"'Monseigneur, listen to me.'" Original etching by Adrian Marcel."'Monseigneur, listen to me.'"Original etching by Adrian Marcel.
Frantz could not continue; he saw a light shining in the distance, and a voice in great pain called:
"Mlle. Antonine!"
"My God! that is my uncle's nurse,—she is looking for me!" cried the young girl; then, turning to Frantz, she said, "Frantz, if you go away, I shall die."
And Antonine disappeared in the direction of the light.
The young man, overcome by grief, fell on the bench, hiding his face in his hands. Presently he heard a voice, coming down the walk in the garden of the Élysée, calling him by name:
"Frantz!"
He started, thinking it was the voice of the prince; he was not mistaken. A second time his name was called.
Fear, the habit of passive obedience, and his respect for the archduke, as well as his gratitude, led Frantz back to the little wall which separated the two gardens; behind this wall he saw the prince standing in the light of the moon. The prince extended his hand with haughty reserve, and assisted him to regain the walk.
"Immediately upon my return, I entered your apartment," said the archduke, severely. "I did not find you. Your open window told me all. Now, follow me."
"Monseigneur," cried Frantz, throwing himself at the feet of the prince, and clasping his hands, "monseigneur, listen to me."
"Major Butler," said the prince, in a loud voice, addressing a person who until then had been hidden by the shade, "accompany Count Frantz to his apartment, and do not leave him a moment. I hold you responsible for him."
The day after these events had transpired the archduke, dressed always in his uniform, for he carried military etiquette to its most extreme limit, was in his study about two o'clock in the afternoon. One of his aids, a man about forty years old, of calm and resolute countenance, was standing before the table on the side opposite the prince, who was seated, writing, with a haughtier, severer, and more care-worn manner than usual. As he wrote, without raising his eyes to the officer, he said to him:
"Is Captain Blum with Count Frantz?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"You have just seen the physician."
"Yes, monseigneur."
"What does he think of the count's condition?"
"He finds it more satisfactory, monseigneur."
"Does he think Count Frantz can support the fatigues of the journey without danger?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"Major Butler, go and give the order at once to prepare one of my travelling carriages."
"Yes, monseigneur."
"This evening at six o'clock you will depart with Count Frantz. Here is the guide for your route," added the prince, handing to his aid the note he had just written.
Then he remarked:
"Major Butler, you will not wait long for the proofsof my satisfaction if you accomplish, with your usual devotion and firmness, the mission I entrust to you."
"Your Highness can rely upon me."
"I know it, but I also know that, once recovering from his present dejection, and being no longer restrained by his respect for me, Count Frantz will certainly try to escape from your care along the route, and to get back to Paris at any risk. If this misfortune happens, sir, take care, for all my resentment will fall on you."
"I am certain that I shall not be undeserving of the kindness of your Highness."
"I hope so. Do not forget, too, to write to me twice a day until you reach the frontier."
"I will not fail, monseigneur."
"Upon your arrival on the territory of the Rhine provinces, send a despatch to the military authority."
"Yes, monseigneur."
"The end of your journey reached, you will inform me, and you will receive new orders from me."
At this moment the prince, hearing a light knock at the door, said to the major:
"See who that is."
Another aide-de-camp handed the officer a letter, and said, in a low voice:
"The envoy from Mexico has just sent this letter for his Highness."
And the aide-de-camp went out.
The major presented the letter to the prince, informing him whence it came.
"I recommend to you once more the strictest vigilance, Major Butler," said the archduke, putting aside the letter from the Mexican envoy without opening it. "You will answer to me in conducting Count Frantz to the frontier."
"I give you my word, monseigneur."
"Go, major, I accept your word, I know its value. If you keep it, you will have only cause for congratulation.So, make your preparation to leave at six o'clock promptly. Diesbach will provide you with the money necessary for your journey."
The major bowed respectfully.
"Say to Colonel Heidelberg that, after a few minutes, he can introduce the envoy of Mexico and the person who accompanies him."
"Yes, monseigneur."
The officer bowed profoundly, and went out.
The prince, left alone, said to himself as he slowly unsealed the letter which had been delivered to him:
"I must save this unhappy young man from his own folly. Such a marriage! It is insanity. Well, I must be mad myself to feel so disturbed about the consequences of this foolish passion of Frantz, as if I had not complete power over him. It is not anger, it is pity which his conduct ought to inspire in me."
In the midst of these reflections the prince had broken the seal of the letter and glanced perfunctorily over its contents. Suddenly he jumped up from his armchair; his haughty features took on an expression of righteous indignation, as he said:
"The Marquise de Miranda, that infernal woman who recently created such a scandal in Bologna,—almost a revolution,—by exposing that unfortunate cardinal to the hisses and the fury of an entire populace already so much disaffected! Oh, on no pretext will I receive that shameless creature."
And the prince sprang to the door to give the order not to admit the marquise.
He was too late.
The folding doors opened at that very moment, and she entered, accompanied by the envoy of Mexico.
Taking advantage of the surprise of the archduke, the cause of which he did not understand, the diplomatist bowed profoundly, and said:
"Monseigneur, I dare hope that your Highness willaccept the excuses I have just had the honour of offering you by letter on the subject of my omission yesterday of an important formality. I ought to have mentioned the name of the person for whom I solicited the favour of an audience from your Highness. I have repaired this omission, and now it only remains for me to have the honour of presenting to your Highness the Marquise de Miranda, who bears a distinguished name in our country, and to commend her to the kindness of your Highness."
The diplomatist, taking the prolonged silence of the prince for a dismissal, bowed respectfully, and went out, not a little disappointed at so cold a reception.
Madeleine and the archduke were left alone.
The marquise was, according to her custom, as simply and amply dressed as on the day before; only, by chance or intention, a little veil of English point adorned her hood of white crape, and almost entirely hid her face.
The prince, whose manners partook at the same time of military harshness and religious austerity,—his love for the mother of Frantz having been his first and only youthful error,—looked with a sort of aversion upon this woman, who, in his eyes, symbolised the most profound and most dangerous perversity, for popular rumour accused the marquise of attacking, by preference, with her seductions, persons of the most imposing and sacred character; and then, finally, the widely known adventure with the cardinal legate had, as the archduke believed, been followed by such deplorable consequences that a sentiment of political revenge was added to his hatred of Madeleine. So, notwithstanding his cold and polished dignity, he thought at first of dismissing his importunate visitor unceremoniously, or of disdainfully retiring into another chamber without uttering a word. But finally, the curiosity to see this woman about whom so many strange rumours were in circulation, and, aboveall, a keen desire to treat her with that contempt which in his opinion she deserved, modified his resolution. He remained; but instead of offering a seat to Madeleine, who studied his face attentively through her veil, he leaned his back squarely against the chimney, crossed his arms, and, with his head thrown back, his eyebrows imperiously elevated, he measured her with all the haughtiness of his sovereign pride, shut himself up in a chilling silence, and said to her not one word of encouragement or common civility.
The marquise, accustomed to produce a very different impression, and feeling, unconsciously perhaps, a kind of intimidation which many persons feel in the presence of high rank, particularly when it is identified with such insolent arrogance, was abashed by such a crushing reception, when she had hoped so much from the courtesy of the prince.
However, as she was acting for interests she believed to be sacred, and as she was brave, she conquered her emotion, and, as the Spanish proverb naturalised in Mexico says, she resolved bravely to "take the bull by the horns." So, seating herself carelessly in an armchair, she said to the prince, with the easiest and most smiling manner in the world:
"I come, monseigneur, simply to ask two things of you, one almost impossible and the other altogether impossible."
The archduke was confounded; his sovereign rank, his dignity, the severity of his character, his inflexible code of etiquette, always so powerful in the courts of the North, had accustomed him to see women, even, approach him with the most humble respect. Judge, then, of his dismay when Madeleine continued gaily, with familiar ease:
"You do not reply, monseigneur? How shall I interpret the silence of your Highness? Is it reflection? Is it timidity, or is it consent? Can it beimpoliteness? Impoliteness? No, I cannot believe that. In touching the soil of France, slaves become free, and men with the least gallantry at once assume an exquisite courtesy."
The prince, almost crazed by the amazement and anger produced by these audacious words, remained silent.
The marquise continued, smiling:
"Nothing? Not a word? Come, monseigneur, what is the real significance of the continued speechlessness of your Highness? Again I ask, is it reflection? Then reflect. Is it timidity? Then overcome it. Is it impoliteness? Remember that we are in France, and that I am a woman. But can I, on the contrary, regard your silence as a blind consent to what I am going to ask of you? Then say so at once, that I may at least inform you what are the favours that you grant me so graciously beforehand, and for which I desire to thank you cordially."
Then Madeleine, taking off her gloves, extended her hand to the archduke. That perfect little hand, white, delicate, tapering, fluttering, veined with azure, whose finger-nails resembled rose-coloured shells, attracted the attention of the prince; in all his life he had never seen such a hand. But soon, ashamed, revolting at the thought of yielding to such a triviality at such an important moment, the blush of indignation mounted to his brow, and he sought some word superlatively scornful and wounding, that he might crush, with a single club-like blow, this presumptuous woman, whose insolence had already lasted too long for the dignity of an archduke.
Unfortunately, the prince was more accustomed to command his troops, or to receive the homage of courtiers, than to find crushing words on the spur of the moment, especially when they were wanted to crush a young and pretty woman; nevertheless, he persisted in seeking.
This serene cogitation gave Madeleine the time to hide her hand under her large sleeves, and to say to the prince, with a mischievous smile:
"There is no longer room for doubt, monseigneur, that the silence of your Highness is due to timidity, and, too, to German timidity. I am acquainted with that. After the timidity of the scholar, there is none more unconquerable, and, therefore, more venerable, but there are limitations to everything. So, I beg you, monseigneur, recover yourself. I do not think there is anything in me calculated to awe your Highness," added the marquise, without lifting the veil which concealed her features.
The archduke was unfortunate; in spite of his desire, he could not find the crushing word, but, feeling how ridiculous his position was becoming, he said;
"I do not know, madame, how you dared to present yourself here."
"But I present myself here in accordance with your consent, monseigneur."
"When you requested an audience yesterday, I did not know your name, madame."
"And what has my name done to you, monseigneur?"
"Your name, madame? Your name?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"Your name has been the scandal of Germany; you have made the most spiritual of our poets a pagan, an idolater, a materialist."
"Indeed, monseigneur," replied Madeleine, with an accent of simplicity quite provincial, "that was not my fault."
"It was not your fault?"
"And then, where is the great evil, monseigneur? Your religious poet made mediocre verses, but now he writes magnificent ones."
"They are only the more dangerous, madame. And his soul,—his soul?"
"His soul has passed into his verses, monseigneur, so now it is twice immortal."
"And the cardinal legate, madame?"
"At least, you cannot reproach me for having injured his soul, for he had none."
"What, madame! have you not sufficiently vilified the sacred character of the prince of the Church, this priest who until then was so austere, this statesman who for twenty years was the terror of the impious and the seditious? Have you not delivered him to the contempt, the hatred, of wicked people? But for unexpected succour, they would have murdered him; in short, madame, were you not on the point of revolutionising Bologna?"
"Ah, monseigneur, you flatter me."
"And you dare, madame, to present yourself in the palace of a prince who has so much interest in the peace and submission of Germany and Italy? You dare come to ask favours of me,—things that you yourself say are impossible or almost impossible? And in what tone do you make this inconceivable request? In a tone familiar and jesting, as if you were certain of obtaining anything from me. You have made a mistake, madame, a great mistake! I resemble, I give you fair warning, neither the poet, Moser-Hartmann, nor the cardinal legate, nor many others, they say you have bewitched; in truth, your impudence would seem to be more like a dream or nightmare than reality. But who are you then, madame, you who think yourself so far above respect and duty as to treat me as an equal,—me, whom the princesses of royal families approach only with deference?"
"Alas, monseigneur! I am only a poor woman," replied Madeleine.
And she threw back the veil which had concealed her face from the eyes of the archduke.
The prince, carried away by the vehemence of his furious indignation, had, as he talked, come nearer and nearer the marquise, who still sat at her ease in the armchair.
When she threw back her veil, at the same time throwing her head back lightly, so as to be able to fix her eyes upon the eyes of the prince, he stood motionless, and experienced that mingling of surprise, admiration, and involuntary pain which almost everybody felt at the sight of that charming face, to which a pallid complexion, large azure blue eyes, black eyebrows, and blonde hair gave a fascination so singular.
This profound impression made upon the prince, Charles Dutertre had also received, notwithstanding his love for his wife, notwithstanding the agonising fears of ruin and disaster by which he was besieged.
For a few seconds the archduke remained, so to speak, under the fascination of this fixed, penetrating gaze, in which the marquise endeavoured to concentrate all the attraction, all the magnetism which was in her, and to cast it into the eyes of the prince, for the projecting power of Madeleine's glance was, so to speak, intermittent, subject, if we may use the expression, to pulsations; so at each of these pulsations, the rebound of which he seemed to feel physically, the archduke started involuntarily; his icy pride appeared to melt like snow in the sun; his haughty attitude seemed to bend; his arrogant countenance betrayed inexpressible uneasiness.
Suddenly Madeleine pulled her veil over her face, bowed her head, and tried to efface herself as much as possible under the ample folds of her mantle and trailing robe, which completely hid her small foot, as her wide sleeves hid the beautiful hand she had extended to the prince, who now saw before him only an undefined and chastely veiled form.
The most provoking coquetry, the boldest exposure of personal charms, would have been ingenuousness itself compared to this mysterious reserve, which, concealing from view the whole person from the point of the foot to the tips of the fingers, gave free rein to the imagination, which took fire at the recollection of the wonderful stories of the marquise current in Paris.
When Madeleine's face again disappeared under her veil, the prince, delivered from the influence which had held him in spite of himself, regained his self-possession, roughly curbed his weakness, and, as a safeguard against all dangerous allurement, forced himself to ponder the deplorable adventures which proved how fatal was the power of this woman over men known to be strong and inexorable.
But alas! the fall or transformation of these men only brought back more forcibly the irresistible fascination of the marquise. He felt the grave and imminent peril, but every one knows the attraction of danger.
In vain the prince argued with himself, that, naturally phlegmatic, he had attained the maturity of age without ever having submitted to the empire of those gross passions which degrade men. In vain he said to himself that he was a prince of the royal blood, that he owed it to the sovereign dignity of his rank not to debase himself by yielding to shameful enticements. In a word, the unhappy archduke philosophised marvellously well, but as uselessly as a man who, seeing in terror that he is rolling down a steep declivity, gravely philosophises upon the delightful advantages of repose.
Words, phrases, and pages are necessary to portrayimpressions as instantaneous as thought, and all that we have described at such length, from the moment Madeleine lifted her veil to the moment she dropped it again, transpired in a few seconds, and the archduke, in the midst of his efforts at self-restraint, unconsciously, no doubt,—so much did his philosophy disengage his mind from matter,—tried, we say, yes, tried again to see Madeleine's features through the lace which concealed them.
"I told you, monseigneur," said the marquise, holding her head down from the covetous and anxious gaze of the archduke, "I told you that I was a poor widow who values her reputation, and who really does not deserve your severity."
"Madame—"
"Oh, I do not reproach you, monseigneur. You, no doubt, like many others, believe certain rumours—"
"Rumours, madame!" cried the archduke, delighted to feel his anger kindle again. "Rumours! The scandalous apostasy of the poet, Moser-Hartmann, was a rumour, was it?"
"What you call his apostasy is a fact, monseigneur; that may be, but—"
"Perhaps the degradation of the cardinal legate was also a vain rumour?" continued the archduke, impetuously interrupting Madeleine.
"That may be a fact, monseigneur, but—"
"So, madame, you confess yourself that—"
"Pardon me, monseigneur, listen to me. I am called Madeleine; it is the name of a great sinner, as you know."
"She received pardon, madame."
"Yes, because she loved much; nevertheless, believe me, monseigneur, I am not seeking an excuse in the example of the life of my patron saint. I have done nothing which requires pardon, no, nothing, absolutely nothing, monseigneur. That seems to astonish you verymuch. So, to make myself entirely understood, which is quite embarrassing, I shall be obliged, at the risk of appearing pedantic, to appeal to the classical knowledge of Your Highness."
"What do you mean, madame?"
"Something very odd; but the acrimony of your reproaches, as well as other reasons, compels me to a confession, or rather to a very singular justification."
"Madame, explain yourself."
"You know, monseigneur, upon what condition the vestal virgins at Rome were chosen?"
"Certainly, madame," replied the prince, with a modest blush, and, he added, ingenuously, "but I cannot see what relation—"
"Ah, well, monseigneur," interrupted Madeleine, smiling at the Germanism of the prince, "if we were at Rome under the empire of the Cæsars, I would have every possible right to keep the sacred fire on the altar of the chaste goddess. In a word, I am a widow without ever having been married; because, upon my return from Europe the Marquis de Miranda, my relative and benefactor, died, and he married me on his death-bed that he might leave me his name and his fortune."
The accent of truth is irresistible, and the prince at once believed the words of Madeleine, in spite of the amazement produced by this revelation so diametrically opposite to the rumours of adventures and gallantries which were rife about the marquise.
The astonishment of the prince was mingled with a vague satisfaction which he did not care to estimate. However, fearing he might fall into a snare, he said, no longer with passion, but with a sorrowful recrimination:
"You count too much on my credulity, madame. What! when just now you confessed to me that—"
"I beg your pardon, monseigneur; do me the favour to reply to a few questions."
"Speak, madame."
"You certainly have all the valiant exterior of a man of war, monseigneur, and when I saw you in Vienna, mounted on your beautiful battle-horse, proudly cross the Prater, followed by your aides-de-camp, I often said, 'That is my type of an army general; there is a man made to command soldiers.'"
"You saw me in Vienna?" asked the archduke, whose voice softened singularly. "You observed me there?"
"Fortunately you did not know it, monseigneur, or you would have exiled me, would you not?"
"Well," replied the prince, smiling, "I fear so."
"Come, that is gallantry; I like you better so. I was saying to you, then, monseigneur, that you have the exterior of a valiant man of war, and your character responds to this exterior. But will you not confess to me that sometimes the most martial figure may hide a poltroon—"
"No one better understands that than I. I had under my orders a major-general who had the most ferocious-looking personality that could be imagined, and he was the most arrant coward."
"You will admit again, monseigneur, that sometimes the most contemptible-looking personality may hide a hero."
"Certainly, Frederick the Great, Prince Eugene, were not great in manner—"
"Alas! monseigneur, it is even so, and I, on the contrary, am different from these great men; unfortunately, I have too much manner."
"What do you mean, madame?"
"Ah, my God, yes! I am like the coward who makes everybody tremble by his stern appearance, and who is really more afraid than the most cowardly of the cowards he intimidates. In a word, I inspire that which I do not feel; picture to yourself, monseigneur, the poor icicle carrying around him flame and conflagration. And Iwould have the presumption to call myself a phenomenon if I did not recollect that the beautiful fruits of my country, so bright-coloured, so delicate, so fragrant, awaken in me a furious appetite, without sharing the least in the world the fine appetite they give, or ever feeling the slightest desire to be crunched. It is so with me, monseigneur, it seems that as innocently as the fruits of my country I excite, in some respects, the hunger of an ogre, I who am of a cenobitic frugality. So now I have concluded to be no longer astonished at the influence I exercise involuntarily, but as, after all, this action is powerful, inasmuch as it excites the most violent passions of men, I try to elicit the best that is possible from my victims, either for themselves or for the good of others, and that, I swear without coquetry, deception, or promises, if one says to me, 'I am passionately in love with you,' I answer, 'Well, cherish your passion, perhaps its fire will melt my ice, perhaps the lava will hide itself in me under the snow. Fan your flame, then, let it burn until it wins me; I ask nothing better, for I am as free as the air, and I am twenty-two years old.'"
As she uttered these words, Madeleine raised her head, lifted her veil, and gazed intently at the archduke.
The marquise spoke truly, for her passion for her blond archangel, of whom she had talked to Sophie Dutertre, had never had anything terrestrial in it.
The prince believed Madeleine; first, because truth almost always carries conviction with it, then, because he felt happy in putting faith in the words of the young woman. He blushed less in acknowledging to himself the profound and sudden impression produced on him by this singular creature, when he realised that, after all, she had been worthy of guarding the sacred fire of Vesta; so, the imprudent man, his eyes fixed on the eyes of Madeleine, contemplating them with passionate eagerness, drank at leisure the enchanted love-potion.
Madeleine resumed, smiling:
"At this moment, monseigneur, you are asking yourself, I am sure, a question which I often ask myself."
"What is that, pray?"
"You are asking yourself (to speak like an old-time romance), 'Who is he who will make me share his passion?' Ah, well, I, too, am very anxious to penetrate the future on this subject."
"That future, nevertheless, depends on you."
"No, monseigneur, to draw music from the lyre, some one must make it vibrate."
"And who will that happy mortal be?"
"My God! who knows? Perhaps you, monseigneur."
"I!" cried the prince, charmed, transported. "I!"
"I say perhaps."
"Oh, what must I do?"
"Please me."
"And how shall I do that?"
"Listen, monseigneur."
"I pray you, do not call me monseigneur; it is too ceremonious."
"Oh, oh, monseigneur; it is a great favour for a prince to be treated with familiarity; he must deserve it. You ask me how you may please me. I will give you not an example, but a fact. The poet, Moser-Hartmann, whose apostasy you say I caused, addressed to me the most singular remark in the world. One day he met me at the house of a mutual friend, looked at me a long time, and then said, with an air of angry alarm: 'Madame, for the peace of spirituality, you ought to be buried alive!' And he went out, but next day he came to see me, madly in love, a victim, he told me, to a sudden passion,—as sudden and novel as it was uncontrollable. 'Let your passion burn,' I said to him, 'but hear the advice of a friend; the passion devours you, let it flow in your verse. Become a great poet, and perhaps your glory will intoxicate me.'"
"And did the inebriation ever come to you?" said the prince.
"No, but glory has come to my lover to console him, and a poet can be consoled for the loss of everything by glory. Ah, well, monseigneur, have I used my influence well or ill?"
Suddenly the archduke started.
A keen suspicion pierced his heart. Dissimulating this painful doubt, he said to Madeleine, with a forced smile:
"But, madame, your adventure with the cardinal legate did not have so happy an end for him. What is left to console him?"
"There rests with him the consciousness of having delivered a country that abhorred him from his presence," replied Madeleine, gaily. "Is there nothing in that, monseigneur?"
"Come now, between us, what interest had you in making this unhappy man the victim of a terrible scandal?"
"How! What interest, monseigneur? What but the interest of unmasking an infamous hypocrite, of chasing him out of a city that he oppressed,—in short, to cover him with contempt and shame. 'I believe in your passion,' said I to him, 'and perhaps I may share it if you will mask as a Hungarian hussar, and come with me to the ball of the Rialto, my dear cardinal; it is an extravagant, foolish caprice on my part, no doubt, but that is my condition, and, besides, who will recognise you under the mask?' This horrible priest had his head turned; he accepted, and I destroyed him."
"And you will destroy me, madame, as you did the cardinal legate," cried the archduke, rising and making a supreme effort to break the charm whose irresistible power he already felt. "I see the snare; I have enemies; you wish by your perfidious seductions, to drag me into some dangerous proceeding, and afterwards tohand me over to the contempt and ridicule that my weakness would deserve. But, bless God! he has opened my eyes in time. I recognise with horror that infernal fascination which took from me the use of my reason, and which was not love even,—no, I yielded to the grossest, most degrading passion which can lower man to the level of a brute, to that passion which, to my shame and to yours, I desire to stigmatise aloud as lust, madame!"
Madeleine shrugged her shoulders and began to laugh derisively, then rising from her seat and walking up to the prince, who had stepped back to the chimney, she took him gently by the hand, and led him back to a chair near her own, without his having the strength to resist this peaceable violence.
"Do me the favour to listen to me, monseigneur," said Madeleine. "I have only a few more words to say to you, and then you will not see the Marquise de Miranda again in your life."
When Madeleine had seated the prince near her, she said to him:
"Listen, monseigneur, I will be frank, so frank that I defy you not to believe me. I came here with the hope of turning your head."
"So," cried the prince, astonished, "you confess it!"
"Entirely. That end attained, I wished to use my influence over you, to obtain, as I told you, monseigneur, at the beginning of our interview, two things, one considered almost impossible, the other as altogether impossible."
"You are right, madame, to defy me not to believe you," replied the prince, with a constrained smile. "I believe you."
"The two deeds that I wished to obtain from you were great, noble, and generous; they would have made you esteemed and respected. That is very far, I think, from wishing to abuse my influence over you to excite you to evil or indignity, as you suppose."
"Well, madame, come to the point; what is it?"
"First, an act of clemency, or rather of justice, which would rally around you a multitude of hearts in Lombardy,—the free and full pardon of Colonel Pernetti."
The prince jumped up from his chair, and exclaimed:
"Never, madame, never!"
"The free and full pardon of Colonel Pernetti, one of the most honoured men in all Italy," pursued Madeleine, without noticing the interruption of the prince. "The reasonable pride of this noble-hearted man will preventhis asking you for the slightest alleviation of his woes, but come generously to his relief, and his gratitude will assure you of his devotion."
"I repeat to you, madame, that important reasons of state oppose your request. It is impossible, altogether impossible."
"To be sure. I began, you know, by telling you that, monseigneur. As to the other thing, doubtless more impossible still, it simply concerns your consent to the marriage of a young man whom you have brought up."
"I!" cried the archduke, as if he could not believe his ears. "I, consent to the marriage of Count Frantz?"
"I do not know if he is a count, but I do know that his name is Frantz, since it was told me this morning by Mlle. Antonine Hubert, an angel of sweetness and beauty, whom I have loved from her childhood, and for whom I feel the tenderness of a mother and a sister."
"Madame, in three hours from this moment Count Frantz will have left Paris,—that is my reply."
"My God, monseigneur, that is admirable! All this is impossible, absolutely impossible. I say again, I admit that it is impossible!"
"Then, madame, why do you ask it?"
"Why, to obtain it, of course, monseigneur."
"What! notwithstanding all I have just said to you, you dare hope still?"
"I have that presumption, monseigneur."
"Such self-conceit—"
"Is very modest because I am not counting on my presence."
"On what, then, madame, do you rely?"
"On my absence, monseigneur," said Madeleine, rising.
"On your absence?"
"On your remembrance, if you prefer it."
"You are going," said the prince, unable to conceal his regret and vexation, "you are going so soon?"
"It is my last and only means of bringing you to an agreement."
"But really, madame——"
"Wait, monseigneur, do you wish me to tell you what is going to happen?"
"Let us hear, madame."
"I am going to leave you. At first you will be relieved of a great burden; my presence will no longer beset you with all sorts of temptations, which have their agony as well as their charm; you will banish me entirely from your thoughts. Unfortunately, by degrees, and in spite of yourself, I will return to occupy your thoughts; my mysterious, veiled figure will follow you everywhere; you will feel still more how little there is of the platonic in your inclination toward me, and these sentiments will become only more irritating and more obstinate. To-morrow, the next day, perhaps, reflecting that, after all, I asked noble and generous actions only of you, you will bitterly regret my departure, but it will be too late, monseigneur."
"Too late?"
"Too late for you; not for me. I have taken it into my head that Colonel Pernetti will have his pardon, and that Count Frantz will marry Antonine. You understand, monseigneur, that it must be."
"In spite of me?"
"In spite of you."
"That would be rather difficult."
"So it is. But, let us see, monseigneur, to mention to you only facts which you already know; when one has known how to induce the cardinal legate to masquerade as a Hungarian hussar, when one has known how to create a great poet by the fire of a single glance, when one has known how to render amorous—and I humbly confess I use the expression in its earthly sense—a man like you, monseigneur, it is evident that one can accomplish something else also. You force, do you not,this poor Count Frantz to leave Paris? But the journey is long, and before he is out of France I have two days before me. A little delay in the pardon of Colonel Pernetti will be nothing for him, and, after all, his pardon does not depend on you alone, monseigneur; you cannot imagine to what point the rebound of influence may reach, and, thank God, here in France I have the means and the liberty to act. Is it war that you wish, monseigneur? Then let it be war. I depart, and I leave you already wounded,—that is to say, in love. Ah, my God! although I have a right to be proud of my success, it is not vanity which makes me insist upon the sudden impression I have made on you; because, to tell the truth, I have not employed the least coquetry in all this; almost always I have kept my veil down, and I am dressed as a veritable grandmother. Well, good-bye, monseigneur. At least do me the favour to accompany me to the door of your front parlour; war does not forbid courtesy."
The archduke was in unutterable uneasiness of mind. He felt that Madeleine was speaking the truth, for, already, at the bare thought of seeing her depart, perhaps for ever, he experienced a real sorrow; then, reflecting that if the charm, the singular and almost irresistible attraction of this woman could act so powerfully on him, who for so many reasons believed himself protected from such an influence, as well as from others which might induce him to submit to this control, he felt a sort of vague but bitter and angry jealousy; and while he could not make up his mind to grant the pardon asked of him, or to consent to the marriage of Frantz, he tried, like all undecided minds, to temporise, and said to the marquise, with emotion:
"Since I cannot see you again, at least prolong your visit a little."
"For what purpose, monseigneur?"
"It matters little to you if it makes me happy."
"It would not by any means make you happy, monseigneur, because you have neither the strength to let me depart nor to grant me what I ask of you."
"That is true," answered the prince, sighing, "for one request seems as impossible to me as the other."
"Ah, to-morrow, after my departure, how you will repent!"
The prince, after a long silence, said, with effort, yet with the most insinuating voice:
"Wait, my dear marquise, let us suppose that which is not supposable, that perhaps some day I may think of granting the pardon of Pernetti."
"A supposition? perhaps some day you will think of it? How vague and unsatisfactory all that is, monseigneur! Why not say, positively, 'Admit that I grant you the pardon of Colonel Pernetti.'"
"Very well, then, admit it."
"Good; you grant me this pardon, monseigneur, and you consent to the marriage of Frantz? I must have all or nothing."
"As to the marriage, never, never!"
"Do not say never, monseigneur. Do you know anything about it?"
"After all, a supposition binds me to nothing. Well, to make an end of it, let us admit that I grant all you desire. I will be at least certain of my recompense—"
"You ask it of me, monseigneur? Is not every generous action its own reward?"
"Granted. But there is one, in my eyes the most precious of all, and that one you alone can give."
"Oh, make no conditions, monseigneur."
"Why?"
"Frankly, monseigneur, can I pledge myself to anything? Does not all depend on you and not on me? You must please me, that concerns you."
"Oh! what a woman you are!" said the prince, withvexation. "But, really, shall I please you? Do you think I can please you?"
"My faith, monseigneur, I know nothing about it. You have done nothing so far but receive me with rudeness, I can truthfully say."
"My God! I was wrong, forgive me; if you only knew the uneasiness, I might almost say the fear, that you inspire in me, my dear marquise!"
"Come, I forgive you the past, monseigneur, and promise you to allow myself to be captivated with the best will in the world, and, as I am very frank, I will even add that it does seem to me that I would like you so much that you might succeed."
"Truly!" cried the prince, transported.
"Yes; you are half a sovereign, and you perhaps will be one some day, and there may be all sorts of good and beautiful things for you to order through the influence of this consuming passion you have just branded like a real capuchin,—allow me the expression. Come, monseigneur, if the good God has put this passion in all his creatures, he knew what he was doing. It is an immense power, because, in the hope of satisfying it, those who are under its influence are capable of everything, even the most generous actions, is it not true, monseigneur?"
"So," added the prince, with increasing rapture, "I can hope—"
"Hope all at your ease, monseigneur, but, I tell you plainly, I bind myself to nothing. My faith! fan your flame, make it burn, let it melt my snow."
"But, in a word, suppose that I grant all that you ask, what would you feel for me?"
"Perhaps this first proof of devotion to my wishes would make a deep impression upon me, but I cannot assert it, my power of divination does not extend so far as that, monseigneur."
"Ah, you are pitiless!" cried the archduke, with avexation that had a touch of sorrow in it, "you only know how to exact."
"Would it be better to make false promises, monseigneur? That would be worthy neither of you nor of me, and then, in a word, let us speak as people who have hearts. Once more, what is it I ask of you? to show justice and mercy to the most honourable of men, and paternal affection for the orphan you have reared! If you only knew how these poor orphans love each other! What innocence! what tenderness! what despair! This morning, as she told me of the ruin of her hopes, Antonine was moved to tears."
"Frantz is of illustrious birth. I have other plans and other views for him," replied the prince, impatiently. "He ought not to make a misalliance."
"The word is a pretty one. And then who am I, monseigneur? Magdalena Pérès, daughter of an honest Mexican merchant, ruined by failures in business, and a marquise by chance. You love me, nevertheless, without fear of misalliance."
"Ah, madame! I! I!"
"You, you, it is another thing, is it not? as the comedy says."
"At least, I am free in my actions."
"And why should not Frantz be free in his, when his tastes restrain him to a modest and honourable life, adorned by a pure and noble love? Come, monseigneur, if you were, as you say, smitten with me, how tenderly you would compassionate the despairing love of those two poor children, who adore each other with all the ardour and innocence of their age! If passion does not render you better and more generous, this passion is not true, and if I am to share it I must begin by believing in it, which I cannot do when I see your relentless cruelty to Frantz."
"Ah, my God, if I loved him less I would not be relentless!"
"A singular way to love people!"
"Have I not told you that I intended him for a high destiny?"
"And I tell you, monseigneur, that the high destiny you reserve for him would be odious to him. He is born for a happy, sweet, and modest life; his tastes are simple, the timidity of his character, his qualities even, separate him from all that is showy and pompous; is it not true?"
"Then," said the prince, greatly surprised, "you are acquainted with him?"
"I have never seen him."
"How, then, do you know?"
"Has not this dear Antonine given me all her confidence? Is it not true that, according to the way you love people, you are able to divine their true character? In a word, monseigneur, the character of Frantz is such as I have described, is it not,—yes or no?"
"It is true, such is his character."
"And you would have the cruelty to impose upon him an existence which would be insupportable to him, when there under his hand he would find the happiness of his life?"
"But, know that I love Frantz as my own son, and I will never consent to be separated from him."
"Great pleasure for you to have constantly under your eyes the sad face of a poor creature whose eternal misery you have caused! Besides, Antonine is an orphan; nothing forbids her accompanying Frantz; in the place of one child, you would have two. What a relief from your grandeur, from the adulations of a false and selfish and artificial society would the sight of this sweet and smiling happiness be to you; with what joy would you go to refresh your heart and soul in the home of these two children who would cherish you with all the happiness they would owe to you!"
"Stop, leave me," cried the prince, more and moremoved. "I do not know what inconceivable power your words have, but I feel my firmest resolutions give way, I feel the convictions of my whole life growing weak."
"Do you complain of that, monseigneur! Hold! Between us, without detracting from princes, I think they would often do well to renounce the convictions of all their life, for God knows what these convictions may be. Come, believe me, yield to the impression which now dominates you, it is good and generous."
"Ah, my God, in this moment do I know how to distinguish good from evil?"
"For that, monseigneur, interrogate the faces of those whose happiness you have assured; when you will say to one, 'Go, poor exile, return to the country that you weep; your brothers wait for you with open arms,' and to the other, 'My beloved child, be happy, marry Antonine,' then look well at both, monseigneur, and if tears moisten their eyes, as at this moment they moisten yours and mine, be tranquil, monseigneur, you have done good, and for this good, to encourage you because your emotion touches me, I promise you to accompany Antonine to Germany."
"Truly," cried the prince, "you promise me?"
"I must, monseigneur," said Madeleine, smiling, "give you the opportunity to captivate me."
"Ah, well, whatever may happen, whatever you may do, for perhaps you are making sport of me," said the prince, throwing himself at Madeleine's knees, "I give you my royal word that I will pardon the exile, that I—"
The archduke was suddenly interrupted by a violent noise outside the door of his study, a noise which revealed the sharp contention of several voices, above which rose distinctly the words:
"I tell you, sir, you shall not enter!"
The archduke got up from his position suddenly, turned pale with anger, and said to Madeleine, who was listening also to the noise with great surprise:
"I beseech you, go into the next chamber; something extraordinary is taking place. In an instant I will rejoin you."
At that moment a violent blow resounded behind the door.
The prince added, as he went to open the adjacent room for Madeleine:
"Enter there, please."
Then, closing the door, and wishing in his anger to know the cause of this insolent and unusual noise, he went out of his study quickly, and saw M. Pascal, whom two exasperated officers were trying to restrain.
At the sight of the archduke, the officers turned aside respectfully, and M. Pascal, who seemed to have lost control of himself, cried:
"Zounds! monseigneur, you receive people here singularly!"
The prince, remembering the appointment that he had made with M. Pascal, and fearing for his own dignity some new insult from this brutal person, said, making a sign to him:
"Come, monsieur, come."
And before the eyes of the silent officers the door closed on the prince and the capitalist.
"Now, monsieur," said the archduke, pale with anger and hardly able to restrain himself, "will you tell me the cause of this scandal?"
"What! you make an appointment for me at three o'clock; I am punctual; a quarter of an hour passes,—nobody; a half-hour,—nobody; my faith! I lose patience, and I ask one of your officers to inform you that I am waiting. They answer that you have an audience. I begin to champ my bit, and at last, at the end of another half-hour, I tell your gentlemen, positively, that if they do not inform you I will go in myself."
"That, monsieur, is an insolence—"
"What, an insolence! Ah, well, monseigneur, is it I who have need of you, or you who have need of me?"
"M. Pascal!"
"Is it I who come to you, monseigneur? Is it I who have asked for the loan of money?"
"But, monsieur—"
"But, monseigneur, when I consent to interrupt my own business to come here and wait in your antechamber,—what I do for nobody,—it seems to me that you ought not to let me go to the devil for one hour, and the most important hour, too, on the Exchange, which, thanks to you, monseigneur, I have missed to-day; and in addition to that vexation, I think it very strange that your officers repulse me, when, on their refusal to announce me, I take the liberty of announcing myself."
"Discretion and the simplest propriety command you to wait the end of the audience I was giving, monsieur."
"That is possible, monseigneur, but, unfortunately, my just impatience contradicts discretion, and, frankly, I think I deserve a different reception, especially when I come to talk with you of a service that you have implored me to do for you."
In the first moment of his anger, increased by the persistent coarseness of M. Pascal, the prince had forgotten that the Marquise de Miranda could hear his conversation with his rude visitor from the adjoining room; so, overwhelmed with shame and feeling the necessity of appeasing the angry humour of the man, he endeavoured with all his self-control to appear calm, and tried to lead M. Pascal, as he talked with him, over to the embrasure of one of the windows, where Madeleine would not be able to hear the interview.
"You know, M. Pascal," said he, "that I have always been very tolerant of your bluntness, and I will continue to be so."
"Really, you are very good, monseigneur," replied Pascal, sarcastically, "but you see each one of us has his little contrarieties, and at the present moment I have very large ones, which make it impossible for me to possess the gentleness of a lamb."
"That excuse, or, rather, that explanation suffices for me, M. Pascal," replied the prince, dominated byhis need of the financier's services. "Opposition often exasperates the gentlest characters, but let us talk no longer of the past. You asked me to anticipate by two days the appointment we had made to terminate our business. I hope that you bring me a satisfactory reply."
"I bring you a thoroughly complete yes, monseigneur," replied our hero, growing gentle. And he drew a pocketbook from his pocket. "And more, to corroborate this yes, here is a draft on the Bank of France for the tenth of the amount, and this contract of mine for the remainder of the loan."
"Ah, my dear M. Pascal!" cried the prince, radiant, "you are a man—a man of gold."
"'A man of gold!' that is the word, monseigneur. That is no doubt the cause of your liking for me."
The prince did not observe this sarcasm. Delighted with the whole day, which seemed to fulfil his various desires, and impatient to dismiss the financier so as to return to Madeleine, he said:
"Since all is settled, my dear M. Pascal, we need only exchange our signatures, and to-morrow or after, at your hour, we will regulate the matter completely."
"I understand, monseigneur; once the money and the signature in your pocket, the keenest desire of your heart is to rid yourself as soon as possible of your very humble servant, Pascal, and to-morrow you will turn him over to some subaltern charged with the power of arranging the affair."
"Monsieur!"
"Good! monseigneur, is not that the natural course of things? Before the loan, one is a good genius, a half or three-quarters of God; once the money is loaned, one is a Jew or an Arab. I know this, it is the other side of the medallion. Do not hasten, monseigneur, to turn over the said medallion."
"Really, monsieur, you must explain yourself."
"Immediately, monseigneur, for I am in a hurry. The money is there, my signature is there," added he, striking the pocketbook. "The affair is concluded on one condition."
"Still conditions?"
"Each, monseigneur, manages his little affairs as he understands them. My condition, however, is very simple."
"Let us hear it, monsieur, let us come to an end."
"Yesterday I told you that I observed a handsome blond young man in the garden, where he was promenading, who lives here, you inform me."
"Without doubt, it is Count Frantz, my godson."
"Certainly, one could not see a prettier boy, I told you. Now then, as you are the godfather of this pretty boy, you ought to have some influence over him, ought you not?"
"What are you aiming at, monsieur?"
"Monseigneur, in the interest of your dear godson, I will tell you in confidence that I think the air of Paris is bad for him."
"What!"
"Yes, and you would do wisely to send him back to Germany; his health would improve very much, monseigneur, very much indeed."
"Is this a pleasantry, monsieur?"
"It is serious, monseigneur, so serious that the only condition that I put to the conclusion of our affair is that you must make your godson depart for Germany in twenty-four hours at the latest."
"Truly, monsieur, I cannot recover from my surprise. What interest have you in the departure of Frantz? It is inexplicable."
"I am going to explain myself, monseigneur, and that you may better understand the interest I have in his departure, I must make you a confidence; that will enable me to point out exactly what I expect from you.Now then, monseigneur, such as you see me I am madly in love. Eh, my God! yes, madly in love; that seems queer to you and to me also. But the fact remains. I am in love with a young girl named Mlle. Antonine Hubert, your neighbour."
"You, monsieur, you!" exclaimed the prince, dismayed.
"Certainly, me! Me! Pascal! And why not, monsieur? 'Love is of every age,' says the song. Only, as it is also of the age of your godson, Count Frantz, he has in the most innocent way in the world begun to love Mlle. Antonine; she, not less innocently, returns the love of this pretty boy, which places me, you see, in an exceedingly disobliging frame of mind; fortunately, you can assist me in getting out of this frame of mind, monseigneur."
"I?"
"Yes, monseigneur; I will tell you how. Assure me that you will require Count Frantz to leave France this instant,—and that is easy,—and demand also that he is not to set foot in France for several years; the rest belongs to me."
"But there is another thing you do not think of, monsieur. If this young person loves Frantz?"
"The rest belongs to me, I tell you, monseigneur. President Hubert has not two days to live; my batteries are ready, the little girl will be forced to go to live with an old relative who is horribly covetous and avaricious; a hundred thousand francs will answer to me for this old vixen, and once she gets the little girl in her clutches I swear to God that Antonine will become, willing or unwilling, Madame Pascal, and that, too, without resorting to violence. Come now, monseigneur, all the love affairs of fifteen years will not hold against the desire to become, I will not say madame the archduchess, but madame the archmillionaire. Now, monseigneur, you see it all, I have frankly played the cards on thetable; having no interest in acting otherwise, it is of little or no moment to you that your godson should marry a little girl who has not a cent. The condition that I impose is the easiest possible one to fulfil. Again, is it yes, or is it no?"
The prince was overwhelmed, less by the plans of Pascal and his odious misanthropy, than by the cruel alternative in which the condition imposed by the capitalist placed him.
To order the departure of Frantz, and oppose his marriage with Antonine, was to lose Madeleine; to refuse the condition imposed by M. Pascal was to renounce the loan, which would enable him to accomplish his projects of ambitious aggrandisement.
In the midst of this conflict of two violent passions, the prince recollected that he had only given his word to Madeleine for the pardon of the exile, the tumult caused by the fury of M. Pascal having interrupted him at the very moment he was about to swear to Madeleine to consent to the marriage of Frantz.
Notwithstanding the facility which this evasion left to him, the archduke realised how powerful was the influence of Madeleine over him, as that morning even he had not hesitated to sacrifice Frantz to his ambition.
The hesitation and perplexity of the prince struck Pascal with increasing surprise; he could not believe that his demand concerning Frantz was the only question; however, to influence the determination of the prince by placing before him the consequences of his refusal, he broke the silence, and said: