"That is my duty," replied Sophie, in a calmer voice, "and I will do it, father."
"And you, too, my dear Madame Dutertre, to abuse an honest confidence!" said M. Pascal, hiding his angerunder a veil of sweetness, "to strike me in my dearest hope, ah, this is generous! God grant that I may not give myself up to cruel retaliation! After two years of friendship to part with such sentiments! But it must be, it must be!" added Pascal, looking alternately at Dutertre and his wife. "Is all ended between us?"
Sophie and her husband preserved a silence full of resignation and dignity.
"Oh, well," said Pascal, taking his hat, "another proof of the ingratitude of men, alas!"
"Monsieur," cried Dutertre, exasperated beyond measure at the affected sensibility of Pascal, "in the presence of the frightful blow with which you intend to crush us, this continued sarcasm is atrocious. Leave us, leave us!"
"Ah, here I am driven away from this house by people who are conscious of owing their happiness to me for so long a time,—their salvation even, they owe to me," said Pascal, walking slowly toward the door. "Driven away from here! I! Ah, this mortifying grief disappoints me, indeed!"
Then, pausing, he rummaged his pocket, and drew out the little purse that Sophie had given him a few moments before, and, handing it to the young wife, he said, with a pitiless accent of sardonic contrition:
"Happily, they are mute, or these pearls of steel would tell me every moment how much my name was blessed in this house from which I am driven away."
Then, with the air of changing his mind, he put the purse back in his pocket, after looking at it with a melancholy smile, and said:
"No, no, I will keep you, poor little innocent purse. You will recall to me the little good I have done, and the cruel deception which has been my reward."
So saying, M. Pascal put his hand on the knob of the door, opened it, and went out, while Sophie and her husband and her father sat in gloomy silence.
This oppressive silence was still unbroken when M.Pascal, returning and opening the door half-way, said across the threshold:
"To tell the truth, Dutertre, I have reflected. Listen to me, my dear Dutertre."
A ray of foolish hope illumined the face of Dutertre; for a moment he believed that, in spite of the cold and sarcastic cruelty that Pascal had first affected, he did feel some pity at last.
Sophie shared the same hope; like her husband she listened with indescribable anguish to the words of the man who was to dispose so absolutely of their fate, while Pascal said:
"Next Saturday is your pay-day, is it not, my dear Dutertre? Let me call you so notwithstanding what has passed between us."
"Thank God, he has some pity," thought Dutertre, and he replied aloud:
"Yes, monsieur."
"I would not wish, you understand, my dear Dutertre," continued Pascal, "to put you in ruinous embarrassment. I know Paris, and in the present business crisis you could not get credit for a cent, especially if it were known that I have withdrawn mine from you, and as, after all, you relied upon my name to meet your liabilities, did you not?"
"Charles, we are saved!" whispered Sophie, panting, "he was only testing us."
Dutertre, struck with this idea, which appeared to him all the more probable as he had at first suspected it, no longer doubted his safety; his heart beat violently, his contracted features relaxed into their ordinary cheerful expression, and he replied, stammering from excess of emotion:
"In fact, sir, trusting blindly to your promises, I relied on your credit as usual."
"Well, my dear Dutertre, that you may not find yourself in an embarrassed position, I have come back to tellyou that, as you still have about a week, you had better provide for yourself elsewhere, as you cannot depend on Paris or on me."
And M. Pascal closed the door, and took his departure.
The reaction was so terrible that Dutertre fell back in his chair, pale, inanimate, and utterly exhausted. Hiding his face in his hands, he sobbed:
"Lost, lost!"
"Oh, our children!" cried Sophie, in a heartrending voice, as she threw herself down at her husband's knees, "our poor children!"
"Charles," said the old man, extending his hands, and timidly groping his way to his son, "Charles, my beloved son, have courage!"
"Oh, father, it is ruin, it is bankruptcy," said the unhappy man, with convulsive sobs. "The misery, oh, my God! the misery in store for us all!"
At the height of this overwhelming sorrow came a cruel contrast; the little children, clamorous with joy, rushed into the parlour, exclaiming:
"It is Madeleine; here is Madeleine!"
At the sight of Madeleine, who was no other than the Marquise de Miranda, the happiness of Madame Dutertre was so great that for a moment all her sorrows and all her terrors for the future were forgotten; her sweet and gracious countenance beamed with joy, she could only pronounce these words in broken accents:
"Madeleine, dear Madeleine! after such a long absence, at last you have come!"
After the two young women had embraced each other Sophie said to her friend as she looked at her husband and the old man:
"Madeleine, my husband and his father,—our father, as he calls me his daughter."
The marquise, entering suddenly, had thrown herself upon Sophie's neck with such impetuous affection that Charles Dutertre could not distinguish the features of the stranger, but when, at Madame Dutertre's last words, the newly arrived friend turned toward him, he felt a sudden strange impression,—an impression so positive that, for a few minutes, he, like his wife, forgot the vindictive speech of M. Pascal.
What Charles Dutertre felt at the sight of Madeleine was a singular mixture of surprise, admiration, and almost distress, for he experienced a sort of indefinable remorse at the thought of being in that critical moment accessible to any emotion except that which pertained to the ruin which threatened him and his family.
The Marquise de Miranda would hardly, at first sight, seem capable of making so sudden and so deep an impression.Quite tall in stature, her form and waist were completely hidden under a large mantle of spring material which matched that of her dress, whose long, trailing folds scarcely permitted a view of the extremity of her little boot. It was the same with her hands, which were almost entirely concealed by the sleeves of her dress, which she wore, as was her custom, long and floating. A little hood made of crape, as white as snow, formed a framework for her distinctly oval face, and set off the tint of her complexion, for Madeleine had that dull, pale flesh-colour so often found in brunettes of a pronounced type, with large, expressive blue eyes fringed with lashes as black as her eyebrows of jet, while, by a bewitching contrast, her hair, arranged in a mass of little curls, à la Sevigné, was of that charming and delicate ash-blonde which Rubens makes flow like waves upon the shoulders of his fair naiads.
This pallid complexion, these blue eyes, these black eyebrows and blonde hair, gave to Madeleine's physiognomy a very fetching attraction; her ebony lashes were so thick, so closely set, that one might have said—like the women of the East, who by this means impart a passionate and at the same time an enervated expression to their faces—she painted with black the under part of her eyelids, almost always partially closed over their large azure-coloured pupils; her pink nostrils, changing and nervous, dilated on each side of a Greek nose exquisite in its contour; while her lips, of so warm a red that one might almost see the blood circulate under their delicate epidermis, were full but clear cut, and a little prominent, like those of an antique Erigone, and sometimes under their bright coloured edges one could see the beautiful enamel of her teeth.
But why continue this portrait? Will there not be always, however faithful our description, however highly coloured it may be, as immeasurable a distance between that and the reality as exists between a painting and aliving being? It would be impossible to make perceptible that atmosphere of irresistible attraction, that magnetism, we might say, which emanated from this singular creature. That which in others would have produced a neutralising effect, seemed in her to increase her fascinations a hundredfold. The very length and amplitude of her garments, which, without revealing the contour of her figure, allowed only a sight of the end of her fingers and the extremity of her boot, added a charm to her. In a word, if the chaste drapery which falls at the feet of an antique muse, of severe and thoughtful face, enhances the dignity of her aspect, a veil thrown over the beautiful form of the Venus Aphrodite only serves to excite and inflame the imagination.
Such was the impression which Madeleine had produced on Charles Dutertre, who, speechless and troubled, stood for some moments gazing at her.
Sophie, not suspecting the cause of her husband's silence and emotion, supposed him to be absorbed in thought of the imminent danger which threatened him, and this idea bringing her back to the position she had for a moment forgotten, she said to the marquise, trying to force a smile:
"My dear Madeleine, you must excuse the preoccupation of Charles. At the moment you entered we were talking of business, and business of a very serious nature indeed."
"Yes, really, madame, you must excuse me," said Dutertre, starting, and reproaching himself for the strange impression his wife's friend had made upon him. "Fortunately, all that Sophie has told me of your kindness encourages me to presume upon your indulgence."
"My indulgence? It is I who have need of yours, monsieur," replied the marquise, smiling, "for in my overmastering desire to see my dear Sophie again, running here unawares, I threw myself on her neck, without dreaming of your presence or that of your father. Buthe will, I know, pardon me for treating Sophie like a sister, since he treats her as a daughter."
With these words, Madeleine turned to the old man.
"Alas! madame," exclaimed he, involuntarily, "never did my poor children have greater need of the fidelity of their friends. Perhaps it is Heaven that sends you—"
"Take care, father," said Dutertre, in a low voice to the old man, as if he would reproach him tenderly for making a stranger acquainted with their domestic troubles, for Madeleine had suddenly directed a surprised and interrogative glance toward Sophie.
The old man comprehended his son's thought, and whispered:
"You are right. I ought to keep silent, but grief is so indiscreet! Come now, Charles, take me back to my room. I feel very much overcome."
And he took his son's arm. As Dutertre was about to leave the parlour the marquise approached him, and said:
"I shall see you soon, M. Dutertre, I warn you, for I am resolved during my sojourn in Paris to come often, oh! very often, to see my dear Sophie. Besides, I wish to make a request of you, and, in order to be certain of your consent, I shall charge Sophie to ask it. You see, I act without ceremony, as a friend, an old friend, for my friendship for you, M. Dutertre, dates from the happiness Sophie owes you. I shall see you, then, soon!" added the marquise, extending her hand to Dutertre with gracious cordiality.
For the first time in his life Sophie's husband felt ashamed of the hands blackened by toil; he hardly dared touch the rosy little fingers of Madeleine; he trembled slightly at the contact; a burning blush mounted to his forehead, and, to dissimulate his mortification and embarrassment, he bowed profoundly before the marquise, and went out with his father.
From the commencement of this scene Sophie's twolittle children, holding each other's hands, and hiding now and then behind their mother, near whom they were standing, opened their eyes wide in silent and curious contemplation of the great lady.
The marquise, perceiving them, exclaimed, as she looked at her friend:
"Your children? My God, how pretty they are! How proud you must be!" And she dropped on her knees before them, putting herself, so to speak, on a level with them; then, dispersing with one hand the blond curls which hid the brow and eyes of the little girl, she lifted the chin of the child's half-bent head with the other hand, looked a moment at the charming little face so rosy and fresh, and kissed the cheeks and eyes and brow and hair and neck of the little one with maternal tenderness.
"And you, little cherub, you must not be jealous," added she, and, holding the brown head of the little boy and the blond curls of the little girl together, she divided her caresses between them.
Sophie Dutertre, moved to tears, smiled sadly at this picture, when the marquise, still on her knees, looked up at her and said, holding both children in her embrace:
"You would not believe, Sophie, that, in embracing these little angels, I comprehend, I feel almost the happiness that you experience when you devour them with kisses and caresses, and it seems to me that I love you even more to know that you are so happy, so perfectly happy."
As she heard her happiness thus extolled, Sophie, brought back to the painful present a moment forgotten, dropped her head, turned pale, and showed in her countenance such intense agony, that Madeleine rose immediately, and exclaimed:
"My God, Sophie, how pale you are! What is the matter?"
Madame Dutertre stifled a sigh, lifted her head sadly, and replied:
"Nothing is the matter, Madeleine; the excitement, the joy of seeing you again after such a long separation,—that is all."
"Excitement, joy?" answered the marquise, with an air of painful doubt. "No, no! A few moments ago it was excitement and joy, but now you seem to be heart-broken, Sophie."
Madame Dutertre said nothing, hid her tears, embraced her children, and then whispered to them:
"Go find your nurse, my darlings."
Madeleine and Augustus obeyed and left the parlour, not, however, without turning many times to look at the great lady whom they thought so charming.
Scarcely were the two children out of the parlour, when Madeleine said to her friend, quickly:
"Now we are alone, Sophie, I pray you, answer me; what is the matter with you? What is the cause of this sudden oppression? Have absence and distance destroyed your confidence in me?"
Sophie had courage enough to overcome her feelings, and hide without falsehood the painful secret which was not hers. Not daring to confess, even to her best friend, the probable and approaching ruin of Dutertre, she said to Madeleine, with apparent calmness:
"If I must tell you my weakness, my friend, I share sometimes, and doubtless exaggerate, the financial troubles of my husband in this crisis,—temporary they may be, but at the same time very dangerous to our industry," said Sophie, trying to smile.
"But this crisis, my dear Sophie, is, as you say, only temporary, is it not? It is not yet grave and should it become so, what can be done to render it less painful to you and your husband? Without being very rich I live in perfect ease,—is there anything I would not do?"
"Good, dear, excellent friend!" said Sophie, interrupting Madeleine, with emotion, "always the same heart! Reassure yourself,—this time of crisis will, I hope, be only a passing evil,—let us talk no more about it, let me have all the joy of seeing you again."
"But, Sophie, if these troubles—"
"Madeleine," replied Sophie, sweetly, interrupting her friend again, "first, let us talk of yourself."
"Egoist!"
"That is true, when it touches you; but tell me, you are happy, are you not? because, marquise as you are, you have made a marriage of love, have you not? And what about your husband?"
"I am a widow."
"Oh, my God, already!"
"I was a widow the evening of my wedding, my dear Sophie."
"What do you mean?"
"As extraordinary as it may seem, it is nevertheless quite simple. Listen to me: when I left boarding-school and returned to Mexico, where I was ordered, as you know, by my father, I found but one relative of my mother, the Marquis de Miranda, mortally attacked by one of those epidemics which so often ravage Lima. He had no children and had seen me when I was a small child. He knew that my father's fortune had been entirely destroyed by disastrous lawsuits. He had a paternal sentiment for me, and almost on his death-bed offered me his hand. 'Accept, my dear Magdelena, my poor orphan,' said he to me, 'my name will give you a social position, my fortune will assure your independence, and I shall die content in knowing that you are happy.'"
"Noble heart!" said Sophie.
"Yes," replied Madeleine, with emotion, "he was the best of men. My isolated position and earnest entreaties made me accept his generous offer. The priest came to his bedside to consecrate our union, and the ceremony was hardly over when the hand of the Marquis de Miranda was like ice in my own."
"Madeleine, forgive me," said Madame Dutertre, involuntarily, "I have made you sad by recalling such painful memories."
"Painful? no, it is with a sweet melancholy that I think of Marquis de Miranda. It is only ingratitude that is bitter to the heart."
"And so young still, does not your liberty incommode you? Alone, without family, are you accustomed to this life of isolation?"
"I think I am the happiest of women, after you, let it be understood," replied Madeleine, smiling.
"And do you never think of marrying again, or rather," added Sophie, smiling in her turn, "of marrying? Because, really, notwithstanding your widowhood, you are a maiden."
"I hide nothing from you, Sophie. Ah, well, yes. One time I had a desire to marry,—that was a grand passion, a romance," replied Madeleine, gaily.
"Well, as you are free, who prevented this marriage?"
"Alas! I saw my hero for five minutes only, and from my balcony."
"Only five minutes?"
"Not more."
"And you loved him at once?"
"Passionately."
"And you have never seen him since?"
"Never! No doubt he has been translated to heaven among his brothers, the archangels, whose ideal beauty he possessed."
"Madeleine, are you speaking seriously?"
"Listen: six months ago I was in Vienna. I lived in the country situated near one of the suburbs of the city. One morning I was in a kiosk, the window of which looked out upon a field. Suddenly my attention was attracted by the noise of stamping and the clash of swords. I ran to my window; it was a duel."
"Oh, my God!"
"A young man of nineteen or twenty at most, as gracious and beautiful as they paint the angels, was fighting with a sort of giant with a ferocious face. My first wish was that the blond archangel—for blond is my passion—might triumph over the horrible demon, and although the combat lasted in my presence not more than twominutes, I had time to admire the intrepidity, the calmness, and dexterity of my hero,—his white breast half naked, his long, blond hair floating to the wind, his brow serene, his eyes brilliant, and a smile upon his lips, he seemed to brave danger with a charming grace, and at that moment, I confess it, his beauty appeared to me more than human. Suddenly, in the midst of a kind of fascination that the flashing of the swords had for me, I saw the giant stagger and fall. Immediately my beautiful hero threw away his sword, clasped his hands, and, falling on his knees before his adversary, lifted to heaven his enchanting face, where shone an expression so touching, so ingenuous, that to see him thus bending in grief over his vanquished enemy, one would have thought of a young girl's grief for her wounded dove, if we can compare this hideous giant to a dove. But his wound did not seem to be mortal, for he sat up, and, in a hoarse voice, which I could hear through my window-blind, said to his young enemy:
"'On my knees, monsieur, I ask your pardon for my disloyal conduct and my rude provocation; if you had killed me it would have been justice.'
"Immediately a carriage arrived and carried the wounded man away, and a few minutes afterward all the witnesses of the duel had disappeared. It happened so rapidly that I would have thought I had dreamed it, but for the remembrance of my hero, who has been in my thought always since that day, the ideal of all that is most beautiful, most brave, and most generous."
"Now, Madeleine, I conceive that under such circumstances one might, in five minutes, feel a profound impression, perhaps ineffaceable. But have you never seen your hero again?"
"Never, I tell you. I do not know his name even; yet, if I marry, I should marry no man except him."
"Madeleine, you know that our old friendship gives me the privilege of being frank with you."
"Could you be otherwise?"
"It seems to me that you bear this grand passion very cheerfully."
"Why should I be sad?"
"But when one loves passionately, nothing is more cruel than absence and separation, and, above all, the fear of never seeing the beloved object again."
"That is true; and notwithstanding the effects of this profound passion, I declare to you they have a very different result with me."
"What must I say to you? When I began to love Charles, I should have died of distress if I had been separated from him."
"That is singular. My passion, I repeat to you, manifests itself in an entirely different fashion. There is not a day in which I do not think of my hero, my ideal; not a day in which I do not recall with love, in the smallest details, the only circumstances under which I saw him; not a day in which I do not turn all my thought to him; not a day in which I do not triumph with pride in comparing him to others, for he is the most beautiful of the most beautiful, most generous of the most generous; in fact, thanks to him, not a day in which I do not lull myself in the most beautiful dreams. Yes, it seems to me that my soul is for ever attached to his by cords as mysterious as they are indissoluble. I do not know if I shall ever behold him again, and yet I feel in my heart only delight and cheerfulness."
"I must say, as you do, my dear Madeleine, that it is very singular."
"Come, Sophie, let us talk sincerely; we are alone and, among women, although I am still a young lady to be married or a marriageable girl, we can say the truth. You find my love, do you not, a little platonic?You are astonished to see me so careless or ignorant of the thrill you felt, when for the first time the hand of Charles pressed your hand in love?"
"Come, Madeleine, you are getting silly."
"Be frank, I have guessed your feeling."
"A little, but less than you think."
"That little suffices to penetrate your inmost thought, Madame Materialist."
"I say again, Madeleine, you are growing silly."
"Oh, oh, not so silly!"
Then, after a moment's silence, the marquise resumed, with a smile:
"If you only knew, Sophie, the strange, extraordinary, I might say incomprehensible things that have come in my life! What extravagant adventures have happened to me since our separation! My physician and my friend, the celebrated Doctor Gasterini, a great philosopher as well, has told me a hundred times there is not a creature in the world as singularly endowed as myself."
"Explain your meaning."
"Later, perhaps."
"Why not now?"
"If I had a sorrow to reveal, do you think I would hesitate? But, notwithstanding all that has been extraordinary in my life, or perhaps for that particular reason, I have been the happiest of women. Oh, my God! wait, for this moment I have almost a sorrow for my want of heart and memory."
"A want of memory?"
"Yes, of Antonine; have I not forgotten her since I have been here, talking to you only of myself? Is it wicked? Is it ingratitude enough?"
"I would be at least as culpable as you, but we need not reproach ourselves. This morning she came to bring me your letter and announce your arrival to me. Think of her joy, for she has, you can believe me, the strongest and most tender attachment to you."
"Poor child, how natural and charming she was! But tell me, has she fulfilled the promise of her childhood? She ought to be as pretty as an angel, with her fifteen years just in flower."
"You are right; she is a rosebud of freshness; add to that the finest, most delicate features that you could ever see. After the death of her nearest relative, she came, as you know, to live with her uncle, President Hubert, who has always been kind to her. Unhappily, he is now seriously ill, and should she lose him she would be compelled to go and live with some distant relatives, and the thought makes her very sad. Besides, you will see her and she will give you her confidence. She has made one to me, in order to ask my advice, for the circumstances are very grave."
"What is this confidence?"
"'If you see Madeleine before I do,' said Antonine to me, 'tell her nothing, my dear Sophie. I wish to confide all to her myself; it is a right which her affection for me gives me. I have other reasons, too, for laying this injunction on you.' So you see, my dear friend, I am obliged, perforce, to be discreet."
"I do not insist upon knowing more. To-day or to-morrow I will go to see this dear child," said the marquise, rising to take leave of Madame Dutertre.
"You leave me so soon, Madeleine?"
"Unfortunately, I must. I have an appointment from three to four, at the house of the Mexican envoy, my compatriot. He is going to conduct me to-morrow to the palace of a foreign Royal Highness. You see, Sophie, I am among the grandees."
"A Highness?"
"Such a Highness that, like all princes who belong to the reigning foreign families, he resides in the Élysée-Bourbon during his sojourn in Paris."
Madame Dutertre could not restrain a movement of surprise, and said, after a minute's reflection:
"That is singular."
"What, pray?"
"Antonine lives in a house contiguous to the Élysée. There is nothing very surprising in that, but—"
"But what?"
"I cannot tell you more, Madeleine; when you have heard Antonine's confidences you will comprehend why I have been struck with this coincidence."
"What is there in common with Antonine and the Élysée?"
"I tell you again, my dear friend, wait for the confidences of Antonine."
"So be it, my mysterious friend. Besides, I did not know she lived near the palace. I addressed a letter to her at her old dwelling-house. That suits my plans marvellously; I will go to see her before or after my audience with the prince."
"Come, what a great lady you are!"
"Pity me, rather, my dear Sophie, because it is a question of entreaty, not for myself, I am not in the habit of begging, but it concerns an important service to be done for a proscribed family, and one worthy of the highest interest. The mission is very difficult, very delicate; however, I consented to undertake it at the time of my departure from Venice, and I desire to try everything which can further my success."
"And surely you will succeed. Can any one refuse you anything? Do you remember when we were at school, as soon as a petition was to be addressed to our mistress you were always chosen as ambassadress; and they were right, for, really, you seem to possess a talisman for obtaining all you want."
"I assure you, my good Sophie," replied Madeleine, smiling in spite of herself, "I assure you I am often a magician without trying to be one. My God!" added the marquise, laughing, "how many fine extravagances I have to tell you. But we will see, some othertime. Come, dear Sophie, good-bye,—will see you soon."
"Oh, yes, come again soon, I implore you!"
"My God! you can count on my coming almost every day, because I am a bird of passage, and I have decided to employ my time in Paris well, that is to say, I shall see you very often."
"What! you are not thinking of leaving Paris soon?"
"I do not know; that will depend upon the inspiration that my hero, my passion, my ideal will give me, for I decide on nothing without consulting him in thought. But, as he always inspires me admirably, I doubt not he will induce me to stay near you as long a time as possible."
"Ah, my God, Madeleine; but, now I think of it, you told my husband that you had a favour to ask of him."
"That is true, I forgot it. It is a very simple thing. I understand nothing of money affairs. I learned that recently, to my cost, in Germany. I had a letter of credit on a certain Aloysius Schmidt, of Vienna; he cheated me shamefully, so I promised myself to be on my guard in the future. So I have taken another letter of credit on Paris. I wish to ask your husband to demand money for me when I have need of it. He will watch over my interests, and, thanks to him, I shall not be exposed to the possibility of falling into the clutches of a new Aloysius Schmidt."
"Nothing easier, my dear Madeleine. Charles will endorse your letter of credit and verify at hand all your accounts."
"That will be all the more necessary, since, between us, I am told that the person on whom they have given me this letter of credit is enormously rich, and as solvent as one could be, but crafty and sordid to the last degree."
"You do well to inform me beforehand. Charles will redouble his watchfulness."
"Besides, your husband, who is in business, ought to know the man of whom I speak,—they say he is one of the greatest capitalists in France."
"What is his name?"
"M. Pascal."
"M. Pascal?" repeated Madame Dutertre.
And she could not help trembling and turning pale.
The marquise, seeing her friend's emotion, said, quickly:
"Sophie, pray, what is the matter?"
"Nothing, nothing, I assure you."
"I see that something is the matter; answer me, I implore you."
"Ah, well, if I must tell you, my husband has had some business relations with M. Pascal. Unhappily, a great misunderstanding was the result, and—"
"Why, Sophie, you are very unreasonable to give yourself so much concern, because, in consequence of this misunderstanding with M. Pascal, your husband cannot render me the good office I expected from him."
Madame Dutertre, willing to leave her friend in this error, tried to regain her calmness, and said to her:
"Indeed, it disappoints me very much to think that Charles will not be able to do you the first service that you ask of us."
"Stop, Sophie, you will make me regret having appealed so cordially to you."
"Madeleine—"
"Really, it is not such a great pity! And, besides, to prevent my being deceived, I will address myself directly to this M. Pascal, but I will demand my accounts every week. Your husband can examine them, and, if they are not correct, I will know perfectly well how to complain of them to monsieur, my banker, and to take another."
"You are right, Madeleine," said Sophie, recovering by degrees her self-possession, "and the supervision ofmy husband will, in fact, be more necessary than you think."
"So this M. Pascal is a sordid fellow?"
"Madeleine," said Madame Dutertre, unable longer to conquer her emotion, "I beseech you, and let me speak to you as a friend, as a sister, whatever may be the reason, whatever may be the pretext, place no dependence in M. Pascal!"
"What do you mean, Sophie?"
"In a word, if he offers you his services, refuse them."
"His services? But I have no service to ask of him. I have a letter of credit on him. I will go and draw money from his bank when I have need of it—that is all."
"That may be, but you might, through mistake or ignorance of business, exceed your credit, and then—"
"Well, what then?"
"I know from a person who has told Charles and myself that, once M. Pascal has you in his debt, he will abuse his power cruelly, oh, so cruelly."
"Come, my good Sophie, I see that you take me for a giddy prodigal. Reassure yourself, and admire my economy. I have so much order that I lay by every year something from my income, and although these savings are small I place them at your disposal."
"Dear, tender friend, I thank you a thousand times! I repeat, the crisis which gives my husband and myself so much concern will soon end; but let me tell you again, do not trust M. Pascal. When you have seen Antonine, I will tell you more."
"Antonine again! You just spoke of her in connection with the Élysée."
"Yes, it all hangs together; you will see it yourself after to-morrow. I will explain myself entirely, which will be important to Antonine."
"After to-morrow, then, my dear Sophie. I must confess you excite my curiosity very much, and I tryin vain to discover what there can be in common between Antonine and the Élysée, or between Antonine and that wicked man, for so at least he appears who is named M. Pascal."
Half-past three sounded from the factory clock.
"My God! how late I am!" said Madeleine to her friend. "I shall barely have time, but I must embrace your angelic children before I go."
The two women left the parlour.
We will return with the reader to the Élysée-Bourbon, where we left the archduke alone, after the departure of M. Pascal.
The archduke, anxious and preoccupied, was walking back and forth in his study, while his secretary of ordinance unsealed and examined the letters received during the day.
"This despatch, monseigneur," pursued the secretary, "relates to Colonel Pernetti, exiled with his family to England. We think it necessary to put your Highness on guard against the proceedings and petitions of the friends of Colonel Pernetti."
"I do not need that warning. The republican principles of this man are too dangerous for me to listen, under any consideration, to what may be urged in his favour. Go on."
"His Eminence, the envoy plenipotentiary from the Mexican Republic, asks the favour of presenting one of his compatriots to your Highness. It concerns a very urgent interest, and he requests your Highness to have the kindness to grant an audience to-morrow."
"Is the list of audiences complete for to-morrow?"
"No, monseigneur."
"Write that at two o'clock, to-morrow, I will receive the envoy from Mexico, and his compatriot."
The secretary wrote.
A moment passed, and the archduke said to him:
"Does he mention in this letter the name of the person whom he wishes to present?"
"No, monseigneur."
"That is contrary to all custom; I shall not grant the audience."
The secretary put the letter he had begun to write aside, and took another sheet of paper.
In the meanwhile the prince changed his mind after reflection, and said:
"I will grant the audience."
The secretary bowed his head in assent, and, taking another letter, he rose and presented it to the prince without breaking the seal, and said:
"On this envelope is written 'Confidential and Special,' monseigneur."
The archduke took the letter and read it. It was from M. Pascal, and was expressed in these familiar words:
"After mature reflection, monseigneur, instead of waiting upon you Thursday I will see you to-morrow at three o'clock; it will depend upon you absolutely whether our business is concluded and signed during that interview. Your devoted
"Pascal."
One moment of lively hope, soon tempered by the recollection of the eccentricities of M. Pascal's character, thrilled the prince, who, however, said, coldly:
"Write M. Pascal on the list of audiences for to-morrow at three o'clock."
An aide-de-camp was then presented, who asked if the prince could receive Count Frantz de Neuberg.
"Certainly," said the archduke.
After a few more moments' work with his secretary of ordinance, he gave the order to introduce Frantz.
Frantz presented himself, blushing, before the prince, his godfather, for the young count was excessively timid, and unsophisticated to a degree that would make our experienced lads of twenty laugh. Brought up by a Protestant pastor in the depth of a German village belonging to one of the numerous possessions of the archduke,the godson of the Royal Highness had left this austere solitude, only to enter at sixteen years a military school devoted to the nobility, and kept with puritanical strictness. From that school, he went, by order of the prince, to serve in the Russian army as a volunteer in the wars of the Caucasus. The rude discipline of the camp; the severity of manners which characterised the old general to whom he had been sent and especially recommended by his royal godfather; the chain of sad and serious thought peculiar to brave but tender and melancholy souls; the sight of the fields of battle during a bitter war which knew no mercy nor pity; the habitual gravity of mind imparted to these same souls by the possibility if not the expectation of death, coolly braved every day in the midst of the most frightful perils; the mystery of his birth, to which was joined the pain of never having known the caresses of a father or a mother,—all had conspired to accentuate the natural reserve and timidity of his character, and increase the ingenuousness of his sincere and loving heart. In Frantz, as in many others, heroic courage was united with extreme and unconquerable timidity in the ordinary relations of life.
Besides, whether from prudence, or other reason, the prince, during the six months passed in Germany after the young man had returned from the war, had kept his godson far from the court. This determination agreed marvellously with the simple and studious habits of Frantz, who found the highest happiness in an obscure and tranquil life. As to the sentiments he felt for the prince, his godfather, he was full of gratitude, loyalty, and respectful affection, the expression of which was greatly restrained by the imposing prestige of his royal protector's rank.
The embarrassment of Frantz was so painful, when, after the departure of the secretary, he stood in the presence of his godfather, that for some time he remained silent, his eyes cast down.
Fortunately, at the sight of the young man, the prince appeared to forget his laborious duties; his cold and haughty face relaxed, his brow grew clearer, a smile parted his lips, and he said, affectionately, to Frantz:
"Good morning, my child."
And taking the young man's blond head in his two hands, he kissed him tenderly on the forehead; then he added, as if he felt the need of opening his heart:
"I am glad to see you, Frantz. I have been overwhelmed with business, sad business, this morning. Here, give me your arm and let us take a turn together in the garden."
Frantz opened one of the glass doors which led to the steps opposite the lawn, and the godfather and godson, arm in arm, took their way to the shady walk in which the young man had promenaded so long that morning.
"Now, what is the matter, my child?" said the prince, observing at once the embarrassment of the young man.
"Monseigneur," replied Frantz, with increasing bashfulness, "I have a confidence to make to your Royal Highness."
"A confidence!" repeated the prince, smiling. "Let us hear, then, the confidence of Count Frantz."
"It is a very important confidence, monseigneur."
"Well, what is this important confidence?"
"Monseigneur, I have no parents. Your Royal Highness has, up to this time, deigned to stand for me in the place of family."
"And you have bravely repaid my care, and fulfilled my hopes, my dear Frantz; you have even surpassed them. Modest, studious, and courageous, although a lad, three years ago, you fought with such intelligence and intrepidity in that terrible war to which I sent you for your first experience. You have received there your first wound, your baptism of fire. I will not speak of a duel, which I ought to ignore, but in which you have,I know, given proof of as much bravery as generosity."
"Monseigneur—"
"I pray you, let me in this moment recall all your claims to my tenderness. It does me good, it makes me forget the bitter vexations of which you are the innocent and involuntary cause."
"I, monseigneur?"
"You, because, if you continue to fill me with satisfaction, you cannot foresee the future which my loving ambition prepares for you,—the unhoped-for position which perhaps awaits you."
"You know, monseigneur, the simplicity of my tastes, and—"
"My dear Frantz," interrupted the prince, "this simplicity, this modesty, are virtues under certain conditions, while under other circumstances these virtues become weakness and indolence. But we are getting far away from the confidence. Come, what is it you have to tell me?"
"Monseigneur—"
"Well, speak; are you afraid of me? Is there a single thought in your heart which you cannot confess with a bold face and steady eye?"
"No, monseigneur; so, without any evasion, I will tell your Highness that I wish to get married."
If a thunderbolt had fallen at the feet of the prince he could not have been more astounded than he was at the words of Frantz; he rudely withdrew his arm from that of the young man, stepped back, and exclaimed:
"You marry, Frantz?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"Why, you are a fool."
"Monseigneur!"
"You marry, and hardly twenty years old! You marry! When I was planning for you to—"
Then the prince, regaining his self-possession, said, calmly and coldly:
"And whom do you wish to marry, Frantz?"
"Mlle. Antonine Hubert, monseigneur."
"Who is this Mlle. Hubert? What did you say her name was?"
"Hubert, monseigneur."
"And what is Mlle. Hubert?"
"The niece of a French magistrate, monseigneur, President Hubert."
"And where have you made the acquaintance of this young lady?"
"Here, monseigneur."
"Here? I have never received any person of that name."
"When I say here, monseigneur, I mean to say in this walk where we are."
"Speak more clearly."
"Your Royal Highness sees this wall of protection which separates the neighbouring garden?"
"Yes, go on."
"I was promenading in this walk when I saw Mlle. Antonine for the first time."
"In this garden?" replied the prince, advancing to the wall, and taking a view of it. Then he added:
"This young lady, then, lives in the next house?"
"Yes, monseigneur; her uncle occupies a part of the ground floor."
"Very well."
After a few minutes' reflection, the prince added, severely:
"You have given me your confidence, Frantz. I accept it; but act with perfect candour, with the most thorough sincerity, if you do not—"
"Monseigneur!" interrupted Frantz, in painful surprise.
"Well, well, I was wrong to suspect your truthfulness,Frantz. You have never lied to me in your life. Speak, I will listen to you."
"Your Royal Highness knows that, since our arrival in Paris, I have rarely gone out in the evening."
"That is true; I am aware of your disinclination to society, and, too, of your excessive timidity, which increases your distaste for appearing at these dreaded French functions, where you are naturally a stranger. I have not insisted upon it, Frantz, and have allowed you to dispose of most of your evenings as you pleased."
"In one of these evenings, monseigneur, six weeks ago, I saw Mlle. Antonine for the first time. She was watering flowers; I was leaning on my elbow there at the wall. She saw me; I saluted her. She returned my salutation, blushed, and continued to water her flowers; twice she looked up at me, and we bowed to each other again; then, as it grew dark entirely, Mlle. Antonine left the garden."
It is impossible to reproduce the ingenuous grace with which poor Frantz made this artless recital of his first interview with the young girl. The emotion betrayed by his voice, the heightened colour of his face, all proved the honesty of this pure and innocent soul.
"One question, Frantz," said the prince. "Has this young lady a mother?"
"No, monseigneur, Mlle. Antonine lost her mother when she was in the cradle, and her father died some years ago."
"Is her uncle, President Hubert, married?"
"No, monseigneur."
"How old is she?"
"Fifteen years and a half, monseigneur."
"And is she pretty?"
"Antonine! monseigneur!"
In this exclamation of Frantz, there was almost a reproach, as if it were possible for him not to recognise the beauty of Mlle. Antonine.
"I ask you, Frantz," repeated the archduke, "if this young girl is pretty?"
"Monseigneur, do you recollect the sleeping Hebe in the gallery of your palace of Offenbach?"
"One of my finest Correggios."
"Monseigneur, Mlle. Antonine resembles this painting by Correggio, although she is far more beautiful."
"It would be difficult to be that."
"Monseigneur knows that I always speak the truth," replied Frantz, ingenuously.
"Well, go on with your story."
"I cannot tell you, monseigneur, what I felt when returning to my chamber. I thought of Mlle. Antonine. I was agitated, troubled, and happy at the same time. I did not sleep all night. The moon rose; I opened my window, and remained on my balcony until day, looking at the tops of the trees in Mlle. Antonine's garden. Oh, monseigneur, how long the hours of the next day seemed to me! Before sunset, I was there again at the wall. At last mademoiselle came again to water her flowers. Every moment, thinking she had already seen me, I prepared to salute her, but I do not know how it happened, she did not see me. She came, however, to water flowers close to the wall where I was standing. I wanted to cough lightly to attract her attention, but I dared not. Night came on, my heart was broken, monseigneur, for still mademoiselle had not seen me. Finally, she returned to the house, after setting her little watering-pot near the fountain. Fortunately, thinking, no doubt, that it was out of place there, she returned, and set it on a bench near the wall. Then by chance, turning her eyes toward me, she discovered me at last. We saluted each other at the same time, monseigneur, and she went back into the house quickly. I then gathered some beautiful roses, and, trying to be very dexterous, although my heart was beating violently, I had the good luck to let the bouquet fall in the mouthof the watering-pot that mademoiselle had left there. When I returned to my room, I trembled to think what would be the thought of the young lady when she found these flowers. I was so uneasy, that I had a great mind to descend again and jump over the little wall and take the bouquet away. I do know what restrained me. Perhaps I hoped that Mlle. Antonine would not take offence at it. What a night I passed, monseigneur! The next day I ran to the wall; the watering-pot and the bouquet were there on the bench, but I waited in vain for Mlle. Antonine. She did not come that evening or the next day to look after her flowers. I cannot describe to you, monseigneur, the sadness and the anguish I endured those three days and nights, and you would have discovered my grief if you had not taken your departure just at that time."
"For the journey to Fontainebleau, you mean?"
"Yes, monseigneur. But, pardon me; perhaps I am abusing the patience of your Royal Highness?"
"No, no, Frantz, continue; on the contrary, I insist upon knowing all. I pray you, continue your story with the same sincerity."
At the invitation of the archduke, Frantz de Neuberg continued his recital with charming frankness:
"For three days Mlle. Antonine did not appear, monseigneur. Overwhelmed with sadness, and hoping nothing, I went, nevertheless, at the accustomed hour to the garden. What was my surprise, my joy, monseigneur, when, arriving near the wall, I saw just below me Mlle. Antonine, seated on the bench! She held in her hand, lying on her lap, my bouquet of roses, faded a long time; her head was bent over; I could only see her neck and the edge of her hair; she did not suspect I was there; I remained motionless, hardly daring to breathe, for fear I might drive her away by revealing my presence. Finally I grew bolder, and I said, trembling, for it was the first time I had spoken to her, 'Good evening, mademoiselle.' She trembled so that the faded bouquet fell out of her lap. She did not notice it, and, without changing her attitude or lifting her head, she replied, in a low voice, as agitated as my own, 'Good evening, monsieur.' Seeing I was so well received, I added: 'You have not come to water your flowers for three days, mademoiselle.' 'That is true, monsieur,' answered she, in a broken voice, 'I have been a little sick.' 'Oh, my God!' I exclaimed, with such evident distress that mademoiselle raised her head a moment and looked at me. I saw, alas! that she was, monseigneur, really very pale, but she soon resumed her first attitude, and again I saw only her neck, which seemed to me to be slightly blushing: 'And now, mademoiselle,you are better?' 'Yes, monsieur,' said she. Then, after a short silence, I added: 'You will then be able to water your flowers every evening as you have done in the past.' 'I do not know, monsieur, I hope so.' 'And do you not feel afraid the fresh evening air will be injurious to you, after having been sick, mademoiselle?' 'You are right, monsieur,' replied she, 'I thank you, I am going back into the house.' And really, monseigneur, it had rained all the morning and it was growing very cold. The moment she left the bench I said to her: 'Mademoiselle, will you give me this faded bouquet which has fallen at your feet?' She picked it up and handed it to me in silence, without lifting her head or looking at me. I took it as a treasure, monseigneur, and soon Mlle. Antonine disappeared in a turn of the garden walk."
The prince listened to his godson with profound attention. The frankness of this recital proved its sincerity. Until then, his only thought was that Frantz had been the sport of one of those Parisian coquettes, so dangerous to strangers, or the dupe of an adventurous and designing girl; but now a graver fear assailed him: a love like this, so chaste and pure, would, for reason of its purity, which banished all remorse from the minds of these two children,—one fifteen and a half and the other twenty,—become profoundly rooted in their hearts.
Frantz, seeing the countenance of the prince grow more and more gloomy, and meeting his glance, which had regained its usual haughty coldness, stopped, utterly confounded.
"So," said the archduke, sarcastically, when his godson discontinued his story, "you wish to marry a young girl to whom you have addressed three or four words, and whose rare beauty, as you say, has turned your head."
"I hope to obtain the consent of your Royal Highness to marry Mlle. Antonine, because I love her, monseigneur,and it is impossible for our marriage to be postponed."
At these words, so resolutely uttered in spite of the timidity of Frantz, the prince trembled and reproached himself for having believed it to be one of those chaste loves of such proverbial purity.
"And why, sir," said the prince, in a threatening voice, "why cannot this marriage be postponed?"
"Because I am a man of honour, monseigneur."
"A man of honour! You are either a dishonest man, sir, or a dupe."
"Monseigneur!"
"You have basely abused the innocence of a child of fifteen years, I tell you, or you are her dupe. Parisian girls are precocious in the art of cheating husbands."
Frantz looked at the prince a moment in silence, but without anger or confusion, vainly trying to ascertain the meaning of these words which touched him neither in his love nor in his honour.
"Excuse me, monseigneur, I do not understand you."
Frantz uttered these words with such an expression of sincerity, with such ingenuous assurance, that the prince, more and more astonished, added, after a moment's silence, looking at the young man with a penetrating gaze:
"Did you not just tell me that your marriage with this young lady could not be deferred?"
"No, monseigneur; with the permission of your Royal Highness, it ought not to be and will not be!"
"Because without marriage you would be wanting in honour?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"And in what and why would you be wanting in honour, if you did not marry Mlle. Antonine?"
"Because we have sworn before Heaven to belong to each other, monseigneur," replied Frantz, with restrained energy.
The prince, half reassured, added, however:
"And pray, under what circumstances have you exchanged this oath?"
"Fearing to displease you, monseigneur, or fatigue your attention, I discontinued my story."
"Well, continue it."
"Monseigneur, I fear—"
"Continue,—omit nothing. I wish to know all of this affair."
"The uncle of mademoiselle went out in the evening, monseigneur, and she remained at home alone. The season was so beautiful that Mlle. Antonine spent all her evenings in the garden. We grew better acquainted with each other; we talked long together many times,—she, on the little bench, I, leaning on my elbow on the wall; she told me all about her life; I told her about mine, and, above all, monseigneur, my respectful affection for you, to whom I owe so much. Mlle. Antonine shares this moment my profound gratitude to your Royal Highness."
At this point of the conversation, the sound of a gradually approaching step attracted the attention of the prince. He turned and saw one of his aids, who advanced, but stopped respectfully at a little distance. At a sign from the archduke, the officer came forward.
"What is it, sir?" asked the prince.
"His Excellence, the minister of war, has just arrived; he is at the order of your Royal Highness for the visit which is to be made to the Hôtel des Invalides."
"Say to his Excellence that I will be with him in a moment."
As the aide-de-camp departed, the prince turned coldly to Frantz, and said:
"Return to your apartments, monsieur; you are under arrest until the moment of your departure."
"My departure, monseigneur?"
"Yes."
"My departure?" repeated Frantz, amazed. "Oh, my God! And where are you going to send me, monseigneur?"
"You will see. I shall confide you to the care of Major Butler; he will answer for you to me. Before twenty-four hours you shall leave Paris."
"Mercy, monseigneur!" cried Frantz, in a supplicating voice, not able to believe what he had heard. "Have pity on me, and do not compel me to depart."
"Return to your apartments," said the prince, with the severity of a military command, making a sign for Frantz to pass before him. "I never revoke an order once given. Obey!"
Frantz, overwhelmed, returned in sadness to his chamber, situated on the first floor of the palace, not far from the apartment of the archduke, and looking out upon the garden. At seven o'clock a dinner was served the young prisoner, which he did not touch. Night came, and Frantz, to his great astonishment, and to his deep and painful humiliation, heard his outside doors fastened with a double lock. Toward midnight, when the whole palace was asleep, he opened his window softly, went out on the balcony, and leaning outside, succeeded, with the aid of his cane, in removing a little of the wall plastered on one of the posts of a window-blind on the ground floor. It was on this tottering support that Frantz, with as much dexterity as temerity, having straddled the balcony railing, set the point of his foot; then, aiding himself by the rounds of the blind as a ladder, he reached the ground, ran into the shady walk, jumped the little wall, and soon found himself in the garden of the house occupied by Antonine.
Although the moon was veiled by thick clouds, a dim light shone under the great trees which had served as a place of meeting for Antonine and Frantz; at the end of a few moments, he perceived at a distance a figure in white, rapidly approaching; the young girl soon approachedhim and said, in a voice which betrayed her excitement:
"I came only for one minute, that you might not be disappointed, Frantz. I have taken advantage of my uncle's sleep; he is very sick, and I cannot stay away from him a longer time. Good-bye, Frantz," added Antonine, with a deep sigh; "it is very sad to part so soon, but it must be. Good-bye, again,—perhaps I can see you to-morrow."
The young man was so crushed by the news he had to communicate to the young girl that he had not the strength to interrupt her. Then, in a voice broken by sobs, he exclaimed:
"Antonine, we are lost!"
"Lost!"
"I am going away."
"You!"
"The prince compels me to go."
"Oh, my God!" murmured Antonine, turning pale and leaning for support on the back of the rustic bench. "Oh, my God!"
And, unable to utter another word, she burst into tears. After a heartrending silence, she said:
"And you hoped for the consent of the prince, Frantz."
"Alas! I hoped to obtain it by simply telling him how much I loved you, and how much you deserved that love. The prince is inflexible."
"To go away,—to be separated from each other, Frantz," murmured Antonine, in a broken voice; "but it is not possible,—it would kill us both with sorrow, and the prince would not do that."
"His will is inflexible; but whatever may happen," cried Frantz, falling at the young girl's knees, "yes, although I am a foreigner here, without family, without knowing what may be the consequence, I will stay in spite of the prince. Have courage, Antonine—"