"Do not forget," the elder man said to him, "that I want to have a little talk with you; it is more than a wish, it is a duty."
"I also have a serious duty to attend to," replied the young Count."Excuse me if I have to keep you waiting."
Albert went immediately to his mother, who was taking tea with the Princess. He embraced her with such tenderness that she was astonished at his ardour. The Princess held out her hand.
"Do not wait too long to realize your happiness, Albert. You know how all your friends will rejoice with you."
He kissed her hand again, and went to join his two seconds at the gate of the kitchen garden.
The crowd had all dispersed to catch the last train.
The meeting at the "Three Roads" was for seven. They saw the Duke de Castel-Montjoie from a distance. He had had some difficulty in making his escape, having had to help his mother, the Duchess, with the last farewells. He bowed to the Count and led the way by a little door to the inn stable. He was carrying two sets of swords, done up in two cases of green cloth.
The Duke and his seconds were already there. Only the Doctor had not arrived. Morlay-La-Branche and Albert bowed to each other and got ready.
The little bowers, where thehabituesof the inn often ate their midday meals, served them as dressing-rooms. The Doctor arrived out of breath, with the information that he had not been able to get aconfrereand would have to serve both sides. The umpire, in company with the seconds, chose an alley of proper dimensions.
The adversaries were placed opposite, sword in hand. The Duke deCastel-Montjoie touched the points of their swords and said, "Go!"
The conditions of the duel were very strict. The first round should last three minutes, should neither of the adversaries be touched.
"Halt!" cried the Duke de Castel-Montjoie.
One minute was allowed them to breathe.
"Go," said the umpire, again joining the sword tips.
This time Albert made a furious drive against the Duke. There was a moment of suspense. The Duke did not give way. His arm shot out and the unfortunate Count turned completely round and fell. Charles de Morlay's sword had pierced beneath the right arm pit, entering the lung. The blood streamed from the wounded man's mouth. The Doctor and the seconds carried him into the room which Jeanette had prepared. The Duke, sorely moved, followed them. Albert saw him and held out a hand which the Duke pressed gently, bending his head. The Count signed to the seconds to withdraw.
"I was wrong, Duke," he murmured. "My love had blinded my wisdom with the heavy mask of egoism. On the threshold of eternity the truth seems clearer. Forgive me, De Morlay, as I forgive you."
He choked. The Doctor came forward. The Duke, as pale as the dying man, pressed that loyal hand for the last time, and withdrew.
In her own room Esperance had just waked with an anguished cry.
"What is the matter with you?"
"I … I … I do not know … a catastrophe … where is my father?"
"In his room, and…."
At that very moment Maurice knocked at the door, and before they had time to answer him, he entered. His face was distorted with grief.
"A catastrophe, a catastrophe!" repeated Esperance, at sight of him.
"Get up, put on a wrap, put something on your head, and come, come quickly! A carriage is waiting for us!"
"A catastrophe, a catastrophe! Albert? the Duke?…"
"Albert!" he answered brusquely. "Come quickly! He wants to see you before…."
The words died in his throat.
He helped his cousin and led her rapidly to the carriage. Esperance was gasping with anguish.
"Tell me, Maurice, tell me."
But the young man could not answer. He knew only that Albert was mortally wounded. He had been waiting a few paces from the Inn to see the duellers come out. The Duke de Morlay-La-Branche and Castel-Montjoie appeared first, and as they were talking to the young man, the Marquis de Montagnac came out precipitately.
"I beg you," he said to Maurice, "to fetch the Count's fiancée. He wants to see her before his mother knows."
And Maurice had departed in hot haste.
As soon as they reached the Inn, Esperance jumped to the ground. Jeanette, who had kept a constant watch, ran along ahead of her and without a word showed her the door of the room where Count Albert lay dying. The Doctor stopped her.
"Very gently," he said.
But Albert had felt the presence of his dearly loved. He raised himself a little, holding out his great arms to the young girl.
"Come to me, my love, do not be afraid. I will never hold you again in these arms that frighten you. Listen carefully. I have only a few minutes to live! No one knows the real reason of my quarrel with the Duke…. You may have thought that it was about you. I swear to you," he laid stress on the word, "I swear to you that it was nothing to do with you!"
His glazing eyes cleared for an instant, illuminated by the beauty of his falsehood.
"Marry the Duke, he is charming … he … he is loyal … but do not abandon my mother; she will have only you!"
Two red streams trickled from the corners of his mouth. Esperance on her knees with her hands crossed on the bed, watched the blood run down on the face that had grown paler than the pillow. Her tears blinded her, and she shook as with an ague. Albert ceased breathing for an instant. The Doctor, who was watching closely from the end of the room, came near and gave him a dose of chlorate of calcium to stop the hemorrhage; then at a sign from Albert, withdrew again.
"Promise me," said the young man, "that you will always keep this necklace!"
"Albert, don't die! I will love you! I do love you! Have pity! I will always wear the necklace. You shall unfasten it every evening and clasp it every morning! Do not die! Do not die! I am your fiancée, to-morrow I will be your wife! You must life for your mother, for me!"
The door opened and the Countess, suddenly awakened, entered with theBaron van Berger and the Duke de Castel-Montjoie.
"Mother, dear mother, forgive me…. I leave you Esperance, who will take my place with you. Forgive the Duke de Morlay the pain he has caused you. Our quarrel was so deep, we could only settle it by arms. It was I, I, who precipitated matters. The Duke acted like an honourable gentleman. Oh! do not weep, mother, do not weep!"
He raised his hand painfully to wipe with trembling fingers the tears burning the beautiful eyes that had already wept so much.
The Chaplain from the Château entered the room, bearing the Holy Sacrament. He was accompanied by the Dowager Duchess, the Prince and Princess of Bernecourt. A solemn hush quieted the sobs of the two women. The priest bent over the couch of the dying man. The Count summoned all his strength to receive the extreme unction, then, transfigured by his faith, he sat up, extending his arms. The two women threw themselves trembling into the open arms, which closed upon them in the last struggle of life. They remained there, imprisoned, not knowing that the soul had fled.
A terrible cry shook these souls sunk down in grief. Esperance shrieked, "These arms, these arms, loosen these arms which are strangling me … Deliver me, deliver me from these arms … I am choking…."
They had some difficulty in freeing her. Her pupils dilated by terror, she was hardly able to breathe. The Doctor did not disguise his anxiety.
"Save her, Doctor," said the Countess Styvens, "save my daughter. My son is now with God; he sees me, he waits for me, but I must obey his last wish."
They carried Esperance away unconscious, without tears, without movement, almost without life. François, who had just arrived with his wife, learned of the frightful tragedy and received in his arms the poor unconscious cause of the drama. Mme. Darbois did not wish to leave her daughter, but the philosopher insisted, until she could not refuse, that she should go back to the Countess Styvens.
When the professor arrived at the Château he found the Duke de Morlay at the gate waiting for tidings. At sight of Esperance unconscious, her head fallen back on her father's breast, he jumped on the step of the victoria.
"What more has happened?" he asked panting.
"The Doctor will be here in a few minutes. He will tell you…."
The carriage drove on to the Tower of Saint Genevieve. The Duke took the poor figure in his arms and carried her up to her room, followed by François Darbois, broken by sorrow. Genevieve was waiting feverishly for the return of Maurice and Esperance. She showed the Duke where to lay Esperance. He stretched the slender creature on her bed. Her eyes were open, but she recognized no one. The rigidity of her expression frightened the Duke, and he bent in terror to listen to her breathing. A faint burning breath touched his face.
The Doctor declared that he could give no decision at that moment, and ordered them to leave her to sleep.
"She must not be left for a second," he said. "Two people must watch so that she need never be left alone."
The Duke kissed the limp little hand, and recoiled—his lips touched her engagement ring. As he went out he met the Countess Styvens and hardly recognized her, so terribly was she changed. She stopped him.
"Do not leave. I know from my son that it was he who provoked you. The cause of your duel is a secret that I shall never seek to know. May God pardon my son and free you from all remorse. I go to my daughter, all I have left to love and protect."
It was evident that the noble woman was making a great effort; the last words of her son were still ringing in her brain.
De Morlay knelt and watched the Countess disappear into the room.
The Doctor declared that evening that Esperance had congestion of the brain, and that specialists who were sent for from Paris confirmed the diagnosis. The Dowager would not hear of having her taken away. The Tower of Saint Genevieve was put entirely at the Darbois's disposal. Twos sister were sent for, and Jeanette volunteered to do the heavy work. All the other servants were forbidden to approach the Tower.
The Countess Styvens, accompanied by the Duke de Castel-Montjoie, the Prince and Princess de Bernecourt, and the Baron van Berger, had taken the body of her son to be buried in the great family mausoleum which she had raised to the memory of her husband at her country place of Lacken.
Maurice and Genevieve were greatly relieved when they learned that the Countess had not remained. In her crises of delirium Esperance talked and talked….
"Albert, no, no, I do not love him … I love the Duke…. Yes, he saved my life, but my father is going to tell him…. I cannot keep this collar…. It is cold, cold, it strangles me, I am stifling…. I am going to die…. Yes, Albert, you shall clasp the chain every morning … and every evening…. No, my head is not too low, I can see the beauty of Perseus better. He is coming?… He is coming to cut off the long arms that hold me…. The blood, there, the blood running slowly!… No, Albert, do not die, I will love you, the Duke will go!…"
In spite of her trusting confidence, the poor mother must have come to wonder and perhaps to understand.
When Esperance regained consciousness the worst danger was over. OnlyGenevieve and Mlle. Frahender had heard the complete revelation.
Jeanette knew too, but Genevieve, who understood that she was there to keep the Duke informed, found her very docile and repentant and did not send her away. The Countess, to whom they had sent a daily bulletin for three weeks, found that Esperance, if not cured, was at least on the way to convalescence. She would still pass many hours when she failed to recognize people. A kind of coma took possession of her every now and then and kept her for days together in a kind of lethargy.
The season was getting late, and all the house guests had left. The Dowager Duchess did not wish to return to Paris, although her son, who had become a deputy as she wished, invited her to come and stay with him. The Prince de Bernecourt had had to once more take up his post, but his wife had stayed to keep her friend company, and because she loved the "little Darbois," as she called her. The Duke de Morlay was visiting friends whose Château was about an hour's journey away. He came every day for news from the Duchess, and from his goddaughter Jeanette.
A month went by. The young girl, now convalescent, was strong enough to be moved.
"We will take her to Penhouet for a month," said François Darbois's note to the Countess, "and when she is quite cured we will send her to you in Brussels."
The Duke was in despair at the idea of hearing that Esperance was to go away. He complained to Maurice whom he saw every day, "Can I not see Esperance?"
"Yes, but only for a few seconds," said the young painter. "I believe that you will have to wait several months before you can renew your love. She is convalescent, but not cured. Here is a proposal for you: I am going to marry Mlle. Hardouin in two months. Come to our wedding. Your presence will seem quite natural, for you have treated me as a friend. I am very much attached to you and I am sure that my cousin will be very happy with you when you are married."
"But will she be well in two months?"
"The Doctor assures us that she will be quite herself, and it is by his advice that we have set that date for our marriage."
"Do you think Mlle. Hardouin would accept me as a witness?"
She will be delighted, and I thank you. Genevieve has no relations except her elder sister, who brought her up."
"I hope that this marriage will recall Esperance's promise to her.Meantime I shall go to Italy for about the two months. Will you see ifI may say good-bye to her?"
"I will go now."
He was soon back again.
"My cousin expects you."
It was more than a month since the Duke had seen Esperance. He was painfully shocked by the change in her pretty face. She looked hardly real. Her eyes were enormous. Genevieve and Mlle. Frahender were with her.
"Here is the Duke de Morlay-La-Branche who has come to say good-bye to you."
Esperance turned her eyes towards the Duke.
"It is a long time since I have seen you," she said simply.
And her voice sounded like the tone of a distant harp.
"You have been very ill!"
"I have been very ill, I believe, but I cannot remember very well. I feel as if I had had heavy blows in my brain; sometimes I hear dreadful calls and then everything is quiet again. And then sometimes I see a piece of a picture, no beginning, no end, sometimes horrible, sometimes lovely. Why, now I remember," she spoke gently with a charming smile, "that you are part of all my visions, but I do not know any more how, or why…. And Albert, where is he? Why does he not come? He must come and undo the collar…. Ah! my God, my God, I am wandering you see, nothing is clear yet."
She raised her arms.
"My God, my God, have pity on me or take me at once. I do not want to lose my mind!"
She took the Duke's hand.
"Say you are not sorry that you loved me?"
"I love you always!"
She clapped her hands with a silvery laugh, "Genevieve, Genevieve, he loves me still."
And she hid her head on the young girl's arm. Maurice led the Duke away, overcome. He looked questioningly at the painter.
"No, she will not be light-headed long, the Doctors all agree about that, but her memory will have to come back by degrees a little at a time. She recognized you. She remembered her love and yours. That is a great step. Her youth, her love, and time will be, I believe, certain restorers."
The Duke left soon after they had taken Esperance away.
In Belgium the Countess had prepared for her beloved daughter. This beautiful woman of forty, so charming, so handsome in her mauve mourning, had already become an old woman whose movements were ever slow and sad. Her back was bent, from constantly kneeling beside her son's grave. Her black clothes reflected the deeper gloom of her expression. And to those who had seen her a few months before, she was almost unrecognizable.
Poor little Esperance regained her health very slowly. Her mind seemed entirely clear only on one subject, the theatre. Little by little she remembered everything connected with her art. She repeated with Genevieve and Jean Perliez the scenes they had given at the Competition. She worked hard on Musset'sOn ne badine pas avec l'amour; then busied herself with preparations for her friend's marriage. She did not know that the Duke was to be a witness.
"But," she would often object, "you must have two witnesses, and you have only one."
"I have two," said Genevieve, "but you must guess the name of the second."
The wedding, solemnized in the little church of Sauzen, at Belle-Isle-en-Mer, was very private. Maurice had for witnesses his uncle, François Darbois, and the Marquis de Montagnac, with whom he had become great friends. Doctor Potain and the Duke de Morlay-La-Branche were witnesses for Genevieve. The Dowager Duchess and the Princess de Bernecourt were present. The Countess Styvens had been ill for a month and could not leave Brussels. She sent a magnificent present of diamonds and pearls to Genevieve, who was filled with joy. The Duchess gave the young bride a splendid silver service, and the Princess brought with her some beautiful lace. Genevieve had attached herself very strongly to the first of these sweet women, and Maurice had made a conquest of the Princess by painting her an admirable portrait.
The sight of the Duke made the invalid exuberant with joy. She constantly forgot her duties as maid of honour to draw near the loved being.
Doctor Potain watched her closely, and made a thorough examination. He knew nothing of her love for the Duke, but when the latter questioned him about her health, he said, "There is only one chance of restoring her health. She must go back on the stage."
The Duke jumped. "Impossible!" he said.
"Why impossible? Her fiancé is dead."
The Duke spoke to the man of science. "Listen to me, Doctor, I am passionately in love with this girl who loved me, but only remembers that at intervals…. I cannot, indeed…."
"Approve of her going on the stage? Urge her yourself, and you will save her. When she is cured if she loves you, as you believe, she will leave everything to follow you; but now neurasthenia or madness await her. She must be roused to work outside herself. Do as I tell you and you will invite me to your wedding."
The Duke went straight to find François Darbois. Maurice would have retired. "No," said the Duke to him, "I want you to stay," and he told them word for word what the Doctor had said.
"Well, what do you think?" François Darbois asked him.
"I think that the most important thing in all the world is to save her! I will wait…."
François pressed his hand, and there was taken between these two men, who were so different in every way, a silent pledge that both were determined to keep at all costs.
From that instant each one strained every nerve to revive in Esperance her dearest desire.
Several days after this visit, Esperance received a letter from the Comedie-Française, asking her to come to the office. She turned pink. Her lovely forehead brightened for the first time in many months. She handed the letter to her father, who knew what it contained, and had been watching his child's surprise very closely.
"We must go back to Paris, father, I feel entirely well."
"Good, Mademoiselle, we will obey your orders," he said tenderly.
She kissed her father as she used to do, and began to tease him a little.
"How nice it is to have such an agreeable papa! You have plenty of cause to be severe, for I give you endless trouble."
"So you are to make your début at the Comedie-Française?"
"My God!" said the young girl, starting up, "that might cost you your election!"
François Darbois began to laugh, for his joy returned to him when his daughter's memory came back to her.
"Leave my election alone. They won't even nominate me, and I shall not worry."
Mme. Darbois came in and François pretended to disclose the news to her. She assumed surprise. To hide her emotion, she took her daughter in a long embrace.
Maurice had taken his young wife to Italy, to show her in its most harmonious setting the most beautiful aspirations of art towards the ideal. The Duke de Morlay travelled there with them, adoring Italy as does every devotee of art. There was not a corner of this rare country that he did not know.
The sojourn of the young couple in Italy was pure enchantment. Maurice was constantly surprised by the intellectual strength of his companion. Like most artists he had an indulgent scorn for what so many call and think the worldly class. When he originally met the Duke he had recognized his cultivation, and found that his eclecticism was exact, profound, and not the superficial veneer he had at first supposed. He realized that men of the world do not vaunt their knowledge, though it is often far deeper than that of certain artists who never go below the depths of but one art: their own.
Almost every day Maurice received a letter or telegram giving him news of his cousin. The advice of Doctor Potain seemed to be justifying itself. Every day Esperance began to recover her health and spirits. She was rehearsing at the Comedie, and her début inOn ne badine pas avec l'amourwas announced for the next month.
The travellers had intended to spend another ten days in Italy. But a letter to Genevieve alarmed them. She read it aloud.
"My darling, I am just now the happiest girl in the world. First because my dear cousin is seeing so many beautiful things that shine through her letters and show her so enchanted with life that I feel the stimulus myself, and long to live to go myself to breathe the divine air of Italy, and admire the masterpieces there. Tell the Duke de Morlay that no day passes without my thoughts flying to him. Only one thing worries me. I can confide it to you, Genevieve, you who are so perfectly happy. Why does the theatre draw me so that I am willing to sacrifice for it even those I love? I see the Countess Styvens every day. She seems a light ready to flicker out. Sometimes she looks at me as if she saw me far, very far away, and murmurs, 'Poor little thing, it is not her fault!' Then I shiver. What is not my fault? Albert's death. Dear Albert, who frightened me so much sometimes, that I felt my teeth chattering! Do you know how he died? Nobody seems to know! Genevieve dear, the pearl collar strangles me sometimes. I promised not to take it off, but I must take it off to play 'Camille' in Musset's play. Mustn't I? She cannot wear pearls at the convent? When I promised that, I did not expect ever to appear on the stage any more; but now! Besides, when I am on the stage I am not myself at all. Esperance stays behind in the dressing-room and 'Camille' comes forth. Then the collar? Ask the Duke, without telling him that I asked you, what I should do. This collar seems to me such a heavy chain, so heavy and sometimes so cold. I must stop this letter, for you see the confusion is coming back again. I am a little frightened! I must be trembling, does it not show in my writing? It is little Mademoiselle's pen. I embrace you with all the strength of my joy in your happiness.—Esperance."
The writing changed.
"I must make Esperance stop. She has been wandering again as she writes. Her pulse is very quick. I must tell her father.Au revoir,dear girl, and come back soon; for you are the brightness and peace she longs for. My regards to your husband.—Eleanore Frahender."
This letter made Maurice, his wife and the Duke very anxious.
"She must in some way be prevented from seeing the Countess Styvens," said Genevieve, "but how are we to manage that?"
They decided to shorten their stay in Italy by five days.
Esperance was to appear on the twentieth of December, about fifteen days after her letter reached them. All the elegant world of Paris, artistic, sensation-hunting, was waiting with delight for the appearance of the little heroine, the idol of the public. Count Styvens's death in a duel, slain by a well-known admirer of Esperance, had caused a great deal of ink to be spilled. But the devotion of the Countess towards the girl who would have been her daughter, the denials of the witnesses to the most intimate friends, asking if … really … between ourselves … was not there something? … deceived the most suspicious. All these "fors" and "againsts" had kindled the curiosity of the public, and the general sympathy was strongly in favour of the unconscious cause of the great modern mystery. The notice, announcing the first appearance of Esperance Darbois inOn ne badine pas avec l'amourdrew an enormous crowd. The house was entirely sold out several days in advance. Many who could not get admission waited outside the theatre to get news during the intervals. The corridors were full of French and foreign reporters.
Behind the scenes Esperance stood looking at herself in the mirror. It was almost time for the curtain to go up. Dressed in the convent robe, the strings of pearls was still about her neck. Should she unclasp it, should she not? If they went with her on the stage would she not be betraying her art; would they not clutch and strangle her, strangle "Camille," until Esperance had to come back in her place? And if she cast it aside, her loyalty, her promise? Must she wear fetters to keep faith? Oh, Albert, Albert! Oh, these dark shadows, these groping dark confusions where she so often strayed. Where was rest? Or peace? And joy, the joy of the theatre, would that, too, be taken away? She swayed a little and longed with all her strength for a force not her own to enter in. She was too weak to fight against her own Destiny.
She found it. A hint of it came first in the scent of gardenia flowers, sweet and strong and penetrating, compelling and agreeable to the senses. Then the Duke's strong arms were about her, and she sank gladly back as if she were falling into a flood of light.
But his swift words brought her back.
"Esperance, my darling, we have no time to lose. Come with me. The Countess Styvens is dying. She would not send for you, she would not spoil your triumph. But she can absolve you. She can loose the pearls. You can remember the other request Albert made you then, his dying wish, my living one. Come with me, be her daughter to the last, and then, my love, to Italy, where we will find you health and strength, and give you new life for your future as my wife."