EDGAR DE MEILHAN
to the
PRINCE DE MONBERT,
Poste-Restante (Rouen).
Paris, August 12th 18—.
What I wrote you yesterday was very infamous and incredible. You think that is all; well, no! you have only half of the story. My hand trembles with rage so that I can scarcely hold my pen. What remains to be told is the acme of perfidy; a double-dyed treason; we have been made game of, you as a plighted husband, I as a lover. All this seems as incoherent to you as a dream. What can I have in common with Irene whom I have never seen? Wait, you shall see!
My faithful Joseph discovered that the marriage was to take place at the Church of the Madeleine, at six o'clock in the morning.
I was so agitated, so restless, so tormented by gloomy presentiments that I did not go to bed. At the given hour I went out wrapped in my cloak. Although it is summer-time I was cold; a slight feverish chill ran through me. The catastrophe to come had already turned me pale.
The Madeleine stood out faintly against the gray morning sky. The livid figures of some revellers, surprised by the day, were seen here and there on the street corners. The stir of the great city had not yet begun. I thought I had arrived too soon, but a carriage with neither crest nor cipher, in charge of a servant in quiet livery, was stationed in one of the cross-streets that run by the church.
I ascended the steps with uncertain footing, and soon saw, in one of those spurious chapels, which have been stuck with so much trouble in that counterfeit Greek temple, wax lights and the motions of the priest who officiated.
The bride, enveloped in her veil, prostrated before the altar, seemed to be praying fervently; the husband, as if he were not the most contemptible of men, stood erect and proud, his face beaming with joy. The ceremony drew to a close, Irene raised her head, but I was so placed as not to be able to distinguish her features.
I leaned against a column in order to whisper in Irene's ear, as she passed, a word as cutting as the crystal poniards of the bravos of Venice, which break in the wound and slay without a drop of blood. Irene advanced buoyantly along, leaning on Raymond's arm, with an undulating, rhythmical grace, as if her feet trod the yielding clouds, instead of the cold stones of the aisle. She no longer walked the earth, her happiness lifted her up; the ardor of her delight made me comprehend those assumptions of the Saints, who soared in their ecstasy above the floors of their narrow cells and caverns; she felt the deep delight of a woman who sacrifices herself.
When she reached the column that concealed me, an electrical current doubtless warned her of my presence, for she shuddered as if struck by an unseen arrow, and quickly turned her head; a stray sunbeam lit up her face, and I recognised in Irene de Chateaudun, Louise Guérin; in the rich heiress, the screen-painter of Pont de l'Arche!
Irene and Louise were the same person!
We have been treated as Cassandras of comedy; we have played in all seriousness the scene between Horace and Arnolphe. We have confided to each other our individual loves, hopes and sorrows. It is very amusing; but, contrary to custom, the tragedy will come after the farce, and we will play it so well that no one will be tempted to laugh at our expense; we will convert ridicule into terror. Ah! Mademoiselle Irene de Chateaudun, you imagined that you could amuse yourself with two such men as the Prince de Moubert and Edgar de Meilhan! that there it would end, and you had only to say to them: "I love another better!" And you, Master Raymond, thought that your virtuous reputation would make your perfidy appear like an act of devotion! No, no, in the drama where the great lady was an adventuress, the artless girl a fast woman, the hero a traitor, the lover a fool, and the betrothed husband a Geronte, the rôles are to be changed.
A hoarse cry escaped me, Irene clung convulsively to Raymond's arm, and precipitately left the church. Raymond, without understanding this sudden flight, yielded to it and rapidly descended the steps. The carriage was in waiting; they got into it; the coachman whipped up his horses and soon they were out of sight.
Irene, Louise, whatever may be your name or your mask, you shall not long remain Madame de Villiers; a speedy widowhood will enable you to begin your coquetries again. I regret to be compelled to strike you through another, foryoumerit death.
EDGAR BE MEILHAN.
ROGER DE MONBERT
to
MONSIEUR LE COMTE DE VILLIERS,
Au Château de Villiers (Creuse).
August 16th 18—.
MONSIEUR,—
I take pleasure in sending you, by way of apologue, an anecdote, which you may read with profit.
During my travels I met with an estimable man, a Creole of the colony of Port Natal, by the name of Smollet.
I sometimes hunted in the neighborhood of his place, and on two occasions demanded his hospitality. He received me in a dubious manner, admitted me to his table, scarcely spoke to me; served me with Constantia wine, refused to accept my proffered hand, and surrendered me his own couch to rest my wearied limbs upon. From Port Natal I wrote this savage two notes of thanks, commencing:My dear friend—in writing, I could not confer on him a title of rank, so I gave him one of affection:My dear friend. My letters were ignored—as I had asked nothing, there was nothing to answer. One evening I met the Creole walking up the avenue of Port Natal, and advanced towards him, and held out my hand in a friendly way. Once more he declined to accept it. My vexation was apparent: "Monsieur," said the savage, "you appear to be an honest, sincere young man, very unlike a European. I must enlighten and warn your too unsuspecting mind. You have several times called meyour dear friend. Doing this might prove disastrous to you, and then I would be in despair. I am not your friend; I am the friend of no one.... Avoid me, monsieur; shun my neighborhood, shun my house. Withdraw the confidence, that with the carelessness of a traveller you have reposed in me.... Adieu!" Thisadieuwas accompanied by a sinister smile and a savage look that were anything but reassuring to me. I afterwards discovered that the Creole Smollet was a professional bandit!!
I hope, Monsieur de Villiers, that the application of this apologue will not escape you. At all events, I will add a few lines to enlighten your unsophisticated mind. You have always been my friend, monsieur. You have never disclaimed this relation; you have always pressed my hand when we met. Your professed friendship justified my confidence, and it would have been ungrateful in me to have esteemed you less than I did the savage. You and Mad. de Braimes have cunningly organized against me a plot of the basest nature. Doubtless you call it a happy combination of forces—I call it a perfidious conspiracy. I imagine I hear you and Mad. de Braimes at this very moment laughing at your victim as you congratulate yourselves on the success of your machinations. It affords me pleasure to think that one of these two friends is, perhaps, a man. Were they both women I could not demand satisfaction. You deserve my gratitude for your great kindness in assisting me when I most needed a friend. When I sought Mlle, de Chateaudun with a foolish, blind anxiety, you charitably aided me in my efforts to find her. You were my guide, my compass, my staff; you led me over roads where Mlle, de Chateaudun never thought of going; your guidance was so skilful that at the end of my searches you alone found what we had both been vainly seeking. You must have been delighted and entertained at the result, monsieur! Did Mad. de Braimes laugh very much? Truly, monsieur, you are old beyond your years, and your education was not confined to Greek and Latin; your talent for acting has been cultivated by a profound study of human nature. You play high comedy to perfection, and you should not let your extreme modesty prevent your aspiring to a more brilliant theatre. It is a pity that your fine acting should be wasted upon me alone. You deserve a larger and more appreciative audience! You do not know yourself. I will hold a mirror before your eyes; you can affect astonishment, disinterestedness, magnanimity, and a constellation of other virtues, blooming like flowers in the gardens of the golden age. You are a perfected comedian. If you really possessed all the virtues you assume, you would, like Enoch, excite the jealousy of Heaven, and be translated to your proper sphere. A man of your transcendent virtue would be a moral scourge in our corrupt society. He would, by contrast, humiliate his neighbors. In these degenerate days such a combination of gifts is antagonistic to nature.
Do relieve our anxiety by accepting the title of comedian. Acknowledge yourself to be an actor, and our anxious fears are quieted.
I would have my mind set at rest upon one more point. Courage is another virtue that can be assumed by a coward, and it would afford me great pleasure to see you act the part of abravecomedian.
While waiting for your answer I feel forced to insult you by thinking that this last talent is wanting in your rich repertory. Be kind enough to deny this imputation, and prove yourself to be a thoroughly accomplished actor.
Your admiring audience,
ROGER DE MONBERT.
EDGAR DE MEILHAN
to the
COUNT DE VILLIERS,
Château de Villiers, via Guéret (Creuse).
PARIS, Aug. 16th 18—.
Noble hidalgo, illustrious knight of la Mancha; you who are so fond of adventures and chivalric deeds, I am about to make you a proposition which, I hope, will suit your taste: a fight with sharp weapons, be it lance, or axe, or dagger; a struggle to the death, showing neither pity nor quarter. I know beforehand what you are going to say: Your native generosity will prevent you from fighting a duel with your friend. In the first place, I am not your friend; traitors have not that honor. Do not let that scruple stop you, refined gentleman.
Your mask has fallen off, dear Tartuffe with the fine feelings. We now know to what figures you devote yourself. Before dragging English women out of the flames you are well aware of their social position. You save friends from bankruptcy at a profit of eighty per cent., and when you make love to a grisette, you have her crest and the amount of her income in your pocket. In coming to my house, you knew that Louise was Irene. Madame de Braimes had acquainted you with all the circumstances during your interesting convalescence. All this may seem very natural to others and to a virtuous mortal, a Grandison like yourself. But I think differently; to me your conduct appears cowardly, base and contemptible. I should not be able to control myself, but would endeavor to make you comprehend my opinion of you, by slapping you in the face, wherever I met you. I hope that you will spare me such a disagreeable alternative by consenting toposefor a few moments before my sword or pistol, as you please. Allow me to entreat you not to exhibit any grandeur of soul, by firing in the air, it would not produce the slightest effect upon me, for I should kill you like a dog. Your presence upon the earth annoys me, and I do not labor for morality in deeds myself.
EDGAR DE MEILHAN.
COMTE DE VILLIERS
to
MESSRS. ROGER DE MONBERT
and
EDGAR DE MEILHAN,
VILLIERS, Aug 18th 18—.
Let us drop such language unworthy of you and of me. We are gentlemen, of military descent; our fathers when they did each other the honor that you offer me, challenged, but did not insult each other. If the affair were equal, if I had only one to contend with, perhaps I might attempt to bring him to reason There are two of you; come on, I await you.
COMTE DE VILLIERS XXXIX.
VILLIERS, August 21st 18—.
For two days I have been trying to answer your letter, my dear Valentine, but I am so uneasy, nervous and excited that I dare not commit to paper my wild and troubled thoughts; I am still sane enough to accuse myself of madness, but dread to prove it. Were I to write down all the strange ideas that rush through my mind, and then read them over, conviction of insanity would stare me in the face.
I was right when I told you it was a risk to accept such a wealth of happiness; my sweet enchantment is disturbed by dark threatening clouds—danger lurks in the air—the lightest word fills me with uneasiness—a letter written in a strange hand—an unexpected visitor, who leaves Raymond looking preoccupied—everything alarms me, and he gently chides me and asks why I look so sad. I say because I am too happy; but he thinks this a poor reason for my depression, and to divert my thoughts he walks with me through the beautiful valleys and tells me of his youth and the golden dreams of his early manhood, and assures me that his dreams of happiness are realized beyond his most exalted hopes—that he did not believe the angels would permit so perfect a being as myself to dwell on earth—that to be loved by me for a day, for an hour, he would willingly give up his life, and that such a sacrifice was a small price for such a love. I dared not mar his happiness by giving expression to my sad fears. His presence allays my apprehensions; he has so much confidence in the future that I cannot help being inspired with a portion of it; thus, when he is near me, I feel happy and reassured, but if he leaves me for a moment I am beset by myriads of terrible threatening phantoms. I accuse myself of having been imprudent and cruel; I fear I have not, as you say, inspired two undying passions, two life-long devotions, but exasperated two vindictive men. I well know that M. de Monbert did not love me, and yet I fear his unjust resentment. I recall Edgar's absurd breach of faith, and Edgar, whose image had until now only seemed ridiculous, Edgar appears before my troubled vision furious and threatening. I am haunted by a vague remembrance: The day of my wedding, after the benediction, as we were leaving the chapel, I was terribly frightened—in the silent gloom of the immense church I heard a voice, an angry stifled voice, utter my name ... the name I bore at Pont de l'Arche—Louise!... I quickly turned around to see whence came this voice that could affect me so powerfully at such a moment! I could discover no one.... Louise!... Many women are called Louise, it is a common name—perhaps it was some father calling his daughter, or some brother his sister. There was nothing remarkable in the calling of this name, and yet it filled me with alarm. I recalled Edgar's looks on that evening he was so angry with me; the rage gleaming in his eyes; the violent contraction of his features, his voice terrible and stifled like the voice in the church, and I was now convinced that his love was full of haughty pride, selfishness and hatred. But I said to myself, if it had been he, he would have followed me and looked in our carriage—I would have seen him in the church, or on the portico outside.... Besides, why should he have come?... he had given up seeing me; he could easily have found me had he so desired; he knew where Madame Taverneau's house was in Paris, and he knew that I lived with her; if he had hoped to be received by me, he would have simply called to pay a visit.... Finally, if he was at this early hour—six in the morning—in the church, at so great a distance from where I live, it was not to act as a spy upon me. The man who called Louise was not Edgar—it could not have been Edgar. This reflection reassured me. I questioned Raymond; he had seen no one, heard no one. I remembered that M. de Meilhan was not in Paris, and tried to convince myself that it was foolish to think of him any more. But yesterday I learned in a letter from Madame Taverneau—who as yet knows nothing of my marriage or departure from Paris, and will not know, until a year has elapsed, of the fortune I have settled upon her—I learned that M. de Meilhan left Havre and came direct to Paris. His mother did not tell him that I had gone with her to bring him home. When she found that her own influence was sufficient to detain him in France, she was silent as to my share in the journey. I thank her for it, as I greatly prefer he should remain ignorant of the foolish idea I had of sacrificing myself at his shrine in order to make his mother happy. But what alarms me is that she keeps him in Paris because she knows that he will learn the truth at Richeport, and because she hopes that the gayeties around him will more quickly make him forget this love that so interfered with her ambitious projects. So Edgarwasin Paris the day of my wedding ... and perhaps ... but no, who could have told him anything? I lived three miles from the parish where I was married.... It could not have been he ... and yet I fear that man.... I remember with what bitterness and spite he spoke to me of Raymond, in a letter, filled with unjust reproaches, that he wrote me three days after my departure from Richeport. In this letter, which I immediately burned, he told me that M. de Villiers was engaged to be married to his cousin. O how wretched this information made me! It had been broken off years ago, but M. de Villiers thought the engagement still existed; he spoke of it as a tie that would prevent his friend from indulging in any pretensions to my favor; and yet what malevolence there was in his praise of him, what jealous fear in his insolent security! How ingenuously he said: "Since I have no cause to fear him, why do I hate him?" I now remember this hatred, and it frightens me. Aided by Roger he will soon know all; he will discover that Irene de Chateaudun and Louise Guérin are the same person, and then two furious men will demand an explanation of my trifling with their feelings and reproach me with the duplicity of my conduct.... Valentine, do you think they could possibly act thus? Valentine! do you think these two men, who have so shamefully insulted my memory, so grossly betrayed me and proved themselves disgracefully faithless, would dare lay any claims to my love? Alas! in spite of the absurdity of such a supposition, Heaven knows they are fully capable of acting thus; men in love have such relaxed morality, such elastic consciences!
Under pretext of imaginary ungovernable passions, they indulge, without compunction, in falsehood, duplicity and the desecration of every virtue!... and yet think a pure love can condone and survive such unpardonable wrongs. They lightly weigh the tribute due to the refinement of a woman's heart. Their devotion is characterized by a singular variety. The loyal love of noble women is sacrificed to please the whims of those unblushing creatures who pursue such men with indelicate attentions and enslave them by flattering their inordinate vanity, and they, to preserve their self-love unhurt, pierce and mortally wound the generous hearts that live upon their affection and revere their very names—these they strike without pity and without remorse. And then when the tender love falls from these broken hearts, like water from a shattered vase, never to be recovered, they are astonished, uneasy, ... they have broken the heart filled with love, and now, with stupid surprise and pretended innocence, they ask what has become of the love!... they cowardly murdered it, and are indignant that it dared to die beneath their cruel blows. But why dwell upon Edgar and his anger and hatred, of Roger and his fury? Fate needs not these terrible instruments to destroy our happiness; the slightest accident, the most trifling imprudence can serve its cruelty; every thing will assist it in taking vengeance upon a man revelling in too much love, too much love. The cold north wind blowing at night upon his heated brow may strike him with the chill of death; the bridge may perfidiously break beneath his feet and cast him in the surging torrent below; a lofty rock, shivered by the winter frost, may fall upon him and crush him to atoms; his favorite horse may be frightened at a shadow and hurl him over the threatening precipice ... that child playing in front of my window might carelessly strike him on the temple with one of those pebbles and kill him....
Oh! Valentine, I am not laboring under an illusion. I see danger; the world revolts against pure, unalloyed happiness; society pursues it as an offence; nature curses it because of its perfection; to her every perfect thing seems a monstrosity not to be borne—directly she suspects its existence, she gives the alarm and the elements unite in conspiring against this happiness; the thunder-bolt is warned and holds itself in readiness to burst over the radiant brow. With human beings all the evil passions are simultaneously aroused: secret notice, unknown voices warn the envious people of every nation that there is somewhere a great joy to be disturbed; that in some corner of the earth two beings exist who sought and found each other—two hearts that love with ideal equality and intoxicating harmony.... Chance itself, that careless railer, is overbearing and jealous towards them; it is angry with these two beings who voluntarily sought and conscientiously chose each other without waiting for it to confer happiness upon them—it discovers their names, that never knows the name of any one, and pursues them with its animosity; it recovers its sight in order to recognise and strike them. I feel that we are too happy! Death stares us in the face! My soul shudders with fear! On earth we are not allowed to taste of supreme delight—pure, unalloyed happiness—to feel at once that ecstasy of soul and delirium of passion—that pride of love and loftiness of a pure conscience ... burning joys are only permitted to culpable love. When two unfortunate beings, bound by detested ties, meet and mutually recognise the ideals of their dreams, they are allowed to love each other because they have met too late, because this immense joy, this finding one's ideal, is poisoned by remorse and shame. Their criminal happiness can remain undisturbed because it is criminal; it has the conditions of life, frailty and misery; it bears the impress of sin, therefore it belongs to a common humanity.... But find ideal bliss in a legitimate union, find it in time to welcome it without shame and cherish it without remorse; be happy as a lover and honored as a wife; to experience the wild ardor of love and preserve the charming freshness of purity—to delight in obeying the equitable law of the most harmonious love by being alternately a slave and a queen; to call upon him who calls upon you; seek him who seeks you; love him who loves you—in a word, to be the idol of your idol!... it is too much, it surpasses human happiness, it is stealing fire from heaven—it is, I tell you, incurring the punishment of death!
In my enthusiasm I already stand upon the boundary of the true world—I have a glimpse of paradise; earth recedes from my gaze; I understand and expect death, because life has bid me a last farewell—the exaltation that I feel belongs to the future of the blessed; it is a triumphant dying—that final and supremely happy thought that tells me my soul is about to take its flight.
Oh! merciful God! my brain is on fire! and why do I write you these incoherent thoughts! Valentine, you see all excessive emotions are alike; the delirium of joy resembles the frenzy of despair. Having attained the summit of happiness, what do we see at our feet?... a yawning abyss!... we have lost the steep path by which we so painfully reached the top; once there, we have no means of gradually descending the declivity ... from so great a height we cannot walk, we fall!
There is but one way of preserving happiness—abjure it—never welcome it; sometimes it delights in visiting ungrateful people. Vainly do I seek to reassure myself by expiation, by sacrifices; during these eight days I have been lavishly giving gold in the neighborhood, I have endowed all the children, fed the poor, enriched the hospitals; I would willingly ruin myself by generous charity, by magnificent donations—I would cheerfully give my entire fortune to obtain rest and peace for my troubled mind.
Every morning I enter the empty church and fervently pray that God will permit me by some great sacrifice to insure my happiness. I implore him to inflict upon me hard trials, great humiliations, intense pain, sufferings beyond any strength, but to have mercy upon my poor heart and spare me Raymond ... to leave me a little longer Raymond, ...
Raymond and his love!
But these tears and prayers will be vain—Raymond himself, without understanding his presentiments, instinctively feels that his end is approaching. His purity of soul, his magnanimity, the unexampled disinterestedness of his conduct, are indications—these sublime virtues are symptoms of death—this generosity, this disinterestedness are tacit adieux. Raymond possesses none of the weaknesses of men destined for a long life; he has indulged in none of the wicked passions of the age—he has kept himself apart, observing but not sharing the actions of men. He regards life as if he were a pilgrim, and takes no part in any of its turmoils—he has not bargained for any of its disenchantments; his great pride, his life-long, unbending loyalty have concealed a mournful secret; he has stood aloof because he was convinced of his untimely end. He feels self-reliant because he will only have a short time to struggle; he is joyous and proud, because he looks upon the victory as already won ... I weep as I admire him.
Alas! am I to regard with sorrow and fear these noble qualities—these seductive traits that won my love? Is it because he deserves to be loved more than any being on earth has ever been loved, that I tremble for him! Valentine, does not such an excess of happiness excite your pity?
Ever since early this morning, I have been suffering torment—Raymond left me for a few hours—he went to Guéret; one of his cousins returning from the waters of Néris was to pass through there at ten o'clock, and requested him to meet her at the hotel. Nothing is more natural, and I have no reason to be alarmed—yet this short absence disturbs me as much as if it were to last years—it makes me sad—it is the first time we have been separated so long a time during these eight blissful days.
Ah! how I love him, and how heavy hangs time on my hands during his absence!
One thought comforts me in my present state of exaltation; I am unequal to any great misfortune.... A fatal piece of news, a painful sight, a false alarm ... a certain dreaded name mingled with one that I adore—ah! a false report, although immediately contradicted, would kill me on the spot—I could not live the two minutes it would require to hear the denial—the truth happily demonstrated. This thought consoles me—if my happiness is to end, I shall die with it.
Valentine, it is two o'clock! Oh! why does Raymond not return? My heart sinks—my hand trembles so that I can scarcely hold the pen—my eyes grow dim.... What can detain him? He left at eight, and should have returned long ago. I know well that the relative he went to see might have been delayed on the road—she may have mistaken the time, women are so ignorant about travelling—they never understand the timetables.
All this tells me I am wrong to be uneasy—and yet ... I shudder at every sound.... his horse is so fiery.... I am astonished that Raymond did not let me read his relative's letter; he said he had left it on his table ... but I looked on the table and it was not there. I wished to read the letter so as to find out the exact time he was to be at Guéret, and then I could tell when to expect him home.
But this relative is the mother of the girl he was to have married.... perhaps she still loves him.... is she with her mother?... Ah! what an absurd idea! I am so uneasy that I divert my mind by being jealous—to avoid thinking of possible dangers, I conjure up impossible ones.... Oh! my God! it is not his love I doubt ... his love equals mine—it is the intensity of his love that frightens me—it is in this love so pure, so perfect, so divine—in this complete happiness that the danger lies. Is it not sinful to idolize one of God's creatures, when this adoration is due to God alone—to devote one's whole existence to a human being, for his sake to forget everything else? This is the sin before Heaven ...
Oh! if I could only see him, and once more hear his voice! That blessed voice I love so much! How miserable I am!... What agony I suffer!... I stifle ... my brain whirls—my mind is so confused that I cannot think ... this torture is worse than death ... And then if he should suddenly appear before me, what joy!... Oh! I don't wish him to enter the room at once—I would like one minute to prepare myself for the happiness of seeing him ... one single moment.... If he were to abruptly enter, I would become frantic with joy as I embraced him!
My dear Valentine, what a torment is love!... It is utterly impossible for me to support another hour of this agitation. I am sure I have a fever—I shiver with cold—I burn—my brain is on fire....
As I write this to you, seated at the window, I eagerly watch the long avenue by which he must return.... I write a word ... a whole line so as to give him time to approach, hoping I will see him coming when I raise my eyes—.... After writing each line I look again.... nothing appears in the distance; I see neither his horse nor the cloud of dust that would announce his approach. The clock strikes! three o'clock!... Valentine! it is fearful ... hope deserts me ... all is lost ... I feel myself dying ... Instinct tells me that some dreadful tragedy, ruinous to me, is now enacting on this earth.... Ah! my heart breaks ... I suffer torture.... Raymond! Raymond! Valentine! my mother! help!... help!... I see a horse rushing up the avenue ... but it is not Raymond's ... ah! itishis ... but ... I don't see Raymond ... the saddle is empty ... God!
This unfinished letter of the Comtesse de Villiers to Madame de Braimes bore neither address nor signature.
ROGER DE MONBERT
to
MONSIEUR EDGAR DE MEILHAN,
Hotel de Bellevue, Bruxelles (Belgique).
You are now at Brussels, my dear Edgar, at least for my own peace of mind I hope so. Although I fear not for you the rigors of the law, still I am anxious to know that you are on a safe and hospitable shore.
Criminal trials, even when they have a favorable issue, are injurious. In your case it is necessary to keep concealed, await the result of public opinion, and let future events regulate your conduct. Besides, as there is no law about duelling, you must distrust the courts of justice. The day will come when some jury, tired of so many acquittals, will agree upon a conviction. Your case may be decided by this jury—so it is only prudent for you to disappear, and abide the issue.
Things have entirely changed during my ten years' absence; all this is new to me. Immediately after the duel I obeyed your instructions, and went to see your lawyer, Delestong. With the exception of a few omissions, I was obliged to relate everything that happened. I must tell you exactly what I said and what I left unsaid, so that if we are summoned before the court our testimony shall not conflict.
It was unnecessary to relate what passed between us before the duel, so I merely said we had drawn lots as to who should be the avenger, and who the second; nor did I deem it proper to explain the serious causes of the duel, as it would have resulted in a long story, and the bringing in of women's names at every turn, an unpardonable thing in a man. I simply said the cause was serious, and of a nature to fully justify a deadly meeting; that we, Monsieur de Meilhan and myself, left Guéret at six o'clock in the morning; when three miles from the town, we left the high-road of Limoges and entered that part of the woods called the Little Cascade, where we dismounted and awaited the arrival of M. de Villiers, who, in a few minutes, rode up to us, accompanied by two army-officers as seconds. We exchanged bows at a distance of ten feet, but nothing was said until the elder of the officers advanced towards me, shook my hand, and drawing me aside, began: "We military men dare not refuse to act on this occasion as seconds when summoned by a brave man, but we always come with the hope of effecting a reconciliation. These young men are hot-headed. There is some pretty woman at the root of the difficulty, and they are acting the rôles of foolish rivals. The day has passed for men to fight about such silly things; it is no longer the fashion. Now, cannot we arrange this matter satisfactorily, without injuring the pride of these gentlemen?"
"Monsieur," I replied, "it is with profound regret that I decline making any amicable settlement of this affair. Under any other circumstances I would share your peaceable sentiments; as it is, we have come here with a fixed determination. If you knew—"
"Do tell me the provocation—I am very anxious to learn it," said the officer, interrupting me, eagerly.
"You ask what is impossible," I replied; "nothing could alter our determination. We fully made up our minds before coming here."
"That being the case, monsieur," said he, "my friend and I will withdraw; we decline to countenance a murder."
"If you retire, captain," I responded, pressing his hand, "I will also leave, and not be answerable for the result—and what will be the consequence? I can assure you, upon my honor, that these gentlemen will fight without seconds."
The officer bowed and waved his hand, in sign of forced acquiescence. After a short pause, he continued: "We have entered upon a very distasteful affair, and the sooner it is ended the better. Have they decided upon the weapons?"
"They have decided, monsieur, to draw lots for the choice of arms," I replied.
"Then," he cried, "there has been no insult given or received; they are both in the right and both in the wrong."
"Exactly so, captain."
"I suppose we will have to consent to it. Let us draw for the weapons, since it is agreed upon."
The lot fell on the sword.
"With this weapon," I said, "all the disadvantages are on the side of M. de Meilhan; the skilful fencing of his adversary is celebrated among amateurs. He is one of Pons's best scholars."
"Have you brought a surgeon?" said the captain.
"Yes, monsieur, we left Dr. Gillard in a house near by."
As you see, dear Edgar, I shall lay great stress upon the disadvantages you labored under in using the sword; and, when necessary, I shall express in eloquent terms the agony I felt when I saw your hand, more skilful in handling the pen than the sword, hesitatingly grasp the hilt.
I finished my deposition in these words: "When the distance had been settled, by casting lots, we handed our principals two swords exactly alike; one of the adverse seconds and myself stood three steps off with our canes raised in order to separate them at all risk, if necessary, in obedience to the characteristically French injunction of the duelling code as laid down by M. Chateunvillard.
"At the given signal the swords were bravely crossed; Edgar, with the boldness of heroic inexperience, bravely attacked his adversary. Raymond, compelled to defend himself, was astonished. At this terrible moment, when thought paralyzes action, he was absorbed in thought. The contest was brief. Edgar's sword, only half parried, pierced his rival's heart. The surgeon came to gaze upon a lifeless corpse.
"Edgar mounted his horse, rode off and I have not seen him since. Those who remained rendered the last offices to the dead."
I am obliged to write you these facts, my dear Edgar, not for information, but to recall them to you in their exact order; and especially, I repeat, in order to avoid contradiction on the witness-stand. Now I must write you of what you are ignorant.
I had a duty to fulfil, much more terrible than yours, and I was obliged to recall our execrable oath in order to renew courage and strength to keep my promise.
Before we had cast lots for the leading part in this duel, we swore to go ourselves to the house of this woman and announce to her the issue of the combat, if it proved favorable to us. In the delirium of angry excitement, filling our burning hearts at the moment, this oath appeared to be the most reasonable thing in the world. Our blood boiled with such violent hatred against him and her that it seemed just for vengeance, with refined cruelty, to step over a corpse and pursue its work ere its second victim had donned her widow's robes.
Edgar! Edgar! when I saw that blood flowing, when I saw life and youth converted into an inanimate mass of clay, when you left me alone on this inanimate theatre of death, my feelings underwent a sudden revolution; this moment seemed to age me a half a century, and without lessening my hatred, only left me a confused perception of it, with a vague memory full of disenchantment and sadness.
The crime was great, it is true, but what a terrible expiation! What hellish torture heaped upon him at once! To lose all at the point of the sword, all!—youth, fortune, love, wife, celestial joys, beautiful nature and the light of the sun!
However, dear Edgar, I remembered our solemn promise; and as you were not here to release me, I was obliged to fulfil it to the letter. And then again, shall I say it, this humane consideration did not extend to the offending woman; my heart was still filled with a sentiment that has no name in the language of the passions!—A mixture of hatred, love, jealousy, scorn and despair.
She was not dead! A man had been sacrificed as a victim upon the altar of this goddess: that was all.
Do not women require amusement of this sort?
She would live; to-day, she would weep; to-morrow, seek the common path of consolation. One victim is not enough to gratify her cruel vanity! She must be quickly consoled, that she might be ready to receive fresh sacrifices in her temple.
My heart filled with angry passions awakened by these thoughts, I spurred my horse, and hastened in the direction of the house that had been described to me the day before. I soon recognised the picturesque spot, where this accursed house lay concealed in the midst of beautiful trees and smiling waters.
An electric shock must have communicated to you, dear Edgar, the oppression of heart I felt at the sight of the landscape. There was the history of love in every tree and flower. There was an ineffable record in the hedges of the valleys; loving caresses in the murmur of the water-lilies; ecstasies of lovers in the quivering of the leaves; divine intoxication in the exhalations of the wild flowers, and in the lights, shadows and gentle breezes under the mysterious alcoves of the trees. Oh! how happy they must have been in this paradise! The whole air was filled with the life of their love and happiness! There must have been present a supernatural and invisible being, who was a jealous witness of this wedded bliss, and who made use of your sword to destroy it! So much happiness was an offence before heaven. We have been the blind instrument of a wrathful spirit. But what mattered death after such a day of perfect bliss! After having tasted the most exquisite tenderness in the world! When looking at the proud young husband sitting in this flowery bower, with the soft starlight revealing his happy face as he tenderly and hopefully gazed on his lovely bride, who would not have exclaimed with the poet,
"My life for a moment of bliss like this."
Who would not have welcomed your sword-thrust as the price of a moment's duration of such divine joy?
The survivors are the unfortunate ones, because they saw but could not taste this happiness.
Infernal Tantalus of the delights of Paradise, because their dream has become the reality of another, and lawful vengeance leaves them a satisfaction poisoned by remorse!
Come with me, dear Edgar, in my sad pilgrimage to this accursed house, and with me behold the closing scene. I left the shade of the woods and approached the lawn, that, like an immense terrace of grass and flowers, spread before the house. I saw many strange things, and with that comprehensive, sweeping glance of feverish excitement; two horses covered with foam, their saddles empty and bridles dragging, trampled down the flower-borders. One horse was Raymond's, returned riderless! Doubtless brought home by the servant who had accompanied him.
Not a face was visible, in the sun, the shade, the orchard, on the steps, or at the windows. I observed in the garden two rakes lying on some beautiful lilies; they had not been carefully laid down, but dropped in the midst of the flowers, on hearing some cry of distress from the house.
One window was open; the rich curtains showed it to be the room of a woman; the carelessly pushed open blinds proved that an anxious watcher had passed long hours of feverish expectation at the window. A desolate silence reigned around the house; this silence was fearful, and at an hour of the day when all is life and animation, in harmony with the singing birds and rippling waters.
I ascended the steps, mechanically noticing the beautiful flowers clustering about the railing; flowers take a part in every catastrophe of life. On the threshold, I forgot myself to think of you, to live with your spirit, to walk with your feet, for my own resolution would have failed me at this fatal moment.
In the vestibule I looked through a half-open folding-door, and, in the funereal darkness, saw some peasantry kneeling and praying. No head was raised to look at me. I slowly entered the room with my eyes downcast, and lids swollen with tears I forcibly restrained. In a recess, lying on a sofa, was something white and motionless, the sight of which froze my blood.... It was—I cannot write her name, Edgar—it was she. My troubled gaze could not discover whether dead or living. She seemed to be sleeping, with her hair lying carelessly about the pillow, in the disorder of a morning repose.
Near by was a young man-servant, his vest spotted with blood; with face buried in his hands he was weeping bitterly.
Near her head a window was raised to admit the fresh air. This window opened on an inner courtyard, very gloomy on account of the masses of leaves that seemed to drop from the walls and fill it with sombreness.
Two men dressed in black, with faces more melancholy-looking than their garments, were in this courtyard, talking in low tones; through the window I could only see their heads and shoulders. I merely glanced at them; my eyes, my sorrow, my hatred, my love were all concentrated upon this woman. Absorbed by a heart-rending gaze, an instinct rather than idea rooted me to the spot.
I waited for her to recover her senses, to open her eyes, not to add to her anguish by a word or look of mine, but to let her see me standing there, a living, silent accusation. Some farmer-boys entered with lighted candles, a cross and basin of holy-water. In the disorder of my mind, I understood nothing, but slowly walked out on the terrace, with the vague idea of breathing a little fresh air and returning.
The serenity of the sky, the brightness of the sun, the green trees, the fragrant flowers, the songs of the birds, offered an ironical contrast to the scene of mourning. Often does nature refuse to countenance human sorrows, because they are ungrateful to her goodness. She creates the wonders of heaven to make us happy; we evoke the secrets of hell to torture our souls and bodies. Nature is right to scorn our self-inflicted sorrows.
You see, my dear Edgar, that I make you share all of my torments, all of my gloomy reflections. I make you live over this hour, minute by minute, agony on agony, as I suffered it myself.
I stood aside under a tree, waiting I know not for what; one of the men in black, I had seen from the window, came down the steps of the terrace and advanced towards me. I made some confused remark; the situation supplied it with intelligence.
"You are a relation, a friend, an acquaintance?" he said, inquiringly.
"Yes, monsieur."
"It is a terrible misfortune," he added, clasping his hands and bowing his head; "or rather say two terrible misfortunes in one day; the poor woman is also dead." ...
Like one in a dream I heard the latter remark, and I now transcribe it to you as my impression of something that occurred long, long ago, although I know it took place yesterday.
"Yes, dead," he went on to say; "we were called in too late. Bleeding would have relieved the brain. It was a violent congestion; we have similar cases during our practice. An immense loss to the community. A woman who was young, beautiful as an angel, and charity itself.... Dead!"
He looked up, raised his hand to heaven, and walked rapidly away.
I am haunted by a memory that nothing can dispel. This spectre doubtless follows you too, dear Edgar. It is a mute, eloquent image fashioned in the empty air, like the outline of a grave; a phantom that the sun drives not away, pursuing me by day and by night. It is Raymond's face as he stood opposite to you on the field of death, his brow, his eye, his lips, his whole bearing breathing the noblest sentiments that were ever buried in an undeserved grave. This heroic young man met us with the fatal conviction that his last hour had come; he felt towards us neither hatred nor contempt; he obeyed the inexorable exigencies of the hour, without accusation, without complaint.
The silence of Raymond clothed in sublime delicacy his friendship for us, and his love for her. His manner expressed neither the resignation that calls for pity nor the pride that provokes passion; his countenance shone with modest serenity, the offspring of a grand resolve.
In a few days of conjugal bliss he had wandered through the flowery paths of human felicity; he had exhausted the measure of divine beatitude allotted to man on earth, and he stood nerved for the inevitable and bloody expiation of his happiness.
All this was written on Raymond's face.
Edgar! Edgar! we were too relentless. Why should honor, the noblest of our virtues, be the parent of so much remorse?
Adieu.
ROGER DE MONBERT.