Thus the mornings and afternoons and evenings passed away. And both awaited with fear and impatience the moment of retiring. With impatience, because solitude brought with it the liberty of giving themselves up completely to their sentiments; with fear, because they both felt that the vow they had exchanged had not settled the conflict between their love and their friendship.
It is written, "Thou shalt not commit adultery." And the Book adds, "He that hath looked upon the wife of another with desire in his heart hath already committed adultery." The phrase is admirable in its truth. It defines in a word the moral identity that exists between thought and act, concupiscence and possession. The conscience of the two friends was too delicate not to feel with shame that their thoughts, when once alone, were but one long, passionate infidelity to their vow.
Olivier would begin to walk about from his room to that of his wife when Pierre had left him, talking to her, trying to utter affectionate words, fighting against the haunting idea which he knew would completely possess him shortly. Immediately he entered his room, what he called "his temptation" grasped him, bound him, and dominated him. All his Roman souvenirs recurred to his imagination. He saw Ely again. Hot the proud, coquettish Ely of former times, not the woman he had brutalized while desiring her, hated while loving her, through despair of never possessing her completely, but the Ely of the present moment, the woman whom he had seen so tender, so passionate, so sincere, with a soul that resembled her beauty. And all his soul went out toward this woman in an impulse of love and longing. He spoke to her aloud, appealing to her like a madman. The tone of his own voice would awake him from his dream. He felt all the horror and madness of this childishness. He realized the crime of his cowardly yearning. He thought of his friend, saying to himself, "If he only knew!" He would like to have begged his pardon for the impossibility of ceasing to love Ely, and also pardon for having made the vow he had not the power to keep. He knew that at the same moment Pierre was suffering as he was himself. The idea was dreadful. At these moments of his martyrdom one thought recurred again and again to Olivier's mind, one idea possessed his heart. He felt that he ought to go to Pierre and say: "You love her, and she loves you. Remain with her, and forget me."
Alas! when such a project, with all its supreme magnanimity, occurred to him, he felt strongly that Pierre would reply, No! and that he himself was not sincere. He understood it with a mingling of terror and shame. In spite of all it was a joy for him—a savage, hideous joy, but still a joy—to think that if Ely was no longer his mistress she would nevermore be the mistress of his friend.
They were cruel moments. The time was not less miserable for Pierre. He also, the moment he was alone, tried not to think of Ely. And in trying he felt that he was yielding. In order to drive her image away he would call up in his mind the image of his friend, and this formed the very nature of his suffering. He would tell himself that Olivier had been this woman's lover, and this fact, which he knew to be the truth, which he knew to be of the most complete, the most, indisputable verity, took possession of his brain. He felt as though a hand had taken him by the head, a hand that would never let him go again.
While Olivier was thinking about his mistress in Rome, a softened, ennobled mistress, transformed by the love that Pierre inspired in her, Pierre perceived, beyond the sweet and gentle Ely of the past winter, the woman whom Olivier had described to him without naming her. He saw her again, coquettish and perverse, with the same beautiful face in which he had believed so sincerely. He told himself that she had had two other lovers, one when she was Olivier's mistress and one before then. Olivier, Pierre, and those two men made four, and probably there were others of whom he did not know. The idea that this woman, whom he had believed he possessed in all the purity of her soul, had simply passed from one adultery to another, the idea that she had come to him sullied by so many intrigues, maddened him with pain. All the episodes of his delightful romance, of his fresh and lovely idyl, faded away and became vile in his eyes. He saw nothing in it now save the lustful desire of a woman, wounded in her pride, who had attracted him by one artful plan after another.
Then he would open the drawer in which he preserved the relics of what had been his happiness. He would take out the cigarette case he had bought at Monte Carlo with such happiness. The sight of this foreign trinket wounded his soul, for it brought back to him the words uttered by his friend in the woods of Vallauris, "She had lovers before me; at any rate she had one, a Russian, who was killed at Plevna."
It was probably this lover who had given Ely the object around which he, Pierre, had woven so many cherished ideas, which he had worshipped almost with a scrupulous piety. This ironical contrast was so humiliating that the young man quivered with indignation.
Then he would see in another corner of the drawer the packet of letters from his mistress. He had not had strength to destroy them. Other words spoken by Olivier recurred to his memory—words in which he had affirmed, had vowed that she had loved him, Pierre, truly and sincerely. Did not every detail of their romantic intimacy prove that Olivier was right? Was it possible that she had lied upon the yacht, at Genoa, and in so many other unforgetable hours? A passionate desire to see her again took possession of Pierre. It appeared to him that if he could only see her, question her, understand her, his sufferings would be soothed. He imagined the questions that he would ask and her replies. He could hear her voice. All his energy melted away before the fatal weakness of his desire, a degraded desire whose sensuality was sharpened by scorn. And at such moments the young man hated himself. He remembered his vow. He remembered all he owed to his self-respect, all he owed to his friend. What he had said at the moment of the sacrifice was true—he felt that it was true. If ever he again saw Ely, nevermore could he meet Olivier. He had a confused impression already that he hated them both. He had suffered so much from him on her account; so much from her on his account. Honor finally always won the day, and he would hold himself erect, strengthen himself in the renunciation he had resolved upon. "It is only a trial," he said to himself, "and it will not last forever. Once I am far from here I shall forget it."
This singular existence had lasted five days, when two incidents happened, one after the other, one caused by the other—two incidents that were to have a decisive influence upon the tragic dénouement of the tragic situation.
The first was a visit from the jovial and artful Corancez. Pierre had, in fact, expected him before. In order to put a bar to any tentative at reconciliation, the young man had given strict orders that he was at home to no one. But Corancez was one of those people who have the gift of triumphing over the most difficult obstacles. And on the morning of the sixth day, a morning as bright and radiant as the one upon which they had visited the Jenny together, Hautefeuille saw him again enter his room, the everlasting bunch of pinks in his buttonhole, a smile on his lips, a healthy color in his face, and his eyes bright with happiness. A patch of dry collodion upon his temple bore witness to the fact that he had received a severe blow either the night before or very recently. The purple swelling was still visible. But this sign of an accident did not diminish his good humor nor the gayety of his physiognomy.
"Oh, this little cut," he said to Hautefeuille, after having lightly excused himself for insisting upon seeing him, "you want to know what caused it? Well, it's another proof of my luck. And, in spite of the homily of Monseigneur Lagumina, the Frenchman has cheated the Italian. It was caused by a little attempt that my brother-in-law made to bring about my death. That is all," he added, with his usual jesting laugh.
"You are not speaking seriously," said Hautefeuille.
"I never was more serious in my life," replied Corancez. "But it is written that I shall meet with a cheerful end. I do not lend myself to tragedy, it appears. In the first place, you know that my marriage was made public about five days ago. That is why you have not seen me before. I had to pay my wedding visits to all the highnesses and lords in Cannes. I met with a great deal of sympathy and provoked a vast amount of astonishment. Everybody was asking, 'But why did you have a secret marriage?' Acting under my advice, Andryana invented an old vow as the reason. Everybody thought it was very original and very charming.
"I had even too much success, above all with Alvise. He only made one reproach—that we had hidden it from him, that we had ever supposed for a moment he would have stood in the way of his sister's happiness. It was 'my brother' here, 'my brother' there. It was the only thing one heard in the entire house. But we Southerners understand revenge, particularly when Corsicans, Sardinians, or Italians are in question. I asked myself at every moment, 'When is the sword going to fall?'"
"It was very imprudent of him to get so quickly to work," interrupted Pierre.
"You don't know the anecdote," said Corancez, "of some one who saw a poor devil going past on his way to the gallows. 'There is a man who has miscalculated,' he said. Every murderer does that, and, after all, he hadn't calculated so badly as you think. Who would ever have suspected Count Alvise Navagero of having made away with his sister's husband, the man who was his intimate friend? I told you before that he was a man of the time of Machiavelli, very modernized.
"Just judge for yourself. I kept my eyes open, without appearing to notice anything. A couple of days ago, just about this hour, he proposed that we should go for a bicycle ride. It's funny, isn't it, the idea of Borgia bicycling along a public road with his future victim? I suppose I am the only one who ever enjoyed this spectacle. We were going along as quick as the wind, descending the winding road of Villauris upon the edge of a species of cliff which cut sheer down at one side, when suddenly I felt my machine double up under me. I was thrown about twenty metres—on the opposite side to the abyss, luckily. That's the cause of this cut. I was not killed. In fact, I was so little hurt that I distinctly read on my companion's face something which made me think that my accident belonged to the sixteenth century, in spite of the prosaic means employed. Navagero went off to get a carriage to bring me back. When I was alone I dragged myself to the ruins of my bicycle, which still lay in the road, and I saw that a file had been cleverly used on two of the pieces in such a way that, after a half hour of violent exercise, the whole thing would break up—and me with it."
"And didn't you have the wretch arrested?" asked Hautefeuille.
"Oh, I don't like a scandal in the family," replied Corancez, who was enjoying his effect. "Besides, my brother-in-law would have maintained that he had nothing to do with it. And how could I have proved that he had? No, I simply opened my other eye, the best one, knowing very well that he would not wait long before recommencing.
"Well, yesterday evening, before dinner, I entered the salon and there I found this rascal with his eyes gaining so brightly and with such a contented air that I said at once to myself, 'It is going to take place this evening.'
"I can't explain how it was that I began to think about Pope Alexander VI. and the poisoned wine which killed him. I suppose I have a good scent, like foxhounds. You know, or perhaps you don't know, that Andryana drinks nothing but water, and that Anglomaniac, my brother-in-law, only drinks whiskey and soda.
"'I think to-night,' I said, when we were at table, and wine was offered me, 'I think I will follow your example. Give me some whiskey.'
"'All right,' he replied.
"To be poisoned with an English drink by a Venetian struck me as rather novel. At the same time he was so calm when I refused to take any wine that I thought I must have been mistaken. But he praised a certain port that he has received from Lord Herbert so highly that I at once had the idea that this was the particular wine I must not touch. He pressed it upon me. I allowed the servant to pour me out a glass and smelled it.
"'What a singular odor,' I said to him, calmly. 'I am sure there must be something in this wine.'
"'It must be a bad bottle,' said Navagero; 'throw it away.'
"His voice, his look, his bearing, convinced me. I felt I was right. I said nothing. But at the moment themaître d'hôtelwas going to take away my glass I laid my hand upon it, and asked for a little bottle.
"'I am going to take this wine to an analyst,' I said, with the most natural air in the world. 'They say that port made for the English market never even sees a grape. I am curious to know if that is the truth.'
"They brought me a little bottle, and with the greatest calmness possible I filled it with the wine, corked it up and placed the bottle in my pocket. I wish you could have seen my brother-in-law's expression. We had a little explanation later on in the evening, at the end of which it was decided between us, in quite a friendly way, that I would not denounce him to the police, but that he would leave for Venice to-day. He will reside in the Palace, he will have a decent income, and I am certain he will not begin again. I warned him, in any case, I would have the wine analyzed, and that the result of this analysis would be placed somewhere safely. I may tell you that he had put a strong dose of strychnine in the bottle. I have two copies of the analyst's report. One of them I have given to Madame de Carlsberg and the other I would like you to keep. Will you?"
"Gladly," replied Pierre, taking the paper that the Southerner held out to him.
Such is the egoism of passion that, notwithstanding the astounding adventure of which he had just been made the confidant, Ely's name, uttered by chance, had moved him more than all the rest. It appeared to him that, as he spoke of Madame de Carlsberg, Corancez looked at him inquisitively. He wondered whether he had brought a message for him. No! Ely was not a woman to choose such a man as Corancez as ambassador.
But Corancez was just the man to undertake such a conciliatory mission upon his own responsibility. He had gone to Ely's villa the night before to tell her the same story and to ask of her the same service. He had naturally spoken of Hautefeuille, and he had suspected a quarrel. This strange creature had a real affection, almost a religion, for Pierre. He felt a tender gratitude to Ely. Forgetting his own story, of which he was nevertheless very proud, he at once began to try to bring the two lovers together again. With all his intelligence he could not guess the truth of the tragedy being enacted in the souls of these two beings. He had seen them so loving and so happy together! He thought that to tell Pierre that Ely was suffering would be sufficient to bring him back to her.
"Is it long since you saw Madame de Carlsberg?" he asked, after having finished commenting upon his adventure, which he did very modestly, for he was amiable enough in his triumph.
"Not for several days," replied Hautefeuille. And the question made his heart beat.
In order to keep his word scrupulously, he ought not to have permitted his wily friend to go any further. On the contrary, he could not resist asking:—
"Why?"
"Oh, nothing," said Corancez. "I only wished to ask your opinion about her. I am not satisfied that she is very well. She was very charming last night, as usual, but nervous and melancholy. I am afraid her household affairs are going from bad to worse, and that brute of an Archduke is leading her a life of martyrdom—all the more because she has helped Verdier to marry Miss Marsh. Did you not know? Dickie, our friend of the Jenny, has left for the East with the Chésys, his niece, and Verdier on board. You can just imagine the Prince's fury."
"So you think he is cruel with her?" asked Pierre.
"I don't think it, I am sure. Go and see her, it will do her good. She feels a real affection for you. Of that I am convinced. And she was thinking about you, I feel certain, when she said that all her friends had abandoned her."
So she was unhappy! While Corancez was speaking, it seemed to Pierre that he heard the echo of the sigh that had issued from the heart of the woman he loved so much! He saw again the sad, longing look of the mistress he judged so harshly. This indirect contact with her, short as it was, moved him deeply—so deeply, in fact, that Olivier noticed his agitation. He immediately suspected that something had happened.
"I met Corancez leaving the hotel," he said. "Did you see him?"
"He has just paid me a long visit," replied Pierre. He told Olivier the story of the two attempts which had been made upon the life of Andryana's husband.
"He would only have had what he deserves," said Olivier. "You know what my opinion is about him and his marriage. Was that all he had to tell you?"
There was a short silence. Then he added:—
"He did not speak to you of—you know whom?"
"Yes," replied Pierre.
"And it has pained you?" asked Olivier.
"Very much."
The two friends looked at each other. For the first time in six days they had made a definite allusion to the being constantly in their thoughts. Olivier hesitated, as if the words he was going to say were beyond his strength. Then he went on in a dull tone of voice:—
"Listen, Pierre," he began; "you are too miserable. This state of things cannot last. I am going away the day after to-morrow. Berthe is almost well again. The doctor authorizes her to return to Paris; he even advises it. Let things stay as they are for another forty-eight hours; then, when I am no longer here, return to her. I release you from your vow. I shall not see her, and I shall not know that you have seen her. Let what is past remain dead between us. You love her more than you love me. Let that love triumph."
"You are mistaken, Olivier," replied Pierre. "Of course it pains me; I do not deny it. But the suffering does not come from my resolution—that I have never regretted for a moment. No, the suffering is caused by the past. But it is past, and forever. It would be intolerable for us both were I to return to her under these conditions. No, I have given you my word and I repeat it. As to what you say, that I love her more than I love you, you have only to look at me."
Big, heavy tears were in his eyes and rolling down his cheeks as he spoke. Tears also sprang from Olivier's heart to his eyes at the sight. For a few moments they remained without speaking. This common suffering, after their long silence, brought their souls closer together again. The same impulse of pity had made Olivier release Pierre from his vow and had made Pierre refuse to be released. It was the same impulse of pity that brought tears to their eyes. Each pitied the other and each felt he was pitied. Their affection returned in all its strength, and their friendship moved them so deeply that once again love was conquered.
Pierre was the first to dry his eyes. With the same resolute tone as when he made his vow, he said: "I shall leave when you do, in two days, and it will not cause me a single pang. To remain here would be impossible. I will not do you that injustice. I will not be a traitor to our friendship."
"Ah, my dear boy," replied Olivier, "you give me a fresh lease of life. I would have left you without a single reproach, without a complaint. I was very sincere in my proposition, but it was too hard. I believe it would have killed me."
After this conversation they passed an afternoon and evening that were strangely quiet, almost happy. When the soul is ill, there are such moments of respite, just as when the body is diseased—moments of languid calm, when it appears as though one were brought to life again, still feeble and bruised, it is true.
This sensation of recovery, fragile and feeble though it might be, was increased in the two friends by the convalescence of Berthe. Olivier had contented her and brought about her recovery, by what charitable deceptions no one but he knew. But the young wife was much better and could walk about, devoting her attention to the many details of their approaching departure. She was so visibly happy to go away that a tiny trace of reserve seemed to melt away before her pleasure. She had suffered so much in these last few days, and the suffering had been sufficient to awake her feminine tact from its long sleep. She had made a resolution. It was to win her husband's love, and to merit it. Such efforts are touching to a man who can understand them, for they indicate such humility and so much devotion. It is so hard for a young wife, it is so opposed to her instincts of sentimental pride, to beg for a sentiment, to provoke it, to conquer. It is so hard to be loved because she loves, and not because she is loved.
Olivier had too much delicacy not to feel this shade of sentiment. He gave himself up to the peculiar impression which a man feels who suffers through a woman, when he receives from another the caresses of which his unhappy love has taught him the value. He smiled at Berthe as he had never previously smiled, and Pierre was even deceived by this semi-cheerfulness of his friend. Was it not in a certain sense his own work? Was it not the price of the sacrifice he had made when he had renewed his vow? It was one of those moments which often appear just before the event of some great crisis of which the deceitful calmness impresses our mind later, which astonishes us and makes us tremble when we look back. Nothing bears a more eloquent witness that life is but a dream, that we are simply the playthings of a superior power which urges us along the road we have to take, in which we can never see to-day what to-morrow will bring forth. Danger approaches and stands face to face with us. The masters of our destiny are by our side. They live and breathe without seeming to realize the work which is reserved for them. Is it hazard, fatality, providence? What lot does Fate reserve for us?
Corancez called on Friday. The friends were to leave Cannes on Sunday. On Saturday morning, about eleven o'clock, Hautefeuille was in his room packing some of his clothes, when a knock at the door startled him. Although he was firmly resolved to keep his word, he could not help hoping. Hoping for what? He could not have told himself. But an unconscious, irresistible intuition warned him that Ely would not let him go without trying to see him again. And yet she had not given any sign of life since he had returned her letter. She had not sent any one to see him, for Corancez had come without her knowledge. But the young man was in the state of nervous anxiety which presages and precedes any great event close at hand. And his voice trembled as he called out "Come in" to the unknown visitor who knocked at his door. He knew that this visitor, no matter who it was, came from Ely.
It was simply one of the hotel servants. He brought a letter. It had been delivered by a messenger who had gone away without waiting for a reply. Hautefeuille looked at the envelope without opening it. Was he going to read this letter? He knew it had been sent him by Madame de Carlsberg. The address was not written in her handwriting. Pierre cast about in his memory to find out where he had seen this nervous, uneven, almost timid-looking writing. All at once he remembered the anonymous note he had received after the evening spent at Monte Carlo. He had shown it to Ely, who had said, "It is from Louise." The letter he held in his hand also came from Madame Brion.
There was no longer any possible doubt. To open the envelope was to communicate with Ely, to seek to hear from her, to break his word, to betray his friend. Pierre felt all this, and, throwing the tempting letter from him, he remained for a long while his face buried in his hands. To do him justice, he did not try to excuse himself by any sophistry. "I ought not to read this letter," he thought. "I ought not to read it!" And then, after a few moments, after having locked the door like a robber preparing for his work, his face purple with shame, he suddenly tore the envelope open with trembling hand. A letter fell out, followed by a second envelope, sealed and unaddressed. If there had remained the least doubt in Pierre's mind as to the contents of this second envelope, Madame Brion's note would have dissipated it. It read as follows:—
"DEAR SIR—A few weeks ago you received a letter which begged you to leave Cannes, and not to bring a certain misfortune upon some one who was severely tried and who merited your regard. You did not listen to the advice contained in this letter from an unknown friend. The dreaded misfortune has now arrived, and the same friend begs you not to repulse the second appeal as you did the first. The person into whose life you have entered and taken up so large a place never hopes to recover the happiness of which she has been robbed. All that she asks is that you will not condemn her unheard. If you will search in your conscience, you will admit that she has the right to ask it. She has written you a letter which you will find enclosed in this one. Do not send it back, as you did her first, with a harshness that is not natural to you. If you ought not to read it, destroy it at once. But if you do, you will be very cruel to a being who has given you all that has remained in her that is sincere, noble, delicate, and true."
"DEAR SIR—A few weeks ago you received a letter which begged you to leave Cannes, and not to bring a certain misfortune upon some one who was severely tried and who merited your regard. You did not listen to the advice contained in this letter from an unknown friend. The dreaded misfortune has now arrived, and the same friend begs you not to repulse the second appeal as you did the first. The person into whose life you have entered and taken up so large a place never hopes to recover the happiness of which she has been robbed. All that she asks is that you will not condemn her unheard. If you will search in your conscience, you will admit that she has the right to ask it. She has written you a letter which you will find enclosed in this one. Do not send it back, as you did her first, with a harshness that is not natural to you. If you ought not to read it, destroy it at once. But if you do, you will be very cruel to a being who has given you all that has remained in her that is sincere, noble, delicate, and true."
Pierre read again and again the simple, awkward sentences that were yet so eloquent to him. He felt in them all the passionate fondness Louise Brion had for Ely. He was touched by them as all unhappy lovers are touched by proofs of devotion shown to their mistress. He felt such a longing to know that she was loved, protected, and cared for, although at the same moment he hated her with the most implacable hatred, although he was ready to condemn her with all the madness of rage. And what devotion could be greater than this shown by the pure-minded Louise in going from weakness to weakness so far as to charge herself with a letter from Ely to Hautefeuille. She had longed to go in person to the Hôtel des Palmes to ask for Pierre, to speak with him, to give him the envelope herself, but she had not dared. Perhaps she would have failed had she done so, whereas this indirect expedient conquered the young man's scruples. The emotions that the simple note had aroused left him powerless to contend with the flood of loving souvenirs that swept over him. He opened the second envelope and read:—
"PIERRE—I do not know whether you will even read these few words, whether I am not writing them in vain, just as the tears that I have shed in thinking of you ever since that frightful day have been shed vainly. I do not know whether you will let me tell you once more how I love you, whether you will let me tell you that I never loved any one in the world except you, that I feel I shall never love any one else. But I must tell it to you with the hope that my plea may reach you, the humble plea of a heart that suffers less from its own pain than from the knowledge that it has caused you to suffer. When I received back the other letter I wrote,—the one that you would not open,—my heart bled at the thought that you must have been mad with pain, or you would not have been so harsh with me. And I felt nothing except that you were suffering."No, my beloved, I cannot speak to you in any other way than I have done since the hour when I called you to me to ask you to go away, the hour when I took you in my arms. I have tried to conquer my feelings. It caused me too much pain not to disclose all that I felt. If you do not read these lines, you will not hate me for the loving words I have said to you, for you will not know of them. But if you read them—ah! if you read them you will remember the hours which passed so quickly on the seashore in the shade of the calm pines at the Cap d'Antibes, the hours spent upon the deck of the yacht, hours spent at Genoa before you were struck down by the terrible blow, hours when I could still see you happy, when I could still make you happy! You do not know, sweetheart, you cannot know, what it is for a woman to make the man she loves happy! If I did not tell you at once what you know to-day, it was because of the certainty that never again should I see in your eyes the clear light of complete happiness which shone from your enraptured soul—a light that I have seen so much and loved so much."Understand me, beloved, I do not wish to excuse my crime. I was never worthy of you. You were beauty, youth, and purity—all that is best, tenderest, and most loving in this world. I had lost the right to be loved by such a man as you. I ought to have told you the first day I met you. Then, if you had wished for me, you could have taken me and left me like a poor being that only lived for you, that was only made to please you a moment, to distract you and then say good-by. I thought of it, believe me, and I have paid very dearly for the movement not of pride, but of love. I had a horror of being despised by you. And then the woman that you had called into being in me was so different from what I had been before I knew you. I said to myself, 'I am not deceiving him.' And, believe me, I did not lie when I told you that I loved you. My heart was so completely changed. All! how I loved you! How I loved you! You will never know how much nor even I myself. It was something so deeply implanted in my heart, it was so sad when I thought of what might have been if I had only waited for you."You see, Pierre, that I speak of myself in the past as one speaks of the dead. Do not be afraid. I have not any idea of ending my life. I have caused you too much sorrow to increase your suffering by remorse. I live, and I shall live, if that can be called living in a being who has known you, who has loved and been beloved by you, and who has lost you. I know that you are leaving Cannes, that you are going away to-morrow. I cannot think that you will leave me forever without speaking to me. My hand trembles even in writing. I cannot find the words with which to explain my thoughts. Yet it will be too cruel if you leave me without giving me the opportunity of making what excuse I have for the life I once led. If you were near me for only one hour, you could go away and then you would think differently of me. What once was can never be again. But I wish to carry with me into the solitude which will surround my life in future the consolation of thinking that you see me as I am, and that you do not believe me capable of something I have never committed. My beloved, the time is so short. You leave to-morrow. When you read this letter, if you do read it, we shall not even have an entire day to be in the same city. If you do read my poor letter, if it touches you, if you find that my request is not too great, come to me at the hour you used to come. At eleven o'clock I will wait for you in the hothouse. If you condemn me without any appeal, if you refuse to grant me this last interview, good-by again, and again good-by. Not a reproach will ever find place in my heart, and I shall always say forever and ever, 'Thanks, my beloved, for having loved me.'"
"PIERRE—I do not know whether you will even read these few words, whether I am not writing them in vain, just as the tears that I have shed in thinking of you ever since that frightful day have been shed vainly. I do not know whether you will let me tell you once more how I love you, whether you will let me tell you that I never loved any one in the world except you, that I feel I shall never love any one else. But I must tell it to you with the hope that my plea may reach you, the humble plea of a heart that suffers less from its own pain than from the knowledge that it has caused you to suffer. When I received back the other letter I wrote,—the one that you would not open,—my heart bled at the thought that you must have been mad with pain, or you would not have been so harsh with me. And I felt nothing except that you were suffering.
"No, my beloved, I cannot speak to you in any other way than I have done since the hour when I called you to me to ask you to go away, the hour when I took you in my arms. I have tried to conquer my feelings. It caused me too much pain not to disclose all that I felt. If you do not read these lines, you will not hate me for the loving words I have said to you, for you will not know of them. But if you read them—ah! if you read them you will remember the hours which passed so quickly on the seashore in the shade of the calm pines at the Cap d'Antibes, the hours spent upon the deck of the yacht, hours spent at Genoa before you were struck down by the terrible blow, hours when I could still see you happy, when I could still make you happy! You do not know, sweetheart, you cannot know, what it is for a woman to make the man she loves happy! If I did not tell you at once what you know to-day, it was because of the certainty that never again should I see in your eyes the clear light of complete happiness which shone from your enraptured soul—a light that I have seen so much and loved so much.
"Understand me, beloved, I do not wish to excuse my crime. I was never worthy of you. You were beauty, youth, and purity—all that is best, tenderest, and most loving in this world. I had lost the right to be loved by such a man as you. I ought to have told you the first day I met you. Then, if you had wished for me, you could have taken me and left me like a poor being that only lived for you, that was only made to please you a moment, to distract you and then say good-by. I thought of it, believe me, and I have paid very dearly for the movement not of pride, but of love. I had a horror of being despised by you. And then the woman that you had called into being in me was so different from what I had been before I knew you. I said to myself, 'I am not deceiving him.' And, believe me, I did not lie when I told you that I loved you. My heart was so completely changed. All! how I loved you! How I loved you! You will never know how much nor even I myself. It was something so deeply implanted in my heart, it was so sad when I thought of what might have been if I had only waited for you.
"You see, Pierre, that I speak of myself in the past as one speaks of the dead. Do not be afraid. I have not any idea of ending my life. I have caused you too much sorrow to increase your suffering by remorse. I live, and I shall live, if that can be called living in a being who has known you, who has loved and been beloved by you, and who has lost you. I know that you are leaving Cannes, that you are going away to-morrow. I cannot think that you will leave me forever without speaking to me. My hand trembles even in writing. I cannot find the words with which to explain my thoughts. Yet it will be too cruel if you leave me without giving me the opportunity of making what excuse I have for the life I once led. If you were near me for only one hour, you could go away and then you would think differently of me. What once was can never be again. But I wish to carry with me into the solitude which will surround my life in future the consolation of thinking that you see me as I am, and that you do not believe me capable of something I have never committed. My beloved, the time is so short. You leave to-morrow. When you read this letter, if you do read it, we shall not even have an entire day to be in the same city. If you do read my poor letter, if it touches you, if you find that my request is not too great, come to me at the hour you used to come. At eleven o'clock I will wait for you in the hothouse. If you condemn me without any appeal, if you refuse to grant me this last interview, good-by again, and again good-by. Not a reproach will ever find place in my heart, and I shall always say forever and ever, 'Thanks, my beloved, for having loved me.'"
"I will not go," said the young man to himself, when he had finished reading the pages, eloquent with a passionate emanation of love. He repeated: "I will not go." But he felt that he was not frank with himself. He knew that he could not resist. He knew that he would yield to her imploring appeal, that he would obey the voice of the woman, a voice whose music rang in every word of her letter, a voice that implored him, that told of her adoration, that soothed his wounded heart like a sad caress sweet as death.
But the nearer Pierre drew to the meeting-place the more he felt an unspeakable sadness. His action appeared to him so culpable when he realized all its infamy that he was overwhelmed. And yet he would not draw back. On and on he went. The love potion the words of the letter had poured into his veins continued to dominate his failing will. He went on, but the contrast between this despicable, clandestine walk to a woman that he despised, to a woman who made him despise himself for longing for her, was very different from the pilgrimages he used to make toward the same villa, along the same road, filled with a happy fervor.
And Olivier? Heaven! if Olivier could see him at present! If Olivier, whom he was betraying so cruelly, could only see him!
The tension of his nerves was so great, he was so shaken by the double emotions of love and remorse, that the tiniest noise startled him. The surrounding objects took on an aspect that was both menacing and fantastic. His heart beat and his nerves quivered. He was afraid. He seemed to hear footsteps following him in the night, and he stopped to listen. At the moment that he was going to ascend the slope by which he had been accustomed to enter Ely's garden, the idea that he was being followed became so strong that he retraced his steps, peering about along the road, among the bushes and heaps of stones. He avoided the strong rays of light of an electric lamp standing on one of the pillars of the fence as though he had been a robber.
His examination, however, was fruitless. But the idea was so strong that he was afraid to enter by the same path. It appeared too open, too easy of access. He began to run, as though he had really been followed, around the little park which ended the garden of the villa at its upper end. A wall enclosed a part of it. With the help of the branches of an oak growing at its foot, he climbed over. While still on the coping he listened again. He heard but the sound of the dying breeze, the quivering of the foliage, the vast silence of night, and far, far away, the barking of a dog in some isolated house. He thought he must have been dreaming, and slipped down on the other side of the wall. It was about three metres in height, and he was lucky enough to fall upon a spot of soft earth. Then he made his way toward the house.
A few minutes later he was at the door of the greenhouse. He pushed it open gently and Ely's hand took his own.
But what would have been his thoughts if he had known that his fears were well founded, if he had known that he had been followed since he left the hotel, that the witness whose presence he had felt so near him in the dark, until the moment he began to run, was none other than Olivier?
The house stood closed and silent in all the mystery of its shadows, with isolated spots of light where the lamp shone full upon it. The same vast silence of night that had oppressed Pierre while upon the wall, the silence broken by the distant baying of a dog, still enveloped the country. The trees still quivered, and the flowers poured forth their perfume. The stars still shone, and Olivier remained motionless at the edge of the garden, in the place where he had thrown himself down so that his friend might not see him.
His suffering at this moment was not the suffering of some one who struggles and fights. When he saw Pierre at luncheon, his contracted features, his shining eyes, his trembling lips, had revealed to him that something had happened. He was so weary of fighting, so tired of always struggling with his own heart, of seeing so much suffering in his friend's heart! Besides, what more could he ask him after the conversation of the night before? So he kept silent. What was the good of continually torturing each other?
Then, as Hautefeuille's agitation increased, his suspicions were aroused. He thought, "She has written to him asking for a meeting!" But no, it was not possible! To receive a letter from Ely, read it, and not speak about it was a crime against their friendship under their present relations that Pierre would never be guilty of. Olivier struggled to convince himself of the madness of his suspicion. The emotion of his friend communicated itself to him. He felt, when he took his hand upon separating for the night, that his betrayal was near, was certain, was even then an accomplished fact!
Why did he not speak to him at that moment? A heart that has been deceived often yields to such an impulse of renunciation. It is impossible to struggle against certain unexpected events, it is impossible to complain of them. What reproach could he make to Pierre? What was the good of reproaching him if he had really conceived the idea of breaking the compact he had entered into with him? Yes, what was the good? And Olivier remained leaning upon the windowsill, summoning up all his dignity to keep from going to his friend's room while repeating that it was impossible.
And then, at a certain moment, he thought he saw Pierre's profile as some one crossed the garden of the hotel. This time he could resist no longer. He felt compelled to go down and question the concierge. He learned that Pierre had just gone out. A few minutes later he himself took the direction of the Villa Helmholtz. He recognized his friend and followed him. He saw him turn, listen, and go on again. Just as Pierre was entering the garden, Olivier could not help making a step forward. It was at this moment that Pierre heard him. Olivier drew back into the darkness. His friend passed quite close to him. Indeed, he almost touched him, and then began to run, most probably toward another entrance with which he was familiar, and Olivier ceased to follow him.
He sank down on the slope and gave way to unutterable despair, in which were reunited and collected all the sorrow and suffering he had gone through during the last two weeks. He knew that at that very minute, in the silent house so near him, Ely and Pierre were together. He knew that they had forgiven each other, that they loved each other. And the thought caused him a pang of agony so keen that he could not move. He almost fainted under the emotions caused by his passionate love for this woman and the sentiment that his friend, a friend so dear to him, had trampled him under foot on his way to her, mingled with the tortures of jealousy and the bitterness of betrayal. He ended by flinging himself, face downward, upon the cold earth, the gentle earth that takes us all into her embrace one day, whose weight, while crushing us down, also crushes out the intolerable sufferings of our heart. There he lay, his arms extended, his face buried in the grass, like a corpse, longing for death, longing to be free, longing to love this woman no more, to never again see his friend, to have finished with existence, to sleep the sleep that is without dreams, without memory, a sleep in which Ely and Pierre and himself would seem as though they had never been.
How long did he remain thus, face to the ground, a prey to the complete, irremediable sorrow which ends by calming the heart through its very intensity? A sound of voices behind the hedge which separated him from the garden aroused him abruptly from the paroxysm of suffering which had overwhelmed him. They came from some men walking without a light, measuring their steps, speaking in muffled tones. They came so close to Olivier that he could have touched them if he had risen to his feet.
"He entered here, and went out again by this place the other nights that he came, monseigneur," said one of the voices, a whispering, insinuating, almost inaudible voice. "We cannot possibly miss him."
"Are you certain that none of your men suspect the truth?" said another easily recognizable voice.
"Not one, monseigneur. They think they have to do with a robber."
"Monsieur von Laubach," said a third voice, the voice of an inferior, "the gardener says that the door of the hothouse is open."
"I will go and see," went on the first speaker, while the second imperious voice uttered a "Verfluchter Esel."
This exclamation showed how disagreeable this detail of surveillance was to him who had ordered this trap. A trap for whom? Knowing what he knew, Olivier had not a moment's doubt: the Archduke had learned that a man was with his wife, and he was preparing for his vengeance. He desired an anonymous vengeance, as was shown by the question he had asked of his aid-de-camp, and afterwards his wrath against the "cussed ass" who had mentioned the hothouse door. The lover was to be killed like a common burglar, "to spare Ely's honor," reflected Olivier, who now got up and, leaning his head forward, listened to the voices dying out in the distance. Doubtless the Archduke and his lieutenant were completing the surrounding of the garden. Pierre was lost.
Pierre was lost! Olivier rose to his feet. The possibility of saving the friend he loved so dearly flashed across his mind. Suppose he entered the garden? Suppose he penetrated as far as the greenhouse door, of which one of the watchers had spoken and whence it was evident the man they were about to kill would issue? Suppose he then rushed out so as to make them believe he was returning to town?
The idea of such a substitution with its self-sacrifice took possession, with irresistible force, of the unhappy man who had so keen a longing for death. He began to walk along, at first in the shades of the bank and then of the wall, which he climbed at almost the same place as his friend had done. Then he walked straight toward the villa, which stood silent and still before him, not a ray of light issuing from the interstices of the shuttered windows.
Olivier regarded it with a strange ardor shining in his eyes. How he longed to be able to pierce the walls with his gaze, to penetrate there in spirit, to appear before him for whom he was risking his life!
Alas! Would his courage for the sacrifice he was about to make have been strong enough to withstand the sight of Ely's room as it was at that moment? Could he have supported the picture presented, in the rays of a pink-shaded lamp, of Ely's head nestling close to Pierre's on the same pillow?
The beautiful arm of the young woman was wound round his neck, and she was saying:—
"I believe I should have died before morning of love and grief if you had not come. But I felt you would come; I felt you would pardon me. When I touched your hand, before I could even see you, all my sufferings were forgotten. And yet, how hard you were to me at first! What cruel things you said! How you made me suffer! But it is all forgotten! Say that all is forgotten! You have taken me to your heart again, you know that I love you, and that you let me love you! Tell me that you love me! Ah, tell me again that you love me as you did upon the boat when we listened to the sighing of the sea! Do you remember, sweet?"
And her eyes sought those of her lover, trying to find in them the light of complete happiness, of which her letter had spoken. Alas! it was not there. An expression of settled sadness and remorse dwelt in their depths.
And this was soon to change to one of terror. At the very instant that Ely pressed her more tender, more caressing, more loving lips on the young man's eyelids, trying to drive away the melancholy she read in his gaze, a report rang out in the garden, then a second, then a third, shot after shot. A cry rent the air.
Then all was still again. A terrifying silence now reigned. The two lovers looked at each other. The same idea flashed through their minds at the same moment.
"Hide yourself behind the curtains," said Ely. "I will find out what has happened."
She threw a dressing-gown over her shoulders and drew one of the curtains of the alcove before the young man. Then, lamp in hand, she walked toward the window, opened it, and asked in a loud voice:—
"Who is there? What is the matter?"
"Do not be alarmed, my dear," replied a voice whose sinister irony made her shiver. "It was only a robber trying to break into the villa.—He must have two or three bullets in him. We are just looking for him. Don't be frightened.He will never come back again! Laubach fired at him point-blank."
Ely closed the window. When she turned she saw that Pierre was already more than half dressed. He was very pale, and his hands were trembling.
"You are not thinking of going?" she cried. "The garden is crowded with men!"
"I must go!" he replied. "They were shooting at Olivier!"
"At Olivier?" she repeated. "You are mad!"
"Yes, at Olivier," he said with an agonized energy; "they took him for me. He must have seen me leave the hotel and he followed me. They were his steps that I heard."
"No, I cannot, I will not let you go," she said, standing in front of the door. "Stop here for a few moments, I implore you. It was not Olivier, it could not be he! They will kill you. Oh, my love, I pray you to stay! Do not go, do not leave me!"
He had now finished dressing. He thrust her rudely to one side, and said: "Let me go! Let me go!" without a look, without a word of adieu.
He had descended the stairs, passed through the hothouse into the garden, before she could move. She remained leaning against the wall where he had thrown her, listening, her head bent forward, listening with an anguish that was maddening.—But there was no further report. Pierre did not meet either the Prince or his men, for they were occupied in hunting for some traces of the first fugitive.
"Ah" she moaned, "he is safe!—If the other has only escaped!"
Pierre's terror had taken possession of her. Yes, the unknown visitor at whom the men had shot could be no one but Olivier. She had understood too well the Prince's tone. Her husband had learned that she was with her lover. He had laid a trap for him. Who, then, could have fallen into it instead of Pierre?—For the first time in many years this woman, so broad-minded, so permeated with the spirit of fatalism and nihilism, this woman felt an impulse to appeal to a higher power. She was blinded with terror at what she foresaw if she and Pierre had really brought about the death of the man who had been her lover, of the man who had been Pierre's sole friend; she was so overwhelmed that she fell upon her knees and prayed that this punishment might be spared them.
Vain prayer! As fruitless as the mad flight of her guilty accomplice who tore along the road, halting at intervals to cry, "Olivier! Olivier!"
He received no reply to his calls. At last he arrived at the hotel. He would soon know whether he was not under the influence of some evil dream. What were his feelings when the porter said in answer to his inquiries:—
"Monsieur du Prat? He went out immediately after you had left, sir!"
"Did he ask if I had gone out?"
"Yes, sir. I'm surprised that you did not meet him, sir. He went along the same road immediately after you."
So his presentiments had not deceived him! Olivier had really followed him. Olivier had been taken by surprise in the garden. Was he dead? Was he wounded? Where was he lying helpless?
All night long Hautefeuille wandered about the roads, searching in the ditches, among the hedges, the stones, feeling about on the ground at the foot of the trees. In the morning he was returning, literally mad after his useless researches, when, going toward the hotel by another road, he met two gardeners pushing a handcart. In it was laid a human form. He walked up to it and recognized his friend.
Olivier had received two balls in the chest. Upon his face, soiled with the sand of the road, was an expression of infinite sadness. Judging from the place where the gardeners had found him, he must have walked for a quarter of an hour after being wounded. Then his strength had failed him; he had fainted and had died—probably without ever coming to himself again—of a hemorrhage caused by his wounds and the effort he had made.
Where are the dead, our dead? Where go those who have loved us, whom we have loved, those to whom we have been gentle, kind, helpful, those towards whom we have been guilty of inexplicable wrongs, those who have left us before we have ever known if we have been pardoned?
But whether this life of the invisible dead which surround our terrestrial existence be a dream or a reality, it is certain that Ely has never dared to see Pierre or to write to him since that terrible night. Whenever she takes up the pen to draw near him again, once more something prevents her. And something always stays Pierre's hand when he tries to give her a sign of his existence.
The dead stands between the living, the dead who will never, never disappear.