A FRIEND'S ADVICE
After she came out of her faint, Madame de Bergenheim remained for a long
time in a dazed condition, and did not realize, save in a confused
manner, her real position. She saw vaguely, at her first glance, the
curtains of the bed upon which she lay, and thought that she had awakened
from an ordinary sleep. Little by little, her thoughts became clearer,
and she saw that she was fully dressed, also that her room seemed
brighter than it usually was with only her night-lamp lighted. She
noticed between the half-open curtains a gigantic form reflected almost
to the ceiling opposite her bed. She sat up and distinctly saw a man
sitting in the corner by the fireplace. Frozen with terror, she fell
back upon her pillow as she recognized her husband. Then she remembered
everything, even the slightest details of the scene in the small parlor.
She felt ready to faint again when she heard Christian's steps upon the
carpet, although he walked with great precaution.
The Baron looked at her a moment, and then, opening the bed-curtains, he
said:
"You can not pass the night thus, it is nearly three o'clock. You must
go to bed as usual."
Clemence shivered at these words, whose accent, however, was not hard.
She obeyed mechanically; but she had hardly risen when she was obliged to
recline upon the bed, for her trembling limbs would not support her.
"Do not be afraid of me," said Bergenheim, drawing back a few steps; "my
presence should not frighten you. I only wish that people should know
that I have passed the night in your chamber, for it is possible that my
return may arouse suspicion. You know that our love is only a comedy
played for the benefit of our servants."
There was such affected lightness in these remarks that the young woman
was cut to the very quick. She had expected an explosion of anger, but
not this calm contempt. Her revolted pride gave her courage.
"I do not deserve to be treated thus," said she; "do not condemn me
without a hearing."
"I ask nothing of you," replied Christian, who seated himself again
beside the mantel; "undress yourself, and go to sleep if it is possible
for you to do so. It is not necessary for Justine to make any comments
tomorrow about your day clothes not having been removed."
Instead of obeying him, she went toward him and tried to remain standing
in order to speak to him, but her emotion was so intense that it took
away her strength and she was obliged to sit down.
"You treat me too cruelly, Christian," said she, when she had succeeded
to recover her voice. "I am not guilty; at least, not so much as you
think I am--" said she, drooping her head.
He looked at her attentively for a moment, and then replied, in a voice
which did not betray the slightest emotion:
"You must know that my greatest desire is to be persuaded of this by you.
I know that too often appearances are deceitful; perhaps you will be able
to explain to me what took place last evening; I am still inclined to
believe your word. Swear to me that you do not love Monsieur de
Gerfaut."
"I swear it!" said she, in a weak voice, and without raising her eyes.
He went to the bed and took down a little silver crucifix which was
hanging above it.
"Swear it to me upon this crucifix," said he, presenting it to his wife.
She tried in vain to raise her hand, which seemed fastened to the arm of
her chair.
"I swear it!" she stammered a second time, while her face became as pale
as death.
A savage laugh escaped Christian's lips. He put the crucifix in its
place again without saying a word, then he opened the secret panel and,
taking out the casket, placed it upon the table before his wife. She
made a movement as if to seize it, but her courage failed her.
"You have perjured yourself to your husband and to God!" said Bergenheim
slowly. "Do you know what kind of woman you are?"
Clemence remained for some time powerless to reply; her respiration was
so painful that each breath seemed like suffocation; her head, after
rolling about on the back of the chair, fell upon her breast, like a
blade of grass broken and bruised by the rain.
"If you have read those letters," she murmured, when she had strength
enough to speak, "you must know that I am not as unworthy as you think.
I am very guilty--but I still have a right to be forgiven."
Christian, at this moment, had he been gifted with the intelligence which
fathoms the mysteries of the heart, might have renewed the bonds which
were so near being broken; he could at least have stopped Clemence upon a
dangerous path and saved her from a most irreparable fall. But his
nature was too unrefined for him to see the degrees which separate
weakness from vice, and the intoxication of a loving heart from the
depravity of a corrupt character. With the obstinacy of narrow-minded
people, he had been looking at the whole thing in its worst light, and
for several hours already he had decided upon his wife's guilt in his own
mind; this served now as a foundation for his stern conduct. His
features remained perfectly impassive as he listened to Clemence's words
of justification, which she uttered in a weak, broken voice.
"I know that I merit your hatred-but if you could know how much I suffer,
you would surely forgive me--You left me in Paris very young,
inexperienced; I ought to have fought against this feeling better than I
did, but I used up in this struggle all the strength that I had--You can
see how pale and changed I have become within the past year. I have aged
several years in those few months; I am not yet what you call a--a lost
woman. He ought to have told you that--"
"Oh, he has! of course he has," replied Christian with bitter irony.
"Oh, you have in him a loyal cavalier!"
"You do not believe me, then! you do not believe me!" she continued,
wringing her hands in despair; "but read these letters, the last ones.
See whether one writes like this to a woman who is entirely lost--"
She tried to take the package which her husband held; instead of giving
the letters to her, he lighted them at the candle and then threw them
into the fireplace. Clemence uttered a cry and darted forward to save
them, but Christian's iron hand seized her and pushed her back into her
chair.
"I understand how much you care for this correspondence," said he, in a
more excited tone, "but you are more loving than prudent. Let me destroy
one witness which accuses you. Do you know that I have already killed a
man on account of these letters?"
"Killed!" exclaimed Madame de Bergenheim, whom this word drove almost to
madness, for she could not understand its real meaning and applied it to
her lover. "Well, then, kill me too, for I lied when I said that I
repented. I do not repent! I am guilty! I deceived you! I love him
and I abhor you; I love him! kill me!"
She fell upon her knees before him and dragged herself along the floor,
striking her head upon it as if she wished to break it. Christian raised
her and seated her in the chair, in spite of her resistance. She
struggled in her husband's arms, and the only words which she uttered
were: "I love him! kill me! I love him! kill me!"
Her grief was so intense that Bergenheim really pitied her.
"You did not understand me," he said, "he is not the man I killed."
She became motionless, dumb. He left her then, from a feeling of
compassion, and returned to his seat. They remained for some time seated
in this way, one on each side of the fireplace; he, with his head leaning
against the mantel; she, crouched in her chair with her face concealed
behind her hands; only the striking of the clock interrupted this silence
and lulled their gloomy thoughts with its monotonous vibrations.
A sharp, quick sound against one of the windows interrupted this sad
scene. Clemence arose suddenly as if she had received a galvanic shock;
her frightened eyes met her husband's. He made an imperious gesture with
his hand as if to order silence, and both listened attentively and
anxiously.
The same noise was heard a second time. A rattling against the blinds
was followed by a dry, metallic sound, evidently caused by the contact of
some body against the window.
"It is some signal," said Christian in a low voice, as he looked at his
wife. "You probably know what it means."
"I do not, I swear to you," replied Clemence, her heart throbbing with a
new emotion.
"I will tell you, then; he is there and he has something to say to you.
Rise and open the window."
"Open the window?" said she, with a frightened look.
"Do what I tell you. Do you wish him to pass the night under your
window, so that the servants may see him?"
At this command, spoken in a severe tone, she arose. Noticing that their
shadows might be seen from the outside when the curtains were drawn,
Bergenheim changed the candles to another place. Clemence walked slowly
toward the window; she had hardly opened it, when a purse fell upon the
floor.
"Close it now," said the Baron. While his wife was quietly obeying, he
picked up the purse, and opening it, took the following note from it:
"I have ruined you--you for whom I would gladly have died! But of
what use are regrets and despair now? And my blood will not wipe
away your tears. Our position is so frightful that I tremble so
speak of it. I ought to tell you the truth, however, horrible as it
may be. Do not curse me, Clemence; do not impute to me this
fatality, which obliges me thus to torture you. In a few hours I
shall have expiated the wrongs of my love, or you yourself may be
free. Free! pardon me for using this word; I know it is an odious
one to you, but I am too troubled to find another. Whatever
happens, I am about to put within your reach the only aid which it
is possible for me to offer you; it will at least give you a choice
of unhappiness. If you never see me again, to live with him will be
a torture beyond your strength, perhaps, for you love me. I do not
know how to express my thoughts, and I dare not offer you advice or
entreat you. All that I feel is the necessity of telling you that
my whole life belongs to you, that I am yours until death; but I
hardly dare have the courage to lay at your feet the offering of a
destiny already so sad, and which may soon be stained with blood.
A fatal necessity sometimes imposes actions which public opinion
condemns, but the heart excuses, for it alone understands them.
Do not be angry at what you are about to read; never did words like
these come out of a more desolate heart. During the whole day a
post-chaise will wait for you at the rear of the Montigny plateau;
a fire lighted upon the rock which you can see from your room will
notify you of its presence. In a short time it can reach the Rhine.
A person devoted to you will accompany you to Munich, to the house
of one of my relatives, whose character and position will assure you
sufficient protection from all tyranny. There, at least, you will
be permitted to weep. That is all that I can do for you. My heart
is broken when I think of the powerlessness of my love. They say
that when one crushes the scorpion which has wounded him, he is
cured; even my death will not repair the wrong that I have done you;
it will only be one grief the more. Can you understand how
desperate is the feeling which I experience now? For months past,
to be loved by you has been the sole desire of my heart, and now I
must repent ever having attained it. Out of pity for you, I ought
to wish that you did love me with a love as perishable as my life,
so that a remembrance of me would leave you in peace. All this is
so sad that I have not the courage to continue. Adieu, Clemence!
Once more, one last time, I must say: I love you! and yet, I dare
not. I feel unworthy to speak to you thus, for my love has become a
disastrous gift. Did I not ruin you? The only word that seems to
be permissible is the one that even a murderer dares to address to
his God: pardon me!"
After reading this, the Baron passed the letter to his wife without
saying a word, and resumed his sombre attitude.
"You see what he asks of you?" he said, after a rather long pause, as he
observed the dazed way in which Madame de Bergenheim's eyes wandered over
this letter.
"My head is bewildered," she replied, "I do not understand what he says--
Why does he speak of death?"
Christian's lips curled disdainfully as he answered:
"It does not concern you; one does not kill women."
"They need it not to die," replied Clemence, who gazed at her husband
with wild, haggard eyes.
"Then you are going to fight?" she added, after a moment's pause.
"Really, have you divined as much?" he replied, with an ironical smile;
"it is a wonderful thing how quick is your intelligence! You have spoken
the truth. You see, each of us has his part to play. The wife deceives
her husband; the husband fights with the lover, and the lover in order to
close the comedy in a suitable manner--proposes to run away with the
wife, for that is the meaning of his letter, notwithstanding all his
oratorical precautions."
"You are going to fight!" she exclaimed, with the energy of despair.
"You are going to fight! And for me--unworthy and miserable creature
that I am! What have you done? And is he not free to love? I alone am
the guilty one, I alone have offended you, and I alone deserve
punishment. Do with me what you will; shut me up in a convent or a cell;
bring me poison, I will drink it."
The Baron burst into sardonic laughter.
"So you are afraid that I shall kill, him?" said he, gazing at her
intently, with his arms crossed upon his breast.
"I fear for you, for us all. Do you think that I can live after causing
blood to be shed? If there must be a victim, take me--or, at least,
begin with me. Have pity! tell me that you will not fight."
"But think--there is an even chance that you may be set free!" said he.
"Spare me!" she murmured, shivering with horror.
"It is a pity that blood must be shed, is it not?" said Bergenheim, in a
mocking tone; "adultery would be pleasant but for that. I am sure that
you think me coarse and brutal to look upon your honor as a serious
thing, when you do not do so yourself."
"I entreat you!"
"I am the one who has to entreat you. This astonishes you, does it not?
--While I live, I shall protect your reputation in spite of yourself; but
if I die, try to guard it yourself. Content yourself with having
betrayed me; do not outrage my memory. I am glad now that we have no
children, for I should fear for them, and should feel obliged to deprive
you of their care as much as lay in my power. That is one trouble the
less. But as you bear my name, and I can not take it away from you,
I beg of you do not drag it in the mire when I shall not be here to wash
it for you."
The young woman fell back upon her seat as if every fibre in her body had
been successively torn to pieces.
"You crush me to the earth!" she said, feebly.
"This revolts you," continued the husband, who seemed to choose the most
cutting thrust; "you are young; this is your first error, you are not
made for such adventures. But rest assured, one becomes accustomed to
everything. A lover always knows how to find the most beautiful phrases
with which to console a widow and vanquish her repugnances."
"You are killing me," she murmured, falling back almost unconscious in
her chair.
Christian leaned over her, and, taking her by the arm, said in a low
tone:
"Remember, if I die and he asks you to follow him, you will be an
infamous creature if you obey him. He is a man to glory in you; that is
easy enough to see. He is a man who would drag you after him--"
"Oh! have pity--I shall die--"
Clemence closed her eyes and her lips twitched convulsively.
The first rays of the morning sun fell upon another scene in the opposite
wing of the chateau. Marillac was quietly sleeping the sleep of the just
when he was suddenly awakened by a shaking that nearly threw him out of
his bed.
"Go to the devil!" he said, angrily, when he succeeded in half opening
his heavy eyes, and recognized Gerfaut standing beside his bed.
"Get up!" said the latter, taking him by the arm to give more force to
his command.
The artist covered himself with the clothes up to his chin.
"Are you walking in your sleep or insane?" asked Marillac, "or do you
want me to go to work?" he added, as he saw that his friend had some
papers in his hand. "You know very well I never have any ideas when
fasting, and that I am stupid until noon."
"Get up at once!" said Gerfaut, "I must have a talk with you."
There was something so serious and urgent in Gerfaut's accent as he said
these words, that the artist got up at once and hurriedly dressed
himself.
"What is the matter?" he asked, as he put on his dressing-gown, "you
look as if the affairs of the nation rested upon you."
"Put on your coat and boots," said Octave, "you must go to
La Fauconnerie. They are used to seeing you go out early in
the morning for your appointments with Reine, and therefore--"
"It is to this shepherdess you would send me!" interrupted the artist,
as he began to undress himself; "in that case I will go to bed again.
Enough of that!"
"I am to fight with Bergenheim at nine o'clock!" said Gerfaut, in a low
voice.
"Stupendous!" exclaimed Marillac, as he jumped back a few steps, and
then stood as motionless as a statue. Without wasting any time in
unnecessary explanations, his friend gave him a brief account of the
night's events.
"Now," said he, "I need you; can I count upon your friendship?"
"In life and in death!" exclaimed Marillac, and he pressed his hand with
the emotion that the bravest of men feel at the approach of a danger
which threatens one who is dear to them.
"Here," said Gerfaut, as he handed him the papers in his hand, "is a
letter for you in which you will find my instructions in full; they will
serve you as a guide, according to circumstances. This sealed paper will
be deposited by you in the office of the public prosecutor at Nancy,
under certain circumstances which my note explains. Finally, this is my
will. I have no very near relative; I have made you my heir.
"Listen to me! I do not know a more honest man than you, that is the
reason why I select you. First, this legacy is a trust. I speak to you
now in case of events which probably will never happen, but which I ought
to prepare for. I do not know what effect this may have upon Clemence's
fate; her aunt, who is very austere, may quarrel with her and deprive her
of her rights; her personal fortune is not very large, I believe, and I
know nothing about her marriage settlement. She may thus be entirely at
her husband's mercy, and that is what I will not allow. My fortune is
therefore a trust that you will hold to be placed at her disposal at any
time. I hope that she loves me enough not to refuse this service of me."
"Well and good!" said Marillac; "I will admit that the thought of
inheriting from you choked me like a noose around my neck."
"I beg of you to accept for yourself my copyrights as author. You can
not refuse that," said Gerfaut, with a half smile; "this legacy belongs
to the domain of art. To whom should I leave it if not to you, my
Patroclus, my faithful collaborator?"
The artist took several agitated turns about his room.
"To think," he exclaimed, "that I was the one who saved this Bergenheim's
life! If he kills you, I shall never forgive myself. And yet, I told
you this would end in some tragic manner."
"What business had he there? Is it not so? What can I say? We were
seeking for a drama; here it is. I am not anxious on my own account, but
on hers. Unhappy woman! A duel is a stone that might fall upon a man's
head twenty times a day; it is sufficient for a simpleton if you stare at
him, or for an awkward fellow if you tread upon his toes; but on her
account--poor angel!--I can not think of it. I need the fullest command
of my head and my heart. But it is growing lighter; there is not a
moment to lose. Go to the stable; saddle a horse yourself, if there is
no servant up; go, as I said, to La Fauconnerie; I have often seen a
post-chaise in the tavern courtyard; order it to wait all day at the back
of the Montigny plateau. You will find everything explained in detail in
the note which I have given you. Here is my purse; I need no money."
Marillac put the purse in his pocket and the papers in his memorandum-
book; he then buttoned up his redingote and put on his travelling cap.
His countenance showed a state of exaltation which belied, for the time
being, the pacific theories he had expounded a few days before.
"You can depend upon me as upon yourself," said he with energy.
"If this poor woman calls for my aid, I promise you that I will serve her
faithfully. I will take her wherever she wishes; to China, if she asks
it, and in spite of the whole police force. If Bergenheim kills you and
then follows her up, there will be another duel."
As he said these words, he took his stiletto and a pair of pistols from
the mantel and put them in his pocket, after examining the edge of the
one and the caps of the others.
"Adieu!" said Gerfaut.
"Adieu!" said the artist, whose extreme agitation contrasted strongly
with his friend's calm. "Rest easy! I will look after her--and I will
publish a complete edition--But what an idea--to accept a duel as
irregular as this! Have you ever seen him use a gun? He had no right to
exact this."
"Hurry! you must leave before the servants are up."
"Kiss me, my poor fellow!" said Marillac, with tears in his eyes; "it is
not very manly I know, but I can not help it--Oh! these women! I adore
them, of course; but just now I am like Nero, I wish that they all had
but one head. It is for these little, worthless dolls that we kill each
other!"
"You can curse them on your way," said Gerfaut, who was impatient to see
him leave.
"Oh, good gracious, yes! They can flatter themselves this moment that
they all inspire me with a deadly hatred."
"Do not make any noise," said his friend, as he carefully opened the
door.
Marillac pressed his hand for the last time, and went out. When he
reached the end of the corridor, he stopped a moment, then went back.
"Above all things," said he, as he passed his head through the half-open
door, "no foolish proceedings. Remember that it is necessary that one of
you should fall, and that if you fail; he will not. Take your time--aim
--and fire at him as you would at a rabbit."
After this last piece of advice, he went away; ten minutes after he had
left, Gerfaut saw him riding out of the courtyard as fast as Beverley's
four legs would carry him.