"Well, Emile, here is your wife already dressed for the wedding," said Monsieur Cardonnet, divining the explanation of his imprudence. And he pointed to Gilberte, covered with flowers and diamonds, on Monsieur de Boisguilbault's arm.
Emile, whose nerves were terribly tense and agitated, was like one thunderstruck amid all the miracles that burst upon him at once. He tried to speak, staggered and fell fainting in Monsieur Antoine's arms.
Happiness rarely kills; Emile soon returned to life and bliss. Janille rubbed his temples with vinegar, Gilberte held his hand in hers, and, that nothing might be lacking in his joy, his mother, too, was there when he opened his eyes. Made acquainted very recently, by Emile's delirium, with his passion for Gilberte, she had made Galuchet tell her the whole story, and, learning that her husband had gone to Châteaubrun, and that her son had ridden thither notwithstanding his condition, and foreseeing some terrible storm, she had driven at full speed to the ruins, defying for the first time her husband's wrath, and the bad roads, to which she paid no heed. She fell in love with Gilberte at the first words they exchanged, and if the young girl felt some alarm at the thought of entering a family of which Cardonnet was the head, she was sure that she should find some compensation in his wife's loving heart and gentle nature.
"As we are all together," said Monsieur de Boisguilbault, with a grace of which no one would have believed him capable, "we must pass the rest of the day together and dine somewhere. There are too many of us not to cause Mademoiselle Janille some embarrassment here, and if we should return to Gargilesse we might take Monsieur Cardonnet's butler unawares. If you will all do me the honor to come to Boisguilbault, which, by the way, is much nearer, we shall find there the materials for dining, I think. Perhaps Monsieur Cardonnet will take some interest in becoming acquainted with his children's property, we will draw up their marriage contract there and appoint a day for the wedding."
This new evidence of the marquis's complete conversion was received with great warmth. Janille asked but five minutes to makemademoiselle'stoilet, for she thought that she should be ceremoniously attired for the occasion, but Gilberte greeted with a hearty kiss what she called a joke on the part of her fond mother.
THE RECONCILIATION."I thank you, Antoine," the marquis said, in a trembling voice. "Now, come and embrace me!"The count's embrace was passionate and enthusiastic; the marquis's calm and constrained.
THE RECONCILIATION.
"I thank you, Antoine," the marquis said, in a trembling voice. "Now, come and embrace me!"
The count's embrace was passionate and enthusiastic; the marquis's calm and constrained.
Meanwhile, the Cardonnet family inspected the ruins, and Monsieur de Boisguilbault retired with Antoine to the pavilion to rest. No one heard their conversation. Neither of them ever divulged its subject. Did they exchange delicate and seemingly impossible explanations? It is hardly probable. Did they agree never thereafter to make the slightest allusion to their long feud, and to take up their friendship just where they had dropped it? It is certain that, from that moment, they talked together of the past without bitterness, and referred to former years with pleasure, sometimes blended with emotion and with merriment. But it was noticeable that these reminiscences never went beyond a certain date—that of Monsieur de Boisguilbault's marriage—and that the name of the marchioness was never mentioned between them. It was as if she had never existed.
When Gilberte returned, dressed as handsomely as she was able or wished to be, Emile was overjoyed to see that she had put on the lilac dress, which one more washing by Janille had made almost pink, and which, owing to the miracles of her economy and skill, still seemed fresh. She had braided her long hair, which reached to the ground, and in that superbabandonreminded her happy lover of the scorching day at Crozant. Of Monsieur de Boisguilbault's gifts she had retained only the bouquet and the cornelian ring, which she showed to the marquis with an affectionate smile. She was coquettish with him, coquettish with the heart, if we may so express it; and while the deference and consideration which she manifested toward Monsieur Cardonnet were somewhat forced, she yielded ingenuously to the inclination to treat the marquis, in her manner and in her thoughts, as if he were Emile's father.
As they were about to start, Monsieur de Boisguilbault took Janille's hand and invited her to drive with him, as courteously as if she had been Gilberte's mother. He was so far from being offended by hearing them call each othermotherandmy girl, that that close attachment had suddenly inspired in him a great esteem and secret gratitude for the old woman who had submitted to so much slander and vulgar jesting rather than reveal to anybody on earth, even friend Jappeloup—whom the marquis had for so long a time believed to be Antoine's confidant and messenger,—the secret of Gilberte's birth.
Monsieur Cardonnet could not restrain a disdainful smile at this invitation.
"Monsieur Cardonnet," said Monsieur de Boisguilbault in an undertone, remarking that smile, "you will know and appreciate that woman when you see how she brings up your grandchildren."
The park of Boisguilbault was thrown open for the first time in its history to a party invited by the owner. The chalet too was thrown open, with the exception of the study, the door of which was securely fastened, thanks to Jappeloup.
The imposing melancholy of the château, the curious beauty of the furniture, the magnificence of the park, and the noticeable air of good breeding in the service, caused Monsieur Cardonnet some vexation. He had done his utmost at Gargilesse to exclude parvenu manners from his household, and amid the ruins of Châteaubrun, where he had felt that he was a personage of consequence, he had not been very ill at ease. But he seemed very small indeed amid the mixture of opulence and severe simplicity that characterized Boisguilbault. He tried, byliberalreflections, to prevent the marquis from thinking that he was dazzled by his old-fashioned splendor. Monsieur de Boisguilbault, who did not lack cunning beneath his awkwardness, and who had waited until that moment to put before him the most distasteful of his demands, answered him calmly and coincided with his opinions. Cardonnet expressed great surprise, for, in common with everybody else, he supposed that the marquis had retained all the pride of his caste and clung to the absurd principles of the Restoration. As he could not refrain from expressing his astonishment, Monsieur de Boisguilbault said to him gently:
"You do not know me, Monsieur Cardonnet; I am as much opposed to distinctions and privileges as yourself. I believe that all men are equal in rights and in worth, when they are honorable and virtuous."
At that moment, dinner was announced, and, as they were about to take their places, Master Jean Jappeloup, cleanly shaved and in his Sunday clothes, came out of the chalet, and playfully pushing Emile aside, took Gilberte's hand to lead her to the table.
"It is my right," he said; "you know I promised to be your witness and your best man, Emile."
Everybody welcomed the carpenter joyfully, except Monsieur Cardonnet, who dared not however display less liberality under the circumstances than the old marquis; so he contented himself with a satirical smile as he saw him take his place at the family banquet. He submitted to everything, promising himself that he would change his tone when the marriage was consummated.
The dinner, served under the old trees in the park, was magnificent with flowers and exquisite in respect to the dishes; and old Martin, whom his master had forewarned early in the morning, surpassed himself in superintending the service. Sylvain Charasson was admitted to the honor of working under his orders that day, and he will talk about it all his life.
The first moments were rather constrained. But little by little the faction of the contented and happy triumphed over that of the discontented,—which consisted of Monsieur Cardonnet alone and he was half reconciled,—the table became more animated, and at dessert Monsieur Cardonnet said to Emile, with a smile: "We marquises——"
Shall we speak of the happiness of Emile and Gilberte? Happiness cannot be described, and even lovers themselves lack words with which to depict it. When it was night, Monsieur and Madame de Cardonnet took their leave, graciously authorizing Emile to escort his fiancée to Châteaubrun, on condition that he should keep his father's cabriolet, and not ride again that day. Monsieur Antoine, absorbed in a joyful conversation with his friend Jean, wandered about the park, and Janille, beginning to tire of playing the lady, satisfied her craving for action by assisting Martin to put everything in order. Thereupon, Monsieur de Boisguilbault took Emile's arm and Gilberte's and led them to the cliff where he had first opened his heart to his young friend.
"My children," he said to them, "I have made you rich, because it was necessary to do it in order to overcome the obstacles that separated you, and because it was the only means of making you happy. My will was made a long while ago, but last night I rewrote it. My purpose remains what it was: I believe that Emile knows it and that Gilberte will respect it. I have determined that, in the future, this great estate shall be used to found acommune, and in my first will I tried to provide a plan for it, and to lay its foundations. But the plan might well be defective and the foundations unsubstantial; I do not regret my work, because I have always felt that it was weak and that I am of all men on earth the man least capable of planning and carrying out. Providence came to my aid by sending Emile to me to take my place in realizing my plans, and I had recently made him my sole trustee and the executor of my will. But such a disposition of my property would have made it impossible to obtain Monsieur Cardonnet's consent, and I destroyed it when I determined that you two should marry. Official documents have not the value commonly attributed to them, and the law has never found the means of fettering the conscience. That is why I am much more tranquil in my mind when I simply tell you what I wish and receive your promise, than I should be if I bound you by chains so fragile as those of the provisions of a will. Do not answer, my children! I know your thoughts, I know your hearts. You have been subjected to the harshest of all tests, that of abandoning the idea of being united or of abjuring your opinions; you have come out of it triumphantly; I rely absolutely upon you and I leave the future in your hands. It is your intention to put your opinions in practice, Emile, and I furnish you with the instruments; but that does not mean that you have the ability as yet. For that you need knowledge of social science, and that is the result of long-continued labor to which you will apply yourself with the aid of the forces which your generation, not mine, will develop more or less successfully, as God wills. It may be that you will not see my plans come to maturity, my children; perhaps your children will; but, in bequeathing you my wealth, I bequeath you my heart and my faith. You will bequeath it to others, if you have to pass through a phase in the existence of mankind which makes it impracticable for you to found the establishment advantageously. But Emile once said something that impressed me. One day when I asked him what he would do with an estate like mine, he answered: 'I would try!' Let him try then, and, after careful reflection, after a careful study of reality, may he who has always dreamed of the salvation of mankind in the organization and development of agricultural science, find the means of transition which will prevent a deplorable break in the chain between the past and the future!
"I trust to his intelligence because it has its source in the heart. May God give you genius, Emile, and may He give it to the men of your time! for the genius of one man is almost nothing. For my part, I have nothing more to do but to fall asleep peacefully in my grave. If I am privileged to live a few days with you two, I shall have begun to live on the eve of my death. But I shall not have lived in vain, indolent, disheartened and useless as I have been, if I have found the man who can and will act in my place.
"Keep the secret of my opinions and our plans until after your marriage, and even until after the new and thorough education which Emile must make it his duty to acquire. I aspire to see you free and powerful, in order that I may die at peace. And after all, my children, whatever course you may take, whatever errors you may commit, whatever success may crown your efforts, I confess that it is impossible for me to be anxious concerning the future of the world. In vain will the tempest rage over the generations now born or to be born; in vain will error and falsehood labor to perpetuate the horrible confusion which certain minds call to-day, in derision apparently, social order; in vain will wickedness wage war on earth; eternal truth will have its day at last. And if my spirit is able to return, a few centuries hence, to visit this immense heritage and glide beneath the venerable trees that my hand planted, it will see men free, happy, equal, united, that is to say, just and wise! These shaded paths where I have walked so often, oppressed by ennui and sorrow, whither I have fled in horror from the presence of the men of to-day, will shelter then, like the arched roof of a divine temple, a numerous family kneeling to pray and bless the Author of nature and the Father of mankind! This will be thegarden of the commune, that is to say, its gynæceum, its festal and banqueting hall, its theatre and its church; for speak not to me of the cramped spaces where stone and cement pen up men and thought; nor of your superb colonnades and magnificent squares, in comparison with this natural architecture, of which the Supreme Creator bears all the expense! I have expressed in the trees and flowers, in the brooks, in the cliffs and fields all the poetry of my thoughts. Do not rob the old planter of his illusion, if illusion it be. He still believes in the adage that God is in everything and that Nature is His temple!"
Being at Venice, in very cold weather and under very depressing circumstances, the carnival roaring and whistling outside with the icy north wind, I experienced the painful contrast which results from inward suffering, alone amid the wild excitement of a population of strangers.
I occupied a vast apartment in the former Nasi palace, now a hotel, which fronts on the quay, near the Bridge of Sighs. All travellers who have visited Venice know that hotel, but I doubt if many of them have ever happened to be there on Mardi Gras, in the heart of the classic carnival city, in a frame of mind so painfully meditative as mine.
Striving to escape the spleen by forcing my imagination to labor, I began at hazard a novel which opened with a description of the locality, of the festival out-of-doors and of the solemn apartment in which I was writing. The last book I had read before leaving Paris wasManon Lescaut. I had discussed it, or rather listened to others discussing it, and I had said to myself that to make Manon Lescaut a man and Desgrieux a woman would be worth trying, and would present many tragic opportunities, vice being often very near crime in man, and enthusiasm closely akin to despair in woman.
I wrote this book in a week and hardly read it over before sending it to Paris. It had answered my purpose and expressed my thoughts; I could have added nothing to it if I had thought it over. And why should a work of the imagination need to be thought over? What moral could we expect to deduce from a fiction which everyone knows to be quite possible in the world of reality? Some people who are very rigid in theory—no one knows just why—have pronounced it a dangerous book. After the lapse of twenty years, I look it over, and can detect no such tendency in it. The Leone Leoni type, although not untrue to life, is exceptional, thank God! and I do not see that the infatuation he inspires in a weak mind is rewarded by very enviable joys. However, I have, at the present moment, a well-fixed opinion concerning the allegedmoralsof the novel, and I have expressed elsewhere my deliberate ideas thereon.
GEORGE SAND.
Nohant, January, 1853.
We were at Venice. The cold and the rain had driven the promenaders and the masks from the square and the quays. We could hear naught save the monotonous voice of the Adriatic in the distance, breaking on the islands, and from time to time the shouts of the watch aboard the frigate which guards the entrance to Canal Saint-George, and the answering hail from the custom-house schooner. It was a fine carnival evening inside the palaces and theatres, but outside, everything was dismal, and the street-lights were reflected in the streaming pavements, where the hurried footstep of a belated masker, wrapped in his cloak, echoed loudly from time to time.
We were alone in one of the rooms of the old Nasi palace, to-day transformed into a hotel, the best in Venice. A few candles scattered about the tables, and the blaze on the hearth only partially lighted the enormous room, and the flickering of the flame seemed to make the allegorical divinities painted in fresco on the ceiling move to and fro. Juliette was indisposed, and had refused to go out. Lying on a sofa and half-covered by a fur cloak, she seemed to be dozing; and I walked back and forth noiselessly on the thick carpet, smokingSerragliocigarettes.
We recognize in my country a certain state of the mind which is, I think, peculiar to Spaniards. It is a sort of serious tranquillity which does not exclude activity of thought, as among the Teutonic races and in the cafés of the Orient. Our intellect does not grow dull during the trances in which we are buried. When we walk to and fro with measured step for hours at a time, on the same line of mosaics, without swerving a hair's breadth and puffing away at our cigars—that is the time when the operation that we may call mental digestion takes place most easily. Momentous resolutions are formed at such times, and excited passions calm down and give birth to vigorous acts. A Spaniard is never calmer than when he is meditating some scheme; it may be sinister or it may be sublime. As for myself, I was digesting my plan; but there was nothing heroic or alarming about it. When I had made the circuit of the room about sixty times and smoked a dozen cigarettes, my mind was made up. I halted by the sofa, and said to my young companion, regardless of her sleep:
"Juliette, will you be my wife?"
She opened her eyes and looked at me without answering. I thought that she had not heard me, and I repeated my question.
DON ALEO AND JULIETTE."Juliette, will you be my wife?"She opened her eyes and looked at me without answering. I thought that she had not heard me, and I repeated my question.
DON ALEO AND JULIETTE.
"Juliette, will you be my wife?"
She opened her eyes and looked at me without answering. I thought that she had not heard me, and I repeated my question.
"I heard you very plainly," she replied in an indifferent tone—then held her peace anew.
I thought that my question had displeased her, and my anger and grief were terrible; but, from respect for Spanish gravity, I manifested neither, but began to pace the floor again.
At the seventh turn Juliette stopped me, saying: "What is the use?"
I made three turns more; then I threw away my cigarette, and, drawing a chair to her side, sat down.
"Your position in society must distress you?" I said to her.
"I know," she replied, raising her exquisite face and fixing upon mine her blue eyes wherein apathy seemed to be always at odds with melancholy,—"yes, I know, my dear Aleo, that I am branded in society with an ineffaceable designation, that of kept mistress."
"We will efface it, Juliette; my name will purify yours."
"Pride of the grandee!" she rejoined with a sigh. Then, turning suddenly to me and seizing my hand, which she put to her lips in spite of me, she added: "Do you really mean that you will marry me, Bustamente? O my God! my God! what comparisons you force me to make!"
"What do you mean, my dear child?" I asked her. She did not reply, but burst into tears.
These tears, of which I understood the cause only too well, hurt me terribly. But I concealed the species of frenzy which they aroused in me and returned to my seat by her side.
"Poor Juliette!" I said to her; "will that wound bleed forever?"
"You gave me leave to weep," she replied; "that was the first of our agreements."
"Weep, my poor afflicted darling," I said; "then listen and answer me."
She wiped away her tears and put her hand in mine.
"Juliette," I said to her, "when you speak of yourself as a kept woman, you are mad. Of what consequence are the opinions and coarse remarks of a few fools? You are my friend, my companion, my mistress."
"Alas! yes," she said, "I am your mistress, Aleo, and it is that dishonors me; I should have chosen to die rather than to bequeath to a noble heart like yours the possession of a half extinct heart."
"We will rekindle the ashes gradually, my Juliette; let me hope that they still hide a spark which I can find."
"Yes, yes, I hope so, I wish that it may be so!" she said eagerly. "So I shall be your wife? But why? Shall I love you better for it? Will you feel surer of me?"
"I shall know that you are happier and I shall be happier for that reason."
"Happier! you are mistaken; I am as happy with you as possible; how can the title of Donna Bustamente make me any happier?"
"It would put you out of reach of the insolent disdain of society."
"Society!" said Juliette; "you mean your friends. What is society? I have never known. I have passed through life and made the tour of the globe, but have never been able to discover what you call society."
"I know that you have lived hitherto like the enchanted maiden in her globe of crystal, and yet I have seen you shed bitter tears over the deplorable position in which you then were. I made an inward vow to offer you my rank and my name as soon as I should be assured of your affection."
"You failed to understand me, Don Aleo, if you thought that shame made me weep. There was no place in my heart for shame; there were enough other causes of sorrow to fill it and make it insensible to everything that came from without. If he had continued to love me, I should have been happy, though I had been covered with infamy in the eyes of what you call society."
It was impossible for me to restrain a shudder of wrath; I rose to pace the floor. Juliette detained me. "Forgive me," she said in a trembling voice, "forgive me for the pain I cause you. It is beyond my strength always to avoid speaking of him."
"Very well, Juliette," I said, stifling a painful sigh, "pray speak of him if it is a relief to you! But is it possible that you cannot succeed in forgetting him, when everything about you tends to direct your thoughts toward another life, another happiness, another love?"
"Everything about me!" said Juliette excitedly; "are we not in Venice?"
She rose and walked to the window; her white silk petticoat fell in numberless folds about her graceful form. Her chestnut hair escaped from the long pins of chased gold which only half confined it, and bathed her back in a flood of perfumed silk. She was so lovely with the faint touch of color in her cheeks, and her half loving, half bitter smile, that I forgot what she said and went to her to take her in my arms. But she had drawn the curtains partly aside, and looking through the glass, as the moon's moist beams were beginning to break through the clouds, she cried: "O Venice! how changed thou art! how beautiful thou once wert in my eyes, and how desolate and deserted thou dost seem to-day!"
"What do you say, Juliette?" I cried in my turn; "have you been in Venice before? Why have you never told me?"
"I saw that you wanted to see this beautiful city, and I knew that a word would have prevented you from coming here. Why should I have made you change your plan?"
"Yes, I would have changed it," I replied, stamping my foot. "Even if we had been at the very gate of this infernal city, I would have caused the boat to steer for some shore unstained by that memory; I would have taken you there, I would have swum with you in my arms, if I had had to choose between such a journey and this house, where perhaps you will find at every step a burning trace of his passage! But tell me, Juliette, where in heaven's name I can take refuge with you from the past? Mention some city, tell me of some corner of Italy to which that adventurer has not dragged you in his train?"
I was pale and trembling with wrath; Juliette turned slowly, gazed coldly at me, and said, turning her eyes once more to the window: "Venice, we loved thee in the old days, and to-day I cannot look on thee without emotion, for he was fond of thee, he constantly invoked thy name in his travels, he called thee his dear fatherland; for thou wert the cradle of his noble family, and one of thy palaces still bears the name that he bears."
"By death and eternity!" I said to Juliette, lowering my voice, "we leave this dear fatherland to-morrow!"
"Youmay leave Venice and Juliette to-morrow," she replied with frigid sang-froid; "but, as for me, I take orders from no one, and I shall leave Venice when I please."
"I believe that I understand you, mademoiselle," I said indignantly: "Leoni is in Venice."
Juliette started as if she had received an electric shock.
"What do you say? Leoni in Venice?" she cried, in a sort of frenzy, throwing herself in to my arms; "repeat what you said; repeat his name, let me at least hear his name once more!"
She burst into tears, and, suffocated by her sobs, almost lost consciousness. I carried her to the sofa, and without thinking of offering her any further assistance, began to pace the edge of the carpet once more. But my rage subsided as the sea subsides when the sirocco folds its wings. A bitter grief succeeded my excitement; and I fell to weeping like a woman.
In the midst of this heart-rending agitation, I paused a few steps from Juliette and looked at her. Her face was turned to the wall, but a mirror fifteen feet high, which formed the panel, enabled me to see her face. She was pale as death and her eyes were closed as in sleep; there was more weariness than pain in the expression of her face, and that expression accurately portrayed her mental plight: exhaustion and indifference triumphed over the last ebullition of passion. I hoped.
I called her name softly and she looked at me with an air of amazement, as if her memory lost the faculty of retaining facts at the same time that her heart lost the power to feel anger.
"What do you want," she said, "and why do you wake me?"
"Juliette," I replied, "I offended you; forgive me; I wounded your heart."
"No," she said, putting one hand to her forehead and offering me the other, "you wounded my pride only. I beg you, Aleo, remember that I have nothing, that I live on your gifts, and that the thought of my dependent state humiliates me. You are kind and generous to me, I know. You lavish attentions on me, you cover me with jewels, you overwhelm me with your luxury and your magnificence; but for you I should have died in some paupers' hospital, or should be confined in a madhouse. I know all that. But remember, Bustamente, that you have done it all in spite of me, that you took me in half-dead, and that you succored me when I had not the slightest desire to be succored; remember that I wanted to die, and that you passed many nights at my pillow, holding my hands in yours to prevent me from killing myself; remember that I refused for a long time your protection and your benefactions, and that, if I accept them to-day, it is half from weakness and discouragement, half from affection and gratitude to you, who ask me on your knees not to spurn them. Yours is the noblest rôle, my friend, I know it well. But am I to blame because you are kind? Can I be seriously reproached for debasing myself when, alone and desperate, I confide myself to the noblest heart on earth?"
"My beloved," I said, pressing her to my heart, "you reply most convincingly to the vile insults of the miserable wretches who have misrepresented you. But why do you say this to me? Do you think that you need to justify yourself in the eyes of Bustamente for the happiness you have bestowed upon him—the only happiness he has ever enjoyed in his life? It is for me to justify myself, if I can, for I am the one who has done wrong. I know how stubbornly your pride and your despair resisted me; I am not likely ever to forget it. When I assume a tone of authority with you, I am a madman whom you must pardon, for my passion for you disturbs my reason and vanquishes all my strength of mind. Forgive me, Juliette, and forget a moment of anger. Alas! I am unskilful in winning love. I have a natural roughness of manner which is unpleasant to you. I wound you when I am beginning to cure you, and I often destroy in one hour the work of many days."
"No, no, let us forget this quarrel," she interposed, kissing me. "For the little pain you cause me, I cause you a hundred times as much. You are sometimes imperious; my grief is always cruel. Do not believe, however, that it is incurable. Your kindness and your love will conquer it at last. I should have a most ungrateful heart if I did not accept the hope that you point out to me. We will talk of marriage another time; perhaps you will induce me to consent to it. However, I confess that I dread that species of servitude consecrated by all laws and all prejudices; it is honorable, but it is indissoluble."
"Still another cruel remark, Juliette! Are you afraid, pray, to belong to me forever?"
"No, no, of course not. Do not be distressed, I will do what you wish; but let us drop the subject for to-day."
"Very well, but grant me another favor in place of that; consent to leave Venice to-morrow."
"With all my heart. What do I care for Venice and all the rest? In heaven's name, don't believe me when I express regret for the past; it is irritation or madness that makes me speak so! The past! merciful heaven! Do you not know how many reasons I have for hating it? See how it has shattered me! How could I have the strength to grasp it again if it were given back to me?"
I kissed Juliette's hand to thank her for the effort she made in speaking thus, but I was not convinced; she had given me no satisfactory answer. I resumed my melancholy promenade about the room.
The sirocco had sprung up and dried the pavement in an instant. The city had become resonant once more as it ordinarily is, and the thousand sounds of the festival reached our ears: the hoarse song of the tipsy gondoliers, the hooting of the masks coming from the cafés and guying the passers-by, the plash of oars in the canal. The guns of the frigate bade good-night to the echoes of the lagunes, which made answer like a discharge of artillery. The Austrian drum mingled its brutal roll, and the bell of St. Mark's gave forth a doleful sound.
A ghastly depression seized upon me. The candles, burning low, set fire to their green paper ruffles and cast a livid light upon the objects in the room. Everything assumed imaginary forms and made imaginary noises, to my disturbed senses. Juliette, lying on the sofa and swathed in fur and silk, seemed to me like a corpse wrapped in its shroud. The songs and laughter out of doors produced upon me the effect of shrieks of distress, and every gondola that glided under the marble bridge below my window suggested the idea of a drowning man struggling with the waves and death. Finally, I had none but thoughts of despair and death in my head, and I could not raise the weight which was crushing my breast.
At last, however, I succeeded in calming myself and reflected somewhat less wildly. I admitted to myself that Juliette's cure was progressing very slowly, and that, notwithstanding all the sacrifices in my favor which gratitude had wrung from her, her heart was almost as sick as at the very first. This long-continued and bitter regret for a love so unworthily bestowed seemed inexplicable to me, and I sought the cause in the powerlessness of my affection. It must be, I thought, that my character inspires an insurmountable repugnance which she dares not avow to me. Perhaps the life I lead is unpleasant to her, and yet I have made my habits conform to hers. Leoni used to take her constantly from city to city. I have kept her travelling for two years, forming no ties anywhere, and never delaying for an instant to leave the place where I detected the faintest sign of ennui on her face. And yet she is melancholy, that is certain; nothing amuses her, and it is only from consideration for me that she deigns sometimes to smile. Not one of the things that ordinarily give pleasure to women has any influence on this sorrow of hers; it is a rock that nothing can shake, a diamond that nothing can dim. Poor Juliette! What strength in your weakness! what desperate resistance in your inertia!
I had unconsciously raised my voice until I expressed my troubles aloud. Juliette had raised herself on one arm and was listening to me sadly, leaning forward on the cushions.
"Listen to me," I said, walking to her side, "I have just imagined a new cause for your unhappiness. I have repressed it too much, you have forced it back into your heart too much, I have dreaded like a coward to see that sore, the sight of which tears my heart; and you, through generosity, have concealed it from me. Your wound, thus neglected and abandoned, has become more inflamed every day, whereas I should have dressed it and poured balm upon it. I have done wrong, Juliette. You must show me your sorrow, you must pour it out in my bosom, you must talk to me about your past sufferings, tell me of your life from moment to moment, name my enemy to me. Yes, you must. Just now you said something to me that I shall not forget; you implored me to let you hear his name at least. Very well! let us pronounce it together, that accursed name that burns your tongue and your heart. Let us talk of Leoni."
Juliette's eyes shone with an involuntary gleam. I felt a terrible pang; but I conquered my suffering and asked her if she approved my plan.
"Yes," she said with a serious air, "I believe that you are right. You see, my breast is often filled with sobs; the fear of distressing you keeps me from giving them vent, and I pile up treasures of grief in my bosom. If I dared to display my feelings before you, I believe that I should suffer less. My sorrow is like a perfume that is kept always confined in a tightly closed box; open the box and it soon escapes. If I could talk constantly about Leoni and tell of the most trivial incidents of our love, I should bring under my eyes at the same moment all the good and all the harm he did me; whereas your aversion often seems to me unjust, and in the secret depths of my heart I make excuses for injuries which, if told by another, would be revolting to me."
"Very well," said I, "I desire to learn them from your mouth. I have never known the details of this distressing story; I want you to tell them to me, to describe your whole life. When I am better acquainted with your troubles, perhaps I shall be better able to relieve them. Tell me all, Juliette; tell me by what means this Leoni succeeded in making you love him so dearly; tell me what charm, what secret he possessed; for I am weary of seeking in vain the impracticable road to your heart. Say on, I am listening."
"Ah! yes, I am glad to do it; it will give me some relief at last. But let me talk and do not interrupt me by any sign of pain or anger; for I shall tell things as they happened; I shall tell the good and the bad, how I have loved and how I have suffered."
"You must tell everything, and I will listen to everything," I replied.
I ordered fresh candles to be brought and rekindled the fire.
Juliette spoke thus:
You know that I am the daughter of a rich jeweller of Brussels. My father was skilful in his trade, but had little cultivation otherwise. He had raised himself from the position of a common workman to that of possessor of a handsome fortune which his flourishing business increased from day to day. Despite his lack of education, he was on terms of intimacy with the richest families in the province; and my mother, who was pretty and clever, was well received in the opulent society of the tradespeople.
My father was naturally mild and apathetic. Those qualities became more marked each day, as his wealth and comfort increased. My mother, being more active and younger, enjoyed unlimited freedom of action, and joyfully made the most of the advantages of wealth and the pleasures of society. She was kind-hearted, sincere and full of amiable qualities, but she was naturally frivolous, and her beauty, which was treated with marvellous respect by the years as they passed, prolonged her youth at the expense of my education. She loved me dearly, beyond question, but without prudence or discernment. Proud of my youthful charms and of the trivial talents which she had caused me to acquire, she thought of nothing but taking me about and exhibiting me; she took a delicious but perilous pride in covering me constantly with new jewels, and in appearing with me at parties. I recall those days with pain and yet with pleasure; since then, I have reflected sadly on the futile employment of my early years, and yet I sigh for those days of careless happiness which should never have ended or never have begun. I fancy that I can still see my mother with her plump, graceful figure, her white hands, her black eyes, her coquettish smile, and withal so kind that you could see at the first glance that she had never known anxiety or vexation, and that she was incapable of imposing the slightest restraint upon others, even with kindly intentions. Ah! yes, I remember her well! I remember our long mornings devoted to planning and preparing our ball dresses, our afternoons employed in making our toilets with such painstaking care that hardly an hour remained to show ourselves on the promenade. I see my mother, with her satin dresses, her furs, her long white feathers, and the whole fluffy mass of lace and ribbons. After finishing her toilet, she would forget herself a moment to look after me. It was a great deal of a bore to unlace my black satin boots in order to smooth out a wrinkle on the instep or to try on twenty pairs of gloves before finding one of a shade sufficiently delicate for her taste. Those gloves fitted so tight that I often tore them after taking the greatest pains about putting them on; then I must begin anew, and we would have heaps of débris in front of us before we had finally selected those that I was to wear an hour, and then leave to my maid. However, I had become so accustomed from childhood to regard these trifling details as the most important occupations of a woman's life, that I submitted patiently. We would set out at last, and at the rustling of our silk gowns and the perfume exhaled by our handkerchiefs, people would turn to look after us. I was accustomed to hearing our names mentioned as we passed, by all sorts and conditions of men, and to see them glance curiously at my impassive face. This mixture of coldness and innocent effrontery constitutes what is called good breeding in a young woman. As for my mother, she felt a twofold pride in exhibiting herself and her daughter; I was a reflection, or, to speak more accurately, a part of herself, of her beauty, of her wealth; her good taste was displayed in my costume; my face, which resembled hers, reminded her as well as others of the scarcely impaired freshness of her early youth; so that, seeing my slender figure walking at her side, she fancied that she saw herself twice over, pale and delicate as she had been at fifteen, brilliant and beautiful as she still was. Not for anything in the world would she have gone out without me; she would have seemed to herself to be incomplete, half dressed as it were.
After dinner, the solemn discussion concerning ball dresses, silk stockings and flowers began anew. My father, who gave his whole attention to his shop during the day, would have preferred to pass the evening quietly by his fireside; but he was so easy-going, that he did not notice the way in which we deserted him. He would fall asleep in his chair while our hair-dressers were striving to understand my mother's scientifically devised plans. As we were going away, we would rouse the worthy man from his slumbers and he would go obligingly and take from his strong-box magnificent jewels mounted according to his own designs. He would fasten them himself about our arms and necks and take pleasure in remarking their effect. These jewels were intended for sale. We often heard envious women about us crying out at their splendor and whispering spiteful jests; but my mother consoled herself by saying that the greatest ladies wore what we had cast off, and that was true. They would come to my father next day and order jewels like those we had worn. A few days later he would send the self-same ones; and we did not regret them, for they were always replaced by others more beautiful.
Amid such surroundings, I grew up without thought for the present or the future, without making any effort to form or strengthen my character. I was naturally gentle and trustful like my mother; I was content to float along as she did on the current of destiny. I was less vivacious, however; I felt less keenly the attractions of pleasure and vanity; I seemed to lack the little strength that she had, the desire and the faculty of constant diversion. I accepted so easy a lot knowing nothing of its price, and without comparing it with any other. I had no idea of passion. I had been brought up as if I were never to know it; my mother had been brought up in the same way and considered that she was to be congratulated; for she was incapable of feeling passion and had never had any occasion to fight against it. My intelligence had been applied to studies in which the heart had no occasion to exercise control over itself. I performed brilliantly on the piano, I danced beautifully, I painted in water-colors with admirable precision and vigor; but there was within me no spark of that sacred fire which gives life and enables one to understand life. I loved my parents, but I did not know what it was to love in any other way than that. I was wonderfully clever in inditing a letter to one of my young friends; but I had no more idea of the value of words than of sentiments. I loved my girl friends as a matter of habit, I was good to them because I was obliging and gentle, but I did not trouble myself about their characters; I scrutinized nothing. I made no well-reasoned distinction between them; I was fondest of the one who came oftenest to see me.
I was the sort of person I have described, and sixteen years old, when Leoni came to Brussels. The first time I saw him was at the theatre. I was with my mother in a box near the balcony, where he sat with several of the richest and most fashionable young men in the city. My mother called my attention to him. She was constantly lying in wait for a husband for me, and always looked for him among the men with the finest figures and the most gorgeous clothes; those two points were everything in her eyes. Birth and fortune attracted her only as accessories of things that she considered much more important—dress and manners. A man of superior mind in a simple coat would have inspired nothing but contempt in her. Her future son-in-law must have cuffs of a certain style, an irreproachable cravat, an exquisite figure, a pretty face, coats made in Paris, and a stock of that meaningless twaddle which makes a man fascinating in society.
As for myself, I made no comparison between one man and another. I blindly entrusted the selection to my parents, and I neither dreaded nor shrank from marriage.
My mother considered Leoni fascinating. It is true that his face is wonderfully beautiful, and that he has the secret of being graceful, animated and perfectly at ease with his dandified clothes and manners. But I felt none of those romantic emotions which give to ardent hearts a foretaste of their destiny. I glanced at him for a moment in obedience to my mother, and should not have looked at him a second time, had she not forced me to do so by her constant exclamations and by her manifest curiosity to know his name. A young man of our acquaintance, whom she summoned in order to question him, informed her that he was a noble Venetian, a friend of one of the leading merchants of the city, that he seemed to have an enormous fortune, and that his name was Leone Leoni.
My mother was delighted with this information. The merchant who was Leoni's friend was to give a party the very next day, to which we were invited. Frivolous and credulous as she was, it was enough for her to have learned vaguely that Leoni was rich and noble, to induce her to cast her eyes upon him instantly. She spoke to me about him the same evening, and urged me to be pretty the next day. I smiled and went to sleep at precisely the same hour as on other nights, without the slightest acceleration of my heart beats at the thought of Leoni. I had become accustomed to listen without emotion to the formation of such projects. My mother declared that I was so sensible that they were not called upon to treat me like a child. The poor woman did not realize that she herself was much more of a child than I.
She dressed me with so much care and magnificence that I was proclaimed queen of the ball; but at first the time seemed to have been wasted: Leoni did not appear, and my mother thought that he had already left Brussels. Incapable of controlling her impatience, she asked the master of the house what had become of his Venetian.
"Ah!" said Monsieur Delpech, "you have noticed my Venetian already, have you?"—He glanced with a smile at my costume, and understood.—"He's an attractive youngster," he said, "of noble birth, and very much in fashion both in Paris and London; but it is my duty to inform you that he is a terrible gambler, and that the reason that you don't see him here is that he prefers the cards to the loveliest women."
"A gambler!" said my mother; "that's very bad."
"Oh! that depends," rejoined Monsieur Delpech. "When one has the means, you know!"
"To be sure!" said my mother; and that remark satisfied her. She worried no more about Leoni's passion for gambling.
A few seconds after this brief interview, Leoni appeared in the salon where we were dancing. I saw Monsieur Delpech whisper to him and glance at me, and Leoni's eyes wander uncertainly about me, until, guided by his friend's directions, he discovered me in the crowd and walked nearer to see me more distinctly. I realized at that moment that my rôle as a marriageable maiden was somewhat absurd; for there was a touch of irony in the admiration of his glance, and, for the first time in my life perhaps, I blushed and had a feeling of shame.
This shame became a sort of dull pain when I saw that Leoni had returned to the card room after a few moments. It seemed to me that I was laughed at and disdained, and I was vexed with my mother on that account. That had never happened before and she was amazed at the ill-humor I displayed toward her.—"Well, well," she said to me, with a little irritation on her side, "I don't know what the matter is with you, but you are turning homely. Let us go."
She had already risen when Leoni hurriedly crossed the room and invited her to waltz; that unhoped-for incident restored all her good-humor; she laughingly tossed me her fan and disappeared with him in the whirl.
As she was passionately fond of dancing, we were always accompanied to balls by an old aunt, my father's older sister, who acted as my chaperon when I was not invited to dance at the same time as my mother. Mademoiselle Agathe—that was what we called my aunt—was an old maid of a cold and even disposition. She had more common-sense than the rest of the family, but she was not exempt from the tendency to vanity, which is the reef upon which all parvenus go to pieces. Although she cut a very melancholy figure at a ball, she never complained of the necessity of accompanying us; it was an opportunity for her to display in her old age some very beautiful gowns which she had never had the means to procure in her youth. She set great store by money therefore; but she was not equally accessible to all the seductions of society. She had a hatred of long standing for the nobles, and she never lost an opportunity to decry them and turn them to ridicule, which she did with much wit.
Shrewd and penetrating, accustomed to inaction and to keeping close watch on the actions of other people, she had understood the cause of my little fit of spleen. My mother's effusive chatter had apprised her of her views concerning Leoni, and the Venetian's face, amiable and proud and sneering, all at once, disclosed to her many things that my mother did not understand.
"Look, Juliette," she said, leaning toward me, "there's a great nobleman making sport of us."
I felt a painful thrill. What my aunt said corresponded with my forebodings. It was the first time that I had seen contempt for our bourgeoisie plainly written on a man's face. I had been brought up to laugh at the contempt which the women hardly concealed from us, and to look upon it as an indication of envy; but hitherto our beauty had preserved us from the disdain of the men, and I thought that Leoni was the most insolent creature that ever lived. I had a horror of him, and when, after bringing my mother back to her seat, he invited me for the following contradance, I haughtily declined. His face expressed such amazement that I understood how confidently he reckoned upon a warm reception. My pride triumphed and I sat down beside my mother, declaring that I was tired. Leoni left us, bowing low after the Italian manner, and bestowing upon me a curious glance in which there was a touch of his characteristic mockery.
My mother, amazed at my action, began to fear that I might be capable of having a will of my own. She talked to me gently, hoping that in a short time I would consent to dance, and that Leoni would ask me again, but I persisted in remaining in my seat. An hour or more later we heard Leoni's name several times amid the confused murmuring of the ball; some one passing near us said that he had lost six hundred louis.
"Very fine!" said my aunt dryly; "he will do well to look out for some nice girl with a handsome dowry."
"Oh! he doesn't need to do that," somebody else replied, "he is so rich!"
"Look," said a third, "there he is dancing; he doesn't look very anxious."
Leoni was dancing, in fact, and his features did not display the slightest concern. He accosted us again, paid my mother some insipid compliments with the facility of a man in the best society, and then tried to make me speak by putting questions to me indirectly. I maintained an obstinate silence and he walked away with an indifferent air. My mother was in despair and took me home.
For the first time she scolded me and I sulked. My aunt upheld me and declared that Leoni was an impertinent fellow and a scoundrel. My mother, who had never been opposed to such a point, began to weep, and I did the same.
By such petty agitations did the coming of Leoni, and the unhappy destiny that he brought, begin to disturb the profound peace in which I had always lived. I will not tell you with so much detail what happened on the following days. I do not remember so well, and the insatiable passion that I conceived for him always seems to me like a strange dream which no effort of my reason can reduce to order. This much is certain, that Leoni was visibly piqued, surprised and disconcerted by my coldness, and that he began at once to treat me with a respect which satisfied my wounded pride. I saw him every day at parties or out walking, and my aversion to him speedily vanished before the extraordinary civilities and humble attentions with which he overwhelmed me. In vain did my aunt try to put me on my guard against the arrogance of which she accused him. I was no longer capable of feeling insulted by his manners or his words; even his face had lost that suggestion of sarcasm which had offended me at first. His glance acquired from day to day an indescribable gentleness and affectionateness. He seemed to think of nothing but me; he even sacrificed his taste for card-playing, and passed whole nights dancing with my mother and me or talking with us. He was soon invited to call at our house. I dreaded his call a little. My aunt prophesied that he would find in our home a thousand subjects of ridicule which he would pretend not to notice but which would furnish him with material for joking with his friends. He came, and, to cap the climax, my father, who was standing at his shop-door, brought him into the house that way. That house, which belonged to us, was very handsome, and my mother had had it decorated with exquisite taste; but my father, who took no pleasure in anything outside of his business, was unwilling to transfer to any other building his cases of pearls and diamonds. That curtain of sparkling jewels behind the glass panels which guarded it was a magnificent spectacle, and my father said truly enough that there could be no more splendid decoration for a ground-floor. My mother, who had had hitherto only transitory flashes of ambition to be allied to the nobility, had never been humiliated to see her name carved in huge letters just below the balcony of her bedroom. But when, from that balcony, she saw Leoni cross the threshold of the fatal shop, she thought that we were lost and looked anxiously at me.
During the few days immediately preceding this, I had had the revelation of a hitherto unknown pride. I felt it awake within me now, and, impelled by an irresistible impulse, I determined to watch Leoni's manner as he talked with my father in his counting-room. He was slow about coming upstairs, and I rightly inferred that my father had detained him, to show him, as was his ingenuous custom, the marvels of his workmanship. I went resolutely down to the shop and entered, feigning surprise to find Leoni there. My mother had always forbidden me to enter the shop, her greatest fear being that I should be taken for a shopgirl. But I sometimes slipped away to go down and kiss my poor father, who had no greater joy than to receive me there. When I entered he uttered an exclamation of pleasure and said to Leoni: 'Look, look, monsieur le baron, what I have shown you amounts to nothing; here is my loveliest diamond.' Leoni's face betrayed the keenest delight; he smiled at my father with emotion and at me with passion. Never had such a glance met mine. I became red as fire. An unfamiliar feeling of joy and passion brought a tear to the brink of my eyelid as my father kissed me on the forehead.
We stood a few seconds without speaking; then Leoni, taking up the conversation, found a way to say to my father everything that was most likely to flatter his self-esteem as an artist and tradesman. He seemed to take extreme pleasure in making him explain the process by which rough stones were transformed into precious gems, brilliant and transparent. He said some interesting things on that subject himself, and, addressing me, gave me some mineralogical information that was within my reach. I was confounded by the wit and grace with which he succeeded in exalting and ennobling our condition in our own eyes. He talked to us about products of the goldsmith's art which he had seen in his travels, and extolled especially the works of his compatriot Cellini, whom he placed beside Michael Angelo. In short, he ascribed so much merit to my father's profession and praised his talent so highly that I almost wondered whether I was the daughter of a hard-working mechanic or a genius.
My father accepted this last hypothesis, and, being charmed with the Venetian's manners, took him up to my mother. During this visit, Leoni displayed so much wit and intelligence, and talked upon every subject in such a superior way that I was fairly fascinated as I listened to him. I had never conceived the idea of such a man. Those who had been pointed out to me previously as the most attractive were so insignificant and vapid beside him that I thought I must be dreaming. I was too ignorant to appreciate all Leoni's knowledge and eloquence, but I understood him instinctively. I was dominated by his glance, enthralled by his tales, surprised and fascinated by every new resource that he developed.
It is certain that Leoni is a man endowed with extraordinary faculties. In a few days he succeeded in arousing a general infatuation throughout the city. He has all the talents, commands all the means of seduction. If he were present at a concert, after a little urging he would sing or play upon any instrument with a marked superiority over the professional musicians. If he consented to pass the evening in the privacy of some family circle, he would draw lovely pictures in the women's albums. In an instant he would produce a portrait full of expression, or a vigorous caricature; he improvised or declaimed in all languages; he knew all the character dances of Europe, and he danced them all with fascinating grace; he had seen, remembered, appreciated and understood everything; he read the whole world like a book that one carries in one's pocket. He acted admirably in tragedy or comedy; he organized companies of amateurs; he was himself leader of the orchestra, star performer, painter, decorator and scene-shifter. He was at the head of all the sports and all the parties. It could truly be said that pleasure walked in his footprints, and that, at his approach, everything changed its aspect and assumed a new face. He was listened to with enthusiasm and blindly obeyed; people believed in him as a prophet; and if he had promised to produce spring in midwinter, they would have deemed him capable of doing it. After he had been in Brussels a month, the character of the people had actually changed. Pleasure united all classes, soothed all the tender susceptibilities, brought all ranks to the same level. It was nothing but riding-parties, fireworks, theatricals, concerts and masquerades. Leoni was magnificent and generous; the workmen would have risen in revolt for him. He scattered favors about with lavish hand, and found money and time for everything. His caprices were soon adopted by everybody. All the women loved him, and the men were so subjugated by him that they did not think of being jealous of him.
How, amid such infatuation, could I remain insensible to the glory of being distinguished by the man who made fanatics of a whole province! Leoni overwhelmed us with attentions and surrounded us with respectful homage. My mother and I had become the leaders of society in the city. We walked by his side at all the entertainments; he assisted us to display the most insane splendor; he designed our dresses and invented our fancy costumes; for he understood everything and at need would have made our gowns and our turbans himself. By such means did he take possession of the affections of the whole family. My aunt was the most difficult conquest. She held out for a long while and distressed us by her discouraging remarks.—Leoni was a man of evil habits, she said, a frantic gambler, who won and lost the fortune of twenty families every evening; he would devour ours in a single night. But Leoni undertook to soften her, and succeeded by laying hold of her vanity, that lever which he worked so vigorously while seeming only to touch it lightly. Soon there were no obstacles left. My hand was promised him, with a dowry of half a million. My aunt suggested that we should have more certain information concerning the fortune and rank of this foreigner. Leoni smiled and promised to furnish his patents of nobility and his title deeds within three weeks. He treated the matter of the marriage contract very lightly, but it was drawn with the utmost liberality toward him and confidence in him. He seemed hardly to know what I was to bring him. Monsieur Delpech, and, upon the strength of his assurance, all Leoni's new friends, declared that he was four times richer than we were, and that his marriage to me was a love-match. I readily allowed myself to be persuaded. I had never been deceived, and I never thought of forgers and blacklegs except as in the rags of poverty and the livery of degradation.
A wave of painful emotion almost suffocated Juliette. She paused and looked at me with a dazed expression.
"Poor child!" I said, "God should have protected you."
"Oh!" she rejoined, contracting her ebon eyebrows, "I used two terrible words; may God forgive me! I have no hatred in my heart, and I do not accuse Leoni of being a villain; no, no, for I do not blush for having loved him. He is an unfortunate man whom we should pity. If you knew—— But I will tell you all."
"Go on with your story," I said to her; "Leoni is guilty enough; you have no intention of accusing him more than he deserves."
Juliette resumed her narrative.
It is a fact that he loved me, loved me for myself; the sequel proved that clearly enough. Do not shake your head, Bustamente. Leoni's is a powerful body, animated by a vast mind; all the virtues and all the vices, all the passions, holy and guilty alike, find a place in it at the same time. No one has ever chosen to judge him impartially; he was quite right in saying that I alone have known him and done him justice.
The language that he used to me was so novel to my ear that I was intoxicated by it. Perhaps my absolute ignorance up to that time of everything bordering on sentiment made that language seem more delicious and more extraordinary to me than it would have seemed to a more experienced girl. But I believe—and other women believed with me—that no man on earth ever felt and expressed love like Leoni. Superior to other men in evil and in good, he spoke another tongue, he had another expression, he had also another heart. I have heard an Italian woman say that a bouquet in Leoni's hand was more fragrant than in another man's, and it was so with everything. He gave lustre to the simplest things and rejuvenated the oldest. There was a prestige about him; I was neither able nor desirous to escape its influence. I began to love him with all my strength.
At this period I seemed to grow in my own eyes. Whether it was the work of God, of Leoni, or of love, a vigorous mind developed and took possession of my feeble body. Every day I felt a world of new thoughts come to life within me. A word from Leoni gave birth to more sentiments than all the frivolous talk I had heard all my life. He observed my progress and was elated and proud over it. He sought to hasten it and brought me books. My mother looked at the gilt covers, the vellum and the pictures. She hardly glanced at the titles of the works which were destined to play havoc with my head and my heart. They were beautiful and pure books, almost all stories of women written by women:Valérie,Eugène de Rothelin,Mademoiselle de Clermont,Delphine. These touching and impassioned narratives, these glimpses of what was to me an ideal world, elevated my mind, but they devoured it. I became romantic, the most deplorable character that a woman can have.
Three months had sufficed to bring about this metamorphosis. I was on the eve of marrying Leoni. Of all the documents he had promised to furnish, his certificate of birth and his patents of nobility alone had come to hand. As for the proofs of his wealth, he had written for them to another lawyer, and they had not arrived. He manifested extreme irritation and regret at this delay, which caused a further postponement of our wedding. One morning he came to our house with an air of desperation. He showed us an unstamped letter, which he had just received, he said, by a special messenger. This letter informed him that his man of business was dead, and that his successor, having found his papers in great disorder, had a difficult task before him to arrange them, that he asked a further delay of one or two weeks before he could furnishhis lordshipwith the documents he required. Leoni was frantic at this mischance; he would die of impatience and disappointment, he said, before the end of that frightful fortnight. He threw himself down in a chair and burst into tears.
No, do not smile, Don Aleo, they were not pretended tears. I gave him my hand to console him; I felt that it was wet with tears, and, moved by a thrill of sympathy, I too began to sob.
My poor mother could not stand it. She ran, weeping, to seek my father in his shop.—"It is hateful tyranny," she said, bringing him to where we were. "See those two unhappy children! how can you refuse to make them happy, when you see what they suffer? Do you want to kill your daughter out of respect for an absurd formality? Won't those papers arrive just as surely and be just as satisfactory after they have been married a week? What are you afraid of? Do you take our dear Leoni for an impostor? Can't you see that your insisting on having evidence of his fortune is insulting to him and cruel to Juliette?"
My father, bewildered by these reproaches, and above all else by my tears, swore that he had never dreamed of being so exacting, and that he would do whatever I wished. He kissed me a thousand times and talked to me as people talk to a child of six when they yield to his whims, to be rid of his shrieks. My aunt appeared on the scene and talked less tenderly. She even reproved me in a way that hurt me.—"A virtuous, well-bred young woman," she said, "ought not to show so much impatience to belong to a man."—"It's easy to see," said my mother, altogether out of patience, "that you never had the chance to belong to one."—My father could not endure any lack of consideration for his sister. He leaned toward her view, and remarked that our despair was mere childishness, that a week would soon pass. I was mortally wounded by the suspicion that I was impatient, and I tried to restrain my tears; but Leoni's exerted a magical influence over me, and I could not do it. Thereupon he rose, with moist eyes and glowing cheeks, and with a smile overflowing with hope and affection, went to my aunt, took her hands in one of his, my father's in the other, and fell on his knees, beseeching them not to stand in the way of his happiness any longer. His manner, his tone, his expression had an irresistible power; moreover, it was the first time that my aunt had ever seen a man at her feet. Every trace of resistance was overcome. The banns were published, all the preliminary formalities were gone through; our marriage was appointed for the following week, regardless of the arrival of the papers.
The following day was Mardi Gras. Monsieur Delpech was to give a magnificent party, and Leoni had asked us to dress in Turkish costumes; he made a charming sketch in water-color, which our dress-makers copied almost perfectly. Velvet, embroidered satin and cashmere were not spared. But the quantity and beauty of our jewels were what assured us an indisputable triumph over all the other costumes at the ball. Almost all the contents of my father's shop were made use of; we had nets and aigrettes of diamonds, bouquets beautifully mounted in stones of all colors. My waist, and even my shoes, were embroidered with rare pearls; a rope of pearls, of extraordinary beauty, served me as a girdle and fell to my knees. We had great pipes and daggers studded with sapphires and diamonds. My whole costume was worth at least a million.
Leoni accompanied us, dressed in a superb Turkish costume. He was so handsome and so majestic in that garb that people stood on benches to see him pass. My heart beat violently, I was filled to bursting with a pride that was almost delirium. My own costume was, as you can imagine, the last thing in my mind. Leoni's beauty, his success, his superiority to all the others, the sort of worship that was paid him—and it was all mine, all at my feet! that was enough to intoxicate an older brain than mine. It was the last day of my splendor! By what a world of misery and degradation have I paid for those empty triumphs!
My aunt, dressed as a Jewess, accompanied us, carrying fans and boxes of perfume. Leoni, who was determined to win her friendship, had designed her costume so artistically that he had almost given a touch of poetry to her serious, wrinkled face. She, too, was intoxicated, poor Agathe! Alas! what does a woman's common-sense amount to?
We had been there two or three hours. My mother was dancing and my aunt gossiping with the superannuated females who compose what is called in France the tapestry of a ball-room. Leoni was seated by my side and talking to me in an undertone with a passion of which every word kindled a spark in my blood. Suddenly his voice died on his lips; he became pale as death, as if he had seen a ghost. I followed the direction of his terrified glance and saw, a few steps away, a person the sight of whom was distasteful to myself: it was a young man named Henryet, who had made me an offer of marriage the year before. Although he was rich and of an honorable family, my mother had not deemed him worthy of me, and had dismissed him on the pretext of my extreme youth. But, at the beginning of the following year, he had renewed his offer with much persistence, and it had been currently reported in the city that he was madly in love with me. I had not deigned to take any notice of him, and my mother, who considered him too simple and too ordinary, had put an end to his assiduities rather abruptly. He had manifested more grief than anger, and had started immediately for Paris. Since then my aunt and my young friends had reproached me somewhat for my indifference with respect to him. He was, they said, a most excellent young man, thoroughly educated, and of a noble character. These reproaches had disgusted me. His unexpected appearance in the midst of the happiness I was enjoying with Leoni was most unpleasant to me, and had the effect upon me of a new reproof. I turned my face away and pretended not to have seen him, but the strange glance he bestowed upon me did not escape me. Leoni hastily grasped my arm, and asked me to come and take an ice in the next room; he added that the heat was distressing to him and made him nervous. I believed him, and thought that Henryet's glance expressed nothing more than jealousy. We went into the gallery. There were few people there, and I walked back and forth for some time, leaning on Leoni's arm. He was agitated and preoccupied. I manifested some uneasiness thereat, and he answered that it was not worth talking about; that he simply did not feel perfectly well.
He was beginning to recover himself when I saw that Henryet had followed us. I could not help showing my annoyance.
"Upon my word that man follows us like remorse," I whispered to Leoni. "Is it really a man? I can almost believe that it is a soul in distress returned from the other world."
"What man?" said Leoni, with a start. "What's his name? where is he? what does he want of us? do you know him?"
I told him in a few words what had happened, and begged him not to seem to notice Henryet's absurd actions. But Leoni did not reply; and I felt his hand, which held mine, become cold as death. A convulsive shudder passed through his body, and I thought that he was going to faint; but it was all over in an instant.
"My nerves are horribly upset," he said. "I believe that I shall have to go to bed; my head is on fire, and this turban weighs a hundred pounds."
"O mon Dieu!" said I, "if you go now, this night will seem interminable to me, and the party stupid beyond endurance. Go into some more retired room and try taking off your turban for a few moments; we will ask for a few drops of ether to quiet your nerves."
"Yes, you are right, my dear, good Juliette, my angel. There's a boudoir at the end of the gallery, where we probably shall be alone; a moment of rest will cure me."
As he spoke, he led me hastily in the direction of the boudoir; he seemed to fly rather than walk. I heard steps coming after us. I turned and saw Henryet coming nearer and nearer and looking as if he were pursuing us. I thought that he had gone mad. The terror which Leoni could not hide put the finishing touch to the confusion of my ideas. A superstitious fear took possession of me; my blood congealed as in a nightmare; and it was impossible for me to take another step. At that moment Henryet overtook us and laid a hand, which seemed to me metallic, on Leoni's shoulder. Leoni stood still, as if struck by lightning, and nodded his head affirmatively, as if he had divined a question or an injunction in that terrifying silence. Thereupon Henryet walked away, and I felt that I could move my feet once more. I had the strength to follow Leoni into the boudoir, where I fell on an ottoman, as pale and terror-stricken as he.