struck me as unnatural and ominous. At length the
boat was only about a gunshot off from the yacht.

By Williams's orders, a rope was thrown to it.

I leaned over the rail to get a better view of these hardy mariners.

There were five of them; four were busy managing the sails, while one
held the rudder. After having very cleverly run alongside the yacht to
catch the rope that had been thrown to them, the man who was steering,
profiting by the moment when a great wave lifted up his boat almost to
the deck of the yacht, leaped on board and clung to the shrouds.

The pilot, after saluting Williams, walked along the deck with a
perfectly sure footing, in spite of the plunging of the yacht. One could
see that he was an experienced navigator. Very soon he stopped, raised
his head, and gave a connoisseur's look at the appointments of the
yacht; they seemed to please him, for he gave a mute sign of
approbation.

In spite of the tempest, and the dangers that the yacht was in, for
night was coming on and the wind showed no signs of going down, this man
was so calm and secure that the sailors of the yacht, who were beginning
to show signs of anxiety, brightened up and were quite cheerful again.
It was as if the pilot had brought with him this sudden sense of
security, as the arrival of the family physician brings confidence and
hope to an anxious mother.

As I stood near the bulwarks on which I had been leaning so as not to be
thrown down by the plunging of the ship, I had not yet had a good look
at the pilot, but he soon came near me.

The man was apparently about forty. He was tall, thin, and bony; his
face very sunburnt, his cheeks hollow; his eyes were green, and his hair
black and very thick. He wore a Scotch cap of red and blue plaid woollen
stuff, which was pulled down to his eyebrows. A cape of heavy brown
cloth, dripping with salt water, hung down to the tops of his great
fisherman's boots, and completed his costume.

It seemed to me that I had met this man before. I had a vague
remembrance of just such a sinister face, though I found it impossible
to recall the circumstances or place of our meeting; but there came over
me an uncomfortable feeling which I attributed to my feverish condition.

"Can we get in to anchor at Malta to-night, pilot?" said Williams to
him.

After having looked at the compass and questioned the state of the sky,
the sea, and the wind, the pilot answered in very good English: "We
might get to an island to-night, but not to the island of Malta, sir."

"No!" cried Williams; "and why not?"

"Because you can't, it is impossible," said the pilot, carelessly.

"But," continued Williams, "though the wind is very strong, and blowing
from the north, it is not strong enough to send us ashore. The yacht
sails beautifully, she rises with every wave."

"Could she resist a current that runs seven or eight knots an hour, sir,
and that driving us right ashore the same way the wind is doing?"

"I tell you, pilot," replied Williams, "that two years ago I ran into
the harbour of Malta in a worse storm than this."

"But not worse than what we are to have to-night," said the pilot.

"To-night?" replied Williams, incredulously.

"Yes, to-night," replied the pilot, firmly.

"How do you know that we will have a bad night, pilot?"

"The point of Tamea and the rocks of Kamich are all under water at
sundown, and that is the sign of a terrible storm."

"That is all superstition and old women's tales!" exclaimed Williams.

The pilot gave him a look out of his piercing green eyes, shrugged his
shoulders, and smiled. When the man smiled, I felt as though I had the
nightmare, or an oppressive dream, for I recognised the sharp, white,
pointed teeth of the pirate with whom I had struggled hand to hand when
the yacht had been attacked.

My astonishment was so great, that I strode forward and stared at the
pilot in a state of stupefaction; but he withstood my gaze with perfect
indifference, and it was I who lowered my eyes, all abashed by the calm,
unconcerned look he gave me.

Williams, who was impatient at the pilot's silence, and had noticed my
astonishment, said to him, "But then, what do you propose to do?"

"If the weather continues to grow heavier, which I have no doubt of,
sir, instead of running the risk of having your yacht driven ashore by
the wind and the currents before it gets into the port of Malta, I
advise you to double Point Harrach, and, instead of going ashore on the
northern side of the island, to land on the southern coast in the little
harbour of Marsa-Siroco, where you will find good anchorage. If, as you
say, your yacht rises well to the wind, there will be nothing to prevent
her manœuvring when she is once under shelter of the island, and, in
case the storm grows worse, she will run no risk of being dashed ashore,
because she will have before her the hundred leagues that separate Malta
from the north coast of Africa."

"That proposition is a cowardly one, pilot," cried out Williams; "a
Flemish tub would do better than that. My lord wishes positively to
anchor in the port of Malta to-night, and I say it can be done."

"Then you must take the wheel yourself, sir," replied the pilot, with
his independent air; then going astern, he called in English to the
sailors who had remained in his sailboat, "Hello! Hello, there; get
ready to cast off, we are going back to Harrach."

When I heard the clear and penetrating voice of the pilot, except the
different language, it surely sounded like the voice and accent of the
man in the black hood, who, a moment before the boarding of the yacht,
cried out to his pirate crew, "Don't fire! Board her!"

Williams, seeing that the pilot was really getting ready to leave, told
him to wait a moment, and he would go and consult with my lord; then he
disappeared.

I remained on deck in a state of the greatest perplexity.

I was almost sure that I recognised the voice and the peculiar teeth of
this man, but could not this be a remarkable case of similarity? What
chance was there that a man who had been wounded and thrown into the
sea, barely eight days ago, should be this Maltese pilot, so vigorous
and strong?

I continued to watch the pilot steadily; he never changed countenance.
Tired, no doubt, of being so fixedly stared at, he advanced towards me,
and said, boldly:

"What have you got to say to me, monsieur?"

"Have you been a pilot at Malta any length of time?" I asked him.

"For the last seven years, monsieur," and he showed me his large silver
medal, hung on a long chain of the same metal, which he wore under his
cape.

On the medal I read the name Joseph Belmont, royal pilot, No. 18. On the
other side of the medal were the royal arms of England.

"But you are a Frenchman," said I to him, speaking French.

"_Oui_, monsieur," he replied.

I was more astonished even than before.

Williams now appeared on deck, and, addressing the pilot, said:

"Go ahead, do as you think best. My lord has given his consent."

"The sea is getting so rough," said the pilot to Williams, "that I am
going to tell my sailors to heave off the tow-rope, and follow us a
little ways off." So the sailboat, abandoning the tow-rope, continued to
follow in our wake.

Night was coming on.

According to the usual custom, Williams handed his speaking-trumpet, the
sign of command, to the pilot.

The predictions of the latter as to the weather were soon realised, for
though the new direction we had taken put us, in a short time, under the
lee of the island, and in a sheltered position, the tempest augmented in
violence.

The pilot, standing at the helm, gave his orders with perfect calmness,
and Williams admitted that he managed the ship with rare ability and
coolness.

While waiting for the moon to rise, which would facilitate our coming to
anchor, we were skirting along the coast, parallel to the southern shore
of the island of Malta.

The night was very dark.

The lamps of the compasses, shut up in their copper boxes, shone in a
pale circle on the deck, at the foot of the mainmast.

This light shone only on the pilot and the helmsman, while the rest of
the yacht remained plunged in an obscurity that the contrasting luminous
circle only made darker. Lit up from below, as actors are by the
footlights of the theatre, the features of the pilot had a peculiar
expression of audacity, deceit, and wickedness.

Although the sea was tremendous, so that the prow of the yacht was
almost constantly covered by the furious waves, from time to time I
could see the pilot rub his hands with savage satisfaction, and laugh in
a way that showed his white, sharp, and wide apart teeth.

In these moments I believed thoroughly that I recognised the pirate with
whom I had fought. This idea became so fixed in my mind that, in spite
of my resolve to say nothing on the subject, I could not help asking
Williams if he was perfectly sure of the man.

"As sure as one can be of anything! Our marine council of the port of
Malta never gives a pilot's commission except to reliable and
experienced men. This man showed me his patent, it is according to the
regulations. Besides, you can see for yourself what a skilful sailor he
is, and I begin to believe he was right. Though we are sheltered by the
land, you see how the ship is straining under the violence of the wind.
Such a storm, with a strong current setting in towards the coast, would
have easily wrecked the yacht."

"You may think I am out of my mind," said I to Williams, after some
hesitation, "but I am sure I know who this pilot is."

"Who is he, monsieur?"

"The pirate captain that I fought with, and that I thought was at the
bottom of the sea."

"It is so dark that I can't see your face, monsieur," said Williams,
"but I am sure you are laughing at me."

"No; I swear I am speaking very seriously."

"But, monsieur, remember that is quite impossible. I tell you that the
position of a pilot is only given to trustworthy men; they cannot leave
their posts except to pilot ships that wish to enter the harbour.
Remember that the mysterious pirate had already been anchored for more
than a month off Porquerolles before my lord's yacht got to the island
of Hyères. Remember that--but," said Williams, interrupting himself,
and leaving me, "there is the moon rising, and the clouds are clearing
away; the moonlight will help us to get to the anchorage. Excuse me,
monsieur, but I am going to get out the anchors."

The reasons Williams gave me were not at all convincing, though they
seemed sensible. However, seeing that the hour of debarkation was
approaching, and that experienced sailors considered that the pilot had
managed the ship very skilfully and prudently, I was forced to suspend
my judgment, for, so far, no one had a word of reproach for the man I
suspected.

The doctor came up on deck, gave me the news of Falmouth, and asked how
I was feeling.

"The fresh air has done me good," said I, "and my wound pains me less."

"Thanks be to God for that," said he. "My lord is feeling better also;
his contusion was a bad one, but the effect will soon go off. Just now
he was able to walk by himself. The pilot was right," added the doctor,
as he pointed to the waves; "see how calm the sea is growing, now that
we are getting near the shore of the island."

In fact, sheltered from the violence of the wind by the circle of high
rocky hills that form the southern shore of Malta, the waves were going
down more and more. Soon the moon, coming entirely out from the clouds
that had hidden her until now, shone brightly on an immense wall of
rocks which was stretched out before us, the waves dashing against their
base.

The yacht was then a cannon's shot distant from the shore we were
sailing past; the pilot-boat was a little way behind us.

"Are we almost to the harbour of Marsa-Siroco?" said Williams, who knew
the different anchorages of the island.

"We will very soon be there; but, as we have to pass between the Black
Rocks and the Point de la Wardi, and as the passage is very dangerous on
account of the breakers, I will, if you please, monsieur, take the
rudder," said the pilot to Williams. On a sign from the latter, the
helmsman left the bar.

I remember all this as though it happened yesterday.

I was seated on the bulwarks.

Before me stood Williams, very near the pilot who had taken the helm,
looking attentively at the compass, the shore, and the sails of the
yacht.

The doctor, leaning over the stern, watched the sea in our wake. At some
distance we could see the pilot-boat; she did not appear to be following
us any more, but was going in another direction. This was very singular,
I thought.

In front of us, and very close at hand, rose an enormous mass of
perpendicular rocks.

Though the sea had become much more calm, it was still raised by a
tremendous swell whose waves crashed against the shore with a formidable
noise.

The pilot had ordered another sail to be put up, no doubt to augment the
speed of the yacht. This was scarcely done when a frightful cry was
heard from the bow, "Helm aport! We are on the breakers!"

I never knew how the pilot obeyed this order, or how he managed the
yacht; for, at the instant the cry of warning was heard, a horrible
crash, followed by a loud, cracking sound, stopped the yacht short.

The shock was so violent that I, Williams, and two of the sailors, were
thrown on the deck.

"The yacht is ashore!" cried Williams, as he got up. "Damn the pilot!"

My wound prevented me from rising as quickly as Williams. I was still
lying on the deck, when some one rushed past me rapidly, a heavy body
fell into the sea, and the pilot was no longer to be seen at the helm or
on the deck.

Remembering my suspicion of the man, and forgetting the danger we were
in, I rose up, and saw, at a gunshot's distance from us, the pilot-boat;
its sailors were rowing hard towards a black spot, surrounded by foam,
that I could easily see in the moonlight.

It was the pilot, who was swimming to get back to his boat.

"A gun! Give me a gun!" I cried out. "I knew it was he!"

At this moment the yacht struck for the second time on the rocks, and
the mainmast fell, with a terrific crash.

Following the crash, there was a moment of silence and stupefaction, in
which I heard these words in French, "Remember the mystic of
Porquerolles!"

It was the pirate,--the yacht was a wreck.

The last scene of this drama was so confused, so hurried that I can
scarcely recall it. Everything was confusion and chaos, frightful scenes
followed one another, as thunder-claps succeed one another in a storm.
At the third shock the yacht was raised up by an immense wave, and fell
with all its weight on a ledge of sharp rocks. Already split in two, the
keel went to pieces. I heard the water rushing into the ship's hold with
a horrible sound.

The ship had filled with water!

In spite of my wound, which kept one of my hands bound to my side, I was
about to jump into the sea, when I saw Falmouth come up from below; he
was assisted by Williams.

At this moment another great wave took the ship sideways, and completely
engulfed it.

I felt myself rolling to the edge of the ship, then I was lifted up and
stunned by a crushing weight of water which passed over me roaring like
thunder.

From that moment I lost all perception of what was happening to me.

All that I can remember is that I felt a frightful weight. I stifled
when I opened my mouth for breath. I swallowed great mouthfuls of warm
salt water, my ears were bursting with pain, a great weight prevented me
from seeing. I felt that I was drowning. With all this, I continued my
desperate efforts to swim. Then I seemed to breathe more freely. I saw
the sky, and near me a mass of reddish rocks. I felt a strong hand raise
me by my hair, and I heard the voice of Falmouth, who said, "Now we are
quits! Good-bye."

I remembered nothing more, for I very soon fell into a painful numbness,
and then became insensible.




DAPHNÉ--NOÉMI--ANATHASIA




CHAPTER V


THE ISLAND OF KHIOS


I find this fragment of memoirs written a year after the wreck of Lord
Falmouth's yacht off the coast of Malta.

If I had the least literary pretension, I would not dare to say that
these pages, written on the spur of the moment, depict very accurately
the enchanting scenes in the midst of which I had been living for the
last year in the sweetest of _far-nientes._

In truth, the paradise I had created for myself seems to come again
before my eyes, with its luxury of antique beauty, its palace of white
marble gilded by the sunshine, its intoxicating perfumes coming from the
orange groves that stand off against the blue sky that frames so
magnificently the dark waters of the coast of Asiatic Europe.

That year should have been the happiest year of my life; for those few
charmed days never caused me the least moral suffering. Not once did I
feel any remorse, not once did I feel my heart.

But, alas! why was not the soul killed in such scenes of happiness? Why
was not the mind overpowered by the senses? Why did thought survive the
struggle?

Thought! that power of man! Man's true power, in fact; for it is fatal,
like all powers.

Thought, that blazing crown, that burns and consumes the forehead that
wears it!

According to my custom of classifying pleasant memories, I had entitled
this fragment, "Days of Sunshine."

The light and careless tone that frequently appears in this souvenir
offers a singular contrast to the sombre and heart-breaking events of
the former chapters in this journal.


_Days of Sunshine._

ISLE OF KHIOS, 20 June, 18--.

I know not what the future has in store for me, but, as I often said in
my days of sadness and desolation, "one must distrust one's self more
than one's destiny." I hope one day, as I read these pages, to be able
to see again the smiling scenes amidst which I am now living so happily.

I write this the 20th of June, 18--, in the palace of Carina, situated
on the eastern coast of the island of Khios, about a year after the loss
of the yacht.

In that great peril, poor Henry saved my life. In spite of his wound, he
was swimming vigorously towards shore, when, seeing me about to drown,
for I could scarcely use my left arm, he seized me with one hand, and,
fighting the waves with the other, he landed me on the shore in a dying
condition.


[ILLUSTRATION]


My strength was quite exhausted by the excitement of the combat, by my
wound, and by my desperate efforts at the time of the wreck; for I was
for many long days a prey to burning fever and wild delirium from which
I was restored to health by the excellent care of the doctor whom
Falmouth had left behind.

I was so dangerously ill that I had to be carried to Marsa-Siroco, a
little Maltese suburb, near the coast where the yacht had gone ashore. I
remained in that village until my complete recovery, when the fever left
me, and I was able to converse; the doctor told me the circumstances I
have just recorded, and handed me a letter from Falmouth, which I copy
in this journal.


"After all, my dear count, I prefer having saved you from drowning, to
having put a bullet in your head, or perhaps having received from you a
similar proof of friendship.

"I hope that the vigorous _douche_ that you have received will have a
good effect on you, and save you from another fit of insanity.

"My plans are changed, or rather become what they were at first. I
desire more than ever to satisfy my fancy about that incendiary,
Canaris; but as that diabolical piratical pilot (May he come to the
gallows!) has wrecked my poor yacht, I have chartered a vessel at Malta,
and am off for Hydra.

"Good-bye. If we ever meet again we will laugh at all this.

H. FALMOUTH."

"P. S. I leave you the doctor, for the Maltese doctors are said to be
detestable. He will hand you a letter of recommendation to the lord
governor of the island.

"Send me the doctor when you have no further need of his services."


I have become so stupid from the life of pleasure I have been leading,
that I scarcely remember the effect this sarcastic letter had on me.


When I arrived at Malta I called on Lord P----, who showed me great
courtesy. He caused active search to be made for the pretended pilot.
That wretch had actually been at one time a member of the Royal Navy,
but, for two years past, he had given up his position as pilot in the
island of Malta.

A description of him was sent throughout the whole Archipelago, where he
was supposed to be engaged in piracy.

At Lord P----'s I met a certain Marquis Justiniani, a descendant of that
ancient and illustrious family, the Justiniani of Genoa, which had given
dukes to Venice and sovereigns to some of the Grecian islands. The
marquis owned many country places in the island of Khios, which had just
been ravaged by the Turks. He spoke to me about a palace called the
Carina Palace, built towards the end of the sixteenth century by the
Cardinal Angelo Justiniani. The marquis had for a long time rented the
palace to an aga. The description of the palace and the climate seduced
me, so I proposed to go to Khios, to visit the palace and the park, and
to rent or buy the place if it suited me.

We left together, and disembarked here after a three days' voyage. The
Turks had left bloody traces of their passage everywhere; they were in
garrison in the castle of Khios.

As I was a Frenchman, thanks to the firm attitude of our navy and our
consuls in the Orient, I would be in perfect security in case of my
deciding to dwell in Khios.

I inspected the palace, it suited me, and the business was settled.

The next day my interpreter brought to me a renegade Jew, who proposed
that I should purchase a dozen beautiful Grecian slave girls, the spoils
of the last Turkish raid in the islands of Samos and Lesbos.

Of these twelve girls, the eldest of whom was only twenty, there were
three who were too refined and delicate to be put to work, and were
therefore suitable for companionship.

The nine others, tall, robust, and very beautiful, could work either in
the garden or in the house. He only demanded two thousand piastres
apiece, about five hundred francs of our money.

In order to induce me to buy them, the renegade told me, confidentially,
that a Tunisian officer, purveyor of the Bey's harem, had made him an
offer; but that he liked to see his slaves well treated and so preferred
selling them to me, knowing what harsh treatment the poor creatures
would receive on board the Barbary _chebek_ that was to take them to
Tunis.

I expressed a desire to see the slaves.

The marvellous type of Grecian beauty has been so well preserved in this
favoured clime, that, out of these twelve girls of every sort and
condition, there was not one who was not really pretty, and three of
them were perfectly beautiful women.

The bargain concluded, I sent the twelve women to the Carina Palace with
two negro dwarfs, who were so deformed as to be positively picturesque,
that the renegade presented me with by way of a contrast. They were all
under the surveillance of an old Cypriote, that the Jew recommended as a
housekeeper.


This sudden resolution to go to the Isle of Khios, and there to live at
leisure, forgetting all things and every one, had been suggested to me a
year ago, by the torturing remembrance of the great sorrow that
overwhelmed me.

After my quarrel with Falmouth, whom I had so basely provoked, fully
aware that I was unworthy of all generous affection, since I was
constantly seeking the meanest motives, I believed that a perfectly
sensual life would admit of neither these fears nor doubts.

What had made me so unhappy until now? Was it not from a dread of being
deceived by my feelings? The dread of being mistaken should I allow
myself to love? What, then, should I risk in devoting the remainder of
my life to material love?

Nature is so rich, so fecund, so inexhaustible, that I can never weary
of admiring her marvels, from henceforth I would doubt of nothing.

The perfume of a beautiful flower is not imaginary, the splendours of a
magnificent landscape are real, beautiful forms are not deceptive. What
interested motive could I impute to the flower that perfumes the air,
the bird that sings, the wind murmuring softly through the leaves, the
sea breaking on the beach, to nature, that unfolds so many treasures,
colours, melodies, and fragrances?

It is true I will be all alone to enjoy these marvels, but solitude
pleases me. I possess a deep sense of material beauty, which will be
sufficient to make up for my want of faith in moral beauty.

The sight of luxuriant nature, of a fine horse or dog, a flower or a
beautiful woman, or even a lovely sunset, has always given me exquisite
pleasure, and though religious faith is unfortunately lacking in me,
when I behold the splendours of creation I always feel transports of
heartfelt gratitude towards the unknown power that heaps such treasures
on us.

Regretting the faculties of which I am deprived, I will at least make
the most of those I possess; and since I can not be happy through the
mind, let me be so through the senses.

This I said to myself, and I was not mistaken, for never have I enjoyed
such perfect happiness.

Falmouth was the best, the noblest of men. I know it. But when I compare
my present life of felicity with the life of study and politics that
Henry depicted in such glowing colours, the only thing I regret is the
friendship that I destroyed by my awful suspicions.

Henry was quite right when he said that idleness was the source of all
my miseries; so I have spent my time in the making of living pictures on
which I can at all times gaze. It has taken much toil, and even study,
to surround myself with all these marvels of creation, to get together
all the scattered riches of this Garden of Eden.

Sages may tell us that these are but childish pleasures, but it is their
simplicity that constitutes their pleasantness.

Serious immaterial joys are but perishable, while the thousand little
pleasures a youthful nature can always discover in his reveries, though
trifling and momentary, are constantly being renewed, for the
imagination that produces them is inexhaustible.

Now that I have lived in such adorable independence, the life of
society, with its exigencies, appears to me as a sort of order whose
rules are as strict as those of the "Trappists."

I do not know which I would prefer, to be comfortably clothed in a serge
gown, or cramped up in a tight coat; to breathe the pure fresh air of
the garden I cultivated or the stifling atmosphere of a crowded salon;
to kneel through the service of matins, or to stand all evening at some
reception. In fact, I think I should as willingly choose the meditative
silence of the cloister as the chatter of the salon; and say with about
as much interest, "Brother, we must die," of the religious order, as
"Brother, we must amuse ourselves," of the social order.

One thing only astonishes me, it is that I have been so long without
knowing where true happiness lies.

When I think of the burdensome, obscure, and narrow life that most men
impose upon themselves, through routine, in unhealthy cities, in damp
climates, with hardly a ray of sunshine, without flowers, without
perfume, surrounded by a degenerate, ugly, and sickly race, when they
could live as I do without a care, as a monarch among the exquisite
beauties of nature in a marvellous climate, I sometimes fear that my
paradise will suddenly be invaded.

Thus I congratulate myself every day on my determination, my cup runs
over with pleasure, my most painful remembrances fade away from my mind,
and my soul has become so dulled from intoxicating joys, that the past
has become a mere dream of misery.

Hélène, Marguerite, Falmouth, the remembrance of you is growing dim,
far away, hidden under a beautiful cloud. I sometimes wonder how we
could have caused each other so much suffering.

But what do I hear under my windows? It is the sound of the Albanian
harp. It is Daphné, who invites Noémi and Anathasia to dance the
national dance, the Romaïque.

May this description of all that surrounds me, the smiling scene that I
gaze on while writing these lines, here in Khios, in the Carina Palace,
remain on these unseen pages as a faithful picture of a charming
reality.

No doubt these details would seem childish to any other than myself, but
it is a portrait I wish to paint, and a portrait by Holbein, seen and
painted with scrupulous fidelity; for, if ever I should happen to regret
this happy period of my life, every stroke of the brush would be of
inestimable value to me.




CHAPTER VI


DAYS OF SUNSHINE--THE PALACE


Like all palaces of modern Italy, the Palace of Carina, built by the
Genoese when the island of Khios was one of their possessions, the
Palace of Carina is immense. The apartments are splendid, but
unfurnished. The Mussulman who occupied it before me had furnished one
wing of the vast building after the Oriental fashion.

It is that wing that I live in. It is there that I retire during the
burning heat of the day, for the windows open towards the north, and
there is a delightful breeze.

Window-screens of fragrant bamboo half close the windows and permit me
to enjoy the view while remaining in a soft obscurity.

The walls are covered with a silvery stucco, which glimmers like white
satin, and are divided into panels of alternate lilac and green, where
can be read in golden letters several verses of the Koran. The ceiling
is richly painted, and divided into panels of lilac and green, with
borders of golden arabesques.

A thick Persian carpet covers the floor. At the end of this room, a
fountain of limpid water gushes from a basin of Oriental jasper, and
falls in cascades with a gentle murmur. Great blue and gold vases,
filled with flowers on which some tame doves come and perch, surround
the fountain, and the aromatic perfume of the flowers reaches me in a
fragrant mist.

Must I admit this fact? The pleasures of the senses are dear to me, and
I delight in their satisfaction.

Thus, near me on a table, that is covered with a thick Turkish
table-cloth of a yellow shade, embroidered with blue flowers that
glitter with silver threads, are sorbets of oranges and the wild cherry,
in porous vases that are covered with an icy moisture; golden
pineapples, slices of watermelon, with their green rind and red
pulp,--all these are shining through pieces of ice that fill great
Japanese bowls; on another dish is a pyramid of exquisite fruit, that
the dark-eyed Daphné has intermingled with flowers.

In a few moments the sprightly Noémi will fill my crystal cup with the
generous wine of Cyprus or Scyros or Madeira, which have been standing
in their Venetian decanters exposed to a tepid atmosphere.

If I wish to indulge in soft reverie, to fill my idle brain with
delightful dreams, Anathasia, the blonde, will smilingly offer me my
narghile filled with jasmine water, or my long pipe with the amber
mouthpiece, whose bowl she will fill with the fragrant tobacco of
Latakia.

And finally, should I wish to abandon my day-dreams, and give myself up
to the thoughts of others, I have them near at hand, the works of the
poets I love: Shakespeare, Goethe, Schiller, Scott; the great, the
divine, the modern Homer,--Byron, whose black yacht I saw pass on the
horizon yesterday.

Although the air is cool, it is saturated with perfume; the vapours of
aloes and myrrh, burning in small ruby jars, mingle their odour with
that of the flowers, for since I mean to live for the senses, let me not
forget the sense of smelling.

I have given myself up enthusiastically to my enjoyment of delightful
smells, a sense so misunderstood or so blamed. I have realised my dream
of arranging a scale of perfumes, beginning at the faintest, and
gradually ascending to the most powerful odours, the inhaling of which
causes a sort of intoxication, which adds a new ecstasy to
voluptuousness.

Besides, one could almost live on perfumes on the island of Khios, for
it is the island which furnished all the perfumes to the harems, the
essences of rose, jasmin, and tuberose, which are used in the seraglio
of the sultanas.

Khios alone produces the precious lentisk, whose gum the dreamy and
indolent odalisk chews between her ivory teeth; Khios, whose commerce
even has a charming suggestion of elegance, for her exports are silks,
tapestries, flowers, fruits, birds, and honey. And it is young girls and
beautiful women of the purest antique type who gather the treasures of
the island, the most favoured of all the islands of Ionia.

From the windows of the apartment I occupy, in one of the wings of this
immense dwelling, I gaze on a beautiful scene.

May its remembrance be an everlasting regret, if ever I leave this
adorable retreat for some dark and noisy city, with a horizon of high
walls, filthy streets, and close atmosphere.

On my left is the front of the palace, whose carved porticos, arcades,
and white marble staircases seem endless.

From its porphyry inlaid basement, to its roof, adorned with
balustrades, statues, and great vases filled with myrtle and oleanders,
the whole building is bathed in sunshine, and its golden silhouette
stands out against a sky of that sapphire blue which is only seen in the
East.

In the distance the azure of the sky would blend with the azure of the
sea, were it not for a wavy line of purplish red. This is the chain of
the mountains of Roumania, whose summits are bathed in brilliant clouds.

On the right hand, as a contrast to that dazzling mass of marble and of
sunshine, there is a lawn of clover, where some of the large Syrian
sheep, with their heavy tails, are grazing, also a few gazelles with
silvery coats. Beyond the lawn, and extending in a parallel direction
with the palace, I see a deep, damp, and shady wood.

The gigantic tops of the oak-trees, the cedars, and the secular platanes
form an ocean of dark verdure. The sun is setting, and, with its glowing
rays, throws a golden light on those masses of foliage.

On that waving curtain of dark and opaque green, a thousand other shades
of green are visible, which become more faint and transparent as they
approach the banks of the River Belophano, which, widening in front of
the palace, forms a sort of lake.

The banks are planted with bladdernut-trees, umbrella pines with their
reddish trunks, satin-leaved poplars, arbutus, and buckthorn. On these,
once in awhile, shines a ray of sunlight, which slips beneath the great
domes of verdure whenever the sea breeze lifts their branches.

Near the shore, there are fan-leaved latanias, whose trunks are hidden
beneath vines that bear orange-coloured bell-flowers, and hydrangeas,
whose flowers are rose-coloured.

Then there are wide green avenues, where the sun's rays scarcely ever
penetrate, which are carpeted by soft grass, and lead to a hemicycle of
foliage, quite near the palace.

These paths are so long and shady that I cannot see their end, through
the bluish vapour that veils them.

Lastly, in the foreground, and on a level with my window, is a terrace
of white marble, adorned with vases and statues. From this, you can
descend to the banks of the canal.

Protected by the palace, one half of the staircase is in the shade, the
other is bathed in the sunlight. On one of the lower steps a black
dwarf, that I have dressed in a scarlet doublet in Venetian style, is
sleeping beside two greyhounds of great size and beautiful form.

By a caprice of the sunlight, the dwarf is in the dazzling zone of its
rays, which seem to cover each step with gold dust, while the greyhounds
are in the shadow, which is unequally traced on the staircase, and
throws its cool, blue, transparent shadows on the white coats of the
sleeping dogs.

A little farther on, a peacock sits perched on the balustrade in the
bright sun. His feathers flash like a rain of rubies, topazes, and
emeralds, glittering against a background of ultramarine.

Swans swim slowly in the canal, and seem to drag behind them thousands
of silvery ribbons; tall, rose-coloured flamingoes walk solemnly along
the shore, while, farther off, two crimson parrots quarrel for the fruit
of the latania-trees. When they unfold their turquoise wings, they
display their long wing-feathers, tinted with gold and purple.

On a tuft of amaryllis, a beautiful yellow popinjay, whose neck reflects
the tints of the rainbow, opens out his long white tail-feathers, while
the swallows and kingfishers lightly skim over the waters of the canal.


I have just read over these pages, which give a perfect description of
the marvellous scene that I look on. All is mentioned. But how feebly
words can depict such a spectacle! The relation they bear to the reality
is only such as the dry nomenclature of the naturalist to the beautiful
object he describes.




CHAPTER VII


DAYS OF SUNSHINE--THE GREEK NATIONAL DANCE


I hear peals of silvery laughter, and beyond the last steps of the
staircase, which half conceals them, the playful figures of some of my
slave girls appear. They are bathing in the river.

Some of them, holding their beautiful arms above their heads, twist
their long brown hair, from which a rain of liquid pearls rolls down on
to their bosoms and their bare backs. Others, holding each other's
hands, advance timidly on the sandy shore of the lake; they bow their
heads, and pretend to be afraid.

Nothing could be more beautiful than their pure and delicate profiles,
which stand out like alabaster against the luminous horizon, like white
cameos on a transparent stone.

Their hair is twisted in a knot low on the back of their heads, and
leaves their little ears exposed; their necks are round and white, and
all the lines of their bodies are as elegant as those of the ancient
Greeks.

Not far from this charming group, skipping on the close-cut grass that
extends from the wood to the banks of the canal, Noémi and Anathasia,
wearing the beautiful costume of the island of Khios, are dancing the
"Romaïque," to the music of the Albanian harp which Daphné plays.

The verdant hemicycle protects them from the oblique rays of the sun.
Great beds of roses, wallflowers, Persian lilacs, and tuberoses surround
their leafy parlour.

These flower beds are constantly plundered by thousands of gaudy
butterflies: the "Ulysses," whose wings are bright green with amethyst
spots, the "Marsyas" of a deep blue, or the "Danaë," which is a velvety
brown, striped with mother-of-pearl.

Happy girls! How well they love to dance to the sound of Daphné's lyre!
Daphné is one of three girls the renegade told me were only fit for
amusement.

Daphné was carried off from Lesbos by the Turks. Her noble proportions
and severely beautiful face remind one of the grand type of the Venus de
Milo.

She is seated on a mossy bank. Her complexion is of a rosy white; her
eyes, her eyebrows, her eyelashes, and her hair are as black as ebony; a
string of gold coins passes over her forehead, and is fastened in the
thick braid of hair behind her head.

Daphné wears a straw-coloured tunic and a white robe; she bends
slightly forward, and curves her white naked arms around the Albanian
lyre that rests on her knees. One leg stretched forward reveals a
charming ankle, covered with a bright pink silk stocking, such as they
weave here in the island, and a little black Turkish slipper embroidered
with silver is on her foot.

According to the custom of modern Greeks, Daphné sings as she plays,
while the two girls who dance repeat the refrain.

This is a translation of their words; there is nothing very remarkable
about them, and yet they fill one with passionate languor when sung as
Daphné can sing them. A young bridegroom is speaking to his bride:


"I am wounded by thy love, alas!
Ah, young maiden! I am consumed by thy love.
I am stricken to the heart.
Let me possess your charms and the flames devour your dower.
Oh, young maiden, I love thee with all my soul,
And thou hast abandoned me,
Like a withered plant."


Noémi and Anathasia seem to act the words by their expressive
pantomime.

Noémi, the brunette, who takes the part of the lover, is manly and
resolute, while the poses of the blonde Anathasia are timid,
supplicating, and chaste, like those of a young girl who shuns or fears
the caresses of her lover.

Noémi is tall and slender. Her hair is a golden auburn; her eyebrows
and lashes are thick and black, and her eyes are dark gray.

Nothing is more voluptuous than those large, liquid eyes. Her brown skin
is perhaps rather too dark, and her mocking, sensual lips too
brilliantly scarlet, so violently do they contrast with her white teeth;
her smile almost too passionate. Her upper lip is shaded by the
slightest possible streak of brown, and her pink nostrils dilate at each
movement of her breast, which rises and falls, as she dances, under her
close-fitting "yellak," or jacket of cherry-coloured satin. Two long
tresses, tied with red satin ribbon, fall from under her scarlet "fez"
and reach below her round, flexible waist, that seems smaller by
contrast with her broad hips, under their orange-coloured skirt. Nothing
was ever more nimble than her little feet, shod in red morocco slippers
embroidered with gold.

Anathasia, on the contrary, is petite. Her beautiful fair hair falls in
plaits on each side of her cheeks, which are as fresh and rosy as a
baby's. Her complexion is dazzlingly fair, and her sweet blue eyes,
under their long lashes, seem to reflect all the azure of the Ionian
skies.

When the ardent Noémi, singing the words of the despairing lover,
approaches her with supplicating and passionate gestures, Anathasia's
little mouth, as scarlet as a cherry, becomes quite serious, and she
assumes a candid and adorable expression of alarmed innocence. She
recoils with a frightened look, and clasps her pretty hands, that are as
white as ivory.

Anathasia is all in white.

I had often dreamed of a sylph lightly touching the grass with the tips
of its slender feet. Such a fairy is Anathasia, whose tiny proportions
are of exquisite refinement.


Never was there such a combination of beauty. My fancy had dictated this
arrangement, which included all that was lovely in nature.

I was young; all this beauty belonged to me; my life was divided between
sensual ravishments and the delights of the intellect.

What further happiness could I imagine than to live for ever in this
enchanting land, forgetful of the past, and hopeful for the future,
which must always be as happy; for would not gold ensure me the
possession of such wealth as was now before me?

I am so completely happy that I feel an imperative need of giving thanks
to the power that bestows on me so many blessings.




CHAPTER VIII


BELIEF


ISLE OF KHIOS, October, 18--.

I take up my journal again after three months of interruption. I left
off at the description of the Carina Palace and its inhabitants,--such a
minute description that it was like an architect's working drawing, or a
slave merchant's inventory.

I consult my moral thermometer. I find myself very well, my head is
perfectly clear, and I am cheerful and gay.

I feel as though I were dreaming when I look over the pages of my
journal that I brought with me from France, and find that I used to be
sad, dreamy, and melancholy.

September has just come to an end; the rainy weather which precedes the
equinox has cooled the atmosphere. The west wind whistles through the
long galleries of the palace. I have left the ground floor for a more
cosy and comfortable apartment. I am almost deafened with noise.

Awhile ago the parrots, the peacocks, and the popinjays, showing their
sagacity, and, no doubt, feeling the approaching change in temperature,
all began to shriek at once in the most atrocious manner. Such a proof
of their intelligence made me terribly nervous.

Why is Nature so inconsistent in her gifts? Dazzling plumage, discordant
voice!

This is not all; frightened by the racket, the greyhounds began to bark
furiously. Then the dwarfs came with whips and yells, and augmented the
noise while trying to stop it.

I have taken refuge here, but can still hear the infernal screaming of
the parrots. All these charming accessories of the scenes that surround
me are lovely to look at when they are in their proper place, but I do
not care for "tableaux" that shriek.

From animals let us pass to human beings; the transition will not be
difficult, for the minds of my beautiful girls are not much more
developed than the brains of the parrots and popinjays, and though
sometimes they are as noisy as the latter, their screams have not the
advantage of foretelling rainy or clear weather.

Speaking of screams, I am sorry that Noémi and Daphné have had a
quarrel, but the excessive violence of those good creatures is the
result of their want of education. Nevertheless, and although I am
tolerant, it seems to me that stabbing one's comrade in the arm is
carrying things too far, so I have given Noémi a serious scolding.

I strongly suspect Anathasia, the blonde, with her childish and innocent
air, to be the cause of the quarrel, and to have slyly excited those two
brave girls to fight each other like two fighting-cocks. To be sure,
this was suggested to me by the wicked old Cypriote, and she detests
everything that is young or pretty.

Noémi, in fact, is growing more and more ill-tempered. The other day
she slapped Chloë, my gardener, violently, Chloë, who has such white
teeth and such black eyes. She beat her because she brought in the fruit
too late, and so my dessert was behindhand.

After all, Noémi has some good points, but she is deucedly irascible
and fierce.

One thing that astonishes me is the fact that these girls are completely
insensible to the beauties of nature.

Thanks to the Greek I learned at college, I am able to understand and
speak modern Greek passably well, and I have often tried to awaken in
these girls some poetic sentiment. All was in vain; nothing was ever
more barbaric or uncultivated than their minds.

With the exception of some Greek national songs, they know nothing at
all.

They can neither read nor write. Their rivalries, their jealousies,
their calumnies, and a few exaggerated tales of Turkish cruelty, furnish
the subjects of their usual conversation.

In other ways they are the best of girls. I remember a scene, which
shows marvellously well the characters of my three favourites.

I was mounting a Syrian horse I had purchased, for the first time. He
became excited, reared, and fell on me. Noémi flew at the horse, caught
him by the bridle, and beat him with a whip. Daphné ran to help me up.
Anathasia never moved, but burst into tears and then fainted away.


Some time ago I tried to awaken the souls of these poor girls to some
remembrances of their Fatherland,--a sentiment that is so strong in
half-civilised natures.

It was not without some hesitation that I made the attempt. I felt a
certain remorse at the idea of awakening sad recollections.

Poor girls! They lived in slavery, and their melancholy thoughts must
often turn with regret to the land of their youth. Poor caged swallows!
they only awaited an opportunity of flying home to their nests.

I feared it would be cruel to raise false hopes in their breasts; still,
I assembled my household, and told them that I was going to leave the
island, and send them all back to their respective homes.

I must declare, and with a certain amount of satisfaction, that they
immediately broke into lamentations that would have done honour to the
funeral of Achilles, or the dirge of some illustrious Albanian
chieftain.

Daphné wrapped her head in her veil, and sat silent and motionless on
the ground, like an antique statue of grief. Noémi manifested her rage
by beating one of the black dwarfs, while the fair Anathasia, falling on
her knees, took my hand and kissed it; then raising her beautiful
tearful eyes to mine, said, in her soft Ionian tongue:

"Oh, master! master! When you have gone, what will become of your poor
Grecian girls?"

"But your aged fathers! Your poor old mothers! Your brave brothers and
your handsome lovers!" I exclaimed. "Do you never think of them,
forgetful creatures that you are?"

Feeling sure that such magical words would have an effect, I drew my
cloak around me with a majestic air.

But the crying and sobbing only grew the louder, and they all cried out,
in what I thought a threatening way:

"We will never leave the roof of the good Frank; we are happy at Khios;
we will stay at Khios with the good Frank."

Though I was their "good Frank," I could not help having but a poor idea
of their patriotism; the preference they gave me over their native soil
and its accessories was certainly flattering.

I resolved to make another attempt, and told them that I would give each
of them two thousand piastres and their clothes, and let them go
wherever they wished, for I meant to leave the island.

The screams and curses that were the result of my innocent proposition
so alarmed me, that for a moment I feared I should share the fate of
Orpheus.

Letting go of her dwarf, Noémi sprang towards me like a tigress, seized
my yellak, for I wore the Albanian costume, and said to me, her eyes
blazing with anger:

"If you try to go away, and leave us here, we will set the palace on
fire, and, holding you in our arms, we will all be burned together."

The majority of the rebels seemed to be delighted with such an idea, for
they screamed out louder than ever:

"Yes, yes, let us take the good Frank in our arms, and all perish with
him in the flames of his palace."

I observed a trait that was worthy of La Bruyère. The gentle Anathasia
was one of the most ferocious of the incendiary party.

Although this threatened mode of death was worthy of Sardanapalus, I
preferred to live as I was, and being now quite convinced that I was
adored by my household, I told them that I renounced my projects of
departure.

My modesty forbids me saying with what effusion, what transports of joy,
my decision was welcomed by those good girls.

The whole twelve of them took hold of each other's hands, and formed a
circle. Noémi, as the antique theorist, improvised these simple words,
which her companions repeated to the air of their national hymn, "The
Swallows."


"At Khios we remain,
Dance, sisters, dance,
At Khios we remain,
We stay with the good Frank.

"He never beats us, he treats us well,
Dance, sisters, dance,
We will always have beautiful fezzes,
Beautiful embroidered yellaks,
Beautiful silk sashes.

"We will eat tender roasted kids,
Fat partridges and quails,
Honey from Hymettus, wine from Scyros.
Dance, sisters, dance,
The good Frank lets us stay.

"Dance, sisters, dance,
We till the soil no more,
No more we mend the roads,
Dance, sisters, dance.

"We will bathe beneath the sycamores,
We will not work at all,
Only pluck fruit and flowers for him,
The good Frank who keeps us."


If I had been blinded by any conceit, I should have had my self-respect
somewhat wounded on learning that the roast kid, fat partridges, Scyros
wine, beautiful clothes, and idleness, were prominent features in the
intense affection these simple creatures bore me.

But, fortunately, I am wiser than that, and can see through their
devotion. Formerly I had some doubts as to my powers of attraction, but
now, how can I help believing in the charm with which I was invested if
it can attach these slaves to me so devotedly?

My charms are easily understood, they are the fat partridges, the
roasted kids, the golden belts, and embroidered yellaks.

Oh, happy future! As long as there are any embroiderers and silk weavers
in the Isle of Khios, I will be sure of admiration.

I, who until now could never believe in disinterested affection, am
obliged to have blind faith in the love I inspire.

It is surely easy to believe these truthful creatures, when they tell me
that they love to be elegantly clothed, well fed, and not beaten. I
cannot accuse them of duplicity when they say that they like to do
nothing harder than pick fruit and flowers, or bathe in the marble pool,
in the shade of the plane-trees.

In order to create doubt in my mind, they would have to tell me that
they preferred to give up an indolent life for one of hardship, to
abandon the sensual life they live here, and return to their household
avocations.

Have they ever told me that it would be a joy to them to go back to
their homes, and till the soil, or mend the roads?--manly occupations
that the women of Albania perform admirably.

No, they have energetically declared their willingness to be burnt alive
with me in my palace, at the first proposal I made them to give up silk
for homespun, the _far-niente_ of idleness for hard work, a life of
pleasure for household duties.

They have innocently expressed their preference for remaining with the
good Frank, and I believe them. When we consider their reasons for
staying here, how can we doubt their truth?

This time selfish motives are so apparent, that I shall have no occasion
to torment myself with doubts.


But what do I hear? It is a salute from a ship, the sound of a cannon!

What does it mean?




CHAPTER IX


RECOGNITION


There is nothing very remarkable about the incident I am about to
relate, but I am very curious and excited.

A Russian frigate has just come in from Constantinople; fearing bad
weather, she has put into Khios, instead of going on to Smyrna, or the
Oulach Islands.

That frigate fired a cannon-shot for a pilot, and that was the salute I
heard this morning.


Who is that lady who, in spite of the high wind, came on shore as soon
as the vessel was anchored? The sight of that simple little blue bonnet,
the cashmere shawl drawn snugly over the shoulders, that little foot so
well shod, that little hand so well gloved, has operated a retrograde
movement in regard to my ideas of beauty.

From the antique Greek I have passed to the Parisian type. I would now
give all the Noémis, the Anathasias, and the Daphnés in the world,
with all their fezzes, their yellaks, and embroidered belts, to be able
to offer my arm to that pretty stranger; for she is pretty, I could see
that much from the trellis of my kiosk. She is tall and slender, and has
beautiful blue eyes, which is something very charming in a fair-skinned
brunette.

The gentleman whose arm she leans on is middle-aged, and has a fine,
intelligent face.

Who can these strangers be?


KHIOS, October, 18--.

What a strange meeting! Events are so strange that it is well worth
while to continue my journal.

Yesterday I sent my old Cypriote to find a Calabrian, who fills the
position of port-warden, and attends to the Marquis Justiniani's
business, and ask him who were the travellers on the frigate.

That ship is commanded by the Duke of Fersen, ex-ambassador of Russia to
the Sublime Porte; he is on his way to Toulon, with the princess, his
wife, and several distinguished persons. It was Madame de Fersen that I
saw yesterday on the landing.

This morning, about one o'clock, I was lazily stretched on my divan,
smoking my Turkish pipe, whose bowl Noémi held, while Anathasia was
burning some perfumes in a silver pan, when the curtains of my
apartments were suddenly thrust aside, and Daphné entered triumphantly,
leading a party of strangers, among whom were M. and Madame de Fersen.

I could have strangled Daphné, for I was furious to be caught in my
Oriental costume.

My hair and beard had grown quite long, and my neck was bare. I wore the
long, white skirt of the Albanians, a cherry-coloured jacket embroidered
with orange silk, red morocco gaiters, embroidered with silver, and an
orange-coloured sash.

It was probably very picturesque, but it seemed terribly ridiculous, and
so like a masquerade, that I grew red with shame, as a young lady might
do if she were caught playing with a doll. (The comparison is silly, but
it expresses how I felt.)

Hoping to be mistaken for a real Albanian, I remained very serious, to
complete the deception.

The prince, accompanied by his Greek interpreter, stepped forward and
excused himself for his indiscretion, asking me to pardon his wife's
curiosity, but that she had found the palace so beautiful, and the
gardens so enchanting, that she asked permission to visit them, while
the ship waited for a favourable wind.

I replied by a low bow, putting my left hand on my breast, and my right
hand on my forehead, as the Albanians do; then I bowed my head to the
princess, without getting up from the divan.

I was about to say a few polite words to the interpreter, when I heard a
shrill voice, and at the same time I saw,--whom do you suppose?--Du
Pluvier!

I was stunned.

It was he, as ridiculous as ever, decked out in gold chains and an
embroidered waistcoat, noisy, talkative, and never still for a moment.
The little man was redder and fatter than ever. He was evidently a
member of the French legation at Constantinople, for he wore a blue coat
with buttons bearing the king's initials.

That infernal bore held one of my dwarfs by the ear, and, showing him to
Madame de Fersen, said, "Here, madame, is one of the monsters of the
Middle Ages."

Then, on a sign from the prince that the master of the house was
present, Du Pluvier turned around, and looked at me.

I trembled, for I knew that he recognised me.

It would be impossible to depict Du Pluvier's astonishment; his eyes
rolled in his head, he stretched forward his arms, and, stepping towards
me, cried out:

"What! are you here, my dear Arthur? You! disguised as a Mamamouchi!
This is a strange meeting! Why, I have not seen you since the first
representation of 'The Comte d'Ory' at the Opéra. You were there with
Madame de Pënâfiel."

The prince, his wife, the interpreter, and some Russian officers who
accompanied the ambassador, all of whom understood French perfectly
well, were quite as much surprised as Du Pluvier. Madame de Fersen
looked at me curiously, but could not refrain from smiling.

I bit my lips, cursing my costume, Daphné, and, above all, Du Pluvier,
whom I wished the devil might take. He kept on with his protestations of
friendship, while all eyes were fixed on us.

I had either to stick to my rôle of Albanian, and let Du Pluvier pass
for a fool, or to admit my foolish disguisement.

I bravely chose the latter course.

I rose, and went respectfully to bow to Madame de Fersen, and beg her
pardon for having for an instant deceived her. I frankly admitted that,
caught in the act of playing the Oriental, I had preferred to be taken
for an Albanian, than for a silly Frenchman.

She received my excuses with charming grace, which was, however, a
little sarcastic, when she expressed her astonishment at finding a man
of the world under the garb of an Oriental.

It is useless to say that Madame de Fersen speaks French like a Russian,
that is to say, perfectly.




CHAPTER X


COMPARISONS


KHIOS, October, 18--.

I have again adopted the European costume, which I had so indolently
cast aside, and have been on board of the _Alexina_, to pay a visit to
M. and Madame de Fersen.

Madame de Fersen is not so young as I at first thought her to be. She
must be about thirty or thirty-three.

Her hair is very black, her eyes very blue, her complexion is fair, and
her hands and feet are beautiful. She has an expressive face, and seems
witty, though not malicious. What appears to be her predominant trait,
is to discuss, understandingly, European politics.

I cannot say how far her pretensions on this subject are justified, for
I am quite ignorant of all these questions. I stated this fact to Madame
de Fersen, who laughed at me, and evidently did not believe a word that
I said.

M. de Fersen is a very intelligent, agreeable, and cultivated man. By
way of relaxation, and as a change from his diplomatic duties, he has
given himself up to the study of light French literature, which taste he
shares with the dean of European diplomats, Prince Metternich.

I was astonished at M. de Fersen's memory, when he quoted, with the
fidelity of a catalogue, the titles of long-forgotten vaudevilles, and
recited passages from them; for he also delighted in acting comedy.

Unfortunately, I am as little versed in vaudevilles as in politics, and
could therefore not fully appreciate M. de Fersen's learning in this
specialty.

The prince only expressed one wish: it was to get to Paris as soon as
possible, in order to see the great actors of the minor theatres, who
were at once his heroes and his rivals.

M. and Madame de Fersen are exceptionally well bred, and seem to have
been born to fill the high position they hold in society.

To much native dignity, they unite that charming affability and
cordiality that are often found in distinguished members of the Russian
aristocracy; for in such alone can we now find the sprightly elegance of
the _Ancien Régime._


I went on board the frigate to-day, and spent a delightful evening.

There were only five of us: Madame de Fersen and her husband, the
captain of the _Alexina_, a distinguished young officer, Du Pluvier, and
I.

Du Pluvier had been attaché to the French legation in Constantinople,
but had soon become tired of his duties there, and had asked to be
recalled. He had profited by the visit of the Russian frigate to return
to Toulon.

It is so long since I have seen anything of society, that my visit had
all the attraction of novelty.

I made quite a study of Madame de Fersen, who sketched for me several
portraits, among them that of the British minister at Constantinople,
with a wit and power of description quite remarkable.

I have never met the honourable Sir ----, but his portrait is now for
ever imprinted on my memory.

I have always supposed that nothing could be more insupportable than a
woman who liked to talk politics. I have almost changed my mind since
listening to Madame de Fersen.

There is nothing vague or nebulous about her way of talking; she
sometimes explains events of serious importance by the human passions
that give rise to them, and by showing what private interests they
conflict with; thus going from effect to cause, from the infinitely
great to the infinitely small, she reaches very piquant and unexpected
conclusions.

Her theories suit me so well that I undoubtedly look on them with great
partiality; however, I think that I am safe in claiming for Madame de
Fersen a distinguished position among eminently clever women.

The prince having been entrusted with numerous missions to the different
European powers, his wife had naturally been intimately acquainted with
the most distinguished persons of each nation; nothing could be more
amusing than her conversation, as she passed in review these well-known
personages, and told the wittiest things about them.

Her dress was beautiful, and I was quite sure it was French, for such
toilets can only come from Paris.

It was with real delight that I noticed the long tresses of her black
hair, half hidden under a blonde lace barbe, in which she had fastened a
spray of geranium blossoms. She wore a robe of white India muslin,
adorably fresh and delicate, and her little feet were encased in black
satin slippers.

It was all so fresh and simple and new to me, that the bright coloured
yellaks and embroidered fezzes of the Grecian girls seemed horribly
crude and vulgar, and their gold and silver made me think of the tinsel
dresses of rope-dancers.


I know not whether to rejoice or be alarmed at what has happened.

I have been seized with a sudden disgust at the life I have been leading
here for the last year.

When I compare my gross pleasures and solitary reveries to the
conversation I have just had with that young, beautiful, and intelligent
woman, to such an exchanging of pleasant and clever thoughts, to the
necessity of disguising whatever would be a shock to refined feelings;
when I compare my indolent life of a satrap, who gives orders and is
obeyed, to the charming necessity of pleasing, to that choice language
and manner that a woman like Madame de Fersen imposes on you, even
though you are but a mere acquaintance.

When I compare the present with the past, I am astonished that I could
have lived so long in such a way.

I have, however, lived for eighteen happy months at Khios. If the future
shows itself under a more seductive form, I must not condemn the happy
days that I may live to regret.

I am terribly perplexed. What shall I do?

If I remain here regretfully, if my future life in Khios becomes
wearisome, it were better to leave the island at once. M. de Fersen has
kindly invited me to go with him back to France.

I know not what to do. I must wait; besides, Du Pluvier is to breakfast
with me to-morrow. I will make him talk about Madame de Fersen.




CHAPTER XI


THE DEPARTURE


ON BOARD THE FRIGATE ALEXINA.

October, 18--.

It is all over. I have left the island.

Yesterday morning Du Pluvier came to breakfast with me.

He seemed singularly preoccupied.

"My friend," said he, "you live here the life of a veritable pasha,--a
sybarite, a true odalisk. On my word of honour, it is charming; neither
I nor the princess can understand it."

"How so?"

"_Parbleu!_ She and the prince make wild suppositions as to the reasons
which prompted you to lead such a life. The princess particularly seems
puzzled; but as I know nothing, I can tell her nothing."

"My dear Du Pluvier, tell me, have you seen much of M. and Madame de
Fersen during your sojourn in Constantinople?"

"Very often, nearly every day; the Russian embassy was one of the most
agreeable houses of the Christian quarter. Little comedies were given
there twice a week, and my duties prevented my skipping a single
rehearsal."

"Your duties?"

"Yes, I was under-prompter,--our first secretary was naturally
prompter-in-chief."

"Oh, without doubt. But what was said of Madame de Fersen at
Constantinople?"

"A proud woman,--a second Joan d'Arc. She ruled the embassy with a rod
of steel,--she did everything. They say she even carried on a direct
correspondence with the Czar, and during that time the excellent prince
was acting one of Potier's rôles. In such a capacity he is perfection
personified! I have seen him act 'Les Frères Féroces,' and thought I
should die with laughter!"

"And did Madame de Fersen also act?"

"Not a bit of it; she had other things to do, _ma foi!_ Believe me or
not, just as you wish, but I have never heard a single evil word said
against her."

"No doubt she was entirely taken up with politics?"

"She thought of nothing else; which fact did not prevent her from being
gay and agreeable, as you noticed, no doubt. But as to her heart,--it is
a protocol lacking a signature."

"Always witty," said I to Du Pluvier, who was laughing at his own joke.
"But what makes you think Madame de Fersen so cold-hearted?"

"_Parbleu!_ the complaints of those whom she has repulsed; firstly,
Villeblanche, our first secretary, the prompter-in-chief. You remember
Villeblanche? Well, he wasted his time like all the others, and if any
one could have succeeded, most assuredly that man was Villeblanche."

"Who is Villeblanche?"

"Villeblanche is--well, just Villeblanche, _le beau_ Villeblanche--
_Parbleu!_ of course you know Villeblanche, you know him well."

"But I don't know him at all, I tell you."

"Is it possible you are not acquainted with _le beau_ Villeblanche? The
soul of our diplomatic corps! A fellow of many resources, to whom the
foreign office owes the invention of double seals called 'à la
Villeblanche.' How does it happen that you have never met him?"

"It is a great pity, but some persons, are very ignorant."

"It was at the Congress of Verona that Villeblanche's diplomatic career
was assured, for then it was that he rendered the government such a
service as only he could render."

"But I thought that France's greatest man, who was entrusted to
represent her at that congress, was the only one to whom the treaty was
due?"

"Who? Châteaubriand?"

"Yes, Châteaubriand."

"I do not wish to lessen his glory, but if it was he who did the
thinking, it was Villeblanche who accomplished the work, and
Châteaubriand, with all his genius, could never have done what
Villeblanche did; after all, one should judge according to actions, not
according to words."

"Besides which?"

"In truth, I cannot understand how it happens that you do not know. It
is universal, it is European! Well, know then that, during the congress,
Villeblanche, entrusted with the most important despatches, travelled
first from Verona to Paris, from Paris to Madrid, where he stayed one
hour; then from Madrid he came back to Paris, and left there immediately
for St. Petersburg. Nor is this all. From St. Petersburg he returned to
Verona, and left there like a flash of lightning for Madrid by way of
Paris. This is a mere nothing. From Madrid he again returned to Verona
by way of Paris, and finally he returned to Paris, passing through
Vienna and Berlin on his way. How is that, my friend?"

"But your diplomat's book of services must be a regular posting book,"
said I.

"And to think," said Du Pluvier, with admiration, "to think that
Villeblanche has never stopped in any European capital except just the
time that was necessary to deliver and receive his despatches,--and yet,
whenever he got down from his carriage he was charming, as well dressed
as though he had just been taken out of a box! That is what not one of
his colleagues can ever understand," added Du Pluvier, with a mysterious
air. "For two months to live in a travelling carriage without getting
out of one's harness,--it is wearisome, fatiguing to the last degree,
while this devilish Villeblanche always managed to look fresh as a rose.
It is stupefying! Besides, it has made him no end of enemies, jealous,
perhaps, for they now talk of sending him as minister to some German
court."

"I am quite of your opinion; Châteaubriand, with all his genius, could
never have done all that, but, fortunately for our diplomacy, there are
numerous Villeblanches. By the way, how could Madame de Fersen remain
insensible to such merits? She was doubtless afraid that, from mere
habit, the handsome diplomat would ask her to go too far!"

I only permitted myself this piece of pleasantry out of a feeling of
hospitality, and I was rewarded for the sacrifice by hearing Du Pluvier
break out in such a fit of laughing that the dogs barked and the parrots
began their screaming.

When all was quiet again, he continued, "Yes, my dear Arthur, Madame de
Fersen resisted Villeblanche and all the fine flowers of foreign
diplomacy in Constantinople. That is sufficient, is it not, alas! to
show that her virtue is not to be corrupted?" he added, with a deep
sigh.

"Wherefore such a sigh?"

"It is because Madame de Fersen's virtue is like all the other colossal
virtues that I have been shipwrecked on since ever I came into the
world. It is frightful to think how virtuous women can be!" said Du
Pluvier, in a very discouraged way. "And yet, to hear some fellows talk,
you would suppose one only had to choose."

"Admitting," said I to Du Pluvier, to console him a little,--"admitting
that those fellows are not liars, but simply indiscreet, is it not
better to do like you, and inspire a woman with an exalted idea of her
duty, to make her fond of her husband, no matter how ugly or
disagreeable he may be, than to inspire her with the guilty desire of
disturbing the peace of her family? For, my dear friend, your rôle is
much superior to that of a seducer, it being so much more difficult to
do good than to do evil."

"You are quite right; I tell myself so frequently," said Du Pluvier; "it
is much more moral, but I swear it becomes tiresome at last. I entered
the diplomatic corps in order to be successful in society. Well, it has
done nothing of the kind."

"I have felt just the same way, seeing, with horror, that people were
growing more and more high-principled; and wishing to respect social
laws, I sought a more primitive place, and established myself here,
where certain principles and social laws are no more spoken of than in
Otähiti."

"That is what I thought," said Du Pluvier, with a meditative air. "Since
seeing you so well established, I have had an idea. I said to myself,
'What am I to do in the future? If I return to Paris, I certainly will
not find things any more amusing than formerly. I am as free as air.
There is that dear Arthur, living all alone on his island like Robinson
Crusoe. A companion is always agreeable, even necessary, for one might
fall ill. Very well, then, as I am so fond of this dear Arthur, let me
show my friendship for him. If he is Robinson, let me become his Friday.
Stay with him six months,--a year,--ten years,--or as long as he remains
on his island, and live there, _pardieu!_ like a pair of sultans.'
There, my friend, these are the results of my last night's reflections.
What do you think of them? You see the night brings counsel. I will
become your Friday!"

I was terrified, for I had never dreamed of such a thing as this.

I said nothing, though, for fear of making things worse by contradicting
him. I pretended at first to be charmed with his plan, then I began to
throw every kind of difficulty in his way.

I spoke of a threatened raid by the Turks,--he feared nothing, for he
knew I was brave as a lion.

I exaggerated the expenses of my establishment that he wished to
share,--he had just come into a large inheritance from an uncle at
Saintonge.

He pressed me so hard that I had to avow my passion for solitude, saying
that it had now become a perfect monomania, and that sometimes, for
whole weeks and months, I could scarcely endure the sight of any
one,--he said he would vanish like a sprite (what a sprite!) until my
fit of loneliness was over.

At last, as a final argument, I said it would be impossible for me, from
certain reasons, to give him a lodging in the Carina Palace,--he said he
could easily find some villa in the neighbourhood, having decided to
live in Turkish fashion, and never to leave me.

The situation was becoming extremely serious.

Du Pluvier, like all obstinate and narrow-minded persons, might persist
in doing as he said, and then my sojourn on the island would be
unbearable.

This thought, added to the singular revulsion of feeling that Madame de
Fersen had produced in me, made me seriously think of abandoning Khios.

Perhaps, had it not been for this strange caprice of Du Pluvier's, I
might have hesitated to take this step. Perhaps I might have struggled
against this desire of reëntering society.

But, placed between the alternatives of returning to France with Madame
de Fersen, who was charming, or of remaining in Khios with my slaves,
that were beginning to be hateful to me, and sharing my solitude with Du
Pluvier, I had no hesitation in leaving the island.

I have always come to grave decisions with promptness.

As Du Pluvier continued to insist, I told him that I had not yet given
him my real reason for declining his offer, but that, since he forced me
to it, I must tell him that I was obliged to return to France.

"Leave your beautiful palace,--those adorable women,--that light your
pipe, and pour out your wine,--who dance for you as though you were at
the Opéra,--real houris! It is impossible!"

"Unfortunately, my dear Du Pluvier, there are some confessions that are
hard to make even to a friend, but to tell the truth, I have sustained
losses, and my diminished fortune obliges me to return to France, and
live less like a sultan."

"Really, really, my dear count," said Du Pluvier, who seemed sincerely
grieved, "you can't tell how sad that makes me. But what are you going
to do with all this establishment?"

"I am going to free the women, the birds, the dogs, and the dwarfs, pay
an indemnity to the Marquis Justiniani, and sell all the furniture in
Khios."

"You have decided to do that?"

"Quite decided."

"Positively?"

"Yes, yes, yes,--a hundred times yes."

"Then, my dear Arthur, you will not reproach me if I profit by your
decision?"

"How can that be? What do you mean?"

"This is my scheme. The life you are living in this earthly paradise has
turned my head. Will you sell me all of these treasures,--palace, women,
dogs, dwarfs, and parrots?"

I thought that he was joking, and looked at him incredulously.

"Is it a bargain? You will lose less than in selling everything
piecemeal," said he, with a resolute air. "But what do you ask for the
slaves and the furniture?"

"It is useless for you to ask the price of the slaves, for I will only
leave them with you on condition that when you leave the island you will
set them free."

"But how do you expect to get back to France?"

"I shall ask M. de Fersen to allow me to take your place on the
frigate."

"But the ship is to sail to-day."

"What difference does that make? If you are quite decided, I can leave
to-day."

"I am perfectly decided. Shake hands, my dear Arthur; I only need the
time it will take me to go on board and get my baggage."

"Then it is agreed."

And Du Pluvier left me.

This sudden resolution of his did not greatly astonish me. Du Pluvier
was one of those essentially imitative natures, who, never having any
ideas of their own, are always ready to appropriate those of others, and
disport in them, whether suitable or not. Like those persons who wear a
costume without stopping to see if it fits them, Du Pluvier had
doubtless been struck by the eccentricity of my existence, and thought
himself very original in adopting it.

No doubt the passengers on the frigate had spoken of my strange conduct,
and had either praised, blamed, or exaggerated the singular disposition
of a man of the world that could bring him to desire to lead such a
life; but, as they probably had, in spite of blame or praise, thought it
was quite out of the ordinary course, Du Pluvier thought he would
distinguish himself from the vulgar by taking my place. Perhaps the idea
of such a sensual life was seductive.

I got ready to leave the island. For a moment I admit that I was vaguely
sad; I was leaving the certain for the uncertain. This material
existence that I was beginning to despise had its disenchantments; but
nothing is perfect in this world. The most ideal and spiritualised life,
is it not also sometimes a disappointment?

But how could I hesitate when I thought of living with Du Pluvier?


Before leaving, I wished to assure myself of the future welfare of my
slaves. I sent for them, and presented them each with eight hundred
francs, which was a considerable sum for them; but they received it with
perfect indifference.

Then I sent for the renegade of Khios, who attended to the affairs of
the Marquis Justiniani, and told him that I left Du Pluvier in my stead
as tenant of the palace and master of the slaves. I warned him to say no
word about it until the frigate had weighed anchor.


Du Pluvier returned in ecstasy. He begged me to leave him my Albanian
costumes, as he wished to install himself immediately, and had not time
to buy himself a costume.

I consented and even helped him to dress. He was perfectly ridiculous
thus rigged up.

He asked me, then, to present him to the slave girls as their future
master.

I took care to do nothing of the kind, being conceited enough to believe
that there would be another revolt among the good creatures, if they
thought I was about to abandon them.

I told them, on the contrary, that I was going again on board the ship
as I had several times gone before, and that they must try and amuse my
friend during my absence.

Noémi looked at Du Pluvier with a deceitful smile, Daphné looked
disgusted, and Anathasia began to pout.

Having my misgivings on the future harmony in which the girls were to
live with Du Pluvier, I shook his hand, and, quite overcome by my
feelings, left the palace.


The ship's boat was waiting at the wharf, and I was soon on board.

M. de Fersen was very gracious and obliging to me, and the Russian
captain granted me my passage with the greatest hospitality.

Two hours after leaving the palace we were under way.

Du Pluvier's decision was the subject of our pleasantries for quite a
long time.

After tacking a few times, we arrived opposite the Carina Palace, which
was half-way up the hillside; a portion of the park extended down to the
waterside.

With a field-glass I gazed sadly on this beautiful spot, that I was
about to leave for ever, when a strange sight attracted my attention.

No doubt the renegade had told of my departure, and they had seen the
frigate sailing away, for I saw the slaves, rush suddenly down the bank,
and over the lawn, and assemble on the beach, where they stretched out
their arms towards the frigate in attitudes of despair.

Then, seeing that the ship was going farther and farther away, Noémi
tore off her fez in a rage, threw it on the ground, and stamped on it
with both feet; soon her thick black hair was flying in the wind. She
looked like a beautiful fury.

Daphné, who perhaps had not yet given up all hope, waved her silken
scarf by way of a signal.

Anathasia, the blonde, was kneeling on the beach.

Soon I beheld Du Pluvier, very much at his ease in my Albanian costume,
rush down to the beach, followed by the old Cypriote and the two dwarfs,
who were indulging in a thousand capers.

Doubtless the new sultan was inviting his odalisks to return to their
seraglio.

But unfortunately the odalisks were not very obedient, and the sultan
was not very persuasive, for after some exchange of words, with the old
Cypriote as an interpreter, all the women fell like so many furies on Du
Pluvier, who was lost to sight amid their raised and threatening arms.

I never saw the end of this entertaining sight, for the vessel rounded a
promontory which completely hid the palace from our sight.

Half an hour afterwards the captain said to me:

"I would like to know the meaning of that thick smoke that is going up
from the upper part of Khios, in the direction of the villa you lived
in."

Noémi's threat to burn the palace if I abandoned her flashed through my
mind.

Had these furious maidens carried her project to its execution? What had
become of Du Pluvier? Had he perished in the flames entwined in the arms
of his slaves? I could not answer the question, and we very soon were
out of sight of the island, and in a terrible state of anxiety as to the
fate of poor Du Pluvier.




THE PRINCESSE DE FERSEN




CHAPTER XII


THE ALEXINA


Such were the impressions left upon me by a year's sojourn in the island
of Khios, such the motives of my abrupt departure for France on board
the Russian frigate _Alexina._

Having introduced in its proper place this fragment of my journal of
former days, I resume my narrative.

I find myself in a state of mind eminently suitable to take up this
narrative and follow up the incidents, be they gay or sad, pathetic or
tragic.

The last and violent emotions that I have felt since my journey to the
East, up to this moment when I am writing these lines, have so worn out
my heart, I find myself so indifferent to the future and the past, that
I can relate this new episode of my life with the most profound
detachment, as if it in no way concerned me.

The reading of these pages, dated from the island of Khios, and written
in the East three years ago, has still further increased my indifference
to all that relates to myself.

When I once again return to calmness and reason, I find myself so
unquiet, so restless, so frenzied, so little made for the happiness
which fate seemed to bestow on me (perhaps for the very reason that I
never would profit by it), that I judge myself with an extreme and
perhaps unjust severity.

From the point of view in which I have placed myself, having but little
self-esteem, being prejudiced against myself, deficient in pride and
self-conceit, I exaggerate still more my defects, and the absence of
vanity in my character often prevents my esteeming at their full value
some truly generous actions of which I might be justly proud.

Hence, I believe if these pages were ever made known (which never can
happen, as I shall take good care to prevent it), they would give a very
poor opinion of my character.

And yet, would many have acted as I have?

If formerly I attributed to Hélène the most hateful duplicity, have I
not in my despair attempted everything, done everything, to repair my
fault? Had she been willing to accept my hand, would I not have given up
to her my fortune? And later, when I became aware that Frank was poor,
did I not come to his assistance as delicately as I could?

If I have been unjustly cruel towards Marguerite, at least I had for a
long time courageously defended her against the calumnies of the world,
even before I was known to her.

And that duel,--that fierce duel of which she has ever been ignorant?[5]


If, led astray by an attack of incurable frenzy, I outrageously insulted
Falmouth, had I not saved his life at the risk of mine?

The good I have done certainly does not acquit me of the evil imputed to
me, but is it not dreadful to think that all that was worthy and noble
in my conduct will ever vanish under the flood of bitterness and hate to
which my distrust gave birth?

But after all, what matter is the past now to me! These lines are
written that I may once more see the events of my life roll by before my
eyes; that they may shorten the long and weary hours of solitude in
which I live at present at Serval, in the old and gloomy ancestral
castle so long abandoned by me.


We therefore left the island of Khios in perfect ignorance as to the
fate of Du Pluvier.

Although we entered the equinox, the crossing was fine, though
frequently delayed by contrary winds.

The Russian sailors appeared to me quite different from the English.
These are submissive to the hardships of the most despotic military
discipline; they are, by nature and custom, full of deference for the
officers belonging to the highest aristocracy, officers of whom they are
above all proud, just as negroes pride themselves in belonging to a
white master rather than to a mulatto. Everything in them, however,
reveals that unconquerable national pride, that insolent British
arrogance, which renders the English sailor one of the best sailors in
the world, because he is always driven or sustained by an exaggerated
sentiment of his own value, and by his profound faith in the superiority
of his own country over all other maritime nations.

Now, however deluded they may be, fanaticism and faith always work
prodigies.

The Russian sailors, on the contrary, displayed a passive, almost
religious, obedience, a blind resignation, a mechanical submission to
the will of their superiors, in whom they almost appeared to acknowledge
a nature superior to their own. One felt, indeed, that a word, a sign,
from these officers might elevate the resignation and intrepid devotion
of the Russian sailors, even to the heroism of personal self-sacrifice.

Strange difference between the character of these two people and that of
the French,--of the French, sometimes strictly obedient, but never
respectful, gaily obeying superiors, of whom they make fun, or bravely
dying for causes which they revile!

I was led to these various reflections by observing the calm customs,
almost cloister-like, prevailing on board the Russian frigate, which,
after a few days, caused a very strange reaction upon us passengers.

Nothing, in fact, was more singular than the appearance of this vessel;
it was silence amidst the solitude of the waters. Except the orders of
the officers, not a word was ever heard. Mute and attentive, the crew
answered to the orders of the officers only by the noise of the
manœuvres, which were executed with mechanical precision.

At sundown, the chaplain read prayers, all the sailors humbly kneeling,
after which they descended into the forecastle.

But everywhere and always, an inexorable silence. If they were whipped
for some fault, never a cry; if they rested from their labours, never a
song.

The captain and his lieutenant, at whose table M. and Madame Fersen, as
well as I, sat, were well-bred men, and excellent sailors, but their
minds were not remarkably cultivated.

M. de Fersen read almost incessantly from a collection of French
dramatic works.

Madame de Fersen and I, therefore, were left almost isolated in the
midst of this little colony; neither men, things, nor events could
distract us from our individual preoccupations.

In the midst of this profound calm, this seclusion, this silence, the
slightest fancies became firmly impressed on the frame of so simple a
life; in a word, if one may so express it, never was canvas more evenly
prepared to receive the impressions of the painter, however varied,
however eccentric, they might be.

At noon we assembled for breakfast, followed by a walk on deck; then M.
de Fersen returned to the reading of his beloved plays, and the officers
to their nautical observations.

Madame de Fersen usually occupied the saloon of the frigate; thus every
day I chatted with her with scarcely any interruption from two o'clock
until the approach of the dinner-hour caused her to withdraw and make a
fresh, and always charming, toilet.

After dinner, when the weather permitted, coffee was served on deck.
Once more we took a walk, and about nine o'clock we again assembled in
the saloon.

Madame de Fersen was an excellent musician, and would often seat herself
at the piano, to the great delight of the prince, who then begged her to
accompany him in some vaudeville airs, which he sang remarkably well. At
other times, one of the officers of the frigate, who had a pleasant
voice, sang some quaint and very agreeable Russian songs.

With music and conversation, in which M. de Fersen took an active part,
and which he enlivened with sparkling and refined gaiety, the evening
passed agreeably until eleven o'clock, at which hour tea was served,
after which each one retired as he felt disposed.

It may be seen that, apart from the limit of the walks, we led the life
of a château, the most intimate and the most secluded.

On the third day after our departure from Khios, an incident occurred,
very slight, apparently, but which had, which was bound to have, a very
strange influence on my destiny.

Madame de Fersen had a little daughter called Irene, towards whom she
displayed a fondness almost approaching idolatry. It was impossible to
dream of anything more perfect, more ideal, than this child.

She was of a severe and stately beauty. Many mothers would have
preferred for their daughters a more childish and smiling face. I must
acknowledge I myself could not avoid, at times, a feeling of sadness,
while gazing on this adorable countenance, expressive of an indefinable
melancholy, incomprehensible at so tender an age.

Irene's brow was broad, her complexion bore a healthy pallor, and her
rounded checks denoted robust health. Her dark brown hair, very
abundant, fine, and silky, curled naturally about her neck; her large
eyes, of a liquid and velvety black, had a remarkably deep look, more
especially when, with that faculty natural to children, she would gaze
at you fixedly, without lowering the dark fringes of her eyelids. Her
nose was slender and beautiful, her mouth small and coral red, and her
lower lip slightly pouting and disdainful, if disdain had not seemed
incompatible with her youth. Her form, her hands, and her feet were of a
rare perfection.

Irene, by a touching superstition of her mother's, after a long illness,
had been dedicated to wear only white; the almost religious simplicity
of this garb gave marked individuality to her appearance.

As I have already stated, it was the third day of our departure from
Khios.

Irene, who until then had appeared to observe me with a kind of restless
mistrust, and who by degrees had become more friendly, came resolutely
towards me and said, with childish solemnity:

"Look at me, that I may see whether I am going to love you."

Then after having fixed upon me one of those long, piercing glances of
which I have spoken, and which compelled me to lower my eyes, Irene
continued:

"Yes, I shall love you very much." And after a renewed silence, she
turned to Madame de Fersen, saying:

"Yes, my dear mother, I shall love him very much. I shall love him as I
loved Ivan!"

In saying these words, her childish face assumed such a fascinating
expression of gravity that I could not avoid smiling.

But my astonishment was great when I saw Madame de Fersen look with
amazement, first at Irene, and then at me, as if she attached a great
importance to what her little girl had just said to me.

"Although I have nothing now to envy the happy Ivan, this is a
declaration, madame, which I much fear will be forgotten ten years
hence," said I to the princess.

"Forgotten! Irene forgets nothing. See her tears at the remembrance of
Ivan."

In fact two large pearls were rolling down the child's cheeks, while she
continued to fix upon me a glance at once sweet, sad, and questioning.

"But who, then, was Ivan?"

Madame de Fersen's features darkened, and she answered me, with a sigh:
"Ivan was one of our relatives who died quite young,"--she hesitated a
moment,--"died a violent and frightful death two years ago. Irene had
become so attached to him that I was almost jealous. I can hardly tell
you of the incredible grief of this child when she no longer saw Ivan,
for whom she asked incessantly. She was then four years old, and so deep
was her sorrow that she fell seriously ill, and came nigh unto death. At
this time it was that I dedicated her to the wearing of white, and
implored God to spare her to me. But what astonishes me exceedingly, is
that, for the past two years, you are the only person to whom Irene has
said that she would love him."

Irene, who had listened to her mother with all attention, now took my
hand, and, with an almost inspired air, she raised to heaven her eyes
still wet with tears, and said:

"Yes, I shall love him like Ivan, for soon he will go up there, like
Ivan."

"Irene, my child, what are you saying? Ah, pardon her, monsieur!" cried
Madame de Fersen, almost with terror, looking at me with an imploring
glance.

"Were I even to purchase it with the same end as poor Ivan," said I,
smiling, "allow me, madame, the enjoyment of so touching an affection."


I am neither weak nor superstitious, but I can hardly describe the
strange impression produced upon me by this childish speech which I will
explain presently. There is no half-way. Such incidents are either of
the utmost absurdity, or they act powerfully on certain minds.


By a happy chance, M. de Fersen came in at this moment to beg his wife
to accompany him in a vaudeville song, and thus a strange scene came to
an end.

I noticed that Madame de Fersen did not mention to her husband the
strange declaration that Irene had made me.

That day, after dinner, the princess complained of a bad headache, and
retired to her room.


[Footnote 5: Here some lines were erased in the "Journal of an Unknown."
The narrative of this duel not being found in the episode of Madame de
Pënâfiel, and Arthur again alluding to it at the time of the pirate's
fight against the yacht, it is probable that this omission was the
result of an involuntary or premeditated forgetfulness.--_Note by the
Author, E. S._]




CHAPTER XIII


THE PRINCESSE DE FERSEN


The next morning Madame de Fersen did not appear at breakfast. She was
not well, the prince said, and had spent a restless night. Then,
abruptly, to my great astonishment, he spoke to me most freely and
confidentially, regarding the character, the mind, the habits of his
wife, and the life led by her, perhaps to warn me of the futility of my
aspirations, in the event of my having dreamed of paying my court to
Madame de Fersen. I can in no other way explain his incomprehensible
whim in entering upon such details with me.

The following is the substance of what I learned from M. de Fersen about
his wife.

Mlle. Catherine Metriska, daughter of Count Metriska, governor of one of
the Asiatic provinces of the Russian Empire, was seventeen years of age
when she married M. de Fersen. She possessed a naturally fine mind, and
a highly cultivated education developed an intellect precociously
mature. At the time of the marriage, the prince was ambassador at
Vienna.

At first he feared for the inexperience of his wife, burdened at so
early an age with all the responsibilities devolving upon the
ambassadress of so great a power at a court so austere, so solemn, and
so imposing in its etiquette as the Austrian court. But Madame de
Fersen, wonderfully gifted, satisfied every demand of her position,
thanks to the exquisite tact, to the delicate shading, to the perfect
balance, she was able to bring in so difficult an intercourse.

"Quite young, full of grace and wit," said the prince, "you may well
imagine that Madame de Fersen was at once surrounded by the cream of
foreigners arriving at the court of Vienna.

"A husband should no more speak of his wife's virtue, than a man should
boast of the nobility of his race," added the prince smiling, "yet I can
say I believe, nay, I know, that Cæsar's wife has never been suspected,
though Cæsar was fifty years of age. I had married less perhaps for
love, though Catherine was charming, than because there are certain
embassies which are not entrusted to bachelors, and because in my
position I wished to have near me a frank and disinterested person, upon
whom I could try the effect of certain combinations, something, save the
ferocity of the combination," said the prince, laughing, "as some Roman
patricians tried the effect of certain poisons on their slaves.
Experience has proved to me that extreme purity was often harder to be
deceived than extreme craft, just as children almost always guess
intuitively the snares set for them. Hence, when I see Catherine
countenancing certain projects, certain ideas, skilfully disguised it is
true, in order that her nature, sensitive, delicate, and generous, may
not be shocked, I have no fear later in putting forth this idea, that I
may irritate the susceptibility of my dear colleagues, whose conscience
is usually tolerably tough.

"Little by little," continued the prince, "Madame de Fersen became
interested in politics, for, to continue my experiences, I entrusted to
her, under various aspects, many of the questions that I must solve. Do
not believe, however, that her policy was dry and selfish. No; an
exalted love of humanity was her sole impulse. When she spoke of
European nations, she spoke as of beloved sisters, not her country's
rivals. You may think me in my dotage in speaking thus seriously of what
seems to you, doubtless, the dreams of a young and romantic woman; but,
you cannot tell of what service has been to me that turn of mind which
makes her so wonderfully enthusiastic for universal peace and happiness.
Wisdom consists, does it not, in holding to the middle way at an equal
distance from all extremes. When, therefore, I have an important
decision to make, the generous and conciliatory policy of Madame de
Fersen marks one boundary, while, on the other hand, our traditional
selfish and cunning policy gives me the other limit. I may then, without
difficulty, choose a wise and prudent middle course between these two
extremes.

"I reaped another advantage from this mental tendency of Madame de
Fersen: that of being able to affirm that Cæsar's wife has never been
suspected, for when the powers of love and devotion in a woman's heart
find a brilliant scope through her intelligence, she does not seek other
employment for them, more especially when her feminine vanity is
flattered by the influence thus acquired.

"Add to this a fact of which I should have spoken earlier, but as one of
your most celebrated women, Madame de Sévigné, has said: 'Often the
gist of a letter is to be found in its postscript.' Well, without
referring to my attachment to my wife and her affection for me, without
speaking of the puritanic severity of her principles, do you know what,
above all, has preserved her from the indiscretions of youth? Her
devoted, her passionate love for her daughter. You could not comprehend
its excess, its exaltation. Doubtless, our Irene deserves such devotion,
but I sometimes tremble when I reflect that, if an unforeseen disaster
like that which has already menaced us should bereave us of that child,
her mother would assuredly lose her reason or her life."

M. de Fersen was in the prime of life; he had an almost European
reputation as a diplomat. His appearance denoted a distinguished man,
called by his superior gifts to the exercise of those high functions
which he had always filled; I could not but be astonished at the
confidence reposed in one so young and so complete a stranger to him.

As I could not suspect that a man long accustomed to handle public
affairs of the most difficult and serious character would act without
reflection on matters which interested him personally, I concluded that
M. de Fersen's discourse held a hidden purpose, and that it was not
without design that he had laid aside the reserve imposed by our age and
position.

I repeat, I could see in this eccentric confidence no other aim than to
prove to me that Madame de Fersen was unapproachable.

On the other hand, I had been disagreeably impressed when the prince
spoke of his wife as of an instrument necessary to his diplomatic
career. When he spoke of her, I had detected the most absolute
heartlessness, and in his daily intercourse with Madame de Fersen, not
only he showed no jealousy,--he was too much a man of the world to
become ridiculous,--but he appeared even indifferent.

I asked myself, then, what object he could have in confiding to me that
which I have just related.

I was thus plunged in an extreme perplexity.




CHAPTER XIV


THE TRADITION


I had not seen Madame de Fersen from the time that Irene had made the
strange prediction which had seemed to alarm her mother so greatly.

The uncommon affection shown to me by this child astonished me very
much. As soon as she was alone, she would come close to me. If I were
reading in the saloon, fearing doubtless to be troublesome, she would
sit on a cushion, resting her chin on her little hands, and I could not
raise my eyes without meeting her profound and solemn glance.

Sometimes I endeavoured to amuse her with childish games, but she
appeared disinclined for them, and said to me solemnly with her childish
treble: "I prefer staying here near you, and looking at you as I used to
look at Ivan."

I was formerly much more superstitious than I am now; but in thinking
over the strange fascination I seemed to have for this child, I recalled
with a certain heart pang (I must confess the weakness) a singular
Sanscrit tradition which my father had often read to me, because, he
said, he had witnessed two events which confirmed its text.

According to this tradition, "those predestined to an early and violent
death have the gift of fascinating children and lunatics."

Now, in fact, Ivan had fascinated Irene, and he died a violent death.

I also fascinated Irene, who, in total ignorance of the tradition, had
predicted for me a violent death.

This uncommon analogy was, to say the least, most extraordinary, and
sometimes forcibly preoccupied me.

Even now that time has elapsed since these occurrences, Irene's
prediction at times comes back to my mind.


This tradition had been translated by my father, and was written with
some other notes in a book containing the description of his travels in
England and the East Indies. I had brought this manuscript with me from
France, with other papers which were saved from the wreck of the yacht.

The day following the one when the princess was confined to her room by
indisposition, she came into the saloon about two o'clock; I was there
alone with her child.

Madame de Fersen's face was pale and sad.

She saluted me graciously; her smile seemed to me more than usually
friendly.

"I very much fear, monsieur, that my daughter is troublesome," said she,
seating herself and taking Irene on her lap.

"It is I, rather, madame, who may be accused of being troublesome, for
Irene has shown me several times, by the gravity of her demeanour and
speech, that she considered me too much of her age, and not enough of
mine."

"Poor child!" said Madame de Fersen, embracing her daughter. "Have you
no ill-will towards her, for her strange, her absurd prediction?"

"No, madame, for in turn I shall make a forecast, and then we shall be
quits. Mlle. Irene," said I, very seriously, taking her little hand in
mine, "I shall not tell you that you will go up there, but I promise
that ten or twelve years hence a beautiful angel will come down here
from up there expressly for you. He will be beautiful like you, good
like you, charming like you, and will lead you to a gorgeous palace, all
marble and gold, where you will live a long, long time, the happiest of
the happy with this beautiful angel, for he will love you as you love
your mother; and then, one day, this palace being no longer beautiful
enough for you, you and your angel together will fly away to go and
occupy a more beautiful one up there."

"And will you be there in that palace, with my mamma?" asked the child,
fixing her large, inquiring eyes by turns on Madame de Fersen and on me.

It was folly, but I could not help feeling delighted at the association
made by Irene in speaking of her mother and of me.

I know not whether Madame de Fersen noticed the sentiment, but she
blushed, and said to her daughter, doubtless to avoid answering her
question:

"Yes, my child, I shall be there,--at least I hope so."

"But will you be there with him?" persisted the child pointing at me
with her little finger.

Whether she was annoyed at Irene's strange insistence, or whether she
felt embarrassed, Madame de Fersen kissed her tenderly, took her in her
arms and pressed her to her heart, saying, "You are a little goose; go
to sleep, my pet."

Then with an absent air she looked through the window of the saloon,
saying, "It is a lovely day! How calm is the sea!"

"Very calm," said I, with some irritation at seeing the conversation
taking another turn.

Irene closed her eyes and seemed about to go to sleep. Her mother, with
infinite grace, caught some of her child's curls and drew them across
her eyes, saying softly with motherly fondness, "Sleep, my child, now
that I have closed your pretty curtains."

In the early phases of love, there are entrancing trifles which give
delight to sensitive souls.

It seemed to me delightful to be able to speak to Madame de Fersen in a
half whisper, under pretext of not waking the child. There was in this
apparently slight shade of difference something tender, mysterious,
veiled, which entranced me.

Irene soon closed her eyes.

"How beautiful she is!" I whispered to her mother. "How much happiness
may be read in that lovely face!"

Shall I say that I waited almost with anxiety Madame de Fersen's reply,
to know whether she also would whisper back to me?

Shall I say that I was happy, oh, so very happy to hear her reply in the
same tone?

"May you be a true prophet," she said; "may she be happy!"

"I could not tell her all I could foresee, madame, she would not have
understood; but will you permit me to tell you what I would dream for
her?"

"Certainly."

"Well, then, madame, let us not speak of the happiness which is assured
to her so long as she lives by your side; that would be too easy a
prophecy. Let us speak of the moment so cruel to a mother's heart, when
she must abandon her idolised child to the care of an unknown family, of
an unknown man. Poor mother! she can scarcely believe it. Her daughter,
so timid, so retiring, so sensitive a nature, that to her mother alone
she spoke without blushing, and with joyous assurance! Her
daughter,--whom she has never left by day or by night! Her
daughter,--her pride, her care, her solicitude, and her glory! Her
daughter,--that angel of grace and candour, whom she alone can
understand, whose joys and sorrows, susceptibility and diffidence she
alone can divine! She is now in the power of a stranger, one who has
ingratiated himself solely by coming daily for two months under the eyes
of her parents to talk to her of conventional trifles, or, perhaps, of
the duty that a wife owes her husband. They are now united; and here,
madame, I spare you the horribly vulgar and suggestive pageantry with
which we lead a young girl to the altar, under the eyes of an unblushing
crowd, with great parade, in the glare of daylight, and with the blare
of music and of pomp. In Otähiti they act with more modesty, or at
least with more reserve. At length, after the ceremony, this man carries
off his prey to his home, saying, 'Follow me, wife!' Well, madame,
should my predictions be realised, he who before God and before men
would have the right to say so harshly to your daughter, 'Wife, follow
me!' should rather say to her, in a soft, timid, supplicating voice,
'Come, my betrothed!'"

Madame de Fersen looked at me with astonishment.

"Yes, madame, above all, that man will respect with pious adoration,
with religious veneration, the chastely sublime terror of the maiden,
torn from her mother's arms, from her virgin couch, to be thrown
suddenly in a strange household. That deep and instinctive fear, that
sorrowful regret which his wife feels, he will calm by degrees, with
charming attention, with simple kindness, which will tame that poor
shrinking heart. He will know how to make himself beloved as the best of
brothers, in the hope of being some day the happiest of lovers."

"What a pity that dream is only a charming folly!" said Madame de
Fersen, with a sigh.

"Is it not a pity? Confess that nothing would be more adorable than the
mysterious phases of such a love, exalted as hope, passionate as desire,
and yet legitimate and authorised. The day on which the young wife,
after a prolonged courtship, inspired by passion, should confirm by a
tender avowal those rights so ardently desired, which her husband would
accept solely from her,--that day would be treasured in her heart as an
entrancing and enduring memory. When she had thus freely bestowed
herself she would find later that the gallantry and temptations of the
world pale before the memory of that dazzling, ardent happiness ever
present to her mind. Such a memory would assuredly protect a woman from
all sinful allurements, which could never offer to her the ineffable
rapture which she had found in a sacred and legitimate union."

Whilst I was talking, Madame de Fersen regarded me with increasing
astonishment. At last she said:

"Do you really hold on marriage views of such excessive delicacy?"

"Assuredly, madame, or at least I borrow them for my prediction from the
man who some day shall be so fortunate as to be entrusted with your
daughter's happiness. Do you not think that a husband such as I predict
for her, handsome, young, well born, intellectual, attractive, who
should hold these opinions, do you not think that he would offer the
greatest possibilities for durable happiness? I am sure that Mlle. Irene
is endowed with all those precious gifts of the soul which can inspire
and appreciate such a love."

"Of course, it is but a beautiful dream; but I must repeat that I am
greatly astonished that you should have such dreams," she said to me,
with a slightly mocking air.

"And why, madame?"

"What! you, monsieur, who came to the Orient to seek the idealisation of
material life!"

"It is true," I murmured, gazing at her fixedly; "but I renounced that
life from the moment when chance brought to my knowledge, and gave me
the opportunity of adoring, an idealisation of its opposites, of
intellect, grace, and love."

Madame de Fersen looked at me severely.

I do not know what she was about to say, when her husband entered and
asked me if I knew an air called "Anacreon and Polycrates."

Since the day on which the avowal passed my lips, Madame de Fersen
seemed carefully to avoid remaining alone with me, although before our
travelling companions her manner was unchanged.

Thanks to the singular affection, however, with which I had inspired
Irene, the princess found it difficult to carry out her project.

Whether I appeared on deck or in the saloon, the child took me by the
hand, and led me to Madame de Fersen, saying:

"Come, I like to see you with my mother."

At first I could hardly refrain from smiling at Madame de Fersen's
vexation at being thus forced into a tête-à-tête which she desired to
avoid.

But I feared that this vexation of which I was the involuntary cause
might make her take a dislike to me, and I tried to repulse Irene's
advances. When she insisted, I refused brusquely two or three times.

The poor child said not a word, two great tears trickled down her
cheeks, and she went silently and sat down at a distance from me and her
mother.

The latter tried to approach her, to console her, but Irene gently
repulsed her caresses.

That evening she ate nothing, and her nurse, who passed the night at her
bedside, said that she had hardly slept, and had had several fits of
silent weeping.

M. de Fersen, who was not aware of the cause of his daughter's trifling
ailment, made light of it and attributed it to the child's excessive
nervous susceptibility.

But Madame de Fersen gave me a look of irritation.

I understood her.

My avowal, by placing her on her guard, had made her avoid opportunities
of being alone with me.

Irene felt considerably aggrieved at this apparent coldness; the
princess naturally looked upon me as the primary cause of her daughter's
grief, and she loved her with mad devotion.

Madame de Fersen had therefore good cause to dislike me. I resolved to
end Irene's unhappiness.

I took advantage of a moment when I was alone with Madame de Fersen to
say to her:

"Madame, forgive an insensate avowal. I regret it the more that it has
not been alien to the sorrow and suffering of poor little Irene. I
pledge you my word that I will never again say a single word which might
trouble your maternal joys and thus expose me to forfeit your good
graces which I so highly value."

Madame de Fersen gave me her hand, with charming gratitude, and said:

"I believe you, and thank you with all my heart, for you will thus no
longer separate me from my daughter!"




CHAPTER XV


THE ADIEUX


I soon regretted having promised Madame de Fersen never to address her a
word of gallantry. Since she felt entirely at her ease with me, she
appeared to me more and more charming, and each day I became more deeply
in love.

Constant to our meetings in the saloon, where we were almost always
alone with Irene, our intercourse soon became quite friendly and
intimate.

I very skilfully displayed my total ignorance of politics so that they
should be entirely banished in our conversations. Having mastered the
situation, I succeeded in always bringing back our talks to the thousand
subjects relating to tender or passionate sentiments.

Sometimes, as though fearing the tendency of our intercourse, Madame de
Fersen insisted on speaking politics. Then I would profess my ignorance,
and the princess would wittily accuse me of acting like those lovers who
pretend to dislike sport, in order that they may stay at home with the
ladies while their husbands go tramping across the fields.

When the tediousness of navigation had given rise to a certain degree of
intimacy between me and the officers of the Russian frigate, our
conversation often introduced the name of Madame de Fersen, and I was
surprised at the profound respect with which they always spoke of her.
Calumny, they said, had never attacked her, be it in Russia,
Constantinople, or at the different courts where she had resided.

A reputation of unimpeachable purity has, I believe, an irresistible
charm, especially when found in a young, beautiful, and intellectual
woman, of an exalted position; for she must be endowed with a powerful
moral strength, to disarm envy, or to blunt its darts, and inspire, as
did Madame de Fersen, a general sentiment of benevolence and respect.

In comparing my love for Madame de Pënâfiel to what I felt for Madame
de Fersen, I appreciated the lofty and alluring charm of this seduction.

Marguerite had, doubtless, been shamefully maligned,--of this I had
received indisputable proofs; but, however false may be the rumours that
attack the woman you love, they will ever produce a feeling of
resentment.

Admitting, even, that you succeed in convincing yourself of the
falsehood of the rumour, you then accuse the woman who is its victim of
not possessing the wit to assert her virtue.

Hélène's life had been pure, and yet she had been attacked. My
attentions to her had alone occasioned those odious rumours, and yet, in
my unjust frenzy, I accused her of not having known how to hold herself
above suspicion.

Apart from the grace, the beauty, and intellect of Madame de Fersen,
what contributed most to the feeling of adoration in me was, I repeat
it, her reputation for exalted and calm virtue.

Most men, when they persist in combating the resistance of a woman
seriously attached to her duties, are only led on by the love of
contention, by the anticipation of a proud victory!

These were not the sentiments that made me persist in my love for Madame
de Fersen. It was an unlimited reliance on the purity of her heart, in
the nobility of her character; it was the certainty of loving her with
all the chaste delights of the soul, without fear of being deceived by
feigned severity or false prudery.

Moreover, I had given myself up to such coarse materialism during my
stay at Khios, that I had an inexpressible desire to abandon myself to
the exquisite refinement of a pure and lofty sentiment.


Our crossing, delayed by equinoctial winds, and followed by a long
quarantine at the Toulon lazaretto, lasted six weeks.

I did not think I had made any progress in the affections of Madame de
Fersen, for her manner towards me had become more and more unconstrained
and friendly. She had frankly confessed her pleasure at what she was
pleased to call my witty discourse, and expressed a hope that during her
stay in Paris we should renew as frequently as possible "our
conversations of the saloon."

It was evident Madame de Fersen considered me absolutely unimportant.
However unpleasant this discovery was to my vanity, such was my love for
Catherine, that I only thought of the happiness of seeing her as
frequently as possible, and hoped in the sincerity of my affection for
her.


At the end of our quarantine we landed at Toulon, and remained some days
to visit that port. M. de Fersen proposed to me that we should not yet
separate, and continue our journey together as far as Paris.

I accepted.

I sent for my carriage, which I had sent back to Marseilles when we
started from Porquerolles, and we left for Paris towards the beginning
of November.

M. de Fersen and his wife travelled in one coach; his daughter, with her
nurse, in another. As my travelling carriage was of the same
description, and could only accommodate two persons, every day, when
about to start after breakfast, M. de Fersen would beg me to take his
place in his wife's carriage, while he took his customary siesta in
mine.

Irene, who had shown much sorrow at the mere idea of separating from me,
always joined us at these times, and our "conversations of the saloon"
continued thus up to Paris.

Notwithstanding the promise I had made Madame de Fersen, I determined on
the last day of our journey, to renew my avowal of love.

Until then I had scrupulously kept my word, because I feared by not
doing so I would forfeit the privilege of our tête-à-tête during the
journey.

My hope had been to become, at least for Catherine, a daily thought, and
to captivate and interest her mind so that little by little she should
become keenly sensitive to my presence or my absence.

I believed that I had achieved this end. I loved Madame de Fersen
ardently. I had an excessive longing to please her, and except the word
"love," which never passed my lips, I put in my attentions to her all
the eagerness, all the tenderness, of the most passionate lover.

Without studying my conversation too deeply, I endeavoured to speak to
Catherine only on subjects that were new to her.

She knew neither Paris, nor France, nor England, nor Spain, and I was
thoroughly acquainted with them all. I tried, therefore, to amuse her
with my accounts of these places, and my descriptions of the customs and
habits of these nations.

I succeeded almost always, as I could perceive by the serious attention
given to my words, and the interested questions they elicited; then, in
spite of myself, I showed my happiness and delight in having interested
her.

Madame de Fersen had too much tact not to notice the great impression
she continued to make upon me, and she seemed grateful to me for my
reserve.

Especially, every time that I found the way, without grieving Irene too
deeply, to avoid the embarrassments which the child's strange affection
for me brought about at every moment, Madame de Fersen would thank me by
an enchanting glance.

One of Irene's chief delights was to take one of my hands, and, having
placed it between her mother's, she would silently gaze at us.

This slight favour would have been precious to me had it been granted
spontaneously by a tender sentiment on the part of Madame de Fersen;
but, not wishing to obtain it otherwise, each time that Irene had this
caprice I would carry her little fingers up to my lips without giving
her a chance to place my hand in her mother's.


The day before reaching Paris, I was resolved to make another attempt at
declaring my love, when a strange incident, which should perhaps have
encouraged me to take this step, deterred me from it.

I had not yet been able to ascertain whether or no Madame de Fersen was
jealous of her daughter's affection for me; sometimes she had spoken of
it in a gaily bantering manner, at other times, on the contrary, she had
alluded to it with sadness, almost with bitterness.

That day Irene, who occupied a place in her mother's carriage, asked her
if I should have a handsome room in Paris.

I hastily answered the child that I would have a house of my own, and
would not live with them.

At these words, Irene as usual silently wept.

Madame de Fersen, seeing her tears, exclaimed, with grieved impatience:
"_Mon Dieu!_ what is the matter with the child? Why does she love you
thus? It is hateful!"

"She loves me, perhaps, for the same reason that she loved Ivan," said
I.

As Madame de Fersen did not seem to understand my words, I explained to
her the meaning which I attached to them, and spoke of the Sanscrit
tradition.

Madame de Fersen thought I was joking.

I have already said that this tradition was written by my father in a
book full of notes relating to one of his journeys to England.

Fortunately, this manuscript was in my carriage, for quite recently I
had sought in it some particulars in order to explain to Madame de
Fersen certain customs which in Scotland are handed down from generation
to generation.

At one of the relays, I went for the manuscript, and showed it to Madame
de Fersen.

The date was so clear, the writing so faded, that Madame de Fersen could
not doubt its authenticity.

I shall never forget the tearful look which Madame de Fersen fixed on me
as she let the book fall on her lap.

Doubtless she experienced the same strange emotion I felt when I
considered Irene's affection for Ivan and his death, with the writing of
this extraordinary tradition:

"Those predestined to an early and violent death have the gift of
fascinating children and lunatics."

Irene displayed for me the same fondness she had for Ivan. Might not my
fate be the same?

To understand, moreover, all the interest felt by Madame de Fersen at
this discovery, one should know that I had frequently frankly confessed
to her my excessive superstition, and had so greatly impressed her by
relating many singular incidents of this character, that the germs of
the same weakness had been laid in her mind.

I must confess, I seemed to discover in Madame de Fersen's look, in her
emotion, in her agitation, more than friendship, more than the
expression of a touching regret.

Wild with hope, a fresh declaration sprang to my lips; but fortunately I
held back, for I would have committed an irreparable mistake.

If Madame de Fersen's sentiments were really tender, would it not have
been stupid in me to arouse her vigilance, which, under her imperious
will and sense of duty, would have smothered the first vague instinct of
love awakening in her heart?

On the contrary, if the interest which Madame de Fersen showed me was
simply friendly, my presumption would have covered me with ridicule in
her eyes.

The turn soon taken by our conversation led easily to a proposition
which I wished to make to Madame de Fersen, as much as a safeguard to
her reputation as in the interest of my affection.

We were speaking of Irene.

"Poor child!" said I to her mother, "how can she get accustomed not to
see me?"

"But she will retain, I hope for her and for me, this charming
intercourse," replied Catherine, "for it has been agreed that once in
Paris our 'conversations of the saloon,' as we call them, would
continue. M. de Fersen's position and mine, being most independent at
the Court of France, I shall not be submitted to any duties but such as
I am willing to assume, and I assure you that no pleasures, no
diversions, will induce me to miss these pleasant, friendly chats of
daily recurrence, if, however," added Madame de Fersen, smiling, "if
your old friends will allow you to think of your new friends. But I
count very much on my claims as a stranger, and on your perfect French
gallantry, to oblige you to be my cicerone, and to do the honours of
Paris for me, for I wish to see nothing, to admire nothing, unless under
your guidance."

I will confess, I had need of all my courage, all my love, and a great
terror of the withering calumnies of the world, to enable me to thrust
aside the delightful prospect which Madame de Fersen dreamt for us both.

After a few minutes of silence, "Madame," said I, with deep and sad
emotion, "you cannot doubt my respectful attachment for you?"

"What a question! On the contrary, I believe in it firmly; yes, I
believe I would be wretched if I could not believe."

"Well, then, madame, permit a true and devoted friend to tell you what
he might say to a sister; and when you will have heard me, do not permit
yourself to yield to your first impression, for it would be unfavourable
to me; but second thoughts will prove to you that what I am going to say
is dictated by the strongest and most sincere affection."

"Speak then, I beg you--speak--you alarm me."

"Until now, madame, you have never known calumny; it did not, it could
not, attack you. It is that sublime confidence in your own
high-mindedness that has saved you from the fear of evil speaking. Yet,
believe me, madame, were I to avail myself of the delightful prospect
you hold out to me, the irreproachable purity of your principles would
not guarantee you from the most perfidious attacks."

"Never shall I abandon my friends from fear, my conscience suffices me,"
said Madame de Fersen, with the courageous indifference of a woman sure
of herself.

"How can you tell, madame?" I exclaimed. "Have you struggled, to be so
sure of victory? Never! Until now the dazzling purity of your life has
sufficed to guard you. How could you have given rise to slander? But
reflect now. I have come with you all the way from Khios, all the way
from Toulon to Paris. I am aware that I am of not the slightest
importance; you know me now well enough to believe that I do not
exaggerate my importance for the sake of a miserable paltry vanity. But
what is that to the world so long as it can malign? Does it not know,
moreover, that slander is all the more odious when the object of the
guilty love it supposes is least worthy of that love? We shall associate
with the same people, I shall be seen every day at your house, escorting
you in your walks, in society with you, and you believe, you insist,
that jealousy, envy, and hatred will not seize upon the opportunity of
revenging themselves for your wit, your beauty, and your exalted
position; and above all for your shining virtue, the most precious jewel
in your noble crown! But think of it, madame, the arch-type of our
judge-executioners has said: 'Give me four lines of writing of the most
honest man in the world, and I will undertake to have him hung.' The
world, that judge-executioner, may say with equal assurance, 'Give me
four days of the life of the purest woman in the world, and I will
undertake to have her disgraced.'"

For some time Madame de Fersen had been gazing at me with an
astonishment she could not disguise. At first she seemed almost shocked
at my refusal and my remarks.

It was not unexpected. Then her features assumed a more amiable
expression, and she said, with a shade of coldness:

"I will not discuss with you as to your views of the world, especially
of Parisian society, which I am aware is most brilliant and dangerous;
but I believe you exaggerate the risk one would run, and above all the
effect of slander upon me."

"And why then, madame, should calumny have no effect on you? What am I
to you that you should hereafter hesitate for one instant to sacrifice
me to the imperious demands of your reputation? Would you put in the
balance the guardianship of your honour, your responsibility for your
child's future, with the charm of our daily conversations? Most
assuredly not, and you would be right; for if you persisted in your
project, if I were base enough to encourage you in it, when slander
reached you, you would have the right to turn upon me with scorn and
say: 'You pretended to be my friend! You were false! You took advantage
of my indiscretion to draw me into an intimacy where appearances may be
most damaging. Go; I shall never see you again!' And once more you would
be right, madame. Can you realise how much courage it takes to speak to
you as I do,--to refuse what you offer? Think of what you are, of all
that you are, and say if the pride and vanity of a less honest man than
I would not be gratified and flattered by those very rumours from which
I strive to save you. For, after all, what do I risk in aiding you to
compromise yourself? What do I risk? To assist the world to
misinterpret, to wither with its customary malice our intercourse,
however innocent it may be? But, you reply, in that case you would drive
me from your presence. What does that matter? Do you know how the world
would interpret this deserved banishment? It would be said that a
discord had arisen between us. If the world were well disposed towards
you, it would say you had discarded me in favour of some other lover. If
it was unfavourable to you it would say that I had abandoned you for
another mistress."

"Ah, monsieur, monsieur!" exclaimed Madame de Fersen, pressing her hands
together almost in terror. "What a picture! May it never come true!"

"It is but too true, madame; if the world were wise and clear-sighted as
it is supposed to be, it would be less dangerous, for it would keep to
the truth; but it is wicked, coarsely credulous, and a gossip, which
renders it most mischievous. The world clear-sighted! It is too willing
to slander to be clear-sighted. Has it time and leisure to penetrate the
sentiments it supposes? It loves too well to keep on the outside, and
conjecture from appearances which frequently are displayed without
mistrust because they are guiltless,--that is enough for the infernal
activity of its envy. Ah, believe me, madame, had I not the sad
experience I possess of men and things, the instinct of my attachment to
you would enlighten me, for you never can know how precious to me is all
that concerns you, how distressed I should be to see that radiant halo
which now enhances your beauty tarnished. I repeat it, the honour of my
mother, of my sister, are not more precious to me than yours. Think how
dreadful it would be for me if I were the cause of slander which should
attack that treasure in which I glory. I will confess another weakness.
Yes, it would be hateful to me to think that the world should speak with
its insolent and brutal scorn of that which was my happiness and my
pride. Yes, my dream is that this charming intimacy, which will ever be
one of the most delightful recollections of my life, shall remain
unknown to this world, for its shameless word would destroy the purity
of this intercourse,--and this dream, I shall realise it."

"Then," said Madame de Fersen, with an almost solemn air, "we must give
up all thought of meeting in Paris?"

"Not so, madame, not so! We shall meet the evenings you receive, just
like all the other people you receive. Later, perhaps, you will permit
me occasionally to call on you of a morning."

Madame de Fersen remained for some time in silent meditation, her head
bent low; then suddenly she drew herself up; her face was slightly
tinged with colour, and, with a voice betraying much agitation, she
said: "You have a generous heart. Your friendship is austere, but it is
great, strong, and noble. I understand the duties which it imposes and I
will be worthy of it. From this moment," and she gave me her hand, "you
have won a sincere and unalterable friendship."

I kissed her hand respectfully.

At the same moment we reached one of the last post-stations.

I left Madame de Fersen's coach, and sought her husband, who was asleep
in my chaise.

"My dear prince," I said to him, "I wish to ask a service of you."

"Speak, my dear count."

"For a reason which I must keep secret, I wish that no one should know
that I come from Khios, and consequently that I travelled from Toulon to
Paris with you. I am a personage of so little importance that my name
will not have been noticed on our journey. I shall stop at the next
relay, make a long round to reach Fontainebleau, where I shall remain
several days, and will thus arrive in Paris some time after you. All
that I ask of your friendship is that you will receive favourably the
request of one of my friends who will ask permission to present me to
you. I should regret it keenly were I obliged to suspend an intercourse
so delightful to me."

M. de Fersen, with his usual tact, made no objection, and promised all
that I asked.

At the next relay, I informed Madame de Fersen that I was unfortunately
obliged to take my leave of her, and delegated to the prince, who was
present, the task of explaining to her why I was deprived of the
pleasure of continuing the journey with her.

She gave me her hand, which I kissed.

Then I tenderly embraced Irene, throwing a sad farewell glance at her
mother.

Fresh horses were put to the carriages of the prince, they started, and
I remained alone.

My heart was broken.


Little by little the consciousness of having acted nobly towards Madame
de Fersen soothed my mind.

I reflected that I should thus learn without in any way endangering her
reputation whether Madame de Fersen felt for me a true friendship,
perhaps even a more tender sentiment, or whether I owed to isolation, to
idleness, and to the absence of all comparison, the interest which she
had shown me.

If she loved me, the constraint, the necessity of no longer seeing me,
would be irksome to her, would perhaps be painful, and this sorrow, this
regret, would assuredly betray itself.

If, on the other hand, I had only been an agreeable acquaintance who had
helped to while away the long hours of the journey, I should, without
doubt, be sacrificed to the first more entertaining conversation, or the
slightest worldly consideration.

I would never willingly expose myself to be superseded, and I thus
avoided it.

I would doubtless suffer much, should I find that Madame de Fersen's
sentiments for me were so weak that they were easily effaced, but in
acting otherwise I would have had the same sorrow and mortification
besides.

I remained eight days at Fontainebleau and then left for Paris.




CHAPTER XVI


A MINISTER IN LOVE


I reëntered Paris, from which I had been absent eighteen months, with a
certain heartache. I had a faint hope, or rather some dread, of meeting
Hélène or Marguerite.

I fancied myself completely cured of my fatal monomania of distrust; my
great love for Madame de Fersen had, in my eyes, performed this prodigy.
I promised myself, in case I should meet my cousin, or Madame de
Pënâfiel, frankly to ask their forgiveness, and to endeavour by the
most affectionate and friendly attentions to make amends for the hateful
follies of the lover of former days.

I met M. de Cernay, who from the Opéra had transferred his amorous
worship to the Comédie-Française, in the suite of Mlle. ----, a most
enticing soubrette.

M. de Pommerive was heavier, more slanderous, and more wearisome than
ever. Cernay greeted me with effusive cordiality, and asked me about my
travels with Falmouth, for as yet nothing had transpired.

As I was very reserved on this subject, as much by natural tendency as
by premeditation, Cernay and Pommerive ended by imagining the most
unheard-of things on the pretended mystery of my adventures.

In accordance with my arrangement with the prince, I begged a man of my
acquaintance, very intimate with the Russian ambassador, to present me
to Madame de Fersen.

The prince had rented a handsome furnished mansion in the Faubourg St.
Germain.

Before long his salons were the customary meeting-place of the _corps
diplomatique_ and of the cream of Parisian society, regardless of
political opinions.

Madame de Fersen's appearance in the world caused a sensation. Her
beauty, her name, and her reputation as a woman versed in politics and
interested in the great topics of the day, the respect which she
inspired, all contributed to place her very high in public estimation.

In a short time the just appreciation of the rare qualities that
distinguished her was followed by the most pronounced infatuation.

The women who shared her austere principles were delighted and proud to
strengthen their ranks with such a recruit. Those, on the contrary, who
might have dreaded her coldness, taking it as a mute censure of their
flightiness, were charmed and surprised at her great amiability. Assured
of not finding in her a rival, they became enthusiastic regarding the
beautiful stranger.

I can scarcely express my happiness at Madame de Fersen's success.

I went to her house for the first time one evening, five or six days
after my arrival in Paris.

Though rather late, there were as yet few people assembled.

She greeted me very gracefully; but I observed in her a certain reserve,
uneasiness, and sadness.

I fancied she wished to speak to me in private.

I was striving to ascertain what could be her anxiety, when, in the
course of conversation, M. de Sérigny, at that time Minister of Foreign
Affairs, spoke of children in connection with an admirable portrait
which Lawrence had just exhibited at the Salon.

Madame de Fersen gave me a rapid glance, and then complained that her
daughter was ailing and sad at finding herself thrown among strangers,
and that no distraction had availed to draw her out of her
melancholy,--neither games nor walks in the large gardens surrounding
the mansion.

"But, madame," said I, hoping to be understood, "would it not be better
to send your daughter to the Tuileries Gardens? She would find there
companions more of her own age, and their gaiety would doubtless divert
her."

A touching glance from Madame de Fersen showed me she had understood,
for she replied, quickly: "_Mon Dieu!_ you are right, monsieur. I am
very sorry I did not think of that sooner. From to-morrow, I shall
always send my little girl to the Tuileries. I am sure she will be very
happy there, and already I feel assured she will get well."

I was happy to see from this mysterious interchange of thoughts that
Madame de Fersen's heart read mine.

Fresh visitors interrupted the conversation, the circle grew larger, and
I rose to go and chat with some ladies of my acquaintance.

"Ah, _mon Dieu!_" exclaimed Madame de ----, "M. de Pommerive here! That
man thrusts himself everywhere, then?"

In fact, there was Pommerive, with a less impudent air than usual,
following in the steps of the _chargé d'affaires_ of some little German
court, who was doubtless leading him up to Madame de Fersen.

"It is a presentation," said Madame de ---- to me.

"If there were justice," I replied, "it would be an exposition."

"But how can Madame de Fersen receive affably so slanderous and false a
man?" said Madame de ----.

"To prove, doubtless, the weakness of that man's calumnies," replied I.

Pommerive made a profound bow to Madame de Fersen, then followed the
_chargé d'affaires_, and both went in search of M. de Fersen.

A few minutes later, I found myself face to face with Pommerive.

"Hello! Are you here?" he cried.

This exclamation was so absurdly impertinent, that I answered:

"If I were less polite, M. de Pommerive, I might express my astonishment
at finding you here."

"I am not at all astonished at it," said Pommerive with an impudent
assurance, for which he was indebted to his age, and to a reputation for
cynic cowardice, which I should have stated he was wont to boast of. "I
did not expect to meet you; that is all. But listen." Then, taking my
arm, he led me to the recess of a window, saying as we moved along: "Do
you know the Prince do Fersen very well?"

Pommerive was repugnant to me, but I was curious to know if people had
heard of my having travelled with the princess, and as Pommerive was
sure to pick up the slightest report, true or false, he might enlighten
me on this subject.

"I do not know M. de Fersen any better than you know him," I said.

"Then you know him very well," he replied, conceitedly.

"How is that?"

"Certainly. I dined with him yesterday, a miserable dinner it is true,
at Baron ----'s, _chargé d'affaires_ of ----, who brought me here just
now in his carriage! And what a carriage! a wretched concern with a
glass window in the back, a regular rattletrap. It is indeed a carriage
which seems made expressly to help to digest his bad dinners, so hard is
it; for that miserly fellow scrapes up dowries for his six hideous
daughters from the allowance made him for entertaining; and he is right,
for without dowry who the devil would look twice at any of his
daughters? But I come back to the prince."

"Very unfortunate for him, M. de Pommerive."

"Oh, not at all! I shall be careful of the dear prince, for he
appreciates me, and I have come to make an appointment for our
business."

"And what business, M. de Pommerive? May one, without being indiscreet,
inquire into this diplomatic secret?"

"Oh, it is quite plain; he asked that miserly baron--" and here
Pommerive opened a parenthesis to insert another piece of malice.
"Speaking of this miserly baron," he continued, "would you believe it?
when he gives his wretched dinners, a sort of _Maître Jacques_ goes
once around the table with a miserable bottle of champagne, not iced,
which he holds tightly in his arms, just as a nurse holds her precious
nursling; and he says very quickly, as he passes on still more quickly,
'Monsieur does not drink champagne,' without any point of interrogation,
the wretch, but with an accent of affirmation."

"See now the value of punctuation, M. de Pommerive! But come back to the
prince."

"Well, M. de Fersen having asked the baron to point out to him some one
of enlightenment and good taste who could coach him on theatrical
matters, and give him information about the actors, the baron has had
the good sense to present me."

"Ah, I understand," I replied, "you are going to be M. de Fersen's
dramatic cicerone."

"That is it exactly; but, between us, I find this fondness for the
theatre very ridiculous in a man like the prince. To judge by this
sample he must be a poor sort of a fellow, this Fersen. I am not
surprised at people saying that his wife directs all the diplomatic
affairs. She has the appearance of a strong-minded woman, sharp and
hard; and, moreover, they say a thirty-six carats virtue. What do I care
about her virtue? I do not grudge it to her, though there is not a
dissenting voice. It is astonishing!"

"There is something even more astonishing, M. de Pommerive."

"And what is it, dear count?"

"It is that some straightforward, honourable man has not the courage to
go to M. de Fersen and repeat word for word all the insolent things you
have permitted yourself to say about him, so that he might kick you out
of his house."

"Dash it! no one would surely go and repeat to him what I have said! I
feel pretty safe on that score; but if any one did I would not care, I
would stand by my words."

"You are boasting, M. de Pommerive!"

"What, I boasting! That does not prevent that on one occasion they
repeated to Verpuis--you know Verpuis, who was such a duellist--that I
had said that he had only the courage of foolhardiness. Verpuis comes to
me with his bullying air and asks me in the presence of twenty persons,
'Did you make use of these words, yes or no?' 'No, sir,' I replied, also
putting on a bullying air, 'I said, on the contrary, that you had only
the foolhardiness of courage.'"

"You certainly did not say that, M. de Pommerive!"

"I did, and the proof of it is that he kicked me. I then said that it
was cowardly to insult a man who would not fight; and he took that."

This disgusting boast of cowardice, for Pommerive had never quite
lowered himself to that extent, revolted me. I turned my back upon the
man, but could not shake him off readily.

"You will see," said he, "one of your old flames, the pretty Madame de
V----, with whom M. de Sérigny, Minister of Foreign Affairs, is madly
in love. They say really that he is crazy enough to be shut up in a
lunatic asylum since he has been pursuing that little woman; he knows
neither what he says, nor what he does. This diplomatic _céladon_ would
make you die with laughter, if he was not such a pitiable object. But
here he comes. I must go and beg him not to forget my recommendation of
my nephew. Let us hope that his ridiculous love affair has not made him
lose his memory as well as his wits."

And this insolent person approached M. de Sérigny with abject
salutations.

At this moment Madame de V---- was announced.

I had not seen her since my return to Paris. I found her, if possible,
looking younger, so much freshness, piquancy, and sparkle did that
lively, mobile countenance display.

Madame de V---- dressed in a manner quite her own, but never showy or
eccentric, and always with the most perfect taste.

The minister, who had got rid of Pommerive, watched with an anxious and
jealous eye the numerous salutations which she acknowledged on all sides
with her sparkling coquetry. He seemed somewhat easier when he saw
Madame de V---- seated between Lady Bury and another lady.

M. de Sérigny, at that time Minister of Foreign Affairs, was a man of
about fifty years of age, rather insignificant and careless in his
appearance. He affected a brusqueness of manner, a heedless
indifference, which, assumed or not, had always, people said, been of
remarkable service to him in his career. He was a man of fine, broad
mind, but in society he rarely made use of his intellectual faculties.
His superiority was summed up in his taciturnity, and the sole
expression of his countenance was concentrated in a smile. Now this
silence and this smile, completing, interpreting, and explaining one
another, could in turns be so admirably flattering, sarcastic, wicked,
or absent, that this language had really a great significance.

Jealous to an excess, his passion for Madame de V---- was intense, at
least according to the world of whom Pommerive was the faithful echo.

When a man of the age, character, and position of M. de Sérigny becomes
seriously enamoured of a woman so frivolous and coquettish as Madame de
V----, his amorous life can only be a prolonged torture.

As I wished to observe M. de Sérigny in his rôle of martyr, I slid
behind the easy chair in which sat Madame de V----, and went to salute
her.

I well knew the vivacity of her demeanour, and was quite prepared for
the explosive friendly recognition. I had formerly rejected the
conditions which might have made me succeed in obtaining her favours,
but we had parted on the best of terms, and I had kept secret all that
passed between us. Now Madame de V----, who unfortunately had more than
once exposed herself to being roughly handled, was naturally grateful to
me for my prudence.

Scarcely had she heard my voice, therefore, than she turned abruptly,
and holding out her hand exclaimed, with her customary volubility:

"What a delightful surprise! and how happy I am to see you once more!
But have you fallen from the clouds that no one knew of your return? and
I who have really so much to thank you for! Now then give me your arm,
and we will settle ourselves in some solitary nook in the next parlour,
for you cannot imagine all I have to say to you."

Thereupon, up she jumps from her seat, and, making her way through the
crowd surrounding the easy chair, she takes my arm, and we walk out of
the big salon into another room which was nearly empty.

Standing talking at the entrance of this room were Madame de Fersen and
M. de Sérigny.

Madame de V---- had such compromising ways that nothing with her was
insignificant, and she found means during our short progress from one
room to the other to call attention to herself by her affectation in
whispering to me and then bursting into peals of laughter.

Just as we passed in front of Madame de Fersen, the latter, astonished
at Madame de V----'s noisy ways, gave me a look which seemed uneasy and
almost inquiring.

The minister stared at me moodily, coloured up a little, assumed his
most affable smile, and said to Madame de V-----, with a foppish air,
without being heard by the princess: "You are going to establish there a
colony of admirers which will soon become more populous than the
metropolis."

"Provided you do not interfere in its administration," retorted Madame
de V----, laughing playfully; then she added, in a low voice, "You must
confess that there is nothing like love to make an idiot of a man. M. de
Sérigny is a man of great intellect, and yet you heard him! Is it
flattering to inspire a sentiment which is expressed so stupidly under
pretence of being sincere?" While saying these words, she seated herself
near a table covered with albums. I took a place near her, and we
chatted.

During this conversation, two or three times my eyes met those of Madame
de Fersen, who, each time she perceived I was looking at her, quickly
turned her gaze.

M. de Sérigny watched Madame de V---- all the time and seemed on
thorns.

A woman came up; Madame de Fersen took her arm and went into the salon.

The minister was doubtless coming towards us when he was arrested by
Baron ----, who, according to Pommerive, accumulated his daughters'
dowries from the appropriation for entertainments.

I do not know if the subject of his talk with M. de Sérigny was very
important, but I have my doubts as to the attention given him by the
minister, so engaged was he in watching Madame de V----.

"Well," said I to my companion, "it is then true? Those charming hands
hold the fate of Europe? The reign of female sovereigns and of enslaved
ministers is returning? How delightful! It looks as rococo as possible
and seems very pretty. See now, for instance, at this very moment you
are entangling wildly the destinies of the grand duchy of ----, for the
_chargé d'affaires_ of that poor little court seems to me to have
exhausted all his arguments, and you look as if he had spoken Greek."

"Let us for once exhaust this miserable subject of conversation," said
Madame de V---- with vivacity, "never to return to it. Yes, M. de
Sérigny pays furious court to me, and I do not reject his attentions. I
am even very coquettish with him, because it amuses me to tyrannise over
a man in so high a position; and then, as they attribute to me as much
influence over him as they attribute to him worship of me, you can have
no idea of the snares laid for me by the _corps diplomatique_ to make me
talk. For my own amusement, I make quite innocently the most absurd half
confidences, but you can well see that all this can hardly afford
amusement to a boarding-school miss. This is my confession; grant me
plenary absolution, at least out of pity, for M. de Sérigny is a
wearisome sin. And now, in your turn, tell me of your travels, your
adventures, your love affairs, and I will see if I can grant you
absolution."

"To speak in your own language, I will confess, in the first place, that
my greatest sin is being still in love with you."

"Hold!" said Madame de V----, changing voice, manner, and expression,
and taking a tone until now unknown to me. "You behaved nobly as regards
Madame de Pënâfiel; she was worth a thousand times more than I. I
hated her, perhaps I envied her, for she deserved all your love. I
demanded of you a base act which might have ruined her, and you refused.
Nothing was more simple for you. But this shameful proposition, which I
have not ceased to blush having made you, you have kept it secret; you
have not made use of this weapon to strike a woman whom every one
attacks, perhaps because she deserves it; and true, true as I am a dolt,
I shall never, in all my life, forget how good and generous you have
been to me in this matter." Madame de V---- looked at me with a softened
glance, and for a moment I saw tears in those eyes usually bright and
sparkling like brilliants.

I was at first tempted to attribute these tears to a skilful flash, but
the mind of this woman was so mobile and inconstant that I believed in
the sincerity of this temporary emotion, and I was touched by it.
Softness in this woman, however, could only be an accident, and I
replied:

"I have done for you what any honourable man would have done; but you,
do something for me truly meritorious; come, love me frankly in your own
way, as a coquette, heedlessly, faithlessly, if you will, and I will
imitate you. One is never more amiable than when one has to implore
forgiveness, therefore we shall be mutually charming. Nothing more
delightful; we shall confide our faithlessness to one another, and will
betray each other in the frankest way possible."

"M. Arthur," said Madame de V----, still with a serious, softened air
and with a voice trembling with emotion, "I am going to say something
which to any other but you would appear improper and incomprehensible;
but remember this, and believe that I honour you too much--I love you
too much--to have you appear as M. de Sérigny's successor."

In spite of myself I was struck by the expression with which Madame de
V---- uttered these words.

This attack of sensitiveness, however, was of short duration; for she
soon commenced answering with her accustomed gaiety and bantering to the
minister's gallantries. He, with considerable difficulty, had shaken off
the Baron de V----, and had come up to us.

Caring very little to be a third in M. de Sérigny's company, I rose.
Madame de V---- then said: "Do not forget that I am always at home on
Thursdays, so as to avoid me on those days which are devoted to bores;
but on the other days, if your triumphs leave you leisure, do not
neglect an old friend. You are pretty sure to find me in the mornings,
and sometimes even of an evening before I make my evening toilet." With
these words, which she accompanied with a most gracious smile, she rose,
took M. de Sérigny's arm, and said: "I would like a cup of tea, for I
am cold."

"I am at your service, madame," said the minister, who happily had
assumed his most absent and indifferent smile, while Madame de V----
invited me to call and see her.

Returning to the salon, my eyes sought Madame de Fersen; I met her
glance, which seemed austere.

I went home.

When I was no longer under the charm of Madame de V----'s attractive
face, I compared that daring levity with Madame de Fersen's dignified
and serious grace. I also compared the profound respect and almost
obsequious reserve with which men approached her to the cavalier
deportment they exhibited towards Madame de V----, and I felt more and
more how powerful is the attraction a virtuous woman possesses, and I
felt my love for Catherine still increasing.

I was glad that I might look forward to meeting Irene at the Tuileries,
and that I had been so well understood by Madame de Fersen. I fancied
also--was it an illusion of love?--that Madame de Fersen had seemed
almost sad at my long conversation with Madame de V----.




CHAPTER XVII


THE TUILERIES


I waited with extreme impatience the hour for going to the Tuileries to
meet Irene.

I attached a thousand thoughts of love and noble devotion in reflecting
that child was coming to me covered with the bloom of her mother's
kisses, and doubtless bringing me a thousand secret wishes.

About one o'clock, though the air was opaque with a slight autumnal fog,
I saw Irene approaching, accompanied by her nurse, an excellent woman
who had filled the same position to Madame de Fersen.

Generally at Toulon, or Lyons for instance, where we had made a few
days' stay, one of the princess's maids, followed by a footman, had
always accompanied Irene in her walks.

I noticed with pleasure that Madame de Fersen, by entrusting her little
girl this time to the nurse, of whose attachment she felt sure, had
understood the necessity of keeping these meetings secret.

Tears sprang to my eyes when I saw how much Irene had changed. Her
charming face was pale and pinched; no longer with its habitual pallor,
delicate and roseate, but with a sickly pallor; her large eyes had dark
rings under them, and her cheeks, formerly plump and round, were now
slightly hollowed.

Irene did not see me at first; she walked close to her nurse, her pretty
head bent down, her arms hanging, and with the tips of her pretty feet
she crushed the dead leaves which littered the path.

"Good morning, Irene," I said to her.

Scarcely had she heard the sound of my voice, than she gave a piercing
cry, threw herself into my arms, closed her eyes and fainted.

I carried her to a bench near by with the help of Madame Paul, her
nurse.

"I feared this shock, monsieur," she said to me; "fortunately, I brought
a bottle of salts with me. Poor child! she is so nervous."

"Look--look," said I, "the colour returns to her cheeks; her hands are
not so cold; she is regaining consciousness."

In fact, this attack passed, Irene raised herself, and when she could
sit up she hung to my neck, shedding silent tears which fell hot upon my
cheeks.

"Irene, Irene, my dearest, do not weep thus. I shall see you every day."

I pressed her hands while my eyes sought hers.

She held herself up, and with a familiar motion of her head, full of
grace and vivacity, she threw back the big curls which half concealed
her tear-stained eyes. Then fastening upon me one of her steady,
piercing glances, she said to me:

"I believe what you say. Will you not come to see me here, since you
cannot come to our house?"

"Yes, Mlle. Irene," answered the nurse. "Monsieur will come to see you
every day, if you promise to be very good,--not to cry, and to do what
the doctor orders you."

"Certainly, my dear child; for unless you promise that, you will not see
me again," I added, with great seriousness.

"You would never again see monsieur," rejoined Madame Paul, with an air
of severity.

"But, Paul," exclaimed Irene, stamping her little foot with charming
fractiousness, "you know very well I shall no longer cry. I shall not be
ill any more, for I shall see him every day."

The good nurse gave me a touching glance. I quickly embraced Irene, and
said to her, "Explain to me, little one, why you are so glad to see me?"

"I don't know," she replied, shrugging her shoulders and shaking her
brown curls, with an air of sweet, unconscious simplicity. "When you
look at me, I cannot help going to you, your eyes draw me; and when you
do not look at me, then I feel so badly here," and she placed her hand
on her heart. "And then at night, I see you in my dreams, with me and
the angels up there." She raised her little finger and her large eyes
solemnly towards heaven. Then with a sigh she added, "And, besides, you
are good, like Ivan."

I could not help starting.

Madame Paul, evidently informed of this mysterious adventure, exclaimed:
"Mademoiselle, remember what your mother told you."

But engrossed in her thoughts, and seeming not to have heard her nurse's
remark, Irene continued:

"Only, when I dreamt of Ivan and the angels, I never saw my mother up
there; but since I dream of you, my mother is always with us. I told
mamma so," Irene added, seriously.

Madame Paul looked at me again, and bursting into tears said: "Ah,
monsieur, all my dread is that this child will not live; her beauty, her
gravity, like her ideas and her character, are not suited to her age,
are not of this world. Would you believe it, except to the princess, to
you, and to me, she never speaks to any one of what she has just said?
The princess has impressed upon her not to mention to any one that she
saw you here, and I am very sure she never will. Ah, monsieur, I pray
Heaven daily that this child may be spared to us."

"And she will be spared, be assured! Children who are silent and
thoughtful are always dreamy and excitable; it is not surprising. Do not
be uneasy. Well, good-bye, Irene; and you, Madame Paul, assure the
princess of my respectful regards, and say how grateful I am for the
promise she made me to send me daily my little friend."

"Adieu, then, till to-morrow, Irene," and I kissed her tenderly.

"Till to-morrow," repeated the child, with a happy but grave and serious
smile.

Then her nurse wrapped her warm pelisse around her, and Irene went off,
turning several times, however, to say adieu with her little hand.


Superstitious as I am, and inclined to tender and lofty sentiments by my
love for Catherine, this conversation had aroused in me the most varied
emotions,--emotions at once sombre and beaming, cruel and radiant.

I was happy. The strange predictions which Irene repeated to her mother
must, if Catherine loved me, recall me to her heart daily, and it was
the voice of her child, her beloved child, which continually uttered my
name!

And this strange, fatal connection between Ivan's death and the fate
that might be awaiting me,--must it not act upon Madame de Fersen's
imagination and excite her interest in me? If she saw but little of me,
did she not know that this reserve on my part was a cruel sacrifice I
imposed upon myself for her sake?

At other times, I acknowledge the weakness, the persistency of Irene's
predictions, in spite of myself, chilled me.

I experienced a sort of vertigo, of fearful attraction, similar to that
which draws you to look down a precipice when you are walking at its
edge.


Unless the weather was too cold or rainy, the nurse brought Irene to me
every day.

By degrees she returned to blooming health.

About a fortnight after our first meeting, she brought me a large
bouquet of roses, telling me her mother sent them, but, unfortunately,
they were not as beautiful as the roses of Khios.

This souvenir of Catherine's overjoyed me, for I had spoken to her with
enthusiasm of those lovely roses.

Every day after that Irene brought me roses; and every day also she told
me, with an air of mystery, without ever making a mistake, what her
mother would do that evening, whether she was going to court, or in
society, or to the theatre.

Thanks to this amiable forethought of Madame de Fersen, I met her very
frequently. I went regularly to her receptions, and, therefore, saw her
almost every evening; but as in society I confined myself to greeting
her most respectfully, exchanging merely a few ceremonious words, our
meetings were unobserved.

Once or twice I called on her of a morning; but by a singular chance, or
rather in consequence of the assiduities with which she was surrounded,
I never found her alone.

Had I asked her for a private interview she would have granted it, but,
true to the plan I had mapped out, I would not ask for it at present.

Besides, a smile, a glance that we mysteriously exchanged in the crowd,
did it not repay me a thousand times for my reserve and my discretion?

Would I not give the most public and most marked attentions for the
slightest favour which should be unknown to the world!


Notwithstanding the daily intercourse which I maintained with Madame de
Fersen through Irene, notwithstanding our exchange of flowers (for each
day I also brought Irene a beautiful bouquet of roses, which her mother
wore at night), not a soul suspected this delightful intimacy.

As a measure of prudence I would meet Irene in turn at the Tuileries, at
the Luxembourg, at Mousseaux, or on the boulevards. I never made use of
my horses to go to these meetings, for fear of attracting attention.

I wrapped myself up in a cloak, and took delight in putting as much
mystery in these meetings as if Madame de Fersen herself had been in
question.

It was perfect folly, but I waited for the hour of meeting with this
child full of candour and innocence with a loving, restless, ardent
impatience; I counted the minutes, the seconds; I feared and hoped by
turns; in fact, I experienced all the irritating and delicious emotions
of the most passionate love.

I commented eagerly on each of Irene's words, to seek, to discover, her
mother's secret thought! And when I fancied I could interpret this
thought in a manner more tender than usual, I returned home with
paradise in my heart.

Inexhaustible treasures of a pure and chaste love! Philosophers,
atheists, or the strong-minded in love will, doubtless, mock me. I
myself, before my sojourn at Khios, would not have understood all its
charm.


I was now more than ever in love.

By the rare versatility of her endowments, Madame de Fersen achieved an
exalted position in society. Calumny itself admired her and praised her
beyond measure, doubtless to give a colour of impartiality, whereby its
accusations became more dangerous.

My interviews with Irene had continued for about three weeks.

One evening at one of Madame de Fersen's receptions, the prince said to
me, in confidence:

"The frivolous and subtle air of Paris is fatal to serious thought; the
trifles of the world gain the mastery over reason. Would you believe it,
Cæsar's wife has become quite indifferent to the interests of the
empire! In a word, can you realise that Madame dc Fersen has become
totally heedless of politics? Can you imagine such a thing?"

I compared this symptom with the signs of impatience and uneasiness
shown by Catherine during my long conversation with Madame de V----, and
I resolved to push further my observations.

The next evening at a ball at the English embassy, at which Madame de
Fersen was present, I again met Madame de V----.

I paid assiduous attentions to her the whole evening, and observed
Madame de Fersen's countenance; it was impassible.

Next day I feared, or rather I hoped, that Irene would not appear at her
accustomed hour, or that she might come perhaps without her bouquet. I
would have considered this change as a mark of resentment or jealousy on
the part of Madame de Fersen; but Irene and the bouquet of roses
appeared as usual.

Piqued by this indifference, and wishing to ascertain if it were real;
desirous, also, of completely misleading public opinion, I continued to
pay the most marked attentions to Madame de V----.

Delighted to have found a means of annoying the minister, and of keeping
him constantly agitated and on the watch, Madame de V---- encouraged me
with all her might.

She called this exhibition of cruel coquetry "heaping fuel upon the
fire."

Now, at the risk of being taken for a log (as Pluvier would have said),
I so skilfully fed the devouring jealousy of the minister that, after
eight or ten days of this kind of courting, Madame de V---- and I found
ourselves horribly compromised; and it was generally recognised and
taken for granted that the reign, or rather the bondage, of the minister
was at an end.

I became aware of the gravity of these absurd rumours by the friendly,
courteous, and gracious tone of the minister, who was too much a man of
the world to appear cold or sulky towards his supposed rival.

This discovery enlightened me as to the folly of my conduct, which not
only might wound Madame de Fersen, if she loved me, but might lower me
irreparably in her estimation. Instinctively I felt that I had pushed
things too far.

These fears were increased by a singular circumstance.

One evening at a concert at Lord P----'s, I had been for some time
chatting with Madame de V----. We were in a small parlour where only a
few persons were gathered. Little by little, these adjourned to the
tea-room, leaving Madame de V---- and myself perfectly alone.

I was preoccupied from a very natural cause; Madame de V---- had just
informed me of the receipt of a letter announcing the arrival of Madame
de Pënâfiel in Rome.

While talking, I happened to look at a mirror, reflecting the door of
the salon. What was my amazement when I saw Madame de Fersen, whose eyes
were fastened on me with a most sorrowful look!

I quickly rose, but she disappeared.

I awaited the morrow with anxiety.

Irene came, as usual, with her bouquet of roses, and told me her mother
was going that night to the Variétés.

I made her twice repeat to me this information, for the choice of the
theatre seemed extraordinary, but, reflecting on the prince's taste for
vaudevilles, I explained it to myself.

I sent to secure a stall, and in the evening went to that theatre.




CHAPTER XVIII


THE BEAR AND THE PACHA


Among other plays at the Variétés that evening, they were giving "The
Bear and the Pacha." This was one of M. de Fersen's triumphs at
Constantinople, where he had taken, with great success, the part of
Schaabaham, and he was most eager to see Brunet playing the same part.

Madame de Fersen arrived about nine o'clock, with her husband and the
Duchess of ----. They took their places in a proscenium box, of which
the lattices were half raised.

Catherine saw me, and gave me a gracious bow.

I found her pale and changed.

I have no recollection of the piece they played, and on the fall of the
curtain I went to Madame de Fersen's box.

She was not well. I was looking at her attentively, when the prince
said: "Be our umpire; you rarely see Madame de Fersen, and can better
than any one notice a change; do you not find she has fallen away very
much?"

I said I did not think so; that Madame de Fersen seemed to me in perfect
health. The prince proclaimed me an impudent flatterer, etc.

The curtain rose, and I left the box.

I returned to my seat.

They began "The Bear and the Pacha."

This burlesque did not bring a smile to Madame de Fersen's countenance,
but her husband applauded frantically, and I must confess I shared the
general merriment.

One of those loudest in laughter was a man seated just in front of me,
and of whom I could only see the thick, gray, curly locks.

I had never heard such ringing, joyous laughter,--at times it became
almost convulsive. At these times the man clung with both hands to the
barrier dividing the stalls from the orchestra, and, strengthened by
this prop, gave full scope to his hilarity.

Nothing is more contagious than laughter; the witticisms of the play had
already excited my risible faculties, and, in spite of myself, the wild
uproariousness of this man so affected me that I soon was nothing more
than his echo, and to each of his immoderate bursts I responded with a
no less boisterous explosion of laughter.

In short, I had not noticed that Madame de Fersen had left the theatre.

The curtain fell, and I rose.

The man who had yielded to such boisterous mirth also rose, turned
towards me as he put on his hat, and exclaimed, with a return of joyful
glee: "What a buffoon that Odry is!"

Amazed, I leaned on the back of my stall.

I had recognised the pirate of Porquerolles, the pilot of Malta.

I remained riveted to my seat, which was the end one of the orchestra.
His seat was in front of mine, no one had to pass by us, and the
spectators were slowly filing out.

It was indeed he!

It was his look, his bony, bronzed face, his thick, black eyebrows, his
sharp teeth pointed and divided, as I could see, for he smiled with his
strange smile, as he gazed at me audaciously.

The footlights were lowered, and the theatre became dark.

"It is you!" I cried, at length coming out of my stupor, and as if my
chest had thrown off an enormous weight.

"Yes, certainly 'tis I. You remember me, then? Porquerolles and Malta!
that is the password."

"Wretch!" I exclaimed.

"How, wretch?" he replied, with astounding effrontery. "We had a good
free fight, I hope! If in boarding I stuck a knife in your shoulder, you
answered me with a sharp axe on the head, my good friend! On the other
hand, if your English dogs thrashed the crew of my mystic, I had the
good luck to rip up your lord's yacht on the reefs of La Wardi. Hence we
are even. And now we both meet splitting our sides at 'The Bear and the
Pacha;' and, instead of finding the encounter droll, you get mad. Do you
know that is a pretty low trick, my good friend?"

I must acknowledge that his audacity paralysed me. "But if I were to
have you arrested?" I cried, rising and seizing him by the collar.

The pirate answered imperturbably, without seeking to free himself:

"That would be a fine trick to play. You may reckon besides how easy it
would be to prove to an idiot of a Parisian police commissioner how I
boarded your yacht off Cape Spartel, and how I wrecked her on the rocks
of La Wardi, sou'west by south of the southern coast of the island of
Malta. He'd think you were talking Greek, and would say you were crazy,
my friend. Now, crazy you are not. You are a lad with a good stout fist,
and not afraid of anything. If my life did not belong for the moment to
my bride, to my charming bride," he added mockingly, and emphasising the
word, "I should propose to take up our conversation where we left off on
boarding the yacht. But, my word! my little wife is waiting for me, and
I prefer her conversation to yours."

"Here, now, gentlemen, we are going to shut up," cried the watchman of
the theatre.

"That's so! and here we are chattering like two magpies. Adieu, young
man, farewell," said the pirate.

And in two strides he disappeared.

I was so dazed that I did not leave the theatre until a second call from
the watchman recalled me to my senses.


When, on my return home, I thought over my stupid amazement at meeting
the pirate of Porquerolles, I charged myself with vacillation, and
reproached myself for not having the rascal arrested; but, as he very
wisely remarked, it would have been most embarrassing to me to prove
forthwith my accusations, and on second thoughts, considering the
difficulties presenting themselves, I concluded that my course of action
was more judicious than I had thought at first.

Nevertheless, I wished to inform M. de Sérigny of the presence of this
wretch in Paris, and of his double crime, which especially interested
England; M. de Sérigny, as Minister of Foreign Affairs, could alone
countenance and favour such steps as might necessarily be taken by Lord
Stuart, then ambassador to France, to gather proofs of the crime, and
obtain the extradition of the culprit.

The next morning, therefore, I wrote a few words to the minister,
requesting the favour of a few minutes' interview.




CHAPTER XIX


THE INTERVIEW


I was preparing, to go to the Luxembourg, where I expected to meet
Irene, when I received a note from Madame de Fersen, asking me to call
on her about two o'clock.

Since her arrival in Paris I had never met her alone.

To what should I attribute the wish she expressed? To her desire to see
me? To her secret vexation at the rumours spread regarding my intimacy
with Madame de V----? Catherine might think these rumours well founded,
since she had surprised me alone with Madame de V---- at the concert at
Lord P----'s house.

I could not say, but I waited for our interview with restless happiness
and irresistible agitation.

I was going to see Catherine once more, to see her alone! At this
thought my heart beat with hope and ecstasy at last; a word from her
would reward me for my self-denial, for the generous sacrifice I had
made, for the assiduous cares to which her beloved child almost owed her
return to health.

From this interview I would draw fresh strength to devote myself still
further; and then, I had so much to say to her! I felt so proud of my
love, so happy to feel my heart still young enough to appreciate the
pure joys which enchanted me; to feel that confidence in the strength,
in the sincerity, of my attachment which enabled me to hope that some
day my love would be reciprocated.

At the appointed hour, I went to Madame de Fersen's.

She received me in a small parlour which she usually occupied, but which
I had not yet seen.

"What a long time since I have seen you!" I cried with effusion as I
held out my hand.

Madame de Fersen coldly gave me hers, and answered:

"I believe I had the pleasure of seeing you last night at the
Variétés, monsieur."

"You call that seeing one another!" I replied, with sad astonishment.
"Ah, I was right when I feared that the 'conversations of the saloon'
would soon be forgotten by you!"

"I shall never forget our pleasant voyage," answered Madame de Fersen,
in the same cold tone. "I am greatly obliged to you for the trouble you
have taken in coming to see me this morning. I wish to thank you a
thousand times, monsieur, for your kindness in yielding to my daughter's
capricious fancies. She is now quite well, and I fear-- I do not wish
any longer to take advantage of your goodness towards her, monsieur."

Madame de Fersen's tone was icy, almost scornful. What she said seemed
so true, so natural, so little influenced by resentment, that I was
thunderstruck. I suffered horribly, and could find no word of reply.

My silence was so marked, that Madame de Fersen found herself obliged to
add, very coldly:

"I doubtless appear to you very ungrateful, monsieur?"

"Madame," I said, with deep emotion, "I do not know how I have deserved
such a reception."

"And what claim have you to a different reception from me?" proudly
inquired Madame de Fersen.

My painful astonishment was at its height; for a moment I deluded
myself, and endeavoured to attribute to jealousy this reception so
different from what I had anticipated, but I repeat, Madame de Fersen's
countenance betrayed no sign of repressed or concealed emotion.

I resolutely took my stand. I could not answer Madame de Fersen's
question without reminding her of my noble and generous conduct towards
her; and unwilling to lower myself by uttering reproaches, I was silent
on that subject, and only said to her, endeavouring to conceal my
emotion:

"The object of the interview you requested is doubtless attained. May I
ask, madame, if you have any further orders to give me?"

"None, monsieur, but I again wish to express my grateful
acknowledgments," said Madame de Fersen, rising.

This harshness shocked me. I was about to answer with some bitterness,
when I became aware of something which I had not yet remarked, and which
renewed a faint hope.

During our short interview, Madame de Fersen had not once raised her
eyes from the embroidery upon which she was working.

Wishing to assure myself of the correctness of my observation, I stayed
on some moments without uttering a word.

Catherine remained with her eyes lowered, instead of inquiring by a look
the meaning of my silent presence.

"Adieu, madame," I said.

"Adieu, monsieur."

And I left without her granting me one single look of compassion or
sorrow.

Her hand alone seemed to tremble slightly on her embroidery as she said
adieu.

I took my departure heartbroken.


I had too great and too conscious a distrust of myself and my deserts to
have the slightest hope of any success with Catherine.

I could not yield to my customary suspicious impulse, for I had implicit
faith in Madame de Fersen's sincerity, and I doubted of ever having
aroused any sentiment in her heart. "She feels no tender affection for
me, and her friendship even has vanished in the glare of brilliant
worldly diversions."

I had been away from her almost always, and the effects and results of
absence are unbounded and varied.

At times it strengthens a woman's secret sympathy, by concentrating her
thoughts on the man who has attracted her, and whose charm is
exaggerated by the distant mirage. A woman finds a proud, sad, and
mysterious delight in the bitterness of her solitary regrets; she scorns
the indifferent ones who occupy a place near her, which she so ardently
wishes to see filled by one precious to her, and she detests those eager
in their attentions because they are base enough to be there while the
preferred one is far away.

Often, however, absence is forgetfulness, for some hearts are like
mirrors, and only reflect objects that are present.

I therefore believed myself entirely forgotten by Madame de Fersen. I
had anticipated the possibility of this cruel predicament, and, if it
gave me deep sorrow, it did not occasion me great surprise.

In the climax of my despair, I made a thousand projects. I determined to
shake off this grief, to give myself up to all life's dissipations, to
seek amorous distraction in some fresh entanglement; but it takes time
and a strong will for a heart deeply smitten to transfer its worship.

When a man knows he is loved, and is in possession of the woman he
loves, he never experiences the slightest remorse at committing an
infidelity; but when he is passionately desirous, and still anxiously
looking for an avowal, faithlessness is an impossibility. He has the
resolution to maintain fidelity only so long as he has not the right to
offer it.




CHAPTER XX


A MISSION


The day after my interview with Madame de Fersen I was sadly
preoccupied, when my servant announced M. de Sérigny.

I was much astonished at his visit, for which, however, he accounted
very graciously, saying that, passing by my door on his way to the
Chambers, he had come in on the chance of saving me the trouble of going
to the Foreign Office for the interview which I had requested.

This alacrity on his part did not at first seem natural to me; but, on
reflection, I thought the rumours current about me and Madame de V----
had induced the minister to do something in excellent taste by showing
himself so considerate.

In a few words I related to him the history of the pirate, and our
singular encounter at the Variétés.

M. de Sérigny said that he was going immediately to confer with the
British ambassador, and that he would consider the means to be used in
order to seize so great a scoundrel.

Our conversation having fallen on travels, M. de Sérigny asked me with
interest about those I had undertaken. He then became very flattering,
insinuating, and amiable; told me he had known my father very well under
the Empire; spoke of him as a man of fine attainments, great
determination, and infinite tact, who had a remarkable knowledge of the
world and of men. He said that the Emperor would assuredly have employed
him outside the military service, by entrusting him with some important
mission, if my father's open and positive character could have submitted
to Napoleon's caprices.

I was endeavouring to fathom the meaning of these flattering remarks,
when M. de Sérigny said to me, with an air of charming good nature:

"Will you permit an old friend of your family to ask you a question? If
it seems to you indiscreet, pray attribute it solely to the interest I
take in your father's name."

"I am listening to you, monsieur, and can only be grateful for the
good-will you show me."

"Well, how is it that, with your education, your name, your fortune and
position, with the experience you have acquired in your numerous
travels, in fact with all your excellent connections, you have never
thought of taking up some serious occupation,--of entering, for
instance, into public affairs?"

"In the first place," I replied to the minister, "I am far from
possessing all the advantages you attribute to me; moreover, I have not
the slightest ambition, and my idle life pleases me hugely."

"But your country?"

"What about my country?"

"Do you not owe it a few years, at least, of your existence?"

"And what would it do with such a gift?"

"Come, come, it is impossible that you deceive yourself to such an
extent, be your modesty ever so great. You know full well that your
success in the world would not be what it is, if you were not of special
value. No man in society is less conspicuous, or more spoken of, than
you. Unless you have a great historic French name, unless you are a
great poet, a celebrated artist, or a great statesman, what is the
hardest thing to acquire in society--you may rely on my extensive
experience--is that indescribable something which causes people to turn
and look at you when your name is announced in a salon. Well, that is a
privilege you enjoy; you are young, and yet you have influence, you have
authority in the world, since people busy themselves very much about
what you do and what you do not do."

These exaggerated flatteries were so transparent that I clearly saw that
M. de Sérigny wished, if I may be pardoned the expression, to work upon
my feelings, to induce me as a point of honour to renounce my flirtation
with Madame de V----. In spite of my sadness, this little comedy amused
me, and I endeavoured to make it last as long as possible, by seeming to
be caught by M. de Sérigny's praises.

"But," said I, with a modest smile, "admitting, monsieur, that which is
merely, I believe, a delusion of your kind nature; admitting, I say,
that I have had some success in the world, and that, relatively to my
years, I am even considered of some account, I do not well see what use
my country could derive from these advantages."

"No one can inform you better than I," replied the minister, with
awkward alacrity, which proved to me that he had expected this question.
"People talk a great deal, make a great fuss, over what is called
diplomacy. Now do you know what the great art of diplomacy is?" he
asked, with a good-natured smile.

I shook my head with an air of humility.

"Well, it is simply the art of pleasing. As diplomacy consists in asking
and refusing, he who can please most will always gain his point; while
if he is obliged to refuse, he will make his refusal sufficiently
gracious, to avoid its wounding. Here lies the whole secret."

I had some difficulty in suppressing a great inclination to laugh, for
it struck me that the minister, jealous of my attentions to Madame de
V----, was going to propose to attach me to a foreign embassy, so as to
get rid of me.

This was doubtless the solution of this scene; but I found the situation
so amusing that I determined not to terminate it abruptly.

"I thought," said I, "that the able negotiators of the most fertile
epoch of great treaties and great diplomatic victories, I thought," I
continued, "that such men as D'Avaux, Courtin, Estrade, Ruvigny, and
Lyonne were possessed of other attributes than the simple talent of
pleasing."

"If they did not possess the art of pleasing," said, with some
embarrassment, M. de Sérigny, who seemed ignorant of the historic
traditions of his special department like the true constitutional
minister that he was,--"if they did not possess the art of pleasing,
they made use of some other seduction."

"You are right," I rejoined, "they had gold without limit."

"You see, then," cried the minister, "it is always the same; only in
modern society the art of pleasing has superseded the seduction by
gold."

"In the first place, it is more economical," I said.

"And safer," he rejoined; "for all thrones are not representative. There
are, God be praised! kings in Europe who are absolute kings, and walk
without leading-strings. Well, these kings are men, and, in a word, are
subject like men to sympathies and antipathies. Frequently, the
ambassador that is sent to them, even if he possesses the greatest
genius, the loftiest character, can obtain nothing for his court,--and
why? Simply because he is not pleasing; while, on the contrary, a man of
moderate ability will often obtain by the simple power of his manners,
because he can please, he will obtain, I say, what the man of genius was
not able to obtain."

"This is true, and your system facilitates matters, since men who please
are much more plentiful than men of genius."

"Certainly! Therefore, I am convinced, firmly convinced, that you, for
instance, supposing you wished to enter the diplomatic career, could be
of the greatest service to France; for you not only possess the art of
pleasing, your success in society attests it, but you have also solid
and eminent qualities."

I was right in my surmises; the proposition which I had anticipated,
without doubt, was about to follow the ringing of my praises. Wishing to
lend myself with a good grace to the minister's whim, I replied with a
semblance of modest and confused astonishment:

"How can you think so,--I, monsieur, I, enter so difficult a career? My
ambition has never been crazy enough to aspire to such a future."

"Listen to me," said M. de Sérigny, with a serious and paternal air.

And he made the following disclosure, which seemed to me an abominable
falsehood.

"Your father rendered me a great service." Here the diplomat paused and
sighed heavily, then he raised his eyes to Heaven, repeating: "Yes, yes,
a great service! I could not tell you, my dear M. de ----, how happy I
would consider myself in being able to demonstrate to you, his son, all
my gratitude, since unfortunately I was not able to give proof of it to
himself."

"I was quite ignorant of this circumstance, which my father never
mentioned to me."

"I can well believe it," exclaimed M. de Sérigny, "for I myself can
give you no particulars on this subject. It concerns a third party, and
honour demands my silence. I repeat it," he continued, "I have just
found an opportunity to acknowledge your father's goodness, and to
secure another worthy servant to my country, if, however, you are
disposed to utilise the rare advantages with which you are gifted."

"But I have told you, monsieur, however much I might desire to enter
your honourable career under such happy auspices, I never could believe
my merit equal to this ambition."

"Once again, you do not know yourself, or you do not wish to know
yourself," resumed the minister with some degree of impatience, "and
fortunately your opinion in this matter is not of consequence. As to me,
it is quite evident that, if you wish it, you can fill an important
mission; for you must feel that you are not one of those young beaux,
who, having nothing but their name and their fortune, esteem themselves
very happy when they are appointed attachés to foreign embassies. No,
no, such proposals are not made to such as you. You must enter by the
wide door; you must, above all, have the opportunity to show your full
value. Unfortunately, with us," he added, hesitatingly, "with us, the
necessities, the traditions, of government are so imperative, that
European missions are very much restricted, and at the present moment
they are all filled."

I looked straight at M. de Sérigny. It took all my command over myself
not to burst out laughing. From the turn his proposal had taken, it no
longer seemed a question of exile, but of transportation.

"But you must be aware," said I, preserving my composure, "that, in the
event of this conversation having any sequence, I have not the
ridiculous pretension to aim at one bound at a European mission."

"You must understand one thing," continued the minister, with ever
increasing satisfaction, "missions are more or less important just as
you make them. There are some very insignificant ones in Europe, while
there are some vastly important ones in Asia, for instance. It cannot be
disguised that it is not in Europe, but in the Orient, that the fate of
Europe will in future be decided. The future policy of Europe is in the
East! Europe has her eyes fixed on the East! There is the field of
battle where the great negotiators of our times must be formed! For
instance," said M. de Sérigny, looking steadily at me, "at this very
moment I would like to find a man of good birth, with a keen, subtle
intelligence, agreeable manners, and firm, resolute character, to whom I
could entrust one of the most delicate missions. It is a question of
securing the good-will and support of an important Oriental power,
without arousing the suspicions, the susceptible jealousies, of Russia
and England, our eternal rivals in the East."

"This mission, in fact, seems to me of great importance," I said, with
the most disinterested air in the world.

"Is it not? Well, I may almost venture to say that I could secure that
legation for you, so great is my confidence in your capacity, so much
have I at heart to make some return for your father's kindness."

"Such a mission, to me!" I exclaimed, feigning the utmost astonishment.

M. de Sérigny assumed a deep, mysterious air, and said:

"M. de ----, I am speaking to a man of honour; whether or not you accept
the proposition I have just made, will you give me your word that all
this will remain secret between us?"

"I give you my word, monsieur."

"Well," he continued, not less mysteriously, "under the frivolous
pretext of carrying rich gifts from his Majesty, the King of France, to
the Shah of Persia, the object is to skilfully, adroitly, and forcibly
gain the ascendency over the mind of that Asiatic prince so as to
dispose him to accept favourably, at some later date, overtures of
considerable importance which would hereafter be communicated to the
envoy charged with this weighty negotiation. These interests, I will
allow, are of the highest consequence. The gifts are ready, the
instructions are drawn up, the vessel awaits,--and it is expected you
should leave without delay."

My suppressed merriment was at its height, on hearing the minister
propose to me seriously to start off immediately in order that I might
exercise my powers of pleasing on the Shah of Persia, to further a
mission of the most absurd insignificance, in spite of M. de Sérigny's
efforts to make it appear of vast importance.

The minister waited for my reply with unconcealed anxiety.

I felt a certain remorse at making a man of his age and position play so
foolish a part, and at prolonging this comedy.

This proposition, unacceptable as it was, had aroused in me certain
slumbering ideas. Unhappy in my love for Madame de Fersen, realising
that it would be impossible for me, for some time at least, to entertain
another affection, and dreading inactivity above all, I determined to
utilise, if possible, M. de Sérigny's good-will.

"Monsieur," I said, "although the difference in our ages is great, will
you permit me, in my turn, to speak to you with the fullest, I might say
with the most brutal, freedom?"

"Certainly," said the minister, greatly astonished.

"If the praiseworthy and generous motives that you have set forth,
monsieur, indicate your firm intention to try me in the diplomatic
career, I trust you will not take exception at my endeavouring to give
you a proof of the extent of my penetration?"

"What do you mean, monsieur?"

"Let us speak freely, M. de Sérigny: you are in love with a charming
woman that we both know; my attentions to her annoy you, and you propose
to get me out of the way by sending me to the Shah of Persia!"

"Monsieur!" cried the minister, in an offended tone.

"Permit me to continue," said I. "There is no need of my leaving to
reassure you. I give you my word of honour that my intercourse with the
lady of whom I have the honour to speak is simply of a friendly nature,
and, with the exception of an innocent and trifling flirtation, nothing
can justify your suspicions."

M. de Sérigny appeared at first greatly irritated; nevertheless he
said, with a forced smile: "After what has passed between us, it is
inevitable either that we cut each other's throat, or become fast
friends."

"Your choice is mine, monsieur."

"My choice is made," said M. de Sérigny, holding out his hand.

There was so much cordiality in his movement, he exercised so great a
self-control to drive back his proud susceptibility and wounded
self-love in the presence of a man of my years, that, deeply touched by
his action, I said:

"If you believe all the good you have said of me, monsieur, you will
attach no importance to this conversation. Attribute only to your high
reputation for wisdom my earnest desire to demonstrate that I could
penetrate your views. Pardon me for being so foolishly proud of my
victory, for it was very flattering to me. As to fancying myself your
rival with a certain charming person, my word must have reassured you
regarding the past and the present. As to the future, there is one
infallible way of setting aside your suspicions,--it is by asking a
favour of you. Bound to you by gratitude, I would be base indeed were I
to endanger your happiness in the slightest degree."

After a few moments of silence, M. de Sérigny said to me, with infinite
good nature: "You speak so frankly, that it is impossible, I see, to
hide one's meaning; one must deny all, or acknowledge all, and I prefer
the last, for you are a man of honour, and very safe. All the same, it
is very odd. Here am I, a man of my age, confiding my _amourettes_ to a
young man who has been very wittily making fun of me, and has said so to
my face, and has so embarrassed me by confiding to me not his, but my
love affairs, that I find myself in the most absurd position possible.
Fortunately, you tell me that I may in some way do you a good turn,
which saves me from being absolutely ridiculous," he added, with perfect
graciousness.

"Well then, monsieur, here is the point in question: although I do not
consider my qualifications sufficient to bewitch the Shah of Persia--"

"Let us say no more about that!" gaily said M. de Sérigny. "You strike
a foe when he is down."

"I will confess your proposal has aroused in me, not ambition, but a
desire to become acquainted with political matters, that I may see if my
mind could some day turn. I do not know whether you find in me now the
same qualifications."

"Ah, M. le comte, M. le comte!" said M. de Sérigny, shaking his finger
at me menacingly.

"Admitting it then, all that I would ask of your kindness would be that,
in the event of your needing hereafter a private secretary, you will
admit me for a few hours each day in your study. In this capacity, I
will place myself entirely at your service, and you may entrust me with
such papers as you think you may hand to a safe, trustworthy man. After
this trial, I shall really know whether I have any aptitude for
business; and later, if I thought I could fill successfully a modest
diplomatic mission, I would then remind you of the debt you still owe my
father."

"Another epigram!" said M. de Sérigny; "but what matters! And really
now, do these tiresome duties not frighten you? Will you have the
courage to come and work with me daily for three or four hours in my
study?"

"I will have the courage."

"Perhaps you will not believe that your proposal comes most opportunely;
and yet every one is aware that my private secretary has just been
appointed to the legation at Florence. I do not offer you the position,
but I offer you the share he had in my work."

"And I accept with all my heart, and most gratefully." Touched by his
kindness, and wishing to dispel the annoyance he might still feel at the
advantage I had attained over him in this interview, I continued: "Look
at the eccentricities of the human mind, and how by contrary ways one
reaches the same end. You came to me with two very firmly set ideas: you
wished to get out of your way a rival whom you feared, and to attach to
the service of your country a man whose worth, you say, you discerned. I
firmly declined your offers; and yet, not by the power of your will, but
by mine, you obtain the desired end; for now I can no longer be a
subject of jealousy to you, and I am going to share your work. After
that," I exclaimed, "who will dare to say that I have tricked you? Come,
come, M. de Sérigny, I am compelled to acknowledge that you are vastly
above your reputation, and what I called my victory is no more than a
fortunate defeat."


I made an appointment for the following day with the minister, and we
parted.




CHAPTER XXI


DIPLOMACY


When M. de Sérigny had left me, I fell back into the bitter thoughts
from which this interview had drawn me.

In spite of my efforts to drive away all thought of Madame de Fersen, I
could not succeed. I suffered greatly, but my grief, though deep, had a
certain charm which I had not previously known.

I was conscious of having conducted myself nobly towards Catherine, of
not deserving her severe disapproval, and this comforting consciousness
gave me a proud and courageous resignation.

I have always faced boldly the most cruel phases of my life. No hope was
left to me of ever gaining Madame de Fersen's love. I therefore gathered
religiously in my heart and memory the slightest traces of this
ineffable love, as one gathers the sacred and precious remnants of a
departed being, to come daily and contemplate them with dreamy sadness,
and ask of them the melancholy charm of memory.

Not wishing, however, to be prostrated, and hoping to find some
distraction in work, I went assiduously to M. de Sérigny's study.

He was truly an excellent man.

He showed himself full of kindness to me. Having doubtless assured
himself of my scrupulous discretion, he soon gave me a flattering mark
of his confidence in me, by entrusting me to make a clear and concise
summing up of his diplomatic correspondence. This brief was to be handed
daily to the king.

This work, it is true, appeared of much greater importance than it
really was, since there was at that time no great political question
pending in Europe. Almost all these despatches, written mostly in very
faint ink, and very poor French, contained only vague and trifling
particulars about foreign courts, particulars which had frequently even
been discounted in the public print.

I convinced myself of that which I had always surmised, that in modern
times, and with a representative government like ours, diplomacy which
may be called current is almost nothing; the vital questions of nations
are fought on fields of battle, in the Chambers, or in congresses.

Most of the time (I speak only of representative governments) diplomatic
positions are mere sinecures which ministers use as a means of action or
corruption, by disposing of them by political expediency.

I was all the more struck by the futility of the correspondence under my
eyes, because my father had formerly made me almost go through a whole
course of political law, and I had studied with him the most famous
negotiators of the latter half of the seventeenth century. My
great-great-grandfather having filled certain missions conjointly with
Messieurs d'Avaux, de Lyonne, and Courtin, we had at Serval a duplicate
of his despatches and theirs, and I must confess that the reading of
these documents had made me very fastidious.

M. Sérigny himself was a man of second-rate ability; but he had enough
tact, shrewdness, and perspicacity to enable him to respond to the
modest requirements of his position. When he fought the Opposition in
the Chambers, he could extinguish, drown, the most heated discussion
with the clear flow of his abundant words, cold and monotonous as a
waterfall.

From the constitutional point of view M. de Sérigny could just as well
have been Minister of Marine, of Justice, or of Finances as Minister of
Foreign Affairs, but from the real, special point of view of these
ministries, he was incapable of filling any.

I kept to myself my opinion of M. de Sérigny. He had been kind to me,
and I was not Pommerive. Far from it, I defended my minister with all my
might.

My duties amused me a good deal, for the very reason that their futility
contrasted in a flagrant manner with their supposed importance.

The knowledge of these facts aroused in me charitable sentiments; I
became very tolerant of that pitiless and affected self-importance,
thanks to which most of our diplomatic agents always deceive the public
on the value and the necessity of their position.

Without this prestige, they would cease to exist.

If I have never had the whim to become the associate or the dupe of a
juggler, neither have I been malicious enough, when I fancied I had
discovered his tricks, to proclaim it aloud, thus depriving the poor
devil of his audience; for I never could picture to myself the future of
a juggler deprived of his trade. I would, therefore, advise poor parents
who destine their sons to a diplomatic career to be wise enough, to have
sufficient foresight, to make them also learn some good solid trade
which may some day be a useful resource should unexpected accidents
deprive them of their first career.

This is not a brutal paradox. The essential specialty of our diplomats,
consisting in worthily representing France, that is, in having a grand
house and retinue at the expense of the state, in leading a luxurious,
worldly, and amusing life, in receiving and writing insignificant
despatches, it is difficult to imagine how these fine qualities could be
employed when no longer exercising the profession which required them.

My new position with M. de Sérigny soon became known, and gave me
singular authority in the world. People knew that I had not sought a
place, in devoting myself assiduously to the work on which I was
engaged, and they naturally concluded that my apprenticeship must lead
to high destinies.

Circumstances occurred which contributed to these exaggerated rumours.

It was at a ball at the Duchesse de Berri's.

M. de Sérigny was laid up with the gout, and therefore could not be
present. Lord Stuart, the British ambassador, who had earnestly urged
our government to take the most active steps to discover the pirate of
Porquerolles, came up to tell me that they were on the tracks of the
wretch, hoped soon to reach him, and asked me for further particulars of
the affair. He took my arm, and we had a half-hour's talk in the recess
of a window.

This was enough to make people believe that I was far advanced in what
is benignantly called "secrets of state."

This was not all: about eleven o'clock I was going to leave the ball
just at the moment the king was taking his departure.

I had had the honour to be presented to him; he stopped in front of me,
and said, with his customary gracious affability:

"I read your reports every day. I am pleased with them, they interest
me; they are very satisfying, and, thanks to you, I have the harvest
without the trouble of reaping."

"The king overwhelms me," I said to his majesty, "and his approbation is
a favour which imposes new duties; and I will endeavour to prove myself
worthy of them."

Instead of leaving the ball, the king seated himself on a sofa near at
hand, and said to me:

"But tell me, what is all this I hear from Lord Stuart? It is very
extraordinary, and sounds like a romance."

When the king seated himself while speaking to me, the persons who
accompanied him held themselves discreetly aside.

I related to the king the history of the pirate of Porquerolles; he
listened with interest, put several questions to me, thanked me very
graciously, and withdrew.

When the king had left, I became the centre of attraction; they could
make nothing out of it. His majesty was leaving, he happens to meet me,
and thereupon he remains a quarter of an hour in particular conversation
with me.

Decidedly, I must be a man of the highest importance.

I know that nothing is more ridiculous than to appear to take pride in
such a success, and I prepared to quit the ball, when I saw Madame de
Fersen coming towards me. I had not seen her for some time, and she
seemed so changed, so fallen away, that I was shocked.

I saluted her without waiting for her, and retired, though she looked
entreatingly at me, and she was evidently coming towards me with the
intention of speaking to me.


The next day I received a letter from her.

She begged me in touching terms to come and see her, apologising for her
ingratitude, and making some gracious allusions to the past.

My first impulse was to go to Catherine at once.

I reflected, however, that this meeting was not likely to change the
fate of my love. I remembered the harshness with which Madame de Fersen
had behaved, and foolishly fancied my dignity required that I should not
yield to the first advance.

I wrote a very cold and polite letter, apologising for not going to her
as she requested, and said she could not fail to understand my reasons.

To this she made no answer.

I concluded that she had not a very great desire to see me since she did
not insist. I therefore congratulated myself on the course I had taken.

I soon heard that the prince had been called back to Russia by his
court, and was surprised, I must confess, that his wife did not
accompany him.

As to Madame de V----, I had implored her, for the sake of the
friendship she professed for me, to cease tormenting so cruelly M. de
Sérigny, declaring I would no longer lend myself to her coquettish
manœuvres; that, moreover, she was compromising herself frightfully,
and that sooner or later she would find herself ill-received in society.

She answered that I spoke like a Quaker, but for the joke of the thing
she was going to live without a shade of coquetry.

One month after this glorious determination she came to express her
gratitude to me, saying that, though this new life was deadly wearisome,
it had made a tremendous sensation, and wagers were laid as to whether
she would persist in her conversion or not. As to the minister, she
said, since he had passed from the stupidity of jealous irritation to
the stupidity of blind adoration, she neither gained nor lost in no
longer tormenting him.


Consequently, the rumours which had been current about Madame de V----
and myself soon ceased, and I was accused of having deserted her.

I could not avoid smiling sometimes when I observed the obsequiousness
of those around me, for I continued, as I may say, in sheer idleness my
work at M. de Sérigny's.

Cernay, whom I sometimes met, concealed his envy under the semblance of
the most exaggerated admiration. "You are a very able man," he said;
"you should have, and you will have, all kinds of success. You are now a
statesman, intimate with ministers and ambassadors. The king even takes
notice of you; you are considered, my good fellow, and you can have all
you wish for, for you have such tact! if you will excuse the word, such
cunning!"

"What do you mean?"

"Come, now, don't play the innocent. At that ball at the Tuileries,
where you had in turn two interviews at once so remarkable and so much
remarked, the one with Lord Stuart and the other with the king, who
remained in conversation some time with you, instead of taking his
departure in accordance with his expressed desire, what did you do, you
shrewd fellow? Instead of doing as so many others who would have
foolishly remained to strut after receiving such distinction, you
quickly disappeared. That was shrewdness, or rather genius, and your
absence created a prodigious effect."

"The cause of this disappearance was very simple, my dear De Cernay; I
had a frightful headache, and wanted to get home."

"Nonsense," said Cernay, with charming naïveté; "you cannot make me
believe that any one has the headache when the king has been talking
with him for an hour."


A fortnight had passed since I had last met Madame de Fersen at the
Tuileries ball, when one of my business agents came to me one morning
with an air of consternation.

It was a question of preventing a disastrous failure, by which I might
lose about fifty thousand dollars, which had been invested in one of the
most esteemed business houses at Havre.

The failure had not yet been declared, but it was imminent, and was
already suspected.

My agent therefore proposed that I should at once start with him, and go
to rescue my funds from this house.

The amount was so considerable, that I did not hesitate one moment about
going to Havre.

A power of attorney, however wide its scope, could never provide for all
the eventualities that might occur; under such circumstances, the
presence of the interested party is often of the greatest consequence.

I wrote a few lines to M. de Sérigny, telling him that an affair of the
greatest importance had called me to Havre, and I left orders with my
people to forward my letters to that town.

Two hours later I was on the road.

We were approaching the last relay before reaching Havre, when I heard
the hurried tramp of horses galloping behind us, the sharp cracking of a
whip, and a voice not unknown to me crying out, "Stop! Stop!"

My postilions looked at me inquiringly. I made them a sign to stop, and,
suddenly, I saw at the door of my carriage Madame de Fersen's courier,
whose horse was covered with foam and torn by spurs.

This man was so breathless from his rapid race that he could only utter
these words in handing me a letter:


[ILLUSTRATION]


"M. le comte, this is a letter from the princess. I have gained four
hours upon M. le comte. I could do no more."

The letter just contained these words:

"My daughter is dying--is dying--and my sole hope is in you."

"You must turn back," I cried to the postilions, "return to the stage.
And you," I said to the courier, "can you gallop all the way back to
Paris, and have horses ready for me at the stages?"

"Certainly, M. le comte."

"Then mount, and be off."

The good fellow turned back at full speed on the road to Paris.

"But, monsieur," said my man of business, in dismay, "you cannot go back
to Paris; here we are just at Havre."

I looked at him in astonishment.

"Why not?"

"But this failure, monsieur," he exclaimed; "an hour may lose all, and
fifty thousand dollars are at stake!"

I had entirely forgotten the purport of my journey.

"You are right," said I. "You are not more than a mile from Havre;
oblige me by walking that distance, and arrange matters as best you
can."

I had the carriage door opened.

"But, monsieur, once more, it is impossible," resumed the astounded man;
"without you I can do nothing. I do not even have your power of
attorney. Without you my presence is utterly useless. Come at least as
far as Havre; we shall go to a notary, you will give me a power of
attorney, and then--"

I was boiling with impatience. "Monsieur," said I, hastily, "you will go
on to Havre without me, or you will return to Paris with me. The door is
open; you can get down, or remain."

"But, monsieur--"

"Close the door, and off for Paris!" I exclaimed.

The agent at once left the carriage, saying to me, with an air of
despair, "As you please, monsieur. I shall have nothing to reproach
myself with. You may as well look upon these fifty thousand dollars as
lost. Send me, at least, your power of attorney, registered, etc."

I did not hear the rest. The horses had started at full speed.

In my whole life, I had never travelled with such velocity.


At Versailles, I gave orders to stop in Paris a little way, before
reaching Madame de Fersen's door.

When I arrived, I saw the street was strewn with straw.

Reflecting that I might possibly have to remain at Madame de Fersen's,
and not wishing to have it known, I instructed my servant to take my
carriage home, and tell my people that I had remained at Havre, and
would return by the steamer.

I entered the mansion.




CHAPTER XXII


IRENE


The slightest details of this dreadful scene are still present to my
mind.

Midnight struck as I entered the antechamber of Madame de Fersen's
apartment.

It was dark, and I found none of her people about. This seemed to me
very strange. Led by a dim light, I crossed several rooms, only one of
which was faintly lighted; my heart shrank with terror.

As I reached a half-open door, stifled sobs greeted my ear.

Noiselessly I pushed the door open.

Gracious heavens! what a picture!

Irene's cot, placed next to her mother's bed, occupied the end of the
room facing the door.

Kneeling by the bedside, Catherine held one of the child's hands in
hers.

I could not see the face of the unfortunate mother, only from time to
time a sudden, convulsive movement shook her frame.

At the left side was Frank, the great painter, Hélène's husband.

Seated on a low chair, he sketched Irene's dying countenance.

A harrowing remembrance, which, no doubt, Madame de Fersen wished to
preserve.

Frank, by means of a shade, had so arranged the lamp that the full light
fell on Irene's face.

The rest of the apartment was plunged into almost total darkness.

A tall man, in a fur-lined coat, stood at the foot of the cot. His hair
was white; his prominent bald forehead shone like old ivory; a ray of
bright light brought out his sharply marked profile.

This was Doctor Ralph, Madame de Fersen's medical attendant.

He seemed watching with an anxious eye the slightest change in Irene's
face.

In a dark corner of the room the nurse was seated, leaning her head
against the wall, and scarcely able to smother her sobs.

As I entered, her sobbing became so uncontrollable that, holding her
handkerchief to her mouth, she left the room.


I, also, was weeping bitterly at the sight of that angelic, childish
face, so tender, so resigned, which, in spite of approaching death,
preserved a character of sublime serenity.

Brilliantly lighted, her pale face stood out vividly against the white
pillows; her beautiful black locks fell in disorder, covering her
forehead; her large eyes half closed, and encircled by dark rings,
showed under the heavy lids her half-extinct pupils. From her pretty
half-open mouth, from her lips, formerly so roseate, and now so
discoloured, came forth a panting breath, and often a feeble plaintive
murmur. This poor little face, formerly so plump, so fresh and
childlike, was already becoming livid.

From time to time the unhappy child moved her hands restlessly into
space, or turned her head heavily on her pillows, with a deep sigh. Then
she again became frightfully still.

Frank's face, which I had not seen for two years, wore an expression of
heart-breaking sadness.

He, also, could not repress his tears every time he glanced at the face
of the dying child.

The calmness, the silence of this scene, which I seized at one glance,
made such an impression upon me that for an instant I stood rooted to
the threshold.

Madame de Fersen turned towards the clock, then shook her head, with a
gesture of despair.

I understood, she was beginning to lose faith in me.

I pushed the door open.

Catherine saw me; in an instant she was at my side, and drawing me to
the cot, she said, in a heartrending tone, "Save her! have pity on me,
and save her!"

Madame de Fersen's voice was low and broken; her beautiful face was
tear-stained and worn; yet under this appearance of weakness one felt
the superhuman energy which always sustains a mother, so long as her
child needs her.

"One moment," said Doctor Ralph, in a low, solemn voice. "This is our
last hope, let us not take too great a risk."

The unhappy woman hid her face in her hands.

"I have told you, madame," said the doctor, showing a vial containing a
dark liquid, "this potion will restore this child to consciousness, will
light up the faint spark of intelligence which still remains, perhaps.
Then the sight of the person who exercises on her so strange an
influence may work a miracle, for, alas! madame, nothing but a miracle
can bring your child back to life."

"I know it, I know it," said Catherine, choking back her tears, "I am
prepared for the worst. But, tell me, the potion,--what effect will it
have?"

"I can answer for its immediate effects; but not for the consequences
that may follow."

"What is to be done? _Mon Dieu!_ what is to be done?" cried Catherine,
in accents of anguish.

"Do not hesitate, madame," I said; "since all hope is gone, accept the
only chance that remains!"

"I am of the same opinion, do not hesitate, madame," said Frank, who
shared our emotion.

"Proceed, monsieur," whispered Madame de Fersen, in an accent of
desperate determination; and she knelt down by her child's cot.

Her lips moved in prayer.

She, Frank, and I fixed upon the doctor sorrowing and apprehensive
looks.

He alone was calm, as with slow and silent steps he approached Irene's
bedside.

At the sight of his tall figure, his austere countenance, his long white
hair, his peculiar garb, one might have supposed him a man gifted with
some occult power, ready to perform by a potion some mysterious charm.

He poured into a golden spoon a few drops of the liquid contained in the
vial.

Madame de Fersen took it, and approached the spoon to the child's lips.

But her hand trembled to such an extent that the liquid was spilled.

"I am afraid," said she, with a frightened look.

She gave back the spoon to the doctor. He filled it once more, and with
a firm hand put it to Irene's lips.

The child swallowed it without reluctance.

It is impossible to express the intense alarm, the mortal anguish, with
which we watched the effects of the potion.

The doctor himself, eagerly bending over the bed, watched Irene's face
with anxious eyes.

Soon the potion began to work.

By degrees, Irene began moving her arms and hands, and her cheeks
assumed a faint tinge of colour. Several times she quickly turned her
head on her pillow, moaned piteously, closed her eyes, and then opened
them.

The lamp was in front of her, and the bright light seemed painful, for
she covered her eyes with her hands.

"She sees! she sees!" cried the doctor, with an alacrity that seemed to
us of good omen.

"She is saved!" exclaimed Catherine, clasping her hands, as if in thanks
to Heaven.

"No rash expectation, madame!" said Doctor Ralph, austerely and almost
harshly. "I have already told you this semblance of life is deceptive.
It is like galvanism which gives motion to a dead body, and a breath may
snap the invisible cord which binds this child to life." Then, turning
to me, he added: "It will be your turn, monsieur, presently to endeavour
to strengthen that feeble thread. I solemnly declare, if that child
lives, which, alas! I scarcely dare to hope, it is to you she will owe
it, for known science does not work such miracles."

"God alone can work them," said Frank, in a solemn voice.

"Or certain mysterious and magnetic influences which one must concede
without understanding them," added the doctor.

The stimulus of the potion upon Irene became more and more apparent. Two
or three times she sighed deeply, held forth her arms, and then
murmured, in a feeble voice: "Mother! Arthur!"

"Now," said the doctor, "take one of the child's hands in yours,
monsieur, and let the other be in her mother's; come as close to her as
possible, and call her, softly, slowly, so that the sound may have time
to reach her feeble hearing."

I took hold of one of Irene's hands, her mother held the other.

Her hand was cold and moist.

I leaned over Irene. Her big eyes, looking still larger since her
illness, wandered around as if in search of some one.

"Irene--Irene--I am here," I said, in a low voice.

"Irene--my child--your mother is here also," said Catherine, with an
accent of passionate and fearful anxiety impossible to describe.

At first the child did not seem to hear us.

"Irene--it is your friend--it is Arthur and your mother. Do you not hear
her?"

"Your mother--_mon Dieu!_ your mother is near you!" repeated Catherine.

This time the child's look no longer wandered. She moved her head
suddenly, as if a sound from afar had reached her.

"How is her hand?" inquired the doctor, in a whisper.

"Still cold," I answered.

"Still cold," rejoined the mother.

"That is bad, you are not yet _en rapport_,--continue."

"Irene--dear child--angel--do you hear me? It is I--Arthur," I
whispered.

Irene raised her eyes, and met mine fastened on her.

I had often heard magnetic attraction spoken of, and this time I
experienced its action and reaction.

I fixed an eager and despairing glance upon Irene. By degrees, as if her
eyes took life from mine, they lost their dullness, they became clear,
bright, beaming with intelligence.

On her countenance, returning to life, I could follow the progress of
her thoughts, of her awakening mind.

She threw out her arms, and an angelic smile lighted on her lips.

Too weak to raise her head, she sought her mother with her glance.

Catherine bent over the bed, still holding, as I did, one of Irene's
hands.

After looking at us for a moment, the child gently brought together her
mother's hand and mine; her eyes suffused with tears, and she wept
freely.

When my hand touched Catherine's, my heart received an electric shock.
For a moment I heard no more, I saw no more. I held Catherine's and
Irene's hands in mine, and became unconscious of the contact.

It seemed to me that a flood of electricity surrounded us, and blended
us in one.

This impression was deep, inexplicable, almost painful. When I regained
consciousness, I heard the doctor exclaiming, "She has shed tears! she
is saved!"

"You have given her back to me," said Catherine, falling on her knees
before me.




CHAPTER XXIII


THE GROVE


This healing crisis saved Irene.

During the month of convalescence I left her neither by day nor by
night.


In the early days of spring, Doctor Ralph urged Madame de Fersen to go
to the country with her daughter, and recommended the vicinity of
Fontainebleau.

Madame de Fersen having seen a very pretty cottage, called the Grove,
had secured it, and the necessary repairs having been made, it was
decided we should take up our residence there the first days of May.

If my continuous abode at Madame de Fersen's house had been known, it
would have provoked the most odious comments. Consequently, the morning
after the crisis, which had proved so favourable to Irene, I told her
mother that she must forbid access to her apartment to every one, with
the exception of the doctor, the nurse, and one of her maids, on whose
discretion she could rely.

I had occupied during Irene's illness a vacant entresol, of which the
windows opened on an uninhabited piece of ground, thus my return to
Paris and my presence at Catherine's house was unknown to every one.

Madame de Fersen took to Fontainebleau only the same people who had been
in attendance on her during her little girl's illness, the nurse and two
maids. The rest of the household remained in Paris.

She asked me to follow her to the Grove in two days.

She took her departure.

The next morning I received from her most detailed instructions about
finding my way to the small park gate at the Grove.

At the appointed hour I was at that gate; I knocked, and it was opened.

The sun was about setting, but it still threw some warm rays across the
green lacework and violet clusters of an arbour of _glycynia_, under
which Catherine was waiting for me with Irene, whose hand she was
holding.

Was it intentional, or was it mere chance? I know not, but like the day
when for the first time I saw her on board the Russian frigate,
Catherine wore a gauzy white gown and a lace head-dress ornamented with
a spray of red geranium.

The trials through which she had passed had made her fall away, but she
was still beautiful, and even more lovely than beautiful. Her figure, as
heretofore, was elegant and stately; her countenance noble, gracious,
and pensive; her large, soft eyes of a perfect blue were fringed with
long, dark lashes; the heavy tresses of her jet black hair framed her
brow, lofty and sad, and her face paled by sorrow.

Irene, like her mother, was dressed in white; her long dark hair was
tied with ribbons and fell to her waist, and her lovely face, though
still pensive and sad, showed scarcely any traces of her recent
sufferings.

Catherine's first impulse was to take her child in her arms, and,
placing her in mine, she said, with great emotion, "Is she not now your
Irene also?"

And amid her tears her eyes shone with joy and gratitude.


There are emotions which one cannot attempt to describe, for they are as
vast as the infinite.

This first outburst of happiness passed, Madame de Fersen said to me,
"Now I must show you to your apartment."

I offered Catherine my arm, Irene took my hand, and allowed them to lead
me.

For some time we kept silent.

After following a long avenue, rapidly becoming dark as the sun sank
below the horizon, we came to a clearing on the outskirts of the wood.

"Here is your cottage," said Madame de Fersen.

My cottage was a sort of Swiss chalet, half hidden in a mass of pink
acacias, of linden-trees and lilacs. It was built on the edge of a small
lake, on a foundation of great boulders of that flinty rock found in the
neighbourhood of Fontainebleau. This structure having been erected as a
point of observation, every advantage had been taken to make the most of
its charming position.

A thick carpet of periwinkles, of ivy, of moss, and wild strawberry
covered almost entirely the whitish rocks, and from each cranny sprouted
a tuft of iris, of rhododendron, or heather.

On the other side of the lake a beautiful lawn, surrounded by the woods,
rose in a gentle incline up to the front of the house occupied by Madame
de Fersen, and which might be seen from a distance.

The sight was limited on all sides by a ring of verdure, formed by the
thick woods surrounding the high walls of the park, and hiding them
completely.

One might have wished more variety in the prospect; but as our life at
the Grove was to be surrounded by the most profound mystery, this
extensive and impenetrable barrier of leafage was very precious.

After a few minutes we reached the foot of the steps leading to the
cottage. Madame de Fersen drew a small key from her belt and opened the
front door.

At a glance I saw that she had been the presiding genius in the
arrangement of the two rooms. Everything was of excessive but elegant
simplicity. I found flowers on every side; also a piano, a painter's
easel, and some books which she had heard me mention as my favourites.

Pointing out to me an ebony cabinet frame with doors richly inlaid with
mother-of-pearl, Madame de Fersen asked me to open it. On one side I
found the exquisite sketch which Frank had made of the dying Irene, and
on the other side a recent portrait of Irene also painted by Frank.

I took Catherine's hand and carried it to my lips, with a feeling of
inexpressible gratitude.

She herself pressed her hand to my lip with an impulse full of
tenderness. She then turned and passionately embraced her child.

I closed the panel, still more touched by this mark of Catherine's
remembrance, for I had expressed to her my views regarding portraits
exposed to the gaze of all.

When we left the cottage, the purple and gold of the dying sun was
mirrored in the bosom of the lake. The acacias were dropping their
roseate and fragrant petals. No sound was heard; on all sides the
horizon was bounded by dark masses of verdure; we found ourselves in the
midst of the most profound solitude, the most peaceful, the most
mysterious.

Impressed by the sight of this sad and touching picture, Catherine
leaned on the balcony of the chalet, and remained a few minutes plunged
in reverie.

Irene sat at her feet, and began to gather roses and honeysuckle to make
a bouquet.

I leaned against the door, and could not help feeling a pang of anguish
as I looked upon Madame de Fersen.

I was going to pass long days near this woman, so passionately loved,
and delicacy forbade my speaking one word of this deep and ardent love,
which circumstances recently had combined to increase.

I knew not if I was beloved, or, rather, I despaired of being loved; it
seemed to me that fate, which had brought Madame de Fersen and me
together, by the death-bed of her child, during a month of terrible
anguish, had been too tragic to end in so tender a sentiment.

I was absorbed in these sad thoughts, when Madame de Fersen made a quick
movement, as if she were aroused from a dream, and said to me, "Pardon
me, but it is so long since I breathed air so fragrant and invigorating
that I selfishly enjoy this lovely nature."

Irene divided her bouquet in two, gave one half to her mother, the other
to me, and we then started towards the house.

We reached it after a long walk, for the park was very extensive.




CHAPTER XXIV


DAYS OF SUNSHINE


THE GROVE, 10th May, 18--.[6]

It is eleven o'clock; I have just left Madame de Fersen. Here am I in
the chalet, which, henceforward, I am to occupy near her!

I experience a strange emotion.

Events have succeeded each other with such rapidity, my heart has been
torn by such conflicting passions, that I feel the necessity of
reviewing my memories, my desires, and my hopes.

I therefore resume my journal, interrupted after my departure from
Khios.

My thoughts press so confusedly upon my brain that I hope to clear them
by writing. I act like those who, unable to make a mental calculation,
are obliged to have recourse to pencil and paper.

What for me will be the end of this love? Doctor Ralph has formally
declared to Madame de Fersen that, for a long time yet, my presence is
indispensable to Irene's perfect recovery, and that, for two or three
months longer, it was absolutely necessary to soothe the child's
imagination, and not give her the slightest shock or the least sorrow,
these emotions being the more dangerous for her in that they were so
profoundly concentrated.

Doctor Ralph attributes the attraction which I have for Irene to
magnetic and mysterious affinities and he cites many examples, both
among human beings and animals. He is unable, however, to offer any
explanation of this. As I said, this attraction places me in a singular
position.

The effect of my presence or absence upon this child is a proven and
undeniable fact. For the past year Irene has had three or four attacks,
sometimes slight, others serious and almost fatal, whose sole origin was
her grief at not seeing me, and, above all, at not seeing me near her
mother; for the nurse has since told me that even our meetings at the
Tuileries did not quite satisfy Irene, who pined for the time spent on
board the frigate.

My presence, therefore, is, one may say, the tie that binds Irene to
life.

Were it not for my love, my passion for Catherine, were it not for the
deep interest her child inspires in me, this imperious obligation to
remain ever at Irene's side would be both painful and embarrassing.

But I worship her mother! When I compare other passions which I have
experienced to that which she inspires, I find this the truest of all;
and, seeing her daily, brought near her by the most startling and
mysterious circumstances, most apt to bring the most passive love to a
point of exaltation, I still must be silent; Catherine for me must be
sacred as a sister, as a friend!

Can I, in the name of my past devotedness, in the name of the fatal
influence I exercise over Irene, approach Catherine, professing my love,
and expressing my hopes?

It would be base, it would be despicable.

And if the unhappy mother were to think--oh, Heaven!--that I demanded
her love as the price for my presence near her child!

Ah, this thought is horrible!

My resolution is taken, irrevocably taken.

Never shall a word of love pass my lips.


THE GROVE, 11th May, 18--.

My best deeds bring me bad luck,--one reason the more for keeping
silent.

This morning the newspapers were brought in.

Madame de Fersen opened one, and began to read.

All at once she ceased to read, I saw her shiver and blush deeply; then,
with an expression of dumb surprise, lowering her hands to her knees,
she shook her head, as if she were saying, "Is this really possible!"

Looking at me with eyes filled with tears, she quickly rose, and left
the room.

Not knowing what might have caused this keen emotion, I picked up the
newspaper, and the following lines soon explained to me Madame de
Fersen's dismay.


"It is well known that a month ago the firm ---- & Co. failed for a sum
amounting to several millions. The head of the firm secretly embarked
for the United States. A few creditors, warned by alarming rumours as to
the solvency of the firm, were in time to withdraw a portion of their
funds. M. Dumont, business agent of M. le Comte de ----, involved in
this bankruptcy to the amount of one hundred and fifty thousand francs,
has not been equally fortunate; although he had come to Havre to ward
off this disaster, he was not provided with the necessary papers, and as
the bankruptcy was considered fraudulent, he laid his complaint before
the district attorney, but in view of the assets amounting to scarcely
eighty thousand francs, the numerous creditors of the firm ---- must
look upon their funds as lost."

Madame de Fersen knew of my hurried departure for Havre, for her courier
had overtaken me before I reached that town. I had returned immediately,
and the date of my return coincided with that of the bankruptcy. It was
therefore evident to Catherine that my eagerness to return to the dying
Irene was the sole cause of the severe loss I had sustained. Thus now,
more than ever, should I appear to demand a reward for my sacrifices.

While mechanically skimming the newspaper, beneath the article which I
have quoted, I came upon the following paragraph, which also concerned
me.

The paper which I was reading was a semi-official journal, and might be
considered well informed.


"Many changes are imminent in our _corps diplomatique._ Among those
mentioned as likely to be called to a prominent position in foreign
affairs is M. le Comte Arthur de ----, who, though still young, has
strong claims to this favour on account of his travels, his researches,
and the conscientious work to which he has devoted himself for some time
past, as chief secretary of his Excellency the Minister of Foreign
Affairs. These particulars, for whose accuracy we can vouch, prove
clearly that when high birth and the advantages of fortune accompany an
eminent and recognised capacity, everything may be expected from the
favours of the king's ministry."

This article evidently emanated from the office of M. de Sérigny, who
thought, perhaps, that it would give me pleasure if, during my absence,
he asked the king some favour for me.

I must confess, this piece of news left me indifferent, and I went in
search of Catherine.

I found her in an avenue of the park.

"I know all," she said, holding out her hand. "Another sacrifice," she
continued, raising her eyes to heaven. "And I, what have I done for
him?"

These words went to my heart, and produced so great, so sweet an
emotion, that, in spite of myself, my hopes once more were aroused, but,
controlling my thoughts, and wishing to change the subject, I said:

"Do you not congratulate me on my future successes?"

She looked at me in amazement.

"What successes?"

"Have you not read to-day's paper?"

"Yes, I have. But of what success are you speaking?"

"They say in this paper that very soon I shall be called to a very
important position at the Foreign Office."

Catherine, without appearing to have heard me, replied:

"Will you make me a promise?"

"What is it?"

"I shall send Irene to you to the chalet, but I do not wish to see you
to-day. You will not be vexed with me?" she said, sadly, to me, holding
out her hand.

"No, certainly not," I said, much surprised, however, at this sudden
determination.


THE GROVE, 13th May, 18--.

How long is it since this journal was interrupted? I know not. I cannot
remember.

Besides, what do I know now? What do I remember?

All that has happened, is it not a dream, a dream so dazzling that I ask
myself where is the limit of reality? Where ends the dream? Where
commences the awakening?

Dream, memory, awakening! These are vain words, and faded, which I used
before this day.

I wish now for new words to describe what I had never before felt.

Not only does it seem to me impossible to use the words of other days to
describe my feelings of to-day, it seems to me a blasphemy, a
profanation.

Am I not the dupe of a delusion? Is it I, my own self, who is writing
this at the Grove, in the chalet?

Yes, yes, it is my own self. I am looking at the clock which points to
the hour of five. I see the lake reflecting the rays of the sun. I hear
the trees rustling in the breeze. I scent the fragrance of the flowers,
and in the distance I see her dwelling,--hers.

It is not, then, a dream?

Let me see, let me gather my thoughts, let me go back step by step to
the source of that torrent of happiness which intoxicates me.

What day is this? I know not. Ah, yes, it is Sunday. She went to mass
this morning, and there she wept, she wept abundantly.

Blessed be those precious tears!

But when did we receive those papers? Ah, here they are,--it was the day
before yesterday.

The day before yesterday! 'Tis strange! If years had passed since that
day it would not seem to me further away!

Between the past of yesterday, which was almost indifferent to us, and
the present to-day, which is all in all to us, is there not the distance
of centuries?

Yes, it was the day before yesterday that Catherine begged me to leave
her to herself.

I obeyed her wishes, but felt very sad.

Irene came to play on the steps of the chalet.

The dinner bell sounded.

Instead of appearing at table, as usual, Catherine sent word begging me
to dine by myself, for she was suffering.

In the evening the air was sultry. Catherine came down to the parlours.
I found her looking very pale.

"I am stifling," she said, "I am restless, nervous, agitated, the
weather is so stormy."

She then asked me to give her my arm, as she was going to walk in the
park. Contrary to her custom, she requested Madame Paul, Irene's nurse,
to follow us with the little girl.

We followed the winding avenue of the woods, and soon came upon the
arbour, covered with _glycynia_, where she had waited for me with Irene
the first day of my arrival at the Grove.

I know not whether it was emotion, or fatigue, or indisposition, but
Catherine complained of feeling tired, and seated herself on a bench.

The sun had just set; the sky was covered with clouds, gilded by the
last rays of the sun. Almost continuously the entire hemisphere was
illumined with vivid flashes of summer lightning, which Irene watched
with a curious and tranquil air.

Catherine did not speak, and seemed deeply absorbed.

Twilight had begun to darken the woods, when Irene, who was resting on
her nurse's lap, fell asleep.

"Madame," said Madame Paul, "Mlle. Irene is falling asleep, and the
doctor was very particular that she should not be exposed to the damp
evening air."

"Let us go home," said Catherine, as she rose.

She felt so weak that she leaned on my arm with her whole weight.

We walked a few steps, but very slowly; Madame Paul was in front with
Irene.

Suddenly I felt Catherine giving way, and she said, in a broken voice,
"I cannot take another step, I am prostrated."

"Just make an effort," I said to her, "to reach the chalet, which is
close at hand, and you can rest on the bench at the door."

"But, Irene!" she exclaimed, anxiously.

A turn in the road hid the nurse, who was already some way in advance.

I supported Catherine, and a few seconds later she was seated at the
entrance of the chalet.

The threatening clouds had dispersed; at our feet we saw the lake
reflecting the stars as they made their appearance; the perfume of
flowers, rendered more acute by the warm and sultry weather, permeated
the atmosphere; there was not a breath of air, not a sound.

The night was so soft, so balmy and clear, that in the uncertain light I
could perfectly distinguish Catherine's features. My whole being seemed
concentrated in my heart, which was beating violently.

Like Catherine, I felt overpowered, unnerved, by the warm, perfumed air
which surrounded us.

Madame de Fersen was seated, resting on cushions, her head leaning on
her hands.

The calm was so intense that I could hear Catherine's panting breath. I
fell into a deep reverie, at once sad and blissful.

Never, perhaps, would I have a more favourable opportunity to unbosom
myself to Catherine; but my scruples, and the dread of seeming to ask
reward for a service rendered, kept me silent.

Suddenly she exclaimed:

"I implore you, do not leave me to my thoughts; let me hear your voice.
Tell me all you wish, but speak to me; in the name of Heaven, speak to
me!"

"What shall I say?" I replied, submissively.

"What matters!" she cried, clasping her hands in supplication; "what
matters! only speak to me, drive from me the thoughts which possess me,
have pity, or, rather, be pitiless,--accuse me, overwhelm me, tell me I
am a thankless, selfish woman, base enough not to have the courage to be
grateful," she continued, with increasing excitement, as if a secret
long suppressed was now escaping her. "Do not soften your reproaches,
for you cannot tell how deeply your resignation wounds me, you cannot
tell how I long to find you less generous. For what can be said of a
woman who meets a true, discreet friend, and for six months permits him
to surround her with the most delicate, most assiduous, and respectful
attentions, sees him devote himself to the least whims of her poor,
suffering child, and who, one day, in all thanklessness, and for the
idlest and most puerile of motives, coldly dismisses this friend? And
this is not all. When this woman, in a terrible dilemma, again has need
of him,--for she knows he alone can save her child's life,--she
forthwith recalls him, well aware that she can demand everything from
the self-denial of this brave heart; and he, sacrificing all, instantly
returns to draw this child from the very jaws of death!"

"Hold, I pray you! Let us not recall these sad memories, let us only
think of our present happiness," said I.

But Catherine appeared not to hear me, and continued with an ever
increasing excitement which alarmed me:

"This friend, so good, so noble, has he ever attempted by a single word
to speak of his admirable conduct? He has been the protecting genius of
this woman and her child when both were suffering; and when he has saved
them,--for to save the child is to save the mother,--he goes, proudly,
silent, and reserved, happy doubtless in the good he has done, but
seeming to fear the thanklessness or disdain the gratitude he has
inspired."

Catherine's voice was growing more and more broken and gasping. I was
almost frenzied by her words, but they seemed to me drawn from her by
feverish excitation, and contrasted so forcibly with her habitual
reserve that I feared her reason, until now so strong and clear, had
yielded to the tardy reaction of the terrible experiences which had
shaken her for the past six weeks.

"Catherine, Catherine!" I exclaimed. "You are too passionately devoted
to your child for me ever to have doubted of your gratitude,--my
dearest, most precious reward."

Catherine heard my reply, for she alluded to my words as she continued
in a still more passionate accent:

"Oh, yes, yes; tell me, then, that the intoxicating, invincible
sentiment that invades me at this moment is gratitude; tell me that
nothing is more sacred, more holy and legitimate, than what I feel. A
woman has certainly the right to devote her life to him who has restored
her child to her, more especially when he, as generous as he is
considerate, has never attempted to say one word of his hopes;
therefore, is it not for her--for her--to come to him, and ask with joy,
with pride, How can I ever reward so much love?"

"By returning it!" I exclaimed.

"By confessing that I have always returned it," said Catherine, in a
subdued voice.

And her hands languorously fell into mine.


THE GROVE, 16th May, 18--.

Woe! Woe!

Since yesterday I have not seen her. Doctor Ralph arrived last night. He
found her in great danger. He attributed this devouring fever, this
terrible delirium, to reaction from the anguish which the unfortunate
woman had repressed during her child's illness.

He does not know all.

Ah, her remorse must be terrible! How she must suffer, and I am not
there, by her side,--and I cannot be there.

Ah, yes, I love her, I love her with all my strength. This intoxicating
memory, which yesterday made me almost frenzied with love, to-day I
curse it!

The sight of Irene hurts me. This morning the child came towards me, and
I repulsed her. She is fateful to her mother, as, perhaps, she will be
fateful to myself.

Doctor Ralph has just left me; there is no change for the better.

I observed a strange difference in him. This morning, on his arrival, he
gave me his hand as usual cordially; the austere expression of his face
generally assumed a look of benevolence on meeting me. This evening I
gave him my hand, he did not grasp it. His glance seemed to me severe,
interrogative. After having briefly informed me of the state of
Catherine's health, he coldly left the room.

Can Catherine have betrayed herself in the wanderings of fever?

This thought is dreadful. Happily, there is near her no one but Irene's
nurse and Doctor Ralph.

But what matter! what matter! This nurse is only a servant, and this
doctor is but a stranger! And is she, so proud, because heretofore she
had a right to be so, condemned henceforth to blush before these people!

If she has spoken, she is not aware of it, perhaps may never know it,
but they know it, they, perhaps, have her secret and mine.

If with a word one could annihilate two persons at once, I believe I
would utter that word.


THE GROVE, 17th May, 18--.

What is to be done, what will become of us, if Catherine so rapidly gets
worse? Doctor Ralph will no longer take the sole responsibility, he will
call in some consulting physicians, and then--


I cannot continue to write, my sobs stifle me.

This morning something very strange happened.

When the doctor announced to me that Catherine was worse, I came back
here in the chalet; I wished to write down what I felt, for I cannot and
will not confide to any one my joys and sorrows; so, when my heart
overflows with grief or happiness, it is a great relief to me silently
to confide to this journal.

When I heard of Catherine's renewed danger, my sufferings were so great
that I wished to write, that is, to pour out my anguish.

This was impossible. I could only trace with a trembling hand the few
lines at the head of this page, but was soon interrupted by my tears.

Then I went out into the park.

There, for the first time, I regretted--oh, bitterly regretted--that I
possessed neither religious faith nor hope.

I might have prayed for Catherine.

There is certainly nothing more heartrending than to recognise the utter
futility of addressing prayers to Heaven for a beloved being whom you
fear to lose. In prayer you have some minutes of hope, you are
fulfilling a duty, your sorrow at least has a language, which you
believe is not quite barren.

But not to be able to say to any human or superhuman power, "Save her!"
It is terrible.

I so painfully felt this helplessness, that in despair I fell on my
knees, without having consciousness to whom my prayer was addressed. But
firmly convinced, in that momentary hallucination, that my voice would
be heard, I cried aloud: "Save her! Save her!" Then, in spite of myself,
I experienced a glimmer of hope, I felt the consciousness of a duty
fulfilled.

Later I blushed for what I called my weakness, my puerility.

Since my mind could not grasp, could not believe, the assertions which
constitute the various human religions, what God was I imploring?

What power had succeeded in tearing from me this prayer, this last cry,
this the last utterance of despair?


The crisis which the doctor feared did not take place.

Catherine is no better, but she is not worse, and yet her delirium
continues.

Doctor Ralph's coldness towards me is still excessive.

Since her mother's illness, Irene has given frequent proofs of
tenderness and feeling, which, though childlike, are serious and
resolute like her character.

This morning she said to me: "My mother suffers very much, does she
not?"

"Very much, my poor Irene."

"When a child is suffering, her mother comes to suffer in her stead, so
that the little one may not suffer any more, is it not so?" she
inquired, gravely.

Astonished at this reasoning, I looked at her attentively without
replying. She continued:

"I wish to suffer in my mother's place, take me to the doctor."

This childish trait, which, under other circumstances, would have made
me smile, gave me a heart pang, and I kissed Irene to conceal my tears.


THE GROVE, 17th May, 18--.

There is hope; the delirium ceases; an alarming prostration has
followed. Doctor Ralph dreaded the heat of her fevered blood. Now he
fears excessive languor, heart failure.

Her consciousness has returned. Her first utterance was her child's
name.

The nurse told me that the doctor had not yet allowed Irene to go near
her mother.

Twenty times have I been on the point of asking Madame Paul if Catherine
had inquired after me, but I dared not.


THE GROVE, 18th May, 18--.

To-day, for the first time, Doctor Ralph permitted the nurse to take
Irene to her mother.

I waited with anxious and irritable impatience for the moment when I
would see Irene, hoping from her to have some particulars about her
mother, perhaps a word, a remembrance, from Catherine.

Once returned to consciousness, I know not what course Madame de Fersen
will take towards me.

During the paroxysm of remorseful despair which follows a first fault, a
woman often hates the man to whom she has succumbed; she overwhelms him
with reproaches as violent as her regrets, as vehement as her sorrow; it
is on him alone the sole responsibility weighs for their guilt; she is
not his accomplice, but his victim.

If her soul has remained pure, notwithstanding that for a moment she was
involuntarily led astray, she takes the sincere resolution never again
to see the man who has seduced her, and to have to weep over one sole
betrayal, one sole defeat.

To this resolution she at first remains faithful.

She seeks, not to excuse, but to redeem her error, by the rigorous
fulfilment of her duties; but the remembrance of her fault is there,
ever there.

The more noble the heart, the more austere the conscience, so will the
remorse be the more implacable. Then, alas! she suffers terribly, the
poor creature, for she stands alone, and is compelled in secret to
devour her tears, while to the world she still wears a smile.

Sometimes, again, she becomes frightened at her isolation, at that
wordless concentration of her grief, and she resigns herself to ask for
comfort and strength of the man who is the cause of her fall. She then
implores him, for the sake of her remorse, to forget a moment of
madness, and to be for her no more than the truest of friends, the
confidant of the sorrows he has brought upon her. But, alas! almost
always the unhappy woman has still more tears to shed.

Man, with the coarser instincts of his sex, does not realise the sublime
struggle which woman endures between love and duty. The incessant
torture, the menacing terrors aroused in her by the remembrance of
outraged religion and family honour, these dreadful tortures are treated
by man as ridiculous whims, as childish scruples, or the absurd
influence of the confessional.

If the struggle is prolonged, if the unhappy woman passes her life in
efforts to conceal a sorrow caused by her dishonour, and valiantly
resists the commission of a second fault, the man is irritated, and
revolts against these pruderies which wound his self-love and his eager
and brutal passion to the quick; for one last time he reviles her
virtue, her sorrows, and her courage by saying to this miserable woman
that her return to high principles is somewhat tardy. Frenzied by a base
desire for revenge, he at once rushes with his cynical nature to make a
notorious display of some other intrigue.

He has been loved, he is still beloved! A virtuous and beautiful woman
has jeopardised, for his sake, her happiness, her future, and that of
her children! while he basely recoils from the least sacrifice.

How comes it that this man is so worthless, and yet so worshipped?
Because woman loves man more for the qualities she attributes to him,
and with which her sensitive nature adorns him, than for those he really
possesses.

If, on the contrary, by a rare exception, a man realises all that is
saintly and beautiful in this remorse, if he endeavours to comfort the
sorrow of which he is the origin, the woman's gentleness and resignation
may prove for her another pitfall.

Catherine,--will she be pursued by incessant remorse?

Like those women who, from an insatiable yearning for sympathy, or, with
the chastity of sorrow, conceal their woes, and make only a display of
their joys, will Catherine leave me in ignorance of the anguish she
suffers?

Knowing her as I do, I believe, after I have seen Irene, and gathered
from her the substance of her conversation with her mother, I shall be
able to divine Catherine's sentiments towards me.

Hence I look forward with eager impatience to the child's visit.


Heaven be praised! I see her running, holding in her hand a bouquet of
roses.


My heart did not deceive me; Catherine sends it to me.

She forgives me my happiness.


[Footnote 6: Arthur, according to his custom, introduces here some
fragments from his journal, interrupted after leaving Khios, and
doubtless, resumed on his arrival at the Grove. The preceding chapters
are intended to fill the gap separating the two periods, during which
time Arthur appears to have neglected to keep his memorandum.]




CHAPTER XXV


A WOMAN IN POLITICS


Here come to an end the fragments of the journal I formerly wrote at the
Grove.


During the four months which followed Catherine's confession of her
love, and which we passed in this total isolation, my life was so
engrossed by the delights of our ever growing love that I had neither
time nor inclination to make a record of emotions so entrancing.

Catherine confessed to me that she had felt greatly attracted to me ever
since our departure from Khios.

I asked her why she had treated me so harshly on one occasion, when she
had requested me not to see her little girl any more. She answered that
her despair at feeling herself at the mercy of the affection I inspired,
added to her jealousy and grief when she saw me smitten by so giddy a
woman as Madame de V----, had alone decided her to put an end to the
mysterious intimacy of which Irene was the bond, however painful to her
was this determination.

Later on, when she learned of the termination of my supposed intrigue
with Madame de V----, and finding that absence, instead of diminishing,
only increased the power I had gained over her, she endeavoured to renew
our former relations. Moreover, Irene commenced to be seriously affected
by my absence. "Love is so inexplicable in its contrasts and its
sensitiveness," said Catherine to me, "that this very reason, added to
your seeming coldness and disdain, made me hesitate frankly to come to
you, fearing that this step might have appeared to you simply dictated
by my anxiety for my child's health.

"The condition of that poor child became so much worse that I resolved
to conquer my timidity and tell you all at that ball at the Tuileries,
but your greeting was so freezing, your departure so abrupt, that it
became impossible for me. The next day I wrote to you; you did not
answer. It was not, alas! until Irene's life was despaired of that I
dared once more to write to you at Havre! God only knows with what
admirable generosity you responded."


After the first bitterness of her remorse, Catherine's love for me
became calm, dignified, almost serene.

One felt that, having exercised all her might to resist an unconquerable
passion, this woman was prepared to endure with courageous resignation
the consequences of her weakness.

The four months we spent at the Grove were for me, for her, the ideal of
happiness.

But wherefore speak of happiness? This is now but Dead Sea ashes!

What matter, alas! Let me continue the sad task I have imposed upon
myself.


When I was able to snatch some moments from the love which engrossed me,
I wrote to M. de Sérigny to thank him for his good intentions towards
me, which I had learned from the article in the official newspaper, and
informed him that I would be absent for some months yet, that I was
unable to disclose to him my place of abode, but begged him, in case any
one inquired of him for me, to answer in such a way as might lead people
to infer that I was in a foreign country.

In the month of September Catherine heard that her husband would return
towards the close of the year, and informed me that she intended
returning to Paris.

Catherine's intention surprised and grieved me.

We had considerably discussed whether or not I should resume the duties
I had taken upon me with M. de Sérigny.

Catherine had persistently urged me to do so.

I vainly represented to her that those hours devoted to uncongenial work
would be stolen from our love, and that I should find very tedious an
occupation which I had sought simply as a distraction to my grief. In
vain I told her that all the correspondence with which I was entrusted
treated of the most futile subjects, and in no way interested me.

To this she replied that at no distant period questions of the greatest
importance would necessarily be discussed in high political spheres, and
that I would then regret having abandoned that position. She felt so
proud, so happy, of the distinction drawn upon me by the king's
recognition of my merits, she said, she so gloried in my success, that I
ended by promising to do as she wished.

It was therefore decided between us that I should resume my position
with M. de Sérigny.

To avoid returning to Paris at the same time as Madame de Fersen, and in
order that people might suppose I had been travelling for some time, I
left the Grove for London, and came back to Paris, where I found
Catherine on my arrival, after fourteen days' sojourn in London.

M. de Sérigny had ably fulfilled my wishes, and in society it was
generally supposed that an important foreign mission had been the cause
of my absence from home.

The minister seemed quite pleased at having me once more sharing his
labours; for the king, he told me, had frequently inquired as to the
period of my return, expressing his regret that the briefing of
despatches was no longer made by me.

To the eyes of the world, I did not at first visit Madame de Fersen more
assiduously than before our sojourn at the Grove; but little by little
my visits became more frequent without being so noticeably.

My character as an ambitious man, wholly absorbed by state affairs, and
Madame de Fersen's high reputation were too firmly established in public
opinion for society, so constant to its routine habits, not to accept
this situation; and appearances very contrary to these ideas would have
been needed to make it change its point of view towards us.

The impenetrable mystery surrounding our love redoubled it.

I frequently regretted our radiant days at the Grove,--days so calmly
happy, so peaceful,--but on the other hand, in Paris, when I exchanged
with Catherine a tender glance, unperceived by all, I felt that joyful
pride which one always experiences when in possession of a secret at
once formidable and enticing, from which depends the honour, the
existence, and the future of the woman beloved.

Some time before his departure, M. de Fersen had confided to me that his
wife had become indifferent to political matters, which until then had
engaged her attention to a great extent.

After returning to Paris I noticed, with astonishment, that Catherine by
degrees resumed her former relations.

Her salon, where I visited assiduously, was, as formerly, the habitual
meeting-place of the _corps diplomatique._ Before long, subjects which
were spoken of daily became so serious that, with the exception of the
ministers and some influential speakers of the two chambers, the elegant
and frivolous French society disappeared almost entirely from the
gatherings at Madame de Fersen's.

Although serious, these discussions had no true importance; either they
rose so high as to become abstract and impracticable theories, or they
descended to such paltry and positive interests that they became
frivolous and narrow.

The discussions were as infinite and barren as ever on this well-worn
theme: "Would the Restoration resist or yield to democratic influence?"
etc.

Catherine always surprised me by the subtlety of her intellect and the
liberal tendencies of her convictions. One of her great triumphs was in
demonstrating the advantages which France would derive by preferring the
Russian to the English alliance. When I complimented her on this
subject, she laughingly told me that I was France, and that the sole
secret of her eloquence was that.

I might as well have answered that she was my diplomacy; for to please
her I conquered my profound aversion to the European gossip of the
diplomats who habitually met at her house, and I persevered with my work
under M. de Sérigny. Perhaps, also, I remained in this position from a
feeling of pride, which I would not acknowledge, and which, no doubt,
the marked distinction with which the king honoured me had given rise
to, as well as from the sort of importance which it gave me in the
world. Thanks also to my duties, my assiduous presence at Madame de
Fersen's might be attributed to purely political associations.

What charmed me in Catherine was, perhaps, less the influence which she
possessed over those surrounding her, than the exquisite grace with
which she renounced this highly esteemed influence with me. This woman,
with a strong, lofty, even judicial mind, who was listened to with rare
deference, whose least words were heard with respect, showed herself in
our intimacy what she had been at the Grove,--kindly, simple, and gay,
of an effusive tenderness, I might almost say of a submission full of
grace and consideration, always placing her triumphs at my feet, and
laughing with me at their conceit.

Then, for the sake of our love, I would implore her to abandon this life
so uselessly employed.

On this subject alone, did I find Catherine ever intractable. She would
set forth that M. de Fersen would return to Paris; that she had been
guilty of a fault, a grave fault, and that she should at least atone for
it by devoting herself to her husband's wishes. Before his departure he
had bid her most expressly to maintain, and even to extend, the
relations which she had established; and she was obeying his injunctions
more to satisfy her conscience than for her own pleasure.

As much as I, she regretted the former conversations of the saloon on
board the frigate, and, above all, the four months spent at the Grove:
this period of the heart's paradise, as she called it, those priceless
days which shine but once, and never return in life,--no more than youth
returns.

There is nothing more exclusive, more madly absolute than passion. While
acknowledging the truth of Catherine's observations, I could not avoid
feeling wretched at these obligations imposed upon her by remorse for a
fault which I had caused her to commit.

Catherine, however, showed herself so tender, so considerate! With an
incredible tact, she found means to speak to me covertly of ourselves,
even in the midst of apparently serious conversations, and thus won me
to bear in patience the obstacles to our love.

There is nothing, in fact, so delightful as this conventional talk, by
means of which lovers can speak of themselves, their hopes, and their
memories, in the midst of the gravest company. Nothing amused me more
than to see the most solemn men innocently taking part in our ambiguous
conversations.

But these people often made me pay cruelly for these mysterious joys.
They robbed me almost entirely of Catherine's society of an evening, for
they generally met at her house; and frequently of a morning a letter
from one or the other, asking for an interview with Madame de Fersen,
disarranged all our plans.

Catherine suffered from these obstacles as much as I, but how could it
be avoided? Under what pretext could she refuse the request for an
interview? I, who had carried to the most scrupulous sensitiveness the
fear of compromising in the slightest degree her reputation, could I
encourage her in so perilous a step?

No, certainly not; but I suffered cruelly from the thousand obstacles
ever recurring which continually irritated the jealous impatience of my
heart.

Our happiness at the Grove had been so perfect! Enchanting season,
lovely country, complete isolation, mysterious and extreme freedom,
everything had been so beautifully arranged by chance that the
comparison of that past with the present was a continuous source of
irritation.

These regrets did not prevent my enjoying the delightful moments that
remained to us. I had perfect faith in Madame de Fersen's love; my
attacks of distrust of myself and others yielded to the influence of her
noble character, and the conviction that I had this time conducted
myself towards Catherine as few men would have conducted themselves in
my place, and that I, therefore, was deserving of all her tenderness.

I felt so sure of myself that I ventured on certain analytical thoughts
which I would formerly have dreaded. In a word, I had fruitlessly sought
the hidden motives of Madame de Fersen's love; and I confess that,
seeing her high rank, her great influence, her wealth and position, I
could not, in spite of my inventive shrewdness and the resources of my
suspicious mind, I could not, I say, discover what interest Catherine
could have in pretending to love me.




CHAPTER XXVI


SOCIETY GOSSIP


We were at the beginning of November, a Friday, ominous day for me.

For some time, Madame de Fersen, informed of her husband's approaching
return, desirous of dispelling suspicion, had thought best to be at home
at all times, and accessible to every one. Still, she had pledged
herself to give me a few hours to myself.

Our private meetings had become so rare, so difficult to arrange, on
account of the crowd which beset her, that we both attached great value
to this day of happiness. Catherine had been preparing for some time for
this blissful meeting by postponing or putting an end to a thousand
trifling engagements which are like invisible fetters in which a woman
of society, however free she may appear, is daily entangled. The
previous evening, at tea-time, Catherine had renewed her promise, in the
presence of her wonted circle, by telling me, in accordance with the
understanding between us, that she hoped it would be fine weather for
her walk on the morrow.

I remember that Baron de ----, a walking encyclopedia, thereupon opened
a learned meteorologic and astronomic parenthesis, and a lively
discussion ensued upon planetary influences and atmospheric causes.

Several times Catherine and I could scarcely suppress a smile, as we
thought of the mysterious and bewitching cause which served as a basis
for the learned lucubrations of so many wise people. We had to exercise
the greatest control over ourselves to refrain from laughing aloud at
the excellent reasons the papal nuncio gave as a proof that the next day
the weather would be splendid. I was so strongly of this opinion, that I
wildly launched myself on his side, and between us we got the better of
a devilish _chargé d'affaires_ of the United States, who rabidly
predicted, envious republican that he was, execrable weather.

I therefore left Catherine in a state of hopeful excitement, and as
impatient as in the first days of our love.

It seemed to me that my love was greater this day than other days. I had
a thousand golden dreams regarding this meeting, and my heart overflowed
with love and hope.

That evening Catherine had seemed to me even more beautiful and witty.
She had been more admired and more deferred to than usual; and, to our
shame be it said, the praise or censure of the indifferent or envious
invariably cause love to fluctuate between fervour and coldness.

The next morning I was on the point of leaving home, when I received a
line from her. Our meeting could not take place. She had learned that a
discussion of the highest importance, which had been supposed adjourned,
was to take place that very day in the Chamber of Deputies, and that she
was to go there with M. P. de B----, the Russian ambassador.

My regrets, my vexation, my anger and sorrow, were excessive.

The hour for the opening of the debate had not arrived, so I went at
once to Madame de Fersen's.

The footman, instead of announcing me, told me that the princess had
denied herself to every one, as she was then in conference with the
Prussian minister.

If all the ancestors of the Marquis de Brandebourg had been in the
drawing-room I would have entered. I therefore ordered the footman to
announce me.

As a culmination to my despair, Catherine had never been more lovely,
and my vexation, my ill temper, increased still more.

She seemed amazed at my entrance, and the aged Comte de W---- was
visibly annoyed, which, however, was quite immaterial to me.

He took his departure, saying to the princess that they would resume
their conversation later.

"How miserable I am at this disappointment!" said Catherine, sadly, "but
it is nearly one o'clock; the meeting begins at two, and our
ambassador--"

"Eh, madame!" I exclaimed, interrupting her, and violently stamping my
foot, "say no more about Chambers and ambassadors; it is a question of
choosing between my love and the interests of countries to which you
devote yourself. The connection is ridiculous, I admit, but your
unreasonable ways provoke it."

Madame de Fersen gazed at me in profound and pained astonishment, for I
had never accustomed her to such acrimonious methods.

I continued:

"I am moreover delighted to find this opportunity of telling you, once
for all, that your parleys and continual verbiage with these tiresome
and self-sufficient persons are very displeasing to me, and make me
impatient beyond all expression. I never find you alone. You are for
ever surrounded by these people, who find it very convenient to make
your parlours an annex to their legations. I would infinitely prefer
that you should be surrounded by a bevy of the most elegant and the
wittiest young men, and that you showed yourself towards them as great a
coquette as Madame de V----! At least I could be jealous of somebody, I
could vie with some rival in attentions and tenderness for you. But
here, against whom can I struggle? Whom shall I call to account?--the
various nations? I declare to you that I find nothing more humiliating,
more abject, than being reduced to feel jealous of Europe, or to contest
for the heart of the woman I love with orators in the Chambers, as I am
doing this day."

"My dearest, are you speaking seriously?" said Madame de Fersen, with a
timid, shrinking, and yet bantering uncertainty, which would have
enraptured me if Catherine had been less desperately beautiful, and if
certain vexations did not drive you senseless as well as wicked. Madame
de Fersen's question, moreover, exasperated me, for it showed me that my
exhibition of anger approached the comic.

"Loving hearts and generous minds divine the impressions, and do not
question. If you are reduced to asking me what I feel, I pity you. As
for me, I am more clear-sighted, and understand but too well that you no
longer love me."

"I not love you!" exclaimed Madame de Fersen, clasping her hands in
distressed amazement; then she repeated: "I not love you! You say
that--to me?"

"If you loved me, you would for my sake sacrifice all this following
which I detest, because it hampers me, because it is useless, because it
warps your mind. If you loved me, you would sacrifice the gratification
of your vanity to my happiness."

"The gratification of my vanity! It is then from vanity that I preserve,
that I cultivate these relations! _Mon Dieu!_ Must I then repeat to you,
Arthur, what I never say without sorrow and shame? I have been guilty,
let me, at least, do all I can not to aggravate my error."

"Now you are beginning with your remorse," said I, harshly; "a rupture
is not far distant, but, let me tell you, you might be anticipated."

"Ah, what are you saying? It is dreadful,--have I deserved it?" cried
Catherine, her eyes filling with tears.

"His Excellency the Russian ambassador," announced the footman.

Madame de Fersen had barely time to disappear behind the portière which
concealed the door between the parlour and her bedchamber.

"I am, like you, waiting for Madame de Fersen," I said to M. P. de
B----, "she is doubtless finishing her toilet. You are going to the
Chambers, I believe?"

"Yes; it will be a most brilliant and interesting sitting; they say that
Benjamin Constant, Foy, and Casimir Perier are going to speak, and that
M. de Villèle will answer."

Catherine entered, calm and composed, as if nothing had passed between
us.

Her control over herself angered me.

After a few unmeaning words M. P. de B---- remarked that it was getting
late, and it was best to start at once in order to find places in the
diplomatic gallery. He offered his arm to Madame de Fersen, who
suggested that I should go with them, accompanying the proposal with an
imploring glance to which I was insensible.

I left Madame de Fersen in a state of irritation, dissatisfied with her
and with myself.

My carriage drove me to the Tuileries, where I got down for a walk.

By chance I met Pommerive.

I had not seen him since I left Paris in the spring.

I felt so sad, so gloomy, that I was not sorry to find some distraction
for my thoughts.

"Where do you come from, M. de Pommerive?" I inquired.

"Don't speak of it! I have been for three months in Franche-Comté, at
St. Prix, with the D'Aranceys. Don't speak of it, it is disgusting!"

"They are certainly rich enough to give you some of those excellent
dinners you are so fond of, and for which you show yourself so grateful,
M. de Pommerive."

"The only way to show one's gratitude for a good dinner is to eat it
with pleasure," said the cynic. "I don't complain of the table at
D'Arancey's, they have first-rate fare. The father of D'Arancey has
stolen enough by his contracts and otherwise; he has brought about
enough fraudulent bankruptcies to enable his son to display all that
luxury. By the bye, do you know that he has as much right to call
himself D'Arancey, as I have to call myself Jeroboam! His name is simply
something like Polimard; now, this common, low name is not pleasing to
this fine gentleman, so, by means of a slight change, skilfully
substituting D'Aran for Poli, and cey for mard, he has changed the
distinguished name of Polimard into D'Arancey. He likes that better. You
may tell me that this bankrupt's son had no reason to cling to his name,
since he had none at all, for he had never been acknowledged by old
Polimard, who died the victim of an epizooty, which made havoc in his
district. This, however, is not a reason for him to take the name of the
D'Aranceys, and what is worse, their arms, which that vulgar and
impudent little creature, forsooth, calls her arms, and which she
displays, I believe, even on her scullery maids' kitchen aprons. This is
certainly very nice for the escutcheon of the D'Aranceys, whose name
unfortunately is extinct; without that, the Polimards, male and female,
should be whipped and branded, as ought to have been done to old
Polimard, the first of the name."

This time I did not have the courage to censure Pommerive; these people
were, in fact, such low-bred parvenus, their effrontery was so plebeian,
their back-stairs insolence so ridiculous, that I freely and willingly
relinquished them to his tender mercies. "But what has made you so
indignant with your excellent friends, M. de Pommerive?"

"Everything; because everything is first-class, and that their presence
spoils all. Surrounded by this household of common folks, it seemed to
me all the time that I was being entertained by the steward and
housekeeper of some absent lord, who were having fine sport in the
absence of their master. But that is not all. Would you believe it? This
Polimard-d'Arancey gets a fancy to set up a hunting retinue, and he has
dared, actually dared, to engage as his first huntsman the famous La
Brisée, who had just left the kennels of his Highness the Duke of
Bourbon. Of course you will understand that I made La Brisée feel so
ashamed at being chief huntsman to a M. Polimard, that I made him
desert, giving him, however, a recommendation to the Marquis D. H----,
where, at least, he will have an honourable position and be
appreciated."

"I see, M. de Pommerive, that you are not much changed; you are as ever
the most amiable of men."

"But you,--what are you doing? Still a statesman! A diplomat? Ah, by the
bye, talking of diplomats, do you still go to that idiot of a Russian
prince, that bad substitute for Potier and Brunet? I never set my foot
now inside his door, or rather inside his wife's door, for happily for
us he has taken himself away."

"And for what reason is the Princesse de Fersen deprived of the honour
of seeing you, M. de Pommerive?"

"Why? Because I generally do like every one else; and, excepting
diplomats and a few strangers, nobody in society sets a foot inside the
princess's door."

"And why is this?" I inquired, almost mechanically, of M. de Pommerive.

"Forsooth! It is no secret, everybody knows it. The beautiful Muscovite
is just simply a spy in high life."




CHAPTER XXVII


THE LAST EVENING


One more effort, and this cruel task will be at an end.

In vain I call upon my memory; I cannot remember what I said to
Pommerive, and believe I made no reply.

I only remember that I felt neither indignant nor angry, as I would have
been had this man uttered a calumny or an insult; on the contrary, I was
utterly overwhelmed in the presence of this terrible accusation! It
suddenly illumined the past with a sinister light, it abruptly aroused
those implacable suspicions, of which I at once felt the sharp sting.

My grief was such that my brain was frenzied.

Mechanically I returned home, finding my way by instinct.

By degrees, I regained the thread of my ideas.

I had already suffered so much from similar causes that I endeavoured to
struggle with all my might against this new suspicion.

I hoped to sift truth from falsehood, by submitting the past to the
horrible interpretation given to Madame de Fersen's life.

Armed with this infamous accusation, cold and calm, like a man about to
stake his life and honour on a chance, I set myself to this work of
hateful analysis.

This time, also, I cleared my thoughts, by writing them down, and I find
these notes. They contrast cruelly with the preceding radiant pages,
with those days of sunlight written formerly at the Grove.


PARIS, 13th December, 18--.

Let us examine the facts.

Madame de Fersen is accused of being a spy.

What credit does her conduct give to these infamous suspicions?

I meet Catherine at Khios. After several days of intercourse, I attempt
a declaration, which she severely repulses; then I surround her with the
most respectful attentions, I give her counsels the most delicate and
disinterested. If I do not utter the word love, everything in my tender
and eager attentions reveals this sentiment.

She remains cold, and offers me her friendship.

I again meet Catherine in Paris. In spite of my blind submission to
Irene's painful whims, in spite of the numberless proofs of the deepest
and most noble passion, one day, without cause, without hesitation,
under the most frivolous pretext, Catherine cruelly breaks with me.

Later, it is true, she tells me that jealousy alone was responsible for
her conduct.

She said that; but I remember the harshness of her accent, her steely
glance, which struck me to the heart.

She was doubtless feigning; she can, therefore, dissimulate; she is
false. I did not believe it.

The mysterious affection of which Irene was the bond is now broken.
Catherine loves me no more! She shows herself even ungrateful, as a
friend. I see her no more.

In despair, I seek distraction in work. I accept a position of apparent
importance with the minister; public opinion attributes to me an
exaggerated share in state affairs. From this time, Madame de Fersen,
until now so inflexible towards me, by degrees becomes less cold when
she meets me in society; her looks, the tone of her voice, do not
harmonise with the conventional trifling of her conversation; and, at
last, at a ball at the château, she comes resolutely towards me, with
the view of renewing our interrupted relations. I meet coldly these
advances, and the next morning she writes to me.

This she has confessed to me. This sudden change in her affections she
attributes to her joy at my breaking with Madame de V---- and to the
alarming condition in which her child had once more fallen.

I wish to believe her, for it would be odious to think that the abrupt
change from disdain to tenderness should have been brought about by the
hope of securing to herself a tool in the very heart of the French
cabinet.

I leave for Havre. Irene is at death's door; her mother recalls me. I
hasten, I save her.

During a whole month that I am by the child's bedside, does Catherine
utter one word of gratitude, one word of tenderness?

No.

We go to the Grove; she shows the same calm, cold feeling towards me.

But one day an official publication announces that I am to be called to
a high post, where state secrets culminate.

The evening of that very day, this woman, until then so austere, so
reserved, so chaste, throws herself suddenly into my arms.

It is true, she says she was drawn by her grateful admiration for a
sacrifice unknown to her until then.

If she is to be believed, what is her heart made of?

I have saved her child's life, and Catherine remains insensible.

I sustain a financial loss, and Catherine forgets all for my sake.

And yet I prefer to believe Catherine more sensitive to material
sacrifices, and almost indifferent to the soul's devotion, than to
believe she unblushingly gave herself to the future confidant of the
Minister of Foreign Affairs.

Those four months passed at the Grove were radiant, oh, very radiant for
me, whose happiness was pure, and not tinged with shame.

Only, at this moment, circumstances strike me which I had not previously
observed.

At the Grove, Catherine plied me with questions as to my labours with M.
de Sérigny; she interrogated me minutely as to the impressions or
memories which I retained. When I confessed frankly their
insignificance, and chose rather to speak of our love, she was annoyed
and pouted, she reproached me with being either too discreet or too
frivolous.

When I wished to abandon the ungrateful career which I had adopted in
idleness, Catherine employed all the resources of her mind, all her
influence, all her power over me to deter me from resigning my position.

It is true that these questions and this persuasion were alike used in
the name of the profound interest which she felt for me.

I believe it, for it would be outrageous to suppose that her reluctance
to see me abandon my career was prompted by her reluctance to forfeit
the price of her long premeditated error.

Since her return to Paris, what has her life been? Did she sacrifice at
my request her accustomed social relations? On the contrary, she
increased them, and her drawing-room has become a centre of diplomatic
intrigue.

Our long days of tender affection have given place to occupations which
are not those of a woman dominated by love.

If I sadly reproach her for this unhappy change, her answer is that she
must obey her husband's expressed wishes,--wishes that are all the more
sacred to her since she has been guilty of so censurable an error.

I believe her in this case, without hesitation. I believe her very
anxious to please the prince.

But I also have some rights.

I saved her child's life.

And what did she give me in return?

Herself, yes, she gave me herself.

This sacrifice of her honour, of her duties, has been either terrible
and intoxicating, or it has only been an infamous, an odious
calculation!

If this proof of love has been for her what it ever is for a virtuous,
passionate woman, a most agonising sacrifice, why did she then refuse to
abandon interests that were of the utmost insignificance in comparison
with the irreparable fault she had committed?

Are these interests dearer to her than her love? Is her love only
secondary to them?

It is, then, only a means, a pretext?

So be it; I have been the puppet of an intriguing woman, but she is very
beautiful, and I am only half her dupe.


Such was the abominable theme I developed with the diabolical power of
paradoxes.

I was so incensed that I firmly believed I had wrestled against these
frightful suspicions; and I became convinced of these horrors with the
same bitter satisfaction of the man who discovers the vile snare into
which he has fallen.

As an executioner I struck pitilessly, as a victim I moaned bitterly.

The remembrance of Hélène, of Marguerite, of Falmouth,--nothing could
bring me to my senses.

From the confirmation of so much infamy to the hate and scorn it
inspired, there was but one step for my fierce monomania.

From this point of view, all that was noble and generous in my conduct
seemed to me shamefully ridiculous.

I was oppressed by these reflections when this letter from Catherine was
handed to me:


"A sad, unhappy petitioner asks you to be kind and indulgent towards
her; she wants you to pardon all that she has suffered to-day; she hopes
to be alone this evening, and will expect you. Come; she is, moreover,
resolved that Europe shall no longer be your rival."


In my state of mind, this letter so tenderly imploring, this simple
allusion to my reproaches, seemed to me so humbly offensive, so coldly
insulting, that I was on the point of writing to Madame de Fersen that I
would never again see her.

But I changed my mind.

I wrote to her that I would call on her that evening.

I waited for the hour with frightful anxiety.

I had laid my plan.

At ten o'clock I went to Madame de Fersen's, expecting to find her
alone.

A thousand confused thoughts were rushing through my mind. Anger, hate,
love, a remorseful anticipation of the wrong I was about to commit, a
vague instinct of the injustice of my suspicions, all combined to put me
in a feverish exasperated condition, the consequences of which I could
not foresee.

Contrary to my expectations, Catherine had several persons with her.

This new proof of what I called her falsehood incensed me; for a moment
I was on the point of turning back and abandoning my purpose, but an
irresistible force drove me, and I entered.

The sight of people, and the control which I had always possessed over
myself, at once changed my violent anger into a polished, cold, and
biting irony.

This scene is still present to me. Catherine, seated near the fireplace,
was chatting with a friend.

My first look was doubtless very terrible, for Madame de Fersen,
bewildered, suddenly turned pale.

The conversation continued; I shared in it with the greatest calmness,
even asserting my superiority, for I was gay, almost brilliant.

For those who were unacquainted with the circumstances, there was
nothing extraordinary; it was a pleasant evening of friendly
conversation, like a thousand other evenings; but between Catherine and
me, a mute, mysterious, tragic scene was being enacted.

Our way of understanding each other by half words, of seeking and
divining the value of an inflection of the voice, of a gesture, or a
smile, enabled me now to make Catherine undergo the reaction of my
odious thoughts.

At my entrance, Catherine was amazed.

She endeavoured, however, to recover herself, and, to show me that she
had received people against her will, she graciously thanked M. de ----
for having forced an entrance to acquaint her with the result of the
vote which had been taken at a very late hour. "Without that," continued
Catherine, "I would have been deprived of the pleasure of seeing several
of my friends, who took advantage of the breach you made to invade my
solitude."

An imploring glance at me accompanied these words. While continuing my
conversation with M. de ----, my neighbour, I replied by so scornful a
smile that Catherine all but betrayed herself.

What shall I say? All these attempts which she indirectly made to calm
me, or to grasp at the cause of so deep a resentment, were thus cruelly
repulsed.

She knew too well the various expressions of my countenance, her heart
was too much in unison with mine, she was of too sensitive a nature, not
to divine that it was not a question of a lover's quarrel, but that a
great danger menaced her love.

She had a presentiment of this danger; in despair she sought its cause,
and was obliged to smile, and to follow an indifferent conversation.

This torture lasted one hour.

By degrees, her strength and self-control abandoned her; two or three
times her absent-mindedness had been noticed; and, at last, there was
such a change in her features that M. de ---- inquired if she were not
well.

This question confused her; she answered she was well, and rang the bell
for tea.

It was eleven o'clock.

She took advantage of the momentary disturbance caused by the
preparations for tea to come near me, saying:

"Will you come and see a picture which is offered me for sale? It is
there in the small parlour."

"I am not much of a connoisseur," I replied, "but if I cannot venture on
advising you, madame, I promise to give you truthfully my impressions."

I followed her into the next room.

At the risk of being seen, she took my hand, and in a voice almost
extinct she said: "Arthur, have pity on me! What I am suffering is
beyond my strength, beyond my courage!"

At this moment, M. de ---- also entered the parlour to see the picture.

Madame de Fersen had so completely lost her head, that I had abruptly to
withdraw my hand from hers.

I believe M. de ---- noticed the movement, for he appeared confused.

"This picture is very good," I said to Catherine, "the expression is
charming. Art has never more closely approached to nature."

Madame de Fersen was so weak that she leaned upon an easy chair.

M. de ---- admired the picture complacently. The servant announced to
the princess that tea was ready.

We returned to the drawing-room. Catherine could scarcely stand.

According to her custom, she stood near the table pouring out the tea;
she offered me a cup, and was gazing at me almost wildly, when the
cracking of a whip and the jingling of bells were heard in the
courtyard.

Struck by a terrible presentiment, Catherine allowed the cup to slip
from her fingers just as I was about to take hold of it, and cried, in a
strangled voice: "What is that?"

"A thousand pardons for my awkwardness, madame, and for the noise those
wretches are making. As I take my departure to-night, I have taken the
liberty to order my travelling carriage to come for me here, not wishing
to lose one moment of the precious time I might enjoy your society."

Catherine could not resist this last shock; she forgot herself
completely, and, in a smothered voice, resting her trembling hands upon
my arm, she cried: "It is impossible, you are not leaving, you shall not
leave! I will not allow you to leave!"

At the movement of general consternation, at the confused, embarrassed
expression of the spectators of this scene, I could see that Madame de
Fersen's reputation, hitherto unassailed, was now for ever lost.

I remained inflexible.

Gently disengaging my arm from her hands, I said:

"I feel so happy and proud, madame, at the regret my departure seems to
give you, that I would already be thinking of my return, were it not
unfortunately impossible to predict it." Then in saluting her I added:
"Here, madame, are the particulars you asked of me."

And I handed her a duplicate of the commentary I had written on her
love.

Catherine no longer heard me; she had fallen prostrated into an
armchair, mechanically holding in her hands the notes I had left her.

I took my departure.

The next evening I was here,--at Serval.

Three months ago I heard that Irene was dead,--dead, doubtless, of grief
at seeing me no more.

Madame de Fersen has returned to Russia with her husband.

To put the crowning stroke to my remorse and despair, I also learned
that the Prince de Fersen had been on the point of obtaining the post of
Russian ambassador to France, but that suddenly he had withdrawn.

This explained Catherine's persistence in her diplomatic relations.

She wanted to assist her husband in obtaining an important post, in
order that they might remain in France, and be with me.


Since the day following that terrible evening I reside at Serval, this
old and gloomy ancestral château.

When I heard of Irene's death, I became almost insane.

I loathe myself as her murderer.

My life here is isolated and desolate.

For the last six months I have seen no one, not a soul.

Each day I meditate for hours before my father's portrait.

I had charged myself with the task of writing this journal.

My task is now accomplished.

I have been the cause of suffering to some innocent creatures, but I,
also, have suffered much. Ah, _mon Dieu!_ am I not still suffering?

What is my future?

Before me life is dark and gloomy; I am pursued by remorse for the past.

What is my fate?

Am I to perish by suicide? Am I to die the violent death Irene predicted
for me?

What thoughts!

And this very day I am twenty-eight.




MARIE BELMONT




CHAPTER XXVIII


MARIE BELMONT


SERVAL, January 20, 18--.

Who would have said six months ago that I would ever take up this
journal again, or, rather, that I would ever recover from the apathy of
heart and mind into which I had been thrown by my rupture with Madame de
Fersen, by the death of Irene?

Such, though, is the case.

And yet my despair was frightful!

To-day, though the remembrance of that time gives me sore pain, a
distant hope, new sensations mitigate that soreness.

I smile, sadly when I read in my journal, which I have just been looking
over, these words repeated so often:

"Never was there greater sorrow--"

"Never was there more happiness--"

"Never can I forget--"

And now new joys have obliterated those sorrows; new troubles have faded
those joys. Thus day after day, forgetfulness, that dark, cold tide,
creeps up higher, higher, and swallows up in the black abyss of the past
the souvenirs that time has discoloured.

My mother! my father! Hélène! Marguerite! Catherine! you to whom I owe
so much sorrow and so much felicity! Space or the tomb now separates you
all from me; and I scarcely think of you at all!

Perhaps, alas! it will be even so with the feelings and impressions that
fill my mind at the present time.

In spite of which I cannot help believing that they will last for ever.

Ah, my father! my father! you told me a very dreadful, a very dangerous
truth, when you affirmed that forgetfulness was the only reality of our
lives.


Thus, then, will I open this journal that I believed was closed for
ever.

I believed, too, that my heart was closed to all tender and happy
impressions.

But since I can still suffer, I will continue to write:

Three months ago on a cloudy autumn morning I went out early. A cold,
thick fog was falling. I followed the edge of the forest, and was
walking dreamily along, while behind me came an old black pony, the
venerable Black that my cousin Hélène used to ride so often in the old
days.

As I went along thus, with my head bowed towards the ground, I saw the
newly made tracks of a great wild boar.

Having lately been seeking to divert myself by violent exercise, I had
brought thirty fox-hounds over from London, and begun to hunt in fairly
good style, to the great delight of old Lefort, one of my father's
"whippers-in," whom I had retained as head keeper.

In following, out of curiosity, the trace of the boar, whose presence in
the forest had been unknown up to this time, I left the edge of the
woods and plunged deep into the undergrowth. After walking about three
leagues I arrived at a little farm, called the _ferme des Prés_, which
was situated on the confines of immense fields. Here I lost trace of the
wild boar.

This farm had recently been leased to a widow, named Madame Kerouët. My
superintendent had spoken to me of the great activity of this woman, who
came from the neighbourhood of Nantes, the death of her husband having
caused her to quit the place that she helped him to farm in Brittany. I
thought I would profit by the chance that had led me to the farm to make
the acquaintance of my new tenant.

_La ferme des Prés_ was in a very picturesque situation. Its principal
building, surrounded by a vast courtyard, backed up on the edge of the
forest. This habitation, which had formerly been a hunting lodge, was
built in the form of a little castle, flanked by two towers. An arched
doorway, surmounted by a coat-of-arms, led in to the ground floor. Time
had given a gray colouring to these old walls, which were built with
antique solidity. The tiles of the roof were all covered with moss, and
clouds of pigeons swarmed around the pointed cone of one of the towers
which had been changed into a pigeon-house.

Contrary to the custom of most of our farmers, the courtyard of the
farm, instead of being littered with rubbish, was extremely clean and
well kept. The ploughs, the harrows, the drills, were all newly painted
of a fine olive-green colour, and were symmetrically arranged under a
vast shed, along with the harness of the workhorses and yokes of the
oxen.

A thick trellis divided the courtyard in its entire length, and
separated it into two parts, one of which was given up to fowls of every
kind, while the other was well sprinkled sand the colour of yellow
ochre, and led up to the arched door of the little manor-house, on each
side of which were great clumps of hollyhocks and sunflowers.

I was examining with satisfaction the exterior of the farmhouse, when I
heard with the greatest surprise the harmonious warbling of a sweet,
clear voice.

These sounds seemed to come from a little window. It was high and
narrow, and was placed near the middle of one of the towers, where it
was curtained by the thick vines of the morning-glory and nasturtiums.

After preluding thus, the voice was silent for awhile, but soon broke
out again, singing the romance of the willow from Rossini's "Othello."

The voice was of remarkable quality, and showed high cultivation. It was
very expressive, and full of sweetness and sadness.

I was greatly astonished. The song had ceased and I was still listening,
when I saw a woman of fifty or thereabouts appear on the sill of the
little arched doorway. She wore a black dress and a cap which was as
white as the snow.

When she noticed me, she gave me a look of uneasy interrogation.

She was of medium height, sturdy, brown-eyed, and sunburnt. Her face had
a remarkable expression of frankness and good temper.

"What can I do to serve you, monsieur?" she asked, with a half courtesy,
which was no doubt due to my poor old pony, and my costume of
gentleman-farmer, as the English say.

"It is beginning to rain, madame. Will you permit me to wait here awhile
under shelter, and tell me if I am very far from the village of
Blémur?"

This question was nothing but a pretext to gain time, and try to
discover the Desdemona.

"The village of Blémur, blessed Virgin! but you will never get there
before the black night, monsieur, though you have got a famous little
horse there," said the _fermière_, as she examined Black with the eye
of a connoisseur.

"Must I follow the highroad of the forest to go to Blémur?"

"Straight ahead, monsieur; one way you go to Blémur, and the other way
to the château de Serval, and it is three good leagues, they say so at
least, for I haven't been very long in this part of the country."

"Then you will allow me, madame, to wait here under the shed until the
shower is over?"

"I can do better than that, monsieur; you will be much better off here
in the house, come in if you please."

"I will be very glad to accept your offer, madame, though seeing such a
beautifully kept shed, I could easily fancy myself in a salon."

This compliment pleased Madame Kerouët immensely, for she said, in an
important way:

"Ah, _dame!_ that is the way we always keep our farms in our Brittany."

All the while I was talking with the _fermière_ I had not taken my eyes
off the little window in the tower; several times I fancied I saw a
white hand cautiously push aside some branches of the verdure which
covered the window.

Madame Kerouët preceded me into the farmhouse. I tied up Black, and
followed the good woman into her home.

To the left of the entrance door was a kitchen ornamented with all its
accessories of copper and tin, which two strong peasant girls were
busily scouring and which shone like gold and silver.

On the right we entered a great chamber, where there were two beds with
twisted columns hung with curtains of green serge which were embroidered
in red. These two beds were separated by a high chimneypiece where a
good fire of pine cones was flaming. On the mantelpiece the only
ornaments were an old looking-glass with its frame of red lacquer, and
two wax statuettes under glass shades,--a St. John with his lamb, and a
St. Genevieve with her fawn.

Between the two windows with their little diamond panes there hung on
the wall an antique clock called a cuckoo; it was of gray wood painted
with pink and blue flowers, and its two weights hung down on two cords
of unequal length.

There was a spinning-wheel, a great armchair covered with tapestry,
which was sacred to the mistress, a chair for Desdemona, two stools for
the servant-maids, and a dresser loaded with faience. These articles,
with a round, well-waxed walnut table, completed the furniture of the
room, which served as a parlour, dining-room, and bedroom.

From the diamond window-panes to the floor everything shone with
cleanliness. From the brown beams which crossed the ceiling were hanging
long garlands of grapes dried for use in winter, and the whitewashed
walls were ornamented with a set of coloured engravings framed in black
wood, which illustrated the story of the Prodigal Son.

The mistress received my compliments on the neatness of her house with
evident pride. While I was speaking the door opened, and the young woman
who sang so well came in. When she saw me, she blushed, and started out
again.

"Stay with us, Marie," Madame Kerouët said to her, affectionately.

I could not look on the enchanting beauty of that face without thinking
of the Holy Virgins of Raphaël.

My admiration was so marked, my astonishment so great, on finding such
beauty hidden in a farmhouse,--and I took no pains to conceal my
feelings,--that Marie was quite taken back.

"This is my niece, monsieur," said the _fermière_, who neither noticed
my surprise nor Desdemona's trouble. "She is the daughter of my poor
brother, lieutenant in the Old Guard, who was killed at Waterloo. Thanks
to the protection of Monseigneur the Bishop of Nantes, we were permitted
to send Marie to St. Denis, where she was educated like a demoiselle.
She remained there until her marriage, which took place at Nantes about
a year ago." Madame Kerouët said this with a sigh. Then she continued:
"But sit down, monsieur; and thou, Marie, go get a bottle of wine and a
bit of warm _galette._"

"A thousand thanks, madame," said I, "I would rather not take anything.
As soon as the rain is over I will continue on my journey."

To keep herself in countenance, Marie sat down to her aunt's
spinning-wheel.

"Perhaps you are on your way to the château de Serval?"

"Non, madame; I told you I was going to Blémur."

"Ah, yes, to be sure, to Blémur; pardon, monsieur,--so much the better
for you."

"How is that, madame? Is the master of Serval inhospitable?"

"I don't know anything about that, monsieur; but they do say that he has
no more wish to see human faces than human faces have to see him,"
replied Madame Kerouët.

"And why is that? Does he wish to live alone?"

"Hum, hum!" said the _fermière_, shaking her head, "I have only just
come to these parts, and don't know the truth of the ugly stories they
tell about him; besides, monsieur, the count is our master, and a very
good master, they say; so I won't speak of what is none of my business.
But, Marie, you are tangling all my flax again," she called out to the
young woman. "Never wilt thou know how to use a distaff; hand it to me."

"And you, madame," I said to Marie, "have you any more certain
information than madame your aunt as to the redoubtable inhabitant of
Serval?"

"No, monsieur, I have only heard them say that M. the count lived a very
retired life; and as I love solitude myself, I can understand that
others care for it as well."

"You have so many means of charming your retreat, madame, that I can
readily believe it must be attractive; in the first place, you are an
excellent musician. I can say so, because I have just been fortunate
enough to hear you sing."

"And she can draw and paint, too," added Madame Kerouët, admiringly.

"Then, madame," said I to Marie, "I must beg you, in the name of the
cherished occupation which we share in common, to ask your aunt to grant
me the permission of making some sketches of this farm whose situation I
find so charming."

"You have no need of asking Marie's aid for that," said Madame Kerouët;
"you can make as many sketches as you wish, it can do nobody any harm."
I thanked the _fermière_; and, not wishing to make too long a first
visit, I mounted my pony and started off.

Through caprice, I desired to keep up my _incognito_, which would be
easy enough for awhile at least, for the Field Farm was quite a distance
from Serval, and the tenants and farm hands from the one place hardly
ever came over to the other.

The day after my first interview with Marie I furnished myself with the
complete outfit of an artist; for since my return to Serval, I, too, had
sought distraction in painting, and, mounted on good old Black, I
started for the Field Farm.

Thanks to my frequent visits, a certain amount of friendliness was
established between Marie, her aunt, and myself.

As I never saw any M. Belmont, I supposed him to be on a journey, and
asked no questions about him. I drew the farm from every point of view,
and I gave two or three of the sketches to Madame Kerouët, who was
enchanted with them. Very often Marie came out and sketched with me. She
had a great deal of talent.

Contrary to the habit of most young girls, Marie had profited by the
excellent education that is afforded in such establishments as St.
Denis. Fond of learning, she had neglected none of her studies, none of
the useful or agreeable arts that were taught in that institution; so
that, being naturally gifted, she had cultivated her talents to the
utmost. To a solid, extended, and varied instruction, she added a real
vocation for art. But Marie was quite unconscious of the rarity of such
an assemblage of delightful talents. She never showed the least vanity
in her superiority, but would often, with a schoolgirl's satisfaction,
tell me of her former successes in history, painting, or music, as I had
heard other women tell of their triumphs in coquetry.

Marie was only eighteen, and had the happy and fanciful imagination of a
child. When she was in a confidential mood, I found her to be simple,
sweet-tempered, and gay. She possessed that innocent gaiety which is the
outcome of a serene soul and a life of intelligent and noble occupation.
The more I studied her guileless nature, the more attached to her I
became.

I did not feel for Marie a violent and wild passion, but when she was
near me I was so perfectly and entirely happy that I had no desire for
anything further, nor any regret for the turmoil of a passionate love.
Strangely, though Marie was so angelically beautiful, though her form
was charming, I was more interested in her wit, her candour, and the
thousand aspirations of her young soul, than in her physical
perfections. I had never made her the least compliment on her beauty,
but I had never made any secret of the interest I felt in her talents
and her exquisite natural gifts.

Although she was a married woman, she possessed such a mysterious and
virginal charm that my behaviour towards her was respectful and even
singularly timid.

Madame Kerouët, Marie's aunt, was a woman of rare good sense. She was
high-minded and kind-hearted. Her piety, which was sweet and fervent,
inspired her to do the most charitable actions. No poor person ever left
the farm without having received, besides a trifling sum of money, some
of those words of encouragement more precious than alms.

Little by little I discovered in this good woman a very treasure-house
of kindness and practical virtue. Her conversations were always
interesting to me, for she could tell me many curious facts concerning
agriculture. Sometimes her perfect faith gave an elevation to her
thoughts that surprised me, and I would say to myself, "What is the
secret of a religion that can so illuminate a simple mind?"

I had been visiting the farm assiduously for two months when one day
Madame Kerouët said to me:

"It must astonish you to see Marie thus living the life of a widow. As
you are our friend I am going to tell you the whole sad story. Figure to
yourself, monsieur, that my husband and I had the lease of a farm at
Thouars near Nantes. The farm belonged to M. Duvallon, a rich ship-owner
of the town, who owed the beginning of his fortune to having sailed as a
pirate during the war with England.

"Though he was surly, M. Duvallon was kind; he was very fond of my
husband. One day Kerouët told him about our niece, who was soon to come
home from St. Denis. With her fine education, that dear child could not
marry a peasant, and we were not rich enough to marry her to a monsieur.
Seeing our state of embarrassment, M. Duvallon said to Kerouët: 'If
your niece is reasonable I will take it upon myself to settle her in
life.'

"'With whom?' asked my husband.

"'With one of my old comrades, a sea captain who wishes to give up the
sea and live as a good bourgeois. He has just come here. He is rich. He
is not a dandy, but he is as good as gold and as true as steel, and I am
sure he will make your niece perfectly happy.'

"Kerouët came home and told me all this. It was a rare piece of good
luck for us and, above all, for Marie, the poor orphan.

"This was in the month of October last year. Marie being now eighteen
years old could no longer remain at St. Denis. So we sent for her to
come to the farm, and arranged for a day on which M. Duvallon should
bring his friend, M. Belmont, to see our niece before coming to any
conclusion, you understand.

"That day, it was a Sunday, our farm was as clean as a pin. Kerouët,
Marie, and I were all decked out in our best, when M. Duvallon arrives
in a cabriolet with his friend. What could we do, monsieur? Without
doubt his friend was not what you call a _joli garçon_, but he had the
cross of honour, the look of a brave man, and he seemed very well
preserved for his age, which might be from forty-five to fifty.

"This monsieur was very amiable to us. From time to time I would look at
Marie; she did not seem to be particularly taken with M. Belmont, but I
knew she was reasonable, and then, monsieur, with her education I felt
that what she needed above all things was a certain amount of means, and
that we ought to sacrifice a great many things to that end. It was a
misfortune, no doubt, but we were not in a position to choose. When
those messieurs were gone, we told Marie frankly what it was all about.

"_Dame!_ monsieur, we all shed a lot of tears, she and I and my poor
Kerouët, for our poor dear child was very young, and M. Belmont was
very old for her, but at least Marie would be provided for in the future
and we could die in peace and tranquillity.

"She understood all that and was resigned, so the next day when M.
Duvallon came back we gave him our word.

"For a fortnight M. Belmont came to see us every day. Folks say that
sailors are rough and surly. He was very polite, very kind, very
complaisant to Marie, so she ended by seeing him without dislike and was
touched by the proofs of affection that he showed her.

"Then what was more pleasing to us was that Marie was not to be
separated from us, for he meant to buy a little country place near
Thouars, and so we should be able to see each other every day.

"Well, at last she got so used to seeing M. Belmont that she consented
to paint his portrait. She keeps it up there in her study in the tower,
where she doesn't permit any one to enter. It is as like as like can be.

"About the last of December, M. Belmont told us that he was going to
Paris to buy the wedding presents, the marriage was to take place at
Nantes during the month of January.

"At the end of a fortnight, M. Belmont came back with splendid things
for Marie.

"Since the sad event which has separated us, I have remembered that
after his return from Paris M. Belmont often seemed to be very much
depressed; but he was always good and kind to us; only he insisted that
instead of waiting until the first of February, the date fixed for the
marriage, the wedding should take place sooner.

"We consented to this, and they were married on the seventeenth of
January; it was a Friday. In the morning we signed the contract. M.
Belmont settled on Marie six thousand francs a year. For folks like us
it was very fine, was it not, monsieur?

"After signing the contract we went to the _mairie_, and then to the
church, and we all came back to dinner to the country house of M.
Duvallon, who was M. Belmont's best man.

"We were all seated at the table and had got as far as dessert. M.
Belmont had just begun to sing some verses he had composed on his
marriage, the poor dear man, when all of a sudden there arrived from
Nantes one of M. Duvallon's servants. He hands a letter to his master.
M. Duvallon turns pale, gets up from the table and cries out, 'Belmont!
listen!' I remember that poor Belmont was singing at that moment a verse
that began like this: 'Hymen waves his torch.'

"M. Belmont gets up, but he has hardly read the letter which Duvallon
shows him when he makes a face,--ah, monsieur, such a terrible face,
that I have yet to understand how a man who had ordinarily such a kind
look could ever take on such an expression of ferocity.

"Then, controlling himself, he goes up to Marie, kisses her, and says:
'Don't worry about me, my _petite femme_, thou shalt have news of me
very soon;' then he disappeared with Duvallon, who said to us, as he
went out: 'Belmont is compromised in a political affair
like--_carbonaro._' Yes, that is the word, _carbonaro_," added Madame
Kerouët, in recalling her souvenirs. "'He must escape, his life depends
on it. If they come here to arrest him, try and keep the _commissaire_
here as long as possible.'

"They had hardly been gone a quarter of an hour when an officer of the
gendarmerie arrives in a carriage with a _commissaire_ of police, as
they had foreseen. They ask for M. Belmont, sea captain.

"You know very well that we said never a word. They seek everywhere, but
find no one, and they keep that up for at least two hours.

"The _commissaire_ was about to give it up when some one of the company,
having by accident spoken of the three-master _La Belle Alexandrine_,
which was to sail that day from Nantes, the brigadier of gendarmerie
cried out: 'And the tide is high at three o'clock! And now it is five!
Before we can get back to Nantes it will be seven o'clock. If our man
means to get away on that ship, he will be out of the mouth of the river
by seven o'clock this evening, and beyond our reach.'

"Thereupon they all get into the carriage with the _commissaire_, and
start back for Nantes at a gallop; but they got there too late. That
poor dear Belmont had been lucky enough to embark on _La Belle
Alexandrine_, and was off to Havana. M. Duvallon came the next day to
tell us all about it.

"Alas! monsieur, misfortunes never come alone. Two months after all
these events, my poor Kerouët died of lung fever.

"M. Duvallon sold the farm he owned at Thouars, and I should have been
without resources if the superintendent of the château of Serval, who
was acquainted with Kerouët, and knew that I was capable of managing a
farm, had not proposed that I should rent this one, where I am very
contented, but alas, I regret every day my poor Kerouët, and am still
very uneasy as to the fate of M. Belmont, who has only written to us
once by a vessel from Nantes which _La Belle Alexandrine_ met at sea.

"In his letter, Belmont told us not to worry, and that one of these days
he would return and surprise us. As for Marie, I cannot say that she
grieves very much for M. Belmont, the poor dear child, she knew him too
little for that; but, monsieur, I am sorry for all this on her account,
for should I die to-morrow what would become of her?

"To complete all, she is so scrupulous that it is impossible to get her
to decide to touch a cent of the six thousand francs which M. Belmont
settled on her, and which M. Duvallon sends her every three months. We
take the money to a notary at Nantes, and there it will stay until
Belmont comes back again, and that will be the Lord knows when."

Such was the recital of Madame Kerouët.

In fact, about the time of M. Belmont's departure, the police had
discovered several Liberal plots. It was a time when secret societies
were organising on a formidable scale; therefore, it was quite possible
that he had been seriously mixed up in a conspiracy against the
government.

Since having this confidential conversation with her aunt, Marie
appeared lovelier than ever to me, and more charming.

So I continued my daily visits to the farm; sometimes even, when it was
snowing or excessively cold, good Madame Kerouët invited me to stay
there all night, and became quite provoked when I proposed starting off
in the dark to go through the forest by the ill-kept road which led to
Blémur, where I was supposed to live.

If I decided to remain, Marie would innocently show how pleased she was;
there would be almost a little fête at the farm. Madame Kerouët busied
herself about the details of the dinner, and Marie, who slept in her
aunt's room, with attentive and gracious hospitality saw that nothing
was wanting in the little room destined for me, which was up in one of
the towers.

That hospitality so kindly and thoughtful touched me deeply; but what
proved to me the purity of sentiment of these two women, and their
generous confidence in me, was the fact, that they never thought for a
moment that the frequency of my visits might compromise them. My arrival
always pleased them; I enlivened and brightened their solitude; and if I
thanked them with effusion for all their kindness to me, Madame Kerouët
would say, naïvely: "Should not we poor country women rather be
grateful that you, monsieur, an artist (they supposed I was a painter),
should help us to pass our long winter evenings so pleasantly, coming
almost every day, three leagues to come and three leagues to go back
again,--such horrid weather, too! _Tenez_, M. Arthur," said the
good-hearted woman. "I don't know how it has come about, but now you are
like one of our own family, and if you had to give up your visits we
would be quite miserable and sad, is not that so, Marie?"

"Oh, certainly we would, my aunt," said Marie, with adorable candour.

I knew that Marie had very few books. She spoke perfectly well both
English and Italian. I therefore sent to Paris for a set of books, and
ordered them to be sent by way of Nantes, and from Nantes to be
forwarded to the farm.

Just as I had hoped, the present of the books was attributed to M.
Belmont, or to his friend, M. Duvallon.

By such means, I succeeded in surrounding Marie and her aunt with a
certain degree of comfort which was until then wanting. Little at a time
furniture and carpets arrived at the farm, and were received joyfully as
an attention from the exile or his friend.

Filled with gratitude, Marie wrote a charming letter of thanks to M.
Duvallon, who answered her saying that he did not understand a word of
Madame Belmont's gratitude.

Fearing discovery, I begged Madame Kerouët not to speak any more of
these presents, making her believe that M. Belmont had good reasons for
wishing for secrecy.

Marie's birthday was soon to be celebrated. On that anniversary she was
to permit me to enter the mysterious little room she called her study,
and which I had not been allowed to see before.

Knowing that the room was exactly like the one I inhabited in the
opposite tower, such times as I slept all night at the farm, I had sent
from Paris, still by the way of Nantes, all that was needed to furnish
it with elegance. One of Marie's greatest regrets was that she had
neither piano nor harp. I sent then for these two instruments, which
were to arrive at the farm in time for Marie's birthday. All these
details gave me infinite satisfaction.

Every day, well wrapped up, I started from Serval on my pony, braving
the rain and the snow. I arrived at the farm, where I found a bright
fire crackling in my room. I dressed myself with some care in spite of
the everlasting teasing of the worthy _fermière_, who reproached me for
being too _coquet_, then I went down into the _grande chambre._

If the weather was not too bad, Marie took my arm and we sallied forth
to affront the wind and cold, climb the mountainsides, where we gathered
plants for Marie's herbarium, or tramp through the forest, where we
would amuse ourselves by startling the doe with her faun, from her
hiding-place in these solitary glades.

During these long walks, Marie, who was always lively, laughed and joked
like a schoolgirl, and treated me like a brother. In her chaste
innocence she often made me undergo severe trials. Sometimes it was her
fur collar to fasten, sometimes to push up her long hair under her hat,
or to fasten the lace of her shoe, which had become undone.

So, in those long tramps, as I would gaze on the lovely face of Marie,
which under its curls, all powdered with sleet, looked like a rose
covered with snow,--how many times an avowal came to my lips! How often
was I on the point of declaring my love! But Marie, crossing both of her
arms on mine, would lean on me with such confidence, would look at me
with such candour and security, that each day I was fain to put off this
declaration until the next.

I was fearful that, if I risked a premature word, I might destroy all
this tranquil happiness.

I waited then patiently. I was not deceived as to the sentiments I had
inspired in Marie's breast; without being foolishly conceited or
ridiculously vain, I could not withstand the evidence of my own eyes.
For the last two months and more I had seen her almost every day. My
attentions to her, to one so young, so unsophisticated, so little
accustomed to the ways of the world, had made a deep impression on her;
but I had recognised in her such high principles, such decided religious
sentiment, and such a deep sense of duty, that I felt I would have to
undergo a long struggle, perhaps a painful one, although a thousand
trifles showed me that Marie cared for me with a measure of affection of
which she herself was most likely ignorant.

In the evening, after one of my dinners at the farm, Madame Kerouët,
seated in her great armchair at the chimney-corner, would spin off a
distaff of flax, while Marie and I, seated at the same table, arranged
the plants we had collected for our herbariums in the course of our
winter walks.

When fixing the slight stalks on paper, our hands would often touch.
Often when we were both leaning over the table my hair would be pressed
against Marie's forehead, or I would feel her warm breath caressing my
cheek.

At such times she would blush, her breast would heave rapidly, and
sometimes her hand would tremble on the paper.

Then, as if awakening from a dream, she would say to me, pretending to
be reproachful: "See, now, how badly you have placed that plant."

"It is your fault," I would answer, laughing. "You neither help me, nor
hold the paper."

"Not at all. It is you who have not the least patience, you are always
afraid of getting gum on your fingers when you are pasting the little
bands."

"Ah, what terrible wranglers!" said Madame Kerouët, "one of you is no
better than the other!"

At other times, we took turns at reading aloud some of the works of
Walter Scott, in which Madame Kerouët took great interest. Marie had a
clear, sweet voice, and one of my greatest pleasures was to listen to
her as she read.

But it was a greater pleasure still to watch her. So, when the time came
for me to read, if I found any allusion to my love, I would first read
the phrases with my eyes, and then repeat them aloud from memory, fixing
on Marie a passionate look. Sometimes Marie would lower her eyes, and
put on a severe expression, but then, at others, she would blush, and
with the end of her pretty forefinger make me an imperious sign to keep
my eyes on my book.

Another trick that I invented was this: I would improvise whole
passages, and introduce them into the book I was reading, so that when
the situation permitted me I could give Marie a more distinct insight as
to my love for her.

Thus, one evening, in that chaste and passionate scene where Ivanhoe
declares his love for the beautiful Saxon, I substituted for the speech
of the Crusader a long monologue, in which I made the most direct
allusions to Marie and myself, by recalling a thousand souvenirs of our
walks and talks.

Marie seemed quite overcome,--troubled. She looked at me reprovingly.

I stopped reading.

"I don't wish to interrupt you, M. Arthur," said Madame Kerouët, "for I
don't think I ever heard you read so well as you have to-day."

Then putting down her distaff, she said, naïvely: "Ah, a woman would
surely have a heart of stone not to have pity on a lover who talked like
that. I know very little about it, but it seems to me that one could say
no more than what Ivanhoe says,--it is all so true and natural."

"Oh, it is really all very beautiful," said Marie, "but M. Arthur must
be tired. I will read now in my turn."

As she took, in spite of my resistance, the book from my hand, she
looked for the improvised passage, and not finding it said, saucily:

"The pages that you have just been reading are so beautiful that I want
to read them over again."

"Thou art right, Marie," said her aunt; "I, too, would like to hear them
once more."

"Ah, _mon Dieu_, ten o'clock, already!" said I, to change the subject.
"I must be going."

"So it is, already!" said Madame Kerouët, as she looked at the clock.

Usually, when I started to go, Marie would go to the window to see what
sort of weather it was. This evening she remained motionless.

Her aunt said to her: "Why don't you look to see if it is snowing, my
child?"

Marie rose up and came back, saying, "It is snowing hard."

"It snows hard. What a heartless way you say that! You don't seem to
remember that M. Arthur has three leagues to ride in the pitch-dark, and
right through the forest."

I tried to meet Marie's eyes. She turned away her head; so I said to
her, sadly, "_Bon soir_, madame."

"_Bon soir_, M. Arthur," she replied, without looking at me.

I heard the impatient whinnying of Black; the farm boy was bringing him
from the stable. I was just leaving the room, when Marie, seizing an
opportunity when her aunt was not looking, came close to me, and, taking
my hand, said, with deep emotion:

"I am very angry with you. You do not know how much you have distressed
me!"

The words were not precisely an avowal; and yet, in spite of the dark,
in spite of the storm, I rode back to Serval with a joyful heart.


From that evening I began to take hope.

That was a week ago.

To-morrow is Marie's birthday, a solemn festival, when we are going to
inaugurate the mysterious room in the tower.




CHAPTER XXIX


THE PORTRAIT


SERVAL, 10th December, 18--.

I can scarcely believe what I have seen to-day.

What a strange fate is mine!

This morning, as we had agreed, I went to the farm.

It was the anniversary of Marie's birth; she had promised to allow me to
enter the mysterious chamber that she occupies in one of the towers. It
is there that she has had placed the harp and piano which recently
arrived from Nantes.

"Come and see my retreat," said Marie to me, after breakfast.

We went up into the tower with Madame Kerouët.

We enter the room; what do I behold?

Facing me, in a large gold frame, there stands the portrait of the
pirate of Porquerolles! the pilot of Malta!

"How did you come by that picture? Do you know who that man is?" I cried
out, addressing the two women, who were staring at me in the greatest
astonishment.

"Why, I painted that portrait myself, and that is M. Belmont," said
Marie, with surprise.

"That is M. Belmont?"

"Certainly; that is my husband. But what is the matter with you, M.
Arthur? Why are you so astonished, so overcome?"

"Have you ever seen M. Belmont anywhere?" asked Madame Kerouët.

I thought I was dreaming, or the victim of some extraordinary
resemblance.

"The fact is," said I to Madame Kerouët, "I have met M. Belmont
somewhere in my travels, or it might have been some one who is
remarkably like him; for, on account of the circumstances under which we
met, I cannot believe that the person I speak of can be the M. Belmont
of this portrait."

"There is a very easy way of finding out if your M. Belmont is ours.
What are your M. Belmont's teeth like?" said Marie's aunt.

"There is no longer the slightest doubt. It is he!" thought I.

"His teeth are like no one else's," I said, "they are sharp, and very
wide apart."

"That is just how they are," said Madame Kerouët, laughing, "and so for
fun we call him the ogre."

Then it was he!

Everything was explained now.

In the ballroom at the château, the English ambassador had told me that
they were on the track of the pirate, and hoped to capture him. The ball
had taken place about the middle of January, just the time that Belmont
had returned to Nantes, to hasten his union with Marie.

Our rencontre at the Variétés, and the fear of discovery, had,
doubtless, caused the anxiety Madame Kerouët noticed in his behaviour
subsequent to that time.

Thus, had it not been for the note of warning, the _commissaire_ and the
officer of gendarmerie would have arrested this miserable man on the day
of his marriage. And I quite understood that M. Duvallon, the pirate's
best man, should have held him up to the eyes of Marie and her aunt in
the light of a political victim, in order to deceive them as to the real
cause of his arrest.

Did Duvallon know the vile traffic of Belmont, or had he, too, been
deceived by him?

All these thoughts and questions rushed confusedly through my mind, and
excited me so much that I left the farm much earlier than usual, under
the pretext of a headache. Marie and her aunt were annoyed and worried
by my sudden departure.

Thus the day, which was to have been a little fête to us, ended very
sadly.

What ought I to do?

I love Marie with all the strength of my soul. It would be no crime to
carry her off from Belmont, that brigand, that assassin; it would be a
noble and generous action.

Marie has been basely deceived. Her family thought they were uniting her
to a brave and honest sailor, and not to a vile murderer. This marriage
is void, in the name of reason and honour.

It should also be null in the sight of men! This very day I will tell
everything to these unhappy women.

But will they believe what I have to say? What proof can I give them of
my truthfulness?

And then there would be, in such a denunciation on my part, something
low and mean, which is revolting.

After all, Marie is the legitimate wife of Belmont. I am in love with
Marie. Such a love almost puts that man on a level with me.

Now it is to be, henceforth, open war between us. I have already the
advantage, for he is absent; it would not be fair to augment my chances
of success by turning informer. So, finally, if Marie loves me enough to
vanquish her scruples to forget her duty towards a man whom she believes
to be honest and good, shall I not take more pride in my conquest than
if she believed herself only sacrificing a vile creature, who was
unworthy of her and who had deceived her, a man that the law might claim
as its prey?

Decidedly, I shall say nothing at all.

But suppose that man should return? My God, what a frightful thought!

Marie is his wife after all, and it is only by a extraordinary hazard
that she has been saved from being defiled by that infamous man.

My scruples are crazy, are stupid. Why should I hesitate to tell Marie
all?

But what good would it do? Would such a disclosure hasten, or would it
hinder this man's return?

He may come back at any time.

What shall I do? What shall I do?


SERVAL, 12th December, 18--.

My _incognito_ has been discovered, Marie knows who I am.

Yesterday I went to the farm.

I was still irresolute as to what I ought to say in regard to the
pirate.

I was talking with Marie and her aunt when my overseer entered.

I became very red, very much embarrassed; the man never noticed it; he
made me a low and respectful bow.

"_Tiens_, you know M. Arthur?" asked Madame Kerouët.

"Have I the honour of knowing M. le comte?" repeated the overseer, with
surprise.

"M. le comte!" cried out at the same time Marie and her aunt as they
rose up with bewildered looks.

Fearing the man would put a bad interpretation on my reasons for hiding
my name, I said to him: "You are very stupid, Rivière. I wished to get
some information about the state of cultivation of this farm, as I
thought of raising the rent, now you have come and spoiled all. Please
go and wait for me at Serval, for I want to talk about it with you."

The overseer went out.

"You have deceived us, M. le comte!" said Madame Kerouët to me, with
much dignity. "It was very wrong in you."

Marie said not a word, but disappeared without even looking at me.

"And why was it wrong?" said I to that excellent woman. "If I had told
you who I was, your scruples would never have allowed you to treat me
with such freedom and cordial affection as you have always manifested
towards me. I should have remained towards you the master of this farm,
and would never have become your friend."

"There can be no safe, no possible friendship except between equals, M.
le comte," said Madame Kerouët, with great coolness.

"But in what way are our positions different at the present hour? If my
friendship was pleasant to you until now, why should we change our
relations? Why should we forget four or five months of charming
intimacy?"

"I shall not forget them, M. le comte, but they shall give place to
sentiments more suitable to the modest position of Marie and myself."

One of the farm women came then to find Madame Kerouët, and begged her
to go to Marie.

She bowed to me respectfully and went out. I left the farm in a violent
rage with my overseer.

Then I reflected that, after all, this _incognito_ could not be kept up
for ever, and, though the discovery might have been a shock to Marie, it
certainly would not alter her love for me.


SERVAL, 15th December, 18--.

I have seen Marie once more.

For some days she was sad and distressed at my dissimulation, which she
could not understand. She asked why I had thus concealed my name. I told
her that, knowing false and malignant stories had reached her ears,
which showed me in the very worst colours, I had preferred being
unknown.

It was hard to convince her, but I finally succeeded in chasing all
these unhappy impressions from her mind.

Though Madame Kerouët frowns on me sometimes, our intimacy, which for a
time was threatened, has resumed all former charm.


SERVAL, 20th December, 18--.

Marie loves me, she loves me, I can no longer have any doubt. May this
day remain ever engraved in my heart!


SERVAL, 30th December, 18--.

What a terrible thing has happened! No, no, a thousand times no; she
shall not leave me. Now that I have the right to watch over her, never
will I abandon her.

This morning a farm servant came over to the château. He brought me a
letter from Marie.

She besought me to come to her instantly.

An hour after I was at the farm.

I found Marie and her aunt both in tears.

"What is the matter? What has happened?" I cried out.

"We have had a letter," said Madame Kerouët, "a letter from M.
Duvallon; he says that he is coming here to-day to take away Marie, by
order of M. Belmont."

"And you would allow her to go?" I exclaimed. "And you, Marie, would you
consent to go?"

Marie, pale as death, passed her hands over her eyes and cried out:
"What an awakening! _Mon Dieu!_ what shall I do? I am lost."

I made an expressive sign to Marie. Her aunt, preoccupied by her own
distress, had not heard her.

"Ah, _mon Dieu!_" said Madame Kerouët. "Give up my child! I never will
have the strength to do it."

"You shall not give her up, you ought not, good mother! You must not
give her up to such a man as Duvallon."

"Alas! monsieur, what objection can we make? Is not M. Duvallon the
intimate friend of M. Belmont? Has he not received his orders?"

"It is just because he is the intimate friend of a man like Belmont that
you must be on your guard against him."

Marie and Madame Kerouët stared at me with astonishment, but I
continued: "Listen to me, you, Madame Kerouët, and you, Marie. Allow me
to receive M. Duvallon; I will take it upon myself to make him listen to
reason. When do you expect him to arrive?"

"If he comes when he says he will, it will be by the diligence from
Bourges. He will get here at three o'clock," said Madame Kerouët.

"Make him no promises, but send him to me, and let us hope for the
best."

And on a signal from Marie I went out.

After awhile, at five o'clock, I heard the noise of a _carriole_ in the
courtyard of the château. I could not repress an exclamation of anger.
I felt the blood rush to my face, and my temples throb violently.

M. Duvallon was ushered in.

I beheld a robust man of great height, apparently about sixty years of
age. His complexion was high-coloured, his manner impertinent, vulgar,
but self-satisfied. He was dressed like a Frenchman on a journey, that
is to say, shabbily.

I made him a sign to be seated, and he sat down.

"Monsieur," said I to him, "I beg your pardon for any trouble I may have
given you, but I am charged by Madame Kerouët, who leases one of my
farms, and who has some confidence in me--"

"_Parbleu!_ her niece has confidence in you, too, and a great deal too
much of it!" cried out the man, rudely interrupting me.

"It is true, monsieur," said I, trying to keep my temper, "I have the
honour of being one of Madame Belmont's friends."

"And I am one of M. Belmont's friends, monsieur, and as such am
commissioned to bring his wife back to him at Nantes, where she will
remain under the surveillance of my spouse until the return of her
husband, my friend Belmont, which will not be very long."

"You call yourself the friend of Belmont?" said I to Duvallon, staring
at him fixedly. "Do you know what that man is?"

"That man,--that man is as good as any other man, _morbleu!_" cried out
Duvallon, rising quickly from his seat.

I remained seated.

"That man is a brigand, monsieur! That man is an assassin, monsieur! a
murderer!" and I accented with an imperious and resolute nod each one of
these charges.

"If you were not in your own house!" said Duvallon to me as he doubled
up his fists.

"I am not a child, monsieur, and your threats are ridiculous. Let us
speak frankly and have it out. The proof that your friend is an assassin
is that I was wounded by him on board of a yacht that he attacked in the
Mediterranean; is that clear? The proof that your friend is a brigand is
that I was on board of the same yacht, which he villainously wrecked off
the coast of the island of Malta; is that clear? And to conclude, the
proof that these accusations are true is that the English ambassador to
France and the Foreign Office, informed by me of the presence of this
wretch in Paris, have taken measures for his arrest, which would have
been successful if you, on his wedding day, had not helped him to escape
from justice."

Duvallon looked at me stupidly; he bit his lips with rage. I continued:

"Neither Madame Belmont nor her aunt have heard a word of all this,
monsieur; but I solemnly declare to you that, if you insist upon
carrying away Madame Belmont from her aunt, I will tell them the whole
story, and at the same time advise them to seek legal advice, or put
this affair in the hands of justice."

"Thousand thunders!" cried out Duvallon, stamping with his foot, "not a
word of all that is true. I mean to carry off that wench from under your
very nose, _mort-Dieu!_ or you will see what will happen."

"If you were not the intimate friend of Belmont, you would pay dearly
for your lies and your threat. Leave the room instantly, monsieur."

"I defy you, I dare you to order me out of here!" said the old corsair,
as he stepped towards me with a threatening scowl.

But on second thoughts, as he compared his age to my age and his
strength to mine, he restrained himself, contenting himself with saying,
in a very concentration of fury:

"You mean, then, to raise up yourself in opposition to me, fearing that
I will carry off your mistress? Any one can see that. But I have said
that I would take her off, and I mean to take her, _mort-Dieu!_ Don't
you suppose that I know all that has been going on here? Don't I know
all about the presents you have made her? And haven't I been getting
these letters of thanks from those two foolish women, letters that I
could not understand, thanking me for all those fine presents? But it
has all come to an end, it has got to stop; do you hear? Belmont is on
his way home, and in the meantime I take the demoiselle, whether or no,
by force if I must."

Not wishing to answer this man, I rang the bell.

"Pierre," said I to the servant-man, "I wish you to saddle two horses,
one for myself and one for George, who must go with me. I also wish you
to tell Lefort to mount his horse, and tell his son to do the same. They
are to go to the _ferme des Prés_ and wait for me."

The servant went out.

"Now, monsieur," said I to Duvallon, "reflect well on what you are about
to do. If you do not instantly quit this part of the country I will tell
all to Madame Belmont and her aunt, and shall advise them to put
themselves under the protection of the law. I am going immediately to
the Field Farm. I shall wait there for you, monsieur, and I shall see if
you dare to come."

Then ringing again for Pierre, I said: "Show monsieur out."

Without waiting for a reply from Duvallon, I went out, mounted my horse,
and set off for the farm.

Lefort and his son had already started ahead of me.


SERVAL, 31st December, 18--.

Yesterday Duvallon did not dare to come to the farm.

He wrote to Marie telling her that he had gone back to Nantes. The
letter was filled with the grossest insults. He threatened her with the
return of Belmont.

Marie is plunged in the darkest despair. To-day I was not able to see
her.

There is but one thing left for me to do: that is to persuade Marie to
follow me.

What can her life be from this time?

If Belmont comes back he will sooner or later be arrested, whether I
denounce him or no.

If he is acquitted, he is Marie's master: she is his wife; she will be
obliged to go with him.

If he is found guilty, if he is condemned, what a horrible fate for
Marie! And what is to become of me? My life belongs to her, as hers does
to me.

If she refuses to come with me, what is to be done?

The former crimes of this man will not annul the marriage, or if they
do, what publicity, what disgusting revelations, will Marie have to
submit to!

She must do it, she must follow me, it is the only thing she can do.

What has she to keep her here, poor orphan girl?

Her aunt, that excellent woman.

But perhaps she would come with us,--no, no. If she suspected the truth;
if she knew that there was between us a sweeter bond than that of
friendship, that we belonged to each other for ever and always; if she
knew--

No, no! it is not to be thought of.

But will Marie ever consent to leave her?

However, it must be done!

If Marie will follow me, what a future! We would retire to some solitary
place, where I would spend the rest of my life at her side.

Though I am young, I have seen so much of life, I have suffered so much,
I have learned so much about men and things, and have been so weary of
them, that it would be rapture to me, this solitary and peaceful life of
trusting love.

And besides she has in herself so many resources that fit her for such a
life of isolation: heart, soul, mind, artistic talents, an angelic
disposition, adorable simplicity, the imagination of a young girl who
can please, occupy, or amuse herself with the veriest trifle.

She must follow me, she will follow me.




CHAPTER XXX


THE FLIGHT


SERVAL, 10th March, 18--.

I open again this journal which I have not written a line in for three
months.

I wish to write one more date, one last page here at Serval, in this
poor old paternal château that I am about to leave, perhaps, for ever.

Strange coincidence! It was here that my mundane life began with my love
for Hélène.

It is here my mundane life is to end with my love for Marie.

Henceforth she and I mean to live in the greatest seclusion. Oh, if we
are only able to realise our dreams, our life will be one of
enchantment.

But by how many cruel trials it will have been purchased.

For three months Marie has been weeping in secret! but little by little
I have been able to overcome her resistance.

At last she has consented to fly with me.

Besides, she dare not, she cannot, remain here; she is about to become a
mother!

And now, my faithful George, who has been living in Nantes to keep a
watch on Duvallon, wrote me this morning that a man I cannot fail to
recognise as Belmont arrived last night at the house of the old corsair.

I told Marie of his return, and then she decided.

How would she dare to appear before her husband?

And how could she bear the reproaches of her aunt?

To-morrow night, then, we are to depart secretly.

So as to be sure of no mistakes, let me set down what I have arranged to
do.

Send relays of horses before me as far as ----, across the country, so
as to leave no traces; it is twenty-five leagues shorter.

Take the mail coach at ----, and in thirty hours we will be at the
frontier.

Once outside of France, and the first noise of our elopement calmed, we
will wait to see what happens. Perhaps we will return, perhaps Belmont
will be arrested.


DOUX REPOS, September, 18--.

You have asked me, Marie, to tell you the story of my whole life.

We have broken off all connection with the world.

Retired from society, here in this peaceful and charming abode, we have
been living for two years with our dear child, and ineffably happy.

You have been my angel, my saviour, my god, my love, my only treasure,
because you possess all the riches of heart, mind, and soul.

In the midst of our solitude, each day brings a new joy that makes you
dearer to my heart.

Thus the pearls of the sea owe their imperishable lustre to the shadows
of each succeeding wave.

You often tell me, Marie, that my nature is noble, generous, and, above
all, good.

When you will have read this journal of my whole life, Marie, my
beautiful and gentle Marie, you will find out that I have often been
hard-hearted and wicked.

That goodness for which you praise me, it is to you that I owe it!

Under your holy influence, my beautiful guardian angel, all my bad
instincts have disappeared, all my highest sentiments have been exalted;
in a word I have loved you, I love you now as you deserve to be loved.

To love you thus, and to be loved by you, Marie, is to believe oneself
the first and noblest of men, to despise glory, ambition, fortune, to
feel above them all.

It is to have gone beyond the limits of all possible happiness.

This superhuman happiness would alarm me, had we not purchased it by
your sorrow and remorse, poor Marie!

This remorse has been, and still is, your only grief; the time has come
to deliver you from it.

You shall be told the truth about the man you married, whom you have
believed to be in prison as a political criminal, for these last two
years.

Later you will know why I hid this secret from you until now.

These lines which I now write in this journal retrace almost all the
events of my life, up to the moment when we quitted Serval together.
They will be the last I shall write in it.

Why should I henceforth need such a cold confidant?

It is in your angelic heart, Marie, that I will trace all my thoughts;
or, rather, it is there that I will leave the imprint of the perfect
bliss that intoxicates me.

You will read this journal, Marie; you will see that I have been very
guilty, that I have suffered greatly.

You will read the story of our love from its very inception.

Since leaving Serval I have ceased to write in this journal. What could
I have written? Whatever I have said, Marie, will apply to the future
years I shall spend with you.

You will not find here the date of the birth of our Arthur,--our
child,--the greatest joy of my life. Nor will you find the date of that
terrible day on which I trembled for your life, my day of most fearful
torture.

While the paroxysm of that unknown joy, of that unknown grief, lasted, I
neither thought, reflected, nor acted, I did not exist.

When one still has the consciousness of one's sufferings, when one can
contemplate one's own joy, then neither has joy nor sorrow arrived at
its highest degree.

I had thus far suffered atrociously. I had experienced the most
intense delights, but I had never been so absorbed as to lose
self-consciousness, or the power of self-investigation.

I have spoken of an unknown happiness, Marie, and yet the date of the
blissful day when I no longer doubted of your love is written in this
journal, while the date of our Arthur's birth is not found here.

Your tender soul will understand and appreciate the difference, will it
not?

As for our child, Marie, our beautiful and adorable child, we will think
of his future, and--


These were the last words of the journal of an unknown.

By looking at the dates, and comparing them with the information given
me by the curé of the village of ----, in the first volume, one can see
that this last passage must have been written the day or the day before
the triple assassination of the count, Marie, and their child, by
Belmont, the pirate of Porquerolles, who, having escaped from prison,
and knowing the retreat of the count, wished to wreak upon him a
terrible vengeance before leaving France for ever.




THE END.