Mme. de Lorcy was a woman of about fifty years of age, who still
possessed remains of beauty. She had been a widow for long years, and
never had thought of marrying again. Although her wedded life had been
a happy one, she considered that liberty is to be prized above all
else; she employed hers in a most irreproachable manner. She was
self-possessed, even better acquainted with numbers than with dress, and
managed her property herself, which was by no means a trifling thing to
do. Liking to make good use of her time, she thought to do it by busying
herself in the affairs of others. She had a real vocation for the
profession of a consulting lawyer. Usually her advice was sensible and
judicious--nothing better could be done than to follow it; only her
clients complained that she pronounced her sentences with too little
tenderness, without granting any appeal. She was good, charitable, but
lacked unction, and she had no sympathy with the illusions of others. A
German poet, in making his New-Year offerings, wishes that the rich may
be kind-hearted, that the poor may have bread, that the ladies may have
pretty dresses, that the men may have patience, that the foolish may get
a little reason, and that sensible people may grow poetic. Mme. de Lorcy
was kind-hearted, she had pretty dresses and a great deal of reason;
but her reason was wanting in poetry, and poetic people to whom she gave
advice required a good deal of patience to listen to the end. Those who
permitted themselves to despise her counsel, and who were happy after
their own fashion, incurred her lasting displeasure. She obstinately
asserted to them that their seeming happiness was all a deceit; that
they had fastened a stone about their necks; and that, without appearing
to do so, at the bottom of their hearts they bitterly repented. She
added, “It is not my fault; I told you, but you would not believe me.”
Mme. de Lorcy had an almost maternal affection for her nephew, M.
Camille Langis. Confident that he could not be otherwise than successful
in a love-affair, she promised him that he should marry Mlle. Moriaz. To
be sure, he was rather young; but she had decided that the question of
age made no difference, and that in all else there was a perfect fitness
between the parties. M. Langis hesitated a long time about declaring
himself. He said to Mme. de Lorcy: “If she refuse me, I shall no
longer be able to see her; and so long as I can see her, I am only
half-wretched.” It was Mme. de Lorcy who forced him to draw his sword
and open the campaign, in which she was to act as second. This campaign
had not been a successful one. Deeply wounded at the refusal, which she
had in vain attempted to prevent, she was ready to force Mlle. Moriaz
into compliance. They made her believe, to pacify her, that the sentence
was not definite, or at least that a period of grace would be granted to
the condemned. M. Langis set out for Hungary, and he had now returned.
In the mean time, Antoinette had refused two offers. Mme. de Lorcy had
inferred this to be a favourable omen for her projects. Thus she felt
annoyance mingled with anger on receiving the following letter from M.
Moriaz:
“DEAR MADAME:
“You will be charmed to learn that I am extremely well. My cheeks are
full, my complexion florid, my legs as nimble as a chamois, my appetite
like that of an ogre. If ever you become anemic, which God forbid, you
should set out forthwith for Saint Moritz, and I shall soon have good
news from you. Saint Moritz is a place where you find what you want, but
you find, besides, what you do not want. I do not speak of bears; I have
not seen any, and should I meet one, I am strong enough to strangle it.
Besides, bears are taciturn animals, they never relate their histories,
and the only animals I fear are those that have the gift of narrating,
and that one is not allowed to strangle. I will say no more. Have I made
myself intelligible? You are so intelligent.
“Apropos, Antoinette sends you a sketch or a painting, I do not know
which, that will be handed to you by Count Abel Larinski. He is a Pole,
of that there can be no doubt; you will perceive it at once. I wish him
well; he was obliging enough to extricate me from a breakneck position
into which I had foolishly thrust myself. That I have a pair of legs to
walk on, and a hand to write with, I owe to him. I recommend him to your
kind reception, and I beg you to get him to relate his history. He is
one of those who narrate, not every day, it is true, but when you
touch the right spring, he starts, and cannot be stopped. Seriously, M.
Larinski is no ordinary man; you will find pleasure in his acquaintance.
I have discovered that he is in rather embarrassed circumstances. He is
the son of an emigrant, whose property has been confiscated. His father
was a half fool, who made great attempts to cut a channel through
the Isthmus of Panama, and never succeeded in cutting his way through
anything. He was himself beginning to earn money in San Francisco, when,
in 1863, he gave everything up to go and fight against the Russians.
This enthusiastic patriot has since adopted the calling of an inventor,
in which he has been unsuccessful; he is now in search of a livelihood.
Do not think he will ask for anything; he is an hidalgo; he wraps
himself proudly in his poverty, as a Castilian does in his cloak. I am
interested in him; I want to assist him, give him a lift; but, first, I
wish to feel sure that he is worthy of my sympathy. Examine him closely,
sift him well; I trust your eyes rather than my own; I have the greatest
faith in your skill in this kind of valuation.
“Antoinette sends you her most affectionate greetings. She adores Saint
Moritz; you would think that she had found something here which has
wrought a charm over her. For my own part, I am delighted to have
recovered my appetite, my sleep, and all the rest, and yet I regret
having come; can you reconcile that? Let me know as soon as possible
what you think of my Pole; but, pray do not condemn him unheard. No
hasty decision, I entreat; an expert is bound not to be influenced by
his prejudices, but to weigh his judgments as his words. Adieu, dear
madame; pity me in spite of my full cheeks.”
Madame de Lorcy replied in these words, by return mail:
“You are indeed innocent, my dear professor, and your finesse is but too
apparent; I could not help understanding. Is she, indeed so foolish. I
did not think her overwise; but here she astonishes me more than I would
have believed. You can tell her, for me--or rather don’t say anything to
her; I will only speak to you, I am too angry to reason with her. I will
see your Pole, I await him resolutely; but, in truth, I have seen him
already. I am well acquainted with him, I know him by heart; I have no
doubt that he is some impostor. I will examine him without prejudice,
with religious impartiality. You are so good as to remind me that an
expert suspends his judgment. I will hold my police force in reserve,
and I will let you know before long what I think of your adventurer.
Ah! yes, I do pity you, poor man. After all, however, you alone are to
blame; is it my fault that you did not know how to act? God bless you!”
At the time when Samuel Brohl, seated amid the heather, in an oak-grove,
was conversing with phantoms, Mme. de Lorcy, alone in her _salon_, was
occupied with her needlework, and her thoughts, which revolved in a
circle, like a horse in a riding-school. She had for several days been
expecting Count Abel Larinski’s visit; she wondered at his want of
promptness, and suspected that he was afraid of her. This suspicion
pleased her. Several times she fancied she heard a man’s step in the
antechamber, at which she started nervously, and the rose-coloured
strings of her cap fluttered on her shoulders.
Suddenly, while she was counting her stitches, with head bent down, some
one entered without her perceiving it, seized her hand, and, devoutly
kissing it, threw his hat on the table, and then dropped into a chair,
where he remained motionless, with his legs stretched out, and his eyes
riveted on the floor.
“Oh! It is you, Camille,” exclaimed Mme. de Lorcy. “You come apropos.
Well?”
“Well! yes, madame, that is it,” replied M. Langis; “and you see before
you the most unhappy of men. Why is your pond dry? I want to fling
myself into it head foremost.”
Mme. de Lorcy laid down her embroidery, and crossed her arms. “So you
have returned?” said she.
“Would to God I never had gone there! It is a land where poison is sold,
and I have drunk of it.”
“Don’t abuse metaphors. You have seen her? What did you say to her?”
“Nothing, madame--nothing of what is in my heart. I made her believe
that I had reflected, and changed my views; that I was entirely cured
of my foolish passion for her; that I was simply making her a friendly
visit. Yes, madame, I remained half a day with her, and during the half
day I never once betrayed myself. I convinced her that the mask was a
face. Tell me, conscientiously, have you ever read of a more heroic act
in Plutarch’s _Lives of Great Men_?”
“She herself, what did she say to you?”
“She was so enchanted, so delighted with the change, that she was dying
to embrace me.”
“She shall pay for it. And he, did you see him?”
“Just caught a glimpse of him, looked up to him as was befitting the
humility of my position. This fortunate man, this glorious mortal, was
enthroned on the top of the mail-coach.”
“Is he really so fascinating?”
“He has, I assure you, a certain look of deep profundity, and he bears
his exploits inscribed on his brow. What am I, to contend against him!
You must allow that I have the appearance of a school-boy. And yet, if
I were to boast. This road in Transylvania for which I had the contract
was by no means easy to construct. We had to cut through the solid
rock, working in the air, suspended by ropes. This perilous labour so
disheartened our workmen that some of them left us; to encourage the
rest, I was slung up like them, and like them handled the pickaxe. One
day, in the explosion of a charge a piece of stone struck the rope of
one of my men with such violence that it cut it as clean in two as the
edge of a razor would have done. The man fell--I believed him to be
lost; by a miracle, his clothes caught in some brushwood, to which he
succeeded in clinging. It was I who went to his assistance, and I swear
to you that in this rescue I proved the strength of my muscles, and ran
the risk twenty times of breaking my neck. The workmen had mistrusted me
on account of my youth; from that day, I can assure you, they held me in
respect.”
“Did you relate this incident to Antoinette?”
“What would have been the use? With women it does not suffice to be a
great man; you must have the look of one too.” And Camille Langis cried
out, clinching his hands: “Ah! madame, I entreat you, do you know where
I can procure a Polish head, a Polish mustache, a Polish smile? Pray,
where are these articles to be had, and what is their market price? I
will not haggle! O women! what a set you are--plague on you!”
“And are aunts the same?” gravely asked Mme. de Lorcy.
He answered more calmly: “No, madame, you are a woman without an equal,
and I name you every day in my prayers. You are my only resource, my
consolation, my counsel. Do not refuse me your precious instructions!
What ought I to do?”
Mme. de Lorcy gazed up at the ceiling for an instant, and then said:
“Love elsewhere, my dear; abandon this foolish girl to her fate and her
Pole.”
He started and replied: “You demand what is impossible. I am no longer
my own master; she has taken possession of me--she holds me. Love
elsewhere? Can you think of it? I detest her--I curse her--but I adore
her!”
She rejoined: “You should not use hyperbole any more than metaphors.
Both are unsolid food. When you decide not to love, you will love no
more.”
“That supposes that I have several hearts to choose from. I never
had but one, and that no longer belongs to me. So you refuse me your
advice?”
“What advice would you have me give you before having seen M.
Larinski--before having taken the measure of this hero?”
“What! you expect to see him?”
“I am waiting for him to call, and I am sorry he keeps me waiting.”
“Seriously, will you receive this man?”
“I have been asked to examine him.”
“I am lost, if you feel the need of hearing before condemning him. Our
most sacred duty is to be resolutely unjust towards the enemies of our
friends.”
“Nonsense! I shall not be indulgent towards him.”
“Do as you like; I have my plan.”
“What is it?”
“I shall seek some groundless quarrel with this contraband, this
poacher, and I will blow his brains out.”
“A fine scheme, my dear Camille! And afterward, when you have killed
him, you will have gained a great deal. Have you confidence in me? I
have already begun to work for you. The Abbe Miollens, as you know, is
well acquainted in the society of Polish emigrants; I have sent to
him for information. I have also written to Vienna for intelligence
concerning him. Antoinette is foolish in forming such an acquaintance,
it must be admitted; but, in matters of honour, she is as delicate as
an ermine in tending the whiteness of her robe; if there be in M.
Larinski’s past a stain no larger than a ten-sou piece, she will forever
discard him. Let me act; be wise, do not blow out any one’s brains.
_Grand Dieu!_ what would become of us, if the only way to get rid of
people was by killing them?”
As she pronounced these words a servant entered, bearing a card on a
silver salver. She took the card and exclaimed: “When you speak of the
wolf--Here is our man!” She begged M. Langis to retire; he implored
permission to remain, promising to be a model of discretion. She was
insisting on his leaving when Count Abel Larinski appeared.
Samuel Brohl had scarcely taken three steps in Mme. de Lorcy’s _salon_
before he conjectured why M. Moriaz had asked him to go there, and
what was the significance of the commission with which he was charged.
Notwithstanding the _salon_ had a southern exposure, and that it was
then the middle of the month of August, it seemed to him to be cold
there. He thought that he felt a draught of chilly air, an icy wind,
which pierced him through and through, and caused him an unpleasant
shiver. He did not need to look very attentively at Mme. de Lorcy to be
convinced that he was before his judge, and that this judge was not a
friendly one; and, as soon as his gaze met that of M. Camille Langis,
something warned him that this young man was his enemy. Samuel Brohl had
the gift of observation.
He delivered his message, and handed Mme. de Lorcy the little portfolio
that contained Mlle. Moriaz’s painting, expressing his regret that
business had prevented his coming sooner. Mme. de Lorcy thanked him for
his kindness, with rather a cool politeness, and asked him for news of
her goddaughter. He did not expatiate on this topic.
“The valley of Saint Moritz is a dreary country,” she next said.
“Rather say, madame, that it is a dreary country possessing a great
charm for those who love it.”
“It appears that Mlle. Moriaz is almost wearied to death there. I should
think she would die of ennui.”
“Do you think her capable of yielding to ennui in any place?”
“Certainly, do not doubt it; but she has recourse to her imagination
to dispel the tedium. She has a marvellous talent for procuring herself
diversion and for varying her pleasures. Hers is an imagination having
many relays: no sooner is one horse exhausted than there is another to
take its place.”
“That is a precious gift,” he replied, briefly. “I assure you, however,
that you calumniate the Engadine. The trees there are not so well grown
as those in your park; but the Alpine fir and pine have their beauty.”
“You went to this hole for your health, monsieur?”
“Yes, and no, madame. I was not ill, but any physician contended that
I should be still better if I breathed the air of the Alps for three
weeks. It was taking a cure as a preventive.”
“M. Larinski made the ascent of the Morteratsch,” said Camille, who,
seated on a divan with his arms extended on his knees, never had ceased
to look at Samuel Brohl with a hard and hostile glance. “That is an
exploit that can be performed only by well people.”
“It is no exploit,” replied Samuel; “it is a work of patience, easy for
those who are not subject to vertigo.”
“You are too modest,” rejoined the young man. “Had I done as much, I
would sound a trumpet.”
“Have you attempted the ascent?” asked Samuel.
“Not at all. I do not care about having feats of prowess to relate,” he
replied, in an almost challenging tone.
Mme. de Lorcy hastened to interrupt the conversation by saying, “Is this
the first time you have been in Paris, monsieur?”
“Yes, madame,” replied Samuel, who withdrew more and more into his
shell.
“And does Paris please you as much as a pine-grove?”
“Much more, madame.”
“Have you any acquaintances?”
“None; and the truth is, I have no desire to make any.”
“Why?”
“Shall I tell you my reason? I am not fond of breaking ice, and
Poles complain that there is nothing in the world so icy as Parisian
coldness.”
“That explains itself,” cried Camille. “Paris, that is Paris proper, is
a small city of a hundred thousand souls, and this small city is invaded
more and more, by strangers who come here to seek pleasure or fortune.
It is but natural that Paris should protect itself.”
“Parisians pride themselves on their penetration,” replied Samuel.
“It does not require much of it to distinguish an honest man from an
adventurer.”
“Ah! permit me,” returned M. Langis, “that depends a good deal on
practice. The most skillful are deceived.”
Samuel Brohl rose and made a movement to leave. Mme. de Lorcy insisted
on his sitting down again. She saw that she had made a bad beginning in
the fulfilment of her office of examining magistrate, and of gaining the
prisoner’s confidence. Fearing that Camille, in spite of his promise,
would spoil everything by some insult, she found a pretext to send him
away; she begged that he would go and examine a pair of horses that were
a recent acquisition.
As soon as he was gone, she changed her manner; she grew amiable, she
endeavoured to remove the ill impression of her first welcome; she put
Count Abel at his ease, who felt that the air lost its chilliness
about him. Without appearing to do so, she made him undergo an
examination--she asked him many questions; he replied promptly. Visitors
came in; it was an hour before he took leave, after having promised Mme.
de Lorcy to dine with her the next day.
She did not wait until then to write to M. Moriaz. Her letter was thus
conceived:
“August 16, 1875.
“You recommend me to be impartial, my dear friend. Why should I not be?
It is true that I have dreamed of a certain marriage: one of the parties
would not listen to my propositions, and the other had abandoned the
idea. My project has come to nothing. Camille has enjoined me never
to speak of it to him again. You see I am no longer interested in the
question, or, rather, I have in the matter no other interest than that
which I feel for Antoinette, whose happiness is as dear to me as it is
to you. Apropos, do not give her my letters; read to her the passages
that you judge suitable to communicate to her--I leave that to your
discretion.
“First of all, let me unfold to you my humble opinions. I am charged
with having prejudices; it is a shocking calumny. I will make you a
profession of faith, and you shall judge. I am at war with more than one
point of our French morals; I deplore the habit that we have formed of
considering marriage as a business transaction, of esteeming it as a
financial or commercial partnership, and making everything subordinate
to the equality of the personal estates. This principle is revolting
to me, my dear friend. We are accused in foreign countries of being an
immoral people. Heavens! it seems to me that we understand and practise
virtue quite as much as the English or Germans, and, to speak the whole
truth, I am not afraid to advance the opinion that this, of all the
countries of the universe, is the one where there is the most virtue.
It is not at that point that we sin. Our misfortune is, that we are too
rational in our habits of life, too circumspect, too prudent; we lack
boldness in our undertakings; we wish, as it is said, to have one foot
on firm land and the other not far off. We must have security; we do not
like risk; doubtful affairs do not please us; we are too prone to look
ahead, and to look ahead is to fear. That is one reason why we send out
no colonies, and that is the reason we have no more children. Are you
satisfied with me?
“Napoleon I was in the habit of saying that, in fighting a battle, he
so ordered matters as to have seventy chances out of a hundred in his
favour; he left the rest to Fate. Ah! brave people, life is a battle,
but the French of to-day will not risk anything. They are the most
honest, the least romantic of men, and I regret it. Read Antoinette this
passage of my letter. Our young people think that they have a right to
the paternal fortune; they consider that their father is wanting in his
duty if he does not leave them a settled position, a certain future.
Their second preconceived notion is that they must find a wife who will
bring them as much at least as they have to offer her. I have so much,
you have so much--we are evidently created for each other; let us marry.
All this is deplorable. I like better to hear of the young American who
only expects from his parents the education necessary for a man to make
his way; he has his tools given to him and the method of using them,
but not a sou. You have learned to swim, my friend--swim. After that he
marries, most frequently a woman who has nothing, and who loves to spend
money. May the God Dollar protect him! he will gaily make an opening
for himself in life, and his wife will give him ten children, who will
follow the same course as their father. Where it is customary for hunger
to marry thirst, there are happy marriages, and a hardy race of people.
In all conscience, am I not romantic enough?
“Let me consider another case. Take a man who has fortune: he profits
thereby to consult his heart only, and offer his name and revenues to
the woman he loves and who has no dower. I clap my hands, I think it the
best of examples, and I regret that it is so seldom practised among
us. In France princes never are seen marrying shepherdesses; on
the contrary, one too often sees penniless sons-in-law carrying off
heiresses, and that is precisely the most objectionable case. In a
romance, or at the theatre, the poor young man who marries a million is
a very noble person; in life it is different. Not if the poor young
man had a profession or a trade, if he could procure by his own work
a sufficient income to render him independent of his wife; but if he
submit to be dependent on her, if he expect from her his daily bread, to
roll in her carriage, to ask her for the expenses of his toilet, for his
pocket-money, and perhaps for sundry questionable outlays--frankly, this
young man lacks pride; and what is a man who has no pride? Besides, what
surety is there that in marrying it is, indeed, the woman he is in love
with and not the dower? Who assures me that Count Abel Larinski?--I
name no one, personalities are odious, and I own there are exceptions.
_Dieu_, how rare they are! If I were Antoinette, I would love the poor,
but in their own interest. I would not marry them. The interest of the
whole human race is at stake. Beggars are inventive; let them have
their own way to make, and they will be sure to invent some means of
livelihood; give them the key of a cash-box, and they will cease to
strive, you have destroyed their genius. My dear professor, in fifteen
years I have brought about a great many marriages. Three times I have
married hunger to thirst, and, thank God, I once decided a millionaire
to marry a poor girl who had not a sou, but I never aided a beggar
to marry a rich girl. Now you have my principles and ideas--Are you
listening to me still? You fall asleep sometimes while listening to a
sermon. Good! you open your eyes--I proceed:
“I have seen your man. Well, sincerely, he only half pleases me. I
do not deny that he has a handsome head; a sculptor might use it as a
model. I will add that his eyes are very interesting, by turns grave,
gentle, gay, or melancholy. I have nothing to say against his manners or
his language; his address is excellent, and he is no booby--far from it.
With all this there is something about him that shocks me--I scarcely
know what--a mingling of two natures that I cannot explain. He might be
said to resemble, according to circumstances, a lion or a fox; I believe
that the fox-nature predominates, that the lion is supplementary. I
simply give you my impressions, which I am perfectly willing to be
induced to change. I am inclined to fancy that M. Larinski passed his
first youth amid vulgar surroundings, that later he came into contact
with good society, and being intelligent soon shook off the force of
early influences; but there still remain some traces of these. While he
was in my _salon_ his eyes twice took an inventory of its contents,
and that with a rapidity which would have done credit to a practised
appraiser. It was then, especially, that he had the air of a fox.
“Nor is this all. I read the other day the story of a princess who was
travelling over the world, and asked hospitality, one evening, at the
door of a palace. Was she a real princess or an adventuress? The queen
who received her judged it well to ascertain. For this purpose she
prepared for her, with her own hands, a soft bed, composed of two
mattresses, on which she piled five feather-beds; between the two
mattresses she slipped three peas. The next day the traveller was asked
how she had slept. ‘Very badly,’ she replied. ‘I do not know what was in
my bed, but my whole body is bruised; I am black and blue, and I never
closed my eyes until dawn!’ ‘She is a true princess,’ cried the queen.
Is M. Larinski a true prince? I made him undergo the test of the three
peas. I allowed myself to question him with indiscreet, urgent, improper
curiosity; he did not appear to feel the indiscretion. He replied
promptly and submissively; he endeavoured to satisfy me, and I was not
satisfied. I shall see him again to-morrow--he comes to dine at Maisons.
I only wish to be able to prove to myself that he is a true prince.
“My dear professor, you are the most imprudent of men, and, whatever
happens, you have only yourself to blame. People do not open their
doors so easily to strangers. You tell me that, thanks to M. Larinski’s
kindness, you did not break your leg. Mercy on me! a father would better
break his leg in three places than expose his daughter to the risk of
marrying an adventurer; his leg could be easily set. There is nothing so
frightful in that.
“_Postscriptum_.--I open my letter. I want to prove to you how much I
desire to be just, and how far my impartiality goes. You know that
my neighbour, Abbe Miollens, lived a long time in Poland, and has
correspondents there. I begged him to get me information concerning the
count--of course, without explaining anything to him. He reports that
Count Abel Larinski is a true count. His father, the confiscation of the
property, the emigration to America, the Isthmus of Panama--all is true;
the history is authentic. Countess Larinski was a saint. Concerning the
son, nothing is known; he must have been three or four years old when he
landed in New York. No one ever saw him; no one seems to know anything
about his taking part in the insurrection of 1863. Having spoken the
truth about his parents, it is to be presumed that he told the truth
about himself. Very well, but one can fight for one’s country, and have
a saint for one’s mother, and yet possess none of the qualities that go
towards making a happy household. I take back the word adventurer, but I
still hold to all I have said about him. Why did he take an inventory of
my furniture with his eyes? Why did he sleep so soundly in a bed where
there were three peas? This requires an explanation.
“Kiss Antoinette for me. Give my regards to Mlle. Moiseney, without
telling her that I think her a simpleton; it is a conviction in which I
shall die. Was it, indeed, very difficult to descend from that terrible
rock of yours?”
Three days later, Mme. de Lorcy wrote a second letter:
“August 19th.
“I have received this very moment, my dear monsieur, the reply from
Vienna that I have been expecting, and which I hasten to share with you.
I had applied to our friend Baron B---, first secretary of the embassy
from France to Vienna, in order to try to learn what reputation Count
Larinski had left there. He is esteemed there as a most worthy man; as
an inventor who was more daring than wise; as a devoted patriot; as one
of those Poles whose only thought is of Poland and of their Utopia, and
who would set fire to the four corners of the earth without wincing, for
the sole purpose of procuring embers at which to roast their chestnuts.
I will not return to the subject of the gun; you know all about it. It
seems that there was some good in this explosive gun, and that he who
invented it united a sort of genius with ingenuousness, inexperience,
and ignorance enough to make one weep. Nothing can be said against the
private character of the man. He had a few debts, and his tradespeople
felt considerable anxiety when he left Vienna one morning on foot. He
had no sooner reached Switzerland than he sent back money to settle
everything. Here we have an admirable trait. However, his tastes were
simple, and he led a steady life; it was the gun that brought his
finances into disorder. I will add that M. Larinski visited in Vienna
at several of the most distinguished houses, where he is remembered
most kindly. He was sought everywhere on account of his talents as
a musician, which were far more to be relied on than his talent as a
gunsmith. He plays the piano to perfection, and has a very beautiful
voice. Had he employed these talents, he could have made his way to
the opera, but his dignity held him back. Now you know what has been
communicated to me by Baron B---. On the faith of an honest woman, I
have neither added nor omitted anything.
“I am going to astonish you. Would you believe that I am beginning to
be reconciled to Count Larinski? What shocked me in him is explained and
excused by his long residence in America. He is a mixed breed of Yankee
and Pole. Far from having prejudices against him, I now have them in
his favour. Do you know, I am by no means sure that he cherishes in
his heart any serious sentiment for your daughter? As a man of taste he
admires her. I should like to know who would not admire her! I suspect
Antoinette of allowing her imagination to become excited about nothing.
He talks of her on all occasions in as free and tranquil a fashion as he
would talk of a work of art. I find it impossible to believe that he
is in love. I have in vain watched his green eyes. I never have seen a
suspicious look.
“As I announced to you, he came to Maisons yesterday to dine. I had
invited Abbe Miollens, and Camille had invited himself, promising that
he would act like a philosopher; he only half kept his promise: for
I must inform you that my nephew has conceived, I do not know why,
an insurmountable antipathy to M. Larinski; he is subject to taking
dislikes to people. During dinner, Abbe Miollens, who is a great
linguist and a great traveller, and who has at the ends of his fingers
everything concerning Poland and the Poles, led the conversation to the
insurrection of 1863. M. Larinski, at first, refrained from discussing
this sad subject; little by little the flood-gates were opened: he
related his adventures or campaigns without boasting, praising others
rather than himself; when suddenly his voice grew husky and his eyes
dim, he interrupted himself, and begged we would speak of other things.
Fortunately, at this moment, he did not see Camille, whose lips were a
sinister smile. Young Frenchmen have become such sceptics! I made eyes
at the bad boy, and on leaving the table I sent him to smoke a cigar in
the park.
“I should confess to you that M. Larinski has made a conquest of Abbe
Miollens, who of all men is the most difficult to please, and who
disputes with Providence the privilege of fathoming the depths of the
human heart. You are aware that the abbe is a remarkable violinist: he
sent for his instrument; M. Larinski seated himself at the piano, and
the two gentlemen played a concert by Mozart--divine music performed by
two angels of the first class. The conversation that followed charmed me
more than the concerto. I do not know by what fatality we came to speak
of marriage. I did not miss the opportunity to disclose with a most
innocent air, my little theories, with which you are acquainted. Would
you believe that the count concurred, more than concurred, with my
views? He is more royalist than the king; he does not admit that a good
rule allows of any exception. According to him, a poor man who marries a
rich woman forfeits his honour, debases himself, sells himself; he is a
man in bondage. He developed this theme with sombre eloquence. I assure
you that the lion no longer bore resemblance to the fox.
“After the departure of this fine musician and great orator, Abbe
Miollens, remaining alone with me, told me how much he was charmed with
his conversation and manners; he could not cease to sing his praises. I
think he went a little too far. However, I joined with him in regretting
that a man of his merit should be reduced to live by expedients.
The abbe’s arm reaches a long way; he promised me that he would busy
himself, at the expense of all other business, to find some employment
for M. Larinski. He remembered that there was some talk of establishing
in London an international school for the living languages. One of
the founders of this institute had applied to him to learn if he could
recommend some professor of the Slavonian languages. It would be exactly
the thing, and I should be delighted to procure for your _protégé_ an
occupation that would insure all the happiness that it is possible
to enjoy on the other side of the Channel. After this, will you still
accuse me of being prejudiced against him?
“Adieu, my dear monsieur. Give my tender love to my amiable goddaughter.
I rely on you to read my letters to her with care and discretion. Little
girls should have only a part of the truth.”
Eight days afterward Mme. de Lorcy wrote a third letter, which was thus
expressed:
“August 27th.
“I am more and more content with M. Larinski. I blame myself for
the suspicions with which he inspired me. The Viennese were right to
consider him a worthy man, and Abbe Miollens has not valued him too
highly. You write, on your part, my dear friend, that you are not
dissatisfied with Antoinette. She is gay, tranquil; she walks, paints,
never speaks of Count Abel Larinski, and, when you speak to her of him,
she smiles and does not reply. You claim that she has reflected; that
time and absence have wrought their effect. ‘Out of sight, out of mind,’
you say. Take care! I am more mistrustful than you. Are you very sure
that Antoinette may not be a slyboots?
“What is certain is, that I received a charming epistle from her, in
which there is no more mention of M. Larinski than if Poland and the
Pole did not exist. She praises Engadine; she pretends that she would
ask for nothing better than to end her days in a pine-forest. I can read
between the lines that it would be a pine-forest after her own heart,
where there would be reunions, balls, guests to dinner, small parties,
a conservatory of music, and the opera. The last paragraph of her letter
is devoted to the insurrection in Herzegovina, and it is hardly worth
while to say that all her sympathies are with the insurgents. ‘If I were
a man,’ she writes, ‘I would go and fight for them.’ That is very well;
she always took the part of thieves against the police. I remember
long ago--she was ten years old--I told her the story of an unfortunate
traveller besieged in a forest by an army of wolves. He made a barricade
about himself, and around it he lighted great fires. The wolves fell
into the flames, where they roasted, one after the other. Antoinette
began to weep bitterly, and I imagined that she was lamenting the terror
of the unfortunate man. ‘Not at all,’ she cried: ‘the poor beasts!’ She
was made so; we cannot remake her. She will always side with the wolves,
especially with the lean ones who scarcely can make two ends meet.
“I told you that Count Larinski was a worthy man. He came to see me the
day before yesterday. We have become very good friends. I asked him if
Paris still pleased him, and he replied, with the most gracious smile,
‘What I like best in Paris is Maisons Lafitte.’ Thereupon he said
some exceedingly pretty things, which I will not repeat. We walked
_tete-a-tete_ around the park. Heaven be praised that I returned
heart-whole! We talked politics; he bears the reputation of being
hot-headed, but he is not wanting in good sense. I wished to know if he
was in favour of the Turks or of the Bosnians. He replied:
“‘As a Christian, as a Catholic, I am interested in the Christians of
the East, and I am for the Cross against the Crescent.’ He pronounced
these words, Christian, Catholic, and cross, in a tone full of unction.
I surmise that he is a devotee. He added, ‘As a Pole, I am for Turkey.’
“‘I believed,’ said I, ‘that the Poles had sympathy with all the
oppressed.’
“‘Poles,’ he replied, ‘cannot like those who like their oppressors, and
they cannot forget that the Osmanlis are their natural allies, and, on
occasions, their refuge.’
“I gave him Antoinette’s letter to read. I was very glad, at any hazard,
to prove to him that she could write four pages without asking about
him. He read it with extreme attention: but when he came to the famous
passage--‘If I were a man, I would go and fight for them!’--he smiled,
and returned me the letter, saying, in a disdainful and rather a dry
tone:
“‘Write for me to Mlle. Moriaz that I believe I am a man, yet that
I will not fight for the Bosnians, and that the Turks are my greatest
friends.’
“‘She is foolish,’ I said. ‘Fortunately, she changes her folly with
every new moon!’
“‘What would you have?’ he replied; ‘in order not to be insipid, it is
well to be a little foolish. My poor mother used often to say: “My
son, youth should be employed in laying by a great store of extravagant
enthusiasm; otherwise, at the end of life’s journey the heart will be
void, for much is left on the road.”’
“Calm, _seigneur_, your excited fears, no one has designs on your
daughter; we evidently find her charming, but are by no means in love
with her. With much precaution and circumlocution I gently proceeded
to question Count Larinski on the state of his affairs, about which
he never has opened his mouth. He frowned. I did not lose courage. I
offered him this place of professor of the Slavonian languages of which
the abbe had again spoken. I saw in an instant that his sensitive pride
had taken alarm. However, upon reflection, he softened, thanked me,
declined my kind offer, and announced--guess what! How much is my news
worth? what will you give for it? He announced, I tell you, that in two
weeks--you understand me--he will return to Vienna, where he has been
promised a post in the archives of the Minister of War. I did not dare
to ask what was the salary; after all, if he is satisfied, it is not for
us to be harder to please than he. When I affirm that Count Larinski is
a good, worthy man!--In two weeks! you understand me perfectly.
“My dear friend, I am enchanted to know that the water of Saint Moritz
and the air of the Engadine have entirely re-established your health;
but do not be imprudent. Half-cures are fatal. Be careful not to leave
Churwalden too soon, for the descent into the heavy atmosphere of the
plains. Your physician, whom I have just seen, declares that, if you
hasten your return he will not answer for the consequences. Antoinette,
I am sure, will join her entreaties to ours. Do not let us see you
before the end of three weeks! Follow my orders, my dear professor,
and all will go well. Camille is about to leave; he has become
insupportable. He had the audacity to assert to me that I was a good
woman, but very credulous, which in my estimation is not very polite. He
no longer acts as a nephew, and respect is dead.”
Ten days later M. Moriaz received at Churwalden a fourth and last
letter:
“September 6th.
“Decidedly my dear friend, Count Larinski is a delightful man, and I
never will pardon myself for having judged ill of him. The day before
yesterday I did not know the extent of his merit and of his virtues.
His beautiful soul is like a country where one passes from one pleasing
discovery to another, and at each step a new scene is revealed. Between
ourselves, Antoinette is a dreamer: where has she got the idea that this
man is in love with her? These Counts Larinski have artists’ enthusiasm,
tender and sensitive hearts, and poetic imaginations; they love
everything, and they love nothing; they admire a pretty woman as they
admire a beautiful flower, a humming-bird, a picture of Titian’s. Did
I tell you that the other day, as I was showing him through my park, he
almost fainted before my purple beech--which assuredly is a marvel? He
was in ecstasy; I truly believe there were tears in his eyes. I might
have supposed he was in love with my beech; yet he has not asked my
permission to marry it.
“Moreover, if he were up to his eyes in love with your daughter, have
no fear; he will not marry her, and this is the reason--Wait a little, I
must go further back.
“Abbe Miollens came to see me yesterday afternoon; he was distressed
that M. Larinski had not approved of his proposition.
“‘The evil is not so great,’ I said; ‘let him go back to Vienna, where
all his acquaintances are; he will be happier there.’
“‘The evil that I see in it,’ he replied, ‘is that he will be lost to
us forever. Vienna is so far away! Professor in London, only ten hours’
journey from Paris, he could cross the Channel sometimes, and we could
have our music together.’
“You can understand that this reasoning did not touch me in the least;
whatever it cost me I will bear it, and resign myself to lose M.
Larinski forever; but the abbe is obstinate.
“‘I fear,’ he said, ‘that the Austrians pay their archivists badly; the
English manage matters better, and Lord C--- gave me _carte blanche_.’
“‘Oh! but that,’ rejoined I, ‘is a delicate point to touch. As soon
as you approach the bread-and-butter question, our man assumes a rigid,
formal manner, as if an attack had been made on his dignity.’
“‘I truly believe,’ he replied, ‘that there is a fundamental basis of
incomparable nobility of sentiment in his character; he is not proud, he
is pride itself.’
“The abbe is passionately fond of Horace; he assets that it is to this
great poet that he owes that profound knowledge of men for which he
is distinguished. He quoted a Latin verse that he was kind enough
to translate for me, and that signified something equivalent to the
statement that certain horses rear and kick when you touch the sensitive
spot. ‘That is like the Poles,’ he said.
“Meanwhile, M. Larinski entered, and I retained the two gentlemen to
dinner. In the evening they again gave me a concert. Why was Antoinette
not there? I fancied I was at the Conservatoire. Then we conversed, and
the abbe, who never can let go his idea, said, without any reserve, to
the count:
“‘My dear count, have you reflected? If you go to London, we could hope
to see you often; and, besides, the salary--well, as this terrible
word has been spoken, listen to me; I will do all in my power to obtain
conditions for you in every way worthy of your merit, your learning,
your character, your position.’
“He was not permitted to finish the list; the count reared like the
horse in Horace, exclaiming, ‘O Mozart! what a horrid subject of
conversation!’ Then he added, gravely: ‘M. l’Abbe, you are a thousand
times too good, but the place offered to me in Vienna seems to me
better adapted to my kind of ability; I would make, I fear, a detestable
professor, and the salary, were it double, would in my opinion have but
little weight.’
“The abbe still insisted. ‘In our century,’ said he, ‘less than any
other, can one live on air.’
“‘I have lived on it sometimes,’ replied the count, gaily, ‘and I did
not find it bad. My health is proof against accidents. Ah! where money
is concerned, you have no idea how far my indifference goes. It is not
a virtue with me, it is an infirmity; it is because of my nationality,
because I am my father’s son. I feel myself incapable of thinking of the
future, of practising thoroughly French habits of economy. If my
purse is full, I soon empty it; after which I condemn myself to
privations--no, that does not express it--I enjoy them. According to me,
there is no true happiness into which a little suffering does not enter.
Besides, I have a taste for contrasts. At times I believe myself a
millionaire, I have the pretensions of a nabob; I give full scope to my
fancies; the next day, my bed is hard and I live on bread-and-water,
and am perfectly happy. In short, I am a fool once in the year, and a
philosopher the rest of the time.’
“‘The trouble is,’ returned the abbe, ‘that one day of folly will
sometimes suffice to compromise forever the future of a philosopher.’
“‘Oh, reassure yourself,’ replied he; ‘my extravagances never are very
dangerous. There was method in Hamlet’s madness, and there is always a
little reason in mine.’
“While making this declaration of principles, he had seated himself at
the piano, and idly began running his fingers over the keys. Suddenly he
began to sing a German song, which I got Abbe Miollens to translate
for me, and which is not long. The hero of the song is an amorous pine,
standing on the summit of a barren mountain of the north. He is alone;
he is weary; the snow and ice wrap him in a white mantle, and he spends
his dreary hours of leisure in dreaming of a palm, which in days of yore
he met, it seems, in his travels.
“M. Larinski sang this little melody with so much pathos that the good
abbe was touched, and I became anxious. Anxiety, once felt, is apt to
be constantly returning. I asked myself if he had met his palm in the
Engadine, and added aloud, rather dryly: ‘Is the day of your departure
definitely fixed? will you not do us the favour of granting us a
reprieve?’
“He executed the most pearly chromatic scale, and replied: ‘Alas!
madame, I am only deferring my departure on account of a letter that
cannot be much longer delayed; in less than a week, I shall have the
distress of bidding you farewell.’
“‘You shall not leave,’ said Abbe Miollens, ‘without letting us hear
once again the poem of the pine. You sang it with so much soul that it
seemed to me you must be relating an episode of your own history. My
dear count, did you ever chance to dream of a palm?’
“He answered: ‘I have no longer the right to dream; I am no longer
free.’
“The abbe started and cried out, in his simple-hearted way, ‘Ah! what,
are you married?’
“‘I thought I had told you so,’ replied he with a melancholy smile, and
he hastened to speak of a ballet that he had seen the evening before at
the opera, and with which he was only half pleased.
“You can readily believe that when he pronounced the words, ‘I thought
I had told you so,’ I was on the point of falling on his neck; I was so
happy, that I was afraid he would read in my eyes my joy, astonishment,
and profound gratitude. I think that he is very keen, and that he has
conjectured for some time the mistrust with which he inspired me. If
he wanted to mock me a little, I will pardon him; a good man unjustly
suspected has a perfect right to revenge himself by a little irony.
I ordered the horses to be put to my carriage to take him over to the
railroad, and the abbe and I accompanied him as far as the station.
There cannot be too much regard shown to honest people who have been
abused by fortune.
“Well! what do you say, my dear friend? Was I wrong in claiming that M.
Larinski is a delightful man? He will leave before the end of a
week, and he is married, unhappily married, I fear, for his smile
was melancholy. You see he may have married out of gratitude some
_grisette_, some little working-woman, who nursed him through illness,
one of those women who are not presentable; that would be thoroughly in
character. Happily, in law there are no good or bad marriages; this one
I hold to be unimpeachable.
“The reaction was violent: I am so rejoiced that I feel tempted to
illuminate Cormeilles and Maisons Lafitte. In what way will your
undeceive our dreamer? In your place I would use some precautions. Be
prudent; go bridle in hand; and in the future, believe me, climb no more
among the rocks; you see what it may lead to.
“Once more, do not hasten your departure. We have had for some days
stifling heat; we literally suffocate. You need to spend a fortnight
longer amid the shade of the pine-trees, and four thousand feet above
the level of the sea.
“Adieu, my dear professor! I am interrupted in my writing by the
incredulous, the sceptical, the suspicious, the absurd, the ridiculous
Camille, who respectfully recommends himself to your indulgent
friendship.”