FARINGHEA'S AFFECTION.
It will, perhaps, be remembered that Djalma, when he heard for the first
time that he was beloved by Adrienne, had, in the fulness of his joy,
spoken thus to Faringhea, whose treachery he had just discovered, "You
leagued with my enemies, and I had done you no harm. You are wicked,
because you are no doubt unhappy. I will strive to make you happy, so
that you may be good. Would you have gold?--you shall have it. Would you
have a friend?--though you are a slave, a king's son offers you his
friendship."
Faringhea had refused the gold, and appeared to accept the friendship of
the son of Kadja-sing. Endowed with remarkable intelligence, and
extraordinary power of dissimulation the half-breed had easily persuaded
the prince of the sincerity of his repentance, and obtained credit for
his gratitude and attachment from so confiding and generous a character.
Besides, what motives could Djalma have to suspect the slave, now become
his friend? Certain of the love of Mdlle. de Cardoville, with whom he
passed a portion of every day, her salutary influence would have guarded
him against any dangerous counsels or calumnies of the half-caste, a
faithful and secret instrument of Rodin, and attached by him to the
Company. But Faringhea, whose tact was amazing, did not act so lightly;
he never spoke to the prince of Mdlle. de Cardoville, and waited
unobtrusively for the confidential communications into which Djalma was
sometimes hurried by his excessive joy. A few days after the interview
last described between Adrienne and Djalma, and on the morrow of the day
when Rodin, certain of the success of Ninny Moulin's mission to Sainte
Colombe, had himself put a letter in the post to the address of Agricola
Baudoin, the half-caste, who for some time had appeared oppressed with a
violent grief, seemed to get so much worse, that the prince, struck with
the desponding air of the man, asked him kindly and repeatedly the cause
of his sorrow. But Faringhea, while he gratefully thanked the prince for
the interest he took in him, maintained the most absolute silence and
reserve on the subject of his grief.
These preliminaries will enable the reader to understand the following
scene, which took place about noon in the house in the Rue de Clichy
occupied by the Hindoo. Contrary to his habit, Djalma had not passed that
morning with Adrienne. He had been informed the evening before, by the
young lady, that she must ask of him the sacrifice of this whole day, to
take the necessary measures to make their marriage sacred and acceptable
in the eyes of the world, and yet free from the restrictions which she
and Djalma disapproved. As for the means to be employed by Mdlle. de
Cardoville to attain this end, and the name of the pure and honorable
person who was to consecrate their union, these were secrets which, not
belonging exclusively to the young lady, could not yet be communicated to
Djalma. To the Indian, so long accustomed to devote every instant to
Adrienne, this day seemed interminable. By turns a prey to the most
burning agitation, and to a kind of stupor, in which he plunged himself
to escape from the thoughts that caused his tortures, Djalma lay
stretched upon a divan, with his face buried in his hands, as if to shut
out the view of a too enchanting vision. Suddenly, without knocking at
the door, as usual, Faringhea entered the prince's apartment.
At the noise the half-caste made in entering Djalma started, raised his
head, and looked round him with surprise; but, on seeing the pale
agitated countenance of the slave, he rose hastily, and advancing towards
him, exclaimed, "What is the matter, Faringhea!"
After a moment's silence, and as if struggling with a painful feeling of
hesitation, Faringhea threw himself at the feet of Djalma, and murmured
in a weak, despairing, almost supplicating voice: "I am very miserable.
Pity me, my good lord!"
The tone was so touching, the grief under which the half-breed suffered
seemed to give to his features, generally fixed and hard as bronze, such
a heart-rending expression, that Djalma was deeply affected, and, bending
to raise him from the ground, said to him, in a kindly voice: "Speak to
me! Confidence appeases the torments of the heart. Trust me, friend--for
my angel herself said to me, that happy love cannot bear to see tears
about him."
"But unhappy love, miserable love, betrayed love--weeps tears of blood,"
replied Faringhea, with painful dejection.
"Of what love dost thou speak?" asked Djalma, in surprise.
"I speak of my love," answered the half-caste, with a gloomy air.
"Of your love?" said Djalma, more and more astonished; not that the half
caste, still young, and with a countenance of sombre beauty, appeared to
him incapable of inspiring or feeling the tender passion, but that, until
now, he had never imagined him capable of conceiving so deep a sorrow.
"My lord," resumed the half-caste, "you told me, that misfortune had made
me wicked, and that happiness would make me good. In those words, I saw a
presentiment, and a noble love entered my heart, at the moment when
hatred and treachery departed from it. I, the half-savage, found a woman,
beautiful and young, to respond to my passion. At least I thought so. But
I had betrayed you, my lord, and there is no happiness for a traitor,
even though he repent. In my turn, I have been shamefully betrayed."
Then, seeing the surprise of the prince, the half-caste added, as if
overwhelmed with confusion: "Do not mock me, my lord! The most frightful
tortures would not have wrung this confession from me; but you, the son
of a king, deigned to call the poor slave your friend!"
"And your friend thanks you for the confidence," answered Djalma. "Far
from mocking, he will console you. Mock you! do you think it possible?"
"Betrayed love merits contempt and insult," said Faringhea, bitterly.
"Even cowards may point at one with scorn--for, in this country, the
sight of the man deceived in what is dearest to his soul, the very life
blood of his life, only makes people shrug their shoulders and laugh."
"But are you certain of this treachery?" said Djalma, mildly. Then he
added, with visible hesitation, that proved the goodness of his heart:
"Listen to me, and forgive me for speaking of the past! It will only be
another proof, that I cherish no evil memories, and that I fully believe
in your repentance and affection. Remember, that I also once thought,
that she, who is the angel of my life, did not love me--and yet it was
false. Who tells you, that you are not, like me, deceived by false
appearances?"
"Alas, my lord! could I only believe so! But I dare not hope it. My brain
wanders uncertain, I cannot come to any resolution, and therefore I have
recourse to you."
"But what causes your suspicions?"
"Her coldness, which sometimes succeeds to apparent tenderness. The
refusals she gives me in the name of duty. Yes," added the half-caste,
after a moment's silence, "she reasons about her love--a proof, that she
has never loved me, or that she loves me no more."
"On the contrary, she perhaps loves you all the more, that she takes into
consideration the interest and the dignity of her love."
"That is what they all say," replied the half-caste, with bitter irony,
as he fixed a penetrating look on Djalma; "thus speak all those who love
weakly, coldly; but those who love valiantly, never show these insulting
suspicions. For them, a word from the man they adore is a command; they
do not haggle and bargain, for the cruel pleasure of exciting the passion
of their lover to madness, and so ruling him more surely. No, what their
lover asks of them, were it to cost life and honor, they would grant it
without hesitation--because, with them, the will of the man they love is
above every other consideration, divine and human. But those crafty
women, whose pride it is to tame and conquer man--who take delight in
irritating his passion, and sometimes appear on the point of yielding to
it--are demons, who rejoice in the tears and torments of the wretch, that
loves them with the miserable weakness of a child. While we expire with
love at their feet, the perfidious creatures are calculating the effects
of their refusals, and seeing how far they can go, without quite driving
their victim to despair. Oh! how cold and cowardly are they, compared to
the valiant, true-hearted women, who say to the men of their choice: 'Let
me be thine to-day-and to-morrow, come shame, despair, and death--it
matters little! Be happy! my life is not worth one tear of thine!"
Djalma's brow had darkened, as he listened. Having kept inviolable the
secret of the various incidents of his passion for Mdlle. de Cardoville,
he could not but see in these words a quite involuntary allusion to the
delays and refusals of Adrienne. And yet Djalma suffered a moment in his
pride, at the thought of considerations and duties, that a woman holds
dearer than her love. But this bitter and painful thought was soon
effaced from the oriental's mind, thanks to the beneficent influence of
the remembrance of Adrienne. His brow again cleared, and he answered the
half-caste, who was watching him attentively with a sidelong glance: "You
are deluded by grief. If you have no other reason to doubt her you love,
than these refusals and vague suspicions, be satisfied! You are perhaps
loved better than you can imagine."
"Alas! would it were so, my lord!" replied the half-caste, dejectedly, as
if he had been deeply touched by the words of Djalma. "Yet I say to
myself: There is for this woman something stronger than her
love--delicacy, dignity, honor, what you will--but she does not love me
enough to sacrifice for me this something!"
"Friend, you are deceived," answered Djalma, mildly, though the words
affected him with a painful impression. "The greater the love of a woman,
the more it should be chaste and noble. It is love itself that awakens
this delicacy and these scruples. He rules, instead of being ruled."
"That is true," replied the half-caste, with bitter irony, "Love so rules
me, that this woman bids me love in her own fashion, and I have only to
submit."
Pausing suddenly, Faringhea hid his face in his hands, and heaved a deep
drawn sigh. His features expressed a mixture of hate, rage, and despair,
at once so terrible and so painful, that Djalma, more and more affected,
exclaimed, as he seized the other's hand: "Calm this fury, and listen to
the voice of friendship! It will disperse this evil influence. Speak to
me!"
"No, no! it is too dreadful!"
"Speak, I bid thee."
"No! leave the wretch to his despair!"
"Do you think me capable of that?" said Djalma, with a mixture of
mildness and dignity, which seemed to make an impression on the half
caste.
"Alas!" replied he, hesitating; "do you wish to hear more, my lord?"
"I wish to hear all."
"Well, then! I have not told you all--for, at the moment of making this
confession, shame and the fear of ridicule kept me back. You asked me
what reason I had to believe myself betrayed. I spoke to you of vague
suspicions, refusals, coldness. That is not all--this evening--"
"Go on!"
"This evening--she made an appointment--with a man that she prefers to
me."
"Who told you so?"
"A stranger who pitied my blindness."
"And suppose the man deceived you--or deceives himself?"
"He has offered me proofs of what he advances."
"What proofs?"
"He will enable me this evening to witness the interview. 'It may be,'
said he, 'that this appointment may have no guilt in it, notwithstanding
appearances to the contrary. Judge for yourself, have courage, and your
cruel indecision will be at an end.'"
"And what did you answer?"
"Nothing, my lord. My head wandered as it does now and I came to you for
advice."
Then, making a gesture of despair, he proceeded with a savage laugh:
"Advice? It is from the blade of my kand-jiar that I should ask counsel!
It would answer: 'Blood! blood!'"
Faringhea grasped convulsively the long dagger attached to his girdle.
There is a sort of contagion in certain forms of passion. At sight of
Faringhea's countenance, agitated by jealous fury, Djalma shuddered--for
he remembered the fit of insane rage, with which he had been possessed,
when the Princess de Saint-Dizier had defied Adrienne to contradict her,
as to the discovery of Agricola Baudoin in her bed-chamber. But then,
reassured by the lady's proud and noble bearing, Djalma had soon learned
to despise the horrible calumny, which Adrienne had not even thought
worthy of an answer. Still, two or three times, as the lightning will
flash suddenly across the clearest sky, the remembrance of that shameful
accusation had crossed the prince's mind, like a streak of fire, but had
almost instantly vanished, in the serenity and happiness of his ineffable
confidence in Adrienne's heart. These memories, however, whilst they
saddened the mind of Djalma, only made him more compassionate with regard
to Faringhea, than he might have been without this strange coincidence
between the position of the half-caste and his own. Knowing, by his own
experience, to what madness a blind fury may be carried, and wishing to
tame the half-caste by affectionate kindness, Djalma said to him in a
grave and mild tone: "I offered you my friendship. I will now act towards
you a friend."
But Faringhea, seemingly a prey to a dull and mute frenzy, stood with
fixed and haggard eyes, as though he did not hear Djalma.
The latter laid his hand on his shoulder, and resumed: "Faringhea, listen
to me!"
"My lord," said the half-caste, starting abruptly, as from a dream,
"forgive me--but--"
"In the anguish occasioned by these cruel suspicions, it is not of your
kandjiar that you must take counsel--but of your friend."
"My lord--"
"To this interview, which will prove the innocence or the treachery of
your beloved, you will do well to go."
"Oh, yes!" said the half-caste, in a hollow voice, and with a bitter
smile: "I shall be there."
"But you must not go alone."
"What do you mean, my lord?" cried the half-caste. "Who will accompany
me?"
"I will."
"You, my lord?"
"Yes--perhaps, to save you from a crime--for I know how blind and unjust
is the earliest outburst of rage."
"But that transport gives us revenge!" cried the half-caste, with a cruel
smile.
"Faringhea, this day is all my own. I shall not leave you," said the
prince, resolutely. "Either you shall not go to this interview, or I will
accompany you."
The half-caste appeared conquered by this generous perseverance. He fell
at the feet of Djalma, pressed the prince's hand respectfully to his
forehead and to his lips, and said: "My lord, be generous to the end!
forgive me!"
"For what should I forgive you?"
"Before I spoke to you, I had the audacity to think of asking for what
you have just freely offered. Not knowing to what extent my fury might
carry me, I had thought of asking you this favor, which you would not
perhaps grant to an equal, but I did not dare to do it. I shrunk even
from the avowal of the treachery I have cause to fear, and I came only to
tell you of my misery--because to you alone in all the world I could tell
it."
It is impossible to describe the almost candid simplicity, with which the
half-breed pronounced these words, and the soft tones, mingled with
tears, which had succeeded his savage fury. Deeply affected, Djalma
raised him from the ground, and said: "You were entitled to ask of me a
mark of friendship. I am happy in having forestalled you. Courage! be of
good cheer! I will accompany you to this interview, and if my hopes do
not deceive me, you will find you have been deluded by false
appearances."
When the night was come, the half-breed and Djalma, wrapped in their
cloaks, got into a hackney-coach. Faringhea ordered the coachman to drive
to the house inhabited by Sainte-Colombe.