On her entering her coupe to return to Cormeilles, Mlle. Moriaz was the
prey of an agitation that did not calm down during the entire drive. Her
whole soul was stirred by a tender, passionate sentiment for the man who
had swooned away in taking farewell of her; she was filled with anger
against the foolish prejudices and the petty finesse of the people of
the world; filled with joy at having baffled a monstrous conspiracy
against her happiness; filled with pride because she had seen clearly,
because she had not mistaken in her choice, and because the man whom she
loved was worthy of being loved. During several days she had suffered
cruelly from anxiety, from actual agony of mind, and over and over
again she had said to herself, “Perhaps they are right.” A woman’s heart
believes itself to be at the mercy of error, and it is torture to it
to be obliged to doubt itself and its own clairvoyance. When it is
unmistakably demonstrated to it that its god is only an idol of wood
or of stone, that what was once adored must henceforth be despised, it
feels ready to die, and imagines that some spring must give way in the
vast machine of the universe, that the sky must fall, the earth crumble
away; and yet a woman’s error of judgment is not a matter of such very
grave import. The sun continues to shine, the earth to revolve upon its
axis, as though it had not occurred. The machine of the universe would
be subject to quite too many accidents should it become unsettled every
time a woman made a mistake.
“It was I who was right; they were incapable of comprehending him,”
though Mlle. Moriaz, as she crossed the Seine, and she contemplated with
a delighted eye the lovely blue sky, the tranquil waters, the verdant
banks of the river, with their long range of poplar-trees. It seemed
to her that all was going well, that order reigned everywhere, that the
Great Mechanician was at his post, that the world was in good hands, and
that travellers therein had no cause to fear untoward mischance.
When she arrived at Cormeilles, M. Moriaz was shut up in his laboratory,
which he had been overjoyed to find just as he had left it. A velvet
skull-cap perched on one side of his head, his sleeves turned up, a
brown holland apron tied round his neck and his waist, a feather brush
in his hand, he had proceeded at once to examine his precious stock in
detail--his furnaces, his long-necked, big-bellied matrasses, the curved
necks and the tubulures of his retorts, his cucurbits, and his alembics.
Balloons, tubes, pipettes, pneumatic vats, receivers, cupels, lamps,
bell-glasses, blow-pipes, and mortars, he passed in review to assure
himself that during his absence nothing had been damaged. He carefully
dusted his jars, examined the labels, made sure that none of his
treasures were cracked, that his gauges were not out of order. He was as
happy as a king who has his troops pass in review before him, and feels
convinced that they bear themselves well; that they will stand fire and
do honour to their master.
Agreeable as was the occupation to which for two hours he had devoted
himself, M. Moriaz had not forgotten the existence of his daughter and
of M. Larinski. He knew that Antoinette had repaired to Maisons Lafitte
to have an explanation with Mme. de Lorcy, and this thought cast a
shadow over his felicity. He hoped, however, that this interview might
turn out according to his wishes; that the Pole star, which had caused
him so much disquietude, might disappear forever from his horizon.
Some one knocked at the door of his laboratory. “Come in!” he cried, and
turning he saw Antoinette standing upon the threshold. He gazed at
her fixedly. Her eye was so animated, her countenance so beaming, so
luminous, that involuntarily he dropped his arms and let fall, as he did
so, a little vial he held in his hands.
“Naughty girl, to cause such havoc in her father’s laboratory!” she
cried, gaily.
“The harm done is not very great,” he replied; and he began diligently
brushing up the fragments of the vial. It was his way of gaining time,
but he did it so awkwardly that she snatched the brush from his hands:
“This is the way to sweep,” said she.
He watched her, saying to himself: “This is the reverse of the scene at
Churwalden. It is now I who wear a long face, and she cannot dissemble
her joy. Just requital of things here below.”
So soon as she had finished her brushing she looked around and remarked:
“Well, here you are once more in your paradise--this enchanted spot,
where you taste such ineffable delights.”
“Oh, yes, I am happy here--happy enough that is,” he replied, with
modesty.
“Fastidious creature! It is altogether charming in your laboratory.”
“Yes, it is suitable. Nevertheless, I often reflect that there is
something wanting. Do you know what my dream is? I should like to
have over in yonder corner a transparent _chapelle_. You, perhaps, are
unacquainted with a _chapelle_. It is a framework or basket-funnel above
a chimney, for facilitating the release of volatiles and pernicious
vapours, and having one side of glass. It enables the chemist to watch
the process taking place within. German chemists have nearly always
transparent _chapelles_ in their laboratories.”
“How can any one accuse you of lack of imagination?” she exclaimed. “You
are a very romantic man, and your romance is a transparent _chapelle_.
Now I know why you are so indulgent to the romances of others.”
Then carelessly drawing the brush in her hand over an arm-chair, she
seated herself in it, placed another seat facing her, and said: “Come,
sit down here near me on this stool; I will put a cushion on it to make
you more comfortable. Come, I must talk with you.”
He drew near, seated himself, and put his ear towards her. “Must I take
off my apron?” he asked.
“Why so?”
“I foresee that our conversation will revolve about matters pertaining
to the height of romance. I wish to make a suitable appearance.”
“Nonsense! your apron is very becoming. All that I desire and stipulate
is, that you will accord me most religious attention.”
She then proceeded to recount to him, point by point, all that had
occurred at Mme. de Lorcy’s. She began her recital in a tranquil tone;
she grew animated; she warmed up by degrees; her eyes sparkled. He
listened to her with deep chagrin; but he gazed on her with pride as he
did so, thinking, “_Mon Dieu_, how beautiful she is, and what a lucky
rascal is this Pole!”
When she had ended, there was a moment’s pause, during which she left
him to his reflections. As he maintained an ominous silence, she grew
impatient. “Speak,” she exclaimed. “I wish to know your innermost
thoughts.”
“I think you are adorable.”
“Oh! please, do for once be serious.”
“Seriously,” he rejoined, “I am not certain that you are wrong, nor has
it been proved to me that you are right; there remain some doubts.”
She cried out eagerly: “According to this, the sole realities of this
world are things that can be seen, touched, felt--a retort and its
contents. Beyond this all is null and void, a lie, a cheat. Ah! your
wretched retorts and crucibles! If I followed out this thought, I should
be ready to break every one of them.”
She cast about her as she spoke so ferocious and threatening a
look, that M. Moriaz trembled for his laboratory, “I beg of you,” he
protested, “have mercy on my poor crucibles, my honest retorts, my
innocent jars! They have nothing to do with this affair. Is it their
fault that the stories you narrate to me so disturb my usual train of
thoughts that I find it wholly impossible to make adroit replies?”
“You do not, then, believe in the extraordinary?”
“The extraordinary! Every time I encounter it, I salute it,” replied he,
drawing off his cap and bowing low; “but at the same time I demand its
papers.”
“Ah! there we are. I really imagined that the investigation had been
made.”
“It was not conclusive, since it failed to convince Mme. de Lorcy.”
“Ah! who could convince Mme. de Lorcy? Do you forget how people of the
world are constituted, and how they detest all that astonishes, all
that exceeds their limits, all that they cannot weight with their small
balances, measure with their tiny compasses?”
“_Peste!_ you are severe on the world; I always fancied that you were
fond of it.”
“I do not know whether I am fond of it or not; it is certain that
I scarcely should know how to live without it; but I surely may be
permitted to pass an opinion on it, and I often tell myself that
if Christ should reappear among us with his train of publicans and
fisherman--are you listening?--that if the meek and the lowly Jesus
should come to preach his Sermon on the Mount in the Boulevard des
Italiens--”
“To make a show of probability,” he interrupted, “suppose you were
to place the scene at Montmartre. Frankly, I cannot see what possible
connection there can be between the Christ and your Count Larinski; and,
pray, do not let us enter into a theological discussion; you know it is
wholly out of my line. Religion seems to me an excellent thing, a most
useful thing, and I freely accept Christianity, minus the romantic side,
with which I have no time to occupy myself. You will at least grant
me that, if there are true miracles, there are also false ones. How
distinguish them?”
“It is the heart that must decide,” said she.
“Oh! the infallibility of the heart!” exclaimed he. “There never was
council yet that voted that.”
There was a pause, after which M. Moriaz resumed: “And so, my dear, you
are persuaded that M. Larinski is still free, and that Mme. de Lorcy
lied?”
“Not at all; if she had lied, she would not have betrayed herself so
naively just now. I accuse her of deceiving herself, or rather of having
wished to deceive herself. Do you know what you are going to do--I mean
this evening--after dinner? You are going to order up the carriage, and
you are going--”
“To Paris, Rue Mont-Thabor!” he exclaimed, bounding up in his seat.
“Very good, I will put on a dress-coat, and I will say to Count
Larinski: ‘My dear monsieur, I come to demand your hand for my daughter,
who adores you. Certain malicious tongues assert that you are no longer
free; I do not believe them; besides, this would be a mere bagatelle.’
On the whole, I believe you would do better to put it down in writing
for me; left to myself I never will get through with it; out of my
professor’s chair I have considerable difficulty in finding words!”
“Dear me, how hasty you are! Who suggests such a thing? Abbe Miollens is
our friend; he is a worthy man, whose testimony would be reliable.”
“Now this is something like! I see what you mean. At this rate you will
not need to prepare my harangue. Here we have an acceptable idea, a
possible interview. This evening, after my dinner, I shall go see Abbe
Miollens; but it is clearly understood, I presume, that if he confirms
the sentence--”
“I shall not ask for its repeal, and I promise you that I will be
courageous beyond anything that you can imagine; you shall not so much
as suspect that I even regret my chimera. But, as a fair exchange, you
on your side must make me a promise. If Abbe Miollens--”
“You know as well as I that you are of age.”
“I know as well as you that I never will be content without your
consent. Here once more as in the Engadine, I say, ‘Either he or no
one.’”
“Did I not warn you that when once a formula has been pronounced, one is
apt to keep on repeating it forever?”
“Either he or no one: that is my last word. Would you not rather that it
should be he? Are you willing to accept him?”
“I will submit.”
“With a good grace?”
“With resignation.”
“With cheerful resignation?”
“I shall certainly do my best to acquire it; or, rather, if he makes
you happy, I shall welcome him all the days of my life; in the contrary
case, I will repeat, morning and evening, like Mme. de Lorcy: ‘You would
not listen to me; you ought to have believed me.’”
“It is agreed; you are a good father, and now we are in perfect
harmony,” she replied, impulsively seizing his two hands, and pressing
them in her own.
He watched her a moment between his half-closed eyes, and then he cried,
half resentfully:
“But, _mon Dieu_ why do you love this man?”
She replied, in a low voice: “Because I love him; this is my sole
reason; but I find it good.”
“Certainly most decisive. But, come, let us go quickly,” he replied,
rising. “I fear that my retorts and crucibles, if they listen to
you much longer, will fall into a syncope as prolonged as that of M.
Larinski. Was ever such a debate heard of in a chemical laboratory?”
As soon as dinner was over, M. Moriaz made ready to repair to Maisons,
where Abbe Miollens passed the summer in the vicinity of Mme. de Lorcy.
Mlle. Moiseney followed him to the carriage, and said:
“You have a remarkable daughter, monsieur! With what courage she has
assumed her role! With what resolution she has renounced an impossible
happiness! Did you observe her during dinner? How tranquil she was! how
attentive! Is she not astonishing?”
“As astonishing as you are sagacious,” he replied.
“Ah! undoubtedly; I never thought that she loved him so much as you
imagine I did: but he pleased her; she admired him. Did she ever utter a
word of complaint, or a sigh, on learning the cruel truth? what strength
of mind! what equability of temperament! what nobility of sentiment! You
do not admire her enough, monsieur; you are not proud enough of having
such a daughter. As to me, I glory in having been of some value in her
education. I always made a point of developing her judgment, and putting
her on her guard against all erratic tendencies. Yes, I can safely say
that I took great pains to cultivate and fortify her reason.”
“I thank you with all my heart,” rejoined M. Moriaz, leaning back in
one corner of the carriage; “you can most assuredly boast of having
accomplished a marvellous work; but I beg of you, mademoiselle, when you
have finished your discourse, will you kindly say to the coachman that I
am ready to start?”
During the drive, M. Moriaz gave himself up to the most melancholy
reflections; he even tormented himself with sundry reproaches. “We have
acted contrary to good sense,” he thought. “Her imagination has been
taken by storm; in time it would have calmed down. We should have left
her to herself, to her natural defence--her own good judgment, for she
has a large stock of it. I fell on the unlucky idea of calling Mme.
de Lorcy to my aid, and she has spoiled everything by her boasted
_finesse_. As soon as Antoinette had reason to suspect that her choice
was condemned by us, and that we were plotting the enemy’s destruction,
the sympathy, mingled with admiration, which she accorded to M.
Larinski, became transformed into love; the fire smouldering beneath
ashes leaped up into flames. We neglected to count on that passion which
is innate in women, and which phrenologists call combativeness. With her
there is now a cause to be gained, and, when love unites its interests
with cards or with war, it becomes irresistible. Truly our campaign is
greatly jeopardized, unless Heaven or M. Larinski interfere.”
Thus reasoned M. Moriaz, whom paternal misadventures and recent
experiences had rendered a better psychologist than he ever had been.
While busied with his reflections the carriage drove rapidly onward, and
thirty-five minutes sufficed to reach the little _maison de campagne_
occupied by Abbe Miollens. He found him in his cabinet, installed in a
cushioned arm-chair embroidered by Mme. de Lorcy, slowly sipping a cup
of excellent tea brought him by the missionaries from China. On his left
was his violin-box, on his right his beloved Horace, Orelli’s edition,
Zurich, 1844.
Conversation began. As soon as M. Moriaz had pronounced the name of
Count Larinski, the abbe assumed the charmed and contented countenance
of a dog lying in wait for its favourite game.
He exclaimed, “A most truly admirable man!”
“Mercy upon us!” thought M. Moriaz. “Here we have an exordium strangely
similar to that of Mlle. Moiseney. Do they think to condemn me to a
state of perpetual admiration of their prodigy? I fear there must
be some kinship of spirit between our friend the abbe and that
crack-brained woman; that he is cousin-german to her at least.”
“How grateful I am to you, my dear monsieur,” continued Abbe Miollens,
lying back in his chair, “for having given us the pleasure of the
acquaintance of this rare man! It is you who sent him to us; to you
belongs the merit of having discovered him, or invented him, if you
choose.”
“Oh! I beg of you not to exaggerate,” humbly rejoined M. Moriaz. “He
invented himself, I assure you.”
“At all events it was you who patronized him, who made him known to us;
without you the world never would have suspected the existence of this
superb genius, this noble character, who was hidden from sight like the
violet in the grass.”
“He is unquestionably her cousin-german,” thought M. Moriaz.
“Only think,” continued the abbe, “I have found M. Larinski all over
again in Horace! Yes, Horace has represented him, trait for trait, in
the person of Lollius. You know Marcus Lollius, to whom he addressed Ode
ix. of book iv., and who was consul in the year 733 after the foundation
of Rome. The resemblance is striking; pay attention!”
Depositing his cup on the table he took the book in his right hand, and
placing the forefinger of his left by turns on his lips or complacently
following with it the lines of especial beauty in the text, he
exclaimed: “Now what do you say to this? ‘Thy soul is wise,’ wrote
Horace to Lollius, ‘and resists with the same constancy the temptations
of happiness as those of adversity--_est animus tibi et secundis
temporibus dubusque rectus_.’ Is not this Count Larinski? Listen
further: ‘Lollius detested fraud and cupidity; he despised money which
seduces most men--_abstinens ducentis ad se cuncta pecuniae_.’ This
trait is very striking; I find even, between ourselves, that our dear
count despises money entirely too much, he turns from it in horror, its
very name is odious to him; he is an Epictetus, he is a Diogenes, he is
an anchorite of ancient times who would live happily in a Thebaid. He
told us himself that it made little difference to him whether he dined
on a piece of bread and a glass of water, or in luxury at the Café
Anglais. But I have not finished. ‘Happy be those,’ exclaimed Horace,
‘who know how to suffer uncomplainingly the hardships of poverty--_qui
duram que callet pauperiem pati_!’ Of whom does he speak--of Lollius,
or of our friend, who not only endures his poverty but who loves it,
cherishes it as a lover adores his mistress? And the final trait,
what to you think of it? Lollius was always ready to die for his
country--‘_non ille pro patria timidus perire_.’ In good faith, is it
not curious? Does it not seem as though Horace had known Count Larinski
at Rome or at Tibur?”
“I do not doubt it for an instant,” replied M. Moriaz, taking the book
from the hands of Abbe Miollens and placing it respectfully on the
table. “Luckily, our friend Larinski, as you call him, fell upon the
excellent idea of resuscitating himself some thirty years ago, which
procured for us the great joy of meeting him at Saint Moritz; and while
we are on the subject--My dear abbe, have you a free, impartial mind?
Can you listen to me? I have a question to propound, an elucidation to
demand. It is not only the friend to whom I address myself, it is the
confessor, the director of consciences, the man of the whole universe in
whose discretion I place most reliance.”
“I am all ears,” responded the abbe, crossing the shapely legs in which
he took no little pride.
M. Moriaz entered at once into the subject that troubled him. It was
some moments before Abbe Miollens divined whither he was tending.
As soon as he had grasped a ray of light, his face contracted, and
uncrossing his limbs, he cried: “Ah, what a misfortune! You will have
to renounce your delightful dream, my dear Monsieur, and, believe me,
no one can be more grieved than I. I fully comprehend with what joy you
would have seen your charming daughter consecrate, I will not say her
fortune, for you know as well as I how little Count Larinski would care
for that, but consecrate, I say, her graces, her beauty, and all the
qualities of her angelic character to the happiness of a man of rare
merit who has been cruelly scourged by Providence. She loves him, she
is loved by him; Heaven would have blest their union. Ah, what a
misfortune! I must repeat it, this marriage is impossible; our friend is
already married.”
“You are sure of it?” cried M. Moriaz, in a burst of enthusiasm that the
good abbe mistook for an access of despair.
“I scarcely can pardon myself for causing you this pain. You ask if I am
sure of it! I have it from our friend himself. One evening, apropos of I
scarcely remember what, it occurred to me to ask if he were married,
and he replied, briefly: ‘I thought I had told you so.’ Ah! my dear
professor, it were needless to discuss whether such a marriage would be
a happy one, for it never can take place.”
“Well, now we have something positive,” M. Moriaz hastened to observe,
“and there is nothing to do but yield to evidence.”
“Alas! yes,” rejoined the abbe; and, then, after a pause, during which
he wore a reflective air, he added, “However--”
“There is no ‘however,’ M. l’Abbe. Believe me, your word suffices.”
“But I might possibly have misunderstood.”
“I have entire confidence in your ears--they are excellent.”
“But pray allow me to observe that it is never worth while to despair
too soon. Do you know what? Count Larinski came recently to see me
without finding me at home. I owe him a farewell visit. To-morrow
morning, I promise you, I will call on him.”
“For what purpose?” interrupted M. Moriaz. “I thank you a thousand
times for your kindly intentions, but God forbid that I should uselessly
interfere with your daily pursuits; your time is too precious! I declare
myself completely edified. I consider the proof firmly established;
there is no further doubt.”
As Madame de Lorcy had remarked, Abbe Miollens was not one to easily
relax his hold upon an idea he had once deemed good. In vain M. Moriaz
combated his proposition, bestowing secret maledictions on his excess
of zeal; the abbe would not give up, and M. Moriaz was forced to be
resigned. It was agreed that the next day the worthy man should call on
Count Larinski, and that from Paris he should repair to Cormeilles, in
order to communicate to the proper person the result of his mission.
M. Moriaz perceived the advantage of having Antoinette learn from the
abbe’s own lips the fatal truth; and he did not leave without impressing
upon him to be very circumspect, as prudent as a serpent, as discreet
as a father confessor. He started for home with quite a contented mind,
seeing the future lie smoothly and pleasantly before him, and it really
seemed to him that the drive from Maisons to Cormeilles was a much
shorter and more agreeable one than that from Cormeilles to Maisons.
Samuel Brohl was seated before an empty trunk, which he was apparently
about to pack, when he heard some one knock at his door. He went to open
it and found himself face to face with Abbe Miollens. From the moment of
their first meeting, Samuel Brohl had conceived for the abbe that warm
sympathy, that strong liking, with which he was always inspired by
people in whom he believed he recognised useful animals who might be
of advantage to him, whom he considered destined to render him some
essential service. He seldom mistook; he was a admirable diagnostician;
he recognised at first sight the divine impress of predestination. He
gave the most cordial reception to his reverend friend, and ushered him
into his modest quarters with all the more _empressement_, because he
detected at once the mysterious, rather agitated air he wore. “Does he
come in the quality of a diplomatic agent, charged with some mission
extraordinary?” he asked himself. On his side the abbe studied Samuel
Brohl without seeming to do so. He was struck with his physiognomy,
which expressed at this moment a manly yet sorrowful pride. His eyes
betrayed at intervals the secret of some heroic grief that he had sworn
to repress before men, and to confess to God alone.
He sat down with his guest, and they began to talk; but the abbe
directed the conversation into topics of the greatest indifference.
Samuel Brohl listened to him and replied with a melancholy grace. Lively
as was his curiosity he well knew how to hold it in check. Samuel Brohl
never had been in a hurry; during the month that had elapsed he had
proved that he knew how to wait--a faculty lacking in more diplomates
than one.
Abbe Miollens’s call had lasted during the usual time allotted to a
polite visit, and the worthy man seemed about to depart, when, pointing
with his forefinger to the open valise, he remarked: “I see here
preparations that grieve me. I did dream, my dear count, of inviting
you to Maisons. I have a spare chamber there which I might offer to you.
_Hoc erat in votis_, I should indeed have been happy to have had you for
a guest. We should have chatted and made music to our hearts’ content,
close by a window opening on a garden. ‘Hae latebrae dulces, etiam, si
credis, amoenae.’ But, alas! you are going to leave us; you do not
care for the friendship accorded you here. Has Vienna such superior
attractions for you? But I remember, you will doubtless be restored
there to a pleasant home, a charming wife, children perhaps who----”
Samuel looked at him with an astonished, confused air, as he had
viewed Mme. de Lorcy when she undertook to speak to him of the Countess
Larinski. “What do you mean?” he finally asked.
“Why, did you not confide to me yourself that you were married?”
Samuel opened wide his eyes; during some moments he seemed to be in
a dream; then, suddenly putting his hand to his brow and beginning to
smile, he said: “Ah! I see--I see. Did you take me literally? I thought
you understood what I said. No, my dear abbe, I am not married, and I
never shall marry; but there are free unions as sacred, as indissoluble
as marriage.”
The abbe knit his brows, his countenance assumed an expression of
chagrin and disapproval. He was about delivering to his dear count a
sermon on the immorality and positive danger of free unions, but
Samuel Brohl gave him no time. “I am not going to Vienna to rejoin
my mistress,” he interposed. “She never leaves me, she accompanies me
everywhere; she is here.”
Abbe Miollens cast about him a startled, bewildered gaze, expecting to
see a woman start out of some closet or come forward from behind some
curtain.
“I tell you that she is here,” repeated Samuel Brohl, pointing to an
alabaster statuette, posed on a _piedouche_. The statuette represented a
woman bound tightly, on whom two Cossacks were inflicting the knout; the
socle bore the inscription, “Polonia vincta et flagellata.”
The abbe’s countenance became transformed in the twinkling of an eye,
the wrinkles smoothed away from his brow, his mouth relaxed, a joyous
light shone in his eyes. “How well it is that I came!” thought he. “And
under what obligations M. Moriaz will be to me!”
Turning towards Samuel he exclaimed:
“I am simply a fool; I imagined--Ah! I comprehend, your mistress is
Poland; this is delightful, and it is truly a union that is as sacred
as marriage. It has, besides, this advantage--that it interferes with
nothing else. Poland is not jealous, and if, peradventure, you should
meet a woman worthy of you whom you would like to marry, your mistress
would have nothing to say against it. To speak accurately, however,
she is not your mistress; one’s country is one’s mother, and reasonable
mothers never prevent their sons from marrying.”
It was now Samuel’s turn to assume a stern and sombre countenance. His
eye fixed upon the statuette, he replied:
“You deceive yourself, M. l’Abbe, I belong to her, I have no longer the
right to dispose of either my heart, or my soul, or my life; she will
have my every thought and my last drop of blood. I am bound to her by my
vows quite as much, I think, as is the monk by his.”
“Excuse me, my dear count,” said the abbe; “this is fanaticism, or
I greatly mistake. Since when have patriots come to take the vow of
celibacy? Their first duty is to become the fathers of children who will
become good citizens. The day when there will cease to be Poles, there
will cease also to be a Poland.”
Samuel Brohl interrupted him, pressing his arm earnestly, and saying:
“Look at me well; have I not the appearance of an adventurer?” The abbe
recoiled. “This word shocks you?” continued Samuel. “Yes, I am a man of
adventures, born to be always on my feet, and ready to start off at a
moment’s warning. Marriage was not instituted for those whose lives are
liable at any time to be in jeopardy.” With a tragic accent, he added:
“You know what occurred in Bosnia. How do we know that war may not very
shortly be proclaimed, and who can foresee the consequences? I must hold
myself in readiness for the great day. Perhaps an inscrutable Providence
may ere long offer me a new occasion to risk my life for my country;
perhaps Poland will call me, crying, ‘Come, I have need of thee!’ If I
should respond: ‘I belong no more to myself, I have given my heart to
a woman who holds me in chains; I have henceforth a roof, a family, a
hearthstone, dear ties that I dare not break!’ I ask you, M. l’Abbe,
would not Poland have a right to say to me, ‘Thou hast violated thy vow;
thou hast denied me; upon thy head rest forever my maledictions?’”
Abbe Miollens had just taken a pinch of snuff, and he hearkened to this
harangue, tapping his fingers impatiently on the lid of his handsome
gold snuff-box, which had been presented to him by the most amiable of
his penitents.
“If this be the way you view it,” replied he, “is your conscience quite
tranquil, my dear friend? for you will permit me, I trust, to call you
so. Ay, is it sure that from your standpoint your conscience has no
accusations to make you? Is it certain that your heart has not been
unfaithful to its mistress? If I may believe a certain rumour that has
reached my ear, there took place a most singular scene yesterday at the
house of Mme. de Lorcy.”
Samuel Brohl trembled violently; he changed colour; he buried his face
in his hands, doubtless to hide from the abbe the blushes remorse had
caused to mantle his cheeks. In a faint voice he murmured:
“Not a word more! you know not how deep a wound you have probed.”
“It is, then, true that you love Mlle. Antoinette Moriaz?” asked the
abbe.
“I have sworn that she never shall know it,” replied Samuel, in accents
of the most humble contrition. “Yesterday I had the unworthy weakness to
betray myself. _Mon Dieu!_ what must she have thought of me?”
As he spoke thus, his face buried in his hands, he slightly moved apart
his fingers, and fixed upon the abbe two glittering eyes that, like
cats’ eyes, were capable of seeing clearly in the dark.
“What she thinks of you!” echoed the abbe, taking a fresh pinch of
snuff. “Bah! my dear count, women never are angry when a man swoons
away because of their bright eyes, especially when this man is a noble
chevalier, a true knight of the Round Table. I have reason to believe
that Mlle. Moriaz did not take your accident unkindly. Shall I tell
you my whole thought? I should not be surprised if you had touched her
heart, and that, if you take the pains, you may flatter yourself with
the hope of one day being loved by her.”
At this moment the voice of his worthy friend appeared to Samuel Brohl
the most harmonious of all music. He felt a delicious thrill quiver
through his frame. The abbe was telling him nothing he had not known
before; but there are things of which we are certain, things that we
have told ourselves a hundred times, and yet that seem new when told us
for the first time by another.
“You are not misleading me?” ejaculated Samuel Brohl, overwhelmed with
joy, transported beyond himself. “Can it really be true!--One day I may
flatter myself--one day she may judge me worthy--Ah! what a glorious
vision you cause to pass before my eyes! How good and cruel together you
are to me! What bitterness is intermingled with the ineffable sweetness
of your words! No, I never could have believed that there could be so
much joy in anguish, so much anguish in joy.”
“What would you imply, my dear count?” interposed Abbe Miollens. “Have
you need of a negotiator? I can boast of having had some experience in
that line. I am wholly at your service.”
These words calmed Samuel Brohl. Quickly recovering himself, he coldly
rejoined:
“A negotiator? What occasion would I have for a negotiator? Do not
delude me with a chimera, and above all do not tempt me to sacrifice
my honour to it. This height of felicity that you offer to me I must
renounce forever; I have told you why.”
Abbe Miollens was at first inclined to be indignant; he even took the
liberty to rebuke, to expostulate with his noble friend. He endeavoured
to prove to him that his principles were too rigorous, that such a thing
is possible as exaggeration in virtue, too great refinement in delicacy
of conscience. He represented to him that noble souls should beware of
exaltation of sentiment. He cited the Gospels, he cited Bossuet, he
also cited his well-beloved Horace, who censored all that was ultra
or excessive, and recommended the sage to flee all extremities. His
reasoning was weak against the unwavering resolution of Samuel, who
resisted, with the firmness of a rock, all his remonstrances, and
finally ended these with the words:
“Peace, I implore you! Respect my folly, which is surely wisdom in the
eyes of God. I repeat it to you, I am no longer free, and, even if I
were, do you not know that there is between Mlle. Moriaz and myself an
insurmountable barrier?”
“And pray, what is that?” demanded the abbe.
“Her fortune and my pride,” said Samuel. “She is rich, I am poor; this
adorable being is not made for me. I told Mme. de Lorcy one day what
I thought of this kind of alliances, or, to speak more clearly, of
bargains. Yes, my revered friend, I love Mlle. Moriaz with an ardour of
passion with which I reproach myself as though it were a crime. Nothing
remains to me but to avoid seeing her, and I never will see her again.
Let me follow to its end my solitary and rugged path. One consolation
will accompany me: I can say that happiness has not been denied to me:
that it is my conscience, admonished from on high, which has refused to
accept it, and there is a divine sweetness in great trials religiously
accepted. Believe me, it is God who speaks to me, as he spoke to me of
old in San Francisco, to enjoin me to forsake everything and give my
blood for my country. I recognise his voice, which to-day bids my heart
be silent and immolate itself on the altar of its chosen cause. God and
Poland! Beyond this, my watch-word, I have no longer the right to yield
to anything.”
And, turning towards the statuette, he exclaimed: “It is at her feet
that I lay down my dolorous offering; she it is who will cure my bruised
and broken heart.”
Samuel Brohl spoke in a voice thrilling with emotion; the breath of the
Divine Spirit seemed to play through his hair, and make his eyes grow
humid. The eyes of the good abbe also grew moist: he was profoundly
moved; he gazed with veneration upon this hero; he was filled with
respect for this antique character, for this truly celestial soul. He
never had seen anything like it, either in the odes or in the epistles
of Horace. Lollius himself was surpassed. Transported with admiration,
he opened wide his arms to Samuel Brohl, spreading them out their full
length, as though otherwise they might fail to accomplish their object,
and, clasping him to his bosom, he cried:
“Ah! my dear count, how grand you are! You are immense as the world!”