The Project Gutenberg eBook ofLuxury--Gluttony: Two of the Seven Cardinal SinsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Luxury--Gluttony: Two of the Seven Cardinal SinsAuthor: Eugène SueIllustrator: Adrian MarcelRelease date: November 13, 2010 [eBook #34305]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book wasproduced from scanned images of public domain materialfrom the Google Print project.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LUXURY--GLUTTONY: TWO OF THE SEVEN CARDINAL SINS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Luxury--Gluttony: Two of the Seven Cardinal SinsAuthor: Eugène SueIllustrator: Adrian MarcelRelease date: November 13, 2010 [eBook #34305]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book wasproduced from scanned images of public domain materialfrom the Google Print project.)
Title: Luxury--Gluttony: Two of the Seven Cardinal Sins
Author: Eugène SueIllustrator: Adrian Marcel
Author: Eugène Sue
Illustrator: Adrian Marcel
Release date: November 13, 2010 [eBook #34305]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book wasproduced from scanned images of public domain materialfrom the Google Print project.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LUXURY--GLUTTONY: TWO OF THE SEVEN CARDINAL SINS ***
"'There he is.'" Original etching by Adrian Marcel."'There he is.'"Original etching by Adrian Marcel.
Luxury—Gluttony. Two of the SevenCardinal Sins.ILLUSTRATED WITHETCHINGS BY ADRIAN MARCEL.BY EUGENE SUE
BOSTONFRANCIS A. NICCOLLS & CO.PUBLISHERSEdition de LuxeThis edition is limited to one thousand copies,of which this isNo. 505Copyright, 1899By Francis A. Niccolls & Co.
Luxury and Gluttony
The palace of the Élysée-Bourbon,—the old hôtel of the Marquise de Pompadour,—situated in the middle of the Faubourg St. Honoré, was, previous to the last revolution, furnished, as every one knows, for the occupancy of foreign royal highnesses,—Roman Catholic, Protestant, or Mussulman, from the princes of the German confederation to Ibrahim Pacha.
About the end of the month of July, in a year long past, at eleven o'clock in the morning, several young secretaries and gentlemen belonging to the retinue of his Royal Highness, the Archduke Leopold Maximilian, who had occupied the Élysée for six weeks, met in one of the official parlours of the palace.
"The review on the Field of Mars in honour of his Royal Highness is prolonged," remarked one of the company. "The audience of the prince will be crowded this morning."
"The fact is," replied another, "five or six persons have already been waiting a half-hour, and monseigneur, in his rigorous military punctuality, will regret this enforced delay."
Then one of the doors opened; a young man not more than twenty years old at most, a guest of the house, crossed the parlour, and entered an adjoiningchamber, after having saluted, with mingled kindness and embarrassment, the speakers, who rose upon seeing him, thus testifying a deference which seemed unwarranted by his age and position.
When he had disappeared, one of the gentlemen, alluding to him, said:
"Poor Count Frantz, always so timid! A young girl of fifteen, just out of the convent, would have more assurance! To look at him, who would believe him capable of such rare bravery, and that, too, for three years in the Caucasus war? And that he came so valiantly and brilliantly out of that duel forced on him in Vienna? I, gentlemen, picture to myself Count Frantz modestly dropping his eyes as he gave the Circassians a thrust of his sword."
"Besides, I believe that his Royal Highness makes a decided convenience of the ingenuousness of his son—"
"The devil! No indiscretion, dear sir!"
"Let me finish, please. I say that monseigneur makes a convenience of the unconquerable ingenuousness of his godson."
"Well and good. And I think with you that the prince does not see this handsome boy exposed to the temptations of wicked Paris, without some anxiety. But what are you smiling at, my dear sir?"
"Nothing."
"Do you think that Count Frantz has had some love affair, in spite of his apparent innocence?"
"You can see after a little, gentlemen, all the fine things a smile may mean, for I call you to witness I am satisfied with smiling."
"Seriously, my dear sir, what do you think of Count Frantz?"
"I think nothing, I say nothing, I shall be as mute as a diplomatist whose interest it is to keep silent, or as a young officer of the noble guards when he passes, for the first time, under the inspection of monseigneur."
"The truth is, the prince has a glance which intimidates the boldest. But to return to Count Frantz."
This conversation was interrupted by a number of persons who entered the official chamber.
The newcomers banished the thought of Count Frantz, and two or three voices asked at once:
"Well, what about your sightseeing? Is this famous manufactory in the Faubourg St. Marceau worth the trouble of a visit?"
"For my part, gentlemen, I am always very curious about the construction of machinery," replied one who had just entered. "The whole morning has been interesting, and I declare M. Charles Dutertre, the proprietor of this factory, one of the most accomplished and intelligent machinists that I know, besides being a most agreeable man; I intend to persuade monseigneur to visit his workshops."
"Well and good, my dear sir; we will not accuse you of wasting your time in frivolities, but I have not such high pretensions, and my pretension is only in a state of hope."
"And what hope?"
"To be invited to dine with the celebrated Doctor Gasterini."
"The most illustrious, the most profound gourmand of Europe."
"They say, really, that his table is an ideal of the paradise of gourmands."
"I do not know, alas! if this paradise will be as open to me as the other, but I hope so."
"I confess my weakness. Of all that I have seen in Paris, what has most charmed me, fascinated me, dazzled me, I will even say instructed—"
"Well, is what?"
"It is—our proud and modest Germany will blush at the blasphemy—it is—"
"Do finish!"
"It is the Mabille ball!"
The laughter and the exclamations provoked by this frank avowal lasted until one of the secretaries of the archduke entered, holding two letters in his hand, and saying, gaily:
"Gentlemen, fresh news from Bologna and Venice!"
"Bravo, my dear Ulrik, what news?"
"The most curious, the most extraordinary in the world!"
"Really?"
"Quick, tell us, dear Ulrik."
"In the first place, Bologna, and Venice afterward, have been for several days in a state of incredible agitation, for reason of a series of events not less incredible."
"A revolution?"
"A movement of young Italy?"
"Perhaps a new mandate from the papal defender?"
"No, gentleman, it concerns a woman."
"A woman?"
"Yes, if it is not the devil, which I am inclined to believe."
"Ulrik, you are putting us to entreaty, do explain."
"Do you remember, gentlemen, last year, having heard in Germany that young Mexican widow, the Marquise de Miranda, spoken of?"
"Zounds! the one whom our poet, Moser-Hartmann, wrote of in such magnificent and passionate verse, under the name of the modern Aphrodite."
"Ah, ah, ah, what a charming mistake!" said one of the inquirers, roaring with laughter. "Moser-Hartmann, the religious and soulful poet, the chaste poet, pure and cold as the immaculate snow, sings Aphrodite, in burning verses. I have heard those admirable verses repeated, but, evidently, they are the production of another Hartmann."
"And I assure you, my dear sir, and Ulrik will confirm it, that this poem, which they say rightfully rankswith the most beautiful odes of Sappho, is truly the work of Moser-Hartmann."
"Nothing more true," replied Ulrik. "I heard Moser-Hartmann recite the verses himself,—they are worthy of antiquity."
"Then I believe you, but how do you explain this sudden incomprehensible transformation?"
"Ah, my God! This transformation which has changed a cold, correct man, but a man of estimable talent, indeed, a man of genius, full of fire and power, whose name is renowned through Europe—this transformation has been wrought by the woman whom the poet has praised, by the Marquise de Miranda."
"Moser-Hartmann so changed? I would have thought the thing impossible!"
"Bah!" replied Ulrik, "the marquise has done several things, and here is one of her best tricks, written to me from Bologna. There was there a cardinal legate of the Pope, the terror and aversion of the country."
"His name is Orsini, a man as detestable as he is detested."
"And his exterior reveals his nature. I saw him in Lombardy. What a cadaverous, sinister face! He always seemed to me the very type of an inquisitor."
"Well, the marquise took him to a ball at the Casino in Bologna, disguised as a Hungarian hussar!"
"The cardinal legate as a Hungarian hussar!" cried the company, in one voice.
"Come, Ulrik, you are telling an idle tale."
"You can read this letter, and when you see who signs it you will doubt no longer, skeptical as you are," replied Ulrik. "Yes, the marquise made Orsini accompany her so disguised; then, in the midst of the dance, she tore his mask from his face and said, in a loud voice: 'Good evening, Cardinal Orsini,' and, laughing like a crazy woman, she disappeared, leaving the legate exposed to the hoots and hisses of the exasperated crowd. Hewould have run some danger if his escort had not protected him. The next day Bologna was in a stir, demanding the dismissal of Orsini, who, after two days of excitement, was forced to leave the city by night. In the evening every house was illuminated for joy, and my correspondent says the monogram of the marquise was seen on many transparencies."
"And what became of her?"
"She was not seen again, she left for Venice," replied Ulrik, showing a second letter, "and there, they write me, another thing has happened."
"What a woman! What a woman!"
"What sort of a woman is she?"
"Have you seen her?"
"No."
"Nor I."
"Nor I."
"They say she is very tall and very slender."
"They told me she was above the ordinary height."
"One thing is sure, she is a brunette, because Moser-Hartmann praises her black eyes and black eyebrows."
"All I can say is," replied Ulrik, "that in this letter from Venice, which place the marquise has recently left for France, as I am informed, she is poetically called the 'blonde star,' so I think she must be a blonde."
"But what has she done in Venice? What has happened there?"
"My faith!" exclaimed Ulrik, "it is an adventure which smacks of the manners of pagan antiquity and the middle ages of Italy at the same time."
Unfortunately for the curiosity of Ulrik's auditors, the sudden beating of a drum outside announced the return of the Archduke Leopold, and each person in the house of the prince at once went to his post, ready to receive the Royal Highness.
In fact, the sentinel of the Élysée, descrying the approach of several carriages in the livery of the King ofthe French, had called "To arms!" The soldiers on guard with their commanding officer were immediately in line, and at the moment the carriages entered successively the immense court of the Élysée, the drums beat and the troops presented arms.
The first of the carriages stopped before the palace; the footmen in bright red livery opened the door, and his Royal Highness, the Archduke Maximilian Leopold, slowly ascended the steps, conversing with a colonel, officer of ordinance, whose office it was to accompany him; a few steps behind the prince came his aids-de-camp, dressed in brilliant foreign uniforms, and took their places in order at the foot of the steps by the royal carriages. The archduke, thirty-nine years old, was robust, yet slenderly proportioned. He wore with military severity the full-dress uniform of the field-marshal, white coat, with epaulettes of gold; scarlet casimir breeches over which reached the shining black of his high riding-boots, a little dusty, as he had assisted in the review appointed in his honour. The great cordon red, the collar of the fleece of gold, and five or six medallions of different orders ornamented his breast; his hair was pale blond, as was his long moustache turned up in military style, which gave a still more severe expression to his features, and strongly augmented the breadth of his chin and the prominent angle of his nose; his eye, cold and penetrating, half-covered by the eyelid, was set under a very heavy eyebrow, which gave him the air of always looking very high. This severe and disdainful glance, united to an imperious manner and an inflexible carriage of the head, gave to the whole personal bearing of the archduke a remarkable character of arrogant, icy authority.
About a quarter of an hour after the prince had returned to the Élysée, the carriage of a French minister, and that of an ambassador from a great power in the North, stopped successively before the entrance,and the statesman and the diplomatist entered the palace.
Almost at the same moment, one of the principal persons of this story arrived on foot in the court of the Élysée-Bourbon.
M. Pascal, for such was our hero's name, appeared to be about thirty-six years old. He was of middle stature, very dark, and wore quite a long beard, as rough and black as his eyebrows, beneath which glittered two little very piercing gray eyes. As he had the habit of holding his head down, and his two hands in the pockets of his trousers, the attitude served to increase the roundness of his broad shoulders. His features were especially remarkable for their expression of sarcastic sternness, to which was joined that air of inexorable assurance peculiar to people who are convinced of their power and are vain of it. A narrow black cravat, tied, as they say, à la Colin, a long waistcoat of Scotch cloth, a light greatcoat, whitish in colour, a gray hat well worn, and wide nankin trousers, in the pockets of which M. Pascal kept his hands, made up his costume of doubtful cleanliness, and perfectly in harmony with the extreme heat of the season and the habitual carelessness of the wearer.
When M. Pascal passed before the porter's lodge, he was challenged by that functionary, who from the depth of his armchair called:
"Eh!—speak, sir, where are you going?"
Either M. Pascal did not hear the porter, or he did not wish to give himself the trouble to reply, as he continued to walk toward the entrance of the palace without saying a word.
The porter, forced to rise from his armchair, ran after the mute visitor, and said, impatiently:
"I ask again, sir, where are you going? You can reply, can you not?"
M. Pascal stopped, took a disdainful survey of hisinterlocutor, shrugged his shoulders, and said, as he turned again toward the entrance: "I am going—to see the archduke."
The porter knew the class with which he was accustomed to deal. He could not imagine that this visitor, in a summer greatcoat and loose cravat, really had an audience with the prince, or would dare to present himself before his Highness in a costume so impertinently outside of the regulation, for all persons who had the honour of being received at the palace were usually attired in black; so taking M. Pascal for some half-witted or badly informed tradesman, he followed him, calling in a loud voice:
"But sir, tradespeople who come to see his Highness do not pass by the grand staircase. Down there at the right you will see the door for tradesmen and servants by which you ought to enter."
M. Pascal did not care to talk; he shrugged his shoulders again, and continued his march toward the staircase without a word.
The porter, exasperated by this silence and this obstinacy, seized M. Pascal by the arm, and, speaking louder still, said:
"Must I tell you again, sir, that you cannot pass that way?"
"What do you mean, scoundrel?" cried M. Pascal, in a tone of contempt and anger, as if this outrage on the part of the porter was as insolent as inconceivable, "do you know to whom you are talking?"
There was in these words an expression of authority so threatening, that the poor porter, frightened for a moment, stammered:
"Monsieur,—I—do—not—know."
The great door of the vestibule was suddenly opened. One of the aids-de-camp of the prince, having seen from the parlour window the altercation between the visitorand the porter, hastily descended the staircase, and, eagerly approaching M. Pascal, said to him in excellent French, with a sympathetic tone:
"Ah, monsieur, his Royal Highness will, I am sure, be much grieved by this misunderstanding. Do me the honour to follow me; I will introduce you at once. I have just received orders from monseigneur concerning you, sir."
M. Pascal bowed his head in assent, and followed the aid-de-camp, leaving the porter amazed and afflicted by his own want of address.
When M. Pascal and his guide arrived in the chamber of waiting, where other officials were congregated, the young officer said:
"The audience of his Royal Highness is crowded this morning, because the review detained monseigneur much longer than he expected, so, desiring to make you wait as short a time as possible, he has ordered me to conduct you, upon your arrival, into a chamber adjoining his private office, where his Royal Highness will meet you as soon as his conference with the minister of foreign affairs is ended."
M. Pascal again made sign of assent, and, following the aid-de-camp, crossed a dark passage, and entered a chamber overlooking the magnificent garden of the Élysée-Bourbon.
Before withdrawing, the aid-de-camp, not a little annoyed by the unfortunate altercation between the porter and M. Pascal, remarked the negligent attire of the latter. Habituated to the severe formalities of etiquette, the young courtier was shocked at the unconventional dress of the person he was about to introduce, and hesitated between the fear of antagonising a man like Pascal and the desire to protest against the unsuitability of his bearing as an insult to the dignity of a prince, who was known to be inexorable in all that pertained to the respect due his rank; but the first fear prevailed, and as it was too late to insist upon a changeof dress consistent with the requirements of court etiquette, the young courtier said:
"As soon as the foreign minister withdraws from the presence of his Royal Highness, I will inform him, sir, that you are at his orders."
These last words, "that you are at his orders," did not appear to sound very well in the ears of M. Pascal. A sardonic smile played upon his lips, but making himself at home, so to speak, and finding the temperature of the room too warm, he opened one of the windows, placed his elbows on the balustrade, and, keeping his hat on his head, occupied himself with a survey of the garden.
Everybody knows the garden of the Élysée, that charming little park, planted with the most beautiful trees in the world, whose fresh green turf is watered by a clear winding river; a terraced walk, shaded by elms a century old, borders this park on the side of the avenue called Marigny; a similar walk, parallel to it, bounds it on the opposite side, and a very low wall separates it from the neighbouring gardens. This last mentioned walk ended a short distance from the window where M. Pascal was so comfortably seated, and soon his attention was keenly awakened by several incidents.
The young man who had passed through the parlour, occupied by secretaries and gentlemen, and who had, for reason of his timidity, been the subject of several remarks, was slowly promenading the shaded walk. He was of slender and graceful stature. Every few moments he stopped, stooped down, and remained immovable a second, then continued his promenade. When he reached the extremity of the walk, he approached, almost by stealth, the wall bordering upon the adjacent garden, and, as at this point the wall was hardly more than four feet high, he leaned upon it, apparently absorbed in reflection or the expectation of meeting another person.
So long as the promenader kept his back turned to M. Pascal, who now began to feel very curious concerning him, his features of course could not be distinguished; but when he turned, after having made somedesired discovery, and retraced his steps, he was face to face with his observer at the window.
Count Frantz de Neuberg, as we have said, passed for the godson of the archduke, by whom he was tenderly loved. According to the rumours of the court, his Royal Highness, having had no children since his marriage with the Princess of Saxe-Teschen, had abundant reason for exercising paternal interest in Frantz de Neuberg, the secret fruit of a first love.
Frantz, scarcely twenty years old at the time of this history, presented the perfect type of the melancholy beauty of the North. His long blond hair, parted in the middle of a brow as white and ingenuous as that of a young girl, framed a face whose regularity was without a flaw. His large blue eyes, soft and dreaming, seemed to reflect the purity of his soul, and an incipient beard, shading his chin and upper lip with a silken, golden down, accentuated the virility of his charming face.
As he came up the walk, Frantz more and more attracted the attention of M. Pascal, who looked at him with a sort of admiring surprise, for it would have been difficult not to observe the rare perfection of the young man's features; but when at a short distance from the window he encountered the fixed and persistent gaze of M. Pascal, he appeared not less provoked than embarrassed, blushed, looked downward, and, turning on his heel, abruptly, quickened his pace until he reached the middle of the walk, where he began again his slow promenade, evidently constrained by the thought that a stranger was watching his movements. He hardly dared approach the boundary of the neighbouring garden, but suddenly, forgetting all preoccupation, he ran toward the wall at the sight of a little straw hat which appeared on the other side, and encased in its frame lined with rose-coloured silk was the freshest, most entrancing countenance of fifteen years that ever entered into a young man's dream.
"Mlle. Antonine," said Frantz quickly, in a low voice, "some one is looking at us."
"This evening," murmured a sweet voice, in reply.
And the little straw hat disappeared as by enchantment, as the young girl jumped from a bench she had mounted on the other side of the wall. But as compensation, no doubt, for this abrupt retreat, a beautiful rose fell at the feet of Frantz, who picked it up and passionately pressed it to his lips, then, hiding the flower in his waistcoat, the young man disappeared in a thicket instead of continuing his promenade in the long walk. Notwithstanding the rapidity with which these incidents transpired, and the instantaneous disappearance of the little straw hat, M. Pascal had seen distinctly the exquisite loveliness of the young girl's face, and Frantz also, as he kissed the rose which fell at his feet.
The hard and saturnine features of M. Pascal took on a strange and gloomy expression, where one could read violent anger mingled with jealousy, pain, and hatred. For some moments, his physiognomy, almost terrifying in its malevolence, betrayed the man, who, accustomed to see all bend before him, is capable of sentiments and actions of diabolical wickedness when an unforeseen obstacle contradicts his iron will.
"She! she! here in this garden near the Élysée!" exclaimed he, with concentrated rage. "What is she doing there? Triple fool that I am! she comes here to coquet with this puny, blond youth. Perhaps she lives in the next hôtel. Misery! misery! to find out the place where she dwells after having done everything in vain to discover it since this damned pretty face of fifteen struck my eyes, and made me a fool,—I, who believed myself dead to these sudden and frantic caprices, compared to which what are called violent passions of the heart are ice. I have met this little girl three times, and feel myself, as in my young days, capable of anything in order to possess her. How jealousyirritates and devours me this moment! Misery! it is stupid, it is silly, but oh, how I suffer!"
As he uttered these words, M. Pascal's face expressed malicious and ferocious grief; then shaking his fist at the side of the wall where the little straw hat had disappeared, he muttered, in a voice of concentrated rage:
"You shall pay for it. Go, little girl, and whatever it may cost me, you shall belong to me."
And sitting with his elbows on the balustrade, unable to detach his angry glances from the spot where he had seen Frantz speak to the young girl, M. Pascal presented a picture of fury and despair, when one of the doors of the parlour softly opened, and the archduke entered.
The prince, evidently, felt so sure that he would meet his expected visitor face to face, that, beforehand, instead of his usual cold arrogance, he had assumed a most agreeable expression, entering the room with a smile upon his lips.
But M. Pascal, leaning half way out of the window, had not heard the door open, and, never suspecting the presence of the prince, he remained seated, his back to the Royal Highness, and his elbows on the sill of the window.
A physiognomist witnessing this silent scene would have found in it a curious study of the reaction of feeling in the countenance of the prince.
At the sight of M. Pascal leaning out of the window, wearing a summer greatcoat, and violating all propriety by keeping his hat on his head, the archduke stopped short; his assumed smile vanished from his lips, and, taking a prouder attitude than ordinary, he stiffened himself in his handsome uniform, turned purple with anger, knit his eyebrows, while his eyes flashed with indignation. But soon reflection, doubtless, appeasing this inner storm, the features of the prince took on an expression of resignation as bitter as it was sad, and hebowed his head, as if he submitted to a fatal necessity.
Stifling a sigh of offended pride as he threw a glance of vindictive contempt on Pascal at the window, the prince again assumed, as we have said, his smile of affability, and walked toward the casement, coughing loud enough to announce his presence, and spare himself the last humiliation of touching the shoulder of our familiar visitor in order to attract his attention.
At the sonorous "hum-hum!" of his Royal Highness, M. Pascal turned around suddenly. The gloomy expression of his face was succeeded by a sort of cruel and malicious satisfaction, as if the occasion had furnished a victim upon whom he could vent his suppressed wrath.
M. Pascal approached the prince, saluted him in a free and easy manner, and holding his hat in one hand, while the other was plunged deep in his pocket, he said:
"A thousand pardons, monseigneur, really I did not know you were there."
"I am persuaded of that, M. Pascal," replied the prince, with ill-disguised haughtiness.
Then he added:
"Please follow me into my study, sir. I have some official news to communicate to you."
And he walked toward his study, when M. Pascal, with apparent calmness, for this man had a wonderful control over himself when it was necessary, said:
"Monseigneur, will you permit me one question?"
"Speak, sir," replied the prince, stopping and turning to his visitor, with surprise.
"Monseigneur, who is that young man of twenty at the most, with long blond hair, who promenades in the walk which can be seen from this window? Who is he, monseigneur?"
"You mean, no doubt, monsieur, my godson, Count Frantz de Neuberg."
"Ah, this young man is your godson, monseigneur?I congratulate you sincerely,—one could not see a prettier boy."
"Is he not?" replied the prince, sensible of this praise, even in the mouth of Pascal. "Has he not a charming face?"
"That is what I have just been observing at my leisure, monseigneur."
"And Count Frantz has not only a charming face," added the prince; "he has fine qualities of heart and great bravery."
"I am enchanted, monseigneur, to know that you have such an accomplished godson. Has he been in Paris long?"
"He arrived with me."
"And he will depart with you, monseigneur, for it must be painful for you to be separated from this amiable young man?"
"Yes, monsieur, I hope to take Count Frantz with me back to Germany."
"A thousand pardons, monseigneur, for my indiscreet curiosity, but your godson is one of those persons in whom one is interested in spite of himself. Now, I am at your service."
"Then follow me, if you please, monsieur."
Pascal nodded his head in assent, and, walking side by side with the archduke, he reached the door of the study with him, then, stopping with a gesture of deference, which was only another impertinence, he bowed slightly, and said to the prince, as if his Highness had hesitated to enter first:
"After you, monseigneur, after you."
The prince understood the insolence, but swallowed it, and entered his study, making a sign to Pascal to follow him.
The latter, although unaccustomed to the ceremonial of the court, had too much penetration not to comprehend the import of his acts and words. He had notonly the consciousness of his insolence, instigated by his recent and suppressed resentment, but this insolence he had actually studied and calculated, and even in his interview had considered the question of addressing his Royal Highness as monsieur, simply; but, by a refinement of intelligent impertinence, he thought the ceremonious appellation of monseigneur would render his familiarities still more disagreeable to the dignity and good breeding of the prince.
Let us turn back to an analysis of the character of Pascal,—a character less eccentric, perhaps, than it appears at first to be. Let us say, simply, that for ten years of his life this man, born in a humble and precarious position, had as a day-labourer and drudge submitted to the most painful humiliations, the most insolent domination, and the most outrageous contempt. Thus, bitter and implacable hatreds were massed together in his soul, and the day when, in his turn, he became powerful, he abandoned himself without scruple and without remorse to the fierce joy of reprisal, and it gave him little concern if his revenge fell upon an innocent head.
The archduke, instead of a superior mind, possessed a long, practical acquaintance with men, acquired in the exercise of supreme authority in the military hierarchy of his country; besides, in his second interview with M. Pascal,—at which interview we have assisted,—he had understood the significance of the studied insolence of this person, and when, as he entered his study with him, he saw him, without invitation, seat himself familiarly in the armchair just occupied by a prime minister, whom he found full of courtesy and deference, the prince felt a new and cruel oppression of the heart.
The penetrating glance of Pascal surprised the expression of this feeling on the face of the archduke, and he said to himself, with triumphant disdain: "Here is a prince born on the steps of a throne, a cousin, at least,of all the kings of Europe, a generalissimo of an army of a hundred thousand soldiers, here he is in all the glory of his battle uniform, adorned with all the insignia of honour and war. This highness, this man, despises me in his pride of a sovereign race. He hates me because he has need of me, and knows well that he must humiliate himself; nevertheless, this man, in spite of his contempt, in spite of his hatred, I hold in my power, and I intend to make him feel it keenly, for to-day my heart is steeped in gall."
M. Pascal, having seated himself in the gilded armchair on the side of the table opposite the prince, first seized a mother-of-pearl paper-cutter that he found under his hand, and, whirling it incessantly, said:
"Monseigneur, if it is agreeable to you, let us talk of business, for at a certain hour I must be in the Faubourg St. Marceau, at the house of a manufacturer, who is one of my friends."
"I wish to inform you, monsieur," replied the prince, restraining himself with difficulty, "that I have already postponed until to-morrow other audiences that should have taken place to-day, that I might devote all my time to you."
"That is very kind of you, monseigneur, but let us come to the point."
The prince took up from the table a long sheet of official paper, and, handing it to M. Pascal, said to him:
"This note will prove to you, monsieur, that all the parties interested in the transfer that is proposed to me not only authorise me formally to accept it, but willingly offer their pledges, and even protect all the accidents of my acceptance."
M. Pascal, without moving from his armchair, extended his hand from one side of the table to the other, to receive the note, and, taking it, said:
"There was absolutely nothing to be done without this security."
And he began to read slowly, nibbling the whilethe mother-of-pearl knife, which he did not surrender for a moment.
The prince fixed an anxious, penetrating glance on Pascal, trying to divine, from the expression of his face, if his visitor had confidence in the security offered.
At the end of a few moments, M. Pascal discontinued his reading, saying between his teeth, with an offended air, as if he were talking to himself:
"Ho! ho! This Article 7 does not suit me at all,—not at all!"
"Explain yourself, monsieur," said the prince, seriously annoyed.
"However," continued M. Pascal, taking up his reading again, without replying to the archduke, and pretending to be talking to himself, "this Article 7 is corrected by Article 8,—yes,—and, in fact, it is quite good,—it is very good."
The countenance of the prince seemed to brighten, for, earnestly occupied with the powerful interests of which M. Pascal had necessarily become the umpire, he forgot the impertinence and calculated wickedness of this man, who found a savage delight in making his victim pass through all the perplexities of fear and hope.
At the end of a few moments, each one of which brought new anxiety to the prince, M. Pascal exclaimed:
"Impossible, that! impossible! For me everything would be annulled by this first supplementary article. It is a mockery!"
"Monsieur," cried the prince, "speak more clearly!"
"Pardon me, monseigneur, at that moment I was reading to myself. Well and good, if you wish, I will read for both of us."
The archduke bowed his head, turned red with suppressed indignation, appeared discouraged, and leaned his head on his hand.
M. Pascal, continuing his perusal of the paper, threwa glance by stealth at the prince, and replied after a few moments, in a more satisfied tone:
"This is a sure, incontestable security."
Then, as the prince seemed to regain hope, he added:
"Unfortunately, this security is apart from—"
He did not finish, but continued his reading in silence.
Never a solicitor in distress imploring a haughty and unfeeling protector, never a despairing borrower humbly addressing a dishonest and whimsical usurer, never accused seeking to read his pardon or condemnation in the countenance of his judge, experienced the torture felt by the prince while M. Pascal was reading the note which he had examined and which he now laid on the table.
"Well, monsieur," said the prince, swallowing his impatience, "what do you decide?"
"Monseigneur, will you have the kindness to lend me a pen and some paper?"
The prince pushed an inkstand, a pen, and some paper before M. Pascal, who began a long series of figures, sometimes lifting his eyes to the ceiling, as if to make a calculation in his head, sometimes muttering incomplete sentences, such as—
"No—I am mistaken because—but I was about to forget—it is evident—the balance will be equal if—"
After long expectation on the part of the prince, M. Pascal threw the pen down on the table, plunged both hands in the pockets of his trousers, threw his head back, and shut his eyes, as if making a last mental calculation, then, holding his head up, said in a short, peremptory voice:
"Impossible, monseigneur."
"What, monsieur!" cried the prince, dismayed. "You assured me in our first interview that the operation was practicable."
"Practicable, monseigneur, but not accomplished."
"But this note, monsieur, this note, joined to the securities I have offered you?"
"This note completes, I know, the securities indispensable to such an operation."
"Then, monsieur, how do you account for your refusal?"
"For particular reasons, monseigneur."
"But, I ask again, do I not offer all the security desirable?"
"Yes, monseigneur, I will say that I regard the operation not only feasible, but sure and advantageous to one who is willing to undertake it; so, I do not doubt, monseigneur, you can find—"
"Eh! monsieur," interrupted the prince, "you know that in the present financial crisis, and for other reasons which you understand as well as I, that you are the only person who can undertake this business."
"The preference of your Royal Highness honours and flatters me infinitely," said Pascal, with an accent of ironical recognition, "so I doubly regret my inability to meet it."
The prince perceived the sarcasm, and replied, feigning offence at the want of appreciation his kindness had met:
"You are unjust, monsieur. The proof that I adhered to my agreement with you in this affair is that I have refused to entertain the proposition of the house Durand."
"I am almost certain that it is a lie," thought M. Pascal, "but no matter, I will get information about the thing; besides, this house sometimes disturbs and cramps me. Fortunately, thanks to that knave, Marcelange, I have an excellent means of protecting myself from that inconvenience in the future."
"Another proof that I adhered directly to my personal agreement with you, M. Pascal," continued the prince, in a deferential tone, "is that I have desired no agent to come between us, certain that we would understand each other as the matter should be understood. Yes," addedthe archduke, with a still more insinuating tone, "I hoped that this just homage rendered to your financial intelligence, so universally recognised—"
"Ah, monseigneur."
"To your character as honourable as it is honoured—"
"Monseigneur, really, you overwhelm me."
"I hoped, I repeat, my dear M. Pascal, that in coming frankly to you to propose—what?—an operation whose solidity and advantage you recognise, you would appreciate my attitude, since it appeals to the financier as much as to the private citizen. In short, I hoped to assure you, not only by pecuniary advantage, but by especial testimony, of my esteem and gratitude."
"Monseigneur—"
"I repeat it, my dear M. Pascal, of my gratitude, since, in making a successful speculation, you would render me an immense service, for you cannot know what the results of this loan I solicit from you would be to my dearest family interests."
"Monseigneur, I am ignorant of—"
"And when I speak to you of family interests," said the prince, interrupting M. Pascal, whom he hoped to bring back to his views, "when I speak of family interests, it is not enough; an important question of state also attaches to the transfer of the duchy that is offered me, and which I can acquire only through your powerful financial aid. So, in rendering me a personal service, you would be greatly useful to my nation, and you know, my dear M. Pascal, how great empires requite services done to the state."
"Excuse my ignorance, monseigneur, but I am altogether ignorant of the whole thing."
The prince smiled, remained silent a moment, and replied, with an accent he believed irresistible:
"My dear M. Pascal, are you acquainted with the celebrated banker, Tortolia?"
"I know him by name, monseigneur."
"Do you know that he is a prince of the Holy Empire?"
"Prince of the Holy Empire, monseigneur!" replied Pascal, with amazement.
"I have my man," thought the prince, and he replied aloud: "Do you know that the banker, Tortolia, is a great dignitary in one of the most coveted orders?"
"It would be possible, monseigneur."
"It is not only possible, but it is an actual fact, my dear M. Pascal. Now, I do not see why what has been done for M. Tortolia cannot be done for you."
"Could that be, monseigneur?"
"I say," repeated the prince, with emphasis, "I say I do not see why an illustrious title and high dignities should not recompense you also."
"Me, monseigneur?"
"You."
"Me, monseigneur, I become Prince Pascal?"
"Why not?"
"Come, come, monseigneur is laughing at his poor servant."
"No one has ever doubted my promise, monsieur, and it is almost an offence to me to believe me capable of laughing at you."
"Then, monseigneur, I would laugh at myself, very heartily and very long, if I were stupid enough to desire to pose as a prince, or duke, or marquis, in Europe's carnival of nobility! You see, monseigneur, I am only a poor devil of a plebeian,—my father was a peddler, and I have been a day-labourer. I have laid up a few cents, in attending to my small affairs. I have only my common sense, but this good common sense, monseigneur, will always prevent my decking myself out as the Marquis de la Janotière—that is a very pretty story by Voltaire, you ought to read it, monseigneur!—or making myself the laughing-stock of those malicious peoplewho amuse themselves by creating marquises and princes out of poor folk."
The archduke was far from expecting this refusal and this bitter retort; however, he put a good face on it, and replied, significantly:
"M. Pascal, I admire this rough sincerity; I admire this disinterestedness. Thank God, there are other means of proving to you my gratitude, and, one day, my friendship."
"Your friendship, monseigneur?"
"It is because I know its worth," added the prince, with imposing dignity, "that I assure you of my friendship, if—"
"Your friendship for me, monseigneur," replied Pascal, interrupting the prince, "your friendship for me, who have, as the wicked ones say, increased my little possessions a hundredfold by dangerous methods, although I have come out of these calumniating accusations as white as a young dove?"
"It is because you have, as you say, monsieur, come out of these odious calumnies, by which all who elevate themselves by labour and merit are pursued, that I would assure you of my affectionate gratitude, if you render me the important service I expect of you."
"Monseigneur, I could not be more impressed or more flattered by your kindness, but unfortunately business is business," said M. Pascal, "and this affair you air does not suit me at all. I need not say how much it costs me to renounce the friendship of which your Royal Highness has desired to assure me."
At this response, bitter and humiliating in its insulting irony, the prince was on the point of flying into a passion, but, reflecting upon the shame and futility of such a transport of rage, he controlled himself, and, desiring to attempt a final effort, he said, in an aggrieved tone:
"So, M. Pascal, it will be said that I prayed, supplicated, and implored you in vain."
These words, "prayed, supplicated, implored," uttered in a tone of sincere distress, appeared in the eyes of the prince to make an impression on M. Pascal, and, in fact, did make a decided impression, inasmuch as, up to that moment, the archduke had not entirely abased himself, but seeing this royal person, after such obstinate refusal, willing to descend to further supplication, M. Pascal experienced an intensity of happiness that he had never known before.
The prince, observing his silence, believed his purpose was shaken, and added, readily:
"Come, my dear M. Pascal, I cannot appeal to your generous heart in vain."
"Really, monseigneur," replied the bloodthirsty villain, who, knowing the speculation to be a good one, was at heart disposed to undertake it, but wanted to realise pleasure as well as profit from it, "you have such a way of putting things. Business, I repeat, ought to be business only, but see now, in spite of myself, I yield like a child to sentiment I am so weak—"
"You consent?" interrupted the prince, radiant with joy, and he seized both hands of the financier in his own. "You consent, my worthy and kind M. Pascal?"
"How can I resist you, monseigneur?"
"At last!" cried the archduke, drawing a long breath of profound satisfaction, as if he had just escaped a frightful danger. "At last!"
"But, monseigneur," replied Pascal, "I must make one little condition."
"Oh, I shall not stand on that, whatever it may be. I subscribe to it beforehand."
"You pledge yourself to more, perhaps, than you think, monseigneur."
"What do you mean?" asked the prince, somewhat disquieted. "What condition do you speak of?"
"In three days, monseigneur, to the hour, I will inform you."
"What!" exclaimed the prince, astonished and crestfallen; "more delays. Do you not give me your positive promise?"
"In three days, monseigneur, I will give it to you, provided you accept my condition."
"But, pray, tell me this condition now."
"Impossible, monseigneur."
"My dear M. Pascal—"
"Monseigneur," replied Pascal, with ironical gravity, "it is not my habit to be weak twice in succession during one interview. It is now the hour for my appointment in the Faubourg St. Marceau; I have the honour of presenting my respectful compliments to your Royal Highness."
M. Pascal, leaving the prince full of vexation and concern, walked to the door, then turned, and said:
"To-day is Monday; on Thursday, at eleven o'clock, I shall have the honour of seeing your Royal Highness again, and will then submit my little condition."
"Very well, monsieur; on Thursday."
M. Pascal bowed profoundly, and went out.
When he passed through the parlour where the officials were assembled all rose respectfully, recognising the importance of the person whom the prince had just received. M. Pascal returned their courtesy with a patronising inclination of the head, and left the palace as he had entered it, both hands in his pockets, not denying himself the pleasure—for this man lost nothing—of stopping a minute before the lodge of the porter and saying to him:
"Well, scoundrel, will you recognise me another time?"
"Oh, I shall recognise monsieur hereafter! I beg monsieur to pardon my mistake."
"He begs me," said Pascal, half aloud, with a bitter smile. "They know how to beg from the Royal Highness to the porter."
M. Pascal, as he went out of the Élysée, fell again into painful reflections upon the subject of the young girl whose secret meeting with Count Frantz de Neuberg he had surprised. Wishing to know if she lived in the house contiguous to the palace, he was going to make inquiries, when, remembering that such a course might perhaps compromise his plans, he prudently resolved to wait until evening.
Seeing a hackney coach, he called the driver, entered the carriage, and said to him:
"Faubourg St. Marceau, fifteen; the large factory whose chimney you see from the street."
"The factory belonging to M. Dutertre? I know, citizen, I know; everybody knows that."
The coachman drove down the street.
M. Pascal, as we have said, had spent a part of his life in a subordinate and precarious position, enduring the most ignominious treatment with a patience full of bitterness and hatred.
Born of a peddler who had amassed a competency by dint of privation and illicit or questionable traffic, he had commenced his business career as a day-labourer in the house of a provincial usurer, to whom Pascal's father had entrusted the care of his money.
The first years of our hero were passed in a state of servitude as hard as it was humiliating. Nevertheless, as he was endowed with considerable intelligence and unusual ingenuity, and as his despotic will could, upon necessity, hide itself under an exterior of insinuating meanness,—a dissimulation which was the result of his condition,—Pascal, without the knowledge of his master, learned to read, write, and draw up accounts, the faculty for financial calculation developing in him spontaneously with marvellous rapidity. Foreseeing the value of these acquirements, he resolved to conceal them, using them only for his own advantage, and as a dangerous weapon against his master, whom he detested. After mature reflection, Pascal finally thought it his interest to reveal the knowledge he had secretly acquired. The usurer, struck with the ability of the man who was his drudge, then took him as his bookkeeper at a reduced salary, increased his meagre pay by the smallest possible amount, continued to treat him with brutal contempt,vilifying him more than ever that he might not suspect the use that he made of his new services.
Pascal, earnest, indefatigable in work, and eager to further his financial education, continued to submit passively to the outrages heaped upon him, redoubling his servility in proportion as his master redoubled disdain and cruelty.
At the end of a few years thus passed, he felt sufficiently strong to leave the province, and seek a field more worthy of his ability. He entered into a business correspondence with a banker in Paris, to whom he offered his services. The banker had long appreciated Pascal's work, accepted his proposition, and the bookkeeper left the little town, to the great regret of his former master, who tried too late to retain him in his own interests.
The new patron of our hero was at the head of one of those rich houses, morally questionable, but—and it is not unusual—regarded, in a commercial sense, as irreproachable; because, if these houses deal in speculations which sometimes touch upon robbery and fraud, and enrich themselves by ingenious and successful bankruptcy, they, to use their own pretentious words, honour their signature, however dishonourable that signature may be in the opinion of others.
Fervent disciples of that beautiful axiom so universally adopted before the revolution of 1848,—Get rich!—they proudly take their seats in the Chamber of Commerce, heroically assume the name of honourable, and even aim at control of the administration. Why not?
The luxury so much boasted by the old tenants was misery compared to the magnificence of M. Thomas Rousselet.
Pascal, transplanted to this house of absurd and extravagant opulence, suffered humiliations altogether different, but quite as bitter and painful as when he was with the knavish usurer in the province, who, it istrue, treated him as a despicable hireling, but had with him in his daily work frequent and familiar relations.
One would seek in vain, among the proudest nobility, the most exclusive aristocracy, anything which could approach the imperious and crushing disdain with which M. and Madame Rousselet treated their subordinates. Shut up in their gloomy offices, from which they saw the sumptuous displays of the Hôtel Rousselet, the persons employed in this house knew only by fairy-like tradition or fabulous legend the gorgeous wonders of these parlours and this dining-room, from which they were absolutely excluded by the dignity of Madame Rousselet, who was as haughty and domineering as the first lady of the chamber to a princess of Lorraine or Rohan.
Although of a new class, these humiliations were not the less galling to Pascal; he now felt more than ever his dependence, his nothingness, and the yoke of the opulent banker chafed him far more than the abuse of the usurer; but our hero, faithful to his plans, hid his wounds, smiled at blows, and licked the varnished boot which sometimes deigned to amuse itself by kicking him, redoubling labour, study, and shrewdness, until he learned the practice of this house, which he considered the perfect pattern of business enterprise, whose motto was:
"Get as much money as possible with the least money possible by all the means possible, carefully protecting yourself from the police and the court."
The margin is a large one, and, as can be easily seen, one can operate there at pleasure.
Thus passed five or six years. The imagination revolts at the accumulation of bitterness, hatred, anger, venom, and malice in the depths of this calculating and vindictive soul, always calm without, like the black and gloomy surface of a poisonous morass.
One day M. Pascal learned the death of his father.
The peddler's savings, considerably increased by skilful financial manipulation, had attained a very high figure. Once possessed of this capital, Pascal swore that he would amass a great fortune by untiring diligence and fortitude, by knowing what to do, and, still more, by knowing how to take; for, argued he, one must risk something, and, if need be, go outside of the straight and narrow path of lawfulness. Our hero kept his oath. He left the house of Rousselet. Ability, chance, fraud, luck, adroitness, and the laws of the time all contributed to his success. He gained important sums, rewarding with cash the friendship of an agent, who, keeping him well informed, put it in his power to handle safely seventy thousand on the Exchange, and lay up almost two millions. A short time afterward an intelligent and adventurous broker, versed in the business of London, helped him to see the possibility of realising immense profit, by boldly engaging in railway speculations, then altogether new in England. Pascal went to London, engaged successfully in an enterprise which soon assumed unheard-of proportions, threw his whole fortune upon one cast of the die, and, realising in time, came back to France with fifteen millions. Then, as cool and prudent as he had been adventurous, and naturally endowed with great financial talent, his only thought was to continually increase this unexpected fortune; he succeeded, availing himself of every opportunity with rare skill, living comfortably, satisfying, at any cost, his numerous sensual desires, but never attracting attention by any exterior display or luxury, and always dining at a public house. In this way he scarcely spent the fifth part of his income, which, furnishing new capital each year, constantly added to the fortune which successful speculation as constantly augmented.
Then, as we have said, came to Pascal his great and terrible day of reprisal.
This soul, hardened by so many years of humiliationand hatred, became implacable, and found a thousand cruel delights in making others feel the weight of the money yoke which he had worn so long.
His keenest suffering had come from the vassalage, the servitude, and complete effacement of self in which he had been held for so long a time under the tyranny of his opulent employers. Now, his pleasure was to impose this servitude on others,—on some, by exercising their natural servility, on others, by compelling them to submit to hard necessity, thus symbolising in himself the almighty power of money, holding all who came within his grasp in absolute slavery, from the petty merchant whom he commanded to the prince of royal blood who humbled himself to obtain a loan. This awful despotism, which the man who lends exercises over the man whose necessities force him to borrow, Pascal wielded and enjoyed with all the refinement and delicacy of an incredible barbarity. We hear often of the power of Satan over souls. M. Pascal was able to destroy or torture as many and more souls than Satan.
Once in his power, through credit, loan, or partnership,—often granted with a show of perfect good-nature, and not unfrequently offered with a duplicity which looked like generosity, though always on solid security,—a man belonged to himself no longer; he had, as was commonly said, sold his soul to Satan-Pascal.
He calculated and arranged his bargains with a skill which seemed infernal.
A commercial crisis would arrive,—capital not be found, or at such exorbitant interest that merchants, at other times solvent and prompt in payment, saw themselves in extreme embarrassment, often upon the brink of failure. M. Pascal, perfectly instructed and certain of covering his advances by merchandise or property, granted or proposed assistance at enormous interest, with the invariable condition that he was to be reimbursed at his will, hastening to add that he wouldnot exercise his right, inasmuch as his own advantage would be gained by keeping his money at interest; but by habit or caprice, as he argued, he always held to this express condition, to be reimbursed at his will.
The alternative was cruel indeed for the unhappy ones whom Satan-Pascal tempted: on one hand, the ruin of a prosperous industry; on the other, an unexpected aid, so easily offered that it might pass for a generous service. The impossibility of finding capital, even at ruinous rates, and the confidence which M. Pascal knew how to inspire, rendered the temptation most powerful, a temptation all the more seductive by the insinuating kindness of the multi-millionaire, who came, as he declared, as a financial providence to the assistance of honest, labouring people.
In a word, everything conspired to stifle suspicion; they accepted. From that time Pascal possessed them.
Beset by the fear of an immediate demand for repayment which must reduce them to a desperate condition from which they could not hope to rise, they had but one aim, to please M. Pascal, but one dread, to displease M. Pascal, who was master of their fate.
It not infrequently happened that our Satan did not at first use his power, and, by a refinement of wicked malice, would play the part of a kind man, a benefactor, taking a fiendish pleasure in hearing the benedictions with which his victims loaded him, leaving them for a long time in the error which led them to adore their benevolent friend; then, by degrees, according to his humour, he revealed himself slowly, never employing threats, rudeness, or passion, but, on the contrary, affecting an insinuating sweetness which in itself became frightful. Circumstances the most insignificant and puerile offered him a thousand means of tormenting the persons he held in his absolute power.
For instance, he would arrive at the house of one of his vassals, so to speak. Perhaps the man was goingwith his wife and children to some family reunion, long before arranged.
"I have come to dine with you without ceremony to-day, my friends," this Satan would say.
"My God, M. Pascal! how sorry we are! To-day is my mother's birthday, and you see we are just getting ready to go to dine with her. It is an anniversary we never fail to celebrate."
"Ah! that is very provoking, as I hoped to spend my evening with you."
"And do you think it is less annoying to us, dear M. Pascal?"
"Bah! you could very easily give up a family reunion for me. After all, your mother would not die if you were not there."
"Oh, my dear M. Pascal, that is impossible! It would be the first time since our marriage that we failed in this little family ceremony."
"Come, you surely will do that for me."
"But, M. Pascal—"
"I tell you, you will do that for your good M. Pascal, will you not?"