CHAPTER
I. THE OPERA-BALL
II. A RENDEZVOUS
III. THE DOMINO
IV. PAULA MONTI
V. THE EXPLANATION
VI. M. DE BRÉVANNES
VII. MADAME DE BRÉVANNES
VIII. THE RETURN
IX. THE RECITAL
X. THE PRINCE DE HANSFELD
XI. THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER
XII. THE FATHER-IN-LAW AND SON-IN-LAW
XIII. A FIRST REPRESENTATION
XIV. DRESS CIRCLE.—BOX NO. 7
XV. DRESS CIRCLE.—BOX NO. 29
XVI. FRIENDS IN THE STALLS
XVII. BETWEEN THE ACTS.—BOX NUMBER VII
XVIII. AFTER THE PLAY
XIX. THE "POSTE RESTANTE."
XX. THE EMISSARY
XXI. THE INTERVIEW
XXII. THE MEETING
XXIII. UNHAPPINESS
XXIV. DISCOVERY
XXV. ANGUISH
XXVI. THE BLACK BOOK
XXVII. DETACHED THOUGHTS
XXVIIII. ARNOLD AND BERTHA
XXIX. INTIMACY
XXX. RECITAL
XXXI. THREATS
XXXII. REFLECTIONS
XXXIII. THE INTERROGATORY
XXXIV. REVELATIONS
XXXV. CONFESSIONS
XXXVI. THE RENDEZVOUS
XXXVII. PROPOSITION
XXXVIII. CORRESPONDENCE
XXXIX. THE MARRIAGE
XL. THE BLACK BOOK
XLI. A CONVERSATION
XLII. RESOLUTION
XLIII. THE PIN
XLIV. DECISION
XLV. WILD-FOWL SHOOTING
XLVI. THE CHÂTEAU DE BRÉVANNES
XLVII. THE CHÂLET
XLVIII. THE DOUBLE MURDER
XLIX. EXPLANATIONS
In 1837 the Opera-ball in Paris was not as yet entirely invaded by that mob of wild and crazed dancers, chicards[1] and chicandards (as they style themselves), who, in the present day, have almost entirely driven from these assemblies the old traditions for mystification, and that tone of good society which did not detract from the piquancy of adventure.
Then, as now, the fashionables of the day congregated around a large chest, placed in the corridor of the first circle of boxes, between the two doors of the Opera "crush-room."
The privileged made a seat of this chest, and frequently shared it with certain sprightly dominoes, who were not always of the haut ton, but who knew it well enough by hearsay to be able to chatter scandal as fluently as the most scandalous.
At the last ball in the month of January 1837, about two o'clock in the morning, a tolerably large party of men were collected round a female in a domino, seated on the chest to which we have alluded.
Loud bursts of laughter hailed the sallies of this lady. She was not deficient in wit, but certain vulgar expressions, and the manner of tutoiement which she employed, proved that she did not appertain to the leading circles; although she appeared perfectly well informed as to all that passed in the highest and most exclusive society.
They were still laughing at one of the last smart comments of this domino, when, looking towards a young man who was passing through the corridor with great haste to enter the "crush-room," this female said,—
"Good evening, Fierval! whither so fast? you appear in great haste. Are you seeking the lovely Princess de Hansfeld, to whom you pay such constant attention? You will lose your time, I can assure you. She is not the woman to come to an Opera-ball—her virtue is of the old-fashioned sort; and you will all but singe your wings in the flame, like delicate butterflies."
M. de Fierval paused, and replied, with a smile,—
"Lovely mask, I will own that I do greatly admire the Princess de Hansfeld; but I am too humble an individual to have the slightest pretension to be noticed by her."
"Ah, indeed, what a formal and respectful tone! why one would say that you were in hopes that the princess would hear you!"
"I never speak of Madame de Hansfeld but with that respect with which she inspires all the world!" was M. de Fierval's reply.
"Perhaps you think I am the princess?"
"To make that possible, charming mask, you require her figure, which you certainly have not yet attained."
"Madame de Hansfeld at an Opera-ball!" said one of the loungers of the group that surrounded the domino; "that would, indeed, be something singular!"
"Why so?" inquired the domino.
"She lives too far off—at the Hôtel Lambert, fronting the Ile Louviers—almost as far off as London."
"That jest on the forsaken quarters is worn threadbare," replied the domino. "The truth is, that Madame de Hansfeld is too great a prude to be guilty of such a folly; she whom one sees every day at church—"
"But the Opera-ball was only invented in order that once a-year, at least, it should conceal the folly of prudes," said a new comer who had mingled with the circle unnoticed.
This personage was accosted with loud exclamations of surprise.
"What you, Brévannes! why, where did you spring from?"
"Oh, no doubt, just arrived from Lorraine."
"Here you are again, eh, you sad fellow?"
"His first visit is to the Opera! but that is quite de règle."
"He comes to see his ancient rollicking acquaintances."
"Or to learn news of them."
"He has been out to grass on his country estates."
"And no doubt has greatly profited by the 'run!'"
"They will not know him again in the green-room."
"I'll bet a wager that he has left his wife in the country, in order that he may more easily lead a bachelor's life here."
"This is the usual termination to your love-matches."
"Brévannes, we have made all arrangements for a little supper this evening."
"You'll come, of course! for then we can tell you all that has been, and has not been, done in Paris during your exile."
M. de Brévannes was a man about five-and-thirty, of dark complexion, almost olive-coloured; his features, which were regular, had a singular expression of energy: his hair, his eyebrows, and his beard, were of jet-black, and gave his face an air of sternness; his manners were easy and gentlemanly; and he was dressed simply, but in the best possible taste.
After having listened to the numberless salutations with which his friends accosted him, M. de Brévannes said, laughingly,—
"Now I will try and reply, since you give me an opportunity at last, and my reply shall not be, by any means, a tedious one. I am just come from Lorraine, and I am a better husband than you give me credit for—I have brought my wife back to Paris with me."
"Perhaps Madame de Brévannes might have thought you a better husband still if you had left her in Lorraine," said the domino; "but you are too jealous to do that."
"Indeed!" replied M. de Brévannes, looking at the mask with curiosity; "I am jealous, am I?"
"As jealous as obstinate! and that's the fact."
"The fact is," said M. de Fierval, "that when this fellow, Brévannes, takes any thing in his head——"
"Why, it stays there!" said M. de Brévannes, laughing: "I deserve to be a Breton. And since, charming mask, you know me so well, you must know my motto, 'vouloir c'est pouvoir' (to will is to be able to do).
"And as you are afraid, that in her turn, your wife may also prove to you that vouloir c'est pouvoir, why you are as jealous of her as a tiger."
"Jealous?—I? well, now you are praising me. I really do not deserve such an eulogium."
"It is no eulogium, for you are as unfaithful as you are jealous; or, if you like it better, as haughty as you are inconstant. Oh! it was a fine thing to make a love-match, and marry a daughter of the middle classes! Poor Bertha Raimond! I am sure she pays dearly enough for what the fools call her elevation!" said the domino, with much irony.
M. de Brévannes frowned almost imperceptibly; but the cloud passed quickly, and he added, gaily,—
"Charming mask, you are mistaken; my wife is the happiest of women, I am the happiest of men, and thus our ménage offers no hold for the fangs of slander. But do not talk any more of one who was but a fashion of the year that is past."
"You are too modest. You are always, at least, so says slander, the very pink of fashion. Would you rather that we should talk of your journey to Italy?"
M. de Brévannes repressed a fresh impulse of impatience. The domino seemed to know precisely all the vulnerable points of the man she was mystifying.
"Come, cruel mask," replied M. de Brévannes, "at least be generous, and immolate a few other victims. You seem to be very well informed, be so kind as tell me the news of the day. Who are the women most in vogue? do their adorers of last season still sigh at their feet? have they undergone with impunity the proofs of absence, summer, and travel?"
"Well, I will have pity on you! or, rather, I will reserve you for a better opportunity," replied the domino. "You speak of fresh beauties! well, we were talking just now of the female who is most in fashion this winter—a handsome foreigner, the Princess de Hansfeld."
"By her name," said M. de Brévannes, "it is easy to guess that she is a German; fair, and full of conceits as a melody of Schubert, I am sure."
"You mistake," said the domino; "she is dark and wild as Othello's jealousy, to follow out your musical and high-flown comparison."
"Is there also a Prince de Hansfeld?" inquired M. de Brévannes.
"Most certainly."
"And to what school does this darling prince belong? the German or Italian school, or to the school of—husbands?"
"You ask a question which no one can answer."
"What! is this lovely princess wedded to a prince in partibus?"
"Certainly not," said M. de Fierval; "the prince is here, but no one has yet seen him, he never goes into the world. He is talked of as a whimsical, eccentric being, and some very extraordinary tales are told of him."
"It is said that he is quite an idiot," said one of the party.
"I have heard it stoutly maintained that he is a man of genius," said another.
"To reconcile the two assertions, gentlemen," said Brévannes, "it must be confessed they are somewhat similar, especially when the man of genius is in repose. Tell me, is this prince young or old?"
"No one knows," said Fierval; "some declare that he is kept from society for fear his whims should excite laughter."
"And others assert that he has so profound a contempt for the world, or so much love for science, that he never leaves the house."
"The devil!" said M. de Brévannes; "then this German must be a very mysterious personage—as a husband he must be very agreeable. Does any one know who plays the cavalier to the princess?"
"No one!" said Fierval.
"Every body!" exclaimed the domino.
"That's the same thing," resumed M. de Brévannes. "But this Madame de Hansfeld, is she really so very captivating?"
"I am a woman, and I must confess that nothing can be seen more strikingly handsome," said the domino.
"She has such eyes—such eyes!—oh! there never were such eyes!" said M. de Fierval.
"As to her figure," added the domino, "it is a perfection of contrasts—dignified as a queen, and as graceful as a Bayadère."
"Such praises are very like Scandal's damning breath," said Brévannes.
"But, in truth," continued Fierval, "there is no one comparable to the princess for shape, dignity, grace, and distinguished features. Her look has in it something sombre, enthusiastic, and proud, which contrasts with the habitual placidity of her countenance."
"I confess that there seems to me something sinister in Madame de Hansfeld's look; handsome as are her eyes, yet they are almost diabolic in expression."
"Peste! this becomes interesting!" cried M. de Brévannes; "the princess is the real heroine of a modern romance. After all I have heard of her countenance, I dare not ask you as to her mind. It is the custom to magnify certain miraculous qualities at the expense of the most marked imperfections."
"You are mistaken," said the domino; "those who have heard speak of Madame de Hansfeld, and they are few, say that she is as clever as she is handsome."
"It is true," added Fierval; "all that can be said against her is her prudery, which displays itself at the most harmless pleasantries."
"The princess must be on her guard," said the domino; "if her affectation of prudery lasts some time longer, she will find herself as entirely forsaken by the men as she will be sought by the women, who at this present time dread her very much, not knowing if her formality of manner is real or affected."
"But," said M. de Brévannes, "what can make you suppose the princess guilty of hypocrisy?"
"Nothing: for she is very pious," said M. de Fierval.
"Say dévote," said the domino, "which is, by no means, the same thing."
"When," said another, "one loves the church so passionately, one loves parties less, and one bestows less care on one's toilette."
"That is very unjust!" said M. de Fierval, with a smile. "The princess dresses always alike, and with the utmost simplicity. In the evening she wears a gown of black velvet, or dark, garnet-coloured silk, with her hair braided."
"Yes, but those gowns are admirably made! displaying faultless shoulders, arms exquisitely turned, the figure of a Creole, a foot like Cinderella,—and then such splendid jewels!"
"Another injustice!" exclaimed M. de Fierval; "she only wears a plain black or ruby velvet riband round her neck, matching the colour of her gown."
"Yes," added the domino, "and this poor little riband is fastened by a modest clasp, consisting of a single stone. But then that stone is a diamond, a ruby, or a sapphire, worth 1000 l. or 1500 l. The princess has, amongst other marvels, an emerald as large as a nut."
"That is still only the clasp to the velvet riband," said M. de Fierval, gaily.
"But the prince—the prince disquiets me!" continued M. de Brévannes. "Seriously, now, is he as mysterious as they say?"
"Seriously," answered M. de Fierval; "after having lived for some time in the Rue Saint-Guillaume, he has betaken himself to live on the Quai d'Anjou, at the Diable Vert, in the old and vast Hôtel Lambert. A lady of my acquaintance, Madame de Lormoy, went there to pay the princess a visit, but she did not see the prince, who, she was told, was indisposed. It appears that nothing can be more dull than this enormous palace, where one is lost, as it were, and where one hears no more noise than in the midst of a wide plain, so deserted are these streets and quays."
"Since you know persons who have penetrated this mysterious habitation, my dear Fierval," said another lounger, "is it true that the princess has always at her side a sort of dwarf male or female negro or negress, who is deformed?"
"What an exaggeration!" said M. de Fierval, laughing; "and this is just the way history is written!"
"Does the dwarf, male or female, exist or not?"
"I am distressed beyond measure, gentlemen, to destroy your delusions. Madame de Lormoy, who, I repeat to you, often visits at the Hôtel Lambert, has only seen a young girl, who is the companion of Madame de Hansfeld; she is very young, and not a negress, but her complexion is very dark, and her features are of the Arab cast."
"No doubt this is the source whence the black and deformed dwarf proceeded."
"What a pity! I do so regret the little negro dwarf; it was so completely of the middle ages!" said M. de Brévannes.
[1]These words have no precise synonyms in English, but they are nearly equivalent to our slang phrase of "out-and-outers."
A tolerably large party of idlers congregated around the large chest on which was seated, as on a throne, the domino of whom we have spoken, listened eagerly to the strange versions which were buzzed about of the mysterious lives of the Prince and Princess de Hansfeld.
Fortunately for the inquisitive these tales were not yet at their conclusion.
"I must remark," said M. de Fierval, "that Madame de Lormoy, the only lady who visits Madame de Hansfeld on very intimate terms, speaks extremely well of her."
"For reasons plain enough," said M. de Brévannes; "the smallest bit of rock is always an America for the modern Columbuses. Madame de Lormoy has found her way into the Hôtel Lambert, and is, therefore, in duty bound to recite marvels of the princess. But à propos of Madame de Lormoy, what has become of her nephew, le beau des beaux, Leon de Morville? What happy woman now adores his archangelic face, since he has been obliged to break off with Lady Melford?"
"He remains faithful to the remembrance of his lovely islander," replied M. de Fierval.
"To the great displeasure of many ladies of fashion," added the domino; "amongst others of the little Marquise de Luceval, who affects originality, as if she were not sufficiently pretty to be natural. Being unable to carry, off Leon de Morville from his lady-love, whilst this affair was in existence, she now lives in hopes of the reversion."
"An attachment of five years is very rare."
"It is still more rare to find any one faithful to a recollection, I really cannot understand it," said M. de Brévannes.
"Especially when the constant swain is as much sought after as Morville is."
"As for me, I never could bear M. de Morville," said M. de Brévannes; "I have always endeavoured to avoid him."
"I assure you, my dear sir," said M. de Fierval, "that he is one of the best fellows in the world."
"That may be, but he seems so conceited of his pretty face."
"Fortunately this Adonis is as stupid as he is handsome!" said the domino.
"Charming mask, beware!" said a new comer who had made his way to the first rank of the auditors; "when you speak thus of Leon de Morville, one might be induced to believe that your seductions have failed to shake his fidelity to Lady Melford. You speak too maliciously of him not to have wished him—too well."
"Really, Gercourt," answered the domino, gaily, "you seem to me monstrously good-natured to-day. Are they going to perform your comedy to-morrow?"
"What, charming mask, do you believe that I have an interest in this matter?"
"Unquestionably. A man of the world like you, of fashion like you, of wit like you, who is bold enough to have more wit than his neighbours—a man of wit, you know, is condemned to all sorts of unpleasant manœuvres—yet if your comedy fails, you must not accuse your friends of its failure."
"Delightful mask, I should not be so unjust. If my comedy fail, I shall accuse no one but myself. When we have friends like Leon de Morville, of whom you speak such flattering unkindnesses, one may believe that there is yet such a thing as friendship."
"What, do you wish to recommence our quarrel?"
"Unquestionably."
"To assert that Leon de Morville has wit?"
"Unluckily for himself he is remarkably handsome, and so the envious like to have it supposed that he is very silly. If he squinted, stuttered, or was humpbacked, peste! people would not think for a moment of disputing his wit. It is incredible the advantages which ugliness possesses in our days."
"Do you mean this as a defence of the majority of statesmen of the present day?" retorted the domino. "The fact is we may now say, ugly as a minister!"
"Moreover, in this serious age, there is nothing more serious than ugliness."
"Without taking into consideration," said the domino, "that a hideous visage is always a sort of introduction and preparation for a future villainy, and in this sense it is very useful for certain statesmen to be ugly."
"To return to M. de Morville, I never heard of his wit," said M. de Brévannes, sarcastically.
"So much the better for him," replied M. de Gercourt; "I mistrust people whose bon-mots are cited, I should even doubt M. de Talleyrand's reputation if I had not heard him talk. Confess, however, my dear Brévannes, that Morville has not an enemy, in spite of the envy which his success must excite."
"Because he is a goose!" said the mask, doggedly; "persons who have really superior minds always have enemies."
"It seems to me, then, charming mask," retorted M. de Gercourt, "that your ferocious hostility proves Leon de Morville's superiority."
"Bah! bah!" replied the domino, without noticing this rejoinder; "the proof that M. de Morville is a poor creature is, that he always endeavours to produce an effect and make himself noticed; whether ridiculous or not, he does not care for the means by which he attains his desire."
"What do you mean?" inquired M. de Gercourt.
"We were just now alluding to the general admiration which the Princess de Hansfeld inspires," said the domino; "well, M. de Morville affects to do the reverse of all the world. He may be indifferent to Madame de Hansfeld's beauty;—granted. But it is a long way from indifference to aversion."
"Aversion! what do you mean?" asked M. de Brévannes.
"This is a fresh crime of which poor Morville is innocent, I will answer for it," said M. de Gercourt.
"Every body knows that he pretends a most decided aversion for Madame de Hansfeld," replied the domino.
"Morville?"
"Certainly. Although he goes very little into society, yet he now affects to fly from the places where he might be likely to meet the princess. To such a pitch does he carry this, that he is now but very rarely seen at his aunt's, Madame de Lormoy's, no doubt from a dread of meeting Madame de Hansfeld there. Now say, Fierval, you who know Madame de Lormoy, if this be not true?"
"Why, to say the truth, I very seldom meet Morville now at his aunt's."
"Do you hear that?" said the domino, triumphantly, addressing M. de Gercourt; "Morville's antipathy for the princess is remarked upon—people gossip and chatter, and thus the end of this brainless Apollo is attained."
"That is impossible," said M. de Gercourt; "for no one is freer from affectation than Morville, who is one of the most amiable men—the most naturally amiable man that I know; and I will say, that I fully believe, that in his life he never hated, feigned, or lied; indeed, he carries his respect for pledged faith to the utmost extent, even to exaggeration."
"I am decidedly of Gercourt's opinion," said M. de Fierval; "but the fact is, that De Morville, who has been for a long time wretchedly out of spirits, goes very little into society."
"That is easily explained," said one of the auditors of this conversation; "Lady Melford has left these eighteen months, and he has unceasingly regretted her."
"And then," added another, "M. de Morville's mother is in a very alarming state, and every body knows how fond he is of her."
"His love for his mother has nothing to do with what we are talking of," said the domino; "as to his fidelity to his souvenir of Lady Melford, he has changed from ridicule and exaggeration; that is generous of him, inasmuch as it varies our amusement: he has seen the folly of that exaggeration."
"What do you mean?"
"I am not the dupe of his affectation to avoid Madame de Hansfeld. I will bet a wager that he is enamoured of her, and desires to attract her attention by his calculating originality."
"That is impossible," said Fierval.
"It is too vulgar a mode," added Gercourt.
"The very reason that M. de Morville has recourse to it; he is too dull to invent any other."
"What!—would he have awaited the arrival of Madame de Hansfeld in order to be unfaithful, when, for nearly two years, he had nothing to do but to take his choice of the loveliest comforters?"
"Nothing more simple," said the domino. "The difficulty has tempted him; no one has succeeded with Madame de Hansfeld, and he would he jealous of this success; because De Morville is a fool, it does not follow that he is not a coxcomb."
"And because you have wit, charming mask," said M. de Brévannes, "it does not follow that you should be just."
A domino took M. de Gercourt by the arm, and put an end to this discussion about M. de Morville, who thus lost his stanchest defender.
"And how long has this enchanting princess been in Paris?" inquired M. de Brévannes.
"About three or four months," replied M. de Fierval.
"And who introduced her into society?"
"The wife of the Saxon Minister; the prince is a Saxon himself."
"The prince!" continued M. de Brévannes; "is it really possible that nothing more than you say is known of this mysterious stranger?"
"I can tell you," answered M. de Fierval, "that as inquisitive as the rest of the world to penetrate the smallest corner of this mystery, I have inquired of the minister of Saxony."
"Well?"
"He gave me an evasive reply. The prince, whose health was extremely delicate, lived in perfect retirement; he was obliged to submit to very strict regimen; his journey had fatigued him greatly; in fact, I saw that my questions decidedly embarrassed the minister, so I ended the conversation, and have since abstained from again mentioning M. de Hansfeld's name in his presence."
"It is really remarkably odd," said M. de Brévannes; "and no one amongst the foreigners here knows anything of the prince?"
"All I have been able to learn is, that he was married in Italy, and that, after a journey to England, he came and established himself here."
"As far as one may hazard an opinion on so obscure a matter," said another, "I should decidedly say that the prince was weak in his intellect, or something very like it."
"In fact," observed the domino, "the care that is taken to conceal him from all eyes——"
"The embarrassment of the Saxon minister, in replying to you," said M. de Brévannes to M. de Fierval; "the sombre and melancholy air of the princess.—But then, why does this melancholy beauty go into the world?"
"Do you wish to keep her constantly immured with her idiot—if idiot he be?"
"But she always has the melancholy and sombre appearance you speak of, what pleasure can she find in the world?"
"Ma foi, I really cannot tell," said M. de Fierval; "it is just this very mystery, which joined to Madame de Hansfeld's beauty, makes her so much the rage."
"Has she no intimate friend who could disclose something about her?" inquired M. de Brévannes.
"I heard Madame de Lormoy say, that, on going one morning to see Madame de Hansfeld, at the Hôtel Lambert, she suddenly heard, near the apartment in which she was, some notes of delicious harmony, played on a finger-organ with exquisite skill. The princess could not repress a movement of impatience; she made a sign to her companion with the dark countenance, who went out instantly, and a few moments afterwards the sounds ceased!"
"And did not Madame de Lormoy inquire whence those notes of the organ came?"
"She did."
"And what was the princess's reply?"
"That she knew nothing about them—that no doubt it was somewhere in the neighbourhood, that they were playing on this instrument, the sound of which quite unhinged her nerves. Madame de Lormoy remarked, that the Hôtel Lambert was perfectly isolated, and therefore the organ must be played upon in the house, and then Madame de Hansfeld talked of something else."
"Whence we may conclude," replied the domino, "that no one will unriddle this enigma. Ah, if I were a man, I would find it all out by to-morrow!"
The conversation was interrupted by these words of M. de Fierval, which attracted universal attention,—
"Who is that tall domino, evidently masculine in its gender, which is on the look-out for adventure? That knot of yellow and blue ribands on his head is no doubt a signal of rallying and recognition."
"Oh," said the domino, quitting the chest on which she had been sitting, "it is some serious rendezvous—I will prevent the meeting by following the steps of this mysterious personage."
Unfortunately for this malicious design, a crowd carried away with it the domino which wore the knot of yellow and blue ribands, and which rapidly disappeared.
Some moments afterwards, the same masculine domino who had just escaped the curious pursuit of the domino of the chest ascended the staircase which led to the second tier of boxes, and walked up and down the corridor for several minutes.
He was soon rejoined by a female domino who also wore a knot of yellow and blue ribands.
After a moment's examination and hesitation, the female approached, and said in a low voice,—
"Childe Harold."
"Faust," replied the male domino. These words exchanged, the lady took the arm of the gentleman, who led her into the anteroom of one of the stage-boxes.
"These words exchanged, the lady took the arm of the gentleman, who led her into the anteroom of one of the stage-boxes."
M. Leon de Morville (one of the two dominos who had just entered the anteroom) took off his mask.
The praises bestowed on his countenance were not exaggerated; his features, which were perfect as ideal purity can imagine, almost realised the divine type of the Antinous, only rendered more poetical (if the phrase may be allowed us) by a charming expression of melancholy, an expression completely wanting in the pagan beauty. Long black and curling hair enframed this noble and attractive physiognomy.
Very romantic in love-affairs, M. de Morville had a religious adoration for woman, which had its source in the passionate veneration which he felt for his mother. Of a kind and most considerate nature, a thousand things were told of his delicacy and devotion. When he appeared, the females had no look, no smile, no attention, but for him; and he knew perfectly well how to reply to this general show of admiration with so much tact and well-regulated demeanour, that he never wounded the self-love of any, whilst, but for his romantic fidelity to one whom he had madly loved, and from whom he was separated only by the force of circumstances, he might have had most brilliant and endless love-affairs.
M. de Morville was especially endowed with most delightful manners. His natural affability always inspired him with amiable and complimentary language. The charming equality of his temper was unalterable, even in spite of those deceptions, which, from time to time, came to wound his delicate and sensitive imagination.
Perhaps his disposition was somewhat deficient in its manliness; for, far from being boldly aggressive towards the contemptible and unjust—far from returning evil for evil—far from punishing the treacheries which his generosity often encouraged, M. de Morville had such a horror, or rather such disgust for human infamies, that he turned his eyes away from the culpable, instead of taking vengeance on them.
Instead of crushing a filthy reptile, he would have looked out for some perfumed flower—some white turtledove's nest—some smiling and clear horizon whereon to repose and console his gaze.
This system of constant commiseration continually exposes us to be again bitten by the reptile, whilst we are contemplating heaven in order not to see it. The best things have their inconveniences.
But we must not thus conclude that M. de Morville was deficient in courage. He had too much honour—too much frankness—not to be very brave; and of this he had given ample testimony; but, excepting the injuries which a man never forgives, he shewed himself of such inexhaustible clemency, that, if he had not painfully resented certain wrongs, this clemency would have passed for indifference or disdain.
This sketch of M. de Morville's character was necessary for the proper appreciation of the scene that follows.
We have said that in the anteroom to the box, M. de Morville had taken off his mask, and he awaited with, perhaps, more uneasiness than pleasure, the issue of this mysterious interview.
The female who had accompanied him was masked with extreme care; her hood so covered her, that it was impossible to see even her hair; her very full domino enveloped her figure, whilst large gloves and large shoes concealed her hands and feet, which otherwise are such certain evidences.
The lady appeared agitated: the words which she several times tried to utter expired on her lips.
M. de Morville first broke silence and said,—
"Madame, I received the letter which you were so obliging as to write to me, requesting me to be here and masked, with a signal and words of recognition. Your letter appeared so serious, that, in spite of the uneasiness with which my mother's health fills me, I am here at your bidding."
M. de Morville could not continue. With a hand trembling from emotion, the domino unmasked herself with an effort.
"Madame de Hansfeld!" exclaimed M. de Morville, in extreme astonishment.
It was the princess.
M. de Morville could scarcely believe his eyes.
It was no illusion: he was really in the presence of Madame de Hansfeld.
It would require the pencil of some great artist to depict the firmness, the decision of that queenly visage, as pale and as stern as a statue of antiquity—to describe that look, as piercing and as fascinating as that of the evil spirit of some German legend.
It is but by invoking the resemblance of Cleopatra or Lady Macbeth (our readers must excuse the bold comparison), that an idea can be formed of the mixture of seductive loveliness and sombre majesty displayed in the countenance of the Venetian, Paula Monti, Princess de Hansfeld.
Madame de Hansfeld had removed her mask. The hood of her domino projected a deep shadow on her forehead, whilst the rest of her face was strongly lighted up. Her eyes seemed to glow even more brightly than before from out of the chiaroscuro that enshrouded the upper part of her features.
With the exception of this look, sparkling like a star in the dark sky, the physiognomy of Madame de Hansfeld was utterly without expression.
The princess said in a firm and grave tone to M. de Morville,—
"I confide, monsieur, the secret of this interview fearlessly to your honour."
"I will prove myself worthy of your confidence, madame."
"I know it, but I required this certainty ere I risked the step to which unwittingly you have forced me."
"I, madame?"
"It is your conduct alone that has driven me to seek this interview."
"For Heaven's sake, madame, explain yourself!"
"It is now about two months since, monsieur, that you prayed your aunt, Madame de Lormoy, one of my intimate friends, to present you to me. I acceded with pleasure to this request. Some days afterwards, you informed Madame de Lormoy, that you would not, on any account, be presented to me."
M. de Morville cast down his eyes, and replied,—
"It is true, madame."
"From that instant, monsieur, you have affected to fly every place where you fancied there existed the least possibility of encountering me."
"I cannot deny it, madame," replied M. de Morville, sorrowfully.
Madame de Hansfeld continued,—
"Some time ago, not knowing that Madame de Senneterre had given me a seat in her box, you entered it; at the end of a quarter of an hour you left it under a pretence too ridiculous to deceive any one."
"That is also true, madame."
"Also, when Madame de Sémur invited you and a small party to attend a lecture you were most anxious to hear, you accepted the invitation eagerly; but no sooner had Madame de Sémur mentioned that I was expected, than you declined being present."
"That is equally true, madame."
"In a word, monsieur, you have manifested, I may say, affected, so decided a determination to avoid me, that it has been remarked by others as well as by myself."
"Madame, believe me that——"
"I hear the frankness of your character, your invariable politeness, praised every where; you must then have cogent reasons for thus studiously avoiding me. Let me assure you that your conduct would not occupy me for a moment, were it not for a circumstance with which I am bound to acquaint you."
"Madame, I am aware how strange—how rude, my conduct must appear to you; yet—"
Madame de Hansfeld interrupted M. de Morville with a bitter smile.
"Once for all, monsieur, let me assure you I am not here to upbraid you for thus shunning me; I have reason to believe that your resolution to avoid me is dictated by motives so imperative, that to make them known would endanger the happiness, if not the life, of two persons."
As she spoke, the princess darted a searching glance at De Morville.
The latter coloured and replied,—
"I assure you, madame, did I but know——"
"I do know, monsieur," interrupted the princess, "that there exists a secret between us. You have discovered that secret between the day when you asked to be introduced to me and that fixed for the introduction; from this moment arose your determination to avoid me. You are a man of honour. Tell me if I am mistaken; swear to me that you have had no motive for thus avoiding me—that chance, that caprice, alone, have occasioned this, and I will believe you; and then, thank Heaven, the purpose of this interview will be accomplished!"
After some moments of painful hesitation M. de Morville seemed to make a violent effort, and said,—
"Madame, I scorn falsehood, there does exist a secret of vital importance."
"I was not deceived," cried Madame de Hansfeld, interrupting M. de Morville; "you do possess the secret which I believed known but to two persons, one I thought dead, the other had good cause for secrecy, for his own honour was affected by it. It was for this reason that I requested this appointment, as I could not see you at my own house, and I never meet you in society. I care but little for the opinion you have formed of me after the revelation that has been made you. Your studied aversion shews me that it is horrible: be it so, Heaven is my judge. But enough of this. You are not aware, monsieur, perhaps, of the terrible importance of the secret that chance or treachery has placed in your hands. Osorio—is he not then dead? Is it really true that he did not perish at Alexandria, as was generally believed? For mercy's sake, monsieur, answer me. If that were the case, much would be explained to me."
"Osorio! I never heard the name uttered, madame."
"It was M. de Brévannes, then?" cried the princess, involuntarily.
M. de Morville regarded Madame de Hansfeld with increasing surprise; for the last few minutes he could not comprehend her meaning.
"I scarcely know M. de Brévannes, madame, and I am ignorant if he be now in Paris."
For the first time during this interview Madame de Hansfeld's real or assumed composure forsook her, she rose hastily, and her pale face became crimson as she exclaimed,—
"There is no one living except Osorio or M. de Brévannes who could have told you what passed three years ago at Venice on the night of the 13th of April."
"Three years ago?—at Venice?—the 13th of April?" repeated M. de Morville, more and more surprised; "I assure you, madame, it is not that I allude to. Not a word more on that head. I would not, for the world, surprise your confidence. Again, madame, I assure you the reason that forces me to fly you has nought to do with the names or dates, you have mentioned. This motive has not for a moment altered my sincere respect, my admiration, for your character. In avoiding you, madame, I fulfil a promise—a sacred duty."
"Oh, Heaven! what have I said?" cried Madame de Hansfeld, covering her face with her hands, and thinking of the half confession she had involuntarily made to M. de Morville. "No, no, this cannot be a snare to entrap me."
Then addressing De Morville, "I believe you, monsieur:—By a strange fatality, by a singular chance, when I knew you had urgent reasons for shunning me, I fancied you were actuated by sad, too sad circumstances, in which I might seem to prejudiced eyes to have acted an unworthy part, that would, indeed, have entitled me to your aversion. Your word relieves my fears, I was deceived without doubt, nought concerning this melancholy adventure has transpired. Now then, monsieur, the purpose of this meeting is attained. I came hither to relate to you what the probable consequences of your indiscretion might be. Fortunately my fears were vain, I care little now, whether all the world remark how you avoid me. As for the cause, that is equally indifferent to me. Adieu, monsieur, you are a man of honour, and I doubt not of discretion;" and Madame de Hansfeld rose to quit the box.
M. de Morville took her hand respectfully:—"One word more, madame; I shall never, probably, be alone with you again; hear, at least, some portion of my secret, you may then perchance pity me. Alas, you know not the struggle it has cost me to fly you! When a sentiment, the reverse of hatred—Oh! do not take this for a mere effusion of gallantry, but, I implore you, hear me."
Madame de Hansfeld, who had risen, resumed her seat, and listened to Monsieur de Morville in profound silence.
"Upon your arrival at Paris, madame," said M. de Morville to Madame de Hansfeld, "before occupying the spacious Hôtel Lambert in the Isle St. Louis, you resided for some time in the Rue St. Guillaume; you are not, perhaps, aware that the adjoining house belonged to my mother."
"No, sir, I was not aware of it."
"Permit me to enter into some details, puerile, perhaps, but yet indispensable. In my mother's house, a small window, wholly concealed by the leaves of the ivy, looked on to your garden; it was from that window that I first perceived you, madame, and without your suspecting it, for no one could imagine that any eye could penetrate the shady and retired walk which you frequented."
Madame de Hansfeld seemed to recall her recollections of the place and answered,—
"I certainly recollect the wall covered with ivy, but I did not know there was a window there."
"Forgive my indiscretion, madame; I have bitterly suffered for it."
"Explain yourself, sir."
"Closely attending upon my sick mother, I rarely quitted the house, my only pleasure was to gaze daily from that window, and the hope of seeing you kept me whole hours there. At last you came, sometimes your steps were slow, sometimes rapid, and you frequently threw yourself as if in agony on a marble seat, or stood motionless with your head buried in your hands. Alas, how often, when after these reveries you raised your head, was your countenance bathed in tears!"
At these words M. de Morville's voice faltered with emotion.
Madame de Hansfeld replied austerely,—
"We are not speaking, sir, of any moments of weakness you may have witnessed, but of a secret you are about to communicate."
M. de Morville regarded the princess with a sorrowful air, and continued,—
"After some few days,—forgive my presumption, madame,—I fancied I had penetrated the cause of your grief."
"Your penetration seems very great, sir."
"I was then suffering from the same cause (at least as I think) as that which at that moment tormented you. This was the secret I believed I had discovered."
"Surely, sir, you are not speaking seriously? and yet any attempt at pleasantry would be most unseasonable."
"I speak most seriously, madame."
"And so then," said Madame de Hansfeld, with a contemptuous smile, "you imagine I am a prey to grief, and that you have discovered the cause of it?"
"There are symptoms which are infallible."
"The outward marks of every kind of sorrow are the same, sir."
"Ah, madame, there is but one mode of lamenting the person we love."
"Is this mentioned in confidence? is this an allusion to your own regrets?"
"Alas! I, madame, have no more regrets; you have made me forget them all."
"I do not comprehend your meaning, sir; I expected you were about to tell me an important secret, and yet to the present moment——"
"One other word, madame. A sentiment that I believed unalterable, a long-cherished remembrance, spite of myself, was gradually effaced from my heart. In vain did I blame my weakness: in vain did I foresee to what this love would expose me. The charm was too powerful. I yielded before it. I had but one thought, one desire, one pleasure—that of seeing you. From constantly contemplating your features, I fancied I could read in them, so often overclouded with sorrow and melancholy, that despair, sometimes mute, sometimes so expressive, which the absence or loss of one dear to us invariably occasions."
Madame de Hansfeld shuddered, but remained silent.
"Each day I dropped at the foot of the set a memento," &c.
"Ah, madame, I repeat, I had suffered too much myself not to recognise the same sufferings in you by indescribable, yet manifest symptoms. With what eager curiosity did I strive to read your thoughts in your countenance! The part of the garden that you frequented most was separated from the rest by a gate which you opened or shut at pleasure. You alone could enter into this secluded alley. I ventured on a folly; each day I dropped at the foot of the seat where you were accustomed to repose, a sort of memento of the reflections which, as I believed, had agitated you on the previous evening. How shall I describe my suspense, my anguish, when I saw you first open my letter. Never shall I forget the expression of surprise you manifested after you had read it. Forgive these foolish recollections of the past; but I did not think you were offended, for, instead of destroying the letter, you retained it. One day your agitation was so great, that you did not perceive the letter—you seemed a prey to the most violent anger and grief. My own experience told me that your sorrow was not occasioned by any fresh event. It seemed to me rather some unhappy occurrence had been recalled to you. It was under this belief that I again wrote to you, and on the morrow, whilst you perused my letter, you wept."
Madame de Hansfeld made an impatient gesture.
"Oh, madame, do not blame me for dwelling on these recollections, they are my sole consolation. Thus encouraged by the anxiety with which you seemed to look for my letters, I wrote daily. Unhappily, my mother's illness assumed a threatening form; I never quitted her bedside for two nights—I thought but of her. The crisis was passed, she was out of danger. My first thought was then to hasten to my window. Soon after you entered the walk. I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw you go quickly to the marble seat: there was no letter there. An exclamation of impatience escaped you. I dared to interpret it favourably."
M. de Morville glanced anxiously at Madame de Hansfeld. Her eyes were cast down, her arms folded, her face was devoid of expression. In thus speaking, in thus informing Madame de Hansfeld of the facts that he had discovered, De Morville cut off all hope of retreat; but he never expected to see the princess more, else he would not have been guilty of such a display of bad generalship.
"What can I say, madame?" replied he; "for two whole months I had the happiness of seeing you: every day when I learned you were on the point of quitting the house adjoining ours to inhabit the Hôtel Lambert, in the Isle St. Louis, oh, how sincere, how terrible was my emotion! Perchance it was only then that I really felt how much I loved you."
At these last words, uttered by M. de Morville in a tone of deep emotion, Madame de Hansfeld raised her head suddenly; her cheeks became deeply tinged, as she replied, with a satirical smile, "This strange confession, sir, is doubtless connected with the secret you are about to reveal to me."
"Yes, madame."
"I am all attention.
"Up to the period of your quitting the adjoining house to ours, I had often met you at the houses of my friends, and I had never made any effort to be presented to you. I found an indefinable charm in the mystery that enshrouded my love. I was utterly unknown to you—I who knew you so well—I who had been the unseen spectator of all the emotion and the sorrow you had suffered; and then to talk to you on those trivial and commonplace subjects that form every-day conversation, what pleasure would that have afforded me, after the hours, the days I have passed in silent and deep admiration! But, when your departure deprived me of this pleasure, then I acknowledged the value of those meetings that I had previously disdained, I determined to be introduced to you. You were on intimate terms with Madame de Lormoy, my aunt, who has the highest regard for you. As, in common with the rest of the world, she was ignorant of the strange chance that had linked me to you, I prayed her to present me to you. Unfortunately, the day after she had agreed to comply with my wishes, a revelation was made to me, that instead of seeking, I felt it my duty to avoid your society. Had it not been on account of my mother's health, I should have left Paris, in order to avoid you, and thus furnishing fresh fuel to my unhappy passion; for, know, madame, that if your indifference grieves me, your love would drive me to despair. You seem surprised—you do not understand me. Suppose then—and pardon the folly of the supposition—that you loved me as passionately as I love you, I should be the most miserable of men, for I could not return your affection without inflicting a death-blow on my mother, without trampling under foot the most sacred duty, the most solemn oath, without becoming forsworn and criminal."
"Criminal!" exclaimed Madame de Hansfeld, rising from her seat, her features convulsed by fear and grief. This involuntary cry of the princess was, in fact, an avowal that betrayed her affection for De Morville, hitherto so carefully concealed.
Had he been really indifferent to Madame de Hansfeld, would she have manifested this despair, this emotion?—No! but she saw an impassable barrier arise between herself and M. de Morville. Had he not said, "Did you love me, I should be the most miserable of men, for I could not return your affection without becoming perjured, without inflicting a death-blow on my mother?"
De Morville was proverbial for his love of truth and his affection for his mother.
Madame de Hansfeld understood his meaning perfectly. A look of joy irradiated De Morville's face; he fancied he was loved in return, but that first transport past, he shuddered as he thought of the abyss of misery and sorrow which the involuntary exclamation of Madame de Hansfeld opened before him.
The princess was too much mistress of herself not to subdue instantly all traces of her transient emotion. Hoping to deceive De Morville, she said with an air of gaiety that quite confused him,—
"You must allow, sir, that my surprise, I may say, my terror, was tolerably natural on hearing you declare that my love would plunge you into crime and perjury. Good heavens! I shudder; yet what happiness must it be, then, for you to hear that I am utterly indifferent to your mad passion? On my word, sir, you are really too fortunate, henceforth you have every thing to preserve you from the temptation of being in love with me; for you have not only the knowledge of my indifference, but also the strongest motives that can decide a man. Only permit me to observe that among the obstacles that seemed to cross your love for me so insurmountably, you might have reckoned my marriage with the Prince de Hansfeld; allow me to remind you of that obstacle, and to say that in my eyes that is the most serious impediment of all. And now let me speak of your letters which I have received, because I could not help it; and which I read, and sometimes preserved, because a series of thoughts admirably worded, and supposed to be those of some ideal creature, could not be called a correspondence. You have too much real merit, sir," continued the princess, "to be vain; I have, therefore, no dread of wounding your pride as an author, by telling you, that if I read these your productions with curiosity and sometimes with a strong emotion, it was partly because of the mystery that enshrouded you, and partly because chance sometimes sent you thoughts so poetical and touching as to call forth my tears; for I am so unfortunate, or rather fortunate, as to shed tears during the perusal of any romance in the least degree impassioned and affecting."
"Ah, madame, this satire is too cruel."
"I could wish, sir, that this interview, began under such gloomy auspices, should at least end gaily; for, after all, are we not at a masked ball at the Opera? Besides, why should we part in sadness? I believed that you were acquainted with an annoying secret; it is not the case, my fears were futile and are forgotten. I have the recollection of my duty, to defend me from your declarations, as well as my utter indifference as to the revelation that has been made to you. Our position is perfectly clear, what more could any one desire? Farewell, this interview convinces me, that your high reputation is well merited, I know that I need not recommend you to secrecy on the subject of a step that would painfully compromise me. For precaution's sake, I will leave the box first; you will have the kindness to wait here a short time."
As she spoke, Madame de Hansfeld rose, replaced her mask, and opened the door of the box.
"Ah, madame," exclaimed De Morville, "for Heaven's sake one word more."
Madame de Hansfeld made a gesture so proud, so dignified, that De Morville no longer endeavoured to prolong the interview.
The princess opened the door and disappeared; in a few minutes De Morville followed her example.
As he passed before the chest we have previously spoken of, he found a crowd, so great, that whilst waiting to pass it he had time to overhear these words:—
"My stars! Brévannes," said the malicious domino, who had been sitting all the evening on the chest, "what a sensation you produce! what a scream the domino with a knot of blue and yellow ribands gave when she passed you!"
"I don't claim the merit," replied M. de Brévannes, gaily; "I am no more responsible for the domino's scream than Fierval or Heronville."
"The domino could not have been more alarmed if she had seen the devil himself," said M. de Fierval.
M. de Morville listened with the greatest attention when he found that the princess formed the subject of their conversation (she wore, as our readers will recollect, a knot of blue and yellow ribands, which she had not removed; De Morville had had the precaution to take off his).
"It was one of your victims, perhaps," said Fierval, jestingly, to M. de Brévannes.
"The unhappy creature has suddenly recognised him," said another.
"Faithless man!"
"Perfidious monster!"
"Who knows?" said the domino, "perhaps it was your wife, Brévannes!"
A shout of laughter followed this pleasantry.
"That would be a capital joke. You have, no doubt, concealed from her that you were coming here, she has believed you in her candour, and in the same spirit come here herself."
Brévannes bore admirably all the jests levelled at him, with the exception of those relating to his wife. He could not conceal his vexation, and endeavoured to change the conversation by saying to M. de Fierval,—
"It's getting late, Fierval, let us go to supper."
"O the wretch!" said the domino; "it is more than probable, that he will get up a terrible scene with his wife on his return home, and all in consequence of the silly remark of a domino,—poor Bertha!"
"The best proof that I am not jealous, and that I bear no malice," said M. de Brévannes, with an air of forced gaiety, "is that I shall be delighted if you will come and sup with us."
"No, I am too amiable to do that; I could not refrain from telling you some unpalatable truths, and they would be unpleasant for the rest of the company. I might, perhaps, make amends to them by shewing you in a new and very disagreeable light, but it does not suit me yet to execute you publicly. If you are not discreet—if you come here again—I shall find you some of these Saturdays, and then mind, for this chest shall serve for the tribunal, and you shall hear some strange things if you dare come, but you will not venture."
"He? Brévannes, not dare?" said Fierval, laughing.
"You evidently don't know him, charming mask."
"You don't know that he can do all he chooses," said another.
"Don't back out of it, Brévannes, and mind you come next Saturday," said Fierval, "discreet or not."
"I have nothing better to say to you, engaging mask," replied Brévannes, "these gentlemen are my witnesses. On Saturday, if you defy me, I accept the challenge."
"'Saturday be it, then,' said the domino; 'but I warn you, you occasioned the scream the domino with the blue and yellow ribands uttered.'"
"Saturday, be it then," said the domino, "but I warn you again, that you occasioned the scream of surprise, almost of horror, that the domino with the blue and yellow ribands uttered."
"Nonsense! you are mad. If you won't come with us, I must leave you."
"Very well; but mind, Saturday."
"Saturday," repeated Brévannes as he walked away. M. de Morville had attentively listened to this conversation, and had not the smallest doubt in his mind but that the sight of Brévannes had occasioned the princess's alarm.
He recollected that during the interview he had just had with Madame de Hansfeld she had alluded to M. de Brévannes as one of the two persons who possessed the secret, whose disclosure she so much dreaded.
What circumstances could have brought M. de Brévannes and Madame de Hansfeld together?
Where had he known her? What was the secret which he possessed?
Was the cool raillery of Madame de Hansfeld at the termination of their conversation real or assumed?
These were the questions which passed through De Morville's mind as he returned sorrowfully home.
A few words are now necessary with respect to M. de Brévannes, an important actor in this history.
M. de Brévannes' father was named Joseph Burdin: born at Lyons, he had come to seek his fortune at Paris under the Directory. By his management, perseverance, and fitness for business, he had, in a few years, realised, by contracts for the supply of the forces, one of those notorious fortunes so common at this period.
Become rich, the name of Burdin appeared vulgar to him, and he bought the estate of Brévannes, in Lorraine, called himself for some time Burdin de Brévannes, then sinking the Burdin, became Brévannes only. His wife, the daughter of a wealthy notary, who had ruined himself by hazardous speculations, died a short time before the Restoration (1815).
M. de Brévannes did not long survive her, and the guardianship of his son, Charles de Brévannes, was intrusted to one of his old associates. Either from negligence or want of principle, this man did not manage his ward's interests faithfully; so that when the young man came of age, in 1825, he only inherited about 40,000 livres (1600 l.) a-year.
M. de Brévannes, renewing his acquaintance with several of his college friends whom he met again in society, passed during several years a gay bachelor's life, without, however, running into any excess of extravagance—he was too selfish and calculating for that.
About the end of the year 1831 he married Bertha Raimond.
To explain this marriage it is necessary to sketch the character of M. de Brévannes. Badly brought up, and having received but the barren education of his college, nothing had softened or abated the innate violence of his temper; the main, leading, and integral characteristic of which was a remarkable degree of energy and hauteur, united to an invincible obstinacy of purpose.
To achieve his end, M. de Brévannes did not hesitate at any sacrifice, any excess, any obstacle.
What he desired, he sought to possess as much to satisfy his taste and caprice of the moment, as to satisfy the sort of tenacious pride which he had in succeeding, by good means or bad—at any cost, any risk—in every thing which he undertook.
M. de Brévannes pushed his economy to the bounds of avarice, his personal ease to selfishness, and his want of sympathy amounted to decided harshness. If he determined to surmount any obstacle, he became devoted, generous, delicate, if it served his purpose; but his aim once attained, these ephemeral and assumed qualities disappeared with the cause which had elicited them; and then his real character resumed its usual tone and course, and his evil inclinations found their compensation for a temporary restraint in increased violence.
Unfortunately, persons of this strong and deeply marked stamp too often prove that with them (as M. de Brévannes had said—to will is to be able to do) vouloir c'est pouvoir.
We will now add a word or two as to his marriage.
M. de Brévannes occupied the first floor of a house in Paris, which was his own property. Two new lodgers came to live in two small apartments on the fourth story,—they were Bertha Raimond and her father; the mother had been dead for a considerable period.
Pierre Raimond, a copper-plate engraver by profession, had so weakened his eyesight that he could at this period engrave nothing but music. Bertha, who was an admirable musician, gave lessons on the piano; and, thanks to these resources, the father and daughter lived almost in easy circumstances.
Bertha was remarkably handsome, and M. de Brévannes, who frequently met her in the house, was so much attracted by her, that, in his capacity of landlord, he introduced himself to Pierre Raimond.
Brévannes had a detestable idea of human kind, and he confidently trusted, by the use of cajolery, and some presents liberally and propitiously made, to triumph over the virtue of Bertha and the scruples of Pierre Raimond. He was deceived: and, paying the quarter's rent for his humble apartments, the engraver gave notice to quit to M. de Brévannes at the end of the ensuing three months, requesting him, at the same time, in very plain terms, to cease his calls, which had been but very few, however, up to that period.
M. de Brévannes was piqued at his failure; this unexpected resistance irritated his desires and wounded his pride, and his caprice became love, or, at least, had all its ardour and impatience.
Having contrived to obtain certain short conversations with Mademoiselle Raimond, either by following her into the streets when she left her home to give lessons, or meeting her at the residence of one of her pupils, M. de Brévannes contrived to maintain a correspondence with Bertha, who soon became much attached to him. He was young, witty, and had a good address—a face, if not handsome, yet manly and expressive. Bertha did not resist these attractions, but her love was as pure as her imagination, and M. de Brévannes' evil hopes were utterly frustrated. Confessing to him, unaffectedly, that she was not ashamed to disclose her love for him, Bertha added that he was too rich to marry her, and that, therefore, the communication between them must cease—vain as it was for him, and distressing for her.
The end of the quarter came, and Bertha and her father went to reside in one of the most lonely quarters of Paris, in the Rue Poultier, Ile Saint Louis.
This removal gave a fresh wound to the pride and feeling of M. de Brévannes. He discovered the abode of the young girl, pretended a long journey, and went secretly and took a lodging in the Ile Saint Louis, near the street in which Pierre Raimond resided.
The first time Bertha again met M. de Brévannes, she betrayed, by her emotion, the intensity of her sentiments towards him; concealing nothing from him,—neither the joy which his return occasioned to her, nor the cruel tears—yet dear as they were cruel—which she had shed during his absence.
In spite of these avowals M. de Brévannes was not the more happy. Seductive persuasion, stratagems, promises, excitement, despair—all, all failed before the virtue of Bertha—virtue as pure and strong as her love itself.
Those who know the heart of man, and especially of men as proud and self-willed as M. de Brévannes, will understand the bitter resentment which sprung up in his mind against this young girl, as inflexible in her purity, as he in his corruption.
A man never pardons a woman who escapes by her address, instinct, or virtue, from the dishonouring snare which he has spread for her.
It would be impossible to describe the mental imprecations with which M. de Brévannes overwhelmed Bertha; and to such a pitch did he attain, that he actually believed that "by her calculating refusals, this chit of a girl had the impertinent hope that he—he would one day marry her,"—a most abominable machination, and, no doubt, planned with the old engraver.
M. de Brévannes shrugged his shoulders in pity when he reflected on a manœuvre as odious as it was ridiculous, and resolved to quit Paris. Before he went he had a final interview with Bertha. He fully expected a despairing scene; he found the young girl sad, calm, resigned. She had never given way to any illusion as to her love for M. de Brévannes, but had always anticipated the painful consequences of her ill-omened attachment.
It was, besides, singular that Pierre Raimond, a worthy artist,—austere, and even stoical, in his ideas of right and wrong,—should have educated his daughter in such ideas of wealth that the disproportion of fortune existing between M. de Brévannes and Bertha should seem to her as insurmountable as the distance which separates a king from a daughter of one of the lowest class in society.
Thus far from asking why he, being free, did not make her his wife—a simple and decided mode of reconciling love and duty—Bertha had ingenuously confessed to M. de Brévannes that their love was the more hopeless as Pierre Raimond, in his proud poverty, would never consent to marry his daughter to a rich man.
At the moment of her separation from M. de Brévannes, Bertha promised him to do all she could to forget him, in order to marry a man as poor as herself, and if not, she would never marry.
These words, free from any exaggeration, as simple and true as the poor girl that uttered them, made no impression on De Brévannes; who but saw in the angelic resignation of Bertha a flagrant and final proof of the plot that was laid for him in order to entrap him into a compulsory marriage.
M. de Brévannes set out for Dieppe, believing that he was completely freed from this love affair; and, proud of having escaped from a shameful snare, he awaited with irritating impatience for a humble prayer to return—which he had decided on receiving and treating with extreme contempt; but, to his vast surprise, he did not even hear from Bertha.
At Dieppe, M. de Brévannes met with a Madame Beauvoisis (the domino of the chest)—very pretty, very much the fashion in a certain circle, very coquettish, and who had made a very deep impression on a most agreeable and gentlemanly person.
To revenge himself on Bertha's silence, and certain compunctious prickings of conscience, as well as to elevate himself in his own eyes, after the check which the engraver's daughter had given him, M. de Brévannes determined to play the agreeable with Madame de Beauvoisis, and supplant her favoured lover. He succeeded.
M. de Brévannes was the more annoyed, the more humiliated for his want of success with Bertha, in proportion as the conquest of Madame Beauvoisis seemed more flattering to him. His self-love revolted at the fact of a poor little unknown girl having been able to resist the advances of a man whom a most desirable woman had selected.
We are not pretending that M. de Brévannes had no love for Bertha, but with him the tender impatiences, the "charming agonies" of love—its hopes and melancholy fears—were perverted into strong desires and irritated pride.
He summed up the matter in his mind bitterly and brutally thus:—
"I am determined this girl shall be mine—cost it what it may, mine she shall be!"
Enraged at not receiving any letters from Bertha during the six weeks he had been away, M. de Brévannes suddenly broke off with Madame Beauvoisis, the idol of the season at Dieppe, and returned to his hiding-place in the Ile Saint Louis. When he arrived there, Bertha, unable to overcome her grief, was dying.
Almost touched at this proof of love, and wishing, moreover, at any cost, to have possession of this young girl, M. de Brévannes, in spite of his resolutions never to be duped into a marriage, as he declared, went to Pierre Raimond and demanded his daughter's hand formally in marriage, anticipating an exuberant outpouring of gratitude on the part of the old engraver.
Incredible—unheard of—strange as it may appear (and it completely upset all M. de Brévannes' ideas), Pierre Raimond would not give his consent to this union.
"'M. de Brévannes was born rich, Bertha was born poor—there was no sympathy existing between them;' this was Pierre Raimond's unchanging theme."
"M. de Brévannes was born rich, Bertha was born poor: there was no sympathy existing between them, no similarity of position, or habits of life, education, and principles, which could offer or ensure any guarantee of happiness for the future."
This was Pierre Raimond's "unchanging theme." There was, in the absolute manner with which this stern old man regarded the distance which separates the rich from the poor, more pride than humility. He established between these two conditions, which he regarded as utterly irreconcilable and diverse, a line as entire and unsurpassable as that which republicans draw between themselves and aristocrats.
The determined obstinacy of M. de Brévannes would have failed before the haughty poverty of the old man, had not Bertha's life been compromised.
A father's instinct is almost always admirably clear-sighted, and when this instinct is allied with excellent common sense, it attains to divination.
Pierre Raimond anticipated his daughter's destiny. Still obliged to choose between the death of a beloved child, and a future, however dreaded, which might, perchance, be averted, the engraver consented at length to the marriage, which took place shortly after M. de Brévannes' return.
Bertha had not for a moment doubted the love of her husband.
Her heart—simple and good, noble and confiding—was unable to resist the unrelenting will of a man, whose energetic protestations had flattered and won her; and in her guileless vanity, the young girl asked herself, with a certain degree of pride, if M. de Brévannes must not have loved her to excess, when he pursued his suit with such unrelaxing tenacity.
Poor Bertha, alas! confounded the proud obstinacy of an uncontrollable temper, which could not endure opposition, with the self-denial, the devoted persistence, of intense passion.
M. de Brévannes was capable of employing every means—even those which had not apparently an honourable plea—to achieve his ends; but that attained, he was also capable of cruelly revenging those sacrifices which he had imposed on himself in order to triumph in a struggle in which his pride was more deeply interested than his love.
With such an intractable temper, the day that followed his victory was seldom one of happiness; the ruder the attack, the more the resistance had lasted, the more his vanity suffered. In the warmth of action he forgot the wounds of his self-love; but after success he felt intensely those bleeding wounds, and his disposition again resumed its ascendancy.
When the fever of his unbridled will, which had constrained M. de Brévannes to marry Bertha, had subsided, he began to regret his marriage very deeply. Yes, he was ashamed of his alliance with an obscure and poor girl, when he reflected on the wealthy alliances to which he might have aspired, and for which the charming qualities, the beauty, and pure mind of Bertha, were hardly a recompense. He believed that he was continually the butt of sarcastic comment, and could not find sufficient raillery to vindicate his ridiculous marriage of affection.
M. de Brévannes was deceived. Several persons, when they saw him marry a lovely, virtuous, and poor girl, gave him credit for a generous and noble spirit, and admired him, and vaunted his singular disinterestedness, and he was absolved, by anticipation, from all the torments which he would inflict on a woman for whom he had done so much.
Some regarded Bertha's conduct as a master-piece of trick and skill; others jeered at M. de Brévannes and his love-match, because they were of a class that mocks at all the world.
No one suspected the real motive of this marriage, and that M. de Brévannes' obstinacy had urged him to it, at least as much as his love.
One last trait of M. de Brévannes' disposition.
For the four years he had been married, Bertha, more loving, more resigned than ever, had not given him the slightest cause of complaint, although he had openly committed frequent infidelities, and sometimes given her rivals of very low degree; the wretched woman had wept her tears of bitterness in secret, but never made any complaint.
In spite of this patience—in spite of her perfect gentleness, M. de Brévannes sometimes gave himself up to inconceivable suspicions and jealousy, and under the most frivolous pretexts.
This violent jealousy was by no means a proof of De Brévannes' love. If he went into a rage at the mere thought (utterly false and unjust) that his wife might be faithless to him, it was because Bertha's fault would have covered (as he thought), with unextinguishable ridicule, this love-match, for which he had sacrificed so much. M. de Brévannes desired, at least, to be able to vaunt the irreproachable and exemplary conduct of the fair and obscure woman whom he had chosen.
After they had been eighteen months wedded, M. de Brévannes, becoming very tired of his happiness, had travelled in Italy for several months, leaving his wife under the care of Pierre Raimond, whose austere morality he fully recognised.
The old engraver would not consent to live with his daughter in M. de Brévannes' house during her husband's absence, and Bertha had, therefore, taken up her abode with her father in the Ile Saint Louis, and resumed, in the Rue Poultier, the room she occupied before she was married.
Since his journey to Italy, where he had formed Madame de Hansfeld's acquaintance (as we shall see hereafter), M. de Brévannes' temper had become much soured, and his disposition had grown sombre, irascible, and was often brutal; and Bertha had very frequently suffered acutely from it. These points enumerated, we will now follow M. de Brévannes to his residence after his return from the Opera-ball, where he had been so completely mystified by Madame Beauvoisis, the domino of the chest.
The house in which M. de Brévannes occupied the first floor was situated in the Rue Saint Florentin. Utterly indifferent to the enjoyments or little comforts of a well-arranged home, he had simply commanded the upholsterer who furnished them to see no expense spared; and with this unrestricted permission before him, the tradesman employed had done his best to produce the very beau idéal of a furnished lodging, that is to say, he had given to the residence of M. de Brévannes the most chill, comfortless, and commonplace aspect imaginable. Nothing that marked a taste, pursuit, or personal convenience, was to be seen in the dreary chambers; not a portrait, a picture,—not a vestige of the fine arts embellished the spacious rooms. The only one exempted from the triste vulgarity that predominated over the others was a small drawing-room especially appropriated to Bertha, and in which she passed her entire days.
Spite of the advanced hour of the night, or rather morning, for it was now four o'clock, it is into this very chamber we are about to introduce the reader.
Although the continual absences of M. de Brévannes might well have accustomed his gentle partner to them, yet Madame de Brévannes still experienced too much anxiety on his account ever to retire to rest until well assured of his safe return.
It was then four o'clock in the morning, and Bertha, seated in an arm-chair, her clasped hands reposing on her lap, was mechanically gazing on the expiring embers which flickered on the hearth. A lamp placed on a small table beside her, on which lay a half open book, shone full on the delicate features of the pensive wife, and cast a soft glow upon the glossy bands of her rich chestnut hair, which, braided so as merely to display the finely formed ear, with its roseate tip, was plaited in with the luxuriant masses, ornamenting the back of her small and classically shaped head.
The most striking characteristic of the lovely countenance of Bertha was its look of almost angelic sweetness, and when she raised her beautiful, large, blue eyes, it was impossible to resist their gentle influence. Her somewhat serious mouth seemed rather intended to express the smile of affection and universal benevolence than the noisy laugh of extreme gaiety, while the meditative attitude in which she sat displayed to advantage the graceful roundness of her long white throat.
Bertha wore a dress of light grey silk, whose subdued shade harmonised admirably with the delicacy of her transparent complexion. On one side of the fire-place stood a pianoforte loaded with music, and over the mantel-piece were suspended two portraits of unequal sizes, representing the father and mother of Bertha. A considerable number of plain black frames, containing copper-plate engravings, the works of Pierre Raimond, were hung around the small chamber, the walls of which were covered with embossed red paper, that gave it an air of lightness and cheerfulness very different from the rest of the apartments; and on the chimney-piece stood an old enamelled clock and two small blue and white candlesticks of Limoges enamel, which had once belonged to Bertha's mother, who had received them from her husband as a wedding present.
A tear which had long hung suspended from the thick lashes of Bertha's eyelid fell on her cheek like a liquid pearl. Her bosom heaved convulsively—a sudden tremor seized her frame, while a deep flush suffused her countenance, as again she sunk into her former gloomy abstraction.
Let us briefly explain the cause both of Bertha's sadness and utter dejection.
During her last residence in Lorraine, M. de Brévannes had bestowed the most marked attention on one of the female attendants belonging to his wife. The insolence displayed by the creature thus improperly distinguished opened the eyes of Madame de Brévannes as to its real cause, or, at least, infused into her mind such strong suspicions as to call for the immediate dismissal of the guilty woman.
This trying circumstance had occurred a few days before the return of M. de Brévannes to Paris, and had left a bitter feeling of injury in the mind of Bertha, who, however she might previously have smarted under her husband's infidelity, had never experienced a similar humiliation.
Four o'clock struck, and aroused Madame de Brévannes from her reverie. Absorbed in her deep and painful meditation, she had taken no note of the hours, and was surprised to find the night so completely gone.
At this moment a carriage stopped at the door, and Bertha began to regret having sat up so late. Her husband had peremptorily forbidden her ever awaiting his return. The servants, also, by his orders, retired to rest whether their master were in or not. He usually entered by a small side door, of which he alone had the key, but he was compelled to pass through Bertha's sitting-room in order to reach one of the two sleeping-apartments which communicated with it.
At the sight of her husband, Bertha rose to meet him, endeavouring, by a forced smile, to deprecate the storm she dreaded and anticipated.
The contraction of M. de Brévannes' features indicated the evil passions which at that moment possessed him. The few words spoken at random by Madame Beauvoisis respecting his journey to Italy had awakened within him a crowd of painful ideas, which he had been compelled to restrain during the hall and supper; it was, therefore, with considerable pleasure he promised himself a means of venting the wrath and bitterness with which he was filled, by quarrelling with his wife for sitting up for him.
"How is this, madam?" exclaimed he, as he entered; "four o'clock in the morning, and you not yet retired to bed! May I inquire the meaning of such strange conduct? Or is it that you may know at what hour I return home? Am I, or am I not, master of my own actions? Is your inquisitorial system to recommence the instant I set my foot in this place? Perhaps it may be as well, since we are upon the subject, to go into it at full length, in order that we may have no further occasion to revert to it during the whole of the winter."
So saying, he threw himself abruptly into the chair Bertha had just quitted, while she remained standing by the piano, utterly overcome with surprise at this abrupt torrent of reproach.
"You know," answered she, timidly, "your wishes are at all times mine; only tell me what you wish me to do, and rest assured of my implicit obedience. Indeed, it was with no thought of watching your conduct that I sat up so late; I was amusing myself by arranging this little apartment, and that occupied me so deeply that, before I was aware of it, I found it was one o'clock in the morning; then, fancying that you would soon be home, I thought I would wait for you. I slept a little, and so four o'clock struck before I was aware how the time had passed. That is how I came to offend you, Charles;" then smiling sweetly, and raising her lovely face towards her husband, she added, "And will you not forgive me for having unintentionally done so?"
But this angelic mildness disarmed not M. de Brévannes.
"What folly is this?" exclaimed he; "you really waste, a vast many fine words, madam, most unnecessarily. I am not arraigning your conduct as though you had committed a crime, and it is more than absurd to put such a construction upon what I did say; but of this be assured, I am not to be cheated as to the real motive that kept you from your bed to-night. Why not be candid, and admit that you chose to sit up that you might satisfy yourself as to the precise hour and minute I came home? You will oblige me, however, by not doing so again. I do not intend, I can tell you, to allow a repetition of the scenes of last year, or that, either by sullenness or assuming the air and appearance of a victim, you shall presume to imply a censure upon whatever I may think proper to do or to say."
"Oh, Charles! have I ever uttered one word?—except, indeed——"
"Upon my life," cried M. de Brévannes, interrupting his wife, "some persons possess the happy art of making their looks, and even silence, more expressive than words themselves."
"Alas, Charles, it is not always possible to prevent myself from being sad!"
"And wherefore should you be so? Do you want for any thing?—are you not elevated to a rank and station you never could have ventured to hope for?—have I not done all that human ability admits for you?"
"Charles, you well know I am not unmindful of all your benefits; my only regret is that I cannot better prove my gratitude to you."
"Yet all I require of you is simply to render my home agreeable to me, and to put on a smiling look of happiness instead of perpetually censuring my conduct by your melancholy and other affectations. If I thought fit to indulge my inclinations by marrying you, it was because, first, I was in love, and, secondly——"
"To have a wife submissive to your commands—I am perfectly sensible of that. You preferred me to a richer bride, because gratitude for the sacrifice you had made for me would necessarily render my duties still more binding and sacred in my eyes; and I should have been extremely sorry had you not so considered it, as it would have left me no means of repaying you for your kindness. But let me assure you, Charles, that you are greatly mistaken in ascribing my sadness (which is frequently involuntary) to any desire on my part to criticise your actions, which it becomes not me to question."
"But what is the meaning of this sadness?"
After a moment's hesitation, Bertha, with downcast eyes, replied,—
"There may be among your actions some that render me sad, without my venturing to complain of them."
"Upon my word, you are too deep a casuist for me! Come now, I will render the subject more clear, and disclose to you what your real thoughts are, though you dare not own them even to yourself. Why, instead of employing all these hypocritical circumlocutions, can you not come boldly to the point, and candidly confess that jealousy is the main-spring of your conduct?"
"Let me beseech you not to refer to that."
"And why not? On the contrary, I consider it most advantageous to weigh well our present position in all its relative bearings. And first, for the grand question you long to propose, but dare not, have I, or have I not, mistresses to occupy my time and thoughts? Now, that is the very thing of which you ought either to be entirely ignorant, or, at least, to feign ignorance. Such would be the conduct of a sensible woman, instead of tormenting herself to death with ridiculous jealousy."
"Charles, is it for you to assert that we may reason ourselves out of such a feeling as jealousy, no matter however unfounded, or whether the object that excites it be worthy or otherwise?"
"Capital, indeed, madam! Then it seems you accuse me of being jealous?"
"Oh, no!—I accuse you not—that would be to imply that jealousy were a crime, and Heaven knows I had need be indulgent towards a sentiment under whose bitterest torments I have myself writhed."
"You are under a gross error, madam, if you suppose that we stand upon equal grounds as regards the indulging such a passion as jealousy? Whether I am faithful to you or not, in no degree affects your consideration with society. But that I, who have sacrificed every thing for you, should be exposed to fresh ridicule!—I tell you," continued M. de Brévannes, rising from his chair, his teeth clenched, and his hands compressed with rage,—"that at the very supposition I can no longer command myself!" and as though unable to master the boiling rage which shook his frame and inflamed every feature, he commenced rapidly pacing the room.
"You speak truly, Charles," said Bertha, sorrowfully, "our jealousy is not the same. Mine springs from my heart, yours from your pride; but it matters not, and I respect it equally. Have you ever once heard me complain of the seclusion in which I live? Except my father, whom you permit me to visit twice a-week, and a few members of your own family it is your pleasure I should receive, I live entirely alone. Oh, let me hasten to thank you for granting me the happiness of communing with my own thoughts undisturbed by the great and the gay!"
"Yet all this enjoyment does not prevent your finding the time long and tedious; and every body knows the effects solitude and want of occupation produce in the minds of females."
"But I am never unoccupied—never for an instant. You know how passionately fond I am of music; then I draw, I read. As for the solitude, your being more at home does not depend upon me."
While Madame de Brévannes was speaking, her husband had approached the window, and mechanically opened the curtains drawn before it. He observed on the other side of the street, on the first floor of the house opposite his own, lights in the window corresponding to the one by which he stood, and through the glass he could discern the outline of a man attentively gazing from that window.
It was now nearly five o'clock in the morning, all was dark without, and the street was perfectly deserted; what object of interest, then, could the individual opposite have in thus keeping watch, unless it were to reconnoiter the windows of Madame de Brévannes' apartment, doubtless the only one throughout the house in which a light was burning at that unusual hour?
One of those absurd suspicions which enter only into the brain of jealous deceivers (a class essentially distinct from that of jealous deceived)—we repeat that a suspicion of the most absurd description all at once entered the mind of M. de Brévannes, who, turning quickly round towards his wife, and looking at her with angry glances and threatening countenance, exclaimed,—
"Madam, I insist upon knowing wherefore that light is burning in the opposite house."
"Madam, I insist upon knowing wherefore that light is burning in the opposite house?" then suddenly interrupting himself, to give way to a suggestion equally ridiculous with his jealousy, he abruptly drew back the curtain, opened the window, and went out upon the balcony, where he took up his station with an air of proud defiance.
At this unexpected apparition, the curtains of the opposite windows were hastily closed, the shadow disappeared, and almost immediately the light was extinguished.
Madame de Brévannes, wholly ignorant of her husband's fury, and still less able to comprehend his fancy for throwing open the windows in the month of January, was advancing towards the balcony, when M. de Brévannes turned sharply round, and, jerking the window-curtains back to their places, exclaimed,—
"So, madam, it is thus, then, you occupy your leisure hours while awaiting my return?"
"Indeed, Charles, I understand not what you mean."
"You do not? Ah, false woman, tell me why was the window of the first floor in the house facing this lighted up just now?"
"Just now?—the window?—in the opposite house?" repeated Bertha, with increasing surprise.
"Oh, you feign astonishment admirably, madam; but it will not do. Just this minute, some person opposite was attentively watching your window, but disappeared the instant I presented myself."
"Very probably, Charles. I know nothing about it: but why do you tell me of so trifling a circumstance?"
"Why?"
"Yes, I ask you again, why?"
"Because, doubtless there is a mutually good understanding between yourself and this person opposite, and that some disgraceful intrigue is carried on by means of signal-lights in your respective windows. I cease now to feel the smallest astonishment at your having kept watch to-night, instead of retiring to rest."
To an accusation so abrupt, so brutal, and so utterly incomprehensible, Bertha found it impossible to frame any reply: but, clasping her hands, she raised her eyes to heaven.
"All those tragedy airs are no answers to my question," cried M. de Brévannes, more and more excited; "and I ask you again, madam, why that light burned in the window directly facing yours; and wherefore that man gazed so attentively over here?"
"How is it possible I can know?" cried Bertha.
"Ah, madam, this is not replying, but meanly equivocating."
"But what other answer can I give?"
"Have a care! have a care!" exclaimed M. de Brévannes, almost foaming with rage, "do not imagine me fool enough to be duped by your hypocrisy. I have seen what I state with my own eyes. I am not blind, whatever you may think. I insist upon knowing who lives opposite to us?"
"For Heaven's sake, Charles, how should I know? We have only been here since yesterday morning——"
Interrupting his wife with increased fury, and violently striking his forehead, M. de Brévannes exclaimed,—
"I have it! Now, I remember, a post-chaise arrived almost at the same time we did, and stopped before the opposite house. We are followed—perhaps, even from Lorraine. Oh, I am sure—quite, quite sure, some disgraceful mystery is attached to all these circumstances; but depend upon it, wretched creature! that I will discover it, and drag the infamous participators to the shame and ignominy they deserve."
So much brutality and insult, expressed in a tone and manner so undeserved, stung Bertha to the quick. Spite of her quietness and habitual resignation, her self-pride, her delicacy, seemed outraged; and, with a firm and dignified manner, she said to her husband,—
"You are wrong, Charles, to speak to me thus. You may exhaust my patience, and force me to say things that, for the sake of your self-respect, I would fain be silent upon."
"Oh! oh! what! threats, too?"
"No, Charles, I utter no threats; but it is scarcely generous in you, who have given me so many just causes of complaint and sorrow, to accuse me, and treat me thus ignominiously, only from an absurd suspicion."
"Upon my word, madam, you are coming out quite a new character, as well as with language."
"Charles, I am weary of suffering your unjust reproaches in silence, when I might myself prefer against you causes of complaint, unfortunately too well founded."
"Better, and better, I protest!"
"You tell me, Charles, that I ought to shut my eyes to your conduct. I have always done so; but is it my fault if the account of your irregularities has reached my ears, even amid the solitude in which I live? Is it not the voice of public report, and the insolence of the wretched creature I drove from my house a week ago, that——"
"Not another word, madam!"
"Pardon me, Charles, but I must and will speak. I wish not to presume upon the position my devotion to my duties had obtained for me, I merely desire that you should respect it. I am willing to shut my eyes on errors so low, so degrading, that they are beneath my anger; but I will not suffer you thus unjustly to trample me in the dust."
"Upon my word, madam, your audacity confounds me. You, doubtless, wish me to understand, that four years of fidelity and respect for your duties have fully repaid all obligation to me, and that now you are free to act as you think proper. Is it possible that you can have effaced from your memory all I have done for you and yours; that I took you from absolute beggary; that your father exists upon my generosity; and that I have even carried my goodness so far as to have once offered to allow him to reside under my roof?"
"I have never forgotten, Charles, that you raised me from the poverty you speak of; and this recollection is the more meritorious on my part, as the poverty you allude to had no terrors for me: on the contrary, I neither felt nor heeded them, and ere I gave you, as a rich man, my heart, I had, perhaps, as many scruples to get over as you were obliged to vanquish, ere you could make up your mind to bestow your affections upon a poor girl like me."
"Really, what extreme condescension on your part to accept the hand, spite of my obnoxious 40,000 livres per annum!"
"As for your taunt of my father being maintained by your bounty! 'tis the first time you have uttered it—it shall be the last. For nearly the last twelvemonth, my poor father's sight has become so weakened, that he has been compelled to relinquish the labour by which he had hitherto supported himself; by dint of prayers and entreaties, I prevailed on him to accept a small annuity, he consented to receive it."
"In order not to be outdone by you in condescension, acting, no doubt, upon that principle, M. Raimond has also vouchsafed to honour me by accepting the means of living comfortably, instead of dying in an hospital."
"Say, rather, that my father was desirous of sparing your vanity by not going into an hospital. According to his notions, there would have been no dishonour in accepting such an asylum: old, infirm, unable to maintain himself, as he had hitherto done, by the work of his own hands, he would, without any feeling of degradation, have availed himself of the refuge public charity offers to the honest but unfortunate sufferer. However——"
"You would say that, since I so ill appreciate the great kindness of your respectable parent, he will no longer afford me the extreme happiness of maintaining him any longer, but will punish me by going and establishing himself in the hospital?"
"Most assuredly; for, certainly, I will not conceal from him the remarks you have made."
As she uttered these last words, the voice of Bertha, which, until then, had been firm and collected, began to falter; her powers of endurance were exhausted. She had for some time restrained the swelling tears which nearly choked her; but she could no longer retain her self-command,—she sank back into her chair, and, covering her face with her hands, wept bitterly.
M. de Brévannes was hard-hearted, selfish, and proud, yet he possessed considerable intelligence; and spite of the sarcasms on the singular principles of Bertha's father, with regard to the favours of the rich, he was perfectly well aware, that reasonable or otherwise, the conviction of his wife and Pierre Raimond on this subject was deep and sincere. His jokes had merely been a species of cruel sport.
The grief of Bertha touched him the more, as he remembered the recent wrongs he had done her, and all the humiliating things he had said to her rose in mental array; and he could not conceal from himself, that his conduct was by no means what it should he. The more she appeared dependent on him, the more incumbent was it on him to spare her delicacy, and not load her with coarse and cruel reproaches. And, if the whole truth must be told, we would endeavour to lay open one of the thousand hidden folds of the human heart, or rather of human organisation, and induce the reader to believe in one of those sudden brutal rekindlings of passion peculiar to man alone; and that, too, after the most bitter, degrading, and insulting recriminations.
Bertha, overwhelmed by the painful emotions produced by the late cruel scene, had fallen back into her chair. As she sat with drooping head, her beautifully formed shoulders, white and polished as ivory, yet tinged with the warm flush of her recently excited feelings, suddenly fixed the attention of M. de Brévannes.
As is frequently the case, he had a thousand times forgotten the lovely being he called his wife for creatures unworthy of a comparison with her, even as regarded the mere matter of beauty. Since the scene to which Bertha had alluded, when speaking of the femme-de-chambre she had been compelled to dismiss, the married pair had observed a mixture of coldness and restraint towards each other; but the love of Bertha for her husband had received its death-blow.
At the sight of his wife's deep distress, M. de Brévannes, by one of those gross ideas inherent in the minds of such men, imagined, that by complimenting the poor victim of his brutality, upon the power and brilliancy of her beauty, she would readily pardon him his late unfeeling conduct; he, therefore, silently approached his weeping wife, and, throwing his arm around her waist, exclaimed,—
"Come, my pretty Bertha, be a good girl—give me a kiss—and let's be friends."
It is impossible to depict the expression of mingled disgust, shame, and profound grief, exhibited in the countenance of the suffering wife; she, however, hastily freed herself from the hold of M. de Brévannes, and rising, exclaimed,—
"Surely I might have been spared this last insult! It is, however, one I neither can nor will endure." And with these words Bertha rushed into her chamber, doubly locking the door after her.
We shall not attempt to paint the rage of M. de Brévannes, or the mingled wrath and hatred with which he pursued his unfortunate wife.
The immense and ancient Hôtel Lambert, occupied by the Prince and Princess de Hansfield, was situated in the Rue Saint Louis en l'Ile; and its garden-walls formed the boundary of the Quai d'Anjou, which is separated from the arsenal by the divisions of the Seine surrounding the Isle Louviers.
As we have already observed, nothing can be more wild and neglected than the present exterior of this palace, although the curious are still admitted to view those vast apartments so appropriate to the princely grandeur of past ages.
Still it is not without a feeling of mournful regret that one of the present day can contemplate these magnificent remains of ancient splendour, whose halls were once peopled with a gay phalanx of pages, guards, squires, knights, and gentlemen, with the innumerable train of satellites for ever revolving round those illustrious houses, whose leaders reflected so much glory and splendour on that period of French history. And to the meditative mind there is a fund of painful reflection in thus witnessing the triumph of time over the impotent designs of men, who, firm in their own possessions, believed they bequeathed them with equal certainty to their descendants.
Happily (thanks to the solitude of the desert spot in which it stood), the edifice of which we are speaking still retained a portion of its romantic and poetical character, and, when half veiled by the clouds of night, it shone forth in solemn majesty,—seemed to frown an awful lesson of monumental wisdom.
Night, solitude, and silence, change not with time; contemporaries of all ages, they are immutable and fixed as eternity itself. Thus, when the ravages of time are hid by the mists of night, and the massive building stands out in bold relief, the spectator beholding it at midnight, in silence and solitude, might believe nought had changed within or without, and the long lapse of years between the past and present be effaced from his recollection.
We shall conduct the reader to the Hôtel Lambert, about the time when M. de Brévannes quitted the opera.
Thick grey clouds, driven hurriedly along by the sharp north wind, floated rapidly across the face of the heavens; and, as the moon sunk in the horizon, she covered the fantastic edges of the broken clouds with a bright silvery glow, whilst, above, numerous bright stars glittered and sparkled in the dark azure of the firmament. The irregular mass of the old palace with its gable ends, high chimneys with their whimsical supporters, and its immense façade, stood out in bold relief against the clear transparency of the midnight sky, while an alley of evergreen pines raised their pointed and sombre-looking heads above the garden-walls that bordered the Quai.
The waters of the Seine, swollen by the rains of winter, dashed heavily on the shore, and by their mournful murmurs seemed replying to the prolonged whistling of the northerly breeze.
Save the rush of troubled waters, and the loud swelling wind, all was silent in this part of Paris.
Half-past four o'clock had just sounded from the distant arsenal clock, when a carriage stopped before the garden-wall.
A person wearing a large slouched hat, and wrapped in a cloak, descended from the carriage, opened a small door, and immediately afterwards Madame de Hansfeld, still dressed in a domino, also quitted the vehicle, and entered the garden.
The princess, with a rapid step, traversed the long alley of pines which led to one of the wings of the palace.
From time to time the clear moonbeams, struggling through the thick branches of the trees, chequered the ground with patches of light, and displayed the singular effect produced by the figure of the princess as she flitted along in her dark floating drapery, beneath the alternations of light and darkness.
The princely dwellings of that period had all, in common with the Hôtel Lambert, their small secret staircase leading to the private apartments.
The extreme ceremony always kept up, the exactions of full dress and etiquette, with the immense number of servants of all ranks, perpetually hurrying to and fro on their respective duties, left the occupants of these mansions so little at liberty during the day, that they were generally reduced to the necessity of availing themselves of nocturnal expeditions to effect any important business.
Thus, then, there will not appear any thing inconsistent with the custom of the period we are treating of in Madame de Hansfeld's pausing as she reached the left wing of the palace, opening a small door concealed among a clump of trees, and lightly ascending a narrow winding staircase, which quickly brought her to a large anteroom leading to her sleeping-apartment.
Scarcely had the princess entered, than she threw herself into an easy chair, as though exhausted with fatigue.
During this time, the individual who had followed her carefully bolted and secured the door conducting to the secret staircase, then, throwing off the large hat and cloak, discovered a female form.
Stooping towards the hearth, this person rekindled the half-expiring embers, lit the wax-lights, and proceeded into the chamber of Madame de Hansfeld, to satisfy herself that nothing had occurred by which her absence could have been suspected.
The princess, meanwhile, after a momentary languor and apparent depression of spirits, tore off her mask, then, abruptly rising, unfastened the girdle of her domino, which she threw on the ground, and trampled upon with rage.
Beneath the outer garment so rudely treated, the princess wore a black robe, with short sleeves, thus revealing arms, shoulders, and bust, worthy of the classic beauty of a Diana. Her countenance, so proud, chill, and imperturbable, while conversing with M. de Morville, was now agitated by a whirlwind of the most stormy passions. Her somewhat hollow eyes glittered like dark diamonds. Standing erect before the large glass which surmounted the chimney-piece, she appeared as though desirous of crushing the marble mantel-piece with the convulsive pressure of her clenched hands. Wholly absorbed by the stormy passions which raged within her, she perceived not the return of her companion. And a more singular person could not be seen. A deep brown, resembling the hue of Florentine bronze, tinged her colourless cheek, and displayed more strikingly the pearly whiteness of the eyeball with the clear blue of the pupil; her thick chestnut hair was cut short, curled, and parted on the forehead, after the fashion of many of the male sex, who in the present day wear their hair of an almost feminine length. Her well-formed and regular features had an undaunted and almost masculine expression, and when she unclosed her red thin lips, she displayed a set of teeth, white enough, indeed, to have disarmed all criticism, but standing at wide distances from each other.
This singular female was nearly as tall as Madame de Hansfeld, but considerably thinner. She wore a high dress of black silk, with a small handkerchief of the same material tied around her throat, to confine her closely plaited collar.
Dressed in a large flapped hat, and wrapped in a cloak, the female we are describing might easily pass for one of the opposite sex, and as such accompany Madame de Hansfeld, who feared to return alone during the night, in so lonely a place, and almost entirely at the mercy of a coachman.
During the interview at the Opera-ball, the young girl had awaited the princess in a fiacre, and afterwards accompanied her home.
Perceiving the deep reverie into which Madame de Hansfeld had fallen, she said,—
"Godmother, it is very late, you must go to bed."
"I have seen him!" exclaimed the princess, impetuously. "He may be my ruin!" continued she, turning with flashing eyes towards her god-daughter (whom we shall style Iris, entreating the reader's pardon for this little mythological fancy).
"Whom have you seen, godmother?" inquired the girl, terrified at the wildness and desperation of Madame de Hansfeld's manner.
"Charles de Brévannes!"
"He here?"
"I tell you I saw him—just now—at the opera! oh, it was he too surely! and as surely does the presence of this man portend some fresh misfortune to me."
"I do not know this man, godmother, or why you hate him so inveterately; but I, too, hate him with my bitterest scorn, because you have already told me that he formerly occasioned you great sorrow."
As Iris pronounced the words, "I know not why you hate him so inveterately," she could not repress a slight shudder, which, however, passed unnoticed by Madame de Hansfeld.
"You ask me wherefore I hold him in such detestation?" cried the princess, almost wildly.
"I said so but from curiosity, godmother. But, if you hate, you would also be avenged."
"Avenged! oh, yes, I would have vengeance great and startling as the ill he has done me."
"If I can serve you, speak."
"You, my poor girl?"
"Command, and I obey. Iris is yours—yours in all things; her life depends on yours—her breath is as your breath—she sees but with your eyes—she has no will but yours."
Without replying, Madame de Hansfeld extended her beautiful hand to Iris, who raised it to her moist red lips with an expression of respect and devotion more than filial; then, suddenly springing up, she exclaimed,—
"Gracious Heaven, godmother! your hand is cold as death!—you shiver, too! You must go to bed—indeed you must."
"Not yet—listen to me. I know not what occasions within me the foreboding that the arrival of Charles de Brévannes here is the certain precursor of great perils and dangers to myself. Your services may, probably, be more needful to me than ever,—you must know all. Yes, you must be made acquainted with the crime of this man; and then you will be able to comprehend that vengeance now becomes a sort of expiation on my part."
Having thus spoken, the princess seated herself beside the fire, while Iris, taking a mantle of velvet lined with ermine, wrapped it carefully and tenderly around her godmother; for, spite of the glowing fire which now blazed on the hearth, the piercing cold of a winter's night made these large chambers dreary and chill.
Madame de Hansfeld remained for several minutes plunged in a deep reverie.
Iris loved Madame de Hansfeld with a sort of tenderness at once respectful, passionate, and savage. It was, indeed, one of those blindly absorbing attachments which appear to shut the heart against every tender feeling, and to infuse an almost ferocity against all human creatures but the one beloved object.
The princess believed she had for ever attached this young girl to her by the profoundest gratitude, having taken her from an early age and entirely brought her up, and in this she was not mistaken. But she was wholly ignorant of the violence of this sentiment, or how completely it had occupied the heart of her young protégée, to the exclusion of all others. And Iris had sedulously concealed from her protectress the fits of jealous fury she experienced at the smallest preference bestowed by her mistress on any other than herself.
Gloomy, taciturn, and imperious, towards the other servants in the princess's establishment, Iris was either feared or detested throughout the Hôtel Lambert. Her position as companion to Madame de Hansfeld enabled her to keep quite aloof, and to devote herself to one fixed and exclusive idea, that of living or dying for her godmother alone. Her incessant regret was the not finding herself sufficiently useful and necessary to Madame de Hansfeld, who, rich, noble, and entirely free to act as she pleased, could easily dispense with the assistance or devotion of her god-daughter.
And, frequently urged by the fatal excitement of her overweening attachment, Iris would even form the most violent and unbounded wishes. In the excess of her wild and ungovernable fondness for her mistress, she would desire to see her wretched and miserable, in order to obtain the unspeakable happiness of consoling and succouring her—of devoting to her each hour of the day and night, the better to prove the full power and extent of her ruling passion.
From this slight sketch of the disposition of Iris, who, of either Bohemian or Moorish origin, had been early deserted by her natural protectors, it will be easily seen that she pursued with implacable hatred not only the enemies of Madame de Hansfeld, but also every person on whom her mistress bestowed marks of favour; and her animosity invariably kept pace with the degree of partiality with which Madame de Hansfeld beheld any acquaintance. Thus aware of the princess's extreme admiration for M. de Morville, she detested him as much—nay, even more, than M. de Brévannes, towards whom she even felt a species of singular gratitude for having inspired her mistress with such deep abhorrence. Almost ere Iris had passed her childhood, she enveloped herself in the veil of impenetrable dissimulation. Never for an instant had Madame de Hansfeld supposed her capable of such wild and frantic impetuosity—such ill-restrained fervour in her affections; and yet the ardent, though misguided girl, pursuing her aim with inflexible energy, and bewildered by her savage jealousy, had already struck at the dearest affections of her protectress's heart.
After reflecting for a considerable time, Madame de Hansfeld, rousing herself from the deep reverie into which she had fallen, made a sign to Iris to draw near to her.
"Iris remained heart, soul, and body, absorbed in the close observation of the adored object before her."
Her ever-watchful attendant instantly obeyed the signal; and kneeling and bending forwards, after the custom of the Spaniards in their churches, she crossed her arms, and fixed her large clear eyes upon the countenance of Madame de Hansfeld with that mixture of intelligence, submission, and devotion, peculiar to the canine race; and thus, hardly daring to breathe, lest she should lose a word, a gesture, or the smallest change in the expression of her mistress's features, Iris remained heart, soul, and body, absorbed in the close observation of the adored object before her.
"You may remember when, two years since, before my marriage, I left you at Venice to go to Florence with my aunt Vasari, and Gianetta our waiting-maid. You had been an invalid for a long time, and were unable to accompany us."
"I remember it well. Gianetta wrote to me sometimes, by your desire, to tell me how you were."
"That Gianetta was very inquisitive, indiscreet, and faithless. I fear I kept her in my service too long."
"During your residence in Florence she wrote me but a few lines, just to say that you were well; and she seemed to do this very unwillingly," added Iris, with incredible assurance.
She lied, for Gianetta had, on the contrary, kept her constantly and fully informed of all that was going on at Florence during her godmother's absence.
"At the end of six months," resumed the princess, "I returned to Venice."
"It was then you had that long nervous attack which so nearly killed you."
"And during which you gave me so many proofs of your devotion and affection; and from that time, Iris, I loved you like a sisterlike a daughter."
Iris took her godmother's hand and silently placed it to her lips.
"My aunt Vasari," continued Paula, "went to Florence to attend to a lawsuit she had there. She went out every day, being able, as she thought, to influence her judges. In the evening we went out to walk, and there I frequently met a Frenchman named M. Charles de Brévannes. He was very soon my constant shadow; his pursuit of me became incessant and troublesome, and from that time my indifference was changed to aversion."
"Was he a man likely to cause such a sentiment?" "Why do you ask?" inquired the princess, scrutinising Iris's features; then adding, "You were so young then, you could not have remarked. Yes, at your age, that is natural. You recollect my cousin, Raphael Monti, the son of my father's brother?"
Iris imperceptibly contracted her eyebrows, and replied in a short manner,—
"Yes; each time he returned from sea he came to pass his leisure at Venice. Isn't he in the East? Have you had any news of him lately? When we left Italy his mother was becoming very anxious about his absence."
"He is dead," said Madame de Hansfeld, with desperate calmness.
"Raphael dead!" exclaimed Iris, with feigned astonishment.
"Charles de Brévannes killed him."
"And your aunt is ignorant of this?"
"Listen—the hour is come to disclose every thing to you. I had been, as you know, brought up with Raphael. When a child, I loved him as a brother; as a young girl, as my betrothed husband; or, rather, these two sentiments united themselves into one. You were then young and giddy, and our mutual affection, no doubt, escaped you."
"Why, to tell you the truth, godmother, now I remember some circumstances which ought to have enlightened me on that subject. But is it possible—is Raphael dead? And when and where did this happen?"
"Listen. I was to hare been married to him on my return to Florence. You may now comprehend why M. de Brévannes inspired me with so much aversion."
"I understand."
"His pursuit of me redoubled. Informed of our residence in Florence, he, by dint of perseverance and encouragement, contrived to form a connexion with those persons who would be of so much service to my aunt in her process, and obtained such influence with them, that he was very soon in a position to be of the greatest possible use to us.
"His way thus cleared, he one day boldly announced himself at my aunt's under the plea of lodging in the same hôtel. Our reception of him was very chilling, but the man soon proved himself so insinuating, such a flatterer, and so clearly shewed my aunt how greatly he could aid the progress of her suit, that she begged him to visit us as frequently as he pleased. As he left the room, he cast at me a very significant look. He had only done this in order to be able to approach me.
"I told my aunt all my suspicions, and her reply was that I was crazy; that it was requisite we should avail ourselves of M. de Brévannes' kind offices, since he could be so advantageous to us. You know my aunt had been very handsome, and at this time she was only forty years of age. M. de Brévannes saw one day that she took in earnest some little gallantries which he addressed to her in jest. He increased his attentions, so that, in a very short time, she could really not do without him. He accompanied us every where, walking, or to the theatre. I remarked to my aunt that he was young and rich, and that this intimacy might compromise me. She then told me, with as much joy as pride, that I was quite wrong to alarm myself. She was a widow and free; M. de Brévannes had avowed his love for her, adding that he only took so deep an interest in our lawsuit because it gave him an opportunity of being so constantly near her. I wished to make some observations to my aunt, but she would not even allow me to finish them, but broke out into a tirade as to the vanity of young girls, and reproached me with ever having believed for a moment that M. de Brévannes bestowed a thought on me. He saw us every day, often sent minstrels under our windows, and continually presented us with similar bouquets, in order (as he told my aunt) that my self-love might not be wounded.
"One day, finding me alone, he made me a declaration of love, considering as a merit in my eyes the ability with which he had deceived my aunt, and taken off from me the gaze of the world by appearing smitten with her, and for this enormous sacrifice he considered I should admire and feel kindly disposed towards him."
"And was your aunt informed of this avowal of Charles de Brévannes?"
"That very evening she was told all."
"Then he was unmasked?"
"Child, you do not comprehend the weakness and vanity of women!"
"What!—she would not believe you?"
"Yes, at first; and that same evening our door was closed against M. de Brévannes. He guessed the fact, and wrote a long letter to my aunt. The very next day he was received even more kindly than usual. When she left me, my aunt came and scolded me severely. Jealous, as she declared, of M. de Brévannes' love for her, I had calumniated him in order to have him excluded from the house."
"Unhappy woman! she was mad!"
"Matters resumed their usual course. Charles de Brévannes did not utter one other word of love to me, but he passed whole days with us. On the 13th of April—ah! I shall never forget that date—my aunt said to me after breakfast, that the noise of the court-yard of the hôtel disturbed her so much, that she would, from that evening, change apartments with me. My room looked into the street, and had a balcony. What I have to add is fearful. That day we had been out for a long drive in the carriage, accompanied by M. de Brévannes. On our return we sat together until very late in the evening, my aunt appearing very much preoccupied. At length he retired, and I went to bed."
The princess turned horribly pale, shuddered, and then continued in a broken voice:—
"The next morning I wished to go as usual to wish my aunt good morning, when Gianetta, with an embarrassed air, told me that Madame Vasari was much indisposed, and could not see me.
"At the moment I was returning towards my own apartment, a stranger inquired for me, and a dark, pale man handed me a letter without uttering a syllable. I knew not why, but a tremor ran through my veins. I opened the letter—it inclosed a ring which I had given to Raphael."
"And the letter, godmother,—the letter?"
"Was from Raphael, who was dying."
"From Raphael?"
"Yes, and contained these words, which seemed to me written in characters of blood:—"
"'I have been in Florence for two days. I know all. This very night I saw Brévannes descending from your balcony; after which you closed the window. I fought with him instantly, as we both agreed. I sought death, and he has given it to me. Be thou accursed! Osorio will tell you when you return to Venice. Conceal from my mother. My sight is——'
"And nothing more," added Madame de Hansfeld, with agonising expression, "nothing but some shapeless letters."
"What a mystery!" said Iris, clasping her hands. "Who then could have appeared at your chamber-window?"
"Have I not told you that my aunt had occupied the chamber that very evening which I had before slept in? No doubt, Charles de Brévannes had obtained a rendezvous from her in order to serve his wicked designs, you will see how. She is my height—dark as I am; and thus was Raphael fatally deceived."
"Oh! how horrible!"
"After I had read this letter I was almost mad. I believed I was in a dream. Osorio told me the rest. Raphael, on his return from a voyage to Constantinople, had reached Venice. He only passed a day in that city, but, misled by some abominable calumny which had reached thither from Florence, he left that city suddenly with Osorio, to whom he said,—
"'They tell me that Paula has betrayed me shamefully; if that be true, I will kill my rival or he shall kill me.'"
"But who could thus have slandered you in Venice?"
"How do I know? Raphael had not even seen his mother. Every body was in utter ignorance of his short stay in Venice. In vain did I question Osorio on this point: he was mute."
"That is very strange."
"Unfortunately he shared Raphael's suspicions. What I foresaw arrived. The attentions of M. de Brévannes, explained by shameful scandal, had compromised me most fatally. I passed in Florence as his mistress, and, when Raphael inquired of me, I was accused by one common voice. However, determined not to be misled by appearances, he had gone straight to M. de Brévannes, had told him of his love for me, and that we were betrothed, that young girls being frequently giddy and coquettish, without being culpable, and that the world was slanderous,—and then entreated M. de Brévannes, in the name of honour, not to conceal the truth, and, whatever it was, he would believe it."
"And Charles de Brévannes?"
"Far from being touched by this language, he treated Raphael with hauteur, and said to him,—
"'Since you have watched Paula Monti for two days, you must know which is her chamber.' 'I know it; for, without being perceived by her, this very morning I saw her in the balcony.' 'Well, be this night at three o'clock in front of that balcony, and you shall have my reply.' You know the rest. Brévannes then said insolently to Raphael, 'Are you satisfied?'
"In his rage, Raphael struck him in the face; a duel ensued at break of day, and he fell. His last wish was to conceal his death from his mother. He preferred leaving her, in that uncertainty in which people remain for many years with respect to sailors, to allowing her to learn that my treachery had killed him. Osorio told me all this; and, his sad mission fulfilled, he went away without listening to a word of my assurances and protestations. I have since heard that he died in the East; and Raphael's mother is continually expecting her son. He died cursing me—died in calling and believing me infamous and perjured—dead—killed by Charles de Brévannes, that calumniator and murderer!"
"Ah, it is horrible! and your aunt Vasari?"
After a moment's silence, during which the princess appeared borne down by the weight of a painful recollection, she thus resumed:—
"The laws of duelling were of excessive severity. Charles de Brévannes went away that same day. Raphael was unknown in Florence: neither Osorio nor the second of M. de Brévannes appeared again. No one, therefore, could betray this fatal secret. My aunt was the more inconsolable for the sudden departure of Charles de Brévannes, as for want of his support she lost her suit, and was completely ruined. We returned to Venice, when I became so very ill."
"And in a year afterwards you were the Princess de Hansfeld?"
"Yes, to save my family from dire misfortune, I resigned myself to this marriage, for which I could hardly have looked. Thanks to the kindness, the cares, and delicacy of the prince, I saw before me a prospect of happy days once more; and to gratitude there was gradually succeeding a sentiment more tender and delightful, when, suddenly, M. de Hansfeld, affected in some most extraordinary manner, forgot his kindness and his accustomed gentleness; and," added Madame de Hansfeld, with a deep sigh, "then began the life I now lead. Sometimes I ask myself, how my reason can have received such shocks and not have broken down beneath them? The fear and amazement caused in me by the singular and alarming behaviour of the prince follow me even into the world when I go sometimes to seek, not amusement, but forgetfulness. For nearly six months had I dragged on this wretched existence, in appearance so splendid and happy, when I accidentally met M. de Morville. I remarked him, because I had heard so much said of his fidelity, which he had, like myself, vowed to an adored remembrance. Every where they talked of his devotion, his delicacy, and above all, his tender constancy for a lady from whom he had been forcibly separated. Rendered sad by his love, entirely devoted to his invalid mother, he went out but very little. He resided near us in the Rue Guillaume. One day I found a letter on the bench in the most lonely part of our garden. Without at all comprehending the means by which that letter had reached there, my first impression, as you know, was to believe that it came from him.
"I was confirmed in this idea the next day, when I remained for some hours concealed in a clump, and towards evening saw another letter fall, dropped out of a window concealed by ivy.
"M. de Morville seemed to penetrate the causes of the thoughts which agitated me. Gay, if I were gay, sad, if I were sad, dull and despairing, if I were so, his letters seemed the echo of my most deep or light impressions."
"How could he guess them?"
"By observing me, he read in my countenance the situation of my mind."
"He loves you well," said Iris, with a voice deeply agitated.
"You see, as I do, that M. de Morville regretted a lost love; and, strange, fatal event! our common regrets served, as it were, as a link between the past love and the new love."
"You may love,—the prince has given you liberty."
"I know it,—I know it; but he has often recurred to those harsh words. How often has he passed from the most chilling, most disdainful, most overwhelming cruelty, to language of most affectionate tenderness. But what avails it now! his cruelties, and his tenderness, alike find me unmoved; my love gives me courage to brave them; my love! and still my conscience reproaches me for forgetting Raphael!
"Since I have seen M. de Brévannes again, it seems to me, that in redoubling my hatred against this murderer, I seek to expiate my inconstancy; it seems to me, indeed, that if I obtained a sweeping revenge against this man, my fresh love would be excused; and then, again—wretch that I am!—has this fresh love need of any excuse? An insurmountable barrier separates me for ever from M. de Morville."
"An insurmountable barrier?" said Iris.
"Yes, some fatality pursues me; my soul was being renewed; the most delightful future was opening to me; I believed myself assured of the love of M. de Morville. I had contrived to form an intimacy with Madame de Lormoy, one of his relatives; he had begged to be introduced to me, when, suddenly, he appeared to feel towards me the most intense hatred, and avoided a meeting with so offensive a pertinacity, that I resolved on the step which I have to-day put into execution."
"And what was the cause of his hatred, godmother?"
"Oh, it is not hatred,—he loves me, my girl—loves me as passionately as I love him, although I have concealed my infatuation from him. But, I repeat to you, an insurmountable obstacle separates us for ever. To tell you what I have suffered at this disclosure, and the energy it required to maintain my composure, would be impossible. Well! still I might have accepted this position almost with happiness, but for this infernal Brévannes."
"How?"
"Devoted entirely to this sad and pure love, I would never again have seen M. de Morville; but, at least, I should have known that he loved me as I love him. Human nature is so fantastical, that the reasons which opposed themselves to this love being happy would, perhaps, have assured its permanency; but if M. de Brévannes speaks, misery—misery for me! Then contempt would succeed to the adoration now in the heart of M. de Morville; and he, so frank, so noble, would not then find sufficient disdain to overwhelm me. Despised by him, ah! I know what I have suffered when I thought myself the sole possessor of this fatal secret; and to think that Brévannes could direct this heavy blow at me by again spreading the infamous calumny which caused Raphael's death,—it is enough to drive one mad!"
"From all this, godmother, two things result. You must learn the mystery which impels Morville to avoid you, and you must reduce Charles de Brévannes to silence."
"Yes, it must be done; but how?—alas!—how: I am indeed wretched!"
"Then Iris is nothing with you?" said the young girl, with great bitterness.
The princess was struck with it, and replied kindly,—
"Yes, my dear child, I can tell all to you, and that is consolation to me."
At this moment a solemn, sonorous, and powerful sound, full of sweetest harmony, but rendered faint by the distance, reached the ears of the two women. It was the notes of an organ, touched with an exquisite finger and saddened expression.
At these tones the princess shuddered, and then cried,—
"Ah, 'tis he! He is still watching. Ah! Now, my head is so weak that the sound of this organ appears to me fearful and supernatural; they are not the sounds of this instrument I hear, but the mysterious voices of an invisible world replying to the prince who questions them. Oh, mercy, mercy! it terrifies me!"
By a singular chance, and as if the entreaty of the princess were heard, the sound of the organ slowly died away in the silence of the night, like a complaint that gradually subsides.
"This conversation overpowers me. I tremble all over," said Paula.
"You must go to bed, godmother."
After having aided her in undressing with the utmost care, and respectfully kissed Madame de Hansfeld's hand, Iris closed the door of her godmother's chamber, drew a sofa across the sill, which, opening, formed a bed, and, having carefully bolted the entrance of the secret staircase, threw herself on the couch, and was soon in a deep slumber.
An immense chamber, occupying the whole of one wing in the Hôtel Lambert, formed the entire dwelling-place of Arnold de Glustein, Prince of Hansfeld, the mysterious personage, concerning whom so many strange conjectures and varied rumours were afloat.
And well might the aspect of the long gallery or chamber we are about to describe warrant the many charges of whimsical originality.
The moment chosen for introducing the reader to this strange abode is shortly after the sounds of the organ had ceased (to the extreme satisfaction of the princess), that is to say, about the hour when the pale light of a winter's day began to dissipate the mists of the morning.
Let the reader picture to himself a room nearly one hundred feet in length, with a ceiling crossed by large projecting beams, once painted and gilded, as well as the spaces between them. By a caprice of the prince all the windows had been closed up, except one high, long, and narrow Gothic casement, placed at the extremity of the gallery, and filled with panes of painted glass. The light thus admitted through this narrow opening produced a singular effect by struggling against the blaze of six wax-lights, burning in an ancient brazen candelabrum suspended from one of the joists by a silken cord, close to the window itself. Thanks to this method of lighting the place, that portion of that vast gallery was, day and night, supplied with a clear, soft light, while the remainder of the spacious chamber was lost in obscurity.
Nothing could be more singular than the gradual shading off of the light, which, at first entering all the more brilliantly as the rays were in a manner filtered through the high window with its variegated panes, decreased insensibly until it wholly disappeared in the distant recesses of the chamber, while the different objects it encountered on its passage, sharing in the effect of the diminishing brightness, assumed all manner of wild and fantastic forms; for instance, as the expiring light struggled towards the end of the gallery, its fading beams, striking against the designs wrought upon various suits of Damascus steel armour, seemed to send forth a shower of bright, scintillating sparks.
Almost beside the only small door which gave admittance into this gallery, and in one of its gloomiest corners, might be discerned a white mass resembling a human form. This was a skeleton attired in the most whimsical manner. On its head it wore a bishop's mitre; one hand leaned upon a beautifully ornamented sword, of the time of the Renaissance, while the other held a seven-stringed ivory lute, the base of which was supported on the knee; by a fanciful caprice, a wreath of roses (a great rarity at that time of year) of surpassing beauty and exquisite perfume, surmounted this lute. A mantle of white cloth, studded with the letters X and M, interwoven and embroidered in gold, hung in majestic folds over the hollow chest of the skeleton, and, falling in long-flowing drapery, allowed no part of its figure to be seen, with the exception of the lower part of the thigh and the whole of the right foot. This foot, remarkable for its smallness, was clad, as though in mockery, in a white satin shoe, whose silken sandals floated in long-streaming bows on the leg-bone, white and polished as ivory.
But if the eye of the spectator, becoming sufficiently accustomed to darkness, should thoroughly investigate the more minute parts of this singular object, he might be able to discern beneath the silken sandals and slipper of satin various dark-coloured spots, easily recognised as those formed by blood.
This strange and awful memento of mortality was placed upon a pedestal of ebony, exquisitely ornamented with bas-reliefs and inlayings of silver and ivory.
By one of those striking contrasts which abounded throughout the whole of this strange apartment, the ornamental part of the pedestal by no means assimilated with the osseous spectacle it supported. On the contrary, the perfection of Florentine art, as it was in the fifteenth century, seemed expended on this master-piece of carving and sculpture. Nevertheless, the pure and exquisite style of the ornaments, charming as they were, bore reference to the gloomy object whose base they decorated. The figure of the skeleton, leaning one hand on a naked sword, and with the other supporting a lute, its head bearing an episcopal crown, and its foot a woman's shoe, was to be seen amidst all the varied and artistical combinations of design.
Thus Cupids, supported by the fabulous birds so much in favour during the Renaissance, resembling the eagle in the head and wings, and the syren in the capacious folds of their tail, were introduced as bearing the hideous skeleton in their tiny arms.
In another part was represented a group of nymphs, whose chastely elegant attitudes would have reflected no discredit on the sculptors of Greece itself, sporting beneath the walls of the richest and most splendid salons, while busying themselves in preparing the toilette of the grisly phantom; one graceful creature holding the sword, another the lyre, and a third presenting the mitre.
In a corner of this exquisite specimen of Florentine skill, two nymphs, gracefully designed, were represented as holding between them the sandals of the shoe, while a little Cupid, nestled in this Cinderella's slipper, was employing it as a swing.
During these fanciful preparations the skeleton, reclining on a Grecian couch, and half hidden by its flowing draperies, looked on, smiling with a ghastly smile at the sportive dances of the nymphs, whilst with its bony fingers it grasped a bouquet of roses presented by a group of lovely children. A small tripod of silver gilt, most elaborately wrought, was placed at the base of this pedestal, for the double purpose of serving as a lamp, and, likewise, a burner of perfumes.
If the remainder of the furniture of this spacious gallery was less remarkable for its incongruous mixture of gloomy and sportive ideas, it was not less worthy of notice from its singular combination; some of the articles meriting close attention from their extreme rarity, the others claiming observation from the extraordinary mutilation they had undergone.
A painting, placed in one of the divisions of the gallery, where but a dim, religious light stole in, represented a female of exquisite beauty, and by the freshness of the colouring, the half-concealed light, the perfect grace of the design, and softness of touch, it was easy to recognise the masterly hand of Leonardo da Vinci; but, alas! instead of the liquid, clear, expressive eye, to which that unrivalled artist had doubtless almost communicated life, two sharp, fine stilettos, or sharp, glittering blades of steel, shot forth from the sockets whence the eyes had been ruthlessly, barbarously torn. Could this fearful mutilation have been a mournful, yet ferocious jest, upon the ancient maxim in mythology, that "the eyes of beauty dart forth mortal arrows?"
It was impossible to view this outrage to a work of art, in itself a master-piece, without considerable indignation; but this sentiment was quickly forgotten in the admiration excited by a small white monument close adjoining, the ornaments of which were borrowed equally from the pagan and Christian mythology.
In a scroll, supported by Loves and Angels, were traced in letters of gold the names of Phidias and Raphael, beneath a sort of Prie-Dieu, the worn state of whose velvet cushion sufficiently attested its constant use, as though some fervent admirer of those two great and immortal geniuses was in the frequent habit of invoking their mighty inspirations in humble, supplicating entreaty, or of pouring forth his gratitude for the ineffable enjoyments which a taste for the sublime and beautiful is calculated to bestow upon man. And, indeed, various copies or engravings of the most celebrated cartoons of Raphael, placed side by side with fragments from the Parthenon, selected with perfect taste and correctness of judgment, gave evident proofs of an intimate acquaintance with, and a passion for, the fine arts, wholly irreconcilable with the barbarous mutilation of which we have before made mention.
But, in proportion as the enlightened part of the gallery was approached, so did the objects in this so singularly selected abode of the Prince de Hansfeld change their character; the nearer they drew to the light, the greater was their splendour. For instance, near the window was to be seen a rare collection of Indian and Eastern arms, sabres of silver encrusted with coral, poniards, whose hilts were studded with precious stones, were sheathed in scabbards of crimson velvet, richly wrought in gold. The blue steel of Damascus bent beneath its golden case, glittering with emeralds and rubies; while Indian bucklers, bearing bas-reliefs of silver gilt, sparkled with the dazzling constellations of bright gems they presented, forming one bright, glowing, scintillating, luminous mass, to which the light admitted by the painted window added still more glowing and varied hues, while language would fail in describing the splendidly curious articles of gold, enamel, and carving, piled in gorgeous confusion upon the mother-of-pearl shelves placed immediately in the close vicinity of the window.
The flood of light let down by the many-coloured window, and reflected back by the dazzling objects on which it fell in rainbow hues, resembled a cascade of sparkling brilliancy to which the sun lends every prismatic shade.
This comparison seemed so much the more striking, as, immediately beneath the window, and occupying the arched space under it, stood a large organ. Two figures, three feet high, of angels, sculptured in ivory, supported the keyboard of the instrument, which was also of ivory. The rest of the body of the organ, whose summit reached the window itself, was composed of Gothic panels of finest ivory, carved with the fineness and delicacy of lace, without in any way detracting from the sonorous depth of the instrument. Four light and graceful Caryatides, adorned with golden crowns and ornamented with precious stones, separated the panels and supported a frieze of solid stones, represented a garland of flowers, fruit, and leaves, the cherries being formed of cornelian, the plums of amethyst, the apricots of topaz, blue-bells of lapis, with leaves of malachite and hyacinths of aqua marines,—shone with all the brilliancy and natural look of the fruits and flowers so skilfully imitated.
This organ, ten feet high and five wide, occupied the entire space beneath the long painted window, let into one end of the gallery.
The space which remained at each side of the window was filled up to the ceiling with the innumerable rich and gorgeous articles we have elsewhere described.
Seated before this ivory organ was the Prince de Hansfeld. He wore a long tunic of black woollen, loosely confined round the waist, a sort of black velvet cap but half concealed his hair, portions of which, escaping, fell in long, light locks upon his shoulders, which were somewhat bent. His long, loose sleeves were thrown back almost to the elbows during the rapid passage of his long thin fingers over the keys of the instruments, displaying hands and arms while and polished as marble, but unnaturally small and wasted. The finger-nails, even though well shaped, hard, and polished as agate, possessed not that roseate tint so sure a harbinger of good health, but were surrounded by a pale, blue circlet; while the head of the prince, slightly thrown back, proved that his eyes were cast upwards towards the ceiling.
After having paused for some time, the Prince de Hansfeld recommenced playing, but in an extremely low key.
Whether it were the superior excellence of the mighty organ or the skilful hand that touched it, it is certain that never did sounds so full, so soft, yet so sonorous, breathe forth in notes of melancholy sweetness, amounting almost to passionate expression.
It would be wholly impossible to trace the source of those feelings which found vent in passages at once so thrilling, yet soul-saddening, now plaintive as a sigh, yet sweet and touching as the smile bestowed by a mother on her infant, then breaking forth again in strains harmonious, vague, unfinished, capricious as the thought which, flitting through the mazes of a saddened imagination, suddenly glows with the pure, rapturous whispering of hope, whose finger points from troubled clouds to the clear, serene azure of summer skies. And the hardest heart must have owned the influence of those delicious sounds, descending in gentle melody like a flood of happy tears. In the solemn stillness of the night the rich, full sounds of the organ pealed forth in grander majesty, and ascended unto heaven itself, even as the incense of the heart.
There was one particular strain which occurred frequently and at regular intervals during these inspired performances. To convey a notion of the ideas which were called up by this enchanting passage, played on the highest and most glassy notes of the instrument, it will be requisite to evoke the most youthful, smiling, and joyous images, such as these.
Like each pearly drop as it hangs on the soft, green moss, or the roseate colours of an early spring morning.
All that is soft and gently soothing in the mild silver beams of the moon, as during a delicious summer's night she plays amid the dark shadows of the thick woods, whose wavy branches keep time to the delicious warbling of the nightingale.
All the happiness, pure joy, and innocent hope, poured forth by the innocent maiden of sixteen summers, as in the fulness of her youthful delight she warbles her pleasure at seeing, in company with her adored mother, the rising sun gild the summit of the tall trees at the moment when the flowers unfold their leaves and expand their perfumed blossoms.
All the pleasing, yet serious reveries, which possess our minds as we contemplate the countless scintillations of the starry worlds revolving in their course in unlimited space.
But no words can adequately describe the poetical images invoked by that sweet and gentle melody which, stealing in at intervals, appeared to cast a bright and serene charm over the gloomy style of the compositions performed by the prince.
The descriptions of pieces chosen by the prince savoured, indeed, of his own peculiar character; they breathed, indeed, the very ideality of German moodiness, the soft fancies of Mignon, not altogether that which conjured up so many graceful fantasies, but, rather, the gloomy whisperings which invoked the pale shade of Leonora.
The sadness of Arnold was so far peculiar to himself that, although perfectly resigned to his sorrow, he harboured neither anger nor bitterness of spirit.
His greatest delight seemed to be in modulating the exquisite passage we have alluded to; to it he clung with the fondness and tenacity we are apt to feel for some dear object of our early recollections.
The sharp, shrill, and prolonged sound of a bell made the prince start as though painfully aroused from his reverie.
At the harsh sound of the bell he suddenly discontinued his strain. And the last vibrations of the organ died away in the vast gallery like an expiring sigh.
Arnold bent his head with deep dejection on his bosom, while his thin, white hands, quitting the keys of the organ, fell listlessly on his lap. His slight, fragile form stooped languidly forward, the fictitious, feverish strength which had hitherto sustained him disappeared, and left him weak and powerless.
The first dawn of a winter's morning, mingling with the light of the wax-candles burning in the Gothic chandelier, formed a sort of artificial glare, gloomy as that of tapers burning in daytime around the bed of death. This unnatural light fell direct on the forehead and cheekbones of Arnold, who still sat with his head drooping on his breast; while through his long downcast eyelashes might be observed the fixed eyeball lose the clear lustre of its limpid blue, and become motionless and rigid. His fingers, too, were stiffened by the intensity of the frost, for the fire had long since been extinct in the vast chimney.
Again the bell rang forth its shrill summons, but this time the call was more imperative and repeated twice.
The prince seemed to start from a lethargic slumber. He rose as though by a powerful and painful effort, and proceeded to the other end of the gallery, the only entrance to which was by a low and thick door, heavily barred with iron.
With an air of mistrust and suspicion, Arnold half opened a small wicket formed in the door, then asked, in a feeble voice,—
"Is that you, Frank?"
"Yes, Arnold, 'tis I. This is the day. Here, my dear child," answered another and somewhat cracked voice,—"take the box, will you?"
"You are quite sure 'tis you, Frank?" repeated the prince.
"Why, in the name of all the saints, who should it be if not old Frank? Open the door—you shall see me from head to foot."
"Oh, no, no!—not to-day."
"Come, come, my dear boy, you are low-spirited—I know it. But take the box; I bought the bread at one place and the fruits at another."
The prince stretched forth his hand and eagerly took a small mahogany casket bound with steel, which was passed to him through the wicket.
"Good night, or, rather, good day, Arnold."
"Adieu, Frank."
And with these few, hasty words, the wicket was quickly closed.
Not far from the door was a bed composed of two thick and silky bear-skins, spread over a large divan. On this couch Arnold seated himself, placing the box on a small, curiously wrought ebony table, on which lay a pair of loaded pistols. Taking a key, which was also on this table, he opened the casket, which contained merely a small loaf just fresh from the oven, and some winter fruits.
"Arnold de Hansfeld threw himself back on his bed, and wept bitterly."
The prince regarded these eatables, worthy of an anchorite, with a species of mistrust, as though his suspicions struggled with his appetite. However, he broke the loaf in half, and after closely examining it, and even smelling it, he lifted it to his lips, but suddenly changing his intention, he threw it from him with terror, then, concealing his face in his hands, Arnold de Hansfeld threw himself back on his bed, and wept bitterly.
Bertha de Brévannes usually passed every Sunday and Thursday morning with her father, Pierre Raimond, who still dwelt in the Isle Saint Louis, Rue Poultier, near to the Hôtel Lambert, the residence of the Prince de Hansfeld.
Since his daughter's return to Paris, the old engraver had not once seen her, but, informed of her arrival, he awaited her coming on the Sunday morning, for the different scenes we have related took place during the night of Saturday.
Full of joy at the prospect of embracing his beloved child, Pierre Raimond, according to usual custom, bestowed all possible care to give an air of festivity to his humble abode, which consisted of a small sitting-room and two chambers, up four pairs of stairs. From the windows of these small apartments a view might be obtained of the quay and river Seine, while, in the horizon, the tops of the tall trees in the Jardin des Plantes were discernible, and, farther still, appeared the lofty dome of the Panthéon.
The chamber formerly occupied by Bertha was almost worshipped by the engraver, who had not permitted the least change to be made in any of its arrangements. The little painted bedstead, with its white cotton curtains, the old walnut-tree chest of drawers, which had formerly belonged to Madame Raimond, the small, rickety pianoforte, on which Bertha had acquired her musical proficiency, were all there as she left them; and there, too, safe under a glass frame, were the wreaths of victory gained by the youthful aspirant during the course of her studies at the Conservatoire de la Musique.
Pierre Raimond could not be less than seventy years of age. His tall figure, bent beneath the pressure of his years, his bald head, white beard, which he had ceased for many years to touch with a razor, added considerably to the stern severity of his features; his eyelids were nearly always half closed, and proved but too painfully how much his sight had suffered from his incessant labour. This infirmity, added to a slight nervous tremor which had settled upon him after a long and severe illness, had compelled him to relinquish his occupation of engraving music, and, sorely against his will, to accept a pension from M. de Brévannes of twelve hundred francs.
The chamber of Pierre Raimond, which had formerly been his studio, was scrupulously neat and clean; beneath the window stood his work-table, with the implements of his now abandoned profession laid in exact order, as though for immediate use, upon some metal plates, prepared for the engraving of music. A small iron bedstead, a table, four chairs of walnut-tree wood, composed the almost anchorite-like simplicity of the fittings up of the apartment.
Over the recess, where stood his bed, hung an ancient sword of honour, obtained by Pierre Raimond during that period of his youth when he had served as a volunteer in the Republican army.
Above the sword was a framed copy of the celebrated appeal made by the Convention to the people upon the occasion of the assassination of the French envoys.
The 9th Floréal of the 7th year,
at 9 o'clock in the Evening,
The Austrian Government caused the Assassination of
the Ministers of the French Republic,
BONNIER, ROBERJOT, and JEAN DEBRY,
Charged by the Directory to negotiate the Peace of Rastadt,
THEIR SMOKING BLOOD DEMANDS AND WILL
OBTAIN JUST VENGEANCE."
Pierre Raimond religiously preserved this curious specimen of the savage eloquence of that terrible period, which, however blood-stained, was still not wholly without glory. It is scarcely necessary to say, that the engraver remained firm to the Republican Utopia only as far as its views were generous and patriotic.
Honest though unpolished—just and conscientious—the only fault to be found with Pierre Raimond was his somewhat overstrained notions as to the moral distinctions which, in his opinion, existed between the rich and the poor. And, if he carried the pride of poverty too far, he might fairly be excused on the score of his noble and unaffected disinterestedness.
Acting upon these principles, he had refused the proffered hand of the daughter of a rich engraver, because he loved the mother of Bertha, who was poor as himself.
After thirty years of incessant application, hard labour, and economy, Pierre Raimond had succeeded in amassing the sum of 25,000 francs, which he destined for the future provision of his daughter; the bankruptcy of the lawyer in whose hands he had placed the money deprived him of the dear gratification of seeing his child independent, and left him no help but to redouble his exertions, in order to bestow on his daughter, then quite young, some profession, by which she might honestly earn her bread.
From this slight sketch the reader may form some notion of the intense eagerness with which Pierre Raimond awaited his beloved Bertha.
At length his watchful ears were gladdened with the sound of a vehicle stopping on the quay, then a quick, light, and well-known step sounded up the staircase. A few seconds more, and Bertha, rushing into the room, threw herself into her father's arms, who, tenderly embracing her, cried, in tones of deep emotion,—
"At length, then, my child, I embrace you once again."
"Dear, dear father!" replied Bertha, weeping tears of joy.
The tender parent himself disencumbered his child of her bonnet and cloak, which he carefully placed on his bed; then, seating her in an arm-chair beside the fire, he took her chilled hands in his.
"Poor dear!" said he, "you are quite frozen,—there, try and warm yourself."
"Ah, dear father, you spoil me, as you ever did."
Without replying to her remark, the old man gazed with intense delight on the sweet face before him, then murmured, "Once more,—once more, after six long weary months of absence."
"Dearest father, the time, then, has seemed to you very long."
"But you have been quite happy, my child, have you not?"
"Oh, yes—quite—quite."
"Perfectly happy?"
"Yes, indeed, as much so as ever."
"And the thoughts of your felicity have armed me with courage to endure your absence. And your husband is still kind, good, and devoted to you?"
"Certainly, my dear father."
"And, during the six months you have passed in Lorraine, no doubt the constant enjoyment of each other's society has been far more congenial to your mutual tastes than your mode of life in Paris."
"Yes, father."
"And you still rejoice in being his wife?"
"I do, indeed. But, dearest father, why these questions?"
"Brévannes, in fact, is precisely what you thought him when you assured me that you would wed none other than he?"
"Assuredly he is," answered Bertha, more and more surprised at the close questioning pursued by her father, but which will sufficiently shew how scrupulously she had concealed her unhappiness from her father.
"You find him worthy of inspiring such a passion as that which you assured me would cause your death, unhappy child, if I still refused my assent to your union?"
"Indeed, father, Charles has not changed since then."
"Heaven be praised! then I confess, I am deceived."
"Deceived, dear father! and in what respect?"
"Can you guess wherefore this year I have awaited your return to Paris with so much more impatience than in previous years?"
"No, dear father, indeed I cannot."
"And you know not either, why my joy at welcoming you to-day exceeds that I have hitherto experienced?"
"Father, I beseech you, explain to me the purport of all these strange inquiries; you know not how they pain me—but, gracious Heaven, you weep—father, dearest father, what mean these tears?"
"Can you not guess? can you not perceive that they flow from joy—oh, yes, heartfelt, overwhelming joy."
"Oh, so much the better."
"My child, the trial has been a severe one."
"What trial do you speak of?"
"It cost me so much, old and infirm as I am, to pass my days alone; I, who from the hour of your birth had never passed a morning or evening without embracing you,—you who absorbed the love that was once shared between you and your mother, think what a painful thing it must be for me only to see you for a few hours each week, and to lose sight of you for months together."
"Dearest father, be assured that I suffered equally with yourself."
"That is not all; the time you passed here, while your husband was in Italy, rendered our separation still more painful; it was like losing you a second time."
"But, my dear father——"
"I know what you are going to say—when you were first married, Brévannes offered me a small suite of rooms in his house, and you yourself subsequently reiterated the proposition, which I, however, constantly refused to accept."
"Alas, yes!"
"Because, Bertha, I doubted this Brévannes, and the duration of his at first so violent love, I could not have remained a passive spectator of your unhappiness; my very anxiety might have disturbed your domestic comfort: for these reasons, then, I imposed a severe restraint on my inclinations. No, said I, I will wait, Bertha has never deceived me, and if, after four years of marriage, she still proclaims herself happy, I shall then feel satisfied as to the future, and be equally persuaded of the goodness of Brévannes' nature — that moment has arrived—I find your husband worthy of you, and this very day will I say to him, 'I have doubted you, I have proved myself wrong, and I am here to solicit your pardon. Now that my faith and confidence in you are well established, I accept the offer you once made me, and I will never again quit Bertha or yourself.'"
"What are you saying, father?" exclaimed Bertha.
"I say, my beloved child, that my years upon this earth are too few to be passed at a distance from you. No, no, henceforward I will enjoy the happiness permitted me by Providence, and henceforward your husband, yourself, and your old father, shall live in indissoluble union."
Bertha's only reply was to throw herself weeping on the neck of the old man, who, mistaking both the movement and the tears which accompanied it, tenderly pressed his daughter in his arms, saying, "Why, you little simpleton, if joy thus agitates and overcomes you, what effect would grief have? To tell you the truth," added Pierre Raimond, and smiling, "though I affect all this stoicism and resolution, I am as much delighted and moved as yourself at the thoughts of our never again being parted from each other;" and with these words he passed his trembling hand across his humid eyes.
The situation of Bertha was most cruel.
Not content with filling up the measure of her own injuries, M. de Brévannes had just taunted her with the trifling pittance granted by him to her father, and now, at this moment, was Pierre Raimond, deceived by the generous deception of his daughter, preparing to take up his abode with M. de Brévannes, promising himself uninterrupted harmony and domestic happiness.
Until then Bertha had contrived to conceal her bitter sorrows, and to attribute her dejection of spirits to her regret at living away from him; but the cruel contrast presented by the hopes and expectations of Pierre Raimond with the scene of violence and outrage which had occurred but the previous night between Bertha and M. de Brévannes, overthrew the fortitude of the miserable wife, and left her almost paralysed with fear and bewildered ideas. Instead, therefore, of receiving her father's announcement with all the delight it merited, she involuntarily threw herself into his arms, bedewing his venerable countenance with her tears.
To Pierre Raimond the heart of his child was like an open book, and at first he ascribed her tears to joy at so unexpected a surprise; but when these fast-falling tears became quick, convulsive sobs, and Bertha, resting her aching temples on her father's shoulders, wrung the old man's hands in piteous agony, then did Pierre Raimond begin to comprehend the truth:—his former suspicions returned, and, putting his daughter almost rudely from him, he exclaimed in a severe tone, "Bertha, you have deceived me—you are not happy!"
The poor girl, recalled to a sense of her duty by these words, shuddered at her own imprudence, and bitterly, though too late, regretted the emotion she had been unable to restrain or conceal. But, as she strove for words to reassure her parent, the door was suddenly opened: "Gracious heavens!" cried Bertha, in extreme terror, "my husband!"
And M. de Brévannes, without knocking, or any other announcement, abruptly entered the apartment of the engraver.
The unexpected appearance of M. de Brévannes was followed by an unbroken silence of several instants, neither of the three actors in the scene uttering a single word.
Poor Bertha's heart sunk within her, as at the first glance she read the hard-hearted mockery impressed on the features of her husband.
The stern countenance of Pierre Raimond, which, until then, had relaxed into an expression of gentleness and kindness, suddenly assumed a look of proud energy. Drawing up his tall figure, and placing his daughter behind him, as if for protection, he advanced a few steps towards M. de Brévannes, saying briefly, "What is your pleasure here, sir?"
"My pleasure is to know whether or not Madame de Brévannes has told me the truth in saying she was coming to pass her morning with you; and, having my own reasons for doubting the veracity of her statement, I have thought fit to come hither to substantiate the fact."
"Charles!" murmured Bertha, in a tone of gentle reproach.
"I desire, sir, that you will not presume to accuse a child of mine of falsehood," retorted old Raimond.
"Father!" cried Bertha.
"I do not consider myself responsible to you, M. Raimond, or any other person, for my actions. And, if I suspect my wife of uttering that which is not true, it is because——"
"If she has spoken untruly," cried Pierre Raimond, fiercely interrupting his son-in-law, "it has been to me, not you."
"In what manner?" inquired the latter, regarding Bertha with extreme astonishment.
"Charles, I beseech you!—and you too, dear father!"
"She spoke falsely but now," exclaimed the old man, in a loud, stern voice, "when she assured me she was happy."
"Ah, now I understand," replied M. de Brévannes, coldly: "Madame de Brévannes came hither amid hypocritical tears and sighs to dwell upon her domestic felicity,—a clever idea! I give her much credit for it."
"M. de Brévannes," cried Pierre Raimond, "four years ago, when my daughter was lying at the point of death in this very chamber, I told you I would rather lose her then than see her perish one day through the wretchedness you would occasion her. I spoke truly. You will be her death!"
"Father!" said Bertha, "I must not allow you to remain under so fatal an error; and, at whatever sacrifice, I will speak the truth, nor warrant by my silence those reproaches I pledge myself are undeserved by my husband. 'Tis true I concealed from you some of those trifling disagreements from which the happiest unions are not exempt; but you were so delighted to learn, that in all essential points I was perfectly, unqualifiedly happy, that I was unwilling to dispel the illusion which could do no person any harm, but which I trusted would be the means of still more attaching you to him. You judge too severely."
"My child! I can make allowances for your weakness, which renders it the more imperative in me to evince a necessary degree of severity."
"Severity!" cried M. de Brévannes, with a burst of sardonic laughter—"severity! Upon my word I like the word vastly. It seems then that I am here to be lectured by you into a right understanding of my duties. May I ask if you are aware to whom you are speaking?"
"Too, too well!—to the destroyer of my good, my innocent child."
"You use strong language, my good sir; your revolutionary reminiscences disturb your brain."
"Bertha!" said the engraver, with stern hauteur—"take this man from my sight!"
"Come—come, Charles, I pray—I beseech you! adieu, dearest father, till Thursday next,—pardon me for quitting you so abruptly now—possibly I may come and see you again to-morrow," added poor Bertha, anxious at all risks to terminate so painful a discussion as the present.
"Since, sir, you have taken upon you to dispense advice," interrupted M. de Brévannes, "perhaps you might judiciously recommend your daughter not to adopt the unwise plan of treating her husband with coldness and contempt, after having justly awakened his jealousy."
"Bertha!" said old Raimond, "what am I to understand by these words?"
"Ah, Charles, is it well of you to recall the scene of——"
"Be assured, madam, whomever else you may impose on, I am not the dupe of your affected delicacy—your over-strained scruples—you are carrying on some base, some disgraceful intrigue, but rely upon it, I will detect it."
"For mercy's sake, Charles, talk not thus in my father's presence! Adieu, dear father, adieu."
After a momentary silence, Pierre Raimond approached his daughter, and, gazing steadfastly on her, said, in a deep solemn voice,—
"Bertha, do you merit this charge?"
"No, father," answered Bertha, with all the dignified simplicity of truth.
"I believe you, my child. And now, sir, listen to me, for four years have I been deceived by the belief that my daughter was happy. I now know the truth, Bertha has no other support than myself, a poor, old and infirm man; but still there is strength enough left me to bid you beware."
"Oh, then to advice and lectures succeed threats and menaces? What next, sir?"
"At least, henceforward, we plainly understand our relative situations; and, first, from this hour I reject the pecuniary aid I accepted at your hands, solely at the solicitations of my daughter."
"You find it more convenient to be ungrateful?"
"Ungrateful! for having sacrificed my own notions to spare your pride?"
"Father, I conjure you——"
"Thus, then, sir," continued Pierre Raimond, "we meet upon equal grounds, as man and man; as such you shall account to me for the misery heaped on my gentle my unoffending child; I give you a fortnight to repair the wrongs you have done her."
"Really, a fortnight; can you not make it more?"
"And if, at the end of that period, you do not conduct yourself as honour and justice require, towards Bertha——"
"Well, sir, and what then?"
"You shall see."
"Come, madam," said M. de Brévannes, taking his wife by the arm.
"Farewell, dearest father; I pray you calm yourself; I will soon come again."
"That is, if I think proper to permit you," said M. de Brévannes, with bitter irony.
"Make yourself easy, my child; your father will watch over and protect you," cried Pierre Raimond, weeping bitterly. Bertha followed her husband out, and the old man was left alone.
The Comédie Française had announced for the present evening the first performance of "The Seducer," a five-act comedy in verse. This piece was the first literary effort of the Vicomte de Gercourt. Still extremely young and quite the fashion, possessed of a highly prepossessing and agreeable person, he justly passed in the world for a man of talent, an agreeable and entertaining companion, and a person of unquestioned honour in every transaction in which he was concerned. Consequently the first representation of his comedy had attracted all the higher circles of Paris, to which he belonged.
Thanks to his natural amiability and known benevolence of disposition, added to some severe reverses of fortune he had sustained, envy and malice were content to let him alone; and for some time M. de Gercourt possessed not a single enemy, but unhappily his literary ambition (the only really noble, great, and praiseworthy ambition a man can indulge in) created for him, after a time, a host of petty and hostile jealousies. Some friends still remained firm and unaltered; but only a fall, at once striking and humiliating, from the high position he then occupied, could have restored him to universal good-will. The majority of the literati of the time viewed with angry mistrust the introduction of this fresh pretender within the arena of their own triumphs. For ourselves, we have never been able to comprehend the bitter feeling let loose upon a man, by all the public writers of the day, against whom nothing more injurious could be adduced, than that he sought to improve and employ his leisure hours by the ennobling study of literature in general.
The reader will now find himself introduced into several boxes of the Comédie Française, where he will meet many of the personages of our history, attracted, by universal curiosity, to witness the first representation of this dramatic effort.
Bertha de Brévannes occupied one of the places in this box; her husband was behind her. The two other seats were vacant.
Bertha had her hair plainly, but most becomingly arranged, and wore a gown of black crape. Her beautiful chestnut locks, her delicate and transparent skin, her ivory neck and shoulders, were all admirable, and even brilliant. Her features were impressed with melancholy, for, three days before, her husband had had that distressing interview with Pierre Raimond which we have narrated. She wished to have remained at home, but, fearing to irritate M. de Brévannes, had consented to accompany him.
He, by one of those contrasts very natural to men, was deeply galled at the coldness of his wife, and had resolved to overcome it, less by any repentance for the past, than in order to follow out the inherent obstinacy of his own disposition. In vain did he try, however, to make her forget the wrongs which ought to have made him blush. She had been too cruelly wounded to be so easily appeased.
M. de Brévannes had taken a box for this representation so much talked about, with the intention of being agreeable to his wife.
The Dress Circle Box No. 7
The curtain had not yet been drawn up, and the house was filling rapidly. Bertha went very seldom into society, but in spite of her sadness she looked awhile with childish curiosity at the persons as they entered their boxes, and then relapsed into her painful reverie.
M. de Brévannes, annoyed at the silence of his wife, said to her, whilst with difficulty he repressed his temper,—
"Bertha, what is the matter?"
"Nothing, Charles."
"Nothing,—nothing! and yet you are as dull and melancholy as death. Supposing I have been wrong, you are making me sensible of it in the most cruel manner."
"I am trying to forget it; and, perhaps, one day——"
"The perspective is agreeable."
"That is no fault of mine; but do not let us talk about it. You know that I have plenty of cause for sorrow."
"Are you referring now to your father? You must at least confess that he was excessively violent with me."
"He loves me so tenderly, that he even exaggerated what you had done. He has but me in the whole world; and so, Charles, I cannot believe that you really mean in future to refuse me permission to go and see him as usual."
"My dear little Bertha, you are so pretty, that I must lay some conditions on my promise."
"Ah, Charles, be generous without stipulations."
"What you say is very flattering," said M. de Brévannes abruptly; then, he continued, in a milder tone, "Well, well, we will see. You do with me just as you like, and I consent."
"Really, really, I may go to my father," said Bertha, turning towards him with her eyes sparkling, and her countenance almost restored to happiness.
M. de Brévannes glanced at the back of the box, placed his hands on his eyes, and said laughingly,—
"If I am to keep my promise, I must not look at you."
"Ah, thanks, a thousand thanks, Charles, and now I shall be so happy all the evening."
"That is to say, so handsome. So much the better, for my self-esteem as a husband will have nothing now to apprehend from the vicinity of Madame Girard."
"I do not pretend to rival with her; but how late she is. Are you sure she received the coupon you sent her two days ago?"
"Yes, for I gave it to Girard himself; but to keep up her character as the 'observed of all observers,' Madame Girard will not come until after every one else, in order to produce an effect."
"Charles, you are slanderous."
"Because Madame Girard is so ridiculous, and spoils a really pretty face by the most absurd pretensions. She has but one thought, that of imitating, or rather parodying with silly minuteness, the costume of Madame de Luceval, because she is the most fashionable woman in Paris."
"Yes, you have before spoken to me of this peculiarity of Madame Girard. I should very much like to see Madame de Luceval—the Marquise de Luceval, I think. They say she is a very charming woman."
"Very charming, very original; dressing as no other woman but herself could venture to dress; and yet that little fool Madame Girard copies her to her very shoe-tie, under the pretext of being very much like her."
"And is she?"
"Yes," replied De Brévannes, "as a goose resembles a swan."
At this moment the door of the box was opened, and Madame Girard came in, followed by M. Girard, a rich manufacturer, carrying her fan and smelling-bottle; he had, besides, as a cuirass between his coat and greatcoat, a small chancelière of morocco, lined with ermine, for Madame Girard always had cold feet, she said, which was not true; but she had seen one of the Patagonian and powdered footmen of the Marquise de Luceval follow her with such a foot-warmer in his hands; and in the absence of a Patagonian and powdered lacquey, poor Girard carried the affair for his wife.
Madame Girard was a little woman, brunette, high-coloured, very well made, and would have been pretty but for her intolerable affectation. Poor Bertha could not conceal her surprise at Madame Girard's singular head-dress.
Our readers may, perhaps, be equally astonished when we describe the thing.
Imagine a sort of Polish cap, of black velvet, with a small peak, ornamented with a bunch of white feathers fastened to the side by a large boss of poppy-coloured satin, and the whole jauntily placed a little on one side of Madame Girard's head; her hair, which was brown, being crepéd in great bunches.
With this thing Madame Girard wore a high velvet gown of bright orange colour, with tight body, like a riding-habit, and decorated with silken brandebourgs to match.
This attire had nothing absolutely ridiculous in itself, but completed by the cap and feathers, it looked so extremely odd, that it actually created quite a sensation in the theatre, and all the lorgnettes were directed towards Madame Girard, who did not feel herself entirely at ease, whilst Bertha blushed with confusion.
M. de Brévannes was so much annoyed, that he bit his lips, when he saw himself and his wife as it were stared at in consequence of Madame Girard's inconceivable head-gear, and he could not help saying to Girard, in a low voice, "What a devilish strange head-dress your wife has selected, Girard; she who is usually such a remarkably good dresser."
The poor spouse gave M. de Brévannes a nudge with his elbow, and said, in a whisper, and with a look of alarm, "Hush!"
During this time Madame Girard, leaning out of her box, looked all round the house with an expression of impatience.
"Alphonsine," cried M. Girard to her with an affectionate look, "are you looking for any one?"
"Of course, I am," replied the dear Alphonsine, with a simpering, self-sufficient air, in which a triumphant feeling joined. "I am looking for the Marquise de Luceval. Oh! how furious she will be!"
"Why, madame?" said Bertha, hardly knowing what to say or do.
"Oh! such a capital joke!" answered Madame Girard; "I have played the marquise such a trick. You know how anxious she always is to take the lead in the fashions, and how every body follows her. I went, two days since, to Barenne, who is dress-maker to the marquise and myself, and asked her, as I always do, if the marquise had given her any orders for this evening, when all the world was to be here at the Théâtre Français. After innumerable difficulties, I extracted the secret from her. The marquise had ordered a most original, delicious head-dress; such an one as suited her alone.—Her alone!" said Madame Girard, tossing her head proudly beneath her head-dress. "Well, at last, by dint of promises and coaxing, I obtained from dear Barenne a sight of this exquisite coiffure, and a promise to make me one like that of the marquise; and this is it. Look, it is called a sobieska. You may judge of Madame de Luceval's annoyance, when, expecting to have the first of this head-dress, she will see me wearing it."
"Allow me, madame, to differ from you," said Bertha, with a gentle smile; "I should rather think that she will be very glad not to be the only person whose head is thus attired."
"Oh! I assure you, my dear, that she will be furious," replied Madame Girard.
"I think with you, my love," said M. Girard.
"Monsieur Girard, I entreat you will not tutoyer (thee-and-thou) me," said Alphonsine, with a dignified gesture; "you are just like a porter."
"I meant to say, Alphonsine, that you will, perhaps, have to reproach yourself with having caused the milliner to lose the custom of the Marquise de Luceval; for, I must observe, my dearest love, that this is a breach of trust. Is it not, Brévannes,—is it not a breach of trust?"
"Timoléon," said Madame Girard to her husband, without any other reply, "there are but three empty boxes in this circle; go and ask if one of them is not let to the Marquise de Luceval?"
Timoléon arose as if he had been moved by a spring, and went out of the box in great haste.
"Do you know M. de Gercourt, the author of the new piece? I hear he is a most delightful person."
"I have often met him, and always found him very agreeable."
"But why does he trouble himself with writing?"
"If it were only," replied De Brévannes, "to have the pleasure of seeing you at the first representation of his piece, with so delicious a sobi—sobe——"
"Sobieska," added Madame Girard, quickly.
At this moment the box-door opened, and M. Girard entered.
"Well?" said his wife.
"Alphonsine, you are not mistaken. One of these boxes is let to the Marquise de Luceval."
"Bravo!" said Alphonsine.
"That is not all. You, who are always curious for news, I have a famous bit for you."
"What?"
"Whilst I was interrogating the box-keeper, there came up a servant, all over gold-lace, who asked for the box let to the Princess de Hansfeld. It turned out to be that next to Madame de Luceval's—there—just in front of us."
"How lucky! I have never met the princess, and they say she's such a splendid woman," said Madame Girard.
"Ma foi! I am as pleased as you are," said M. de Brévannes, "to see at last this mysterious beauty. The other day, at the Opera-ball, they were talking of nothing else but this princess, and the strange conduct of her invisible husband."
"At least he will not be invisible this evening," said M. Girard.
"What do you mean?" inquired his wife.
"Why, simply, my dearest love, that the servant asked if he could not have an arm-chair for his eminence, who is, they say, terribly out of health, and comes out to-night for the first time after a very tedious illness."
"What an idea to come to a theatre!" said Madame Girard.
"An invalid's whim, doubtless," replied Brévannes.
"The box-keeper replied to the servant that he must ask the controller," replied M. Girard; "whereupon the man went downstairs, and I came as quickly as I could, to tell you, my dear love, my little budget of news."
"Well, it is fortunate," said De Brévannes; "we shall now see this singular, strange, and fantastic couple."
"Who is this princess, then, Charles?" asked Bertha of De Brévannes.
"Why, they say, a very lovely and striking woman, quite the fashion this winter, and in whose presence all our dandies have displayed their gallantries in vain. As to the prince, one is lost in the most extraordinary and contradictory suppositions with respect to him; but——"
"Oh, heavens!" exclaimed Madame Girard, interrupting M. de Brévannes, "there, I declare, is the Marquise de Luceval in her box, and she has not got on her sobieska!"
We will conduct the reader to the Marquise de Luceval's box, where they will, perchance, learn why she did not wear her sobieska.
Truth to say, the Marquise de Luceval had not her sobieska.
She was dressed with equal taste and simplicity. The only innovation which she had allowed herself consisted in a very high tortoiseshell comb, à l'Espagnole, which confined a half-veil of black blonde to her splendid chestnut tresses. The marquise was in mourning.
This coiffure, worn by the women of Andalusia, was charming, and gave additional attraction to the piquant physiognomy of Madame de Luceval. She was accompanied by her brother-in-law and sister-in-law, M. and Madame de Beaulieu.
"Alfred! look, I have won my wager," exclaimed the marquise gaily; and, addressing her brother, "Madame Girard has on my sobieska. My dear Alix, your lorgnette, I beg of you," she said to her sister-in-law.
"What wager, then, had you with Alfred?" inquired Madame de Beaulieu; "and who is Madame Girard?"
"Alix, I beg of you not to laugh too loud, and look exactly at the box in front of us—a female in a high bright orange-coloured gown."
Naturally Madame de Beaulieu was a great laugher, and the contracted features and the angry frown of Madame Girard, whose brows looked very gloomy beneath her casquette à plumes, gave her so burlesque an appearance, that the sister-in-law of Madame de Luceval could hardly restrain her mirth.
"No doubt this Girard, when she leaves the theatre, will be ready to represent Poland in a patriotic, fantastic, and allegorical ball," said M. de Beaulieu.
"But, my dear Emilie," remarked Madame de Beaulieu, repressing her desire to laugh, "what has your wager to do with that adorable head-dress?"
"Nothing sooner explained;" said Madame de Luceval; "I cannot have a coiffure without being instantly imitated, or rather parodied, by this Madame Girard. This annoyed me so, that I betted with Alfred, that I would devise a head-dress the most ridiculous possible, which Mademoiselle Barenne should shew secretly to Madame Girard, as intended for me, and that Madame Girard should beg and pray of her to make her the fellow to it. I invented the sobieska, and Mademoiselle Barenne joined in the conspiracy. Now you see Madame Girard decorated with the sobieska. I have gained my wager, and my dear brother owes me an ornament of real flowers."
"Capitally managed, really; and as the piece has not begun," said M. de Beaulieu, "I will go and spread about this little malicious manoeuvre, in order to double the effect of Madame Girard's sobieska."
"But do you know," replied Madame de Luceval, "that there is a very lovely person in the box of that absurd Girard? Alfred, try and discover who she may be."
"Really," said Madame de Beaulieu, looking attentively at Bertha, "she is remarkably pretty, and dressed in such simple but good taste. What a contrast with the sobieska! I cannot understand why every body does not like simplicity, and consequently good taste. It is so convenient, and people are obliged to give themselves unending trouble to be ridiculous."
"Do you say that à propos of M. de Gercourt and his comedy, my dear Alix?"
"Wicked woman!—One of your friends—one of your old adorers."
"It would have been so easy for him not to have written this play."
"But at least better wait and see in order to decide."
"By no means; for then I should speak with prejudice, whilst now my judgment is much more independent."
"Giddy pate that you are; and you encouraged M. de Gercourt in his attempt."
"It is such a pleasing office to have to console one's friends in their misfortune."
"You are something like those persons who, at the risk of drowning you, throw you in the water to have the pleasure of saving you."
"Your comparison is not just, my dear Alix; for I could not save the comedy of poor M. de Gercourt."
"Emilie, Emilie, take care," said Madame de Beaulieu, with a smile; "M. de Gercourt has long admired you. You will have us believe that you are a little spiteful, and——"
"Well, the truth to say, I am not quite pleased with him for giving up his attempts to please me so suddenly. His attention really amused me. A'n't I candid, my dear?"
"Oh! you incurable coquette! never to forgive the man whom even she rejects. What! must the poor victim remain and suffer?"
"Alas! M. de Gercourt will have his revenge this evening. I have not ordered my carriage until eleven o'clock."
This charitable conversation was interrupted by M. de Beaulieu and M. de Fierval.
"My dear Emilie," said M. de Beaulieu to his sister, "I bring you living information as to the lovely creature beside the sobieska."
"Do you know that charming creature, M. de Fierval?" inquired Madame de Luceval.
"I do not know her, madame; but I know her husband, M. de Brévannes."
"Brévannes?—Is he not the son of a man of business."
"Something of the kind; the father was a contractor—a dealer."
"And that young lady?"
"A poor girl without fortune; she lived by teaching the piano."
"Yet it is impossible to have a more distingué air," said Madame de Luceval.
"She is so delightfully dressed!—It was then a love-match?"
"Decidedly; but they say Brévannes is very unfaithful."
"What! that fat man in spectacles?"
"No, my dear, that must be, I should say, the sobieski of the sobieska," said De Beaulieu to his sister.
"M. de Brévannes," added Fierval, "is a dark man, with a very expressive countenance. Madame de Girard's casquette hides him. Now——."
"What an unprepossessing physiognomy! I don't like the looks of the man."
"You are wrong, I assure you. De Brévannes is what is called a very good fellow, only his temper is of iron, inflexible. What he will he will."
At the noise of some chairs which were being moved in the next box, Madame de Luceval put her head forward, and recognised Madame de Lormoy, aunt of M. de Morville.
"Ah, madame, how fortunate to be so near you!" said Madame de Luceval. "Are you alone in your box? I shall pay you a visit."
"I am expecting Madame de Hansfeld; and, strange to say, her husband accompanies her," said Madame de Lormoy.
"Really?—How unlucky!—From here I cannot see this mysterious personage. Try and make him stay until it is over."
"If he had seen you, my dear Emilie, there would have been no occasion to ask him; but, unfortunately——"
Madame de Lormoy, hearing a noise, paused, turned her head, and said to Madame de Luceval, "Here he is!" The Prince and Princess de Hansfeld entered the box at that instant.
Friends in the stalls.
"What a crowd!—What a crowd!"
"If I were De Gercourt, at this moment, what an awful fright I should be in!—What say you?"
"I should most decidedly."
"What fancy is this that has taken hold of him?"
"Oh! he can do nothing like any one else."
"Ah!—bah! Is his comedy really something so extraordinarily good?"
"No, no, I meant to say that the stylish people of the present day do riot write plays. He had nothing to do but follow their example, and keep himself quiet."
"I thought you had been present at a full rehearsal."
"So I have."
"Well, I came in at the third act, and, ma foi, I found myself beside Mademoiselle ***, whom I had never seen off the stage: I talked with her for a long while, and heard nothing at all of De Gercourt's piece. She is a very nice person is Mademoiselle ***."
"Then you know nothing of the play?"
"Saint-Clair has seen two rehearsals, and says it is very weak. As for me I hope the thing may succeed most decidedly; but as to applauding like a claqueur, why, you see——"
"Heaven defend us from that!"
"Nothing can be in worse taste than to applaud."
"All the club will be here."
"Then they will come in after dinner. That will be droll."
"Ah! there is the Turkish ambassador."
"Ah! and there is that nice Marquise de Luceval, who is displaying her neck to catch a glimpse of the ambassador, or be seen by him."
"Pardieu! and she who aims at every thing eccentric must have a great desire to coquet with this Turk."
"I hate that woman: she turns every thing into ridicule."
"And such a tongue!"
"Do you really think her so very pretty?"
"Why, why, she is nice and piquant, and her features are really good, but that's all."
"Very different from Madame de Longpré, who is just entering her box! There is a really lovely woman."
"She's with that silly little doll Madame Dinville."
"Oh! that simpleton always hooks in with some fashionable woman."
"Talking of Madame de Longpré, where can Maubray be?"
"Just entering their box.—Can Monsieur de Longpré do without him?"
"Unfortunate Longpré!"
"And there is Mademoiselle Dumoulin with her baron. How handsome she is! You must confess that there are very few women like her in society."
"True."
"It is much less wearying, much more convenient. One need not be at any trouble, and is not compelled to make any display of attention."
"No doubt; but men are so weak—vanity will predominate."
"Most decidedly the Princess de Hansfeld is in high beauty to-night. How charmingly that garnet-coloured gown becomes her! What splendid shoulders! I never had so good a view of her before. Who is that with her?"
"Madame de Lormoy, De Morville's aunt."
"But I should say there was some one else at the back of the box?"
"No."
"Yes, I assure you."
"The boxes are so dark."
"Perhaps it is the prince."
"What! have they released him then?"
"So it appears; but we can't see his face—De Morville's aunt hides him."
"Talking of De Morville, how is it he is not here,—he, the bosom friend of Gercourt?"
"He will be here: I met him. His mother is better."
"And how is he?"
"How is he?"
"Not yet cured of his English complaint?"
"No; really his is an incurable fidelity."
"Madame de Luceval tried very hard to have herself adored out of a spirit of contradiction, but she failed, and De Morville's fidelity was unshaken."
"How vexed she must have been! for she is such a coquette—so fond of tormenting other women."
"Oh! I should like to see her fall into the hands of some one who could tease her heart out."
"She has really driven poor Saint Renant half mad."
"Does their liaison still continue?"
"So the world says, and it is more talked of than ever."
"Silence!—Here he is. Ah! how d'ye do, Saint Renant?"
"Ah! my dear fellows, how'do? Have you seen the woman in the Polish cap, the sobieska?"
"No. Who, and where is she?"
"Then look up in the dress circle beside a very charming fair creature."
"Ça?—Why it is a man!"
"One of the horse-riders from the Cirque."
"A colonel's wife of the hussars."
"Say rather the Polish lancers."
"I should like to know the name of that delicious fair girl!—She's really lovely."
"It is Madame de Brévannes."
"The wife of the tall dark man who is leaning forward?"
"Yes."
"Ah! here is Morville."
"I say, Morville, the famous invisible prince is here; but he does not come forward, but remains entrenched in his box with your aunt and the Princess de Hansfeld, so that we cannot catch a glimpse of him."
"Is Madame de Hansfeld here?"
"Yes, there. Look this way, Morville."
"I see."
"Go and pay your respects to your aunt, and come back and tell us how the said prince looks when one is close to him, for here we see nothing. I say, do this for us, Morville."
"Impossible. I dare not go near my aunt, for I have been smoking a cigar, and she would faint, or something of that sort. I will try, on the contrary, not to be seen by her, as I cannot go into her box. By the way I hope we all mean to support Gercourt. I am much interested for him."
"Do you mean to applaud much in your own proper person, Morville?"
"Most decidedly. In the first place the play deserves it, and then we must encourage Gercourt. If it succeed, we shall no longer be styled an idle, useless set; and it must succeed, for it is full of wit."
"Yes, but if it should fail, we shall be responsible for its failure."
"No more than you will be responsible for its success."
"Hark! there's the signal."
"The solemn moment!"
"Poor Gercourt!"
"Silence, gentlemen, and listen."
"Be quiet, Morville."
"We are all ears."
"Ah! this passes at the time of Louis XV."
"I detest pieces of the time of the regency."
"How frightfully the noble father is attired!"
"But Mademoiselle *** is deliciously dressed."
"Too much rouge."
"They wore a great deal at this period."
"Yes, and very high up close to the eyes."
"How much powder becomes her!"
"Do you know her affair with Octave? It is very amusing. Only fancy——"
"My dear fellow, do think of poor Gercourt, and listen to his play."
"It is very pretty!—Very pretty!"
"The decorations are charming."
"The fact is, that for a first piece—"
"For a man who knows nothing of the profession—"
"Oh! a soliloquy. I never listen to soliloquies, they are such bores."
"So I think."
"Well, then, to return to Octave. Well, you must know that he had seen Mademoiselle *** several times in her new character. You know the one I mean, in Scribe's play, and he fell in love with her—desperately in love."
"Parbleu!"
"He knew in the house of——"
"My dear Auguste, pray do listen a little: Gercourt is a friend."
"Why we are talking of one of the actresses in his play."
"Besides soliloquies are always full of repetition."
"Bravo! bravo!"
"The devil!—This is rather strong, I should say: they do not risk these things in good society.
"Yes, but under the regency."
"Ah! there is Madame d'Hauterive and her sister in the minister's box. When free admissions fly about, they are sure to make a part of the audience."
"'Pon my soul it's too bad with 8000 l. a-year."
"Some people are so mean."
"Well, now let us listen then; I will tell you poor Octave's history another time, for it evidently annoys Morville."
"Yes, let us listen."
"Ah! really now—that was very witty."
"What a pity Mademoiselle *** has such a long neck!"
"And how the lover talks through his nose!"
"Ah! see the two club boxes are crammed."
"They have evidently dined."
"They'll all be turned out as surely as possible."
"Look at D'Orville, pray do; his face is as red as a peony."
"Capital!—he is really talking to the performers."
"Yes, that's so like him; he is such a droll devil. I'll bet money that he's saying all sorts of odd things to them."
"They are trying to make him quiet."
"What a pity!—we were once together at the Gaité,—there was a sheep in the piece—we were in one of the stage-boxes, and D'Orville drew the mutton along by his hind legs."
"How very funny it must have been!"
"It really was—but come—let us attend a little—hum! I say the plot seems rather intricate—eh?"
"Why, to tell the truth, I do not comprehend one syllable of it."
"Which is the father?—that one?"
"In the mulberry suit?"
"No, on the left side—the thin fellow, the distinguished individual who indulged in the soliloquy."
"I don't know."
"Don't you find the thing amusing?"
"Decidedly otherwise."
"What the devil could put it into Gercourt's noddle to write a play?"
"Still that was a neatly turned idea."
"Yes, but what an idea!"
"True; but you hear how they are applauding. It may succeed, but it is decidedly weak."
"First act is over—now for the second."
"Well, gentlemen, what did I tell you?"
"Between ourselves, my dear Morville, it is a pity that it begins so well."
"How so?"
"The remainder of the piece cannot certainly sustain this high tone."
"That remains to be seen; I know the play, and now I have not the slightest doubt of its success."
"Oh, you, Morville, are always an optimist; but, in fact, the progress of the plot is very much involved."
"You did not listen to it."
"Oh, parbleu! if it requires constrained attention in order to comprehend it, that is really a labour."
"And, you know, one does not come to the theatre to have oneself bored to find out all the developments of a plot."
"If it be intricate, that is the author's affair, and I really cannot for his pleasure and gratification refrain from a little quiet chat with a neighbour."
"True; the triumph of art is to make oneself understood without being listened to."
"Devil take you, Morville, you are quite fanatic about Gercourt."
This box, as we have said already, was occupied by M. de Brévannes and his wife.
He had recognised Paula Monti in the Princess de Hansfeld.
Fortunately Bertha's attention was occupied, else the marked alteration in her husband's features could not have escaped her. In spite of the iron temper of his disposition, M. de Brévannes was, in spite of himself, much agitated, and compelled to lean against the side of the box for support, as he felt the mad passion with which Paula Monti had inspired him again awaken in his bosom with increased violence.
He saw once again this woman more lovely than ever, admired by all the men, envied by all the women, and in a most elevated social position. And she could now exact from him a terrible account of the blood which he had shed, of the infamous means which he had employed to give a colourable appearance to his cowardly calumnies.
Fearing the pursuit of justice, which might be directed against him after his duel with Raphael (in which the latter fell), De Brévannes had quitted Florence precipitately. Since then he had sought to amuse himself by guilty intrigues, in order to forget his unworthy conduct and invincible passion, which, in spite of himself, still held such dominion over him.
His ill humour, his coarseness, his severity towards Bertha, had no other source than his feeling of the past which he could not drive from his memory.
What would then become of him when he found himself face to face with Madame de Hansfeld, and should be recognised by her, for the looks of the princess, at first attracted by the sobieska of Madame Girard, were thence removed to M. de Brévannes at the very instant when, having discovered in her Paula Monti, he was looking at her with amazement.
He saw her shudder, lift her hands suddenly to her eyes, and then become again perfectly impassive.
* * * * *
Bertha had been deeply interested, going rarely to the theatre, she preserved all her feelings youthful and fresh. Entirely absorbed in the plot of the comedy, nay indifferent to what was going on in the various boxes and stalls, the commencement of the second act of The Seducer completely fascinated her attention.
The second act was, perhaps, even more successful than the first. De Gercourt's friends began to get impatient at this lucky chance, and one of the most intimate said:—
"Now I am quite easy; if the piece should fail in spite of the talent displayed in those two acts, poor Gercourt will be quite innocent of the failure. I say this now without knowing what may occur—so much the better or the worse for him. Gercourt is not the author of this play — it is not in his vein at all."
During this pause between the acts we will conduct our reader into Madame de Hansfeld's box.
Madame de Lormoy, who accompanied her, was a woman of nearly fifty, and a high-bred lady in every sense of the word.
And now a few words of the Prince de Hansfeld, to whom the reader has already been introduced in the gallery of the Hôtel Lambert.
M. de Hansfeld, who was seated so far back in his box that none of the audience could see him, was of middle height, thin and slender, about twenty-two or twenty-three years of age. His features were extremely delicate, his hair chestnut, very little moustache and beard, but fine and silky of a light brown hue, which harmonised admirably with the transparent paleness of his complexion. His eyes were very large and soft, and of a blue so bright that, in spite of the half obscurity of his box, the clear glance of Arnold was distinguishable, the light seeming not to be reflected upon, but to dart through them, giving them the blue brightness of a sapphire.
His smile was full of benignity, intelligence, and grace; there was only lacking to this interesting countenance the warm colouring of life and health, just as flowers which vegetate in the shade, and are denied the salutary beams of the sun, lose the brilliancy of their hues, and assume the pale tints of extreme delicacy; so had Arnold's features something languishing and pining in their expression.
During some minutes he remained in the deepest reflection.
When Madame de Lormoy had pointed out to the princess the ridiculous coiffure of Madame Girard, M. de Hansfeld, whilst turning his eyes mechanically in that direction, had remained for some time contemplating Bertha.
Madame de Brévannes' beauty was not dazzling, but her sweet and lovely countenance had such a touching expression of melancholy, that Arnold felt quite interested. At the moment of the entr'acte, Bertha, by an involuntary return to her own and her father's position—too proud to accept henceforth the least assistance from M. de Brévannes, and too poor to live without aid,—Bertha, being no longer attracted by the interest of the performance, gave way to the melancholy of her reflections, and, with her figure slightly bent, her head inclined towards her bosom, was mechanically moving a bouquet of red camelia, which she held in her hand, as she seemed bowed beneath the weight of some silent sorrow.
M. de Hansfeld felt himself attracted towards this young female by the mysterious and powerful sympathy of suffering. He was almost grateful to her for being, like himself, a stranger to the noise, stir, and joyous bustle of this brilliant audience, and, wishing to judge if Bertha's features corresponded with the favourable impression she created, he raised his lorgnette.
At this moment Madame de Lormoy turned towards him:—
"Well, prince, how do you find yourself?"
"I thank you, madame!" replied the prince in French, and without any foreign accent, but in a low, faint voice, "I feel very well."
"Perhaps the light hurts you a little, dear?" said the princess to her husband.
"Rather, but I must get accustomed to it,—I am about to become such a gay fellow!" he added, with a smile.
"Well, then, prince," continued Madame de Lormoy, "there is nothing like stirring about as a remedy for nervous complaints. I only advise you to try the most agreeable recreation, and Madame de Hansfeld is with you."
"It is she, on the contrary, who requires recreation," said the prince, kindly; "but I have much trouble in inducing her to go into society now and then."
"Alas! prince, my nephew, De Morville, is just the same, and I am always scolding him; my poor sister, his mother, has been an invalid so long, and he has nursed her so affectionately, that he really quite keeps away from the world. Dieu merci! She is getting better now, but my nephew still insists on his absurd retirement. He has become whimsical and capricious, and I have been obliged to make his excuses to you, my dear princess, for, after having asked me the favour of being presented to you, his savage taste has resumed its ascendancy, and he has made the excuse of his retirement from the world to renounce a favour at first so eagerly requested."
Madame de Hansfeld remained quite unmoved by this allusion to De Morville, whom she had for some time seen in the orchestra stalls, and replied with a smile,—
"I have heard this singularity of M. de Morville accounted for in a very romantic manner—allusions to an affair of the heart very deeply seated—a fidelity which does not belong to our times."
"And I believe with truth. Aunts ought always to feign ignorance of these lovers' weaknesses, and but for that I should boast of the heroic constancy of my nephew. Ah! there he is!—in the stalls!" said Madame de Lormoy who had discovered De Morville.
"Monsieur de Fierval, since Léon will not see me, have the kindness to go to him, and say I am here—this time he shall not escape us."
M. de Fierval, who had been paying his respects to Madame de Lormoy and the princess, instantly quitted the box in obedience to the request of De Morville's aunt.
"But really, madame," said Madame de Hansfeld, with a laugh, when De Fierval had left the box, "I should be quite vexed to catch M. de Morville in a net of this sort, and thus surprise him into an introduction which he may desire to avoid."
"My dear princess, if he has his whims, I have mine; and amongst others, that of being proud of my nephew, and his greatest success would be to acquire your good opinion."
"I have no right to repeat it to any person so nearly connected with you as M. de Morville, only I regret that good opinion should not have the value which you are so kind as to attribute to it."
"Allow me to say that on this point you completely deceive yourself.—But," added Madame de Lormoy, "I most decidedly denounce M. de Hansfeld to you. He appears to me entirely absorbed with Madame Girard's sobieska, and cannot take his eyes off her, unless, indeed, it is that pretty Madame de Brévannes whom M. de Fierval has just named to us."
"And who is really very charming," said the princess, directing her lorgnette with the utmost intrepidity into the box of Brévannes.
M. de Hansfeld did not hear, or pretended not to bear, his wife, and kept his glass fixed on Bertha.
"But," continued Madame de Lormoy, "do you know, princess, that I very much admire M. de Brévannes? From what M. de Fierval told us, he must have evinced great delicacy and generosity in his marriage with a poor girl; and this is so seldom witnessed in our days. After such conduct, it seems to me that people are hardly able to form their opinion of a man's worth. Don't you think so?"
"With your elevated opinions, you must think highly of M. de Brévannes, or rather of his noble disinterestedness, his admirable behaviour, since he has not the honour of an acquaintance with you. Madame de Brévannes is so lovely," said the princess, without betraying any emotion; "she appears so well bred, that the sacrifice of M. de Brévannes appears to me simply very great good fortune."
"In this you are quite right; but when I look at the marked and almost harsh features of M. de Brévannes I should never have thought him capable of such a feeling of the tender passion. What is your opinion, princess:
"Countenances are sometimes so deceitful," replied Paula, whose composure did not forsake her.
At this moment M. de Fierval came into the box.
"What! alone?" said Madame de Lormoy; "and Léon?"
"He has desired me, madame, to express to you his extreme regret; but after having dined at the club, he smoked a cigar, and——"
"I understand. He knows my abhorrence of the abominable odour of tobacco. I only hope that what he has lost by his filthy habit, just like a soldier in a barrack, may be profitable to him when he remembers how he lost it. Again, my dear princess, I hope for his pardon, and express my regret to you."
"We are all losers, madame," was the princess's reply.
It was plain that De Morville's excuse for not going to his aunt was the result of his resolution to avoid a meeting with the princess.
"What do they say of the piece?" asked Madame de Lormoy of M. de Fierval.
"They did not expect such signal success; and Gercourt's friends are really in consternation!
"Shameful! but so much the better; it is right that envious people should feel the pain of their hateful desires. I wish M. de Gercourt's success was twice as disagreeable to them as it is already."
"Is M. de Gercourt one of your friends, madame?" inquired Madame de Hansfeld.
"Is he?—indeed he is, and one of my best. When he returned from his travels before the revolution of July, he entered the world under my patronage and that of the Duchesse de Bellecourt; and I can assure you we were very proud of introducing M. de Gercourt into society. He was a charming young man; and although quite young, soon became very much the fashion:—with a large fortune, a good name, a handsome person, and most gentlemanly manners, he had only to desire to please, and he did please; and because, after he had enjoyed, as a young man, all the pleasures of his age and position, he now seeks more elevated enjoyments, more serious occupations, every body says malicious things of him. It is really a shame and a pity. Why are not fools as indulgent to the merit of another as they are for their own nonentity? It is all that is required of them."
"It is well to be one of your friends, madame," said Paula, smiling at the excitement with which Madame de Lormoy had said these words.
"Assuredly," said M. de Fierval; "and I regret that I think with Madame de Lormoy of Gercourt, as else I might have had the pleasure of being converted by her."
"Oh! I do not pretend to convert anybody, but to say unreservedly my opinion of malicious and jealous persons. That is an old woman's privilege, and I avail myself of it, as I have a right to do. Have I not, prince?—But, heavens! what's the matter?—How pale you are!"
And, indeed, M. de Hansfeld was leaning his head against the panel of the box, and seemed at the moment extremely ill.
"Princess, your smelling bottle!" exclaimed Madame de Lormoy.
Madame de Hansfeld rose half up from her seat. Her husband repulsed her with terror, saying in an alarmed voice, "No,—no; not that smelling bottle!" and the prince fainted.
Despite her husband's habitual impassiveness, Madame de Hansfeld could not help a shudder and a frown of her black eyebrows at the frightened gesture of the prince when she presented her flacon to him; but neither Madame de Lormoy nor M. de Fierval, who were occupied with the prince, observed her emotion.
The indisposition of the prince occurred between the acts, and several persons came to help to convey the prince to his carriage; and amongst the inquisitives was M. Girard, whom his wife had despatched to ascertain what effect her sobieska had occasioned in the public mind.
M. Girard took very good care not to make a single inquiry on this subject, resolving to tell his spouse that her dashing casquette had excited the utmost admiration. He returned hastily to the box to inform her of the prince's fainting fit. He had scarcely opened the door, and said to Madame Girard, "My love——," than she, without allowing him to add another word, exclaimed,—
"Run as fast as you can to see what is the matter with the Prince de Hansfeld: they have carried him out, I understand, into the lobby in front of us."
"But, my dearest——"
"Go quick, I tell you——"
"But, my life, I have come to——"
"Go, I say, Timoléon."
"I beg of you to hear me——."
"Oh!—how tiresome you are! Pray, go as quickly as you can."
"Why, I came in fact to tell you——"
"That is not what I want to hear, it is about the prince. So once more go."
"But, my dearest love, I have come to tell you the very thing you desire to know," exclaimed M. Girard, with intense volubility.
"Oh! that's quite another thing. Come in and shut the door, and tell us all about it as quick as you can."
"My love, you really will not give me time; and I——"
"Pray speak—do speak."
"Did the prince quite lose his consciousness?" inquired Bertha, with interest.
"Of course the princess has gone away with him?" said De Brévannes.
"Did they give him immediate assistance?" continued Madame Girard. "Timoléon, why don't you speak, and not stand there like a great clod, not opening your mouth?"
"Why, I really cannot answer so many questions at once. From what I could gather in the crowd, some said the prince was just recovering from a very long illness, and the heat of the house had quite overcome him; others declared that it was another attack of lunacy which had come over him, although they had thought him completely cured; and there were others besides, who asserted that it was violent and sudden emotion which had caused his fainting."
"Poor prince!—So young, and such a sufferer!" said Bertha to De Brévannes, with sympathy of tone. "All, even to his maladies, is a mystery!"
"Ah! my dear Madame de Brévannes, how very interesting, isn't it?" cried Madame de Girard, with excitement. "What a pity we could not see him, for he was so completely concealed at the back of the box that we could not distinguish his features!"
"I confess," said Bertha, "that I should have liked to have seen his face."
M. de Brévannes frowned as he looked scrutinisingly in Bertha's face at the moment when she had manifested her interest for M. de Hansfeld, and awaited with some uneasiness the reply of Madame Girard, who added in a sentimental tone, "Admitting that the prince is as young, as handsome and interesting as he is, it is thus one would choose the fancied one, if we were young girls and mistress of his heart. Don't you think so, Madame de Brévannes?"
"But, my love, I do not think I ever cross your inclination, and I——"
"Really, Timoléon, I hope you have never had the pretension to be a 'fancied one,' an ideal being?"
"I have no pretension to be an ideal being, my dear; but——"
"Silence! the curtain is going up."
M. Girard was silent.
Bertha and Madame Girard again lent all their attention to the last act of the comedy; and De Brévannes, whose features grew darker and darker, cast, from time to time, strange looks on his wife; his absurd jealousy was alarmed at the interest which Bertha had shewn when speaking of the sufferings of the prince, whose features she had not even seen.
"Well?"
"Decided success."
"Yes, great and unquestionable."
"How devilish lucky Gercourt is!"
"It is a capital beginning."
"Bah! he never wrote the thing."
"Why, that idea came into my head the moment I saw it must succeed."
"If it had only had moderate success, one might have believed that Gercourt really wrote the play."
"If it had failed, there would not have been a moment's doubt on the subject."
"Why, success is all very well; but you know, in such cases, the acting of the performers is every thing."
"Quite true. Just now I was standing beside a newspaper man, and he said that it was clever, but not written close, not dovetailed."
"Yes, that is the word I meant; the plot was not dovetailed."
"Decidedly not; and if persons will meddle with theatrical writing, they ought at least to have a good knowledge of dovetailing."
"Yes, the whole piece depends on that."
"But there are some people who imagine they possess every thing by instinct.
"Why, I think Gercourt a most excellent fellow, and very amiable and nice before he was seized with the mania for writing, but now he has such a mysterious, preoccupied air——"
"That is in the last degree ridiculous."
"Only look at Morville. In spite of his melancholy he has as self-satisfied an air as if he were the author himself."
"Yes, without any possible reason."
"Well, gentlemen, I told you what the result would be. What an effective dénouement!—It is hardly a success,—it ought to be called a triumph."
"It proves that our friendship has done every thing;—we were all here, and filled the house. It was quite a family affair."
"The thing must be tried before an impartial audience."
"To speak frankly, it is in spite of your friendship that Gercourt has succeeded."
"Oh! you are always talking paradoxes, Morville. As soon as any one is your friend, even if he had killed father and mother, he would be excusable in your eyes."
"And the best reason would be, my dear sir, when that friend had written a delightful comedy: at least you must allow some extenuating circumstances to his crime. In the first place, he could not believe that the success he desired would be so disagreeable to you; and I can assure you, that in that particular there was no premeditation on his part."
"You are joking now, Morville.
"I only say the truth."
"Well, if you were the friend of that woman who wears that very odd head-dress, you would maintain that it was in the best possible taste."
"What woman are you speaking of?—Where is she?"
"There by Voltaire's statue, beside Madame de Brévannes, who really seems quite ashamed of being seen in her society."
"Is M. de Brévannes, then, in Paris?"
"Certainly; but what makes you look so strangely when you ask the question, my dear Morville?"
"Has he been here long?"
"I think not. I saw him for the first time since his return at the Opera-ball. But what ails you, Morville? You seem quite preoccupied with Brévannes. Are you in love with his wife?—She is worth winning."
"Her only fault is in having friends who wear such head-dresses?"
"You who take so deep an interest in De Gercourt's success, my dear Morville, forget its most striking effects. His comedy had such an effect on the Prince de Hansfeld, that it has made him more imbecile than ever. He was conveyed to his carriage without consciousness. On his first going out, as they say; he has been lucky!"
"How pleasant for Madame de Hansfeld!"
"Oh! of her we may say as many ill-natured things as possible. Morville detests her, and his excuse of smelling of his cigar, which he gave for not going to his aunt and this handsome princess, was a pure invention. Oh! you are an original, Morville!"
"And you say that M. de Brévannes has only been in Paris for a short time?"
"What! still harping on De Brévannes? I'm off—D. I. O. Good night! Morville.—My cab is at the door."
"Morville is decidedly cracked."
"Yes, such fools do we become when we allow ourselves to be brutalised by the 'tender passion.'"
"Lady Melford has made nice work with him."
"Poor fellow! Ah! there is Gercourt, and he looks as if he wished to make his escape—to abscond from his triumph. What weakness!"
"Let us call him. Gercourt! Gercourt!"
"He will be overjoyed."
"Bravo! my dear friend."
"It is a decided hit."
"Enormous success!"
"You cannot imagine how delighted we are."
"Ah! my friends."
"We were just saying that for a man whose profession it was, it would have been decided success; but for a man of the world, it is a double merit."
"Well, but I assure you what you told me now—these proofs of kind friendship are even more delightful to me than my success itself."
"That is easily accounted for: your success is as much for your friends as yourself."
"What can make Morville look so pensive? Isn't he satisfied with my play?"
"Why, my dear fellow, you know how strange he is in all points. He seems as if he did not see you."
"And I want to get out of the way, for every one seems staring at me, and I have no ambition to 'play the lion's part.'—Adieu!"
"Adieu, my dear fellow!—and, once and again—bravo!"
"That is to say, that he is charmed with having Created such a sensation."
"What ridiculous and insupportable vanity!"
A week had passed since the interview of Madame de Hansfeld and M. de Morville at the Opera.
M. de Morville, overcome by fresh melancholy, had not quitted his mother, who had again relapsed, and was suffering very acutely. He recollected, with a mixture of joy and bitterness, his conversation with Madame de Hansfeld: the cry that had escaped the princess had given him a faint hope of being loved by her, but this rendered the struggle which he had to maintain against duty still more painful.
By a fatality which all men obey, his love increased in proportion to the insurmountable obstacles which separated him from Paula.
For the very reason that he accomplished a painful sacrifice in flying her presence, he consoled himself by nursing this fatal passion deep in his heart's core: sometimes, he sought to revive his ancient love for Lady Melford, and attempted to rekindle the cold ashes of his former affection,—but in vain.
In vain, too, did he ask himself, by what insensible operation he had so suddenly obliterated the deep sentiment which so lately occupied his whole heart—in vain did he ask himself the cause of his love for Madame de Hansfeld. "No doubt she was remarkably beautiful—but as to her heart, her mind, he knew nothing of them. In his sole conversation with the princess, she had been disdainful—ironical—cold."
In this scrutiny into the causes of his passion, M. de Morville forgot the most essential—his letters to Madame de Hansfeld, when he had detected, by a singular intuition of love, nearly all those emotions which had so strongly agitated her. If it be true that we often love from the sacrifices we have made for the object beloved, certain gifted souls love in consequence of the elevation of the feelings with which they are inspired. Thus De Morville owed to his love for Madame de Hansfeld inspirations of the noblest kind.
If it be objected that young, handsome, sensible, sensitive, and surrounded by temptations, M. de Morville must have been another Scipio, to devote himself to an impossible love, after having remained so long faithful to the memory of a beloved woman, we reply that if these instances of phenomenal constancy are sometimes met with, it is particularly amongst young, handsome, sensible, sensitive men, surrounded by temptations. They have had success enough not to be faithless from false shame or to add from vanity one unit more to the amount of their successes in affairs of the heart.
Then the very facility of the triumphs to which they might pretend keeps them from seeking them. In truth, without being absolutely satiated with pleasures, their first excitement having long abated, they become chary of the more sensitive enjoyments, and feel happy in consecrating to them the greater portion of their existence.
They do not require a prosperous love in order thus to exercise their more delicate faculties, but find a soft and saddened charm in the incessant regrets, which arise from a beloved remembrance,—in the tender anguish of a hapless love. In fact they comprehend the ineffable pleasure of melancholy, the refinements of pure and elevated passions.
Men less finely endued, less accustomed to success, are faithful or disinterested in love, from sheer necessity.
Persons like De Morville are so, if we may be allowed the expression, from luxury.
It is because it depends on themselves alone to have, that they find a kind of noble abstinence in not having. And then, indeed (we desire at all risks to excuse the constancy and resignation of our hero), certain dainty tastes know how from time to time to refresh, revivify the sensitiveness of their taste by a discreet abstinence. Having said thus much, and having (at least we hope so) exculpated De Morville from the ridicule inherent in the position of a faithful or unhappy lover, we will give our readers some additional information.
About eight days after his interview with Madame de Hansfeld, De Morville received by post the following letter in an unknown hand:—
"The step now taken with you is strange and foolish; you may perceive in it a reproach, a jest, or a caprice; you may reply to it by silence, by satire, or by disdain; you will not be reproached: there are a thousand reasons, why this step, notwithstanding it is as serious, as solemn as any thing can be in this world, may seem to you ridiculous or unworthy of your attention, still a whole existence is staked, in the hope (almost insane) that the instinct of your heart will reveal to you all that is sincere and serious in the question now asked,—Is your heart free?
"It is known that a cherished remembrance filled it for nearly two years; but we are not now referring to the past, we are addressing your well-known honour and frankness. Can you respond to a deep-felt love long cherished in silence and in mystery; a passionate love that you alone can inspire and justify?
"Reply—will you have this love?
"Many men would be proud to share it—this is not said from pride—for this love is cast at your feet with as much humility as fear. If you are free, if you can consecrate, or rather you will allow a whole life to be consecrated to you, say one word, and to-morrow you shall know who wrote this letter.
"Such is the confidence reposed in you, that you will be blindly believed. Nothing could be more easy for you than to deceive a heart entirely occupied with you; you might scorn this love with impunity and treat it as a plaything with the premeditation to break it speedily; you might lightly, carelessly give a mortal blow to a heart too deeply enamoured. This is said because you are known to be good and generous—because it is not too much to rely on your heart and candour for a frank reply. Be that reply what it may, it will be received with gratitude. Your sincerity will at least assuage the bitterness of rejection. This unpropitious love will return to the mystery and obscurity whence it should never have emerged. Although it be not shared, it will be none the less fervent and eternal: you may be insensible to it, but you cannot prevent its existence.
"P.S. Reply 'poste-restante,' to Paris to Madame Derval."
Whether he was in a train of romantic and melancholy ideas, whether he believed in the sincerity of this letter, or whether, in fact, resolved on refusing the offer of this heart, he thus avoided the ridicule of being the dupe of some "fool-born jest," M. de Morville, replied seriously to this proposition, and wrote this, poste-restante, to the address of Madame Derval.
"I would a thousand times prefer being the victim of a jest to risking a frivolous reply to the expression of a sentiment for which a right-minded man should always shew himself grateful. If there is one thing I pretend to it is frankness, and I have never committed a base or mean action, I have never considered as vain and trifling the engagements of two hearts which are exchanged—engagements in which a woman almost always places her whole happiness in the honour, her future at the mercy, of a man,—engagements in which the woman risks all, the man nothing. I will therefore reply, No, my heart is not free; I love, and love without hope.
"Shall I be understood, when I say that in thus replying, I believe I fully appreciate the sentiment which is expressed towards me, and by which I am as much touched as honoured?
"Admitting the reality of the sentiment which is expressed, I am absolved from any presumption by this well-known truth, To be loved does not prove that we deserve to be loved. But as for myself I have always thought that those who loved deserved always as much respect as admiration.
"LEON DE MORVILLE."
The next day De Morville received this reply by post:—
"Your noble and generous heart has been justly appreciated—your letter has caused tears to flow, but they fell without bitterness. Your excessive delicacy would, had it been possible, have increased the blind passion with which you have inspired me. Blind passion!—ah!—no—no, never was a love more deeply reflected, more meditated, more rational—for you are capable and worthy of responding to all the exactions of a love the most pure, the most elevated.
"No, the passion you inspire is not blind; but it honours and becomes one like a virtue. Now there is a last favour to ask of you; you will not grant it if it be inopportunely asked, but if, on the other hand, you do concede it, you will easily comprehend how great a consolation it will be to the heart that is filled with your image. To be allowed to write to you from time to time would be much desired, not to speak to you of a love which will never again raise its voice, but to make you hear sometimes the accents of a friendly voice, 'your heart is not free, and you love without hope.'
"This confidence may have cost you something, it may impose duties because it may presage griefs. Those who have suffered ought to repair to those who suffer; and if your love continues unhappy, perhaps in the midst of your sorrows you would hail with gratitude the consolation of a tender and devoted heart, which, better than any other, may compassionate your sorrow.
"Should you be happy, you will be generous, and you will find some kind and gentle words for the unknown friend, whose own griefs will be forgotten in the knowledge of your sufferings or happiness. You are so frank that you do not suspect the frankness of others. The end of this correspondence is not to lay a snare for your affection, or to profit by a moment's anger to offer again to you a heart you have rejected: you will believe this because you know that there are souls worthy of your own: you will believe this because whatever may happen, you will never learn who has written to you.
"Finally, you will see in this resolution neither offended pride nor bitterness. The elevation of feeling which dictates this letter places it out of the pale of such wretched passions. Destiny has willed that this offer of a devoted heart should be made to you too soon or too late. Still that heart is no less yours, that is to say, is still worthy of you.
"Reply 'poste-restante' to the same address."
The calm and dignity of this fresh letter struck De Morville, and he was touched by it in spite of the preoccupation of his mind for the love of Madame de Hansfeld. He replied with his usual sincerity:—
"I accept with gratitude the offer you make me—my heart is indeed sad: I have never had a confidant, but I should greatly like to give utterance to my feelings, not to recount agreeable or painful facts, and confidants disturb persons, but not sentiments. I may, therefore, find a great charm, a vast comfort in breathing forth my sorrows or my hopes, or in having myself pitied if I suffer, or congratulated if I am happy, by the mysterious and generous friend I have acquired.
"LEON DE MORVILLE."
This last billet written and despatched to its address, De Morville, absorbed by his increasing passion for Madame de Hansfeld, thought but seldom of his mysterious correspondent:—the unknown person (whose name the reader has doubtless guessed) being unwilling by any indiscreet haste to abuse the permission that M. de Morville had given.
Eight days had elapsed since the eventful meeting at the Comédie Française had revealed to M. de Brévannes that Paula Monti and the Princess de Hansfeld were one and the same person.
About ten o'clock in the morning, a fiacre, in which was M. de Brévannes, stopped at the door of a modest-looking dwelling, situate at the Rue des Martyrs—a street proverbially lonely and unfrequented.
The house at which M. de Brévannes alighted did not boast a concierge, that gentleman was therefore enabled to ascend the stairs unquestioned and uninterrupted. When arriving at the entrance to the apartments on the first floor, he rang the bell with an air and loudness that announced the approach of a master, his summons was immediately answered by a female, somewhat in years, plainly but neatly dressed. She had a red, pimpled face—a large pair of spectacles ornamented her nose, and in her hand she carried a capacious snuff-box.
We shall merely announce this female as Madame Grassot, the person employed by M. de Brévannes to look after the apartments occupied by him for the purpose of receiving poor Bertha's numerous rivals without fear of discovery.
"Well, Madame Grassot," said M. de Brévannes, as he entered into a pretty drawing-room, in which a cheerful fire was burning, "what kind of news have you got for me?"
"The very best of news, M. Charles," replied the old woman, taking off her glasses, and inspiring a powerful pinch of snuff.
"Good, are they?" rejoined M. de Brévannes, turning round quickly.
"They aire, M. Charles, excellent as can he. Does that any way surprise you?"
"By no means, after my experience of your cleverness in getting at any thing required of you. But what you had now to manage presented such real difficulties——"
"That you fancied I should not succeed,—ah! go along; I know what you mean!"
"There were really such serious obstacles in the way of your success that, in fact, I—but, never mind that—tell me all you have done and learned."
"You gave me a week to do the job in; and I finished it off in five days."
"Well! Now, then, let's hear all about it."
"All about it! Ah, but then we must begin, as the children say, from the beginning. Just listen attentively, and I'll tell you every thing that passed."
"I am all impatience—pray begin."
"Last Wednesday morning, says you to me, 'Madame Grassot, you must positively find some means of getting acquainted with one of the male or female servants belonging to the Princess de Hansfeld—the lady who lives in the Hôtel Lambert, Rue Saint Louis.'"
"My good woman! for mercy's sake, get on with your story."
"Oh, but, M. Charles—if you interrupt me in this manner——"
"You are keeping me upon the rack; you can have no idea how deeply I am interested in your proceedings."
"Well, then, let me go on my own way, and you'll soon learn what I call 'good news.' No sooner said than done, as the folks say; and directly you had left me, away I went to the Boulevard Montmartre, where I took the omnibus to the Bastille; and from the Porte Saint Antoine I reached the Isle Saint Louis, where, of course, I began to take a close survey of the Hôtel Lambert from the great gate, situated in the Rue Saint Louis, to the end of the garden-wall which runs along the Quai d'Anjou."
"I told you to be very particular in observing a small side door which opens out upon this unfrequented quay."
"Oh, bless you! I forgot nothing. Make yourself quite easy upon that score; but, for the better furtherance of my first movement, it was necessary for me to keep a sharp look-out at the principal entrance. As there was neither coffee-house nor public-house in the immediate neighbourhood, from whence I could have observed all that passed, and as my loitering about would soon have excited suspicion in so lonely a street, I went as far as the hackney-coach stand on the Quai Saint Paul; there I engaged a fiacre by the hour, and, drawing down the blinds, I took up my station at the corner of the Rue Poultier, where your father-in-law lives."
"Capital! capital! and then——"
"Well, from there I could distinctly watch the gates of the Hôtel without being perceived by any one. Up to three o'clock, I saw nobody go in or out; and the days being so very short, I was just beginning to make up my mind to return home, when, all at once, a female, dressed in a puce-coloured gown and a brown bonnet, came out of the Hôtel, and proceeded directly to where I was waiting. I found it was a young person, black as old Nick himself—a kind of mulatto girl, as people call them,—only she had quite light blue eyes. I declare I never saw such a singular countenance in my life. However, as soon as my blackamoor had gone by, I slipped out of the coach, paid the driver as quickly as I could, and away I went after her."
"Well?"
"She went on to the Rue Poultier—then to the Quai d'Orleans—crossed the bridge; and, after having gone all round the Isle Saint Louis, returned back to the Hôtel Lambert by the little side door you mentioned to me. She was, evidently, merely taking a walk."
"Did you speak to her?"
"Speak to her! why, Lord! M. Charles, what a man you are! You know very well that I rather pride myself upon my prudence and good management in all difficult cases; and don't you see, that, up to the moment of her entering the grounds of the Hôtel Lambert by the private door, nothing had transpired to satisfy me she really formed one of the princess's household? And that was my first day's work; I confess it does not seem like doing much; but, at least, I had learned who to inquire for when I presented myself at the Hôtel."
"So far, so well. Now, go on."
"The next day I started off, with my box of patterns of lace and blond. What a capital idea it was, my making a pretence to carry a box, and call myself a lace-dealer come to exhibit the last new fashions in such articles, wasn't it, M. Charles? and Lord knows how many times you and I have found it serviceable in our plans to gain admittance to a house, or steal five minutes' conversation with some sweet lady. Ah, I remember——"
"Never mind what you remember, go on."
"Well; this time I went quite boldly up to the principal entrance and knocked at the great gates; a door was instantly opened, and, you may believe me or not, M. Charles, just as you like, when I say, that, although I am no coward, I felt a kind of fearful pit-a-patting of my heart, that sounded almost like the ticking of a clock. As I heard it shut again behind me, I found myself standing within the court-yard."
"But, why should you have felt afraid?"
"The court was small, flagged, and surrounded with high, gloomy-looking buildings. I am quite sure the sun never yet contrived to make it look bright with one of his beams,—no, not for an instant; it had just the dull air of a cloister. At the bottom of the court was an immense portico, so deep as to be quite dark within; still I could distinctly make out, by reason of the whiteness of the stone itself, the balustrades of a vast horse-shoe staircase, which ascended outside up to the first story of the Hôtel;—the portico went all round the house."
"It must be a perfect palace!"
"A palace if you like; but such a dreary, gloomy one, that I should much rather dwell in a church-yard than take up my abode there. An old one-eyed porter, who had admitted me, kept me from going any farther, staring at me all the while as though he meant to eat me. 'What do you want?' said he at last. 'This is the Hôtel Lambert, is it not?' answered I. 'Yes,' says he, 'it is.' 'And I believe the Princess de Hansfeld lives here?' 'Well,' says Old Grumps, 'suppose she does.' 'Why, then,' replied I, 'I have come to shew her the laces selected yesterday by a very dark young lady who came to my shop about four o'clock in the day.' As the mulatto had been known to go out about that time, my tale appeared very probable, and the Cerberus let me pass on; but, scarcely had I taken half-a-dozen steps, than I heard some one whistling behind me, for all the world like a set of banditti, or cavern full of robbers, such as we see in a play. It was the porter himself, whistling to let the other folks know I was coming."
"I remember now having heard, that there are still some houses in France where that sort of custom prevails."
"It's a very odd one, however; and, naturally enough, surprised and rather frightened me, who had never dreamed of such ways. Well, up-stairs I went, till I reached the first floor, where I found a tall, conceited-looking jackanapes, dressed like a chasseur; his face half smothered with his huge moustache, while he tried to utter some sort of gibberish, I dare say he thought was French, to inquire again where I came from, and whom I wanted. I told him, very smilingly, that I had some lace for the princess; he then, very civilly, begged me to wait in an anteroom, as high as a house and supported with stone pillars; it sounded almost like going into a vast cathedral, and one's very footsteps echoed so hollow. I can tell you it gave me quite a chill; I felt, for all the world, as though something dreadful was going to happen to me. Well, after keeping me waiting for about five minutes, the same stuck-up, dandyfied fellow came back, and informed me his lady had not ordered any lace to be sent to her; after which he very significantly pointed to the door. I quickly replied, that it must have been the young mulatto girl who required them, since she it was who came to my magazine. 'You mean Mademoiselle Iris, I suppose,' said the laced dandy, 'she who is a sort of companion to the princess.' 'The very name,' said I, 'of the young person who bade me call. I had forgotten it; but now I hear it again, I have no hesitation in saying it was Mademoiselle Iris who ordered me to be here with my laces.' Away went the chasseur, grumbling at the fresh trouble, to repeat what I had said to Mademoiselle Iris. You perceive, I had already picked up two very useful pieces of intelligence,—one, that the tawny Moor was the princess's companion; and, secondly, that her name was Iris."
"What a singular name!"
"Iris declared I was a liar, and that she had never ordered any lace."
"Oh, bless you! there are plenty of other things quite as strange in that singular household! Well, as I expected, back came Mademoiselle Iris to tell me, very politely, I was a liar, and that she had never been near me to order any lace. The chasseur kept close by; but that did not prevent my saying, in a very quick, low tone, to the mulatto, 'I have something very particular, indeed, to say to you; it concerns the life or death of a man. To-morrow and the following evenings, I shall be from dusk on the Quai d'Anjou, near the little garden gate; there I shall wait until you come.'—You perceive, M. Charles, 'the life or death of a man is at stake!' That's the right way to put it. Those words would rouse the curiosity of any young person, let the colour of her skin be what it might!"
"And what reply did the mulatto make?"
"Oh, she said quite snappishly (but I was prepared for that), that she did not understand what I was talking about, and that I had monstrously the air of an old intrigante; after which she turned to the dandyfied chasseur, and said, pointing to me, 'Remember, this woman is not to be permitted to enter the Hôtel again.' Upon which, the monkeyfied lacquey, with a significant gesture, pointed towards the door. I took up my box of patterns, my bag, and other little etceteras, and trotted down the stairs with all the agility of fifteen! And so ended my second day! You perceive every thing was going on as well as could be wished."
"Not quite so well!"
"How do you mean? Do you forget that a positive meeting had been arranged with the blackamoor, by telling her a man's life depended on it?"
"Still, the girl herself had decidedly refused to attend the meeting."
"Lord have mercy on you, M. Charles! Well! you do downright astonish me, at your age and with your experience, to make such an observation! Well, I declare, you surprise me, you do! Now, just look here; if I had merely said, 'To-morrow, I shall be at the little garden gate, to communicate to you some very interesting information,' the mulatto might, very easily, have restrained her curiosity till the next day, and the day after would have been too late. But, take notice; I kept the thing alive, by saying, 'To-morrow, and every other evening, I shall be there.' Thus, you see, I gave her full time to fall a prey to her own impatience to find out what secret could possibly be concerned in the affair!"
"Very fairly reasoned."
"Now, a saint—a positive saint could not resist the desire of wishing to ascertain whether I should come each cold winter night to take up my station at the garden gate; if I did, the secret involved thereby must certainly be one of first-rate importance—certainly something as momentous as the life or death of a man must be at stake. Now, do you believe there ever was a saint, at least, a female one, who could have heard that a man's life was in danger without immediately wishing to know all about it—all the whys and whereabouts?"
"Ah, Madame Grassot, I crave pardon and yield to your superior judgment. You are, indeed, a first-rate tactician; and I bow, in all deference, to your skill. Your last stroke was a master-piece of politic wisdom!"
"I think so, indeed!"
"Pray, go on."
"Next day, about four o'clock, I took a hackney-coach, with a bottle of hot water, to keep my feet warm, as my duty might be a long one; then, wrapping myself up warm, I said to the coachman, 'Drive to the Quai d'Anjou, and stop at the last little gate on the right hand!' I was quite persuaded my tawny friend would not make her appearance. Well, there I stopped until nine o'clock, almost frozen to death. Nothing or nobody came near me."
"And the next day?"
"There you are again, M. Charles! so impatient, can't wait to have things related in proper order! Well, the same thing went on the next day. I went again in a coach, stopped before the little gate, the lamps of which shewed a light bright as day. About seven o'clock in the evening, the gate near which I had taken my station was suddenly opened, and as quickly shut; however, that was so much in my favour, as it shewed that the curiosity of the mulatto was at work, and would, finally, bring her to the point I desired. Still, to my extreme surprise, the day following produced nothing. There I sat in my coach, till I was nearly frozen; but, after waiting till half-past ten o'clock, I returned home almost disheartened. However, yesterday evening made up for all my former disappointments."
"Quick, then, tell me what occurred; for I, too, have need of being recompensed for all the tedious particulars you have made me listen to."
"So, you are unpatient, are you, M. Charles? Ah! I don't believe there ever was your equal for an unpatient gentleman. Well, come, I'll not play with your feelings. So, then, last night, when I stopped at the same spot, I found I was waited for; for, scarcely had I drawn up to my usual place, when the small side gate opened, and the blackamoor, wrapped up in a large cloak, came out as far as the threshold of the door. I let down the window of the coach, and she immediately approached and inquired whether the lace-dealer were there? Poor innocent lamb! 'Yes, my pretty dear,' answered I, ''tis the person you expect, and no other; but, if you would just step into the coach a minute, we could converse much more at our ease.' 'Oh, no, indeed I dare not do such a thing,' answered the poor frightened young creature. However, after an infinite number of yeses and noes, hesitation and refusal, which I will excuse you from being troubled with, she, at last, consented to come into the coach. I bade the coachman walk quite gently round the Isle; and we set forth, the poor girl trembling so excessively, that I had all the trouble in the world to tranquillise her. I am a famous good judge of such articles, and I declare I consider the mulatto as one of the most timid, yet proud-minded, and sensitive young contrivers that ever took part in a plot."
"Well, well, and when you had her within side the carriage, what then?"
"'You told me, madam,' said she at length, 'that you had something of importance to communicate to me; and that the life or death of a man was at stake!' You see, M. Charles, those words were sure to work a due effect. 'I did, indeed, my sweet young lady, but don't alarm yourself, since the secret alluded to does not refer to you, but to your amiable and excellent mistress, whom you so tenderly love—at least, as I believe you do.' 'Oh, indeed, madam, I do most ardently reverence and adore my honoured mistress.' 'And you would not, willingly, occasion her the slightest uneasiness, I doubt not?' said I. 'Certainly, I would not,' answered my companion. 'Well, then, my dear child, all I can say is, that, without intending it, you are preparing the way for much future distress and sorrow to your mistress by not putting her in the right way to prevent a very grievous misfortune.' 'How so, madam?' 'Ah, my dear, an unfortunate young man,—but I cannot say more at present; but, indeed, my child, this poor gentleman is much, very much, to be pitied; if you will only let him speak for himself, he will come instead of me to-morrow evening in a coach, and wait for you at the little side gate, he will then tell you the whole history and explain every thing.' 'Oh, no, indeed,' exclaimed my timid acquaintance, 'I never would do such a thing; I should never have sufficient courage to meet a stranger in that way.' 'But, suppose it referred to matters of first-rate importance to your mistress?' 'Then,' rejoined the simpleton, 'I will speak to her excellency, the princess, on the subject, and request to know her pleasure.' 'Have a care,' said I, solemnly, 'how you breathe a word of the affair; listen, first, to what the poor young man says; and, if he fails to interest you, it will be quite useless mentioning it to your mistress. There would, indeed, be one very excellent way of arranging the matter, and that would be, for her Excellency to accompany you to-morrow night. Nay, nay, my good girl, do not look so very much shocked and alarmed at my hinting at such a thing; the communication to be made is of the most honourable description. Don't run away with the idea that it is merely to listen to some love story, that I ask you to permit the unhappy young man to tell his own tale; depend upon it, a person at my time of life has no taste for mixing themselves up with such follies as that. No, no; the present affair relates to the saving the life of a truly unfortunate individual. However, as I said before, I must not enter into any further explanation at this moment. Grant the meeting I ask of you; and, if you see any necessity for it, you may even apprise the princess of your having done so.' 'And may I also acquaint the prince?' inquired the simpleton."
"Why, the girl must be a fool, or a knave, to hint at such a thing!"
"I must own, M. Charles, that, at these words, I rather regretted having gone so far; but I soon felt convinced, that the niaiserie just uttered arose entirely from the almost childish ignorance of my companion, who appeared to me scarcely more than sixteen years of age. At last, after an infinity of trouble, accompanied with all sorts of arguments and backed by many promises, I got her to agree to meet you in the same manner she had done me; that is to say, you will wait for her, in a coach, at the little garden gate."
"This evening?"
"No, to-morrow. She told me her mistress was not going out to-night; but that to-morrow she would be going to the Opera, and that you might, therefore, be at the small door in the garden about nine o'clock. Now, M. Charles, the rest is your affair. I have brought you into communication with the girl, and, in some degree, with the mistress also; for, simple and ingenuous as the young mulatto evidently is, she is quite sure to relate all that has passed to her mistress. So that, should the girl keep her appointment with her mistress's sanction, I should say you are on the highroad to success; but if, on the contrary, the blackamoor does not meet you, then, I should decidedly pronounce it a bad sign."
"Mother Grassot, you are an incomparable woman! Here, hold your hand; take these five louis to pay for your coach-hire."
"Oh, really, really, monsieur, you are too generous: well, if you insist, certainly. Is there any thing else I can do for you?"
"Not that I recollect. Just tell me, have you asked your second-floor lodger to quit his apartments, telling him I wish to have the whole of this little house to myself?"
"Lord bless me, what a memory I have! I quite forgot to name to you that I have spoken to the person, and he says he has no manner of objections to turn out provided you give him 1000 francs as a recompense."
"The fellow must be mad! why, he scarcely pays 400 francs a-year for his lodging."
"I fought very hard with him; but I could not make him give way the least in the world!"
"Why, it is regularly picking my pocket!"
"So it is; but there is no help for it; you will have to give him what he asks, and he will quit immediately: in four-and-twenty hours he will be out of the house, bag and baggage."
"Well, here then! here is a bank-note for 1000 francs, and another for 500 francs; you will pay six months in advance, and account to me for the rest."
"Ah, sir, you will find yourself ever so much more quiet and comfortable when you have all the house to yourself. As for me, I shall not feel a bit more timid, although we have got no porter;—but la! I never dreaded thieves, no, nor ghosts either, for that matter."
"And, besides, though this neighbourhood is somewhat lonely, it is a very safe one."
"And there is the soldier on duty, at the corner of the street, who can watch our house as he sits in his sentry-box."
"Now, then, my good Madame Grassot, make quick work with your second-floor lodger, pack him off as soon as possible. I long to have the place all to myself."
"By the day after to-morrow, I pledge myself you shall find no one here. Well, good luck to us all! I know whom I should like to see occupy this house as soon as the second-floor lodger has left. But I know, monsieur, and I feel sure it will be as I wish some of these days; without my reminding him, when once monsieur determines to do a thing handsome, he never forgets, never——"
"You are a regular flatterer, Madame Grassot," cried M. de Brévannes, as he complacently smiled upon his emissary, and quitted the small dwelling in the Rue des Martyrs.
After having awaited the following evening with much impatience he arrived about eight o'clock on the Quai d'Anjou; it was a fine clear winter's night; the cold was sharp and biting, and the moon shone out in all the brilliancy of a frosty sky. After awaiting some little time, the little door opened, and Iris, closely muffled up, appeared at its entrance. M. de Brévannes had left his vehicle at some little distance, he therefore hastened towards the young mulatto, who, trembling violently, took his arm.
"In the first place," said M. de Brévannes, endeavouring to slip a purse of gold into the hand of the mulatto, "take this, my good girl, for your own trouble."
Iris, however, indignantly rejected the propitiatory offering, saying, in a tone of offended pride, "You are evidently under some mistake, monsieur."
"Nay," said M. de Brévannes, trying to force it upon her acceptance, "nay, accept it as a feeble mark of my esteem."
"Esteem!" responded the mulatto with an expression of ironical contempt so unequivocally displayed, that M. de Brévannes, perceiving his error, returned his purse into his pocket, saying, "I believe I have the pleasure of speaking to the young person acting as companion to the Princess de Hansfeld?"
"You are perfectly correct, sir?"
"May I ask whether you have held that situation long?"
"Very long."
"Doubtless ever since her journey to Florence, whither she went in company with her aunt?"
"You are right."
"The female I sent to speak to you has, I presume, acquainted you with the fact of my having matters of the utmost importance to communicate to the princess?"
"She stated as much to me."
"Have you acquainted Madame de Hansfeld with the visits of this person, or with the interview you have been kind enough to grant me?"
"I have not."
"And, no doubt, you have observed equal silence as regards the prince?"
"I never converse with his excellency."
"Your motive in meeting rare, therefore, this evening, was merely——"
"To ascertain what you had to communicate to my mistress, and to apprise her of it if I should deem it advisable."
"You are so extremely young, that I can scarcely judge how far you may be in the confidence of Madame de Hansfeld."
"Your best way to prevent any error on your part will be to apply to the princess herself."
"The very thing I was going to ask you to assist me in doing. Put me in the way of seeing and speaking to the princess: that is all I desire."
"That permission must be accorded by my mistress herself."
"Whatever price you may set on this service, I am prepared to pay it."
"I can do nothing without the knowledge and concurrence of the princess."
"Give her this letter."
"Impossible."
"There is nothing in it at all objectionable. I have merely said, that having matters of the deepest importance to communicate to her, I venture to implore the favour of being instructed how to convey a letter into her hands without fear of its being intercepted."
"Then your letter is useless for the present. I will repeat to her what you say; and if she thinks proper to grant your request, I will let you know. What is your name and address?"
"My name is Charles de Brévannes: here is my card. You understand me; do you not? Remember Charles de Brévannes."
"I shall remember."
"Is that name quite unknown to you?"
"Quite."
"Has Madame de Hansfeld never pronounced it in your hearing?"
"Never."
Irritated by the reserve maintained by the mulatto, M. de Brévannes determined to try a fresh mode of attack. "My dear girl," said he, "it is useless for me to attempt concealing any thing from you. 'Tis true I have most interesting communications to make to Madame de Hansfeld; but," added he, with an insinuating tone of voice and almost tenderness of manner, "I have something equally important to say to you also."
"To me?"
"Indeed I have. I saw you the other day as you passed through the Rue Saint Louis, and I found you far too charming for my peace of mind."
This speech appeared to have taken effect, for the mulatto hung her head, but spoke not.
"The girl is probably more vulnerable on the score of personal vanity than assailable by gold," thought M. de Brévannes. "I will just try the effect of a few soft flattering words."
"Yes, my dear girl, from that hour my anxiety to obtain an interview has been redoubled. In the first place, I longed to tell you how deep and ineffaceable an impression you had made on my heart; and in the second place, to speak with you respecting those important matters which are for the princess's ear."
"You are jesting, sir?"
"No, I am not. I might have found other means of effecting my communication with the princess; but I preferred addressing myself to you. Your expressive features announced so much intelligence, mingled with passions both ardent and generous, that I felt persuaded that in speaking to you of the mistress you love, and the affection with which you have inspired me, you would not be wholly deaf to my suit, dearest Iris."
"You know my name?"
"I do; and many other things you may suppose me unacquainted with. Ah! how could it be otherwise, when you alone have long engrossed my every thought? Believe me your sincere attachment to Madame de Hansfeld has but tended to increase the fervour of my regard for you."
"I must not listen to this language," said Iris, in a tone that betrayed considerable emotion.
"Victoria!" said De Brévannes mentally; "the game is won. This poor simpleton is like all her sex, unable to resist a little well-applied flattery, mixed with a few professions of everlasting affection. Madame Grassot was right; she is but a child in years or understanding."
"Why do you retire so far from me, my pretty Iris?" continued the seducer; "let me hold your hand, and support your trembling steps."
"No; I can stay no longer: I have business that requires my presence within doors."
"I cannot suffer you to depart. I have scarcely said a quarter of what I wished to say."
"Then let me beg that our conversation may be entirely confined to the princess."
"I am most desirous it should; only for that purpose it is essential that we should repose the most perfect confidence in each other; by that means, and by acting in strict concert, we may be enabled to prevent the most fearful calamities."
"What mean you? Would the princess risk——"
"Fear not, lovely Iris; if you will aid me, these evils, however threatening, may be dispelled. With such an ally as yourself, nothing would be impossible; and, upon reflection, it seems to me that if once you and I come to a right understanding on the subject, it will be better just for the present not to inform the princess of what we are endeavouring to effect."
"And wherefore should she be kept in ignorance of what so much concerns her to know?"
"She might not be enabled to impose sufficient command on herself, and her very apprehensions might endanger the success of the projects I wish to work out for her good."
"But what good can I do in the matter? Why is it so indispensable that you and myself should become such confidants?"
"I will explain; but, in the first place, you must candidly answer the questions I shall put to you. Will you engage to do so?"
"Alas! I seem as though you exercised some spell or fascination over my actions; although nearly a stranger to me, you seem to have inspired me with sufficient confidence in your words to do whatsoever you ask me."
"Because I speak the pure language of truth, and that ever reaches the heart."
"Oh no, no; I must not believe you. That female you sent so continually to seek me—so many artifices tried with such untiring perseverance to gain the ear of a simple girl like me, must conceal some deep, some hidden design."
"Let my extreme anxiety to obtain an interview with you for the sake of revealing the passion with which you had inspired me, and of carrying out my good intentions to save and serve your honoured mistress, plead my excuse for having had recourse to such modes of accomplishing the two dearest wishes of my heart. Will you not accept my plea, dearest Iris?"
"Perhaps I am wrong to do so; after having made me grant you an interview, even against my own judgment, I ought doubly to mistrust you."
"Madame Grassot is certainly a clever reader of countenances," thought M. de Brévannes. "It is scarcely possible for a young person to exhibit more perfect silliness and childish simplicity than my dark friend here." However he did not deem it advisable to allow the prudent reflections of the mulatto to proceed further, as, hastily interrupting her, he said, with every appearance of earnest sincerity, "Why reproach yourself for what you have done? Our interview is based upon the purest and most praiseworthy motives; besides, remember, dear Iris, that far from yielding a ready assent to my prayers, you long hesitated ere you would bless me with the meeting which now renders me so happy."
"Are you then happy?"
"How can I be otherwise? When you are beside me, and your arm gently locked in mine?"
"Let me beseech you to speak only of the princess."
"Ah! now 'tis you who wish her to form the subject of our conversation."
"'Tis fitting you should converse of that which brought you hither."
"Then must I talk of you, dear Iris; or if that theme be forbidden me, indulge the dear delight of being near you, and silently enjoy the pleasure of walking by your side."
"No; each minute I stay serves but to convince me you are deceiving me: let me return to the house. You had nothing to communicate to the princess, I feel persuaded; and are merely laying a snare to entrap me into some danger."
"If even it were so?"
"Why, then, it would be base and wicked to endeavour to harm a poor weak girl like me. Let me go, I say; I must and will return home."
"Come, come. Iris—be calm. What use is there in my speaking to you of Madame de Hansfeld, if you will not answer the questions I must unavoidably put to you?
"I would much rather hear you speak of my mistress than address such language to me."
"Well, then, let us talk only of Madame de Hansfeld. Tell me, is it not above a week ago since she accompanied her husband to the Théâtre Français?"
"It is. I remember it the more particularly, because it was the first occasion of the prince's having gone out for a long while."
"And you, charming Iris, remained probably all alone at the Hôtel. Ah! had I but known it, what happiness would it not have afforded me to have been permitted to share your solitude with you!"
"Speak only of the princess, or I leave you."
"Pardon me for forgetting your former wishes. In what state did your mistress appear to you on her return from the theatre?"
"At first she seemed very uneasy, for the prince did not entirely recover from his indisposition for more than an hour after his return to the Hôtel."
"Iris, what splendid eyes you have!—and what a beneficent moon we have that shews them to double advantage when compared with her own pale rays!"
"Have you nothing further to ask me, or tell me, respecting her excellency?"
"And I suppose, when once reassured as to her husband's health, Madame de Hansfeld resumed her ordinary state of calmness and composure?—What a lovely hand yours is, Iris!—and how small!"
"Leave off these foolish compliments, I desire. What good is there in your asking me questions, when you pay not the slightest attention to the answers I make you?"
"Now you shall see how attentive I will be. You are right: matters of the most vital import are at stake, and it is almost in spite of myself, that I yield to the fascinations with which you surround me. But now, then, go on—tell me of the princess?"
"Far from becoming tranquil, when the state of the prince no longer excited her apprehensions, her agitation appeared to increase. I attended her as usual, with the rest of her women, but she dismissed them all but me; then, when we were alone, she wept. Oh! how bitterly she wept!"
"Did she, indeed?"
"And even I could scarcely restrain my tears."
"She seemed very angry, did she, Iris?"
"Angry? oh! no; on the contrary, she appeared heart-broken and miserable—raising her clasped hands towards heaven, as if to implore mercy, while her tears flowed down her pallid cheeks. About an hour after midnight she bade me call her attendants to undress her, but as soon as they had done so, and she found herself again alone with me, instead of retiring to bed, she sat down to her writing-table, and began to write in a sort of private memorandum-book. I have observed she always writes after any thing extraordinary has happened. I ventured to express my fears that she would over-fatigue herself, but she replied that, on the contrary, writing was the sole occupation which would have the effect of calming her mind. About four o'clock in the morning I left her; but long after that I could perceive the light still burning in her chamber. Upon entering softly, I found her still occupied in writing."
The account of the mulatto (who by the way fabricated the history of the private memorandum-book and the extreme despondency of the princess) became of inestimable value to M. de Brévannes, who flattered himself that his unexpected presence had occasioned all the agitation, anxiety, and distress evinced by the princess—he was not aware of Madame de Hansfeld having previously recognised him at the Opera-ball, and his greatest wonder was to find her more afflicted than irritated by their meeting.
M. de Brévannes was not only egotistical and obstinate, but also singularly vain, and, spite of all the coolness, even amounting to aversion, manifested by Madame de Hansfeld towards him when in Italy, he had never despaired of winning her love; his fatal duel, in compelling him to quit, had neither extinguished his selfish passion nor destroyed his insensate hopes of ultimate success, and frequently did he mentally assure himself, that but for his flight, rendered necessary by the rigour of the Italian laws, he should certainly have succeeded in gaining the heart of Paula Monti by the very violence of his passion, and through the excesses even to which its ardour impelled him, and have easily won her to forget the very name of Raphael, who, after all, had forced the quarrel upon him.
Vanity is at least as blind as love itself, and M. de Brévannes, being as vain as love-stricken, felt a gleam of hope in learning that the princess had witnessed his re-appearance more in sorrow than in anger; and he farther dwelt with considerable interest on the fact as related to him by Iris. If Paula having passed her midnight hours after what he erroneously supposed her first surprise at seeing him in writing long passages in a book devoted, it would seem, to the reception of her most private thoughts and occurrences, doubtless this volume contained every particular relative to the death of Raphael as well as the circumstances which led to it, and then he too, Brévannes, must likewise figure in its pages.
To obtain possession of this book, and thereby surprise, as it were, the most hidden and secret thoughts of Madame de Hansfeld, became now the ruling desire of M. de Brévannes, but in proportion as the wish became more predominant, so did his fears of failure begin to agitate his mind, and thus he deemed it more prudent not to appear to attach any importance to the narrative Iris with all the simplicity of a child had just confided to him.
Surprised at his long silence, the mulatto at length inquired, of what he was so intently thinking?
"Ah, Iris! 'tis your fault; in your presence I cannot command my thoughts, try as I will, they all fly to you and your dear image."
"What! after promising me so faithfully not to think of any thing but my dear mistress?—And when I have not only answered every question you have put to me, but even told you more than I should have done. I scarcely believe you have heard a word I said."
"Oh, yes I have, every syllable, but then you see, Iris, I have only asked you such simple and innocent questions as could in no way compromise the princess, still I am not now at liberty to explain to you the motive I have in asking them. Ere long I may probably put others to you, but by that time, I trust to have established myself so firmly in your confidence, that you will place implicit confidence in all I say, and treat me as a second self."
"I must not promise to see you again; for why should I? I see but too plainly that you are only making use of me as a medium of correspondence between yourself and the princess. But what right have I to complain? Have not the unhappy ever been sacrificed to the happy, the rich, and the prosperous of this world?"
The almost imperceptible tone of bitterness with which Iris uttered these last words made M. de Brévannes start, and afresh idea found admission into his thoughts. What was more natural than that the humble dependant looked with eyes of jealousy upon her more fortunate mistress, and loathed each day more and more the hireling service she was called upon to pay?
Spite of the cunning and experience possessed by persons of the class to which M. de Brévannes belonged, they are almost invariably dupes of their own misplaced contempt for mankind in general, and their proneness to believe at all times rather in the bad than good inclinations of those with whom they have to deal; instead, therefore, of considering the mulatto as devoted to her mistress, and consequently observing a necessary degree of reserve, a single word, nay a mere inflection of the voice sufficed to impress M. de Brévannes with the idea that Iris envied the superior advantages possessed by her mistress, and might very probably be easily brought to act in direct hostility against her; and he the more readily adopted this hypothesis, as it chanced to accord perfectly with his own projects. It was of paramount importance to him to have about Madame de Hansfeld a person wholly devoted to himself, who would be restrained by no scruple or prevented by no tie of gratitude, from executing whatever orders he might give, or assisting in any scheme he might devise. Anxious, however, to be well assured of the reality of his surmise, he said to Iris, in a feigned tone of the tenderest interest,—
"You are happy—quite happy in your present situation; are you not, my dear girl?"
The mulatto was as skilful a tactician as himself, and perfectly comprehended the import of a question she had so adroitly managed to elicit; she made no reply at first, but sighed heavily, then, after a prolonged pause, said,—
"Oh yes, very happy indeed! And even if I were not, what good would it do me to complain?"
Then abruptly disengaging herself from M. de Brévannes, she hastily ran towards the little side-gate, which had remained half open all the time they had been talking.
Astonished at this sudden flight, M. de Brévannes followed her, saying,—
"But, at least, do not leave me without fixing when I shall see you again?"
"I know not," replied she.
"But I cannot, let you go until you have appointed some time; will you say the day after to-morrow at the same hour as before?"
"Perhaps—but no, no—not again—I am sufficiently wretched already;" and with these words the garden gate shut M. de Brévannes out from all further communication with the mulatto. M. de Brévannes accordingly returned homewards, inexpressibly delighted with the result of his first interview with Iris, who, on her side not less satisfied with her recent meeting, hastened to Madame de Hansfeld, to whom she related every word that had transpired, reserving, however, certain details for the better furtherance of a diabolical project which had recently sprang up within her breast.
A few days after the meeting we have recorded between Iris and M. de Brévannes, just as the hour of four o'clock sounded forth from the church of Saint Louis, a fog, rendered more intense by the proximity of the two arms of the Seine which surround the Ile Saint Louis, spread itself over this unfrequented spot.
To about the height of the ancient Hôtel de Brétonvilliers, then being pulled down, the Quai d'Orleans, as yet unprotected by a parapet, formed a steep mound which bordered the river on this side.
An individual, wrapped in a cloak, was slowly pacing along this ledge, stopping occasionally to observe the rapid current of the Seine, now swollen by the rains of winter. The wild and lonely spot was buried in its accustomed gloom and silence, while the rapidly increasing mist entirely concealed the opposite banks of the river, and, half veiling the dilapidated walls of the Hôtel de Brétonvilliers, communicated to them an almost grand and sublime aspect—the lofty walls, partly destroyed, with the occasional gaps left by the places which had once contained the arched windows, casting their dark time-coloured masses in bold relief against the grey sky, imparted almost the appearance of vast and imposing antique ruins.
The person we have mentioned seemed to find a melancholy pleasure in contemplating this solitary spot, as, with head bent forwards on his breast, he continued to walk up and down the mound, pausing, from time to time, to listen to the rush of waters, or to follow, with fixed gaze, the rapid flow of the current, as it pursued its boiling course.
His reveries were suddenly interrupted by the sound of approaching steps; he looked up and beheld advancing towards him a man of more than the usual height, with a long white beard, and who, although walking with a firm step, kept occasionally sounding the road with his stick as though to satisfy himself as to the safety of the path he trod.
The fog had by this time become very dense, and the old man (in whom the reader will doubtless have recognised Pierre Raimond), whose sight was feeble and uncertain, instead of following the direction of the Quai, had considerably deviated to the right, and advanced close upon the personage in the mantle ere he was aware of his vicinity, while the latter, standing on the edge of the mound, by a natural impulse, drew aside to allow the new comer to pass.
But scarcely had Pierre Raimond reached the summit of the acclivity, than he lost his balance, slipped to the edge of the embankment and disappeared in the river, throwing out his arms and crying aloud for help.
All this occurred in much less time than is required to narrate it.
To strip himself of his cloak, plunge into the Seine, and save from death the unfortunate being who had just been precipitated into its depths, was the first thought of the Prince de Hansfeld, for he it was who in the cold and solitude of a winter's evening took his lone walk on this deserted quay, which, as the reader will recollect, adjoined the Hôtel Lambert.
Weak and feeble, though possessed of a highly nervous frame, Arnold de Hansfeld felt, in the violent excitement of the moment, sufficient strength and energy to enable him, after the most incredible efforts, to grasp the sinking form of Pierre Raimond. The current was running so strong, that during the few seconds it took to effect the unhoped-for preservation of the old engraver, the two persons immersed were swept a considerable distance from the mound, and conveyed, most fortunately, to a level and accessible part of the shore, for the physical powers of M. de Hansfeld were wholly exhausted.
Preserving his habitual coolness amid the danger which threatened him, Pierre Raimond, instead (as is too frequently the case in such untoward circumstances) of paralysing the efforts of his preserver, facilitated the attempts to save him by every means in his power.
When M. de Hansfeld and Pierre Raimond were safely landed, the old engraver had in a manner to change places and become the preserver of him whose courageous act had saved himself from death; for to the factitious strength and feverish excitement which had hitherto sustained the prince succeeded the most perfect prostration, and he sank utterly insensible at the feet of the old man, ere the latter could pour forth the praises and blessings with which his heart was filled.
"In vain did Pierre Raimond shout for help," &c.
Night was fast approaching, and the deepening shades of twilight increased the effect of the thick fog which kept all objects wrapped in its dusky veil: in vain did Pierre Raimond shout aloud for help, his voice was lost amid the mingled roaring of the wind and waters; and had the weather been more propitious, it was a rare circumstance for any foot-passenger to pass those lonely quays after nightfall.
M. de Hansfeld shook with convulsive tremors, and it was but too evident that his slight and fragile frame must have been endowed with an almost superhuman courage to dare a peril its physical powers were so unequal to struggle against.
Still vigorous, and more than ordinarily robust for his age, the old engraver raised Arnold in his arms, as he would have done a child, and, carefully choosing his way, reached one of the landing-places conducting to the Quai. Pierre Raimond found himself exactly opposite his own house, situated at the corner of the Rue Poultier and the Quai d'Anjou.
Aided by his porter, the father of Bertha conveyed M. de Hansfeld into her apartment, and, spite of his veneration for the chamber of his daughter, he placed him there before an excellent fire.
As M. de Hansfeld regained his senses, he gazed around him with extreme astonishment.
"My preserver!" exclaimed the engraver, while large tears of gratitude trickled down his furrowed cheeks; "you have saved my life at the imminent hazard of your own; how shall I ever find words adequately to speak my thanks?"
"Where am I?" inquired Arnold de Hansfeld, striving to collect his ideas; "and who are you that speak to me?"
"Try to compose yourself, I pray, sir, while I relate to you what has happened. A short time since, deceived by the fog and my own imperfect sight, I got out of my right road, and found myself, without being aware of it, on the mound which forms an embankment to the river, opposite the spot where the Hôtel de Brétonvilliers is being pulled down, and, ere I could recover myself, I fell from the summit of the high path into the river, when, listening only to the generous devotion of your noble heart——"
"Ah, now I remember all," said the prince; "and I also recollect, that if my first thought was to endeavour to snatch you from the peril which menaced you, my second was to fear, lest my good intentions should prove fatal to you. I am so extremely weak, that you were probably obliged to defend yourself from my ill-managed efforts to preserve you, and even to save me yourself after my awkward endeavours to rescue you from danger," added M. de Hansfeld, with a smile full of sweetness.
"No, no, sir, I cannot have you undervalue your noble conduct in this way; like all brave and generous natures, you found sufficient power to back your efforts to preserve me from a certain death. Delivered from danger by you, it then became my turn to succour your feebleness, for it is very evident you have far more courage than strength. I therefore brought you hither; and you are now under the humble roof of him who owes his life to you, and who is well known in the neighbourhood as Pierre Raimond the engraver."
Just as M. de Hansfeld was about, in his turn, to declare his name and station, the chamber-door opened; at the sound Pierre Raimond turned suddenly round, and saw his daughter, who, pale and bathed in tears, her features distorted with grief, threw herself into his arms, exclaiming,—
"Father!—dearest father! will you not receive your poor child who has no shelter but in your arms?"
The abrupt entrance of Bertha, and the precipitation with which she threw herself into her father's arms as he turned towards her, had so entirely concealed M. de Hansfeld from her, that she was not aware of there being a third person in the apartment.
"He has driven me from him,—sent me from his roof," murmured Bertha, in a voice half-stifled with sobs, as she still kept her arms tightly twined round the neck of her father.
"My child," said the old man, in a low voice, "we are not alone."
A feeling of inexpressible joy shot through the frame of M. de Hansfeld at the sight of Bertha, whom he easily recognised as the young and lovely female who had made so vivid an impression on him at the theatre—an impression which had since assumed the form of an ideal, vague, and romantic passion.
It will be recollected, that the box in which the prince sat on the night in question was so dark, that, spite of Bertha's curiosity, she had not been able to obtain a view of him.
As Pierre Raimond pronounced the words, "We are not alone," his daughter, sinking with confusion, was hastening to the door, but the old engraver caught her by the hand, and, pointing to M. de Hansfeld, said,—
"My child, behold and bless the preserver of your parent!"
"What mean you, dearest father?"
"A little while ago, I lost myself in the fog, and, mistaking my road, fell into the river."
"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Bertha, again throwing herself into her father's arms, and pressing him passionately to her heart, then gazed in his face with mute anxiety.
"This gentleman was accidentally on the Quai at the time," continued Pierre Raimond, "and generously saved my life, but his strength being entirely exhausted, I brought him hither."
"Ah, sir," cried Bertha, turning her expressive looks on the prince, "you have restored me my father at the very moment when I stand most in need of his tenderness and protection, and we, alas! can do nothing for you in return; but God will recompense you, and repay a debt far beyond our poor powers to discharge."
"Be assured, madame, that I am already more than paid in the happiness of finding I have been instrumental in preserving a father to his child."
"But, at least, permit us to know to whom we are so largely indebted," said Pierre Raimond.
"Yes, teach us what name to remember in the prayers we shall daily put up to heaven to invoke the blessing of the Almighty on your head," added Bertha.
"My name is Arnold,—Arnold Schneider," said M. de Hansfeld, blushing and with some hesitation.
Attributing this embarrassment to the extreme modesty of his preserver, the old engraver continued,—
"But where can I present my grateful thanks to him who has prevented my child from being fatherless?"
Again, a deep flush suffused the features of M. de Hansfeld, after a short pause he replied,—
"With your permission, my good sir, I will afford myself the gratification of calling occasionally to inquire after you, and thus receive the reward of what you are pleased to call my good actions."
"Nay, sir," said Pierre Raimond, "'tis not for me to insist, be it as you will. I can easily guess the feeling that makes you conceal your dwelling, and it may even be your real name, from us, but I honour and respect your reserve; only be generous enough to come and see me some times, since you will not permit me the gratification of offering up my grateful thanks at your own door. Promise me that you will come, and spare me even the appearance of ingratitude towards you."
"I do faithfully promise it, my worthy friend; but I feel quite recovered now; could you do me the favour to cause some conveyance to be sent for, by which I could return home? I will not longer trespass on your hospitality."
The porter being still in the chamber occupied by the engraver, Bertha went to despatch him in search of a coach. And ere many minutes had elapsed M. de Hansfeld had quitted the house of Pierre Raimond.
The old man, then exchanging his wet garments for dry clothing, returned to his unhappy daughter.
As Bertha saw her father approach, she flew towards him, and wrapping her arms around him, she laid her head on his bosom saying,—
"Now, then, I may freely indulge my joy that I still behold you, after your being so nearly torn from me;—dear, dear father, the very idea of losing you seems too horrible for my brain to bear, and in my delight of thus knowing you safe, I seem unable to remember the peril you have run. But how was it, dearest father, that no whisper of my own heart warned me of your danger; surely a father cannot be snatched from his child, and no deadly shudder run through her veins to forebode that her heart-strings are about to be snapped asunder?"
"Calm yourself, my beloved child, Providence has taken pity on us; no foreboding was permitted to agitate your breast, because it was the will of a merciful Creator that my life should still be spared; you see," said Pierre Raimond, with a mournful smile, "that you are rendering me almost as superstitious as yourself; however, my daughter, let nothing ever make us unmindful of all we owe the generous stranger."
"Oh, never—never shall I cease to cherish the grateful recollection. I only fear, lest my ardent thankfulness to our unknown friend should be swallowed up in the deep joy I experience at still beholding you, my dear, my excellent father! for now," said Bertha, bursting into tears, "you are all I have in the world."
Pierre Raimond tenderly pressed the hand of his child within his own, and then said, in a tone of bitterness,—
"What fresh sorrows have you to relate, my poor girl?"
"He loves me no longer," said poor Bertha, weeping bitterly; "he hates me, and finds me a burden to him!"
"Oh, my predictions!" cried the old man, mournfully.
"Father, have pity on me!"
"Alas! my child, I meant it not reproachfully; it was but an involuntary cry of bitter triumph at finding how truly I foretold all this; my love for you did not mislead me as to the consequences of your marriage; but what fresh grievance have you met with?"
"You are aware, that after the painful scene which took place here the very day after our arrival in Paris, Charles's temper became daily more soured, especially after the evening we went to the theatre together. Up to that period he had observed some restraint, he had even expressed regret at having acted so harshly towards you; but from the date of that unfortunate visit to the play, I say unfortunate, because the very next day fresh miseries broke out for me."
"And yet you concealed them from me; wherefore did you not tell me when you came to visit me on Sunday?"
"I feared so much to grieve you, but now my strength is exhausted, I can bear no more. Oh, if you only knew,—if you but knew!"
"Take courage, my poor girl! take courage, explain yourself without fear; let your father know all."
"Indeed, I will. Well, dearest father, after the night of our being together at the play, my husband, who had hitherto been irritable and violent, became gloomy, sullen, and unkind. I scarcely ever saw him, he was out all day, and only returned late at night, or rather morning; at meal-time, he was silent and abstracted, two or three times he left the dinner-table ere the cloth was withdrawn, and went to shut himself up in his own room. If I questioned him upon the vexations he appeared to have, he coldly replied, that it did not concern me, and frowned so angrily, that I durst not mention the subject again. This morning, however, seeing him look more cheerful than usual, I ventured to remark, 'You seem better to-day, Charles, than you have been lately that is all I said, dear father,—indeed, indeed it is. I did not utter another syllable—on my honour, I said no more than that."
"Poor child! but go on!"
"Immediately his features became overcast, and he exclaimed in a bitter tone, 'What is the use of my being better? what have I to hope for? if I could only look forward to any thing better than the wretched life I lead! But when I see you for ever before my eyes like a chain, to which I am eternally bound. Oh, accursed was the day in which I was weak enough to make you my wife, and to fall, like a fool, into the snare you and your father had laid for me."
The old man repressed a movement of rage, then said in a firm voice, "And then, my child?"
"This reproach, so cruel and so unexpected, took from me all power of reply, and I burst into tears, my husband rose violently from his chair, exclaiming, 'Oh, what a bitter lot is mine! oh, my liberty—my liberty!' and yet Heaven knows I never intrude upon him in any way, and the only thing I ask of him is permission to come and see you."
"Oh, patience! grant me patience, Heaven!" cried the engraver, in a voice of forced calmness.
"Seeing him go on thus," resumed Bertha, "I exclaimed, 'Charles, do you wish to leave me? if I am a burden to you, say so!' 'Yes,' cried he furiously, 'yes, you are a nuisance, and a burden I am tired of enduring. I tell you, I hate and detest you!—you have constrained me to entangle myself in a marriage as absurd as inimical to my happiness, and never will I forgive you for it.' 'But,' said I, 'what have I done? and with what do you reproach me?' 'Oh, with nothing,' said he, 'you are too good a manager for that; you dare not betray me, because you know that, if you were, I would kill both yourself and your paramour; it is not virtue, which makes you respect your duty as a wife, but fear;' and with these words, he dashed out of the room; and your poor broken-hearted child has come to pour her sorrows into the bosom of her father, and to say," added Bertha, sobbing as though her heart would break, "that she has none to love her, or pity, or protect her, but her own beloved parent."
"There could be no other result," said Pierre Raimond; "that selfish heart, and haughty, obstinate spirit, were sure to make you pay dearly,—oh, how dearly one day or other, for the sacrifices he had imposed on himself in order to obtain your hand, for which he would then have paid any price. However, things cannot go on in this manner; you must see the propriety of my interfering to prevent this bad man from torturing the heart of my beloved child, who has behaved like an angel towards him: he shall not trample you under foot as the mere plaything of his whim and caprice!"
"But what will you do? how can you alter my husband's conduct?"
"Oh, make yourself perfectly easy, that I will compel a change on his part; thank God! I have still sufficient strength and energy left."
"For mercy's sake, dear father, let us have no violent scenes!"
"Fear not, my child, I shall oppose, not violence, but firmness to his tyranny and oppression; besides, I have both justice and reason on my side, and I stand up to defend the cause of my child: you see, Bertha, how quiet and composed I am! But, in the first place, we must quit this roof; fortunately I have lived so frugally upon what you made me accept, that I have managed to lay by a trifling sum, and that, added to the small amount the sale of my poor furniture will bring, will suffice to obtain my admission into Sainte Perine."
"Oh, dearest father! never, never."
"Bertha, my child, you know my opinion respecting those asylums, so fitly provided for and offered to honest poverty; and, besides, do you think, that under present circumstances I can accept the most trifling assistance from your husband?"
"Certainly not! Oh, not for worlds, after all those cruel and degrading reproaches!"
"Well, then, what must I do? how contrive to live?"
"Listen, father. Since the painful scene which occurred here some days since, when my husband presumed to taunt you with the aid he rendered you, I have reflected much and deeply on your situation, and I think I have found a good way to improve it, if you will only assist me."
"Speak, speak!"
"Alas! I am unfortunately as poor as yourself, but, thank God, I still possess the talent I received from you, and which formerly helped to support us; since my marriage it has been my only solace amid the many sorrows by which I have been surrounded, and now in this our day of trouble it will and shall be our resource."
"My beloved Bertha, what do you mean?"
"Charles has left me at liberty to devote to you every Thursday and Sunday morning, what is there to hinder me from receiving pupils here, as I used to do? I can attend to them in the little bed-room you have so carefully preserved, I will beg of some of my old pupils to procure me fresh ones; and to prevent my husband's pride from taking the alarm, I will give my lessons under my maiden name, and in this manner, my dearest father, I shall be able to prevent your wanting for any thing."
Pierre Raimond interrupted Bertha by tenderly pressing her in his arms.
"No, no, my dearest child," said he, "I cannot suffer you to add the fatigues of study and instruction to your other cares."
"Oh, but, dear father, on the contrary the occupation will be to me the most delicious consolation. Now, then, let us see, whether you can have the heart to refuse me, perhaps the only happiness I am able to enjoy!"
"No, my beloved child, I will not oppose your pious purpose, on the contrary your determination is good, and great, and worthy of yourself, to accept it is to appreciate it as such an act should be estimated."
"Then you consent?" cried Bertha, with inexpressible delight.
"I do, and this fresh mark of the elevation of your soul imposes on me more than ever the duty of insisting upon your husband treating you with proper respect, as well as evincing towards you the attention and care you require; and as certainly as my name is Pierre Raimond, I will not only demand, but obtain it!"
Madame de Hansfeld, continuing to write to M. de Morville under an assumed name, had received several replies. One morning (some days after M. de Hansfeld had saved the life of Bertha de Brévannes' father) Iris, returning from the post-office, brought her mistress a letter.
The heart of the princess beat with joy as she recognised the writing of M. de Morville.
The letter was couched in these terms:—
"This is the sixth time I have written to my mysterious friend, whose consolations are so sweet and precious to me, and come so opportunely and gratefully to support me in the sadness into which an unhappy affection plunges me, that I hardly know how adequately to thank the tender interest thus developed. There is for me a singular charm in confidences so vague, and yet so exact, made to an unknown individual, who appreciates the state of my heart with such infinite delicacy. I have been struck with what you tell me as to the happiness of loving even without hope, even as one loves God for God's sake, and of finding in the sole devotion to the adored object a pure and unutterable felicity. Your thoughts on the subject are in all cases so like my own, and that even in their most incomprehensible shadowings, that, by dint of being astonished at them, there has occurred to me an idea, which is foolish, impossible, mad. That idea is that——But no, I dare not even write it to you, at least not before I have avowed to you another of my beliefs. I am firmly convinced, that two persons passionately enamoured of each other must have, as respects love, certain ideas absolutely similar; thus, in consequence of all my ridiculous imaginings, I am weak enough to conclude that you may be the woman I love so hopelessly, and who at a ball at the Opera said to me these words,—Faust and Childe Harold. That evening will never be banished from my memory."
As she read this passage, Madame de Hansfeld trembled and blushed deeply with surprise, delight, and confusion; and then continued reading with a palpitating heart:—
"Pardon me this absurd hope; if I am wrong, these words will be to you quite incomprehensible, if I am not deceived, it may yet suit you to agree that I have not guessed, and then you will reply to me that I am in error, and our correspondence will continue as it has done.
"Now by what presentiment—by what instinct have I been led to believe that these letters were written to me by you? I know not. Doubtless the presence of the beloved one manifests itself in all things and every where, even despite mystery apparently the most impenetrable. If we distinguish amongst a thousand voices the one adored, why should we not similarly recognise the mind, the thought of the woman we love? If I am not mistaken, this phenomenon is more easily explicable by the sincerity, than by the sagacity, of my love. Then, I implore you do not refuse me the only consolation which remains to me. I was nearly writing—to us. Think what happiness we might then anticipate from our correspondence, and, also, what absolute, blind confidence my singular discovery must give us both! Would it not say as much in favour of your love as of mine? You have not written me a word by which I could detect you, and yet I have discovered you. Oh! I beseech you reply to me! Yes, we may be still happy in spite of the insurmountable barrier which separates us. Believing I was not beloved by you, I have carefully avoided you, in the fear of still more increasing the chagrins of a passion already so unhappy; but if you participate it, why refuse me the happiness of frequently meeting you, though we remain in the eyes of the world strangers to each other? I have sworn not to cease to love you, that would be impossible; but I have sworn, even if you should reciprocate my love, never to attempt to urge you beyond the sacred bounds of your duties, and never to visit at your abode. Remaining faithful, as I would, to this oath, where should we do wrong? what should we have to fear? Are you not as much bound by your love as I am by my word,—a word from which I shall never be released until the day when I may aspire to your hand?
"But why enter on such details, if my heart has deceived me, if you are not you? One other word, if I have rightly guessed, I swear to you, on my honour, no one in the world has breathed a syllable to me which could make me suspect that it was you who wrote to me: this discovery is one of those miracles of love which are deemed impossible only by the impious and atheistical.
"L. de M."
After she had concluded this letter, Paula was, if we may use the expression, overwhelmed. This amazing proof of divination in love perplexed and delighted her at the same time. Must not that love be, indeed, surpassing in order to arrive at such a pitch of penetration?
Madame de Hansfeld justly believed De Morville incapable of a falsehood, and therefore gave herself up in all secure reliance to the intoxication of this letter, which she read many times with intense delight.
The princess involuntarily felt a shudder at the passage in which M. de Morville said so frankly, that he should be released from his oath when she became a widow.
For the first time in her life, Madame de Hansfeld had a thought which horrified her, and with which she reproached herself as a crime.
* * * * *
She sought, we may say, a refuge in those exalted sentiments with which De Morville's love inspired her, and, like him, saw a future of happiness in a pure and unknown attachment; at least it escaped from the coarse malignity of the world, and would keep hidden in the shade all its delicacy, all its bloom, all its perfume.
To write to De Morville frequently, see him occasionally, and know herself beloved by him, to repeat to him incessantly that she loved him, never to have to blush for this affection so passionately shared, what brilliant what dazzling hopes!
A light knock which she heard at her door recalled Madame de Hansfeld to herself, she shut up De Morville's letter in a secret drawer, and said,—
"Come in."
The door opened, and the Prince de Hansfeld entered his wife's apartment.
The prince's countenance was cold and disdainful. It would have been scarcely credited, that his mild features, melancholy, and so perfectly juvenile in expression, could have lent themselves to such a demonstration of icy severity.
The princess looked at her husband with equal surprise and uneasiness. She had never seen him look thus. Arnold was pale and attired in black.
Anxious to conceal her embarrassment, Paula said to him,—
"Are you going out this evening, Arnold?"
"No, madame; I beg you to bestow on me a few moments."
"Most certainly."
"I have decided that we leave this hotel."
"As you please, sir; only after all the expense you have lately bestowed upon it——"
"That is my affair."
"I have not the slightest objection to move. I will even tell you frankly, that I should be delighted to quit this lone quarter which was your sole selection."
"I am so whimsical, so original; but what may appear to you, madame, more whimsical, more original still, is, that we shall leave this hotel the day after to-morrow."
"And whither shall we go to live, sir?"
"You will go to Germany."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"That you will go to Germany."
"You are joking—you must be."
"I have not the habit of doing so."
"In this case, sir, may I know your motive for quitting Paris so hastily in the depth of winter?"
"I do not leave Paris, madame, but you will quit Paris the day after to-morrow. In a month, probably, I shall rejoin you. I have resolved on this."
Madame de Hansfeld looked on the prince with amaze. He had often been angry and violent, but in the midst of his wrath, whose cause Paula in vain sought to fathom, there were bursts of excitement, cries of despair, which she pitied whilst they wounded her. Never in his life before had the prince spoken to her in so cold, severe, and cutting a tone. She replied, with a sort of fear caused by her surprise,—
"I hope, sir, that you will not insist on this journey when I tell you that it will be exceedingly disagreeable to me to quit Paris at this moment."
"You are mistaken, madame; you will go."
"Sir!"
"Madame, the day after to-morrow you will depart."
"I shall not depart!"
"Indeed!"
"Besides, I should be silly, indeed, to believe that you are speaking seriously to me; your ideas are sometimes so strange, your wishes so varying, that it would be worse than childish in me to disturb myself for this fresh fancy."
"It is of little consequence to me, madame, that you are or are not annoyed, so that you obey my desire."
"Obey! the word is somewhat harsh, sir."
"It is just."
"Then, sir, it is a command?"
"A command."
"If I were inclined to submit to it, at least you must confess it is somewhat tyrannical."
"I should be very indulgent to do so."
"Indulgent! And what have you to reproach me with, sir? Have I not been indulgent a thousand times to your fits and gusts of passion? have I not carefully concealed them from all the world? Have you not repeated to me a hundred times, that, although we lived beneath the same roof, I was free in all my actions? It is true that soon after you came all wretched to recall your words. But again I say, sir, I am wrong to reply to you; I am, no doubt, at this moment, like yourself, a dupe to your aberration of mind."
"I am mad, then, am I, as my whims seem to announce? Ah, it has not been your fault that these appearances, of which you were the sole cause, which I affected from compassion to you (you do not deserve that I should explain to you my meaning)—it has not been your fault, I repeat, that these appearances should indeed become reality! But I believed that, enlightened, at least, by these alternations of passion and horror——"
"Horror!" exclaimed the princess.
"Horror!" repeated the prince, coldly,—"I believed that you would have understood the enormity of your crimes, and the endurance of my infatuation which survived them. But, no; not even that! Happily for me at this moment that infatuation is over; your last blow has destroyed it. But the horror still endures—do you mark me?—the horror, I say——"
"I hear you—mon Dieu!—but I understand you not."
"I have loved you, you bear my name—thus this abominable secret shall remain buried between us. Go, then, in Heaven's name, depart, and thank me on your knees for being as forbearing as I am!"
Madame de Hansfeld looked at her husband with alarm; she had nothing to reproach herself with except her love for De Morville, and that love did not deserve the fearful reproaches with which the prince overwhelmed her. Yet he seemed perfectly in his senses; there was nothing wild in his look or his demeanour. Wishing to see if he would make any allusion to her love for De Morville, which by some inexplicable chance M. de Hansfeld might have detected, she said to him,—
"When I married you, sir, I told you frankly my heart was not free; I have loved—passionately loved. What I then said, I now repeat: I do not love you with passion,—but, before God who hears me, I have never been unfaithful to you!"
"Unfaithful to me!" exclaimed the prince; "that would be even commendable when compared with the crimes which you have committed."
"I!" cried Paula, clasping her hands with animation; "why such calumny is as infamous as it is absurd!"
"What! do you dare deny that yesterday evening——Ah! no never," exclaimed the prince, shuddering,—"never did machination more infernal emanate from human brain! I shook with fear as much as with surprise,—and you are not on your knees before me with supplicating hands, but stand as you are, calm and contemptuous—do you not know, madame, that there are judges and a scaffold?"
Paula at this moment trembled; until then she had only suffered by the singularities of M. de Hansfeld, only in his displays of anger, or rather desperate griefs. He had reproached her vaguely, and her reproaches were half averted by her recollections, but never had he brought against her, until this moment, an accusation so decided and so terrible.
The princess entirely believed that Arnold's reason wandered, whilst he mistook the princess's amazement for a tacit avowal, and said to her, in a voice more calm, but with profound and concentrated indignation,—
"You see, madame, that you must depart, not from regard to yourself, but from respect to my name; I shall be supposed to accompany you. I pass for a lunatic," he added, with a bitter smile, "and no one will be surprised at my sudden departure; I shall remain here under an assumed name. Except Madame de Lormoy, and a man who is known to her and came into her box, no one knows me, and thus this tale will be easily credited; besides, I go so little into the world; and in a month or two, before I leave Paris, perchance, to rejoin you in Bohemia, where you will go under the care of Franz, who has my instructions, then I will tell you my desires, if I do not write them to you. This evening you will go to the Opera; there they will spread the report of my sudden departure. It will be one whim more, which you can attribute to the aberration of my brain, you will be easily believed. You will depart in a close carriage, all my servants will follow you, and it will be readily credited that I have accompanied you. One word more: the contempt and execration with which you inspire me are such that I rely on your not believing that it is from clemency, but from respect for my name, that I do not here unveil to you all your crimes; but take heed, on the least hesitation on your part to obey me, whether here or elsewhere, I shall surmount my disgust, and give you up to vengeance divine and human." And the prince quitted the apartment.
Madame de Hansfeld had listened without interrupting him, thinking that persons ought always to be careful of contradicting madmen. Iris suddenly entered the room with an air of alarm.
"Oh, godmother, what a misfortune!" she cried.
"What mean you?"
"According to your orders, I went to the third rendezvous which Charles de Brévannes has appointed."
"Well?"
"I told him you would not consent to see him."
"Well?"
"Then he exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with rage, 'Tell your mistress that I am here; that if she will not give me a speedy interview, at which you may be present—I do not object to that—this evening I will spread every where the tale of Raphael Monti—your lady will understand me.'"
"Did he say so—did he really?"
"And he added, 'She must know I can destroy her, and I will do it.'"
"Misery! misery to me and De Morville! What will he think of me? He will credit these atrocious calumnies,—did not unhappy Raphael believe them?"
"You are to appoint a meeting in some retired spot, the Luxembourg or the Jardin des Plantes, he said, and he will be there; if not, he will speak out. What is to be done? what—what? That wretch of a man is capable of every and any thing!"
After a few moments' reflection, Paula said to Iris, in a decided tone,—
"Give me paper and a pen."
"What are you going to do?"
"Appoint a meeting with M. de Brévannes, at which you shall be present."
"Can you think of such a thing, godmother? What, write and leave a letter of yours in the hands of such a man! What imprudence! But he does not know your writing?"
"No."
"Suppose I write for you."
"You are right; write to him: The day after to-morrow, at ten o'clock, in the Jardin des Plantes, beneath the cedar in the labyrinth. Have you written it?"
"Yes, godmother."
"Sign, Paula Monti."
"If he should wish to make use of this letter," said Iris, after she had signed it, "he will be the dupe of his own infamy."
"When will you give him this note?"
"Instantly; he is waiting your answer at the little gate by the Quai d'Anjou."
"Go, and return as speedily as possible."
"I have a great deal to tell you, what I have just learnt."
"What is it?"
"During the last week the prince has been four times to an old man's house, named Pierre Raimond, who lives close by."
"And what of that?"
"Why, Pierre Raimond is father to Bertha de Brévannes, whom you thought so pretty."
"What do you say?"
"And Bertha has met the prince twice at Pierre Raimond's."
"Him—met him?"
"Under a false name, Arnold Schneider."
"Ah! now I see through it all!" said the princess, pressing both her hands against her brow.
"What, godmother?"
"You shall know by and by; leave me now."
Iris left the apartment.
Some minutes afterwards, deceived by the treacherous language of Iris, M. de Brévannes, maddened by his insensate hopes, covered with passionate kisses the note which he believed to have been written by the Princess de Hansfeld.
When Iris proposed to Madame de Hansfeld to reply for her to M. de Brévannes on the subject of the interview which was to take place in the Jardin des Plantes, she not only prevented the princess from committing an imprudent act, but, unknown to her mistress, made her an accomplice in a most diabolical project.
Our readers, no doubt, remember a black book of which Iris had spoken to M. de Brévannes, and in which she told him the princess wrote her most secret thoughts almost every day.
Nothing could be more false. Paula had never possessed such a book; but it was important to the plots of Iris that M. de Brévannes should credit the falsehood, and his belief would be confirmed when he recognised, in this book, writing similar to that of the note which Madame de Hansfeld had now sent to him.
The profound dissimulation, the bold and mischievous plotting of Iris may excite some astonishment; and it may be, perhaps, equally difficult to comprehend her savage affection, her intense jealousy which had almost become ferocious monomania.
Unfortunately, the main facts of this tale, the principal features in Iris's character, are perfectly true.
There has been known a young girl, with passions so ardent, so implacable, which she has combined, concentrated in the blind attachment she had for her benefactress, a singular affection which approached filial veneration in its religious devotion, maternal tenderness in its charming and pure familiarity, and love in its vindictive jealousy.
If, in the sequel of this tale, there is detected in Iris a great power of imagination joined to an inventive mind, full of stratagem, adroit, and bold,—if any of her combinations seem worked out with a perfidy and skill most rare in a girl of her age, we repeat that solitude had singularly developed her natural faculties, incessantly devoted to one end, and that, compelled to act alone and beneath the shade of the deepest dissimulation, she held every means good that was likely to bring her to the one concentrated object of her desires,—
To isolate her mistress from every affection.
To create, as it were, a void around her, and become to her the more necessary as every other attachment failed her.
This last desire of Iris had hitherto been unsatisfied.
There is no doubt that Madame de Hansfeld felt for her companion a real attachment, placed boundless confidence in her, and was invariably kind and affectionate towards her; but this was not sufficient for the heart of Iris.
She experienced the most bitter, painful resentment at what she called a deception; but, as she was unable to hate her mistress, her execration accumulated against those who inspired the princess with the slightest interest.
These explanations are necessary in order to prepare the reader for the events which follow.
In the two interviews, which her first meeting with De Brévannes had procured her, Iris by order of Paula had endeavoured to fathom this man's motives.
Infamous as it was, the calumny he could spread abroad respecting Madame de Hansfeld was much to be dreaded. Raphael had created the infamous falsehood, and why should not the world, or rather De Morville (for he was all the world to Paula), credit it?
Madame de Hansfeld did not know what course to resolve upon. Since she had been enamoured of De Morville, she had hated De Brévannes the more intensely, and thus her indignation and contempt were insufficient to describe the audacity of the latter, when he attempted to obtain an interview with her, through the mediation of Iris, who sagaciously observed to her mistress, that M. de Brévannes's anger might be dangerous, and that thus, instead of exasperating, it was policy to endeavour to get rid of him peaceably. Unfortunately the violent and headstrong love of Bertha's husband would not conform to any management. As we have seen, in his third interview with Iris, he declared positively that he would speak out, if the princess refused him an interview any longer.
Iris had continued to play her double part, in order to increase De Brévannes' confidence, pretending not to be pleased with her mistress in order to remove all suspicion of collusion, and appearing very much flattered at the agreeable gallantries of M. de Brévannes.
She made him believe, moreover, that Madame de Hansfeld seemed to feel for him a sort of anger, mingled with interest—a singular resentment which Iris did not attempt to explain, as she said, for she affected ignorance of what had occurred at Florence between De Brévannes and Paula. Such was the source of the secret hopes of Bertha's husband; hopes arising from his blind self-love, and increased by the treacherous confidence of Iris.
This explained, we will conduct the reader to the small house which De Brévannes rented in the Rue des Martyrs, and of which he now had sole possession.
It was the day after that on which Iris had given him the pretended note from the princess, on receiving which, De Brévannes had ventured for the first time to speak of the black book, and his desire to possess it for a moment.
Iris, after innumerable difficulties, had told him, that perhaps it might be possible to abstract the book the next day for a few hours only, when the princess was going to pass the morning with Madame de Lormoy, De Morville's aunt.
M. de Brévannes had requested the young girl to bring the precious volume to the Rue des Martyrs, when he would read it in her presence, and return it to her instantly, with the recompense due to such a service,—a recompense which she resolved to accept, in order that no suspicion of De Brévannes should be excited.
He was thus awaiting Iris in the small saloon to which we have before referred.
If the disposition of De Brévannes be borne in mind,—if his unmoveable obstinacy, his pride, his headstrong passion to succeed in whatever he undertook, be not forgotten,—if his will, his obstinacy, his vanity called into play by a deep and enthusiastic love, against which he had struggled for two years, be remembered, we may conceive with what passionate desire he sought to be beloved by Madame de Hansfeld, a woman so attractive, so envied, so respected.
It was noon. M. de Brévannes was awaiting Iris with great impatience.
Madame Grassot, the guardian of this mysterious dwelling, remained in the upper story. Iris arrived, and De Brévannes ran to meet her.
She affected to be trembling and alarmed, and M. de Brévannes reassured, and led her to the room; she holding in her hand a small album bound in black morocco, and closed with a silver lock. Trembling with delight and impatience at the sight of this book, De Brévannes took from the mantel-piece a ring, with a fine-sized brilliant, which he placed on the finger of Iris in spite of her assumed resistance.
"I pray you, my charming Iris," he said, "accept so trifling a token of my gratitude. This pretty hand has no need of ornament, but it is a souvenir which I entreat you to wear, and you promised you would accept it."
"Yes, I did; but I do not know if I ought—a diamond?"
"What is a diamond? It is the ring I speak of."
"And it is the ring, then, that I accept," replied Iris, with a smile of deep hypocrisy, "since my condition exposes me to certain remunerations."
"If I chose a diamond," said De Brévannes, "it is because I would present you with an emblem of the endurance and purity of my gratitude."
And he put forth his hand to take the black book.
"No, no!" exclaimed Iris, appearing still to struggle with duty; "it is so horrible, I condemn myself for you."
"What harm is done? it is but an indiscretion at worst, my dear Iris; and, as your mistress is so often unjust towards you, it is, on your part, but a small, allowable, even innocent vengeance."
"Oh! I know I am inexcusable; and when you have once read the book, you will forget poor Iris, when you have no further occasion for her. But why should I complain, have you not paid me for my treachery?" she added, with bitterness.
"This little creature is desperately smitten with me," thought De Brévannes, "and how the devil shall I get rid of her? Can she mean, now she has got the ring, not to let me see the book?"
Then he said aloud, with earnestness,—
"You are mistaken, Iris. In the first place, I shall never think I have repaid my obligation to you: have no fear that I shall ever forget you. I wish, for my own peace of mind, that I could; and it requires all the seriousness of the things on which I have to discourse with your mistress in order to make me for a moment forget my love for you, Iris; for I do love you. But we will not refer to that now. There are serious interests at stake. How is your mistress?"
"She has remained dull and pensive ever since she gave you the appointment which you so imperatively demanded."
"She forced me to do so. I was so wretched at her refusal, that I forgot myself so far as to threaten her, which I no longer regret, since it has procured for me what I so much desired both for her interest and mine. But she is dull and pensive, you say?"
"Yes; sometimes she remains for a long time as if completely overwhelmed; then suddenly she rises impetuously and walks up and down for some minutes greatly agitated."
"And to what do you ascribe her state of mind?"
"I know not."
"This book, which you hesitate to confide to me, and which I dare not again ask you for, would inform us."
"Oh, I have no desire to know the princess's secrets. It was to be agreeable to you, and to obey you, that I have brought this book: the key is in the lock, but I have not opened it."
"Well, then, open it now, since what you call a wicked act has been committed, you have only to complete the vast service you have rendered me. Do you still hesitate? I know I have no other right to this kindness on your part, except——"
"There I there! read it directly," said Iris, turning away her head, and handing the album to De Brévannes. "What I am doing is infamous, but I cannot resist the influence you have over me."
"De Brévannes quickly opened the black book and perused its contents."
"The influence of a firm will," thought De Brévannes, as he quickly unclosed the black book, in which he read what follows, whilst Iris, with her elbow resting on the mantel-piece, her cheek reclining on her hand, and pretending not to be looking at her dupe, was attentively watching him in the glass.
Iris had penned the following passages with a hand apparently faltering and agitated, as if the ideas had come hastily, confusedly, and irregularly, into the head of the princess:—
"I have seen him again at the Théâtre Française! All my griefs, all my regrets were awakened at the sight of him.
"He will then pursue me every where. I never experienced such violent emotion: to be compelled to conceal all from the penetrating eyes of the world—from the indifferent glances of my husband. Is it hatred, indignation, or anger, which have thus disturbed me?
"Yes, hatred, indignation, and anger, are the feelings I must feel for the man who killed my betrothed, him to whom I was plighted, and whom from my infancy I loved! Ought I not to execrate him who has dishonoured me by such infamous calumny? Oh, yes, I hate him!—I hate him!—and yet......"
Here followed some words absolutely illegible, ending this first passage, and which furnished De Brévannes with a text for a world of conjectures.
These words, "and yet" seemed to him a token of happy augury. He continued,—
"I was so overcome by my recent reflections that I durst not continue or trust to paper—alas! my sole confidant—the cause of my alarm.
"I must reveal my shame. What an abyss is the human mind! how full of contradictions! Oh! no, no; I hate this man! There is, in the obstinacy with which he has pursued his design, something infernal; and if what I experience towards him be not hatred, it is a vague fear which mingles with this hate. Yes, it is that, no doubt. And, then, if there be united with these a kind of regret at seeing a will so firm, a pertinacity so great, employed in doing ill—in injuring—calumniating......
"Had he devoted himself to noble designs, what glorious results might he not have realised!
"Yes, I am alarmed when I reflect on the skill with which he formerly contrived to introduce himself to us—to render himself indispensable to our interests. With what impenetrable dissimulation did he conceal his love for me—only once referring to it; and with what indignation did I receive his avowal!
"Ought I not to believe, although he assured me of the contrary, that his attentions to my aunt were serious? Could I be deceived? Have I deceived myself in this respect?
"The abominable calumny of which I have been the victim has not even enlightened me as to the truth. Poor aunt! how many chagrins has she unconsciously caused me!
"It was only wanting for this man to have placed his love, his passionate devotion, fittingly. No doubt he would have loved a woman whose heart was free with intense devotion; but wherefore has he loved me—me? Was I not plighted to Raphael? Had he not frequently heard me allude to our approaching union? And after a first and last avowal, he had recourse to the most infamous calumny to dishonour her to whom once, and but once only, he had spoken of love.
"It seems to me that I am comforted in thus pouring out my most painful thoughts. Yes, it enables me to read my heart more closely.
"Alas! I was already so wretched, had I need of any increase of sorrow's? Oh! accursed be thou who hast driven me into a marriage without love, by slaying my betrothed, whom I loved most tenderly!
"Yes, I loved him with the love of infancy, which changed in advancing years to a sentiment more soft than friendship, but more tranquil than love.
"What is my life now? Horrible, horrible! with every appearance of happiness, if wealth be happiness! For ever linked to a man who so often, alas! compels me to regret the fate of Raphael!
"Poor Raphael, to die so young! Alas! in provoking M. de Brévannes, he yielded to a feeling of just and courageous despair; and yet his murderer, on his side, and not unreasonably, invoked the right of legitimate defence.
"It is true, Raphael no longer suffers, but I suffer daily; every instant of my life is a punishment! What can I do?
"Resign myself.
"To rouse me from my painful apathy, it required that I should again see the man who has caused me so much misery.
"How strange! I felt wholly different from what I had expected, what I ought, I think, to have felt, at the sight of him. Yes, I confess it with horror (who will ever know this avowal?), my anger, my indignation, do not seem to be commensurate with his crimes.
"In vain do I curse my weakness; in vain do I say to myself that this man has calumniated me in an infamous manner; in vain do I repeat to myself that he has slain Raphael, that he is almost the author of the ills I endure, that he can at this moment ruin me. In spite of myself I have the baseness to believe that it is the love with which I have inspired him which has plunged him into this abyss of horrible actions. Dare I add, that sometimes I am capable of excusing him?"
De Brévannes felt his heart beat violently; his unchecked pride, the blindness of his passion, served Iris even beyond her hope.
Nothing is more vulgar, more antiquated, yet more true than the adage, "We believe what we desire."
In these pages, which he believed were written by Madame de Hansfeld, M. de Brévannes beheld the proof of an impression which was composed of hatred and love, affright and admiration.
Admiration scarcely avowed, it is true, but which, as De Brévannes' vanity suggested, was but love unsuspected or resisted.
A fact very strange, but very skilfully handled by Iris, contributed to increase the error of M. de Brévannes. He had only made a declaration once to Paula, and from the fragment we have quoted, he might believe that she had not responded to his passion through jealousy of the apparent attentions which he paid to her aunt; and thus he might also believe that his infamous calumny, if not forgotten, was at least almost excused by the feigned words of the princess.
"It is the love with which I have inspired him which has plunged him into this abyss of horrible actions. Dare I add, that sometimes I am capable of excusing him?"
As to the death of Raphael, whom Paula loved with a feeling "more soft than friendship, but more tranquil than love," this murder, almost justified by the attack of this unfortunate young man, was, it is true, one of the causes which most forcibly resisted the irresistible inclination of Madame de Hansfeld for M. de Brévannes.
Without the authority of the black book, it then must have been a complete blindness to explain thus the conduct of Madame de Hansfeld; but M. de Brévannes, believing that he perused writing traced by her, had too much pride and love not to adopt at once this interpretation, which was so extremely natural.
Why should De Brévannes mistrust Iris? Why should he have believed her capable of so strange a deception? As to the princess, for what purpose should she have written these pages, which she never could suppose would be submitted to any other eye than her own?
Supposing, too, that on an understanding with Iris, she had authorised this communication in order to persuade M. de Brévannes that her wrongs were effaced by love, such a thing could only flatter him.
We may thus easily comprehend that he continued the reading of the black book with increasing hope and interest.
"What can this man want? He has contrived to have an interview with Iris—poor ingenuous girl!—and has proposed to her to convey a letter to me, which she refused. What can he wish? What audacity! How can he support even my look?
"The man is mad! What has he to say to me? Can he think to excuse his conduct? But I......
"Yesterday I could not proceed: I was interrupted by my husband's arrival.
"The prince has, then, all his life studied the effects of grief in order to aim his blows more surely. He is a monster! His refinements of torture are unheard of. Oh, now I understand why I do not hate M. de Brévannes sufficiently: all my hatred is employed against my torturer.
"And to be for life—for life, linked to this man! To be unable to break this chain, so odious, except by death!
"Then let it strike me, let it strike me speedily, since one of us must die in order to break this horrible union; let it be me rather than my husband."
M. de Brévannes shuddered at these words, and exclaimed, as he addressed Iris,—
"Is the princess, then, very unhappy?"
"Very unhappy!" replied Iris, gloomily.
"Her husband is without sympathy for her?"
"Quite so."
De Brévannes continued reading:—
"Yes, yes—death! I do not deserve to live; I have been faithless to the memory of Raphael; I do not deserve any commiseration. If my husband is a monster of cruelty, what, then, am I, who cannot turn away my thoughts from the man who has caused all my evils by killing my betrothed?
"Oh, I am ashamed of myself. I must note down these horrible things, that I may see them, then, in substance, under my eyes, in order to believe them possible.
"To reach, oh, heavens! so low a depth of abasement!
"Is it my fault, too? Grief depraves so much. Yes, it depraves, renders criminal; for, sometimes weighed down by despair, I exclaim, 'Since it was written in M. de Brévannes' destiny that he should be a murderer, why did not fate, instead of giving up Raphael to his blows, place my tormentor in his way?'"
Here the pages ended.
Iris had no doubt wished to leave M. de Brévannes to reflect, at his leisure, on this homicidal wish.
He exclaimed, as he shut the book suddenly,—
"Iris, have you read nothing of what is written here?"
The young girl appeared not to have heard these words, but looked steadfastly at him.
"Iris," he repeated, "you have not read these pages?"
"No, no," she said, starting from her reverie; "what is the book to me?"
"She thinks of nothing but me," he thought; "there is nothing to fear from her indiscretion."
He locked the book again, and handed it to the young girl, saying to her,—
"You have, without knowing it, done a most material service to your mistress."
"You love her?" asked Iris abruptly, and casting a piercing glance at him.
"I!" said De Brévannes, with the most careless air in the world; "a singular proof of love, truly, to cruelly menace the woman one loves! No, no, I have no love for her; nothing but the most intense friendship could make a man have recourse to such extremities."
"I must believe you," said Iris sorrowfully, as she took the book from him.
"Adieu, Iris, until to-morrow," said M. de Brévannes; "you will remind Madame de Hansfeld of the interview she has promised me."
"She will not fail; but, now I reflect, in Heaven's name, let nothing give her a suspicion that you have read this book, or I am lost!"
"Make yourself easy, my dear Iris; I will be as far from knowing that as her most secret thoughts: nothing shall betray my knowledge of it; only promise to bring me this book once more, as it will be of the utmost importance that I should again peruse it after the interview I am to have with your mistress to-morrow. Promise me this."
"What! do wrong again?—again abuse her confidence? Ah! now I have no right to complain other injustice to me."
"Iris, I entreat you!"
"You ask it, and is not that more than a command for me?"
In his gratitude, De Brévannes took hold of Iris's hand, and drawing her towards him, would have kissed her brow, but the young girl repulsed him violently and proudly, to his great surprise, as he imagined he should be giving her the utmost pleasure in acting with such condescension. When she reached the Quai, Iris flung into the river the ring she had received as the reward of her treachery.
After his attentive perusal of the black book, De Brévannes fell into a deep reverie. He could not doubt but he was beloved by Madame de Hansfeld, who struggled with all her power against the involuntary inclination.
Her husband rendered her so miserable, that she went so far as sometimes to desire his death.
Although this wish appeared to him somewhat exaggerated, De Brévannes considered all these circumstances as favourable to him, and awaited with intense anxiety the moment of the meeting which Madame de Hansfeld had appointed for the next day in the Jardin des Plantes.
Madame de Brévannes had frequently met M. de Hansfeld, under the name of Arnold Schneider, at Pierre Raimond's. He had saved the old engraver's life, and nothing could be more natural than his visits to see him.
Bertha having resolved on again teaching the piano, in order to supply her father's wants, used to go to his abode three times a-week, and remain there for three hours, giving her lessons in his presence.
It will not be forgotten that Bertha had made a deep impression on M. de Hansfeld the first time he saw her at the Comédie Française, and when he subsequently met her at Pierre Raimond's, whom he had snatched from certain death, he was forcibly struck at the circumstance which thus brought him into contact with Bertha, viewing it as a kind of fatality which the more augmented his love.
The charm of De Hansfeld's manner, the delicacy of his mind, his respectful attentions, which were almost filial towards Pierre, soon converted the gratitude which the old man felt for his preserver into sincere affection.
Arnold was simple-minded and good, discoursed with taste and sound knowledge as to the great masters of painting, who were objects of passionate admiration to the old man, who had devoted a portion of his life to reproducing in copper the best productions of Raphael, Vinci, and Titian. He had shewn these labours of his youth and maturity to Arnold, who had appreciated them like a connoisseur and skilful artist.
His praises did not betray complaisance or flattery; but moderated, just, and appropriate, they were the more pleasing to Pierre Raimond, who had a perfect knowledge of his art, and, like all earnest and modest artists, knew better than any one else the strong and weak points of his works. This was not all. Arnold seemed, by his political opinions, to belong to that effervescent party of Young Germany which presents so much analogy with certain shades of the republican school.
In consequence of these many points of similarity, the recent intimacy of Pierre Raimond and Arnold became every day more and more close. The latter was really in earnest,—he felt sincerely attracted towards the blunt and austere old man, who preserved the attachments and ideas of his early days in all their warmth and integrity.
M. de Hansfeld was exceedingly timid; the duties of his station so weighed upon him, that, in order to escape from them, he had affected the greatest eccentricities. His tastes, his inclinations, lead him to a life more simple and obscure, peaceably occupying himself with the arts and social theories. Thus, even in Bertha's absence, he found in the two rooms of Pierre Raimond more pleasure, happiness, and enchantment, than he had hitherto experienced in all his palaces.
If he had only desired to dissemble his attentions to Bertha under the appearance of deceitful attentions to the engraver, the latter had too much instinct for the truth not to have perceived it, and too much stern pride not to have closed his door against Arnold.
Pierre Raimond was not blind to the fact that his young friend found Bertha charming, and that he equally admired her talent as an artist, the ingenuousness of her character, and the graces of her mind.
In his paternal pride, so far from being alarmed, Pierre Raimond was delighted at this admiration, for he had the blindest confidence in Bertha's principles. And did he not owe his life to Arnold? How could he suppose that this young man, with so noble a heart, ideas so generous, would infamously abuse those relations which gratitude had established between himself and the man whose life he had saved?
In Pierre Raimond's eyes that would have been still more infamous than to have dishonoured the daughter of his benefactor. Then, too, Arnold had told him he was one of the people, and, in the exaggeration of his peculiar ideas, Pierre Raimond accorded to him a confidence which he could never have lavished on the Prince de Hansfeld.
Bertha, at first attracted towards Arnold by gratitude, had gradually felt the influence of his goodness and attraction. He was frequently present with the old engraver at Bertha's music lessons, was himself an excellent musician, and Bertha often listened to him with as much interest as pleasure when he discoursed, with evident skill, of an art which she adored, referred to the lives of the great composers of Germany, and displayed, as it were, the poetry of their works, whilst he developed their innumerable beauties.
How enchanting were the hours thus passed by Bertha, Arnold, and Pierre Raimond! The latter knew nothing of music, but his young friend translated—explained to him, as we may say—the musical thoughts of the great masters, analysing them phrase by phrase, and doing for the works of Mozart, Beethoven, and Gluck, what Hoffman has done so wonderfully for Don Juan.
Bertha, sensibly touched by Arnold's attentions to Pierre Raimond, attributed to that alone the lively sympathy which every day drew her into closer communion with the prince, who was the more dangerous as he was so utterly unaffected and sincere. Nothing in his language or his manners could startle Madame de Brévannes of the peril she was incurring.
Arnold's conduct was one continual avowal, he had no need to say one word of love. If by chance he was alone for a moment with Bertha, his look, his tone were the same as those he maintained in the engraver's presence, and when the latter returned Arnold could always conclude the sentence he had begun.
How, then, could Madame de Brévannes mistrust an intimacy so pure, so tranquil? Arnold had never said to her, "I love you!" She had never for a moment believed he could love her, and yet both were already under the irresistible charm of love.
We repeat, that, by a singular chance, these three persons, sincere in their affections, without mistrust or concealed thought, loved each other. Arnold tenderly loved the old man and his daughter, and they returned his affection ardently. In truth, all three found themselves so happy, that, by a sort of instinct that was preservative of happiness, they had never thought of analysing their felicity, but enjoyed it without considering its source or its tendency.
The only thing that could enlighten Bertha as to the sentiment to which her heart was daily expanding, was the sort of indifference with which she bore the brutalities of her husband; she was now but vaguely astonished at them, feeling quite regardless of injuries that had formerly been so deeply wounding.
When her father, extremely irritated with M. dc Brévannes, had seriously and almost severely questioned her as to Do Brévannes' conduct, she had uttered no falsehood in replying that for some time past he had ceased to annoy her.
The old man had had the more faith in Bertha's answer, inasmuch as, by degrees, she became calm and smiling, and her countenance, formerly so sorrowful, now revealed the most perfect tranquillity. Perhaps Pierre Raimond's blind confidence may be blamed, but it was one of the illustrations of his character.
These facts stated, we will now lead the reader to Pierre Raimond's modest retreat, the day after that on which M. de Hansfeld had commanded his wife to quit Paris in three days.
A good fire blazed on the hearth, whilst without the snow was falling and the wind was bitterly cold. Pierre Raimond was seated on one side of the fireplace, and Arnold on the other. Since the prince had fallen in love, his features had resumed an appearance of strength and health, although his countenance was still somewhat pale.
A serious discussion had arisen between Pierre Raimond and Arnold; for to complete the charm of their intimacy, they differed in their particular views on certain artistical questions, and amongst others in their estimation of Michael Angelo.
Arnold, whilst he rendered justice and homage due to the immense genius of the old sculptor of marble, felt no sympathy in his productions, although he fully understood the admiration they inspired. Arnold's delicate and pure taste, which was enamoured of beauty in art, took fright at the sombre and terrible style of the bold Buonarotti, and infinitely preferred the divine grace of Raphael.
Pierre Raimond defended his old sculptor with energy, and was, moreover, as passionately smitten by the proud independence of Michael Angelo's character as by the gigantic powers of his talent.
"Your tender Raphael led the enervating life of a courtier," said the old man to Arnold, "whilst the rude creator of Moses and the Sistine chapel had a republican soul, and he was right to menace, as he did menace, Pope Julio with throwing him off his scaffolding if he failed in respect to him."
M. de Hansfeld could not refrain from a smile at Pierre Raimond's enthusiasm, and replied,—
"I do not deny the somewhat savage energy of Michael Angelo; he had, unfortunately, a disposition morose, haughty, taciturn, sombre, disdainful, and difficult to be satisfied."
"Unfortunately! what do you mean by the word unfortunately?"
"I mean that it was unfortunate for the sincere admirers of this man to be unable to form with him agreeable and close intimacies."
"So much the better. Do you take him for a Raphael, for a poor creature like your hero? For," added the engraver, with an accent of disdain, "there never was a living man in the world whose disposition was more easy, more insinuating, more amiable, than your Raphael."
"Well, at least, you confess his good qualities."
"Qualities! why, it is because of such qualities so odious that I detest him as a man, though I venerate him as an artist."
"And I, my dear M. Raimond, for the precisely same reason, in consequence of the defects of the diabolical disposition of Michael Angelo that I have such an antipathy to the man, although I bow devoutly before his genius."
"Your admiration is not natural, it is forced—exaggerated!" exclaimed the engraver.
"What!" said Arnold, amazed; "you detest Raphael for his qualities, yet when I do not like Michael Angelo in consequence of his defects, you accuse me of exaggeration!"
"Certainly: no man is great—no man is Michael Angelo, but in consequence of certain conditions. I admire in the lion his wild and savage instincts,—he is only a lion on condition of being wild and savage; and he cannot have the virtues of a sheep like your Raphael."
"But, at least, allow me to admire in Raphael these sheeplike virtues, which are, if you will, the consequence of his nature, his talent."
"Assuredly admire, if you can find any thing worthy of admiration in such a character. As for me, physically speaking, I cannot for an instant place the insipid face of the beautiful, celestial Raphael, all bedecked as he is with velvet and embroidery, in the scale with the masculine physiognomy of my old Buonarotti, sombre, fierce, tanned by the sun, and attired in an old blouse, half hidden by his sculptor's leathern apron! Come, come, do you suppose that these two natures can be compared for an instant? Ah, ah, ah! what a pleasant contrast! On the one hand I see the divine Raphael——"
"The divine Raphael would have bent his knee, and respectfully kissed the powerful hand of old Michael Angelo, his master and grandsire in the art," said Arnold mildly, and extending his hand to Pierre Raimond.
"You are right," replied the latter, responding warmly to this evidence of cordiality on the part of M. de Hansfeld; "I am an old ass, and as much excited as I was at twenty!"
Bertha came in at this moment. It would be difficult to paint the delightful expression of her countenance when she saw her father and Arnold thus clasping hands: her eyes were filled with joyful tears.
"Come to my rescue, my dear child," said Pierre Raimond; "I am beaten. My silly grey beard is obliged to bow itself before this venerable light-brown moustache. He remains as calm as reason itself, whilst I am as much excited as if I were on the wing."
"And what was the subject of this grave discussion?" inquired Bertha, smiling and looking alternately at Arnold and her father.
"Michael Angelo," said Pierre Raimond.
"Raphael," said Arnold.
"What, M. Arnold! you cannot yield to my father?"
"I should like to see him yield, indeed, without discussion! I am not desirous that he should yield, but that he should be convinced."
"As to that, M. Raimond, I have my doubts. Conviction does not flash across me; and Raphael——"
"But Michael Angelo——"
"Come, come—to make you both agree I will play you the air from Fidelio, of which M. Arnold is so fond, and of which he has made you as fond as himself, father."
"Confess, Don Raphael," said the old man to Arnold, laughing as he spoke, "that she has more sense than we have."
"Decidedly, Signor Michael Angelo; and Madame Bertha knows very well, that when we listen to her we have no inclination to talk."
"Oh, M. Arnold, I am not the dupe of your flatteries."
"To try him, my dear, begin the overture to Fidelio. You know it is my favourite piece ever since our friend has made me comprehend its beauties."
Bertha began to play this piece with love; the presence of Arnold seemed to give a new power to her talent.
At the end of a few minutes M. de Hansfeld appeared completely absorbed in deep and painful meditation; although he had often heard Bertha play this music, the sad feelings its recollections excited bad never been more painfully aroused.
"Bertha, who from time to time looked at Arnold, exclaimed, 'M. Arnold, what ails you? oh! how pale you are!'"
Bertha, who from time to time looked at Arnold, was alarmed at his increasing paleness, and exclaimed, "Monsieur Arnold, what ails you? Oh! how pale you are!"
"Your hand is icy cold, my friend," said Pierre Raimond, who was sitting beside M. de Hansfeld.
"It is nothing—nothing!" he replied; "but I am so ridiculously weak. There are certain airs which are really dates to me, and many of the melodies of Fidelio are closely connected with past sorrows."
"Yet I have played this piece before to you," said Bertha, leaving the piano, and seating herself beside her father.
"You have, indeed, and I had the greatest pleasure in listening to your brilliant execution. But to-day—I know not how it is—oh, forgive me, forgive me, that I cannot subdue my emotion!" and De Hansfeld hid his face in his hands.
Bertha and the old man looked sorrowfully at each other, participating in the grief of their friend, although they did not comprehend it.
After some moments' silence Arnold raised his head. It is impossible to depict the bitter sadness of his pale and mild countenance. A tear came into Bertha's eye, and with a charming ingenuousness she took her father's hand to wipe it.
"You suffer," said the old man to Arnold. "Why is not our friendship of an older date, for then you might alleviate your troubles by revealing them?"
"I have often thought of this, but shame has prevented me," said Arnold, in a dejected tone.
"Shame!" exclaimed Raimond with surprise.
"Do not misunderstand the word, my friend," said Arnold. "Thank God, I have done nothing at which I need blush! I am only ashamed of my weakness—ashamed of being so sensitive of recollections, which ought to be equally despised and forgotten."
"Fear nothing: we understand—we pity you. My poor girl has often wept here, too, over recollections which, like yours, ought to be equally despised and forgotten. Come, Arnold," said the engraver, "if I desire your confidence, it is because we also may, on our side, have some sad avowals to make to you."
"You, too! you have been unhappy?" said Arnold.
"Very unhappy," replied the old man; "but, thank God, those bad days are, I trust, passed! It seems to me that you have brought us happiness; not only have you saved my life, but you have also made that life pleasant to me, as, indeed, for a very long time I have not met with any one whose mind and taste so assimilated with my own. I do not know what may be the influence of your lucky star, but since we have known you, my poor Bertha herself is less sad, her domestic sorrows seem diminished; in fact, you have been to us the happy augury of a quiet, tranquil existence."
"Oh, what you say, my dear father, is quite true," said Bertha. "Ah, Monsieur Arnold, if you knew how much he loves you; and when I am alone with him he speaks of you in such terms!"
"That is quite true," said the old man: "if you could hear us you would be sure that you have no friends more sincere. Bertha is so grateful to you for having saved my life, that after me she loves you better than any one in the world!"
"Oh yes, poor dear father!" said Bertha, embracing the old man.
M. de Hansfeld listened to Pierre Raimond with profound veneration. This frank and honest language was as new as flattering to him. Must he not have inspired a perfect confidence in Pierre Raimond, if he did not hesitate from speaking thus to him even in his daughter's presence?
Bertha herself, so far from seeming confused or embarrassed, seemed to confirm what her father said, her brow beaming brightly with candour and sincerity.
M. de Hansfeld blushed at his own dissimulation in presence of such noble frankness, and was on the point of telling Pierre Raimond his real name, but he dreaded the indignation which this tardy avowal might, perhaps, excite in the old engraver's mind, knowing as he did his anti-aristocratic prejudices. He thus, therefore, hit upon a kind of mezzo termine in the half confidence he made to Bertha and her father.
After a few moments' silence he said to Pierre Raimond,—
"You are right, my friend—you have set me an example of confidence. I will imitate you. Perhaps I may inspire you with some interest by certain similarities between my position and that of your daughter; for you have told me that her marriage is not a happy one, and it is to my own marriage that I owe my bitterest grief."
"You married, and so young?" said Raimond with astonishment.
"These two years."
"And your wife?" inquired Bertha.
"She is in Germany," replied M. de Hansfeld, after a moment's hesitation.
"And some passages in the overture to Fidelio that Bertha played have no doubt recalled painful recollections?"
"Alas, yes! When I first knew her whom I married, I was at the height of my first admiration for this opera of Beethoven. I have always had the habit of attaching my thoughts of the moment to certain passages in the music I love—thoughts which for me became, I may say, the words of the airs I love most. Well, then, the opera of Fidelio always reminds me of the phases of my ill-starred love."
"Ah, now I can understand your emotion!" said Bertha, shaking her head mournfully.
"Let me assure you, my friend," said Pierre Raimond, cordially, "that you will never speak to hearts more fully sympathising."
M. de Hansfeld then related what follows of his marriage with Paula Monti; which was true in all points, except the substitution of the name of Arnold Schneider for that of Hansfeld.
"An orphan almost as soon as I was born," said the prince, "I was brought up by an old servant of my family. We dwelt in a retired village, where we lived in complete solitude. The pastor was a painter and musician, and recognised in me certain inclinations for those arts, to which I devoted all my time.
"The first years of my life were peaceable and happy. I loved old Frantz as a father, and he took the most tender care of me, only reproaching me for forsaking athletic exercises, and only leaving my study for occasional walks in our lovely mountains. I had none of the tastes of my age, but was serious, taciturn, melancholy. Music caused in me the most ecstatic delight, to which I gave myself up unreservedly. At eighteen years of age I went with my old servant a journey to Italy. For two years I studied the chefs-d'œuvre of the great masters in the different cities where we stayed, seeing very few persons, and being perfectly happy in my indolent, dreaming, contemplative life. I arrived at Venice. My admiration for the arts had, until then, occupied my whole existence; the passionate love with which they inspired me sufficed to occupy my heart. At Venice chance threw me in the society of a female, whose influence was destined to be so baneful to me. This woman, whom I married, was named Paula Monti."
"Was she handsome?" asked Bertha.
"Exceedingly!—but of a serious style of beauty. Strange contrast! I have always been weak and timid, and yet became enamoured of a woman of energetic and masculine character. It was my first love. I, unquestionably, obeyed rather an instinct, a desire to love something, than a deeply-seated feeling, and I became passionately enamoured of Paula Monti. She received my attentions with indifference, but I was not repulsed. She seemed to me unhappy. I had some hope. I redoubled my assiduities, and formally demanded her hand in marriage from her aunt. I was then rich, the match appeared eligible to her, and she consented. I had with Paula a decisive interview. I will confess that she told me she had ardently loved a man who was to have been her husband; and although this man was dead, his remembrance still remained so constant and so cherished in her thought that it absorbed her quite entirely, and that my love was indifferent to her. This confession wounded me deeply, yet I saw in Paula's frankness but a guarantee for the future, and I did not despair of overcoming the coldness she testified by my cares and attention. She did not conceal from me, that but for the unceasing influence of the past, which she so bitterly deplored, she might, perhaps, have loved me.
"Then I cradled myself in the most visionary hopes—my passion was real—Paula Monti was touched by it; but her delicacy then took alarm at the disproportion of our fortunes.
"The loss of a lawsuit had completely ruined her family. I overcame her scruples—she promised me her hand, but repeating that she could not offer me more than a perfectly sisterly affection.
"Yet I found incredible happiness in this chilling union. At first my hopes increased; for, excepting some moments of extreme grief, although Paula's disposition was melancholy, her temper was equal, and she was at times even affectionate. I already anticipated a more happy future, when one day—oh! no, no—never—I never can proceed!" said the prince, concealing his face in his hands.
Bertha and her father looked on in silence, not venturing to ask Arnold to continue a recital evidently so painful to him; but, after a pause, he thus proceeded:—
"Why should I conceal her crimes? My indulgence has been a culpable weakness, and I ought to pay the penalty. We were passing the summer at Trieste; for several days Paula had been in a dark, irritable humour, and I scarcely saw her. When she was in these fits of dark sorrow, she could not bear any one near her but a young gipsy girl, whom she had adopted out of charity. This poor child was, out of gratitude, tenderly devoted to my wife.
"In order to understand what follows," said the prince, "I must enter into some few minute particulars. At the end of the garden of our house at Trieste was a pavilion where we used to take tea nearly every evening. One night Paula had, after much entreaty, promised to come and pass an hour there with me, I was in hopes that I might thus distract her from her mournful thoughts.
"I shall never forget the sad and despairing expression of her countenance during this evening; she received almost with anger and disdain some words of tenderness which I addressed to her.
"Painfully wounded at her repulsive conduct I quitted the pavilion.
"After a few turns in the garden I became more composed; remembering that Paula had forewarned me that she was still sometimes under the influence of painful recollections, I returned to the pavilion. She had left it. They had brought in the tea during my absence, and I found the cup of sugared milk, which I took every evening, standing prepared for me. I felt grateful to Paula for the attention, by which, however, I did not profit. I had a spaniel to which I was greatly attached, and mechanically I presented to him the cup which Paula had prepared for me. He drank eagerly, and almost instantly the unfortunate animal fell on the ground, trembled in every limb, and died after a few moments' agony."
"Oh, I understand—how horrible!" exclaimed Pierre Raimond.
Bertha looked at her father with surprise. "What do you mean, my dear father?" she said. Then, as if suddenly enlightened by a moment's reflection, she added, horror-struck, "No, no, it is impossible, Monsieur Arnold—impossible! a woman is incapable of a crime so frightful!"
"You think so?" replied Arnold, with bitterness. "After some minutes' reflection I said as you do, 'It is impossible!' I have attributed to chance this fearful fact, and even reproached myself cruelly for having suspected Paula for a moment."
"And when you saw your wife again," said Pierre Raimond, "how did she receive you?"
"She was perfectly calm and self-possessed, and if I had any doubts remaining they would have been completely dissipated in the evening. I had left Paula dull, and almost morose; the next day I found her tranquil, affectionate, and kind; she held out her hand, and asked my pardon for having left me so abruptly on the previous evening."
"Such hypocrisy is inconceivable," said Pierre Raimond.
"Oh, no, no—she was not culpable! her calmness proves it," said Bertha.
"I thought as you do," continued M. de Hansfeld, "there was so much sincerity in her accent. And her look, her language, was so natural, that, overcome by remorse and shame, I fell at her feet, and, bursting into tears, begged her pardon. She looked at me with surprise. I dared not explain myself further, for if innocent my suspicion was an abominable outrage. I replied to her that I feared I had been hasty with her on the previous evening. She believed me, and here this ended.
"How can I describe to you what passed in me after that day? My mad love for Paula increased, I may say in proportion to the reproaches I made against myself for my suspicions. I could not forgive myself for having dared to accuse a woman who had given me so many proofs of frankness."
"In truth," observed Bertha, "when you had asked her hand, why did she declare to you that her heart was not free, at the risk of breaking off a marriage so advantageous for her? No! no! she was innocent of that horrible crime."
"And you had no enemies?" asked Pierre Raimond.
"None that I know of."
"How, then, do you account for the sudden, convulsive death of the spaniel, in whose death there was every sign of poisoning?"
"I continued to bewilder myself on this inexplicable point, to prevent as it were my thoughts from dwelling on it, so anxious was I to believe in Paula's innocence. Painfully did I expiate this atrocious suspicion; twenty times I was on the point of confessing all to her, but I dared not, her affection for me was already so lukewarm, so uncertain—such an avowal would for ever have alienated us. However, for my own repose, I ought to have told her all, for she began to find my language occasionally wild,—my involuntary references seemed incoherent. Sometimes profoundly touched by a word or a tender attention on her part, I cried in a kind of bewilderment, 'I am very guilty—forgive me—I was wrong!'
"She inquired what I meant by these words, and then recovering myself, instead of explaining, I but reiterated more passionate protestations. Alas! very soon the slight affection I had obtained by so many cares, with so much trouble, gave way to a fresh coldness. She sometimes looked at me with an unquiet, frightened air—her fits of melancholy increased, and then the suspicions I had at first so energetically repulsed returned to my mind; then I drove them away again. Sometimes in spite of myself, I examined distrustfully the meat that was placed before me, and then, blushing with fear at this fresh insult to Paula, I left the table suddenly.
"In this trying and painful struggle my health became weaker, my temper soured, whilst Paula became more and more reserved towards me."
"Oh! what a life! what a life!" exclaimed Bertha, as she wiped away her tears.
"Alas!" said M. de Hansfeld, "that was nothing. We quitted Trieste at the end of autumn; my wife wished to pass the winter at Geneva, and then come to France. Surprised by a violent storm, we stopped a few leagues from Trieste in a wretched road-side inn at nightfall. The tempest redoubled its fury, and a torrent we had to cross had overflowed its banks; we were therefore compelled to pass the night at this auberge. The place was lonely, and the master of the hovel was an ill-looking fellow. I proposed to my wife that we should watch as late as possible and then sleep in a chair, that we might set out again before daybreak, as soon as the road was practicable. Our suite consisted of my two servants and the young girl who accompanied Paula. I had always been exceedingly kind to this girl, because I knew that it would please my wife; besides Iris (that was the Bohemian girl's name) was almost as much devoted to me as to her mistress. We occupied on that fatal night—ah! how fatal!—a small apartment, of which the only door opened into a closet in which was Frantz, my old servant. Paula could not conceal her fears; the wind seemed to shake the house to its very foundations, and we both watched very late. Alone in this chamber, I seated myself on a miserable truckle-bed, whilst my wife reposed in an arm-chair. Sleep overpowered me in spite of all my efforts.
"I am ignorant how long I slept, when I was suddenly awakened by a sharp pain inside my left arm. The room was completely dark. My first impulse was to seize the hand I felt pressing upon me—this thin and delicate hand grasped a sharp-pointed stiletto."
"Heavens!" exclaimed Bertha, alarmed and clasping her hands.
"What! another attempt? that is, indeed, frightful!" said Pierre Raimond.
Arnold continued,—
"Thanks to the darkness, they had thrust the stiletto between my body and my left arm, which was closely pressed against my side. Owing to the slight resistance which the blade of the dagger met in passing through this narrow space, it might be supposed that it had penetrated my breast. It was this mistake that saved me, and I escaped with only a slight wound in my arm!"
"How fortunate!" said Bertha,
"I have told you that my first movement, when I awoke, was to seize the hand which I felt pressing upon me, suddenly that hand became icy cold; I extended my other hand and touched a woman's gown. I smelt a slight perfume, such as Paula always used,—a horrid idea possessed my mind. I remembered the poison at Trieste—I had no longer any doubt. This revelation was so overwhelming that I cannot describe what passed within me; my reason wandered, and for some seconds I believed myself the sport of some horrible dream. During this vertigo the hand I had seized broke away, and when I recovered I was alone and still in darkness. 'Frantz! Frantz!' I cried, knocking at the wainscot which separated me from the closet in which my servant was. Frantz was not asleep, and in a minute entered the room bearing a light in his hand."
"And your wife?" inquired Bertha.
"Imagine my surprise!—my amazement! I almost doubted my senses! Paula was soundly asleep in the arm-chair by the fire-side."
"She feigned sleep," said Pierre Raimond.
"I was bewildered! She was asleep, or rather she pretended deep and quiet sleep so perfectly that her soft and regular breathing was not in the slightest degree affected by the terrible emotion she must unquestionably have felt. Her features were calm, her mouth slightly open, her complexion lightly tinged with the flush of sleep, and her countenance usually so serious was then almost smiling."
"It is scarcely credible," exclaimed Pierre Raimond; "what! your wife slept tranquilly after such an attempt?"
"Her sleep, I assure you, was so perfectly serene that I could not believe my eyes. Pale and haggard, I looked at her almost with affright."
"And there were no other women but herself in the auberge?" asked Bertha.
"None."
"And the young girl, the Bohemian?" inquired Pierre Raimond.
"Was in bed in a room which led out of the room in which Frantz was watching—he did not sleep—had a light, and it was impossible to enter our apartment without being seen."
"It must then have been so—this time—it must have been she!" said Bertha. "Mon Dieu! is such a crime possible?"
"The dissimulation astonishes me more than the crime," said Pierre Raimond.
"A last proof left me without any doubt," added Arnold; "on the floor at the feet of my wife, I saw a Florentine dagger—a valuable weapon chiselled by Benvenuto Cellini, which had been, I believe, left to Paula by her father."
"From this moment, then, you kept silent no longer," cried the engraver; "and it was after this new crime that you left this infamous creature in Germany?"
"If I hesitated to relate to you this horrible history, my friend," replied the prince, with a confused air, "it was because I was certain of my own weakness, or rather of the inexplicable influence that Paula maintained over me."
"What! after this fresh attempt?"
"Oh, if you knew what a frightful thing it is to doubt!"
"But this dagger-blow?" said Pierre Raimond.
"But this deep, tranquil sleep? the awaking so gentle, so peaceable?"
"When she saw you wounded, what did she say?" inquired Bertha.
"To depict her agony, her amazement, her anxious cares, would be impossible; with the most natural air in the world she declared that an investigation ought to take place. She also had remarked the sinister appearance of the master of the auberge, and, like myself, exhausted herself in vain conjecture. Frantz declared that he had seen no one pass him, and that they must have got in by a window which opened into the balcony, but that window was found closely shut. Paula's tone was so natural that my old servant, who never liked her, and had witnessed my marriage most reluctantly, never for an instant thought of accusing my wife."
"But the little thin hand you seized—the smell of the peculiar perfume which your wife used!" said Pierre Raimond.
"I repeat to you that my reason wandered in this labyrinth of singular contradictions. Paula, aided by Frantz, insisted on dressing my wound herself, and there was not the slightest affectation either in her manner or her language."
"To commit such a crime, and display such hypocrisy, is the height of wickedness!" said the engraver.
"Unquestionably; and the monstrousness of such a character excited my doubts in that of the evidence before me. To put the cope-stone on fatality, Paula, from interest, pity, or calculation, was never so affectionate, I ought almost say tender, as when bestowing all her attention upon me after this accident."
"Stratagem! infernal stratagem!" cried Pierre Raimond.
"It was, perhaps, remorse for her crime," said Bertha.
"It was my misfortune to hesitate in turns amongst so many conflicting facts. It would have been less distressing for me to have believed Paula completely guilty or completely innocent; but, on the contrary, by an inconceivable mobility of impression, I passed in turns from passionate love to fits of anger and horror. My agonies at Trieste were nothing in comparison with the torture I then endured. A head more weak than mine would not have resisted these shocks. Sometimes, after having testified to my wife, by some incoherent word, the terror with which she inspired me, reflecting that, in spite of frightful appearances, I had no real certainty, and might be perhaps deceived, I sobbed bitterly and implored her pardon. In the end she believed my senses were wandering. What shall I tell you? At first I found a bitter satisfaction in lending myself to this report, then in increasing and giving credibility to it by studied whims. This was not all; as soon as they believed me liable to fits of lunacy, I was enabled by this plea to give way to my mistrust, whilst my precaution being attributed to my derangement, my wife was in no way compromised. Sometimes believing my life threatened, I shut myself up alone for whole days, only eating bread and fruit which my faithful Frantz bought for me himself, and at other times, in my excessive terror I did not dare even to touch these simple aliments. At other times, I blushed at my alarm, and was convinced of Paula's innocence, and then returned to her with the most bitter repentance, but her reception of me was chill and disdainful."
"Poor Arnold!" said Pierre Raimond, with emotion; "no doubt you are weak, but this very weakness proceeds from a noble source; you fear to accuse Paula unjustly, and in truth there is something startling in saying to any one and that without certain proofs, 'You are a homicide, twice have you sought to assassinate me!'"
"Yes! and especially when these overwhelming words are to be addressed to a woman you have passionately loved; and when, too, together with material and almost undeniable proofs, there are other moral truths quite to the contrary, and when, moreover, a secret voice, a hidden revelation says to you with irresistible authority, 'No, this woman is not guilty.' Oh, I assure you, it is a hell!—a hell!"
"Now," said Bertha, "I can imagine why you have feigned derangement."
"But," added Pierre Raimond, "a last attempt has left you no doubt."
"None. The crime appeared then to me avowed; or, rather, as my love was exhausted, expended in these struggles and continual anguish, I had this time more courage than I had had before."
"And you now no longer love her?" said Bertha.
"No, for admitting even that I was as mad as I seemed, I deserved, at least, some pity, some interest, and my wife shewed none. Profiting by the solitude in which I lived (for we were then in a large city), she visited and went abroad a great deal, regardless of me. This hardness of heart revolted me. Either my wife was guilty, and my generosity to her ought to have touched her soul, however perverse; or she was innocent, and then the fits of grief which came over me after having vaguely accused her ought to have moved her."
"But why did you never frankly open the question? Why did you never boldly state your reproaches?" inquired Pierre Raimond.
"Only reflect: I should have but to say to her, 'I suspect you, I accuse you of having twice attempted to assassinate me'—might I not be deceived?"
"In truth, the position was a frightful one," said Bertha; "and what was the last occurrence which led to your separation?"
"One evening, instead of leaning on the rail as usual, I had scarcely touched it when, to my great alarm, it gave way, and fell with a horrid crash!"
"A very short time since," said De Hansfeld, lowering his eyes, "I occupied with my wife an isolated house. I know not why, but my suspicions were renewed with fresh violence, and I very seldom left my apartment. However, sometimes in the evening, I went into a small belvéder at the very top of the house, a kind of very high terrace, surrounded by a light iron rail high enough to rest upon, and upon which I usually leaned my arms to contemplate from a distance the melancholy horizon which a great city presents during the night; and there I sometimes passed hours in deep reverie. One evening, Providence willed it, that instead of leaning and pressing my weight at once upon it, as usual, I placed my hand only upon it. I had scarcely touched it, when, to my great alarm, it gave way and fell with a horrid crash!"
"Heaven!" exclaimed Bertha.
"The height was so great that the iron grating was broken into fragments when it fell on the stones."
"What an atrocious combination!" said Pierre Raimond, raising his hands to heaven.
"My death had been inevitable if I had leaned on this balustrade. Whom could I accuse if not Paula? No one had any interest in my death! Ignorant that a failure had carried off nearly all my fortune, she no doubt remembered that in happier days I had settled the whole of my property upon her. This idea had never occurred to me as long as my love lasted. It has been impossible for me to suspect those I love of infamy. I might, perhaps, have believed my wife capable of obeying an impulse of insensate hatred, but not of acting on so base and odious a calculation. However, my love once extinct before the evidence of so murderous an attempt, I did not hesitate at any supposition; only to avoid such sad scandal, I contented myself with declaring to Paula that she must instantly quit the city we inhabited, that I never would see her again, but leave her to her own remorse. Why need I say more? why should I rouse your indignation by alluding to the audacity with which my wife braved my reproaches, the horrible hypocrisy with which she affected to attribute them to the derangement of my senses? Such effrontery revolted me—I left her. From this moment my life has been miserable, but, at least, I have been released from horrible apprehensions.
"Some time after, I met with you," said De Hansfeld, extending his hand to Pierre Raimond; "you spoke of a lucky star. You are right, mine guided me upon your path; before I was so fortunate as to save your life, I was alone, dejected, and suffering under the blow of the bitterest remembrances; all has now changed, and I have found in you a friend; my chagrins are passed, and if I could rely on the permanence of our intimacy, I never could hope for greater happiness!"
"And why should our intimacy ever fail you? The charm of friendship with honest folk is in its certainty; who can come between us and our amity? Is it not based on services rendered—reciprocity of services? Is it not equally dear to my daughter, you, and me? And then, indeed, the sad reasons which make us find in our intimacy a kind of refuge against cruel thoughts will always exist: for you, they are your wife's crimes; for Bertha, the cruel conduct of her husband; for me, the resentment of my child's wrongs."
"You are right—we have nothing to fear for the future."
"How you must have suffered, M. Arnold!" said Bertha, sorrowfully.
"If you have evinced any weakness," added Pierre Raimond, "your conduct has been admirable for its mildness. It is the property of a mind replete with delicacy and elevation to impose on itself the cruellest tortures of doubt rather than risk a reproach, terrible—very terrible—if, contrary to all probability, your wife had been innocent. This long recital of your misfortunes gives me fresh proof of the goodness of your heart; and as one has always the defects of one's qualities, I see, even in the kind of weakness you may be reproached with, evidence of the most exquisite delicacy."
"You are too indulgent, my friend."
"I am just, and as little of a flatterer as Michael Angelo—am I not?" added the old man, with a hearty laugh.
"This is my hour for lessons," said Bertha; "this sorrowful confidence has finished at the right time—it has quite saddened me. Oh! M. Arnold, what sufferings! You ought to have a great deal of happiness to make you forget them!"
At this moment two of Bertha's young pupils entered and broke off the conversation.
De Hansfeld left Pierre Raimond and his daughter, somewhat consoled by the confession he had made, but still regretting the incognito he kept with them.
More than ever desirous of sending his wife away the next day, De Hansfeld returned to the Hôtel Lambert.
Madame de Hansfeld was in a dire perplexity. Her husband had insisted that she should set out next day for Germany, and it was therefore absolutely necessary for her to renounce M. de Morville, necessarily detained at Paris by the failing health of his mother.
Paula's estrangement from the prince had become aversion—profound hatred; and she thought the feeling almost excusable in consequence of the whims and harsh proceedings of her husband. The last blow he inflicted upon her was most distressing of all—to force her to leave Paris at the very moment when her passion for De Morville, so long hidden, so long struggled with, was becoming as propitious as she could have hoped for.
When Iris disclosed to her mistress that the prince very often went to Pierre Raimond's under a feigned name, in order to meet Madame de Brévannes, she had greatly excited Paula's ire against Bertha, as she felt assured that it was in order to keep up the incognito that favoured his love the more easily that the prince insisted on her quitting Paris.
After deep reflection, Paula believed that she had discovered a chance of effectual refusal to depart, even in the very passion of her husband for Madame de Brévannes.
In spite of the prince's order, Madame de Hansfeld had not announced her intended departure to any person, nor had she made any preparation for the journey, hoping that, perchance, her husband would renounce his first determination. As to his threats of revealing his wife's crimes, and abandoning her to the justice of society, Paula had only considered that as a further proof of Arnold's aberration of mind.
Until now, the different attacks of what she called the derangement of De Hansfeld had inspired her with as much commiseration as alarm. But in the last conversation the prince had behaved so harshly, so unjustly, and she felt that she was so cruelly sacrificed to his affection for Bertha, that, wounded in her most sensitive part—her love for De Morville,—Paula divided her hatred between her husband and Madame de Brévannes.
Such were Madame de Hansfeld's reflections when the prince entered her apartment, having just quitted Pierre Raimond. His demeanour was even more firm, more imperious than on the preceding evening.
"It appears, madame, that you are not hurrying yourself in your preparations for departure," he observed dryly; "but as you will not visit or receive company at the Château de Hansfeld, whither I send you, you have no great need of much preparation of toilette. You may take your diamonds, I relinquish them to you. Frantz, who will have charge of you to Germany, is incorruptible, and my only hesitation in leaving you your jewels was the apprehension that you might bribe your guide by their means."
Madame de Hansfeld interrupted her husband.
"I thank you, sir, for affording me the opportunity of returning these ornaments to you and rising from her chair she went towards a secrétaire, whence she took a large casket, which she handed to the prince.
"In other days I accepted these presents, but for a long time I have desired to restore them into your hands."
"Be it so!" said the prince, taking them with indifference; "the most affectionate tenderness, the most devoted love, have been unavailing with you, my generosity therefore must have been powerless. It is true," he added, with a smile of crushing contempt, "I had by a settlement assigned the larger portion of my property to you; and, after my decease, you would have inherited all—these jewels inclusive."
"Sir?"
"Only as you have appeared somewhat in a hurry to enjoy these advantages, I have found means to realise a portion of my fortune which has neutralised my previous settlement. I tell you this, in order to convince you that should I die to-morrow, your interested hopes will be frustrated. Perhaps I should have told you this earlier, and it might have spared you some rather hazardous experiments, which your ardent desire to be a widow explains, but by no means excuses," added De Hansfeld, with cutting irony.
These cruel words made a strange impression on Madame de Hansfeld, perfectly indifferent to the reproaches they comprised, and which she did not comprehend, for she did not in any way deserve them; she was only struck with their injustice and cruelty.
Had De Hansfeld died at that moment at her feet, she would have been far from regretting it, for at that instant she recollected what De Morville had written to her, "My love will be always unpropitious, since I cannot aspire to your hand."
But the princess was soon ashamed and horrified at her thought, or, rather, her atrocious wish, and replied coldly to her husband,—
"I do not desire to comprehend the sense of your words, monsieur, it is as odious as it is absurd. As to the question of interest, you know it was against my wish that you made so large a settlement on me, and it is only exceedingly natural that you should alter your mind at such an arrangement."
"As much hypocrisy in language, as audacity in the most criminal actions!" said the prince, in a low voice, and as if speaking to himself; "this it is that confounds my reason, and makes me always doubt this woman's crimes. Fortunately, at this moment she is completely unmasked, for my fatal love is utterly extinct."
Then, addressing Paula, he said aloud,—
"I come, madame, to desire you to make every hasty preparation for your departure. You must leave Paris before to-morrow evening!"
"Sir, I will not quit Paris!"
"Then, madame, you prefer that I should speak out?"
"You have used that threat very frequently, sir. For the love of Heaven speak plainly, and I shall then know what you have to reproach me with."
"You rely too much on the respect I have for my name and my dread of a public scandal. Take care, and do not drive me to extremities. Be advised—go—depart!"
"To speak plainly, sir, I am not your dupe; you wish to alarm me—compel me to leave Paris—and wherefore? in order that your departure may also be supposed to be taken also, and that you may thus more easily preserve your incognito."
"What mean you, madame?"
"And that you may, thanks to this incognito, be favourably received by Pierre Raimond, the father of Madame de Brévannes."
"Madame, take care!"
"Of Madame de Brévannes, of whom you are enamoured, and whom you so often meet at her father's house."
At these words the prince remained struck with amaze, his pale face became purple, and after a moment's silence he exclaimed,—
"Not another word, madame—not another word!"
"You love this woman," added Madame de Hansfeld.
"Not another word, I say, madame!"
"And she gives you rendezvous at her father's house. It's rather a sudden affair," added Madame de Hansfeld, with irony.
"You are unworthy even to utter the name of such an angel!" cried the prince.
"Really! Well, then, I am somewhat curious to know what the husband of this angel will think of your interview with his wife?"
"Do you dare?"
"Particularly when he learns that you introduced yourself to Pierre Raimond under an assumed name!"
"Are you thus resolved to drive me mad?" exclaimed the prince, passionately. "You talk of derangement, but it is you who are deranged, wretched woman, when you thus sport with your fate."
"The future will prove whether you or I am deranged, sir. I have been long accustomed to the wanderings of your reason; and I do not know if at this moment you are in your senses. But, however that may be, impress on your memory this—if you persist in making me quit Paris, I will disclose every thing to M. de Brévannes."
"Silence, madame, silence!"
"Be it so; I will be silent: but you know my conditions."
"Conditions to me! dare you impose any?"
"I dare; for I wish to believe that, setting aside your monomania of addressing to me such incomprehensible reproaches, you are a man of good sense. We have reasons for mutually considering each other on certain points. Your reason is not very sound; I could thus have you placed under the protection of the laws, but it would be repugnant to my feelings to draw public attention towards you by a process which would rip up all the secrets of your household to the eyes of malignant curiosity. You must fear on your side that M. de Brévannes may learn that you are paying attentions to his wife. So let us remain as we are; I have no pretension to your heart; mine has never been yours—let us then act as free persons. If it is necessary for you to pretend absence, I will lend myself to the feint, and say you have quitted Paris. All I ask in return, sir, is permission to remain where I am for some time, and my desire is not, I think, exorbitant."
M. de Hansfeld was amazed at Paula's assurance. Unfortunately for him, she possessed a secret which he trembled to have noised abroad. This consideration, more than the fear of the scandal of any processes, operated in placing him in his wife's power.
It is impossible to depict his regrets at hearing that the princess was instructed as to the visits he paid to the engraver. Bertha's reputation was thus at the mercy of a woman who inspired Arnold with as much surprise as horror.
The conduct of Madame de Brévannes was unquestionably irreproachable, but the least suspicion—the discovery of the prince's real name—would be sufficient to excite Pierre Raimond's mistrust, and prevent him from again receiving Arnold Schneider; with one word, the princess could conjure up this storm. We may imagine the prince's anger when he found himself under Paula's domination.
She triumphed; she felt all the force of her position. To gain time, remain in Paris, see De Morville sometimes, write to him frequently, after having perhaps owned that he was not deceived as to the author of the mysterious correspondence to which we have referred. Such was the most ardent desire of Madame de Hansfeld, and, thanks to the secret she possessed, she hoped fully to realise this wish.
She profited by the sort of stupor of her husband to add,—
"It is, then, understood, sir, you take your jewels. I give up all the settlement you had made upon me—my only wish being to live as separate and distinct from you as possible; and even more so if possible than during the past. This is the price of my silence. You came here, sir, with threats on your lips, but the characters are changed."
"No!" exclaimed the prince, in a burst of violent indignation, "no, the woman who has thrice attempted my life dares not use such language, and threaten me—me, whose forbearance has been so great,—me, who, from a latent feeling of absurd consideration, have always recoiled from the terrible accusation which might compel you to confront a scaffold!"
Madame de Hansfeld looked at her husband with amazement.
"Sir, take care, your brain wanders!"
"I tell you that three times you have attempted to assassinate me, madame!"
"I?"
"You, madame! You remember the pavilion at Trieste; the lone auberge, on the road to Geneva; and then the last attempt that was made but two days ago against my life?"
"I—I? Why, it is impossible that you can say this seriously, sir?" exclaimed Paula. "For what motive should I commit so black a crime? It is horrible! for surely nothing in my conduct could have authorised such terrible suspicions."
"Suspicions, madame? say, rather certainties."
"Certainties? and of what nature—on what proofs do you base them? But I am wrong to discuss with you thus,—it is really derangement."
"Dare you to allude to my derangement! why it was my forbearance that was my sole derangement, madame; I could not isolate myself in distrust—surround myself with precautions without explaining the cause, and that explanation would have ruined you."
Madame de Hansfeld looked at her husband with increasing surprise, she could not credit, she could not believe what she had heard.
"Now, sir," she said, recalling her recollection, "all your strange caprices, your singular bursts are explained. This odious accusation has, at least, the merit of being precise, and my justification will be as easy."
"You pretend then——"
"To justify myself? Yes, most assuredly, and I request that you will listen to me."
"Your audacity confounds me. There was a time when I might have been your dupe—but now——"
"Now, sir, you will be pleased to tell me the grounds on which your accusation rests; what are your proofs? I will refute them one by one. There is no logic so potent as truth."
M. de Hansfeld, confounded at this assurance, looked in his turn at his wife with unfeigned and vast astonishment. She was so calm, she seemed to anticipate with so much innocence those explanations, which a guilty conscience would have dreaded, that his doubts all returned more strongly than ever.
"What, madame!" exclaimed he, "do you deny that one evening at Trieste, after a painful dispute, you endeavoured to get rid of me by throwing into a cup of milk, which had been brought for me, a poison so violent, that a spaniel, to which I was greatly attached, died the moment after he had drunk it?"
"I—I poison?" she exclaimed, clasping her hands, with horror, "why, who could—great God!—have inspired you with such suspicions? How have I deserved them? How, since then do you suppose me capable of such a crime?"
"That crime was not the only one, madame!"
"If the others have no better proofs than that, sir, God will demand at your hands an account of these terrible accusations."
After a silent reflection for some moments, Paula resumed,—
"Yes, yes, now I remember the circumstance to which you allude, and also another which will entirely exculpate me, and the explanation of which you may ask of Frantz, in whom I know you have entire confidence. I perfectly well remember that after our painful discussion, when you left the pavilion, the tea had not been brought in."
"True; but it was on my return to the kiosk that I found the cup which no doubt you had poured out for me in my absence."
"You mistake. Fortunately the minutest details of that evening are before my eyes at this moment. I left the pavilion after you, and as I was about to descend the steps Frantz was bringing in the tea, which he put down on a table before me, and then followed me to the house, where I kept him occupied for the rest of the evening. Ask him instantly, and may I die this moment if he will contradict a word that I say!"
"Who, then, could have put the poison in the cup?"
"I only profess to clear myself, and riot to develope this horrid mystery."
"You will be exculpated unquestionably should Frantz confirm what you have said. But the attempt at assassination at the lone inn on the road to Geneva?"
"After your first suspicion," said Paula, smiling bitterly, "this does not surprise me. Still, you must remember that I was sleeping soundly, and that you had some trouble to arouse me from my slumber. As to the attentions I paid you after this terrible event, I did not suppose you suspected them!"
"But the stiletto which belonged to you, and which was the weapon that committed the crime?"
"I cannot explain this strange incident any more than you can. This very valuable dagger, and till then very inoffensive one, had served me as a paper-knife, and I always shut it up in my writing-case.—But, now I think of it, Frantz can again speak in my favour. He kept the keys of the boxes of our travelling carriage, and had himself packed up this writing-box, which he did not open until we reached Geneva. When we left Trieste, he had arranged it with Iris. Inquire of them both whether the dagger was packed with the other things, and they will, I am certain, confirm what I say. During the journey I never left you for a moment, and as Frantz always carried the keys of the carriage about him, how could I obtain possession of this dagger?"
What Madame de Hansfeld said, seemed so perfectly probable that the prince fancied he again heard the secret voice which had so often repeated, "Paula is not guilty!"
The prince felt his suspicions almost entirely dissipated; and although he no longer loved Paula, he had so generous a temper that he regretted most bitterly ever having accused Madame de Hansfeld, and already imposed on himself the obligation of making her a complete and solemn reparation if she justified herself entirely.
"You have, sir," she said, "a final charge to make against me. Will you be so kind as to produce it? Let us, I beseech you, terminate this conversation, which, as you may well believe, is most painful to me!"
"The day before yesterday, madame, the iron balustrade which environs the small terrace of the belvéder of the hotel was cut away at the bottom and had no support. Instead of leaning upon it at once, as is my usual custom, I mechanically placed my hand upon it, and it fell instantly to the earth!"
"Horrible!" exclaimed Paula, "and you really believed—but why should you not? this crime was not more horrid than the others. I shall have more difficulty to exculpate myself from this accusation: all I can tell you is that the day before yesterday I went out at eleven o'clock to go and breakfast with Madame de Lormoy; I returned at four o'clock, and your servant must have seen that from this hour until the moment when I went to the Opera, I did not leave my own room. I must have crossed the court-yard in order to go into your gallery, which is the only means of communication with the staircase of the belvéder, and no one enters your apartments but Frantz: interrogate him, and perhaps you may learn something from him; as for me, I have not another word to add on this subject."
After a few moments' silence, M. de Hansfeld rose and said to his wife,—
"What you tell me, madame, makes me alter my determination. Your departure, which I desired, I desire no longer; when I have spoken with Frantz, I will see you again."
And the prince quitted his wife with an air of the deepest dejection.
Wholly absorbed by the surprise and terror awakened by the accusations of her husband, Madame de Hansfeld, during the late conversation between herself and the prince, had thought only of clearing herself from the foul charges brought against her; but, once left to her own thoughts, she began deeply and profoundly to reflect upon the events of the last hour. Her first feeling was that of strong indignation against the man who could for one instant have believed her capable of crimes so heinous; but this first burst of displeasure soon gave place to a grateful sense of the generous forbearance which had so carefully concealed her supposed guilt from the world. A mind less noble and considerate would have blazoned forth those suspicions, to which a train of singular circumstances lent so apparent a reality. And then, by a sudden change of ideas, the words of M. de Morville rose to her recollection, as though for ever and indelibly impressed on her brain,—
"There can be nothing propitious in my love for you, until I dare hope to obtain your hand."
In the present state of Madame de Hansfeld's mind, these words appeared to have a deep, strange, and thrilling connexion with the terrible accusations of her husband.
Supposing that the mysterious attempts upon the prince's life had succeeded, she would then have been free—free to bestow herself upon the object of her ardent passion, and by so doing secure his happiness as well as her own.
As yet the heart of Paula had cherished no sentiment unworthy her position as a wife; but how frequently have the purest-minded, the noblest-hearted persons allowed themselves to be tempted and beguiled, for a short period, by thoughts which, without assuming the form of desires, but merely presenting themselves as suppositions, would, if realised, have assuredly produced the blackest crimes!
How many gentle and resigned females, constrained to bear the most cruel and brutal usage from husbands, who might well be won to better conduct by the angelic patience of their heart-broken partners, have involuntarily exclaimed, "Ah me! why did I not choose a generous, noble-minded man, instead of such a tyrant as fate has given me?" There is nothing murderous in this perhaps involuntary regret, which expresses neither the hope nor expectation of seeing an end to the daily tortures the unoffending victim endures; and yet in this simple sentiment is contained the germ of passions that might lead to crime—even to murder itself; it is the natural instinct of self-preservation, aware of imminent danger from which it seeks the means of escaping.
With many, whose trials and sufferings have called forth the bitter exclamation before alluded to, the burst of feeling ends there; they submit to their destiny, which henceforth presents one long unbroken path of sighs and tears.
While others, endowed either with more acute and susceptible feelings, or a smaller share of resignation, relieve their oppressed hearts by crying, "Oh were I but free from my chains and him who thus enforces my slavery!"
While some, more desperate or more outraged, will call upon the friendly aid of death to release them from the thraldom of their tyrant!
Let the consequences—the full import of these several laments be fully analysed—let these wishes be thoroughly examined, and it will invariably be found that, in a smaller or lesser degree, they all point to murder!
And what was it but a stern and fatal necessity which led Macbeth on, step by step, to commit the gradual increase of crime to which he at last arrived?
And how many well-meaning persons have looked back, with astonishment and fright, at the numerous guilty acts they have committed under the influence of what at first appeared to them a right and justifiable motive!
As regarded Paula, her preponderating idea, as she reviewed her recent conference with M. de Hansfeld, was, "The husband to whom I am bound for life, whom I love not, and whom I married merely to escape importunity, whose opinion of me is so infamous, that he believes me capable of thrice endeavouring to murder him, has been at the very extremest point of danger; and by his death I should have been at liberty to reward the affection of one who adores me with an ardour equal to that I feel for him!"
In vain did Paula, who foresaw the dangerous consequences of indulging in this reflection, attempt to fly from its fatal influence; continually, and almost unconsciously, did she return to its fresh consideration, after the manner in which persons, wandering in the mazes of a labyrinth, find themselves perpetually and unwillingly back to the point from which they at first started.
To this idea succeeded a second, equally important to develope. The individual who had pursued M. de Hansfeld with such determined ferocity of purpose must, necessarily, be well acquainted with the arrangements of the family,—was, probably, one of its members. What could be the exciting cause for desiring the death of the prince?
After several moments of deep meditation, a fresh light seemed to break upon Paula. Recalling certain mysterious words spoken by Iris; the blind, almost savage attachment of the mulatto towards herself; the hatred she had occasionally manifested towards the prince when she (Paula) had expressed her regrets at having espoused so capricious and eccentric a person as himself,—all, all convinced her, the more she reflected, that she had discovered the real author of the crime. Her first impulse was judicious. Terrified at the ferocious perseverance with which Iris had pursued her murderous intent, and much dreading that she would never pause till she had accomplished her fell design, she determined to question and circumvent her evil machinations.
An hour after the prince's departure, a summons from her mistress brought Iris into the apartment of the princess.
Madame de Hansfeld felt some hesitation as to the manner in which she should commence the conversation, with a view to arriving at the truth of what she desired to know: by expressing herself in terms of severity, however merited, she feared to alarm Iris, and thereby occasion an obstinate silence or absolute denial. At length she persuaded herself she had found the means of avoiding this difficulty.
"Iris," said she, dejectedly, as the Creole stood beside her, in prompt obedience to her summons,—"Iris, M. de Hansfeld has just left me. At length I have discovered the cause of all those eccentricities on his part, which made me fear his reason was affected."
"And what is that cause, godmother?"
"His life has been three times attempted."
"He fancies so, as he fancies many other things equally absurd and improbable."
"I tell you it is as I say; thrice has his life been in danger; I have irrefragable proofs of what I assert."
"And he knows the guilty person?"
"At least he believes he does."
"And who is this person?"
"Myself!"
"You?"
"So he thinks."
"And he has accused you of the fact; and threatened you?"
"He has."
"With what?"
"With being placed in the hands of justice,—dragged before the public tribunals."
"No matter; you are innocent."
"Still that does not diminish the disgrace of such a report, or the pain and humiliation of being suspected of such a crime."
"At least in danger, shame, or disgrace, your poor Iris can accompany you; she will never forsake you; at such a time her devotion and fidelity will be more than ever necessary to you."
This savage simplicity made Paula shudder, and opened her eyes to a part of the truth; redoubling, therefore, both her prudence and reserve, she extended her hand to Iris, saying,—
"Doubtless, as you say, at such a time your cares and attentions would be more than ever valuable and soothing to my feelings; still I should refuse them, out of regard for yourself."
"Godmother!"
"No temptation on earth should induce me to accept them."
"And you would reject my services out of regard for my welfare?"
"Decidedly; whatever may occur to me, I shall select Marianne or any other attendant to accompany me."
"And me? and me?"
"I should request the prince to send you back into Germany before the trial, and I feel quite assured he would not refuse to do so."
"But, godmother, you bewilder me! I cannot understand your motive in sending me away at a time when all others would fly from and abandon you."
"Because your attachment for me is so well known, that it might probably bring you under the suspicion of being my accomplice in those things of which, God knows, I am unjustly accused."
"Never mind my being considered your partner in guilt,—I care nothing for the opinion of the whole world, on the contrary, I should glory in having my name associated with yours, either in good or evil."
"Still, Iris, I should insist upon your departure. I will not add to the troubles which at present surround me, and to the still more formidable dangers which threaten me, the additional misery of seeing you wretched."
For an instant Iris reflected with deep earnestness, while her mistress watched her with close attention. At length the girl continued, in a cold and unnatural tone of voice,—
"Since the prince accuses you, godmother, I will go to him and tell him I am your confederate,—I shall not then be separated from you."
Paula shook with dread; she well knew that Iris was fully equal to putting this design into execution.
"Unhappy girl!" cried she, "do you not perceive that by styling yourself my accomplice you affirm my guilt; to accuse yourself is to accuse me also, and probably to lead me to a scaffold?"
"Be it so; I can then die with you."
"What mean you?" cried the princess, terrified at the triumphant look and almost fiendish determination imprinted on the features of Iris.
"I mean," replied the mulatto, with savage wildness, "that my position with you is at present a wretched one, godmother, and that the dearest wish of my heart is, to see you placed in such difficulties and misfortunes that my devotion to you shall be your only source of happiness, joy, or consolation; and I say again and again, that loving you with the intense adoration I do, I would rather a thousand times see you dead than indifferent to the passionate love I feel for you, whom I idolise as mother, sister, Deity! And I tell you also, that neither Raphael nor De Morville have ever done a thousandth part as much to merit your affection as I have done; and yet they have occupied, and will continue to occupy, your every thought, whilst I—I am but as nothing in your estimation; this is cruel, godmother—more than cruel—it is unjust and ungrateful."
"And how dare you presume thus to reproach one who has sheltered, protected, and loaded you with benefits? And how have you requited my constant kindness?"
"Since you ask me the question, godmother, I will answer it, and that, too, on the spot and without disguise, for we must fulfil our destinies. You inquire what I have done in requital of your bounty towards me? In the first place, I caused the death of Raphael by the hand of M. Charles de Brévannes. But let me previously——"
"Gracious God! do I hear aright? You—you effected the death of Raphael!—she terrifies me! Merciful heavens!"
"Yes I! but you know not Raphael's real character. Twenty times, on witnessing your tears and regrets, I have been on the point of saying to you, 'You have nothing to regret, Raphael was unworthy of you but I refrained; now you shall hear my reason for thinking so."
"Explain yourself, unhappy girl; what does all this mean? or is it after all nothing but a cruel jest?"
"No, no; Iris jests not where you are concerned. Listen to me; you may remember having left me at Venice, but you can never form an idea of what I suffered in consequence of this separation; you either did not perceive my grief, or you took no heed of it; you were even displeased at the importunity with which I implored to be permitted to accompany you. God knows you would have acted more generously towards me had you allowed me to perish in the streets, than first to excite my gratitude and afterwards to find the manifestations of that overwhelming feeling troublesome and offensive."
"The wretched creature is mad! What has your gratitude to me to do with Raphael?"
"As I before said, you left me at Venice, to my extreme grief and misery. I could not, however, endure my existence without receiving further information respecting you than was contained in an occasional cold formal letter written by you to me; by force of prayers and supplications I prevailed on Inès, your waiting-maid, to send me a minute detail of all your proceedings. You would scarcely credit the perseverance, promises, and temptations, I was compelled to employ ere I could win over this cold and inanimate person to enter into my wishes sufficiently to undertake to write me a regular account of every day's transactions. You may judge a little by that how absorbing and all-engrossing was my attachment for you!"
"Alas!" said Paula, "I know not whether to execrate, pity, or admire your devotion."
"I probably deserve at once pity, hatred, and admiration," pursued Iris, boldly. "But to proceed. From Inès I learnt the ardent court paid you by Charles de Brévannes, and that public report asserted (though falsely) that you repaid his love. Your mind and heart were, however, entirely engrossed by Raphael, of whom you daily conversed with your aunt—and in Inès's presence—but during this time of fascination and deep passion on your part Raphael was grossly deceiving you."
"Raphael!—Raphael deceive me!—Oh, no! no! 'tis another vile falsehood on your part, invented for some base purpose!"
"Nay, then, you shall have the proof of his perfidy! His motive in visiting Venice was to release himself from his vows to you, he having pledged his faith to a young Greek of Zante, named Cora. Oh, I will prove this to you ere I have done! Well, he was fully aware of the confidence you reposed in me, and he gave me credit for a degree of influence over your mind which I was far from possessing—but listen to my tale: it was to me, then, he first whispered the history of his capricious falsehood, beseeching of me to communicate it to you with all possible care and skilfulness; from my lips he fancied the tidings of his perjury would sound less cruel!"
"But his duel with De Brévannes?"
"You shall know all about that directly; let me proceed. As I listened to the false and cowardly excuses of Raphael, a feeling of mingled rage and delight took possession of my soul."
"Delight?"
"Yes, even so!—for to me those whom you love are almost equally hateful with those who I am aware are your enemies."
"Surely the fiend himself must have taken possession of your bosom. Oh! accursed was the day in which my eyes first beheld you!"
"That day is probably as accursed for me as for you! When I learnt the treachery of Raphael, I felt, as I told you, both rejoiced and incensed; but my first impulse was to avenge the slight shewn to you, and without an instant's delay, I proceeded to lay Raphael's vanity low, by ridiculing his idea of breaking the news he considered so afflicting, to you, by degrees, and assuring him you had long since imitated, if not anticipated, his inconstancy, by becoming, almost upon your first arrival at Florence, the acknowledged mistress of Charles de Brévannes."
"Yet Inès herself had written you to the contrary!"
"True; still she asserted that appearances generally were against you, and that public opinion unanimously pronounced you guilty of the charge. I only intended to inflict a severe wound on the self-love and vanity of Raphael. My expectations were, however, exceeded. Such is the overweening pride of man, that even this perfidious traitor, who had so unhesitatingly sacrificed you to his capricious fancy, became perfectly furious at the idea of having been himself deceived. I applied fresh irritation to his mortified feelings, and worked upon his offended vanity till I wrung from his outraged self-importance that which love would never have urged him to. He departed with Osorio for Venice, breathing threats of revenge and fury for your feigned falsehood! And the very being who, believing himself assured of your heart's warmest affections, had but a short time since ruthlessly and pitilessly trampled your love beneath his feet, and remorselessly left you to pine and die in anguish at his desertion, became all at once influenced by his former wild and ungovernable passion, directly he found himself on the point of losing you, and being rejected for another! You know the rest, and how deeply his error was increased by the infamous intervention of De Brévannes, who slew him not, until he had first persuaded him of your infidelity."
"Heavenly Father! can such crimes be?"
"I told you I would substantiate the perjury of Raphael. In the first place, you will be abundantly convinced by the reading of a letter addressed to yourself, and consigned by Raphael to my care when at Venice, in which he openly speaks of his approaching marriage with the young Greek. After the duel, Osorio wrote to me, begging I would suppress the letter altogether, no doubt wishing to avenge his friend by throwing the whole blame on your shoulders, by making it appear that you alone had broken your faith, while Raphael had never departed from the affection breathed forth in his last billet to you."
"But wherefore did you abandon me to all the weight of my remorse? Why, when you saw me so long remain faithful to the memory of one who had so grossly deceived me, did you not tell me I mourned an unworthy object?"
"Why did I not tell you this?"
"Yes; I asked wherefore did you not disclose the truth to me?"
"Because I would rather your affections were engrossed by the dead than the living."
"And when I spoke before you of my reluctance to return the love of M. de Morville upon the plea of my scruples at proving false to the memory of Raphael, why did you not dissipate my regrets by a single word?"
"I tell you, as I said before, because I had much rather see your heart occupied by the dead than the living; and also because I trusted and hoped that the remembrance of Raphael would effectually exclude M. de Morville from any place in your affections."
"Then you hate M. de Morville, also?" exclaimed Madame de Hansfeld, recoiling with horror from the infernal genius which seemed to prompt so young a girl to imagine and execute all she desired to have done.
Instead of immediately replying to this inquiry, Iris remained for several minutes thoughtful and silent; then, with a gloomy and overcast air, she resumed,—
"I have already said, that I hate and detest every person who loves you, or whom you love, with a hatred as deadly as I feel for your enemies. Such is my nature—such my unavoidable course."
"Then as regards M. de Morville?"
"Nay," interrupted Iris,—"nay, godmother, ask me for no further reasons than I have already given for my aversion to M. de Morville. Am I not jealous of the smallest portion of your favour? and do I not suffer the most cruel torments each time you lavish the rich treasures of your love on beings wholly incapable of valuing and appreciating you as I do; still, I would not, for my own selfish gratification, deprive you of any certain happiness, because that happiness would cause my wretchedness and despair. Oh, no; far from it;—there have been times when such evil thoughts have presented themselves to my imagination,—but I have been enabled to struggle with and overcome them!"
"Then I am to understand," said Madame de Hansfeld, bitterly, "that you grant me permission to return the affection of M. de Morville?"
"I will do more than that," returned the mulatto, casting a piercing look on her mistress.
Without being able either to account for her own sensations, or the meaning of the singular look bestowed on her by Iris, Madame de Hansfeld felt a deep blush steal over her cheek as she hastily bent her head to conceal her emotion.
In a more humble and subdued tone, the mulatto resumed, by saying,—
"And now that I have told you all I know concerning Raphael, I will also enlighten you on subjects relating to the prince."
"At length, then," murmured the princess, "this fearful mystery will be explained—she will confess all."
After remaining silent a few minutes, Iris, again fixing her scrutinising glances on the countenance of her mistress, thus resumed:—
"You have often told me that you espoused the Prince de Hansfeld with regret, and that your principal motive for bestowing your hand on him was to secure a provision for your aunt. I am correct so far, am I not?"
"Perfectly so!"
"You likewise informed me that, thanks to the extreme liberality of M. de Hansfeld, the greater part of his immense fortune would, at his death, revert to you——"
"Hold! miserable girl! you make me chill with horror! These repeated attempts on his life then——"
Without taking any notice of her mistress's remark, Iris continued,—
"Shortly after your marriage your former dejection of spirits returned with redoubled force. I hesitated no longer; and one evening, at Trieste, unperceived by any person, I put into a cup of milk——"
"Monster! I will hear no more!"
"Nay, godmother, I had taken my precautions too carefully to dread discovery, and even had I not escaped detection, none but myself could have been implicated; and besides, I should have voluntarily declared I was the sole culprit, and that no living soul was privy to my guilt."
"Horrible! and did you not shudder at the enormity of the crime you meditated?—did no whisper of conscience remind you how foul a deed you were about to commit?"
"Godmother, you desired to be released from your marriage-vows."
"How knew you that?—did I ever say so? Nay, I never even allowed such an idea to enter my mind."
"You repented having surrendered your liberty; my intention was to restore it to you."
"Have you, then, no notion of the difference between good and evil?"
"Oh! yes. Good is that which renders you happy. Evil whatever makes you wretched."
"Merciful Heavens! who would ever have believed such wild and savage enthusiasm could be found in our days and in a civilised country? And your hand trembled not? and you could calmly and coolly premeditate a crime as black as that of murder? and, still more, how could you renew your diabolical attacks undismayed by former failures?"
"After my first attempt, your melancholy became greater than ever. You frequently complained to me of what you had to endure from the inequality of the prince's temper, and many a time have I heard you curse the hour in which you were induced to consent to your ill-assorted marriage; and then, when most under the influence of gloom and depression of spirits, you have wept bitterly, and called upon death to free you from your misery. This was more than I could bear, and a second time I determined to effect the death of him who occasioned your sufferings. I planned my attack one night that we passed at a lone inn, and I contrived to gain admittance into the chamber of my intended victim by climbing up to the balcony belonging to his sleeping-apartment, the window of which opened into it, but had been left partly open to admit the air; this window I managed to close after me as I made my retreat after this second failure."
"Impossible that one so young could act with so much cold-blooded hardihood! I cannot, I will not believe the evidence of my own senses!"
"Alas! could you but comprehend how my heart sympathises with your most trifling sorrow; how each tear wrung from your eyes seems to fall like molten lead upon my brain; you would be able to understand the cold-blooded hardihood with which you reproach me! Ah! did you only know what a burden life has seemed to me since I discovered how valueless and unimportant I was to you, you could far better enter into my eager desire to secure your happiness, even at the risk of my own life, which was hateful and distasteful to me; and that I made no further attempts to achieve my design was attributable to the increased precautions adopted by the prince to secure his safety."
"Enough, enough; you fill me with horror! and now, what am I to do?—you have confessed your crime——"
"It matters little to me what is done now."
"You cannot for one instant suppose I can keep near me the person who has thrice endeavoured to deprive my husband of life—whose hand has been raised against that good and generous man who has even feigned madness to shield me from suspicion?"
"Yet you desire the death of this good and generous husband as ardently as you ever did!"
"Silence! I command."
"And should he die, you would espouse M. de Morville!"
For a moment Paula remained as though struck dumb by these fearful words, but quickly recovering herself she indignantly replied,—
"And by what right do you presume to scrutinise my thoughts? Is it any reason for my wishing the death of M. de Hansfeld that such an event would restore me to freedom? or that, in my eagerness to be free, I should even sanction any murderous attempt upon his life?"
"Still, I say, and I repeat it, you do desire the death of M. de Hansfeld."
"Begone, begone! instantly leave me!"
"Oh, pardon, godmother! pardon!" cried Iris, falling at the feet of Paula; then in a voice half-choked by convulsive sobs and sighs, she continued, "I am a guilty, sinful creature, for in all I have done I have acted with cool and calculated premeditation, knowing full well both the extent and consequences of my crime; but I again assert that I know no good worth caring for but your happiness; no evil to be dreaded but your misery, all other considerations are as nothing with me; why, then, drive me from you? was it for my own advancement, or interest, that I sought to commit the deeds which inspire you with so much horror? was it not you—absolutely and entirely you, I endeavoured to save and to serve?"
"But to serve me by such frightful means was to render me guilty as yourself!"
"Then I repent of my past conduct, and humbly beseech your pardon, thus prostrate at your feet, only do not—oh, do not send me from you; it would be to sign the warrant for my death; for, as truly as life now throbs in my veins, do I solemnly assure you that life should cease on the instant you passed such a sentence on me. You know my determined nature, and of what I am capable; but, believe me, I care nothing for my existence further than it can be rendered useful to you."
"Again, I say, begone! Die—if such be your wish—your death would be a benefit both to the world and me. Since I have heard the prince's accusations and your subsequent confessions, I feel as though surrounded by an atmosphere of crimes and treachery, which terrifies and oppresses my mind with the fearful apprehension of becoming myself infected with its black wickedness, and I shudder, lest in time I might become as guilty as yourself; begone, then, I say, begone!"
Pale and sorrowful, Iris arose from her kneeling attitude, pressed one of her mistress's hands tenderly and reverentially to her lips, and made a step towards the door, when Madame de Hansfeld, shuddering at the fearfully stern expression of the girl's features, could not refrain from exclaiming,—
"Stay, Iris!"
The girl returned—and mutely, earnestly questioned Paula by one of her expressive and soul-searching glances.
"But what," cried the princess, "am I to say to the prince? Satisfied of my innocence, he will not rest till he has discovered the real culprit—what reply can I make if he questions me on the subject? will not his suspicions naturally point to you? And, besides, merciful Heavens! now I think of it, is there not a fearful probability of his believing that you have acted by my direction, and at my suggestion? See into how inextricable a labyrinth you have plunged me!"
"Godmother! I implore but permission to remain here; or, if I must be driven hence, at least let it not be by you; should the prince command my departure, I will endeavour to submit, but, I beseech you, let not your hand deal the blow that will crush me in the dust, never more to rise."
"Supposing, even, that the suspicions of M. de Hansfeld did not fall on you, would it not be sinful and criminal in me to retain near me a creature who has thrice attempted the life of my husband, and who might, under the influence of the same savage monomania which has already actuated her, be induced to renew her murderous designs!"
"If you desire it, godmother, I am ready to bind myself by any oath you will dictate never again to aim at the life of the prince."
"If I desire it? Heavenly powers! can you for an instant suppose the contrary?"
"Then, I swear by yourself (the only oath I know of possessing sufficient power to compel my strict adherence to it) to respect the existence of M. de Hansfeld as carefully as I would do your own," said the mulatto, with a peculiar look, gazing at the same time on Paula as if she would have read the very inmost recesses of her heart; "but, should you ever wish to marry M. de Morville without having to reproach yourself for the death of the prince, a death of which I should be equally innocent as yourself, say but one word—or, no, not even a word—" and Iris, casting her glances around, as though seeking something, and perceiving on the mantel-piece a gold pin, surmounted with an enamelled head, set round with pearls, took it up, saying, "you need only give me back this pin, and without either you or myself being in the eyes of God or man in any manner instrumental in procuring the death of the prince; you shall be free as air and at liberty to espouse M. de Morville. There is nothing that need astonish you in what I say; your greatest desire is for this marriage, while my sole and absorbing wish is for your perfect and unalloyed happiness."
Before the princess could reply, Iris had disappeared.
The engraver and his daughter were deeply affected by the recital of M. de Hansfeld. The pity of Bertha was excited by the painful situation of a man compelled like Arnold to struggle between his love for his wife and the horrible suspicions he entertained of her murderous intentions towards himself; there seemed to her a singular resemblance in the sorrows of the unhappy husband and her own; both were chained for life to objects wholly unworthy of their affections, and henceforward they must each drag on a weary existence, consuming their days in vain regrets or futile hopes. Still Bertha admitted to herself that her own burden was considerably lightened, since she had met in the preserver of her father a man who had inspired her with a sympathy as sincere as it was pure and innocent.
She neither sought nor desired greater happiness than that of frequently seeing Arnold, and of hearing him converse with Pierre Raimond in a style and manner so winningly cheerful and gay, yet replete with tasteful observations on the literature of the day, as well as on every other subject indicative of an expansive and cultivated mind. We shall not allude to the exquisite delight with which, after Arnold had taken his departure, Bertha listened to the warm and energetic praises of the old engraver concerning the wonderful talent of Arnold, who, in Pierre Raimond's estimation, was one of the most learned, scientific, intelligent individuals, it had ever been his lot to meet.
The day following that in which Iris had held the conversation with her mistress we have just related, M. de Brévannes, irritated by the all-absorbing passion which engrossed his thoughts, as well as by many other causes of extreme anxiety, had resumed his brutal treatment of his wife, whose presence became more and more insupportable to him, persuaded as he was that once freed from his marriage-bonds, he should have both more leisure and better facilities for completing his affair with Madame de Hansfeld, even on the morning of the very day of which we are speaking he had compelled his poor suffering wife to endure a fresh scene of violence and abuse. The time was past when Bertha would have received these reproaches with floods of bitter tears; on the contrary, her heart smote her for finding such ready consolation in the hope and prospect of finding Arnold as usual awaiting her arrival at her father's humble but happy home. Banishing from her mind all recollection of the unkindness she had just experienced, Bertha hastened with eager delight to refresh her worn and wearied spirits in the society of the two persons dearest to her upon earth.
Great was the joy of old Pierre at the unexpected entrance of his daughter, the following day having been the one arranged between them, when last they parted, for her next visit.
"Welcome, my child!" cried the old man, tenderly caressing her, "this is a pleasure I had not ventured to promise myself before to-morrow; but I see—I see—some fresh outbreak of cruel tyranny. Well! never mind, since the brutal treatment of that man who daily cares less and less about you enables you to visit your old father more frequently, I find my dislike to him considerably decrease, and if you are not happy, at least you are no longer absolutely wretched; that is something towards a cure, and I do not despair of seeing you again happy. But what an old fool I am to let you know all the foolish fancies that come into my head at times!"
"No, no, dear father! it is very good and kind of you to try and cheer me up by hopes for the future; tell me, then, what you venture to expect may one day happen to render us both happy?"
"Why, my beloved daughter, it is this, that, finding your husband allow you uncontrolled permission to pass half your time with me, I live in hopes that he may be induced to grant you permission to reside here entirely."
"Oh! no, father: I dare not think of such a thing! he knows too well what happiness it would give me."
"Perhaps you are right; but imagine what would be my delight if such a blessing were granted to my prayers. But, alas! he only can bring about this desirable arrangement, the power of separating rests with him; and as our laws stand, a poor wife has no refuge from the thousand tortures the cruelty and neglect of her husband may inflict upon her: she must bear all—suffer all—while he, armed with absolute power, may crush her spirit to the dust with impunity. If I may venture to say so much to you, my child, it is my idea that this bad man has some new and disgraceful passion for another; his increased brutality, his desire to keep me at a distance, all conspire to make me believe it is so; and in that case he will be but too ready to grant a separation which will be as congenial with his desires as yours! What do we want of him! From the time in which you resumed giving music-lessons you have been unable to accept half the pupils offered; you your small earnings will satisfy all our humble wants; you will re-establish yourself in your old familiar apartment, our friend Arnold will come and visit us daily; what on earth can we wish for more?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing, dearest father! but this dream is too delightful to be realised!"
"Once more, I say, who knows what may be in store for us? And, although, my child, I well know your attachment for your old father, still the company of one of my time of life is not fitted to form the sole society of a young creature like you; and I should have felt some remorse in accepting your devoted affection. But now that we have Don 'Raphael' Arnold to occasionally enliven our solitude," continued Pierre Raimond, smiling and talking of him, "Bertha, see what a reward is reaped by those who cherish pure and virtuous feelings, and possess honour and integrity; but for the profound esteem which unites us three together, and gives so great a charm to our intimacy, how large a portion of happiness would be lost to each, had I believed Arnold capable of entertaining a criminal passion for you, and basely trampling under foot the sacred relations of benefactor and benefited, it would have deprived him of that friendship on our part which is as essential to his happiness as to our own!"
At this moment a knock was heard at the door of the engraver.
"Come in!" cried the old man.
The door opened, and Arnold appeared.
"Why, we are in luck's way to-day!" exclaimed Pierre Raimond; "first my daughter, then you agreeably surprise me by your presence. But what has occurred? are you not well? you appear thoughtful, dejected, absorbed in some painful idea."
"Yes, indeed, M. Arnold," added Bertha, "you do look very different from your usual cheerful appearance, and you are so silent, too! Has any fresh trouble reached you? Some fresh source of disquietude probably on account of your wife?"
Arnold started, smiled sadly, and then replied,—
"You are right, I am disturbed, and it is on my wife's account!"
"How?" exclaimed Pierre Raimond, indignantly; "does the wretched woman even presume so far as to look up after your—what shall I call it?—weakness; oh! then this time shew neither pity nor compassion, crimes such as hers deserve no mercy. Have a care that you do not carry your generosity rather too far; there is a dangerous gulf intermediate between a magnanimous forbearance towards our enemies, and a culpable indifference towards the wicked, whose misdeeds merit condign chastisement."
The utter prostration of bodily powers seemed to prevent M. de Hansfeld from making any attempt to interrupt Pierre Raimond, but when he had ceased speaking, the prince said mournfully,—
"My wife is not guilty! while I have deceived you greatly, by introducing myself into your family under a false name: candour and honesty alike call for this avowal!"
"What is this I hear?" exclaimed the old man, suddenly rising from his chair.
Pale and terrified, Bertha gazed on M. de Hansfeld with painful anxiety, from him to her father, but the features of the old man wore an expression of gloomy sternness that made her quickly turn away her eyes.
"Explain yourself, sir!" said the engraver, coldly; "it is impossible for me to attempt to find any excuse for your conduct until I have heard the whole of your reasons for acting as you have done."
"I will reveal every thing; deign, however, to bear in mind that I am in no way compelled to make my present avowal; and my sole reason for so doing is that I may remain worthy of your friendship."
"After so base a deception? hope it not, sir!"
"Be kind enough to hear my exculpation, it may probably induce you to view my offence with greater indulgence. When chance enabled me to offer you my assistance, which was afterwards so more than repaid by your humane intervention in my behalf, and that I was, during my temporary loss of consciousness, transported into your dwelling, my first impulse was to declare to you my real name; but at the very instant the words were on my lips, your daughter entered."
"And how could that prevent you following out your intention?"
"Because I recognised her!"
"Me?" exclaimed Bertha.
"Observe, I knew her only by sight," resumed Arnold; "a few evenings previously I had met your daughter at the Théâtre François: her name was pronounced in my presence, and subsequently I heard a just eulogium passed on the stern but noble pride of her father."
"You will be pleased, sir, to dispense with praise, either false or real, on the present occasion," interrupted Pierre Raimond impatiently.
"I offer them not as my words, or with any intention of conciliating you by flattery; but in order better to explain the reason of my concealing my title—since fate has thought proper that I should bear one."
"No matter, sir, what might have been your motives, you have very skilfully succeeded in deceiving the confidence of an old man and the simplicity of a young woman. I beg to congratulate you on your great success!"
"I was wrong; I seek not to deny so much; but, at least, listen to my explanation of why I did not announce my name and rank. Aware of your antipathy for certain classes of society, I was apprehensive that my position in life would prove an obstacle to the acquaintance I so much desired to cultivate with you."
"Doubtless with the equally honourable idea of seducing my daughter, and abusing the most sacred of all obligations—the gratitude of one who has been served towards his benefactor. Oh! you, and such as you belong to, are ever the same!" cried Pierre Raimond, with increasing bitterness. Then, after a momentary pause, he indignantly exclaimed, "And, not many instants ere you entered, was I discoursing with my daughter upon the charm of that noble confidence inspired by mutual esteem, and which so firmly knits together in bonds of tender friendship all faithful, upright hearts."
"Alas!" said Bertha, in low and tearful accents to the prince, "you little know the pain you have occasioned both my father and myself by your disingenuous conduct; for my father had so perfect a confidence in your honour and truth!"
"I am aware I merit all your reproaches, but remember I come voluntarily to encounter them."
"Who then are you, sir?" inquired old Pierre.
"The Prince de Hansfeld," replied Arnold, dejectedly, and looking downwards as if ashamed so to style himself.
"And you inhabit the Hôtel Lambert close by?"
"The Prince de Hansfeld!" repeated Bertha, with an astonishment mingled with compassionate interest and terror.
"In relating to you, under a feigned name, the fatal consequences of my marriage, my recital was strictly true in all save the name. Convinced at that period of the culpability of my wife—more especially after the last attempt I told you of—I had determined to make her quit France for ever. I should this very day have spread the report that I was about to depart with her, and entirely giving up the Hôtel Lambert. Carefully preserving the disguise beneath which I had formed friendships so dear and precious, I desired to live obscurely, or rather happily, in some retreat adjoining whatever retirement you should select. My ambition aimed at nothing beyond the enjoyment of your society, and the drawing still closer the bonds of our union; but these sweet dreams I am compelled to resign. When I left you yesterday I entered the apartments of Madame de Hansfeld, and provoked to find she had not commenced the preparations for her journey, exasperated equally by the positive refusal she gave to quitting Paris, I at length found courage to utter the fearful charge my tongue had hitherto refused to utter."
"And then you found she was not guilty," exclaimed Bertha. "Ah, my own heart told me such crimes were utterly impossible!"
"It was indeed so," replied M. de Hansfeld. "My wife justified herself with dignified frankness; the reasons by which she sought to vindicate herself appeared to me abundantly convincing; and an old servant, in whom I place the utmost confidence, confirmed my impression of its being utterly impossible for Madame de Hansfeld to have committed any of the three attempts upon my life. I can scarcely describe to you the contrary feelings by which I was agitated upon making this discovery; sometimes I applauded myself for having (in spite of the apparently most positive proofs of guilt) listened to the secret voice that whispered she was innocent; then I keenly reproached myself for the accusations and inconsistencies which must have tortured and perplexed my unfortunate wife, changing thereby the slender love she had ever borne me to aversion, if not to downright hatred. I reflected upon the misery my hateful suspicions must have caused her, and I felt that I had much to expiate, much for which to endeavour to obtain pardon. Still my self-upbraiding feelings failed to rekindle my affection for my wife. No! that passion was for ever extinguished amid the whirlwind of continual doubts and apprehensions in which I had lived; but for the very reason that I loved her no longer, I felt myself the more called upon to lavish on her my utmost care and attention. And now we come to the reason of my being here to reveal to you a circumstance of which I might, had I so wished, have kept you ever ignorant. But I considered it as base and dishonourable to create for myself, out of events which I now know so utterly false, an interest which might have served to cement still closer the bonds of affection which united us. Many a time have I been on the point of revealing to you my real name and station, but the fear of exciting your anger by this tardy confession has always restrained me. You now know all. Again I repeat I seek not to extenuate my fault or deny its turpitude; but take into consideration how much I had to endure, and how heavenly and soothing to my wounded heart was the gentle consolation I found here; you will then, perhaps, feel inclined to pardon me for having trembled at the bare apprehension of losing such happiness."
Pierre Raimond remained mute and pensive while M. de Hansfeld was thus speaking; by degrees the expression of bitter wrath faded from his harsh features, and just before Arnold had quite ceased, the old engraver looked earnestly towards his daughter, accompanying his regard with a movement of the head indicative of his approbation. Bertha, with downcast eyes, sat plunged in the deepest melancholy; she knew her father too well to expect that, after the prince's confession, he would admit him again to his house; and thus she saw torn from her the only charm which had enabled her to support her sufferings; the idea was too painful for her gentle nature to struggle against, and she resigned herself to utter hopelessness and despair. After a few instants' silence, Pierre Raimond extended his hand to M. de Hansfeld, saying,—
"You are right—quite right! you triumph even over my prejudices, since you nobly and voluntarily undertake a sacrifice—which may cost you much, but which must cost us more!"
"I must not hope to see you again?" inquired Arnold, sorrowfully.
"Impossible! to receive into my house the man who had saved my life, and even contract with him a degree of intimacy, warranted by the supposed equality of our conditions, was natural enough; relying, too, on the noble integrity of his heart and honourable principles, I might even blamelessly have sanctioned the brotherly affection he evinced for my child; but all that is at an end. A poor artisan like myself is not a befitting companion for a prince; neither can my daughter take his hand with an innocent freedom as she did at our last meeting; she can no longer dare to claim a sister's right to welcome one whom Providence has placed in a sphere so different from ours. No, no: I may pardon the artifice you employed to obtain our friendship—but I should be applauding and commending you for it were I henceforward to permit a continuance of your visits."
"I beseech you to believe——"
"I am fully aware how painful will be your separation from us; not, however, more so than it will be to us."
"Oh no!" murmured Bertha, unable to restrain her tears.
"But," resumed Pierre Raimond, "you can seek consolation in the pleasures which your rank and fortune can afford."
"The pleasures! alas, do you believe what you say!"
"Well, then, we will change the word, and say the duties it has pleased Providence to impose on you; you have to endeavour to erase from the mind of your wife all the pain you have made her suffer, and that to a generous mind is an occupation at once grand and noble. But what means have we of filling up the void left in our hearts by this sudden breaking off of an intimacy we delighted in? So long as this poor girl is permitted to remain with me I shall regret you less poignantly; but when I am left to myself——. My child had even become more indifferent to the many causes of unhappiness her home supplied, from the soothing pleasure and calm enjoyment she experienced in her visits here. And now what is left her? Nothing but vain regrets for a past happiness it would, perhaps, have been far better she had never known."
"Dearest father," replied Bertha, "do not afflict yourself for me; I will try and submit as I ought to this painful separation from our valued friend; besides, shall I not still have you to love and cherish?"
"True, my child; and I promise you that though he," added the old man, extending his hand to Arnold, who warmly pressed it between his own, "be no longer present to our view, he shall still live in our memories; and that we will never meet without at least mentioning his name."
"Then take courage, Monsieur Arnold," said Bertha, striving to smile even amid her fast-falling tears, "you hear what my father says—we shall never cease to cherish you in our recollections; and very, very often talk of you, and of the happy hours we have passed together. And now farewell! in this world farewell for ever!"
The violent emotion of M. de Hansfeld almost overpowered him; in a broken voice he at length contrived to murmur,—
"Adieu! dear and estimable friend and sister, adieu for ever! but oh, believe——"
Here, however, further utterance was denied him; his sobs burst forth with overwhelming force, and he hastily covered his face with his hands.
"You see," said he, after a momentary silence, during which he had succeeded in partly repressing his agitation, and addressing Pierre Raimond, who was contemplating him with deep sorrow, "still the same weak, feebleminded creature as ever; how must I sink in the estimation of one of your stern, rigid character!"
But without replying to this remark, Pierre Raimond abruptly exclaimed,—
"But, merciful heavens! now I consider, your wife's innocence of the frightful crime imputed to her is happily proved,—of that there is no doubt. But the pertinacity with which your life has been so repeatedly placed in danger; some one must be guilty of all this. At Trieste, or here, I should say it might have been effected by strangers; but while you were travelling, staying for the night merely at an inn, it appears to me it must have been the work of some person in your establishment, or at least a very singular concurrence of circumstances must exist."
"I have also asked myself the same question, but it is a mystery which resists every attempt I can make to solve it. While travelling we were accompanied but by three persons, an old servant who brought me up, a young female received into the family by Madame de Hansfeld from motives of compassion, and my chasseur, who also acted as courier, and had been a very long while in my service. To suspect my worthy old Frantz or a young girl of seventeen years of age would be preposterous; there is no one left, then, who could by probability have committed the crime but the chasseur. Now, though a most excellent and devoted servant, the unfortunate fellow is so extremely stupid and slow of imagination that it is even more impossible it could have been he than either Frantz or the young companion of my wife."
"Still, so great a persistance in these murderous attempts proves——"
"Stay, my worthy friend; the unjust suspicions I have already entertained have cost me too dear, and occasioned too much grief to myself and others for me to venture again to affix blame to any one except on certain grounds."
"But these attacks speak with a startling reality; there is no mistaking their import; and what if they are repeated?"
"I shall rejoice if it be so; that which yesterday I dreaded and sought to avoid, to-day I desire and court."
"Ah, Monsieur Arnold! if your life is valueless to yourself, do you owe nothing to the friends who would survive to lament your loss? And you do not intend making any efforts to discover the vile perpetrators of this shameful machination?"
"None whatever! why should I? am I not now here to say, Farewell for ever?"
And with these words M. de Hansfeld quitted the room in a state of mind bordering on desperation.
The morning arrived on which M. de Brévannes was to meet Madame de Hansfeld in the Jardin des Plantes. He went there at eleven o'clock.
The perusal of the black book—this mysterious confidant of the most intimate thoughts of Paula—had given Bertha's husband almost hopes: the secrets he believed he had surprised were thus summed up:—
"Madame de Hansfeld reproached herself for not hating M. de Brévannes, the murderer of Raphael, sufficiently."
"The prince made her so unhappy that she desired his death."
Iris had particularly desired M. de Brévannes not to give the princess the slightest hint of his being in possession of her most secret thoughts. This counsel served De Brévannes' plans too well for him not to follow it scrupulously.
Madame de Hansfeld came to this interview with less feeling of security than M. de Brévannes, whom she knew to be capable of spreading the most unworthy calumnies; and the effect of these calumnies might be very terrible, and reach De Morville.
Paula was thus under the necessity of proceeding very cautiously with a man for whom she entertained profound aversion, and to display towards him a feeling of kindness, in order to neutralise his slanders, temporarily at least.
But Madame de Hansfeld did not for a moment deceive herself. From the instant when De Brévannes should detect that he was trifled with, he would avenge himself by calumny, and his vengeance might have the most fatal effects on De Morville's love. The slightest suspicion might be mortal for this ideal, disinterested, romantic affection, based on reciprocal esteem and confidence.
Madame de Hansfeld went to the Jardin des Plantes, attended by Iris, in spite of the horror with which the young girl's crimes had inspired her. Under the circumstances she could not do without her.
Eleven o'clock struck when Paula and the Bohemian girl reached the entrance of the labyrinth. It was cold, although the day was fine and clear. In this season the visitors are very few, especially in this part, and the two women reached the famous cedar without meeting any one.
De Brévannes had been sitting beneath this immense tree for half an hour, and rose when he saw Madame de Hansfeld, who had the utmost difficulty to conceal her emotion when, after several years, she again encountered a man whom she had so many reasons for detesting. Her heart beat violently, and, in a low tone, she desired Iris to remain close beside her.
De Brévannes, vain and proud, interpreted this emotion to his own advantage. He gazed with ecstasy on the fine features of Paula, which the cold had mottled with the brightest tints. Her exquisite figure was displayed to the utmost advantage beneath a garnet-coloured velvet gown trimmed with ermine.
Bertha's husband allowed himself to be led into the most foolish hopes by reflecting that, by dint of persistance, he had obtained a rendezvous with a woman who combined so many charms with so much dignity; so many graces with an elevated position in society; which latter, in the eyes of De Brévannes, was by no means the least of the princess's attractions.
"Full of hope and love, M. de Brévannes approached Paula."
Full of hope and love, he approached Paula, saying, as he did so, respectfully,—
"Madame, with what impatience I have awaited this moment—how deep is my obligation for its concession—for such extreme kindness to me!"
"You know better than any one else, sir, by whom such a step is imposed upon me," said Madame de Hansfeld, alluding to De Brévannes' threats.
"I understand you, madame," said De Brévannes; "but if you knew into what a distracted state an ardent passion felt for many years can throw you!—Oh! how often have I remembered with rapture the time when I saw you every day—when, under the guise of the love I feigned for your aunt——"
"Enough, sir, enough; you did not, unquestionably, request this interview to talk to me of the past, and which for so many reasons you ought to forget."
"Forget!—can I ever forget? This recollection has effaced every other memory in my life."
"Deign to answer me, sir! When you persisted so obstinately in requesting this interview, what was your object?"
"To tell you of my love, more intense than ever—to interest you—almost in spite of yourself, in the torments I endure."
"Listen, M. de Brévannes," said Paula, with a chilling air. "Two years since you told me of your love, and I did not believe you. The silence you have since kept as to this pretended passion has proved to me that your avowal was mere gallantry. When I was informed of your pertinacious resolve to meet me here, I attributed it to quite a different motive than that of alluding to a love which offends me, and but recalls atrocious calumnies."
"Then I will not again speak of this love. I will content myself with adoring you without saying a word, awaiting every thing from time. For the proof of the sincerity of my feelings towards you, allow me only to see you sometimes. I could have requested some mutual acquaintance to have introduced me to you, but I preferred having your consent from your own lips before I ventured on that step."
"I receive only a few persons who are very intimate with me," replied Paula, formally. "M. de Hansfeld lives in solitude, and it is impossible for me, particularly after your strange avowal, to change my habits in any way."
De Brévannes could not repress a movement of vexation and anger, which reminded Madame de Hansfeld that she must be cautious with him; and she added, with a somewhat more friendly air,—
"Reflect, I beg of you, on all that occurred in Florence, and you must then confess that it is impossible for me to receive you, even if I were willing to do so."
These last words, only spoken by Madame de Hansfeld to soften the effect of her refusal, appeared to De Brévannes very encouraging. He recollected the confidences of the black book, and interpreted the constrained coldness of the princess into the reserve and dissimulation of a love which she would not then confess. He thought he ought to have consideration for these scruples, relying that, after some further scruples of ceremony, Paula would accord him opportunities of seeing her. De Brévannes replied,—
"I dare not again entreat you, madame, to allow me to be formally presented to you; yet, what unpleasant result could occur?—for, believe me, that, far from abusing the favour, I would use it with the utmost caution."
"I assure you, sir, that it is impossible under any pretext. What could I say to M. de Hansfeld?"
"That I had had the honour of knowing you in Italy—and besides, a married man," he added, with a smile, "never inspires distrust. I might, even if it were only for form's sake, have the honour of bringing Madame de Brévannes, although she is not worthy of occupying your attention for a moment."
This request seemed to strike Paula very forcibly.
Knowing the prince was deeply enamoured of Bertha, she could not conceal an ironical smile when she heard De Brévannes speak of presenting his wife at the Hôtel Lambert.
A vague presentiment, which she could not account for, whispered her that this circumstance would one day serve her hatred against De Brévannes. She replied, with assumed embarrassment,—
"If it were possible, I should have the greatest pleasure in knowing Madame de Brévannes, for I have many reasons to believe that you judge her too severely. Thus, in case I could arrange to receive you, it would be only—and I beg you to remark it—only for the sake of Madame de Brévannes; and I say this most frankly to you, sir."
"It is always thus; women never have a more intimate friend than her whose husband they are delighted to carry off. She has betrayed herself," said De Brévannes to himself; and then he added aloud, "You must see, madame, how happy I should be with any and every thing that could make my friendship with you more intimate. Allow me, then, for the love of Madame de Brévannes," he added with a fresh smile, "to present her to you, only asking for myself the privilege of sometimes accompanying her."
"It must be very seldom, sir, especially during the commencement of my acquaintance with Madame de Brévannes," added Madame de Hansfeld, after a brief pause.
"I do not desire to penetrate the motives which induce you to act thus, madame, but I submit to them." And he thought to himself,—
"This is unquestionably a master-piece of skill. The prince is jealous, and she is anxious in the first instance to remove her husband's suspicion and acquire my wife's confidence."
"On these conditions," replied Madame de Hansfeld, casting down her eyes, "I will allow of this introduction to Madame de Brévannes; but it must be distinctly understood that you never again breathe to me one word of a love as vain as it is wrong."
"I will request a modification of this clause, madame. I will undertake to do every thing in the world to try and forget you: only, in order to encourage and fortify myself in my good resolution, you will sometimes permit me to come and tell you how far I have succeeded; and as, according to your desires, I shall see you but very seldom at your own abode, you will, perhaps, deign sometimes to accord me the privilege of meeting you elsewhere."
"Sir!——"
"Only to hear me say to you that I am endeavouring to forget you. The sacrifice I make is surely great enough to allow you to grant me this compensation?"
"This is a singular way of forgetting people; but if you believe it will have its effect, then, sir, some day I may again consent to see you."
"Ah! madame, what excessive goodness!"
"But mind, if I am not satisfied with the progress of your indifference, you will not obtain a single interview from me."
"I feel confident that I may promise you, madame, that you shall have no cause to regret the favour you grant me."
After a moment's silence, Paula replied,—
"You must think it very surprising, sir, after what formerly passed between us——"
"Madame——"
"I will not add another word. One day you shall know the motive of my conduct and my generosity; but it is growing late, and I must return home. Tell me who is the person who will introduce Madame de Brévannes to me?"
"Madame de Saint-Pierre, cousin to M. de Luceval: she has already offered me her friendly services."
"Yes, I have frequently met her in society. Remember your promise, sir, and I will assent to the request."
"And you leave me already? Oh! I had so much to say to you. One more word—one more—I entreat of you."
"Impossible!—Iris, come."
The young girl followed her mistress, descending the steps of the labyrinth, after having exchanged a meaning look with M. de Brévannes.
Bertha's husband was now a still greater dupe of Iris's stratagem with respect to the black book, as, in consequence of the revelation of the gipsy girl as to Raphael's infidelity, Paula had not testified the horror she must have felt at the sight of the man who had slain her betrothed lover.
This subject gave additional authority to the collection of Madame de Hansfeld's private thoughts.
De Brévannes, as elated as overjoyed at the desire of Paula to form an acquaintance with Bertha, believed himself the only and real motive for seeking this introduction, which, no doubt, at a later period, would assure and facilitate his daily intimacy with Paula.
Whilst awaiting with extreme and confident impatience the moment of again inspecting, through the medium of the black book, the real impression caused on the mind of Madame de Hansfeld, De Brévannes returned home with a light and contented heart.
A short time previously Bertha had returned from her father's, dejected and dispirited. She had seen De Hansfeld, no doubt for the last time, and was thus compelled for ever to renounce the sweet and dear hopes in which she had so fondly indulged.
Learning that his wife was at home, De Brévannes, on entering, went straight to her apartment.
De Brévannes did not for a moment consider how humiliating and odious was the part he was preparing for his wife: no consideration, no scruple, ever prevented this man from going straight to his purpose. Under the existing circumstances, and reflecting how he could make use of Bertha as a means to his end, he said, with a kind of villainous cynicism,—
"This is the first time that my marriage has ever been of any use to me."
He still thought it necessary to assume towards his wife a tone less harsh than usual, in order to make her decide on allowing herself to be presented to the Princess de Hansfeld. Bertha visited but very little, she was so very timid; and thus, anticipating some difficulties on her part, he preferred overcoming them by mildness, as his threats would be vain before the obstinate refusal of his wife.
She so little expected her husband's visit, that she was giving free vent to her tears at the recollection that she should never again see M. de Hansfeld. For the first time she felt the full force and extent of her love. She had courage enough to refrain from cursing this cruel separation, when she reflected on the trouble in which a guilty passion might involve her existence. No longer seeing Arnold, she would be, at least, out of the reach of that danger. Such a consolation always costs many tears, and thus this young lady had hardly time to dry her eyes before her husband was by her side.
Bertha had sufficient resolution not to surprise M. de Brévannes by the sight of her tears, but yet they annoyed him, for the transition was rather extreme to begin talking to his wife of the pleasures of the world and her presentation to Madame de Hansfeld. Repressing, however, a feeling of impatience, he said, in a gentle tone, to Bertha, and affecting not to see her chagrin (as thereby he could more rapidly open on his own desire),—
"Pardon me, my love, I disturb you."
"No, no, Charles, you do not at all disturb me," said Bertha, wiping away the fresh tears that sprung to her eyes, and which she considered as reproaches for her fault.
"Have you seen your father to-day?"
"Yes; you gave me leave to go there when I——"
"Oh," said De Brévannes, interrupting Bertha, "I am not reproaching you! I do not like your father's temper, and I could not possibly live with him; but I do justice to his frankness of character, the austerity of his principles, and I am perfectly content when I know you are with him."
Bertha had nothing to reproach herself withal, and yet her heart smote her as if she had abused her husband's confidence, when, for the first time for a long while, he spoke kindly to her, and she looked down and made no reply.
De Brévannes proceeded,—
"Then these visits to your father are your only amusement since our return to Paris. With the exception of that first night at the Français, you have been nowhere; I really must draw you from your solitude."
"You are too kind, Charles. You know I do not like society, I have been so long accustomed to the life I lead; therefore, I pray you not to occupy yourself with what you call my amusements."
"Come, come, you are a child, and must let me think and decide for you in this matter: you will not repent it."
"But, Charles——"
"Oh, I shall be as obstinate as ever, and more so! for I mean it to be very agreeable to you in spite of yourself; when once you have got over your timidity, the world, which inspires you with so much alarm, will have a thousand attractions for you."
Bertha looked at her husband, quite surprised at the extraordinary change in his accent and manner. He spoke with such singular mildness at the very moment when she was reproaching herself for feeling too strong an inclination for M. de Hansfeld. The anguish, we might almost say the remorse, of the young wife increased in proportion to the apparent kindness of her husband, and she replied, with a blush,—
"Really, Charles, I am very grateful to you for all you would do for me; I am even astonished!"
"Poor, little dear, without thinking of it you reproach me severely."
"Oh, pardon me, I did not intend!"
"But I receive the reproach because I deserve it. Yes, since our return I have neglected you so much that the least attention on my part astonishes you. But patience, I have my revenge to take. That is not all; they think me an Othello, and believe it is from jealousy that I conceal my treasure from all eyes. I will reply to these maligners by taking my treasure into a great deal of society this winter, and thus prove that you inspire me with as much pride as confidence."
"I can only reply to such kind offers by accepting them, although with regret and solely from obedience to you; for I much prefer solitude, and, if you will allow me, Charles, I will live as I have done hitherto."
"No, no, I tell you; I will be as self-willed as yourself."
"Well, then, be it so. I will do what you desire; only be so kind as promise me that I shall not be forced to amuse myself too much," said Bertha, smiling bitterly. "I will go into the world since you desire it; but not too often, I hope?"
"Make yourself easy; when you have been there a few times, it will be I, I am sure, who will be obliged to restrain your wishes to return to it."
"Oh, you need not fear that, Charles!"
"You will see—you will see."
"I find myself so constrained in the society of persons whom I do not know, and I seem to see ill-natured critics in all who are around me."
"You are much too handsome not to excite the envy and malevolence of the women; but the admiration of the men avenges you, without considering that amongst the persons to whom I wish to present you there are some of such high rank, and even so exclusive, that your admission amongst them must create much jealousy."
"What do you mean, Charles?"
"You will soon learn, my love, and I shall have great pleasure in telling you. I am delighted to see you enter so fully into my views; I expected, I will tell you, to have more resistance to overcome."
"If I consented so quickly, it was from fear of displeasing you. Say but a word, and you will see with what facility I will renounce pleasures no doubt much envied."
"Assuredly that is a word I shall not say, my dear love; far from it, I shall say one which, on the contrary, would prevent you from renouncing those vain joys of the world, and which you seem so greatly to undervalue."
"And that word——"
"Do you recollect the night at the Théâtre Français?"
"Certainly."
"I mean do you remember the circumstances which have most attracted the public attention, not on the stage, but amongst the auditory?"
"Why, first there was Madame Girard's strange head-dress."
"Yes, the sobieska, certainly; and then?"
Bertha was so far from expecting what her husband was about to say to her, that she reflected a minute or so before she replied,—
"I do not know; was it the Marquise de Luceval?"
"You are, at the same time, drawing nearer to the truth and the box of the person to whom I allude."
"In what way?"
"In the next box to Madame de Luceval do you not remember a very handsome foreign princess, of whom all the world was speaking in terms of admiration?"
"A foreign princess!" repeated Bertha mechanically, whilst her heart was struck with an indefinable presentiment.
"Yes, the Princess de Hansfeld."
"What! the princess! It is she to whom——"
"I hope to present you the day after to-morrow."
"Oh, never, never!" exclaimed Bertha, involuntarily. To take advantage of this offer, which gave her the means of seeing the prince again, seemed to her most odious treachery.
De Brévannes, although astonished at his wife's exclamation, at first believed that she refused from timidity, and said,—
"Come, come, what a child you are! Although a a very high lady, the Princess de Hansfeld is one of the plainest persons in the world, and you will please her very much, I am sure."
"My dear Charles, I beg of you not to introduce me to the princess, but leave me in the retirement in which I have hitherto lived."
"My dearest girl, I beg of you, in my turn," said De Brévannes, repressing his ire, "not to have any such whim and bad taste. But just now you decided on doing what I desired, and yet now you wish to withdraw your promise. Be consistent, pray."
"It is really impossible! No, no, Charles, I beg of you, do not exact this from me."
"Really now, this is quite silly! You obstinately refuse what so many would sue for as an unexpected boon."
"I know it, I believe it; and, therefore, if I refuse, believe that I have my reasons for so doing."
"Reasons! reasons! and what may they be?"
"None in particular, but I have no wish to go into society."
De Brévannes amazed at this resistance vainly endeavoured to detect the cause. He was persuaded that the love of retirement was not the sole motive for this refusal, and, for a moment, he believed his wife jealous of the princess, and therefore replied, with a sort of kind air,—
"Be candid now, conceal nothing from me,—is there not a little jealousy in this?"
"Jealousy?"
"Yes; are you foolish enough to imagine that I am smitten by the princess?"
"No, I have no such idea, I assure you."
"What, then, can it be?" cried De Brévannes, giving way to his long-repressed impatience.
"Charles, be kind! be generous!"
"I am weary of being so, madame; and, as you have no regard for my entreaties, you shall obey my commands, and the day after to-morrow you will accompany me to Madame de Hansfeld's. Do you understand me now?"
"Charles, one word, I pray. It is to be agreeable to myself, is it not, that you wish to take me to the princess's?"
"Unquestionably,—and what then?"
"Why, since it was for me that you formed the idea, I beseech you to give it up!"
"You shall obey me!"
"Oh! go by yourself! It can be of very little consequence whether or not——"
"It is of so much consequence that you must go,—do you comprehend that?"
"It pains me to refuse you, but as you cannot force me to go——"
"Well?"
"I will not go!"
"You will not go?"
"No!"
"Your obstinacy is most absurd; and you think to lay down the law to me?"
"I act as I feel I ought."
"By refusing to go to Madame de Hansfeld's?"
"Yes, Charles."
"I am not in a humour to guess riddles, and I will therefore end our conversation in two words: if you persist in your refusal, you shall never see your father again as long as you live, but in a week you shall return to Lorraine, which you shall never again quit; I have a right to fix your place of residence. You know my will is inflexible, and therefore reflect in time."
Bertha bowed her head without any reply. Her husband could, in truth, send her to Lorraine, separate her from her father, of whom she was the sole support, as, by a just feeling of pride, Pierre Raimond refused the pension which De Brévannes had hitherto allowed him. This was not all: by obeying her husband, Bertha could conceal from the engraver the reason why she continued to see him; for he would a thousand times have preferred that his daughter should go to Lorraine, than that she should obey her husband's commands, when those commands brought her into contact with Arnold.
One moment she was on the point of confessing to De Brévannes the motive of her resistance; but reflecting on the ferocious jealousy of her husband, his anger against the engraver, from whom he would, perhaps, separate her for ever, she rejected this idea.
Unfortunately for Bertha, there was no mid course between the two alternatives. Her first impulse had been to resist with determination her husband's desires, because the tears she had shed at the remembrance of Arnold enlightened her as to the danger of this love, hitherto so calm, and thus she was forced to bow before so fatal a necessity. She replied to her husband, with a tone of despair,—
"You exact it, sir, and I obey."
"Really, it is very fortunate for you, madame."
"Only remember I have done all in my power to resist your commands; I have conjured you, supplicated you, to allow me to live in retirement, and it was you—you who would take me from it, in order to throw me into the whirlpool of the world," said Bertha, growing animated as she spoke,—"of the world, in which I have neither support nor counsel, where I shall be exposed to all the dangers which beset a young and absolutely isolated woman."
"Isolated!—but I, madame?"
"Hear me, sir! I am scarcely twenty-two years of age, you have weighed me down with unkindness and neglect,—I love you no longer; I am resolutely determined never to forget my duties, but, although perfectly confident in myself, there are certain perils to which I do not wish to expose myself."
This time Bertha had struck true by vaguely arousing the savage jealousy of De Brévannes, and she hoped thus to make him reflect upon the results of throwing a young woman, without love for or confidence in her husband, into the midst of the dissipations of society.
De Brévannes was really amazed at this new language, and looked at Bertha with irritation mingled with surprise.
"What do you say, madame?" he exclaimed. "Do you wish to make me understand that you are capable of such indignity as to forget what I have done for you? Take care, madame, take care; do not sport with such ideas, they are too serious; reflect well that self-love is a thousand times more irritable and more ardent for vengeance than love itself. If ever you had but the thought of wronging me——But no," he said, turning livid with the bare idea, "do not let us even mention such an idea—it is too serious."
"And it is because a serious day may arrive, sir, that I do suggest the idea; and as a virtuous woman, I entreat you to leave me in my retirement, and not voluntarily expose me to perils which, perhaps, I may not have the strength to resist. I owe you much, no doubt, but believe me, do not compel me also to calculate the tears I have shed, for then I could believe the debt acquitted."
"What audacity!"
"I would rather be audacious before I had done wrong, than hypocritical afterwards. Once more, for the sake of your repose as well as mine, I entreat you to leave me in my obscure anti unknown existence. Then I can promise you that I shall never fail in my duty; otherwise——"
"Otherwise?"
"You will cast me almost defenceless into the midst of the perils of the world. I know my duties, and shall endeavour to struggle; but I tell you, circumstances might occur when my powers would fail me."
The good sense, the frankness of this language, made De Brévannes' jealous blood boil again in his veins; he knew too well his wrongs to Bertha, not to see that she struggled solely and absolutely from duty. Yet duty without affection is often powerless against the incitements of passion.
This man's hell began. Placed between his jealousy and his love, he hesitated between the desire to draw his connexion with Madame de Hansfeld more closely through the introduction of Bertha, and the fear of seeing his wife surrounded by admirers.
The thought of being jealous of the prince, whom he only knew from the description of his singularities, did not occur to him for a moment; but independently of him, he conjured up a host of fearful phantoms, or rather attractive adorers. Already he saw himself mocked at, pointed at with the finger; he who had made a marriage of love, ridiculous as it was, as he said to himself,—he who had sacrificed his vanity, his ambition, his cupidity, to a poor obscure girl, was not to be safe from a painful destiny! Was he to be always a dupe in the eyes of the world, as well after as before his marriage?
At these thoughts De Brévannes shook with passion.
Now he saw in Bertha's frankness a guarantee for the future; now, on the contrary, he saw a kind of cynic defiance, until at last he was so actually alarmed at the language of a virtuous woman, who, disdained by her husband, whom she no longer loved, was at length disabused as to human frailty, and preferred avoiding, to confronting, danger.
Still not to introduce Bertha to the princess was to renounce a future which he contemplated as so brilliant.
The sacrifice was impossible, and like those who, despairing of making themselves beloved, hope to make themselves feared, he attempted to intimidate Bertha, and said to her brutally,—
"When a woman has the effrontery to profess such principles openly, madame, she has no need to go into the world to deceive her husband."
"Enough, sir, enough," said Bertha proudly; "since you interpret me thus I have nothing to add. I will accompany you when you please to the Princess de Hansfeld."
"And be on your guard as to what you do; at least, remember this—and I repeat it designedly to you—love may be indulgent, generous; pride, never; and as I should be pitiless towards you if you have the bad taste to conduct yourself improperly, so I will crush you, break you to atoms without remorse. So mind," he added, with lips contracted by passion, and taking Bertha rudely by the arm.
His wife very calmly disengaged herself and replied to him,—
"With any one but me, sir, you would, perhaps, be wrong in thus contrasting the attraction of danger to the attraction which love may offer. Believe me, when the respect of duty is powerless, terror is but vain."
And with these words Bertha quitted the room, leaving M. de Brévannes in a state of extreme irritation and intense anxiety.
Madame de Hansfeld returned extremely satisfied with her interview with De Brévannes. When she reflected on the proposition he had made of presenting Bertha to her, Paula experienced singular resentment. In the first place, knowing Arnold's love for Madame de Brévannes, she had wished to play a perfidious and wicked trick on De Brévannes, hoping at the same time to enjoy De Hansfeld's confusion when recognised by Bertha, for Paula was ignorant that Arnold had disclosed his real name and rank to Pierre Raimond.
When she told Iris of the expected introduction of Madame de Brévannes at the Hôtel Lambert, the gipsy girl exclaimed, with a bound of joy,—
"Now you have nothing more to desire; your wishes shall be realised whenever you please to give me the signal."
In vain Paula had attempted to make Iris explain herself, she had been obstinately silent after having merely replied,—
"Reflect well, godmother, and you will understand me."
The princess did reflect.
First, her thoughts dwelt on M. de Hansfeld, and she inquired of herself what were the feelings with which he had inspired lier after his suspicions of her having committed such horrid crimes. She felt as much hatred as contempt for him,—hatred for a man capable of conceiving such suspicions,—contempt for a man so weak as not boldly to accuse the individual he suspected.
Paula was doubly unjust: she forgot that Arnold had passionately loved her, and that all his sufferings had arisen in consequence of this struggle between his love and his doubts.
It was strange, she had never loved her husband with love—she was passionately enamoured of De Morville—and yet she was wounded at the prince's love for Bertha. Nothing is more absurd, and yet more common, than the jealousy of pride.
When Madame de Hansfeld's thoughts dwelt on De Morville, in a moment these sinister words appeared before her in letters of flame,—
If I were a widow!
And she dared not confess to herself that she would have been satisfied had one of the attempts of Iris succeeded.
We have already said that nothing is more fatal than to familiarise the thought and simple supposition, which, when realised, would become crime. How monstrous soever they appear at first, by degrees the mind admits them the more easily, as they the more and more incessantly flatter the interests they subserve.
This is a sad truth; but the perpetual sight of an easy prey awakens sanguinary appetites, however languid.
Returned home, Paula reflected for a long time on the mysterious words of Iris, in reference to the presentation of Bertha at the Hôtel Lambert,—
"Now you have nothing more to desire; your wishes shall be realised whenever you please to give me the signal."
A secret instinct told her, that from the meeting of the prince, De Brévannes, and Bertha, serious complications would result; but what benefit would that be to her love for De Morville?
At this moment Madame de Hansfeld was interrupted by Iris.
"What want you?" she inquired sharply.
"Godmother, a messenger has just brought me a cover addressed to me, in which was a letter for you."
Paula took the letter and shuddered as she did so.
She recognised De Morville's writing. The note contained only these words,—
"Circumstances, madame, force me to an extreme step. At any risk I address this note to your young companion. A fearful and final blow has overwhelmed the unhappy man to whom you have already deigned to extend your hand, and he has not despaired of at least your pity. This very day, with the magic words, Faust and Childe Harold, you can, if not restore his life, at least soothe his agony."
For a moment Madame de Hansfeld did not fully comprehend the purport of this letter. Then suddenly addressing herself to Iris,—
"What is to-day?"
"Thursday, godmother."
"Thursday! no, surely not," said Madame de Hansfeld. "I thought—but——" she added, with anxiety, "is not this mid-Lent?"
"Yes, godmother; I have seen some masquers pass along the streets."
"Oh, I understand—I understand," exclaimed Paula, and hastening to her secrétaire she wrote rapidly,—
"This evening between twelve and one—at the Opera in the same place as before. Faust and Childe Harold! a green riband at the hood of the Domino."
Then sealing and giving the note to Iris, she said to her,—
"This is the answer: give it to the messenger."
Iris left the room.
* * * * *
That evening at half-past twelve, at the Opera ball, Leon de Morville and Madame de Hansfeld, both masked as they had been at their first interview, met at the end of the corridor of the second circle in the left of the audience, and entered the anteroom of the stage-box in which they had had their first and last conversation.
Madame de Hansfeld was horror-struck at the change in M. de Morville's features, and the expression of despairing grief which agitated them.
"Alas! alas! what can thus distress you?" she exclaimed, throwing her mask at her feet.
"One word first," said De Morville; "I was not then deceived: this mysterious friend, who wrote to me without revealing her name——"
"Was I; yes, yes, your heart guessed rightly; but in heaven's name what disturbs you thus! is your life menaced?"
"Every thing is menaced,—my life, my reason, my love, my honour."
"What mean you?"
"I mean that I will kill myself,—I mean that the worst passions are contending within me,—I mean that I do not even recognise myself,—I mean that to my love for you I will sacrifice all that is most dear, most holy, most sacred amongst men, even if I become perjured and a parricide!"
"Oh! how you frighten me!"
"Paula, do you love me as I love you?"
"Am I not here?"
"Then you do love me?"
"Yes, oh yes!"
"Paula, let us fly; come—come."
"And your oaths?"
"Unheeded!"
"Your mother?"
"Forsaken!"
"Ah! what do you say?"
"Come—I say. This love is fatal; our destiny will be thus accomplished."
"For mercy's sake calm yourself; remember that it is but a few days since you wrote me, 'An insurmountable obstacle separates us.'"
"I can remember nothing but that I love you—I love you—I love you! This love has been subjected to every trial, it has increased in silence, it has resisted your affected indifference, it has penetrated your hidden tenderness, it has rendered me regardless of what I adored, disdainful of what I honoured. It burns my blood, it makes my reason wander, it overflows my heart. Paula, if you love me let us fly, or I die!"
"Alas! De Morville, and can you believe that you are suffering alone? Suffer—oh, no! I may now defy a life of torments; I can die; I have been loved, as I have dreamed of being loved—loved with madness, loved without calculation, scruple, or remorse—loved with such blindness that you do not even suspect the enormity of the sacrifices you offer to me, the depth of the abyss into which you would precipitate us."
"Paula, Paula, do not speak to me thus—you drive me mad: you do not know—no, you do not know, what is the seduction of a single thought, which absorbs all others in its current, always becoming deeper, wider, swifter. I, who until now could walk with head erect, dare no longer do so—there are looks I avoid—I dare not meet——"
"You? you?"
"Do you know what I have often said to myself—since an oath (which I will no longer observe) kept me estranged from you?"
"Do not speak thus."
"Well! first reflecting on the frail health of your husband, I said to myself, M. de Hansfeld may die—that would not afflict me; if his life depended on me, I should let him perish. Then I have advanced even farther; I have—but no, no—I dare not tell you this—no, not to you; I should overwhelm you with horror. Oh! cursed be the day when for the first time that thought came across my brain."
And De Morville hid his face in his hands.
The last words he had pronounced were destined long to find an echo in Paula's heart.
She was at once alarmed, and yet almost happy at the strange moral complicity with which De Morville, until then so generous and noble-minded, shared her homicidal wishes towards the prince. In this complete overthrow of the principles of the man by whom she was adored she saw a fresh proof of the influence she exercised.
Yet, by one of those contradictions, one of those feelings of devotion so common in the female mind, Madame de Hansfeld promised herself to do all in her power to remove henceforth and for ever such thoughts from De Morville's mind, and that because, perhaps, from that very moment she herself was taking the most criminal resolutions. Whatever might result, she determined that De Morville should never reproach himself hereafter for the wishes that had escaped him in a moment of frenzy.
De Morville's head was pressed in his two hands with agony, when Madame de Hansfeld said to him in a gentle but firm voice,—
"I will have courage for both of us. I will remind you of oaths formerly so binding with you, and which even the very violence of your love ought not to make you forget. Pray, De Morville, be yourself. You allude to fresh sorrows; what are they? Is your mother in worse health?"
"What if she were?"
"Oh! for mercy's sake do not talk thus. Believe me, a woman may be proud to see her influence for a moment superior to the noblest principles; but that is on condition that these principles resume their ascendancy. I should hate myself and you, if, instead of that generous heart which I have so proudly loved, I found now only a selfish and exclusive one. Would that be the proper fruit of our love?"
De Morville shook his head sorrowfully. "Alas! I fear," he said, in a gloomy tone, "I have no longer strength to resist the current which sweeps me along. Nothing of all that I formerly venerated is now strong enough to arrest my course. Your love before every thing! Perish all else!"
"Happily I have the courage you lack."
"Oh, you do not love me?"
"Not love you? But let us not talk of that at this moment, and tell me under what excitement you were when you wrote me the note which so much alarmed me, and has brought me hither this evening?"
"Not knowing how else to address you, I relied on the fidelity of your young companion; and besides, the billet was incomprehensible to all but you. Had it fallen into M. de Hansfeld's hands it could not have compromised you."
"I recognised in this your usual tact; but the cause of this note?"
"Your calmness makes me ashamed of myself. I, too, have courage; and I feel my obligation to you for recalling me to myself. Well, then, this it is which has now overwhelmed me. Yesterday my mother sent for me,— she was weaker, and suffering more than usual. I hardly dare to think that for some time past I have been less attentive to her."
"Ah! you do not know the pain you give me to hear you speak thus."
"She told me, after some hesitation, that she felt her strength exhausted; and that she knew she could not long survive. She expected from me a fresh proof of my submission to her wishes; it would make her last moment's tranquil. I begged her to explain, and she spoke to me of one of our most intimate connexions, whom she named to me, one of our oldest friends, who had a charming and accomplished daughter."
"I see it all," said Madame de Hansfeld, with firmness; "for heaven's sake, proceed."
"Proceed! Why should I tell you more? My mother urged me to promise her that I would be married whilst she was yet alive, that was, immediately. I refused. She asked me if I had any objection to make to the beauty, birth, and qualities of the young lady. I replied that I acknowledged them all, and that she was remarkably accomplished; but I told my mother, too, that I would not be married. Then she began to weep. Strong emotion is too distressing for her, weak as she is, and she fainted. I believed that I was going to lose her, and all my tenderness revived. When she came to herself, my mother pressed my hand, and with cutting tenderness begged my pardon for having sought to thwart me in my wishes; adding, that she would not again advert to the subject. But I know, I feel that I have struck her a deep blow by my refusal, the consequences of which I dare not even think of. She had built all her greatest, her final hopes on this marriage. Yesterday she was worse. I found her deeply dejected, but she did not say one word relative to this union. Yet, in spite of her soft and saddened smile, I read all her disappointment in her features, and left her with my heart rent in twain. Her failing health will not, I fear, withstand such violent shocks. Well, then, tell me, Paula, can any lot be more wretched than mine? My senses seem to have forsaken me. Was it not sufficient to be separated from you by a solemn oath? It interdicted me from the present, but then at least it left me the future. Now it is necessary, to render my mother's dying hours easy and tranquil, that I should resign myself to this hateful, impossible marriage, which will destroy even the faint hopes which remain to me. Once again, it shall not be! no, no, a thousand times no! Paula, if you love me—if you are capable of sacrificing as much as I sacrifice for you—and we shall not have to blush in each other's presence——"
"No; for both of us will then have trampled under foot our oaths and our duties," said Paula, interrupting De Morville.
"We will fly to the world's end, and——"
"And the first effervescence of love passed, the hatred and contempt we shall feel for each other will avenge those we have sacrificed. My dear De Morville, your reason wanders."
"What would you have me do?"
"Not perjure yourself; not hasten your mother's death."
"Renounce you! marry another! never—never!"
"Listen to me. I declare to you that I cannot love a man cowardly and perjured, not even if it were for my sake that he basely perjured himself. My self-love, as a woman, is satisfied when with you for a few moments passion has conquered duty. This is sufficing. You have sworn never to say a word which could induce me to forget my duty,—you will keep this oath."
"But——"
"I will keep it for you if you are ever tempted to break it."
"And this marriage?" said De Morville, with bitterness,—"this marriage, you advise me to consent to it, no doubt?"
"No."
"No? Ah! then I doubt no longer,—you do love me!"
"Love you! Oh, believe me, this marriage would be a blow even more severe to me than to you," said Paula, with emotion; "but," she added, "we must consider your poor mother, and not positively refuse to obey her; we must temporise; you must say you have re-considered your first refusal, and that you wish for time to reflect before you come to a determination so very serious; in fact, gain time."
"But what then—what then?"
"How do we know what the future may produce? Let us thank the destiny of the hour, the present moment—to-morrow is not ours."
"But when may I write to you—see you again? What will be the end of this love that burns, devours, kills me?"
"And it burns, devours, kills me also,—you do not suffer alone: is not that enough?"
"But what hope have I?"
"I know not. Does love for love go for nothing?"
"But if I could only see you sometimes at your own house or in society?"
"At my house,—oh, no! in society,—your oath forbids."
"You are pitiless."
"Soothe your mother, not by promises, but by delay. In a week I will write to you."
"To tell me——"
"You will see,—perhaps you will be more happy than you expect!"
"Indeed! Oh, tell me—tell me."
"Do not build any vain hopes on my words. Remember this: I will never permit you to fail in your oath,—but as I love you passionately——"
"Well?"
"The rest is my secret."
"Oh, how cruel you are!"
"Very cruel! for I wish you to write me to-morrow that your mother is in better health, as you have been able to tranquillise her mind. I shall be so happy to hear this,—for I reproach myself bitterly with her grief, as it is I who have involuntarily caused it."
"I promise you; and you?"
"In a week you shall know my secret. I the less regret not having received you at my own residence,—we are about, I fear, to break through our habits of solitude. M. de Hansfeld has begged me to receive several persons, amongst whom are M. and Madame de Brévannes. Do you know them?"
"I meet M. de Brévannes sometimes. They say his wife is a charming creature."
"Charming! and I fear for my husband's peace that he thinks so too."
"What do you say?"
"I believe he is deeply enamoured of Madame de Brévannes."
"The prince?"
"He is perfectly free in his actions, as I am in mine."
"And you refuse to receive me at your hotel, when your husband——"
Paula interrupted De Morville.
"I refuse you, in the first place, because you have sworn never to come to my residence; and then, blamable or not, my husband's conduct ought not to have any influence over mine. There are delicacies of position which no one can better appreciate than you. In a week you shall know more."
"In a week,—not earlier?"
"No."
"How wretched I shall be!"
"Very wretched, truly! You came here overwhelmed, despairing, reproaching yourself for your harshness to your mother, forgetting all that a man like you should never forget. I calm you, console you, offer you the means of at once conciliating your mother's wishes and our interests."
"Yes, yes, you are right. Pardon,—I came here with bad thoughts,—you made me blush, and have again raised me in my own esteem,—you have recalled me to my honour, my plighted word, and my duty to my mother. Thanks, thanks; you are right,—why should we think of to-morrow, when the present hour is so happy? Thanks for coming so immediately when I wrote you that I was overwhelmed by anguish and despair. But now I feel inspired with strength and hope,—my heart beats high: you have saved my life, my honour,—my courage recovers its temper in the fire of your love. I feel I am beloved! I shut my eyes,—I allow myself to be guided by you,—order and I obey, I have no longer any will of my own,—I intrust to you the fate of that love, which is my sole—your sole existence."
"Yes, my sole existence!" exclaimed Madame de Hansfeld, with repressed excitement. "Have implicit confidence in me, and you will see what a woman can do who loves. Write me to-morrow about your mother, and in a week you shall know my secret. Until then, except the letter I request, mind not a word—this I exact."
"Not a word! and why?"
"You shall know,—but promise me what I request, for the sake of our mutual love."
"I do promise."
"Now, then, adieu."
"Already?"
"It must be so. Am I not very imprudent to be here at all?"
"Adieu, then, Paula—your hand,—one kiss—but one!"
"Adieu, then, Paula. Your hand,—one kiss—but one!"
"Your oath! your oath!" said Paula, resuming her mask, and refusing to take off her glove.
She left the box, passed through the crowd, and quitted the theatre.
Iris awaited her in a hackney-coach as before.
During their drive home, Madame de Hansfeld was gloomy and silent. She entered the Hôtel Lambert by the small secret door, and went to her apartments, accompanied by Iris.
Paula's impassioned love for De Morville was at its height,—she felt herself capable of the most desperate determinations—her reason nearly wandered. She feared, above all, that De Morville, in spite of his repugnance for the marriage which was proposed for him, would yield to the solicitations of his dying mother. He might, perhaps, gain some time, but in a week all would be decided for Paula.
Iris, seeing the sombre pre-occupation of her mistress, guessed its cause, and said to her, after a protracted silence, pointing to a long gold pin set with turquoises, and standing in a pincushion covered with lace,—
"Godmother, do you remember my words? When you desire that the thought which you dare not avow to yourself be realised, without either you or myself taking the slightest part in its execution, give me this pin,—a few days afterwards and there will be nothing left for you to desire. Since I spoke to you, the idea has taken root and sprung in the heart in which I had sown it,—it has blossomed, and now it is ripe,—once more, that pin and you shall marry M. de Morville."
"That pin?" said Madame de Hansfeld, turning pale, and taking from the pincushion the ornament, which she contemplated for some moments with anxiety and alarm.
"That pin!" replied Iris, extending her hand to take it, her eyes shining with savage brilliancy.
Madame de Hansfeld, without raising her eyes, said in a low and agitated voice,—
"What you say. Iris, is a wicked jest, is it not? It is impossible,—how could you?"
"Give me the pin, and do not you heed the rest."
"I should be mad to believe you."
And as she spoke, Paula, resting on her elbow on the mantel-piece, still retaining the pin, had mechanically, and, as if playing with it, placed it close to the hand of Iris extended on the marble slab.
The Bohemian seized it quickly.
The princess, alarmed, snatched it from her with violence, exclaiming,—
"No, no: that would be horrible. Oh, never, never! Die first all my dearest hopes!"
Two days after the last interview between Madame de Hansfeld and De Morville at the Opera ball, Iris had again taken, as she promised, the Black Book to De Brévannes, who read therein the following lines, which, as before, he attributed to the princess:—
"I am so troubled at this meeting, that I can scarcely collect my thoughts. I am afraid to recall what I have promised to M. de Brévannes. I have given him cause to suspect, perhaps......
"What, then, can be this man's power? I went to meet him quite resolved to display the most pitiless coldness; and yet, scarcely did I see him but I forgot all—even his threats!
"What fatality has brought him here for my misfortune?
"No, no, I shall never love him!
"I am horrified at myself. What! in presence of Raphael's murderer I have not felt either hatred or fury! Oh, shame, shame upon me! he saw my weakness.
"Alas! what am I to do? When I hear his voice, when his ardent look is fixed upon me, my firmest resolutions forsake me,—I only think of listening to him, of looking at him.
"He is so handsome, with that manly and bold beauty, which the first time I saw him made upon me so deep, so lasting an impression! Every thing in him bespeaks one of those men so passionately energetic, who love as I would be loved, as I never have been loved. Oh! if my will and his were united, at what a pitch of happiness might we not arrive!
"Blessed be this book! I can say to it what I dare not reveal to any human creature,—what I dare not even utter aloud.
"He has begged to introduce his wife to me. I hate her by anticipation,—and yet it is to her that I shall be indebted one day for receiving her husband. But this obligation irritates me against her,—it is her happiness I envy. She bears the name of the man who exercises such irresistible influence over me,—a name which I cannot now hear without being troubled. Oh, that woman! I hate her, I hate her—she is too happy!
"After all, why blush at my love? It will never be guilty—for it will never be happy!
"My heart's ambition is too great. He shall never know what he might have been to me had we both been free. Oh! what a dream! what paradise!
"The passion I experience is too powerful, too vast, to descend even to the falsehoods to which we should both be reduced, if we sought the pleasures of a vulgar love. No, no, to belong to him in the open gaze of day, in the face of the world, to bear his name nobly and proudly—or bury my unhappy love in the depths of my heart. No human power can make me surrender one of these two alternatives.
"But as he and I wear the chains of marriage,—those heavy, dragging chains! but as chance, in liberating the one would not liberate the other, my life will be but one long regret, one long punishment. What I say to you is true,—I have no interest in lying to myself. I know well enough my own firmness of character to be sure of my resolution.
"And then he also has so much will, so much energy, that it is to be worthy of him to imitate his energy and will, even though they should be employed in resisting him.
"Oh he does not know what power it implies to have resisted a man like him.
"I find a singular charm in thus accounting to myself for thoughts, of which he will for ever remain in ignorance,—in being in these mute confidences as tender, as impassioned towards him, as I am cold and reserved in his presence: I am content with my last trial on this point—with what a chilling air I received him!
"But then what courage it required! But for the presence of Iris I should have been still more cold, but as she was there I felt protected against myself.
"This young girl troubles me, she is so singularly careful and attentive to me,—yet, I know not why, I feel a vague presentiment that her conduct is hypocritical. She is gloomy, distracted, preoccupied. What have I done to her? Sometimes, it is true, at moments of melancholy or irritation, I am cross to her. I must think of this and watch her.
"What have I learned? No, no, it is impossible,—hell would not have that.
"His wife, Bertha de Brévannes, unfaithful to him!
"What if the proofs which are brought to me were true?
"Oh, he is shamefully betrayed! Wicked creature! with her soft and gentle air; she does not feel, then, what it is to be so happy, so honoured, as to bear his name? He—he deceived—like the lowest of men—he jested at, mocked at, perhaps,—I cannot express what I feel at this idea, which never would have occurred to me.
"Oh! I am mad—mad; it is not love, it is idolatry!"
The supposed memoranda of Madame de Hansfeld had been perfidiously broken off at this place.
As he read the latter portion, which referred to the pretended infidelity of Bertha, De Brévannes bounded from his seat with anguish and rage.
For the very reason that the reading of the first part of the journal had plunged him into all the ravishments of pride, and that pride excited to the highest pitch, this counter-blow was the more painful, and he could hardly restrain himself when he thought that he was, perchance, playing a foolish part in the eyes of Paula. He knew women well enough to be aware, that if it be pleasant, very pleasant, to them to carry off a husband or a lover from a faithful heart, they care but very little to serve as a revenge for a man who has been himself deceived.
Iris herself was frightened at the expression of anger and hatred which contracted De Brévannes' features, as he read this passage in the Black Book, and she left Bertha's husband assured of having stricken where she wished to strike.
In fact, she quitted M. de Brévannes in a state of excitement impossible to describe.
On the one hand, he flattered himself that he was beloved by Madame de Hansfeld with intense energy,—but he had also the certainty that he should never obtain any thing from so resolute a woman, who drew from the very excess of her love the means of resistance which she calculated on using; desiring and believing most firmly that she proved her passion by the obstinate refusals in which she gloried.
On the other hand, his blood boiled with rage when he thought that Bertha deceived him,—that, perhaps, he was an object of mockery and sarcasm to society. The least circumstances of his conversation with his wife returned to his mind, and he found in them the confirmation of those suspicions which some lines of the Black Book had awakened.
He did not know what to resolve upon. The day after he was to present his wife to Madame de Hansfeld; it was, therefore, necessary to be on his guard with Bertha until after the introduction, which he looked upon as so important for the future success of his love,—but how to restrain himself until then; he—always accustomed to make his wife endure his fits of ill temper on any occasion, however trivial.
He exhausted thought in reflecting as to the person who could be the guilty participator with Madame de Brévannes. And, after mature reflection, remembering the retiring habits Bertha had of late affected, he persuaded himself that she was engaged in some low and vulgar amour.
Iris, with infernal sagacity, had skilfully made it appear that Paula dwelt greatly on the happiness and pride she would have had in bearing the name of De Brévannes; and it was that name Bertha was dishonouring.
The snare was too skilfully spread for this vain, jealous, haughty, and wickedly cruel man, to allow of his escaping it. And this was all calculated in the well-digested and infernal scheme of Iris.
In fact, after having passed through every degree of anger, and having mentally devoted himself to the most violent threats against Bertha and her unknown accomplice, De Brévannes suddenly smiled with savage joy,—he was calm, appeased, more than satisfied, at Bertha's infidelity; and he had but one fear, that of not being able to procure flagrant proofs of his own dishonour.
* * * * *
He judged it requisite to his projects to conceal from Madame de Brévannes the information he had received, in order to watch closely her slightest motions, and he was thus desirous of lulling her into the most perfect security.
Thus the next day (the day on which Bertha was to be introduced) De Brévannes entered his wife's apartment, after having first sent her a very large nosegay and a beautiful head-dress of real flowers.
But little accustomed to her husband's attentions, Bertha was doubly surprised at receiving this gift of flowers, coming as it did after the scene of the preceding night, in which M. de Brévannes had exhibited a more than ordinary brutality.
Nor was she less astonished at the air of gentleness and contrition he thought proper to assume. She was, however, totally unable to assign any other cause for it than real regret for the past, and, as such, received with all simplicity and kindness the amiable expression which, for the time being, softened the usually harsh features of M. de Brévannes.
Although she had done her utmost to avoid going to the Hôtel Lambert, in the dread of meeting M. de Hansfeld there, yet the heart of Bertha reproached her with having concealed from her husband the interviews that had already taken place between herself and Arnold at the house of her father, and each kind or conciliating word or look on the part of M. de Brévannes appeared to aggravate her guilt and exaggerate his merits.
It was, therefore, with a confused and fluttered manner she thanked him for the flowers he had sent her.
"You are too good, Charles," said she; "you are, indeed! You positively spoil me! The bouquet was magnificent, and the camelias really splendid! too much so, indeed, for me!"
"You say rightly, my love, you require no ornament to render you irresistibly charming! Still I could not deny myself the pleasure of sending you those needless, useless helps to ordinary beauty; but I am delighted the flowers pleased you, and that so small an attention on my part has been deemed worthy of notice by you. Alas! I have but too many faults to atone for!"
"Nay, Charles!"
"Stop me not—for I must speak. Was I not only yesterday cruel and unkind? did I not do all in my power to make you hate and detest me? But husbands are a sad set—there is no denying it."
"I assure you, Charles, I had entirely forgotten all that had occurred."
"Because your good and generous nature is incapable of feeling ill-will towards any one. Truly there are times when I seriously ask myself how I have been able so long to undervalue so many rare and precious qualities as are contained within your breast."
"Charles, you pain me. I beseech you——"
"No, I say again, I cannot tell where could have been my judgment, my discrimination. Yet that accounts, too, for the almost blind confidence I have ever reposed in you, always excepting those foolish, groundless fits of jealousy which have from time to time ruffled my repose; and you can scarcely believe how greatly our yesterday's conversation has increased the confidence I previously entertained."
"Charles!"
"At first, I will candidly confess, the candour with which you stated your fears did render me somewhat uneasy, but, upon subsequent reflection, I found in all you had said the most satisfactory assurances of your future truth and honour, as well as a fresh proof of the exemplary good principle which regulates your every action."
"I entreat of you," said Bertha, with a degree of confusion, which did not escape the searching eye of her husband, "I entreat of you not to allude further to so painful a subject."
"On the contrary, let it be my punishment to speak much and constantly of a scene in which I confess I acted like a fool and a brute,—like an idiot. I was offended with your candour and perfect ingenuousness: why should not modesty be as regular an accompaniment to honour as it is to talent? Suppose I had requested you to sing before a numerous audience, would you have said, willingly, for I feel assured of acquitting myself admirably? Oh, no, on the contrary, you would have expressed all manner of fears; and yet it is no flattery to say your talents are unrivalled. Now in the same spirit of modesty did you reply to my expressed wish that you should exhibit yourself more frequently, mix more in the great and the gay world, you then sensibly remarked, 'I wish to remain faithful to all the duties belonging to my station, but I dread the perils and temptations by which a young person like myself is ordinarily beset, and I had much rather fly from such dangers than attempt to combat them.'"
"Again!" said Bertha, deeply and unaffectedly touched by her husband's mild and tolerant language, "let me implore as a favour that you will revert no more to the past."
"Nay, nay," answered De Brévannes gaily, "you shall not induce me to give up my point! I am determined to prove to you that I am as indefatigable in the pursuit of good as evil, and that my frankness equals your uprightness, which is not awarding a very slender compliment to myself; and you shall to-day learn what my evil temper of yesterday made me keep concealed from you."
"What was it?"
"You know I but seldom trouble you with my affairs. This time you will, perhaps, excuse me if I go into some particulars which may prove wearisome to your patience!"
"I beseech you proceed!"
"A relation of the Princess de Hansfeld holds a high and influential post in Austria, and might serve me materially by obtaining important privileges for a company now forming in Vienna, and in which I have embarked considerable sums. Now, in obtaining an introduction to the princess, and in supplicating of you to endeavour to conciliate her favour, I confess I am influenced by motives of pure interest. Still it is a mutual interest, since it tends to the augmentation of our common wealth."
"And why did you not state this yesterday?"
"I probably should have done so had I not been carried away by displeasure at your firm refusal to be presented to Madame de Hansfeld. I plead guilty to having a very ungovernable temper, and yesterday I positively lost all command over myself. We parted mutually dissatisfied with each other, and I lost the opportunity of telling you what I wished you to know."
"If such be your reasons, Charles, rely upon my doing all in my power to render myself agreeable to the princess. Now that I know your interests are involved in the matter, I shall have an aim, a purpose to gain in visiting Madame de Hansfeld, and I shall view with far less dread the perils my too great vanity led me to fear."
"Thanks, my good girl! See what it is to have a right understanding on a subject! how every difficulty seems smoothed by an absence of all mystery and disguise. How greatly I reproach myself for the impetuosity I betrayed last night! When one is carried away by passion, it is so very unlikely we should be able to state our real reasons with calmness and accuracy. And now that we have found the sweets, as well as the advantages, of reposing unlimited confidence, allow me to open my whole heart to you."
"Oh, yes! I pray of you do so! If you only knew how much my heart feels touched and gratified by language so new and unusual on your part!"
"And I, too, am wholly at a loss to understand the novel feelings I myself entertain towards you."
"I know not what you mean, Charles!"
After a brief silence, M. de Brévannes resumed by saying,—
"Listen to me! There are two ways of regarding one's wife—either as a mistress passionately adored, or as a highly valued friend. For a long while my heart cherished you as the former of these endearing relations; faults on my part, I will not attempt to deny, have deprived me of the inestimable privilege of ranking as your lover, leaving me but the cold shadow of my former happiness under the title of your friend. To pass from the ardent lover to the sober reality of friendship is a bitter struggle, when she we love, though bound by wedded ties, is charming and captivating as a mistress."
"Let me beseech you——"
"But, great as it is, I have made the sacrifice. I have bowed to the stern commands which bid me hope no more; and it is to my true, faithful, and sincere friend I now address myself!"
So perfect was the dissimulation with which M. de Brévannes covered his guilty designs, and so natural and affecting was the tone of his voice while speaking, that a tear of regret filled the eye of Bertha, while a full confession of her own disingenuousness trembled on her lips.
"And be assured," said she at length, "that your friend will study henceforward to deserve that title, and to be worthy of——"
"Enough, enough!" said M. de Brévannes, hastily interrupting Bertha. "I know your exceeding goodness, and that your delicate mind is ever sensitively alive to the wishes and happiness of others. Permit me, however, to finish what I was about to say. As there are two ways of loving a wife, so are there two distinct modes of entertaining jealousy."
"Now, indeed, I am at a loss to comprehend you!"
"I fear, indeed, you experience some difficulty on this head, more especially after some expressions I made use of yesterday, and which you may probably have wrongly interpreted."
"What can you mean?"
"Oh, it is more than likely for you to have done so. Unfortunately our discussion of yesterday assumed so high a tone that all things wore an air of exaggeration. When I spoke of the many shades of difference which existed between jealousy, love, and self-love, I merely meant to say that the species of jealousy felt for one towards whom our sentiments are but those of friendship is widely dissimilar to that raging torrent which sweeps all before it at the bare idea of being superseded in the affections of a wife who possesses our love. In the first instance the heart alone suffers; in the second, a whirlwind of mighty passions tears our very vitals, our brain totters beneath the agonising dread of losing the beloved object, and, unfortunately, wounded pride shuts out from the jealous man the many attempts of awakened tenderness to calm and heal the smarting of his wounds. Do you understand me?"
"But——"
"I see you do not. Well, then, I will speak to you more plainly still. I only fear not being able distinctly to state my sentiments, and probably shocking you by their imperfect display."
"Speak on, and fear nothing!"
"Then listen to me. You have long ceased to excite in my breast any feelings beyond those of friendship. Still, at two-and-twenty you may well fear the temptations you mentioned yesterday, and, alas! no one is more exposed to them than yourself, for with shame and sorrow I confess that my conduct towards you, if it be not capable of authorising, is at least perfectly calculated to extenuate, your faults."
"Can you for an instant suppose——"
"Give me leave to complete what I was saying. If I have still the right of being (as I confess I am) horribly jealous as far as my pride is concerned, that is to say, of all external appearances, all outward demonstrations of regard for another, I am aware I have unfortunately lost all claim to restrain or govern the impulses of your heart. My own infidelity and unkindness have naturally chilled your affections towards myself, and I have no claim even to inquire who is the fortunate object who engrosses them. Nothing could be at once more positively unjust, as well as absurd, than for me to hope or expect that, at your young age, your heart should remain dead and insensible to love."
Bertha gazed on her husband with stupor.
"The only stipulation I consider myself entitled to make," continued he, "and that is one I should most rigidly exact, is that my dear friend will, in every outward attention to decorum, most scrupulously respect the honour of my name, as she could possibly do were we linked together in the bonds of the most tender love. In fact, I consider that your public life is my affair, inasmuch as you are known and recognised as my wife. The career of your heart is henceforward a sealed book for me, since I have forfeited all right or control over it. You appear astonished at my words, but reflect a little, recall our yesterday's conversation, and you will find that I then expressed myself in almost similar terms, differing merely in tone and manner, the matter precisely the same. But, to finish our present discourse, understand me, that from the present day you will enjoy the most perfect and uncontrolled liberty—be your own mistress in every respect—we are henceforward, if not legally, at least virtually, separated. But for the very reason that this absolute and unrestricted freedom must naturally lead you to the very extreme limit of propriety, so much the more scrupulous must you be not to transgress any outward duty; for I tell you again, in the same proportion as I shall be tolerant and indulgent where merely the heart is concerned, so will you find me rigid and mercilessly severe as regards all the acknowledged convenances of society. And now, my dear, I will leave you to meditate on what you have heard—from this day forward our relative positions are distinctly defined. It is most probable that I should have required this mutual forbearance as regards the affections of the heart long before yourself. However, this is not the time to divulge the secrets we may possibly each be fancying secure within the recesses of our own bosoms, and I shall shortly claim the indulgent hearing of my kind friend while I unfold a little tendresse of my own. By the way, talking of indulgences, that reminds me that I have to beg leave not only to absent myself, but also your pardon for leaving you quite alone. In a few days' time I shall depart on a short but most important journey."
"You going, Charles, and at the present time?"
"I shall be absent but a very short period, a fortnight at the longest, and, as I before said, upon most urgent business; but in the meanwhile I intrust you with the affair for which I am anxious to engage the interest of Madame de Hansfeld, fully persuaded it could not be in safer or surer hands. So fare ye well for the present. Mind and call up all your beauty as you mingle in the gay world, for, if I have lost the insatiate vanity of the lover, I still retain that of the husband!"
So saying M. de Brévannes touched the forehead of Bertha with his lips and went out. He had restrained himself long enough, and too long for his patience. When alone he gave full vent to the rage and fury which knew no bounds. The varied emotions so legibly depicted on the ingenuous countenance of Bertha while her husband was speaking, the sort of involuntary joy (of which she seemed almost instantly ashamed, though unable to conceal it) with which she heard the announcement of her future independence, her vague apprehensions, her hopes by turns awakened and restrained, all served to enlighten M. de Brévannes as to the state of Bertha's heart.
He could not be mistaken—she loved. He was far too experienced in such matters to entertain the least doubt on the subject.
He had, then, a rival, and his wife was deceiving him.
It was therefore with a species of satisfaction, at once savage and revengeful, he thought of the profound security and blind confidence in which he had left Madame de Brévannes.
The passion conceived by Madame de Hansfeld for M. de Morville had considerably augmented since her last interview during the Opera ball.
This love was in the breast of Paula a singular mixture of noble and exalted sentiments and gloomy, sinister ideas. She would have thought it a degradation of the man she loved had she suffered him to break his oath; while, at the same time, she resolved, if not to encourage, at least to permit, Iris to carry on any plot she thought proper against the life of her husband, in order that she might be at liberty to espouse M. de Morville without his having in any manner broken his vow.
In vain did Paula seek to remain in ignorance of Iris's machinations, the consequences of which she could but imperfectly make out. The very violence of her reluctance, her shuddering apprehensions, and anticipated remorse, all served to shew her the criminal part she was taking in the affair, which had originated solely in her wild, ungovernable passion. Yet, strange to say, had the revelations of Iris but occurred some few months sooner, when the prince was still under the influence of his passionate love for Paula—a love so strong, and yet so clear-sighted, that it remained unshaken by the apparent evidences of her guilt and foresaw her innocence:—if, therefore, we repeat, the confessions of Iris had been made when the only obstacle that prevented Paula from returning the prince's affection was the remembrance of Raphael—of Raphael the hitherto lamented and adored—what would have been the results?
Arnold would have learned the innocence of Paula, while she would have become acquainted with the infamous deceit practised by Raphael.
The chances were all in favour of Madame de Hansfeld's returning the love of the prince, who had proved his affection to be so genuine and ardent; by unremitted assiduities he would have induced Paula to pardon him for entertaining suspicions so injurious to her, and which had caused him so much torture, both bodily and mentally, and Paula must ere long have been constrained to admit, that only a passion as blind, as all-absorbing as that of her husband could have enabled him to continue that almost adoring love, in spite even of the horrible appearances which proclaimed her a would be murderess.
Unfortunately it was not so; and the tardy and constrained confessions of Iris were not made until M. de Hansfeld had transferred his affections to Bertha, and Madame de Hansfeld had given her heart to M. de Morville. This fatal position of affairs rendered the situation of all concerned equally unendurable.
Madame de Hansfeld saw herself doomed to drag on a wearisome existence beside a man who cared not for her, he even loved another, and his heart, shut for ever against any warmer feeling for Paula than pity and regret, could but coldly and feebly seek, by surrounding her with every worldly enjoyment, to atone for those suspicions to which she had been sacrificed. And while separated from the object of her new affection by an insuperable obstacle, she saw, through the enchanting rays of love, one young, handsome, and devoted, so passionately devoted as to have been willing to sacrifice at her feet the two leading idols of his life—his mother and his promise—and, amid all this, Paula had not even the gratification of thinking that by devoting herself to her duties she in the smallest degree contributed to the happiness of M. de Hansfeld, who, on his side, finding in Bertha the most seductive union of personal graces and perfect sweetness of character, gave himself up without a struggle to the delights of a passion as pure and fervid as that which now filled his breast, finding full excuse in the frigid indifference Paula had ever evinced towards him.
Such was the situation of M. and Madame de Hansfeld at the moment when, by way of conciliating M. de Brévannes, who had it in his power to calumniate her so fearfully, Paula was about to receive both himself and his wife at the Hôtel Lambert.
The infatuation of Paula had now reached a point that rendered it quite impossible for her much longer to endure her present position. She had named eight days to M. de Morville as the period for acquainting him with her final resolution, because she trusted that ere then her future destiny would be decided.
Either she would courageously accept the propositions of Iris, or her own hand should take away her life if the project of the mulatto appeared to her to require a too direct or too personal a co-operation.
Nothing is more strange, yet at the same time real, than the tiny particles fraught with deadly sin, which, floating over the subdued conscience, form at last a mass of guilt, startling and fearful to contemplate.
* * * * *
* * * * *
* * * * *
The result of Madame de Hansfeld's deep reverie was to summon Iris; the ready messenger of evil came quickly at her call.
"You sent for me, godmother?" said Iris.
"Yes; shut the door, see that no one can overhear us."
Iris went out for a moment, and then returned.
"No one, godmother."
Paula's heart beat in a strange manner, and she lowered her eyes before the searching glance of the gipsy girl; at length she said, making an effort over herself,—
"Listen to me attentively. The conversation I am about to have with you will be the last we shall ever have on the subject of—you know what. You said to me some days since,—'a word—a sign from you—this pin'—I suppose—and——"
Paula could not finish the sentence. Iris replied,—
"And you are free!"
"You told me so."
"I repeat it."
"You say you are devoted to me."
"In the past—at the present—for the future!"
"Give me a proof."
"Speak, godmother."
"Tell me by what means you propose to make me free?"
Madame de Hansfeld's voice faltered, then she added, instantly and quickly,—
"Without either you or me being inculpated in the—the—What is to be done?"
These words seemed to burn Paula's lips as she uttered them.
"Why that question?"
"I have no faith in the possibility of what you have promised me and do not look to profit by it, but I wish to know by what means you propose—in fact, you understand me——"
"What purpose will it answer to tell you?"
"If they appear to me less horrid than I conjecture, perhaps—I do not know——"
Then the princess, frightened at what she had said, put her hand over her eyes and exclaimed,—
"No, no, leave me—go—and never more return. I will never see you again! Begone!"
"Forgive me, godmother!"
"No, begone, I tell you!"
"Well, then, I will tell you by what means."
And Iris lowered her voice, awaiting with anxiety another order to go.
Paula remained silent.
Iris continued,—
"Yes, I will, as you desire it, inform you of the means by which you may be free. But mind, beware!"
Madame de Hansfeld looked steadfastly at Iris.
"I am to mind?—beware?"
"Yes! for you may bitterly repent having interrogated me on this subject. You have scruples now, and they will become greater when you are informed of my intentions. But for the promise you extracted from me not to do anything without your knowledge I might have saved you a world of anguish; sometimes even I ask myself if I am not mad to obey you in this particular. I have no wish or aim but your welfare. The odium of the perjury will only fall back on me; no matter—you will be happy!"
"Have you dared to disobey me in what you have promised?"
"Unfortunately, I have not dared; your word is law to me—at least allow this submission to your will to give you a profound, blind faith in my word."
"Your word?" said Paula, scornfully.
"Yes, and I swear to you that events have so marched without your mixing with them in any way, as you know better than any one else; that in less than a week you may, perhaps, be free, and not only will no suspicion light on you, but the interest, the sympathies of the world will be with you."
Madame de Hansfeld looked at Iris with surprise, almost with consternation.
"But this being the case, why do you not inform me fully as to these events since you say I am so entirely strange to them?"
"Because of your scruples, godmother."
"My scruples? Why should I have any? Am I not innocent of what is passing?"
"Your scruples will arise, although very absurd: they will arise, I tell you, and you will listen to them."
"In what way?"
"Suppose you were informed of every particular, by some unheard—of prodigy, of the future destiny of a person utterly indifferent to you, whom you do not even know. This prescience might acquaint you that this person would die in eight days,—die by some fatal occurrence, although you would not, in the slightest way, be mixed up in the causes of this death, or in any way profit by it, or without your being able to change the course of events which lead to it; yet would you not feel a kind of agony at this disclosure; would you not consider yourself as in some way mixed up with this result when you saw the person ignorant of the terrible fate in store whilst you were cognisant of it?"
"I should not think myself an accomplice in this death, but I should feel much horror at seeing that person advance, confident and tranquil, towards an abyss of which he knew nothing."
"Well! would not your horror become remorse if this person were your own husband, and if his destiny fulfilled your every wish, realised your every hope?"
"What do you mean?"
"How innocent soever you might be of such a catastrophe, should you not consider yourself as almost criminal,—only because you were informed beforehand? Again, do not ask me any more; do not compel me to speak! You will repent it when too late. Rely on me!"
"Rely on you? No, no, I know what you are capable of. I was entirely innocent of your horrible attempts on M. de Hansfeld, yet appearances condemned me, yet I tell you I wish to know all."
"Have you resolved on renouncing M. de Morville?"
"What has that to do with it?"
"I must know this—for in this case only ought I to speak to you. It would be cruel to allow two creatures of God to perish for nothing."
"Then the life of two persons would be endangered?" cried Madame de Hansfeld.
"Wretched me! wretched you!" said Iris, much distressed, or appearing to be so, at her indiscretion. "You make me say what I did not wish to utter. Well, yet at this moment, the lives of two persons are in jeopardy."
"Thank God! you have been compelled to speak out: I will never buy the happiness of my whole life at such a price. I renounce M. de Morville! And may I be accursed if I ever——"
"Stay, godmother! I know the strength of your scruples, but I know, too, the strength of your love; although the lives of two persons may be in jeopardy, you may be accursed."
"Wretched girl!"
"Stay, godmother! let us leave events to follow their course—what will be will be!"
"Now you have filled my soul with affright, for I know of what you are capable: you seek to be silent. No—no—speak—I desire—I command you!"
"Well, then, since you force me to speak out, you shall know all. The prince loves Bertha, and is beloved by her; you know the fierce jealousy of M. de Brévannes. He already hates the prince because he is your husband! Now he knows that he is loved by his wife, he hates him to very death. Suppose Bertha were so imprudent as to grant M. de Hansfeld an interview—innocent or guilty—voluntarily or by chance—no matter—M. de Brévannes is informed of it; surprises them by a stratagem; appearances are against them—what would he do, think you? What would he do?"
"Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!"
"What would he do? Why, he believes himself beloved by you; believes by making you free—you and himself by the double murder be might commit with impunity, he would obtain your hand——"
"This is an infernal machination!"
"Would you be free? Yes or no! And how far would you have participated in all this? Your husband deceives you for the wife of a man whom you hate. You cannot help this. This man kills them both! Are you his accomplice? Who or what prevents you from marrying M. de Morville? In what way even could he ever suspect you of having been mixed up in this machination? On the contrary, as I tell you, the interest and sympathies of the world would be with you."
"You are mad; M. de Brévannes would hardly go to such an extremity if he believed himself beloved by me; and he would not surely dare to offer me his hand,—stained, imbrued with my husband's blood?"
"Such is the man's proud jealousy, so ungoverned, so wild, that under no circumstances would he hesitate to kill his wife and her seducer; but as he loves you with all the more ardour as he believes himself madly adored by you, he does not doubt that you would brave all appearances, even to bestowing your hand upon him, and at this moment he is spreading the snare in which your husband and his wife must inevitably perish."
"You have lost your senses. This man, vain as he is, can never believe himself beloved by me. I have scarcely said a few civil words to him in order to avert the evil he might do me."
"But I have spoken for you!"
"You have spoken for me?"
Iris related to Madame de Hansfeld the history of the Black Book.
Paula was overwhelmed, stupefied at this revelation. She could hardly credit such daring with such diabolical plotting.
"It is most horrible!" she exclaimed.
Iris looked at her mistress with a strange smile, and replied,—
"You had until now reproached me with acting without your consent. I was wrong. I wished to conceal from you the thread of the events which were in preparation, and you have forced me to disclose all to you. You will now repent it that you know all. Whilst you were in ignorance of this plot, its success was a stroke of chance for you by which you would have profited without compunction. Now you know all, if you do not reveal it, you become an accomplice."
"Then why did you obey me?" exclaimed Madame de Hansfeld, mechanically. "Why did you tell me all these horrors?"
This was an odious remark, and betrayed the secret and homicidal thought of Paula.
"I obeyed you," replied Iris, bitterly, "because I expected with impatience your order to do so, and if you had not given me that order I should have told you all without your commands."
"What says she?"
"I do not abuse myself; whilst I am working your happiness, I am hastening my own misery. When you marry M. de Morville, I should become to you merely an object of contempt and horror. It is true I might have acted in silence without informing you, and leaving you innocently to reap the fruit of this deadly plot. But I will confess—I had not the courage. I am willing to die for you, but it must be on condition that you say at least, 'Die for me!'"
"Strange and abominable creature!"
"Your happiness will be my misery, I know; but at least, in the bosom of your happy love you may perchance have a recollection for me."
"If you sacrifice yourself thus for my interest, you should have waited until what you call my happiness was assured, in order to have made this disclosure to me.
"No, godmother: it is possible that you have more virtue than love, and thus your happiness would have been for ever poisoned. Now, on the contrary, when you know the price of your union with M. de Morville, you can choose, you have in your hands the future of your love for M. de Morville, the fate of Bertha de Brévannes, and of your husband. One word from you to M. de Brévannes as to the Black Book, and he will know that you do not love him, that he is the dupe of a trick of which I am the contriver, and which, instead of bringing his wife to the Hôtel Lambert, in order to make her the more safely fall into the snare that is spreading for her, as well as M. de Hansfeld, he ought to snatch Bertha away from a love as yet innocent; as, in that case, the death of his wife and the prince would be useless to him. This is your duty, godmother. Do it! Unquestionably M. de Brévannes, enraged, will circulate the most atrocious calumnies respecting you. What then? They are but calumnies—it is true M. de Morville may be afflicted at them, believe in them, and smile scornfully when he reflects on the ideal and romantic love he had for you; what then? During the long life in store for you with the prince whom you do not love, and who loves not you, you may repeat boastingly every day,—I have done my duty."
"Accursed be thou—demon sent from hell!" exclaimed Madame de Hansfeld, wildly, "leave me, leave me! Why do you come to enclose me in a frightful circle whence I cannot escape without causing the death of two unfortunates or by casting myself into an abyss of endless despair?"
"You deepen too much the shadows of the picture, godmother; you may step out of the fearful circle of which you speak, and go, with proud and elevated forehead, to the altar with M. de Morville, and pass with him afterwards a joyous and honoured existence."
"Oh! silence! silence!"
"And that, too, without making him perjure his oath, without making him culpable with his mother, for she would invoke blessings on the union which you might form with joy, without shame, without crime, by resting quiet and awaiting events, provoking nothing, doing no' thing, knowing nothing!"
"Oh, silence! silence!"
"Not even encouraging by a hypocritical word the ferocious and interested vengeance of M. de Brévannes, being always calmly polite to him. All is provided, for the Black Book will speak for you; the Black Book will say that in order to render your marriage possible hereafter, M. de Brévannes must not be suspected of loving you, and having calculated upon the vengeance which he will have drawn down on the prince and Bertha. It will also spare you attentions which, if noticed in the world, might arouse M. de Morville's jealousy—I tell you all has been provided for, carefully provided for, godmother."
"Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! deliver me from this infamous creature!"
"So that after the tragic event," continued Iris, imperturbably, "M. de Brévannes could have no reproach to cast upon you, and you would close your door upon him without a word of explanation. Brévannes will be furious, but what can he say or do? The Black Book is in my hand-writing; he has not even a note of yours; besides, if he dared to complain, he must first confess the shameless calculations with which he almost provoked his own dishonour, in order to be justified in killing his wife and your husband. But he dares not, for he would inspire as much contempt as horror. Don't you think so, godmother?"
"Leave me, I tell you; go—go—you horrify me!"
"Mon Dieu! What am I doing beyond exposing to you the good and the ill? Now you are free—choose!"
"Monster! you know very well the drift of such language, and the criminal hopes which you evoke before my thoughts!"
"Am I a monster to bid you choose between good and ill? Is virtue then so terrible a thing to practise that it costs as many tears as crime?"
"Heaven have mercy upon me!"
"One last word, godmother. I may have played on certain passions in order to prepare certain events, but it no longer depends on me to regulate their progress, for they seem to hasten, and even to-morrow it may be too late. If you are decided on the good, that is to say, on preventing your husband from incurring the danger that impends over him and M. de Brévannes from the mystification of which he is the dupe, act without delay—this day—this hour—this instant. One hour's delay may destroy all—that is to say, may gain every thing for the interests of your love."
At this moment a valet-de-chambre entered after having knocked at the door.
"What is it?" inquired Paula.
"Not knowing if your ladyship was at home, I have begged M. and Madame de Brévannes to wait."
"They are here!" exclaimed Madame de Hansfeld, shuddering.
"Yes, princess."
"Madame has forgotten that she appointed this morning to receive the visit of M. and Madame de Brévannes," remarked Iris.
"Yes, true," said Paula, with a faltering voice, "I—yes—yes—to be sure."
"The princess will see them," said Iris, hastily; "request M. and Madame Brévannes to be good enough to wait for a few minutes."
The valet-de-chambre quitted the apartment.
"Never, never shall I have the courage to receive M. and Madame de Brévannes," exclaimed the princess with despair, "for——"
The voice of the prince interrupted Paula.
Her salon was separated from the other apartments by a long gallery similar to that which De Hansfeld occupied on the upper story.
Velvet hangings supplied the place of doors, and Paula heard her husband's voice as he inquired of the valet-de-chambre, who was waiting at the extremity of the gallery, if the princess were there.
"It is the prince!" exclaimed Iris.
"He is going to meet this young lady," said Paula: "both of them ignorant that M. de Brévannes is cognisant of their love, and with a horrid calculation will feign to be ignorant of that love. Oh! it is horrible to leave them in this blind, this fatal confidence!"
Iris said quickly,—
"Will you spare these two unfortunates, and renounce M. de Morville? Be it so, by and by, at the moment when M. de Brévannes leaves the hotel, I will find some means of speaking to him, and in two words I will disclose to him the trickery of the Black Book."
Paula started.
"Is not that what you wish, godmother?"
"Yes, yes!"
"Still, should you desire by any chance to change this wish; if you will profit by the events which this meeting of the prince and Bertha at your house must still further precipitate, unless you oppose it, when you see me rising to go out and await M. de Brévannes, give me this pin, telling me to put it up—I shall understand that M. de Brévannes is to remain in his error."
"But——"
"Here is the prince. Give me this pin presently, and within a week you are free: otherwise, renounce M. de Morville for ever."
M. de Hansfeld entered his wife's apartment at this moment.
Iris was in the habit of remaining with her mistress, even when she received visits. Her presence at the following scene appeared therefore perfectly natural to the prince.
M. de Hansfeld was surprised, agitated, and excited.
He had seen Bertha alight from a carriage with De Brévannes,—Bertha, to whom he had, as he believed, said adieu for ever at their last interview at Pierre Raimond's.
Never having known that Paula was acquainted with De Brévannes, Arnold could not conceive why he had brought his wife to the Hôtel Lambert, and how Madame de Hansfeld had formed an intimacy with Bertha, of whom she knew he was enamoured. Had not Paula, in order to escape the journey to Germany which her husband had threatened, in her turn menaced him with disclosing to M. de Brévannes the interviews he had had with Bertha at the engraver's?
What, then, was Paula's motive in receiving Bertha at the Hôtel Lambert? was it affectation or indifference?
Arnold was bewildered in conjecture, and when he reflected that he was about to see Bertha once more, astonishment, delight, and fear, agitated him in spite of himself, and he said to Paula in a voice which shook with emotion,—
"I think I have just seen some visitors arrive for you?"
"Yes," replied Madame de Hansfeld, who was also considerably embarrassed, "one of my friends has introduced me in society to Madame de Brévannes, who is, they say, so charming, and whom you find so!" she added, with a forced laugh, "Madame de Brévannes asked me what day I should be at home, I told her to-day, and then forgot it. She is waiting now with her husband. Not having seen you, it was impossible for me to tell you of this expected visit, which I should suppose, however, is by no means disagreeable to you."
"May I remark, godmother, that these gentlefolks have been here for a long time?" said Iris, with the kind of respectful familiarity which was usual with her.
"She is right," said De Hansfeld, imprudently yielding to the desire of once more seeing Bertha, and he rang the bell.
A footman appeared.
"Request the lady and gentleman to walk in," said the prince.
The footman left the room.
Iris and Paula exchanged a meaning look.
In order to understand the following scene, we must explain that a few lines of the Black Book, written by Iris in Paula's name, had that very morning been shewn to De Brévannes, by which he learned that the Prince de Hansfeld was the object of Bertha's love, and that she had very often met him under an assumed name at Pierre Raimond's.
A few expressive words indicated the terrible consequences which De Brévannes proposed to elicit from this love; whose punishment, if it became guilty and was detected, would assure the liberty of himself and Paula.
After this discovery, De Brévannes redoubled his hypocrisy, in order still further to lull his wife into security, although he resolved to watch narrowly, not doubting in the least her love for the prince.
Bertha's first refusal to go to the Hôtel Lambert, her increasing emotion as she approached the place where she would see Arnold again, were convincing proofs of this love. De Brévannes was besides informed by the porter at Pierre Raimond's of the visits the engraver received; and De Hansfeld had been so accurately described to him that he only awaited the opportunity of seeing the prince to be assured of his identity with the constant visitor of Pierre Raimond.
Paula, seated by the fireside, had beside her a small table, on which was laid the fatal pin; which, handed to Iris, would prevent the disclosure to De Brévannes of the trickery of which he was the dupe, and leave him in the delusion that in getting rid of his wife and the prince he might marry Paula.
The Bohemian girl, occupied at some tapestry-work, was partially concealed by the window-curtains near which she was seated, but still she did not take her eyes off her mistress.
And it must be added that her look sometimes exercised a kind of fascination over Paula.
M. de Hansfeld, standing near the fireplace, endeavoured, but in vain, to conceal his emotion.
The door opened, and a valet-de-chambre announced,—"M. and Madame de Brévannes."
Our readers may, perchance, find a contrast sufficiently dramatic between the futile, slight, and "bald, disjointed chat" of the four actors in this scene, and the anxieties, the various and deep passions which agitated them.
Madame de Hansfeld rose, went some steps towards Bertha, and said to her with complaisance,—
"Madame, you are most kind to have remembered that I was at home to-day."
"Madame, you—are—very obliging," stammered Bertha, lowering her eyes that she might not meet those of Arnold.
The poor girl was ready to sink.
The princess added,—
"Will you allow me, madame, to present the Prince de Hansfeld, who has not yet had the honour of an introduction to you?"
Arnold advanced, made a low bow, and said to Bertha,—
"I very much regret not having accompanied Madame de Hansfeld into society as often as I could have wished; and after her good fortune in being introduced to you, I regret it doubly, madame; yet I console myself as I am happy enough to have now an opportunity of paying my respects to you."
Anxious to come to Bertha's aid, and who, more and more troubled, had not a word to reply to Arnold, Madame de Hansfeld said to him, presenting M. de Brévannes,—
"M. de Brévannes."
De Brévannes bowed.
The prince returned his salute, and said, with much affability,—
"I shall be always delighted, sir, to see you at Madame de Hansfeld's, and hope I shall often have that pleasure."
"As often, sir, as it will be possible for me to profit by so agreeable a request without intrusion."
After these indispensable preliminaries, the four persons seated themselves, Paula in her place on the right hand of the fire-place, Bertha on the left hand side, De Brévannes beside Madame de Hansfeld, and Arnold by the engraver's daughter.
The prince, feeling the utter necessity of subduing his emotion, did the honours of his house with perfect dignity.
Bertha, on her part, gradually resumed her self-possession. Paula exerted herself not to give way to the terrible ideas which had occupied her brain since her conversation with Iris.
De Brévannes, who had always heard the prince mentioned as a sort of original, whimsical, strange-tempered, and half an idiot, and had asked himself how his wife could be smitten with such a man, was utterly amazed at the distinguished manners and urbane condescension of De Hansfeld, whose youthful and mild features were singularly attractive.
It was then he fully comprehended Bertha's love, and his rage increased against her and De Hansfeld. From time to time he cast a furtive glance upon her, as fierce as the glare of a tiger, then he sought Paula's look with an air of intelligence, by turns gloomy and impassioned, which proved to Madame de Hansfeld that Iris had not deceived her with respect to the Black Book.
After the few first commonplaces had passed, a silence succeeded that was somewhat embarrassing.
The prince broke it, by saying to Bertha,—
"You must have had some trouble, madame, in finding this isolated abode in the midst of this deserted quarter?"
"No, sir!" replied Bertha, blushing to her eyes; "my father lives very close by."
This reply, which the young lady had made without reflection, redoubled her confusion, by recalling to her the first time she detected her love for Arnold, who added quickly,—
"That is different, madame; but for real Parisians to come to the Ile Saint Louis it is always a kind of journey."
"At least," said De Brévannes, "they are recompensed for the journey, as you call it, sir, by being enabled to admire this hôtel, which is really a palace."
"Indeed," said Paula, to carry on the conversation, "in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, the quarter for fine houses, where we resided for some time, we could not find any thing comparable to this really spacious residence."
"We build no palaces now," said De Brévannes; "fortunes are too much divided. You gentlemen foreigners have much more sense than we have: in England, Russia, and Germany also, I presume, the right of primogeniture has wisely preserved the principle of large inheritance."
"I am sure, sir," said De Hansfeld, with a smile, "you have never had brother or sister?"
"True, sir; but whence do you deduce that certainty?"
"From your admiration of the right of primogeniture."
De Brévannes did not comprehend the amiable meaning of the prince's remark, and replied,—
"You think, then, sir, if I had not been an only son, I should have viewed the subject differently?"
"I think, sir, that your love for your brothers and sisters would completely have changed your view of this subject. But excuse me, madame," said the prince, addressing Bertha, "for talking politics; and without any transition I will ask you, what you thought of the new comedy at the Théâtre Français? Madame de Hansfeld and myself had the pleasure of seeing you, I may not say of remarking you, there."
"Why you could hardly do otherwise," said Bertha, with a little more confidence, "for I was seated beside Madame Girard, who wore so singular a head-dress that it attracted universal attention."
"I assure you, madame," remarked Paula, "that on casting our eyes towards your box, we saw the singular cap, the sobieska of Madame Girard, by chance."
"The comedy seemed to me delightful and replete with interest," said Bertha; "and without knowing the author, M. de Gercourt, I was delighted at his success, he had so many persons who envied him."
"M. de Gercourt, the author, is quite a fashionable man, is he not?" inquired Madame de Hansfeld.
"Yes, madame," replied De Brévannes, "he was one of the five or six most fashionable men in Paris—he ranked even directly after handsome Morville, that star which for so long a time has shone with unrivalled brilliancy: between ourselves, I scarcely know why: it was a ridiculous infatuation, nothing more, for Gercourt and many others have a thousand times more attractions than this assuming M. de Morville."
Paula started when she heard the name so dear to her pronounced.
The glances of the princess and Iris met, and the look of the latter fell on Paula's heart like lead.
Completely ignorant of Paula's love for De Morville, and thinking it would have a good effect, in her eyes, to display his contempt of one of the most distinguished men in Paris, and moreover giving way to a feeling of envy and a habit of aspersion, which he had long entertained towards De Morville, whom he detested for no other cause than mean jealousy, De Brévannes continued,—
"This Monsieur de Morville has a pretty face, if you please, but he has, at the same time, such a besotted air of self-satisfaction that he is really sickening. They talk of his successes, but then he has never succeeded but with women whose facility of conquest makes them hardly worth a struggle for men who are in the same society as themselves. There was an immense deal of talk as to his affair with that English lady. He was certainly very deeply in love with her, but she laughed at him as every woman of good taste must do: for do you not think, madame, that we may always judge of the value of a woman by the value of the man whom she distinguishes?"
"That is generally true, sir," said Paula, restraining herself.
"Well, madame, then you may imagine the silly and ridiculous enthusiasts of this silly and ridiculous De Morville."
Nothing is more vulgar than the saying, "Small causes often produce great results," but nothing can be more true than this vulgarism.
Another proof:
De Hansfeld was not acquainted with De Morville, and it was indifferent to him whether he was well or ill spoken of; but giving way unconsciously, no doubt, to a vague desire to stand well with M. de Brévannes, he thought it would be agreeable to him if he shared with him in his opinion of De Morville.
Moreover, poor Bertha herself, as much from desire to conciliate her husband, as from that deference, that involuntary acquiescence which a woman invariably accords to the opinion of the man she loves—poor Bertha, we must add, was actually the simple and unsuspecting echo of the prince in the ensuing conversation.
This conversation was the cause, we shall hereafter discover the effect.
De Hansfeld, therefore, said,—
"I do not know M. de Morville, I have only seen him once or twice; he seemed handsome, but his affectation struck me as ridiculous, and I heard it remarked that his merit was absurdly exaggerated."
"I heard the same thing," added the unlucky Bertha; "he seemed to me to have very regular features, but they were perhaps too insignificant."
Paula did not utter a syllable. She took from off the small table the fatal pin, and began to play with the ornament.
Iris never took her eyes off her mistress. She started with gloomy joy when she observed her mistress's action.
We may see that the petty cause was beginning to produce its effect.
"I am delighted to see a person of taste like you, sir," said M. de Brévannes to the prince, "confirm my judgment by approval."
Arnold, in order to establish himself perfectly in the good graces of Bertha's husband, ventured on a slight falsehood, and added,—
"I remember to have listened one day to his conversation, and I really thought it below mediocrity."
"It is true that M. de Morville does not pass, they say, for having a great deal of wit," added the gentle and softly responsive echo, lowering her large blue eyes, and blushing equally at the falsehood and at her effort to stoop to a kind of meanness in order to be agreeable to her husband.
The petty cause contrived to produce its effect.
Still retaining the star-ornamented pin in her right hand, Madame de Hansfeld, as it were, beat on her left hand the measure of the crescendo of the anger that agitated her, and which included De Brévannes, Bertha, and the prince.
"Paula did not utter a syllabe; she took the fatal pin and began playing with the ornament."
At this moment, she again encountered the eyes of Iris, and instead of turning from the look of the Bohemian, she gazed at her for a moment with an air so significant, that Iris thought she was about to give her the pin.
De Brévannes continued, addressing Madame de Hansfeld,—
"But what do you think of M. de Morville, madame? Are we not right to shew our disgust at the sheepish admiration which makes an idol of such a nullity?"
"Assuredly, sir," said Paula, "it is quite right not to take men as always deserving of reputation because they are in repute."
"And never was repute less merited. I am not alone in my opinion, I assure you. There are many persons who think as I do; and what most prejudices me against M. de Morville is, that he assumes perfection in every thing. To hear him one would believe that he rides, handles his weapons, and shoots better than any man living."
"Is M. de Morville a great shot?" inquired Arnold.
"He at least pretends to be so, as well as every thing else; but I am sure that he would be found wanting in that as in every thing else, and he shoots because it is fashionable and not because he cares for it."
"He is wrong," said Arnold, "for shooting is one of the most exciting amusements I know of."
"Are you a sportsman, sir?" inquired De Brévannes.
"We have such excellent sporting in Germany that it is impossible not to have a taste for it. There is one class of sport, too, of which I am passionately fond, and which, perhaps, is not much known in France."
"What sport is that, sir? I can inform you, for I have liked, and still like, sporting excessively."
"Wild-fowl shooting. We have in Germany such splendid flights of aquatic birds."
"You like wild-fowl shooting!" exclaimed De Brévannes, after a moment's reflection, as if a sudden light broke in upon his thoughts.
"To madness, sir! Have you much of this sport in France?"
"Yes we have; and I may add, that I have some of the best in the country at my house in Lorraine."
"Yes," interposed Bertha, naïvely, "and it was only this morning that M. de Brévannes's steward wrote him word that there was at this time an extraordinary flight of——I forget the name of these birds," she added, with a smile.
"Halbrans—wild ducks, which come and settle on our lakes in clouds. And really, sir," continued De Brévannes, "if I was not afraid of passing for a downright boor, a man who has no idea of ceremony——"
The prince looked at M. de Brévannes with surprise.
"Really, sir," said he, "I do not understand you."
"Well, then, ma foi, away with scruple—frankness amongst sportsmen above every thing. The flight of wild fowl is splendid this year, and it always lasts a week or ten days. I have four hundred acres of lakes—my house is well arranged for the winter—will you then allow me to invite you to come and have a little shooting? In six-and-thirty hours we shall reach the place; and if, by an unhoped-for chance, Madame de Hansfeld had no aversion for the country for some few days in the winter season, Madame de Brévannes would endeavour to make the house as pleasant as possible to her. You see, sir, when I do a bold thing I do not do it by halves."
At this sudden and unexpected proposition, so totally unlike received customs and usages, and which, if accepted by M. de Hansfeld, might have such terrible results, the princess shuddered.
Bertha turned very red, and trembled, Iris bounded from her chair. De Hansfeld could scarcely repress his delight; but before he accepted, he endeavoured (but in vain) to catch Bertha's eye. The young lady dared not look at him.
Arnold interpreted the negative expression in his favour, and replied,—
"Really, sir, this offer is so considerate, and made with so much good grace, that I am afraid to let you see all the pleasure it affords me, if, as you say, between sportsmen one ought always to accept frankly what is frankly offered."
"You accept them, sir," exclaimed De Brévannes. Then turning towards Paula: "May I hope, madame, that the example of M. de Hansfeld will encourage you, however blunt my invitation may appear, however unusual may be in the middle of winter such a party (I dare not say) of pleasure? I am sure that Madame de Brévannes would do all in her power to relieve the long dullness of a few days of solitude in the midst of our woods."
"Pray believe, madame," said Bertha, in a tremulous voice, "that I should be very happy if you would condescend to grant us this favour."
"You are a thousand times too good, madame; but I really should fear to put you to so much inconvenience," said Paula, with inexpressible anguish. She felt, that on her consent hung the fate of the future to herself, De Morville, Bertha, and Arnold; for as Iris had anticipated, without at the same time foreseeing this incident, she felt that events were hurrying on with fearful rapidity.
"Be generous, madame," said De Brévannes. "We will endeavour to amuse you; we will have some real ladies' sport. I have good ferrets, and if you never saw ferreting, it will amuse you greatly. The weather is very mild this winter, and I can promise you some torchlight fishing. Then I have a well-stocked preserve of does and kids, and you will see them caught in the toils. I should say there is nothing barbarous in this, for the victims are taken alive. I know, madame, that these are but rustic and simple amusements; but the very contrast they offer with a Paris life during winter may make them piquant; and then, after having tried these, you will perhaps find more enjoyment in your return to the gay pleasures of high society."
"Believe me, sir," replied Paula, with increasing and deeper anxiety, "this party of pleasure so suddenly proposed would be most agreeable, for I should thus enjoy the society of Madame de Brévannes: but I really fear that she only consents to this impromptu journey out of complaisance to me."
"Oh, no, madame! I assure you I should be highly delighted—have extreme gratification——"
Again the important effect caused by a petty cause.
Bertha uttered these words with such an expression of pleasure and joy—the look she exchanged at the moment with Arnold (a look rapidly intercepted by Paula) betrayed a passion so profound, so ineffable, so radiant, that all the snakes of envy and rage gnawed at Madame de Hansfeld's heartstrings.
Paula herself loved with passion, with intoxication, but her love could never be prosperous. The sight of a happiness which was forbidden her redoubled her anger. She recalled the almost contemptuous malevolence with which De Brévannes, De Hansfeld, and Bertha, had spoken of De Morville, and she included them all three in the same sentiment of hate. At this moment of intense exasperation, the more violent as it was repressed, she accepted the offer of De Brévannes, and said to Bertha, in a voice whose emotion she perfectly controlled,—
"Well, madame, at the risk of being really troublesome, by complying with your friendly pressing, I accept."
"How kind of you, madame!" was Bertha's reply.
"And when shall we set out, M. de Brévannes?" asked the prince, unable to conceal his joy. "I shall make quite a fête of my sporting."
"I am at Madame de Hansfeld's order," observed De Brévannes; "only I would remark, that the rest of birds of passage is usually very brief, and we ought to reach my house as soon as possible."
"What say you, madame?" inquired De Hansfeld of his wife.
"To-morrow, if that would suit Madame de Brévannes."
"Quite," said De Brévannes. "I and my wife will set out this evening, and precede you a few hours, so that we may have the pleasure of awaiting you there."
At this moment Iris arose. This movement reminded Madame de Hansfeld of all the terrible reality of her position.
A cloud passed before her eyes. Her breath was for an instant stopped by the violent throbbings of her heart, and she shuddered as if an ice-cold hand was passing through her hair.
The fatal moment had arrived. She was now to take the first step in the path of crime.
If she allowed Iris to leave the room without giving her the pin, the girl was to disclose all to M. de Brévannes, and Paula must renounce every hope, so near and probable, of marrying De Morville, by profiting from the double murder of which she would be completely innocent in the eyes of the world.
Iris, with a little noise, arranged some things on the table in order to warn her mistress.
Paula still hesitated.
Iris made a step towards the door. A terrible struggle ensued in Madame de Hansfeld's mind between her good and bad angel.
Iris advanced towards the door, and placed her hand on the lock.
The handle made a noise in turning. Paula's bad angel had the ascendancy in the struggle. Madame de Hansfeld said, in a tone scarcely audible, so low, so very low, "Iris!" that it was necessary for all the Bohemian's attention to the same in order to catch the word.
Iris in two steps approached her mistress.
"Here, go, I beg, and put away this pin," said Paula, in a faint voice.
And she handed the pin to the Bohemian.
Iris, as she touched her mistress's hand to take the jewel, felt it damp and cold as death.
M. de Brévannes's estate, situated in Lorraine, near Longeville, at some leagues from Bar-le-Duc, was a comfortable residence. A nice park, some excellent preserves, magnificent lakes, fed by the overflows of the Ornain, a dwelling-house spacious and convenient: all in this property responded to the picture which De Brévannes had drawn to M. de Hansfeld.
Bertha, her husband, the prince, and Paula, had been already three days at the château. Iris had been included, of course, in De Brévannes's invitation,—an invitation which each of our personages had too powerful motives for accepting, to pause for a moment at the idea of the singularity of such a journey at this season.
Paula had continually avoided every chance of being alone with De Brévannes, who, by the advice of Iris, had imitated Madame de Hansfeld, in order that he might not give any appearance of premeditation to the vengeance upon which he was so coolly calculating.
Bertha was, however, agitated by sinister presentiments. During the whole of the journey from Paris, De Brévannes had displayed either a forced gaiety or such obsequious attention that Bertha's suspicions were vaguely aroused.
One moment she had resolved on entreating her husband to leave her in Paris, but after the formal engagement she had made with the Prince and Princess de Hansfeld, she gave up that idea.
On reaching Brévannes she was occupied in shewing every attention to her guests. It was strange, but she never for a moment suspected that her husband might be enamoured of Madame de Hansfeld; had this occurred to her, she might have been reassured. Although the way in which this country visit had been arranged was natural enough, yet a secret instinct told Bertha that the excursion had another object beside wild-fowl shooting.
The only person completely happy and free from fear or mental uneasiness was Arnold. Unexpected chance had so well served his love at a moment when he was despairing, that he gave way entirely and unreservedly to the happiness of passing a few days with Bertha in domestic intimacy.
Iris watched every thing and espied every motion of Arnold and Madame de Brévannes. Unfortunately for the gipsy girl, these two, in spite of the constant efforts of M. de Brévannes to bring them to a tête-à-tête, had constantly avoided it.
There remained for Iris a last and infallible means of compelling Bertha and M. de Hansfeld to a secret interview, which must compromise them as regards appearances. When night fell, she would go and tell Bertha that her father, dreadfully alarmed at her sudden departure, had followed her, and that he might not run the risk of meeting De Brévannes, begged her to await him in the châlet, or pavilion in which, in the summer time, Madame de Brévannes usually spent her day. This small building, situated in the midst of a clump of trees, was approached by an iron-gate in the park. Nothing could be more probable than that Pierre Raimond should do such a thing: Bertha would go and await him in the summerhouse, where, instead of the old engraver, Arnold would arrive: then, warned by Iris, De Brévannes would go to the spot, and the sequel might be guessed.
The third day of her arrival at Brévannes, the Bohemian girl, tired of spying in vain, looked for Bertha, in order to make her the victim of the machination she was plotting, when she saw her coming from the side of the pavilion in question, and behind her, at a short distance, M. de Hansfeld.
Iris glided into a clump of holly and thick box-wood bushes, which shaded the park in this spot, and in which was a winding path which went from the chalet to the iron gate of the park.
We should say that this building, situated at the angle of the park-walls, consisted of two rooms on the ground-floor.
It was about four o'clock—the day very cloudy, and the sky rainy and threatening. At the moment when Iris concealed herself in the thicket Arnold overtook Bertha.
Madame de Brévannes started at the sight of the prince, and turned several paces back to return to the chateau; but Arnold, taking her hand with an air of entreaty, said to her,—
"At last, then, I may have one moment's conversation with you—after two days! It would really seem as if you avoided me—me so happy at this unexpected journey. Really, Bertha, I can scarcely credit my happiness!"
"I entreat you to leave me!—I have avoided you because I am afraid——"
"Afraid of what, mon Dieu?"
"Monsieur de Hansfeld, you love me—do you not?" exclaimed Bertha, suddenly.
"Love you!—yes, indeed!"
"Well, then, do not refuse me the only favour I have ever asked of you."
"What do you mean?"
"Go!"
"Go! and I have only just arrived!—when——"
"I say, if you love me, you will seize on the first opportunity, good or bad, to leave this house."
"I really do not comprehend! Why, when your husband——"
"Oh! do not pronounce his name here!"
"Take courage—I share your scruples—I am here in this house—I will not breathe one word of love to you—I will say nothing that your father might not hear if he were present. What I request, Bertha, is, but some of those kind and tender words which you addressed to your brother Arnold in those long conversations which we three used to have at your father's."
"Hush!—some one is in the walk," said Bertha, with uneasiness.
"What a child you are!—it is the wind that moves the trees. See how the hail and rain are falling, and you have come out without your African cloak; that is a double error, for that burnous with a hood becomes you excessively."
"I left it in the vestibule; but I beseech you to return to the château."
"It is too far—the rain is falling—why should we not enter the châlet, there, and wait until this shower has passed over?"
"No!—no!"
"Do you forget your promise to shew me your pavilion—your favourite retreat? Oh! I will not let slip this excellent opportunity of making you fulfil your promise. See, the rain falls heavier!—come, I pray of you! But what ails you?—you scarcely speak to me!—you tremble—it is with cold, no doubt! How could you be so imprudent?"
"I cannot tell you what I feel, but it is a vague, involuntary terror. I beseech you let us return to the château, in spite of the rain."
"This is childish folly to which I cannot consent. You are unwell, and really must not expose yourself further. The rain is as cold as ice—the châlet is but a few steps from us."
"Well, then, promise me to depart to-morrow."
"What! again?"
"Yes—do not ask me wherefore. I am alarmed for you—for myself, and I shall not be at ease until you are far from here. I cannot explain my fears even to myself, but they try me bitterly."
"Really, admitting that your husband were jealous, what have you to fear?—what wrong are we doing? Besides, he is most attentive to you, and suspects nothing."
"It is those attentions, so new to me, and his hypocritical mildness, which alarms me. He, always so coarse, so rude; and one day——" Bertha started, and exclaimed, whilst she placed her trembling hand on Arnold's arm, "Again! I am certain some one is moving in the clump!—they are following us."
"Arnold hastened—the foliage shook, and, a few yards from them a kid bounded by."
Arnold listened, and then heard some branches crackle in the thick bushes of box and holly. In spite of a difficulty of penetrating this solid hedge, Arnold was about to plunge into it, when the noise increased, the foliage shook, and, a few yards from them, a kid bounded forth and crossed their path. Arnold could not repress a burst of laughter, and said to Bertha,—
"This was your spy!"
The young lady, somewhat reassured, took Arnold's arm, and they were now only a few paces from the châlet.
"Well, poor little trembler!" said Arnold.
"I beseech you not to laugh at me—I am a believer in presentiments—God sends them to us."
"But why? because your husband seems returning towards you with better feelings, should you be alarmed? Suppose even that this kindness is assumed to ensnare you in some way, what have you to fear? What can he surprise? After all, what do I ask but to enjoy fairly what he freely offered to me—the passing of a few days near you? I swear to you, not answering what my wishes may be hereafter, but as I am at this moment the happiest of men, I ask nothing beyond this; the present is so delightful, so sweet, that it would be profanation to think of more."
The rain increased in violence. The day which had been all along very gloomy was nearly at its close.
Bertha and the prince entered the châlet.
Behtha, in order to do honour to her guests, had arranged this small pavilion in the same way as when she inhabited it.
On the walls were a few engravings from the burin of her father, some water-colour sketches by herself, her books, and her piano. A good fire was blazing in the hearth, and its bright flames contrasted with the increasing obscurity. A square window, like that in Swiss cottages, with cross lead-work and small greenish glass, panes of glass about as big as a man's hand, through which was visible the path which led from the park-gate to the châlet. The door was left half open; Bertha, standing near the mantel-piece, leaned her head on her hand, unable to subdue the emotion that affected her; Arnold, as joyous as a child, or rather a lover, was examining with a kind of tender curiosity all the little ornaments, &c., with which Bertha was usually surrounded.
"What happiness for me," he said, "to be able to carry with me the remembrance of the spot you inhabit! This picture will be for ever present to my imagination. Here is your piano, the friend of long hours of reverie and sadness; those fine engravings, your father's productions, on which you have so often fixed your softened eyes, by engaging yourself in thought so near to him in his modest retreat."
"Yes, no doubt," said Bertha, abstractedly; "but what ails me? I know not wherefore, but my ideas run in a sinister circle. Do you know of what I was just thinking? Of those attempts at murder which you have so miraculously escaped. Has any thing fresh occurred? Have you been able to trace those criminal attempts?"
M. de Hansfeld held at this moment a volume of Victor Hugo's "Ballads" in his hand, and was curiously scrutinising the book at a page marked by Bertha.
He turned partly round without closing the book, and said to the young lady, with a smile of singular calmness,—
"I believe I have discovered this murderer;" then he added, "What pleasure to read the lines which have attracted my eyes, my sister!"
"You have discovered then?" cried Bertha.
"I think so; you have passed yesterday and to-day with the homicidal individual." Then again interrupting himself, "How delighted I am to see that you share my admiration for that charming ballad the Grand-Mère—one of the most touching inspirations of the illustrious poet! You have amongst others marked those verses of such enchanting simplicity, which I love as you love them."
Bertha believed she was in a dream when she saw the prince's sang froid.
"What do you mean?" she inquired,—"I have passed yesterday and to-day with the——"
"The murderess—yes. But listen how delicious those verses are—poor, dear, little children!"
"Grand Dieu!" exclaimed Bertha, interrupting Arnold, "what, then, it is your wife who is guilty of those attempts at murder? Yet you told me——"
"It is not my wife," replied the prince, replacing the book on the shelf; "but, unless I am deceived, it is her infernal attendant, the young girl with the copper skin."
"Iris?"
"Iris, I am all but certain."
"And your wife?"
"Was ignorant of all, I am most anxious to believe."
"And you keep this monster near you—in your house! Suppose she were to renew her attempts?"
"Well!" said Arnold, with a smile, at the same time so melancholy, so calm, so sweet, that the tears started to Bertha's eyes.
"What mean you by 'well?'" she exclaimed; "and if—but the idea is too horrible!"
"If she should recommence her experiments, my dear sister, and she succeeds, I shall be grateful to her."
"What do you mean?"
"To be frank, what is my life henceforth? During these few days passed near to you, the delight of the present will prevent me from thinking of the future; but when these are passed—one of two things—either we shall be happy, and, in spite of your indifference for your husband, my happiness will cost you many tears, much remorse, noble and true as you are; and thus my love will cause you as much chagrin as the cruelties of your husband have excited. If, on the contrary, circumstances compel us to separate, what remains? Forgetfulness? In spite of oaths always to remember each other, alas! there is something more horrible than the death of those we love, that is, the forgetfulness of their death! Thus you see, what a future! With you there could never have been but one way possible for your happiness and mine—that was to marry. But that is a dream! Well, then, would it not be better that this gipsy girl, kind and anticipating, should be for me a sort of death-dealing providence, and should make of me what I confess I could never, perhaps, have the courage to make of myself—something that has lived!"
"Oh, what you say is horrible! But with what motive could she have attempted this crime?"
"How can I divine? I never did her any wrong, but have always been most kind towards her. But the Bohemians are so strange! A superstition!—a nothing!—how can I tell? The poor wretch, perhaps, does her feelings great violence to carry on her machinations; but, after this week, I shall be very ready to meet her designs half way."
At this moment the door closed suddenly. Bertha uttered a shriek of alarm.
"Who has shut the door?"
"The wind," said Arnold.
The key turned twice in the lock.
"They are locking us in," exclaimed Bertha.
Arnold rushed to the door—shook it—but in vain.
"Alas! I am lost! It is nearly night, and shut up here with you, at the end of the park!"
"But the window!" cried Arnold.
He hastened to it. He looked out, and saw no one.
He tried to break it. Impossible! The lead-work was so close that it bent, but did not break, and the window was in a fixed and immovable frame. That which lighted the door at the farther end was similarly fastened.
"Mon Dieu! have mercy upon me!" said Bertha, falling upon her knees.
Iris, concealed in the path, had followed Bertha and Arnold from the beginning of their conversation until they entered the châlet. The thick clumps of box and holly concealed the Bohemian from all eyes. It was she who had started the kid and made it dart forth in the path before Bertha. After having cautiously approached the pavilion, Iris closed and double-locked the door, and then, triumphant, went to seek De Brévannes, who was waiting for her at some distance.
If chance had not served the diabolical design of Iris in bringing Bertha and Arnold together, she would have had recourse to the ruse she had planned for inducing Bertha to go to the châlet under the pretext of meeting Pierre Raimond.
De Brévannes was armed with a double-barrelled gun, and dressed in a shooting costume. The selection of that weapon took away every idea of premeditation; and nothing could be apparently more natural than his conduct. On returning from his sport he had surprised his wife and M. de Hansfeld shut up together in a lone pavilion at nightfall: he killed them. Who could say there was no guilt in their interview? No one. Who could say that the door was closed on the outside? No one.
In spite of his resolution, De Brévannes shuddered at the sight of Iris. The decisive moment had arrived. The Bohemian dissembled her ferocious joy, and said to him in a tone of deep grief,—
"I have followed them unsuspected, as I have done by your orders ever since they came here. They are talking in a low tone, and their lips almost touched. He had his arm round your wife's waist; they suddenly entered the chalet, and then I closed the door, and came to you."
De Brévannes made no reply; there was nothing heard but the jarring click of the two locks of his gun as he primed them, and his hasty steps as they trampled on the dry leaves which bestrewed the avenue.
The night was dark. It was nearly a quarter of an hour's walk to the pavilion.
We should say at this moment that this man was as much excited to the murder by the fury of jealousy as the infamous and mad calculations of killing De Hansfeld that he might subsequently marry his widow. He believed Bertha and the prince to be guilty. At this moment De Brévannes was drunk with passion, and his temples throbbed with agony.
After a longish walk he saw at the end of the path the faint reflection thrown by the flames of the fire in the châlet through the window trellised with lead. He quickened his pace. The rain and hail fell in torrents.
As he approached the pavilion, he felt himself alternately bathed in a cold perspiration, or burning with all the fire of fever. At length he arrived, advancing slowly and with caution, and looked in at the green window.
By the expiring light of the fire he recognised the kind of white cloak, with a hood to it, that Bertha usually wore. Seated on a cushion, the young lady's back was to him. She was pressing her lips on the forehead of a man kneeling at her feet, with both his arms round her.
"She fell without a cry on the shoulders of the individual who embraced her."
With a movement more rapid than thought, De Brévannes opened the door, entered, aimed his gun between the shoulders of his victim, and fired. She fell without a cry on the shoulders of the individual who embraced her.
"And now it is your turn, beau prince!—a double shot!" exclaimed De Brévannes, turning the barrel of his gun to the head of the man who was trying to rise.
At the moment he was about to fire the door of the second chamber of the châlet opened violently behind him. Some one whom he did not see turned aside the gun, and prevented him from committing a second crime. De Brévannes, too, looked round, and saw—De Hansfeld!
At this moment the man who had been kneeling before the female rose up, and rushing on De Brévannes, exclaimed,—"Assassin!"
"De Morville!" cried De Brévannes, recognising him by the light of the fire, which threw out a momentary blaze.
"You have murdered Madame de Hansfeld, assassin!" repeated De Morville.
De Brévannes retreated a step or two, still holding his gun in his hand, his hair bristling on his head with affright. He then rushed towards the female whose body had slid upon the ground, but whose head still reclined on the sofa. He recognised Paula.
When he saw his fatal mistake, which rendered him guilty of an assassination which nothing could justify,—when he found De Morville with the woman by whom he believed himself passionately beloved, a furious vertigo seized upon De Brévannes, who burst into a fit of savage laughter, and disappeared. The prince and De Morville, overwhelmed by this horrid scene, did not attempt to oppose his departure. A few seconds afterwards they heard a report of fire-arms. De Brévannes had shot himself.
It remains for us to explain the arrival of De Morville at the Château de Brévannes, and his presence, as well as that of Paula, in the châlet in which Bertha and Arnold had been a quarter of an hour before.
De Morville had learned from Madame de Lormoy, his aunt, that Paula had suddenly set out for Lorraine, in the depth of winter, to pass some time at the house of M. de Brévannes.
De Morville was completely ignorant that Paula was acquainted with De Brévannes, and this departure, so sudden and so extraordinary at this season, bespoke extreme intimacy; besides, he recalled some words, some allusions of Paula, during his last interview with her at the masked ball. He believed himself sacrificed, betrayed, or, rather, he could not find any plausible excuse for Paula's departure, and, in fact, was lost in conjecture. At the risk of compromising Paula by the improbability of the excuse for his journey, he set off for Lorraine, resolved on speaking to Madame de Hansfeld at all risks, so that he could clear up this mystery.
He reached De Brévannes about four o'clock in the afternoon, stopped in his carriage at the park gate, which, as we know, was close to the chalet, and sent his servant to Madame de Hansfeld with a note thus worded:—
"MADAME,—In consequence of a wager with my aunt, Madame de Lormoy, who, surprised at your departure and uneasy as to your health, was exceedingly anxious to know how you were, I have betted that I would go and inquire of you in person, and return instantly to Paris to satisfy Madame de Lormoy. If you should be so kind as to take any interest in my wager, I beg of you to oblige me with the desired information. Not having the honour of any acquaintance with M. de Brévannes, and having promised not even to leave my carriage, I await your reply at the park gate."
Paula received this note at the moment when she was returning from a walk. It was raining fast, and her first impulse was to take up a cloak that was at hand (it was that of Bertha, which she had left in the vestibule), and hasten to De Morville. In the midst of her extreme anguish she was desirous at all risks of sending De Morville away from a place in which so tragic an event was about to occur.
When he saw Paula, De Morville alighted from his carriage, entered the park, took her arm, and made her a thousand tender reproaches as to her sudden departure, entreating her to give him an explanation of so singular a decision.
Fearing to be met in the park, although the night was drawing on, Paula led De Morville to the pavilion in which Bertha and De Hansfeld had been shut up.
When Bertha heard the door open, from an involuntary impulse of alarm she took refuge in the inner room of the pavilion, whither Arnold followed her, and whence he could hear, in the hasty conversation that followed between De Morville and Paula, that the latter at least had never forgotten her duty as his wife.
De Morville, reassured by the most tender protestations of Paula, who urged his immediate departure, had just requested one kiss on his forehead, when De Brévannes, deceived by the dusk, by Bertha's cloak, and particularly by his conviction that his wife was in the châlet, shot the princess.
The next morning the shawl of Iris was found floating in one of the lakes.
It may be remembered that De Morville had said to Paula that a solemn oath forced him to avoid every occasion of seeing her. This was another of the machinations of Iris. Jealous of this new attachment of her mistress, the gipsy girl had gone to Madame de Morville, and represented to her a fearful picture of the fierce and suspicious jealousy of the Prince de Hansfeld, who was, she asserted, capable of destroying M. de Morville in some murderous stratagem, if he any longer carried on his liaison with the princess. Madame de Morville, alarmed at the dangers which threatened her son, made him take an oath, without revealing to him the cause of her alarm, to think no more of Madame de Hansfeld unless she became a widow. De Morville, although this oath cost him dear, saw his adored mother so agitated, so supplicating, and her health so frail, that he felt a refusal would be a terrible, perchance a mortal blow. He yielded—promised.
* * * * *
Eighteen months after these events, Bertha Raimond, princess de Hansfeld, went with Arnold and the old engraver to Germany, where the three took up their permanent abode.