At this instant, the noise of the struggle which had recommenced between

the rabble, the Wolves, and the Devourers, reached the ears of the dying

man.

“That noise! that noise!” said he: “they are fighting.”

“It is growing less, I think,” said the marshal, in order not to agitate

his father.

“Pierre,” said the old man, in a weak and broken voice, “I have not long

to live.”

“Father--”

“Let me speak, child; if I can but tell you all.”

“Sir,” said Baleinier piously to the old workman, “heaven may perhaps

work a miracle in your favor; show yourself grateful, and allow a

priest--”

“A priest! Thank you, sir--I have my son,” said the old man; “in his

arms, I will render up my soul--which has always been true and honest.”

“You die?” exclaimed the marshal; “no! no!”

“Pierre,” said the old man, in a voice which, firm at first, gradually

grew fainter, “just now--you ask my advice in a very serious matter. I

think, that the wish to tell you of your duty--has recalled me--for a

moment--to life--for I should die miserable--if I thought you in a road

unworthy of yourself and me. Listen to me, my son--my noble son--at this

last hour, a father cannot deceive himself. You have a great duty to

perform---under pain--of not acting like a man of honor--under pain of

neglecting my last will. You ought, without hesitation--”

Here the voice failed the old man. When he had pronounced the last

sentence, he became quite unintelligible. The only words that Marshal

Simon could distinguish, were these: “Napoleon II.--oath--dishonor--my

son!”

Then the old workman again moved his lips mechanically--and all was

over. At the moment he expired, the night was quite come, and terrible

shouts were heard from without, of “Fire! Fire!” The conflagration had

broken out in one of the workshops, filled with inflammable stuff, into

which had glided the little man with the ferret’s face. At the same

time, the roll of drums was heard in the distance, announcing the

arrival of a detachment of troops from town.

During an hour, in spite of every effort, the fire had been spreading

through the factory. The night is clear, cold, starlight; the wind blows

keenly from the north, with a moaning sound. A man, walking across the

fields, where the rising ground conceals the fire from him, advances

with slow and unsteady steps. It is M. Hardy. He had chosen to return

home on foot, across the country, hoping that a walk would calm the

fever in his blood--an icy fever, more like the chill of death. He had

not been deceived. His adored mistress--the noble woman, with whom he

might have found refuge from the consequences of the fearful deception

which had just been revealed to him--had quitted France. He could have

no doubt of it. Margaret was gone to America. Her mother had exacted

from her, in expiation of her fault, that she should not even write to

him one word of farewell--to him, for whom she had sacrificed her duty

as a wife. Margaret had obeyed.

Besides, she had often said to him: “Between my mother and you, I should

not hesitate.”

She had not hesitated. There was therefore no hope, not the slightest;

even if an ocean had not separated him from Margaret, he knew enough

of her blind submission to her mother, to be certain that all relations

between them were broken off forever. It is well. He will no longer

reckon upon this heart--his last refuge. The two roots of his life have

been torn up and broken, with the same blow, the same day, almost at the

same moment. What then remains for thee, poor sensitive plant, as thy

tender mother used to call thee? What remains to console thee for the

loss of this last love--this last friendship, so infamously crushed? Oh!

there remains for thee that one corner of the earth, created after

the image of thy mind that little colony, so peaceful and flourishing,

where, thanks to thee, labor brings with it joy and recompense. These

worthy artisans, whom thou hast made happy, good, and grateful, will

not fail thee. That also is a great and holy affection; let it be thy

shelter in the midst of this frightful wreck of all thy most sacred

convictions! The calm of that cheerful and pleasant retreat, the sight

of the unequalled happiness of thy dependents, will soothe thy poor,

suffering soul, which now seems to live only for suffering. Come! you

will soon reach the top of the hill, from which you can see afar, in the

plain below, that paradise of workmen, of which you are the presiding

divinity.

M. Hardy had reached the summit of the hill. At that moment the

conflagration, repressed for a short time, burst forth with redoubled

fury from the Common Dwelling-house, which it had now reached. A bright

streak, at first white, then red, then copper-colored, illuminated

the distant horizon. M. Hardy looked at it with a sort of incredulous,

almost idiotic stupor. Suddenly, an immense column of flame shot up in

the thick of a cloud of smoke, accompanied by a shower of sparks, and

streamed towards the sky, casting a bright reflection over all the

country, even to M. Hardy’s feet. The violence of the north wind,

driving the flames in waves before it, soon brought to the ears of M.

Hardy the hurried clanging of the alarm-bell of the burning factory.

(35) We wish it to be understood, that the necessities of our story

alone have made the Wolves the assailants. While endeavoring to paint

the evils arising the abuse of the spirit of association, we do not wish

to ascribe a character of savage hostility to one sect rather than to

the other to the Wolves more than to the Devourers. The Wolves, a club

of united stone-cutters, are generally industrious, intelligent workmen,

whose situation is the more worthy of interest, as not only their

labors, conducted with mathematical precision, are of the rudest and

most wearisome kind, but they are likewise out of work during three or

four months of the year, their profession being, unfortunately, one of

those which winter condemns to a forced cessation. A number of Wolves,

in order to perfect themselves in their trade, attend every evening a

course of linear geometry, applied to the cutting of stone, analogous

to that given by M. Agricole Perdignier, for the benefit of carpenters.

Several working stone-cutters sent an architectural model in plaster to

the last exhibition.

CHAPTER VI. THE GO-BETWEEN.

A few days have elapsed since the conflagration of M. Hardy’s factory.

The following scene takes place in the Rue Clovis, in the house where

Rodin had lodged, and which was still inhabited by Rose-Pompon, who,

without the least scruple, availed herself of the household arrangements

of her friend Philemon. It was about noon, and Rose-Pompon, alone in

the chamber of the student, who was still absent, was breakfasting very

gayly by the fireside; but how singular a breakfast! what a queer fire!

how strange an apartment!

Imagine a large room, lighted by two windows without curtains--for as

they looked on empty space, the lodger had fear of being overlooked.

One side of this apartment served as a wardrobe, for there was suspended

Rose-Pompon’s flashy costume of debardeur, not far from the boat-man’s

jacket of Philemon, with his large trousers of coarse, gray stuff,

covered with pitch (shiver my timbers!), just as if this intrepid

mariner had bunked in the forecastle of a frigate, during a voyage

round the globe. A gown of Rose Pompon’s hung gracefully over a pair of

pantaloons, the legs of which seemed to come from beneath the petticoat.

On the lowest of several book-shelves, very dusty and neglected, by the

side of three old boots (wherefore three boots?) and a number of empty

bottles, stood a skull, a scientific and friendly souvenir, left to

Philemon by one of his comrades, a medical student. With a species of

pleasantry, very much to the taste of the student-world, a clay pipe

with a very black bowl was placed between the magnificently white teeth

of this skull; moreover, its shining top was half hidden beneath an

old hat, set knowingly on one side, and adorned with faded flowers

and ribbons. When Philemon was drunk, he used to contemplate this bony

emblem of mortality, and break out into the most poetical monologues,

with regard to this philosophical contrast between death and the mad

pleasures of life. Two or three plaster casts, with their noses and

chins more or less injured, were fastened to the wall, and bore witness

to the temporary curiosity which Philemon had felt with regard to

phrenological science, from the patient and serious study of which he

had drawn the following logical conclusion:--That, having to an alarming

extent the bump of getting into debt, he ought to resign himself to the

fatality of this organization, and accept the inconvenience of creditors

as a vital necessity. On the chimney-piece, stood uninjured, in all

its majesty, the magnificent rowing-club drinking-glass, a china teapot

without a spout, and an inkstand of black wood, the glass mouth of which

was covered by a coat of greenish and mossy mould. From time to time,

the silence of this retreat was interrupted by the cooing of pigeons,

which Rose-Pompon had established with cordial hospitality in the little

study. Chilly as a quail, Rose-Pompon crept close to the fire, and at

the same time seemed to enjoy the warmth of a bright ray of sunshine,

which enveloped her in its golden light. This droll little creature was

dressed in the oddest costume, which, however, displayed to advantage

the freshness of her piquant and pretty countenance, crowned with its

fine, fair hair, always neatly combed and arranged the first thing in

the morning. By way of dressing-gown, Rose-Pompon had ingeniously

drawn over her linen, the ample scarlet flannel shirt which belonged to

Philemon’s official garb in the rowing-club; the collar, open and turned

down, displayed the whiteness of the young girl’s under garment, as

also of her neck and shoulders, on whose firm and polished surface the

scarlet shirt seemed to cast a rosy light. The grisette’s fresh and

dimpled arms half protruded from the large, turned-up sleeves; and her

charming legs were also half visible, crossed one over the other, and

clothed in neat white stockings, and boots. A black silk cravat formed

the girdle which fastened the shirt round the wasp-like waist of

Rose-Pompon, just above those hips, worthy of the enthusiasm of a modern

Phidias, and which gave to this style of dress a grace very original.

We have said, that the breakfast of Rose-Pompon was singular. You shall

judge. On a little table placed before her, was a wash-hand-basin, into

which she had recently plunged her fresh face, bathing it in pure water.

From the bottom of this basin, now transformed into a salad-bowl, Rose

Pompon took with the tips of her fingers large green leaves, dripping

with vinegar, and crunched them between her tiny white teeth, whose

enamel was too hard to allow them to be set on edge. Her drink was

a glass of water and syrup of gooseberries, which she stirred with a

wooden mustard-spoon. Finally, as an extra dish, she had a dozen olives

in one of those blue glass trinket-dishes sold for twenty-five sous. Her

dessert was composed of nuts, which she prepared to roast on a red-hot

shovel. That Rose-Pompon, with such an unaccountable savage choice of

food, should retain a freshness of complexion worthy of her name, is one

of those miracles, which reveal the mighty power of youth and health.

When she had eaten her salad, Rose-Pompon was about to begin upon her

olives, when a low knock was heard at the door, which was modestly

bolted on the inside.

“Who is there?” said Rose-Pompon.

“A friend--the oldest of the old,” replied a sonorous, jovial voice.

“Why do you lock yourself in?”

“What! is it you, Ninny Moulin?”

“Yes, my beloved pupil. Open quickly. Time presses.”

“Open to you? Oh, I dare say!--that would be pretty, the figure I am!”

“I believe you! what does it matter what figure you are? It would be

very pretty, thou rosiest of all the roses with which Cupid ever adorned

his quiver!”

“Go and preach fasting and morality in your journal, fat apostle!”

said Rose--Pompon, as she restored the scarlet shirt to its place, with

Philemon’s other garments.

“I say! are we to talk much longer through the door, for the greater

edification of our neighbors?” cried Ninny Moulin. “I have something of

importance to tell you--something that will astonish you--”

“Give me time to put on my gown, great plague that you are!”

“If it is because of my modesty, do not think of it. I am not over nice.

I should like you very well as you are!”

“Only to think that such a monster is the favorite of all the

churchgoers!” said Rose-Pompon, opening the door as she finished

fastening her dress.

“So! you have at last returned to the dovecot, you stray girl!” said

Ninny Moulin, folding his arms, and looking at Rose-Pompon with comic

seriousness. “And where may you have been, I pray? For three days the

naughty little bird has left its nest.”

“True; I only returned home last night. You must have called during my

absence?”

“I came, every day, and even twice a day, young lady, for I have very

serious matters to communicate.”

“Very serious matters? Then we shall have a good laugh at them.”

“Not at all--they are really serious,” said Ninny Moulin, seating

himself. “But, first of all, what did you do during the three days that

you left your conjugal and Philemonic home? I must know all about it,

before I tell you more.”

“Will you have some olives?” said Rose-Pompon, as she nibbled one of

them herself.

“Is that your answer?--I understand!--Unfortunate Philemon!”

“There is no unfortunate Philemon in the case, slanderer. Clara had a

death in her house, and, for the first few days after the funeral she

was afraid to sleep alone.”

“I thought Clara sufficiently provided against such fears.”

“There you are deceived, you great viper! I was obliged to go and keep

the poor girl company.”

At this assertion, the religious pamphleteer hummed a tune, with an

incredulous and mocking air.

“You think I have played Philemon tricks?” cried Rose-Pompon, cracking a

nut with the indignation of injured innocence.

“I do not say tricks; but one little rose-colored trick.”

“I tell you, that it was not for my pleasure I went out. On the

contrary--for, during my absence, poor Cephyse disappeared.”

“Yes, Mother Arsene told me that the Bacchanal-Queen was gone on a

journey. But when I talk of Philemon, you talk of Cephyse; we don’t

progress.”

“May I be eaten by the black panther that they are showing at the Porte

Saint-Martin if I do not tell you the truth. And, talking of that,

you must get tickets to take me to see those animals, my little Ninny

Moulin! They tell me there never were such darling wild beasts.”

“Now really, are you mad?”

“Why so?”

“That I should guide your youth, like a venerable patriarch, through the

dangers of the Storm-blown Tulip, all well and good--I ran no risk

of meeting my pastors and masters; but were I to take you to a Lent

Spectacle (since there are only beasts to be seen), I might just run

against my sacristans--and how pretty I should look with you on my arm!”

“You can put on a false nose, and straps to your trousers, my big Ninny;

they will never know you.”

“We must not think of false noses, but of what I have to tell you, since

you assure me that you have no intrigue in hand.”

“I swear it!” said Rose-Pompon, solemnly, extending her left hand

horizontally, whilst with her right she put a nut into her mouth. Then

she added, with surprise, as she looked at the outside coat of Ninny

Moulin, “Goodness gracious! what full pockets you have got! What is

there in them?”

“Something that concerns you, Rose-Pompon,” said Dumoulin, gravely.

“Me?”

“Rose-Pompon!” said Ninny Moulin, suddenly, with a majestic air; “will

you have a carriage? Will you inhabit a charming apartment, instead of

living in this dreadful hole? Will you be dressed like a duchess?”

“Now for some more nonsense! Come, will you eat the olives? If not, I

shall eat them all up. There is only one left.”

Without answering this gastronomic offer, Ninny Moulin felt in one of

his pockets, and drew from it a case containing a very pretty bracelet,

which he held up sparkling before the eyes of the young girl.

“Oh! what a sumptuous bracelet!” cried she, clapping her hands. “A

green-eyed serpent biting his tail--the emblem of my love for Philemon.”

“Do not talk of Philemon; it annoys me,” said Ninny Moulin, as he

clasped the bracelet round the wrist of Rose-Pompon, who allowed him to

do it, laughing all the while like mad, and saying to him, “So you’ve

been employed to make a purchase, big apostle, and wish to see the

effect of it. Well! it is charming!”

“Rose-Pompon,” resumed Ninny Moulin, “would you like to have a servant,

a box at the Opera, and a thousand francs a month for your pin-money?”

“Always the same nonsense. Get along!” said the young girl, as she held

up the bracelet to the light, still continuing to eat her nuts. “Why

always the same farce, and no change of bills?”

Ninny Moulin again plunged his hand into his pocket, and this time drew

forth an elegant chain, which he hung round Rose-Pompon’s neck.

“Oh! what a beautiful chain!” cried the young girl, as she looked by

turns at the sparkling ornament and the religious writer. “If you chose

that also, you have a very good taste. But am I not a good natured girl

to be your dummy, just to show off your jewels?”

“Rose-Pompon,” returned Ninny Moulin, with a still more majestic air,

“these trifles are nothing to what you may obtain, if you will but

follow the advice of your old friend.”

Rose began to look at Dumoulin with surprise, and said to him, “What

does all this mean, Ninny Moulin? Explain yourself; what advice have you

to give?”

Dumoulin did not answer, but replunging his hand into his inexhaustible

pocket, he fished up a parcel, which he carefully unfolded, and in which

was a magnificent mantilla of black lace. Rose-Pompon started up, full

of new admiration, and Dumoulin threw the rich mantilla over the young

girl’s shoulders.

“It is superb! I have never seen anything like it! What patterns! what

work!” said Rose-Pompon, as she examined all with simple and perfectly

disinterested curiosity. Then she added, “Your pocket is like a shop;

where did you get all these pretty things?” Then, bursting into a fit of

laughter, which brought the blood to her cheeks, she exclaimed, “Oh, I

have it! These are the wedding-presents for Madame de la Sainte-Colombe.

I congratulate you; they are very choice.”

“And where do you suppose I should find money to buy these wonders?”

said Ninny Moulin. “I repeat to you, all this is yours if you will but

listen to me!”

“How is this?” said Rose-Pompon, with the utmost amazement; “is what you

tell me in downright earnest?”

“In downright earnest.”

“This offer to make me a great lady?”

“The jewels might convince you of the reality of my offers.”

“And you propose all this to me for some one else, my poor Ninny

Moulin?”

“One moment,” said the religious writer, with a comical air of modesty,

“you must know me well enough, my beloved pupil, to feel certain that

I should be incapable of inducing you to commit an improper action. I

respect myself too much for that--leaving out the consideration that it

would be unfair to Philemon, who confided to me the guardianship of your

virtue.”

“Then, Ninny Moulin,” said Rose-Pompon, more and more astonished, “on my

word of honor, I can make nothing of it.

“Yet, ‘tis all very simple, and I--”

“Oh! I’ve found it,” cried Rose-Pompon, interrupting Ninny Moulin; “it

is some gentleman who offers me his hand, his heart, and all the rest of

it. Could you not tell me that directly?”

“A marriage? oh, laws, yes!” said Dumoulin, shrugging his shoulders.

“What! is it not a marriage?” said Rose-Pompon, again much surprised.

“No.”

“And the offers you make me are honest ones, my big apostle?”

“They could not be more so.” Here Dumoulin spoke the truth.

“I shall not have to be unfaithful to Philemon?”

“No.”

“Or faithful to any one else?”

“No.”

Rose-Pompon looked confounded. Then she rattled on: “Come, do not let

us have any joking! I am not foolish enough to imagine that I am to live

just like a duchess, just for nothing. What, therefore, must I give in

return?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Nothing?”

“Not even that,” said Ninny Moulin, biting his nail-tip.

“But what am I to do, then?”

“Dress yourself as handsomely as possible, take your ease, amuse

yourself, ride about in a carriage. You see, it is not very

fatiguing--and you will, moreover, help to do a good action.”

“What! by living like a duchess?”

“Yes! so make up your mind. Do not ask me for any more details, for I

cannot give them to you. For the rest, you will not be detained against

your will. Just try the life I propose to you. If it suits you, go on

with it; if not, return to your Philemonic household.”

“In fact--”

“Only try it. What can you risk?”

“Nothing; but I can hardly believe that all you say is true. And then,”

added she, with hesitation, “I do not know if I ought--”

Ninny Moulin went to the window, opened it, and said to Rose-Pompon, who

ran up to it, “Look there! before the door of the house.”

“What a pretty carriage! How comfortable a body’d be inside of it!”

“That carriage is yours. It is waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me!” exclaimed Rose-Pompon; “am I to decide as short as

that?”

“Or not at all.”

“To-day?”

“On the instant.”

“But where will they take me?”

“How should I know?”

“You do not know where they will take me?”

“Not I,”--and Dumoulin still spoke the truth--“the coachman has his

orders.”

“Do you know all this is very funny, Ninny Moulin?”

“I believe you. If it were not funny, where would be the pleasure?”

“You are right.”

“Then you accept the offer? That is well. I am delighted both for you

and myself.”

“For yourself?”

“Yes; because, in accepting, you render me a great service.”

“You? How so?”

“It matters little, as long as I feel obliged to you.”

“True.”

“Come, then; let us set out!”

“Bah! after all, they cannot eat me,” said Rose-Pompon, resolutely.

With a skip and a jump, she went to fetch a rose-colored cap, and, going

up to a broken looking-glass, placed the cap very much cocked on one

side on her bands of light hair. This left uncovered her snowy neck,

with the silky roots of the hair behind, and gave to her pretty face a

very mischievous, not to say licentious expression.

“My cloak!” said she to Ninny Moulin, who seemed to be relieved from a

considerable amount of uneasiness, since she had accepted his offer.

“Fie! a cloak will not do,” answered her companion, feeling once more

in his pocket and drawing out a fine Cashmere shawl, which he threw over

Rose-Pompon’s shoulders.

“A Cashmere!” cried the young girl, trembling with pleasure and joyous

surprise. Then she added, with an air of heroism: “It is settled! I

will run the gauntlet.” And with a light step she descended the stairs,

followed by Ninny Moulin.

The worthy greengrocer was at her post. “Good-morning, mademoiselle; you

are early to-day,” said she to the young girl.

“Yes, Mother Arsene; there is my key.”

“Thank you, mademoiselle.”

“Oh! now I think of it,” said Rose Pompon, suddenly, in a whisper, as

she turned towards Ninny Moulin, and withdrew further from the portress,

“what is to became of Philemon?”

“Philemon?”

“If he should arrive--”

“Oh! the devil!” said Ninny Moulin, scratching his ear.

“Yes; if Philemon should arrive, what will they say to him? for I may be

a long time absent.”

“Three or four months, I suppose.”

“Not more?”

“I should think not.”

“Oh! very good!” said Rose-Pompon. Then, turning towards the

greengrocer, she said to her, after a moment’s reflection: “Mother

Arsene, if Philemon should come home, you will tell him I have gone

out--on business.”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“And that he must not forget to feed my pigeons, which are in his

study.”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“Good-bye, Mother Arsene.”

“Good-bye, mademoiselle.” And Rose-Pompon entered the carriage in

triumph, along with Ninny Moulin.

“The devil take me if I know what is to come of all this,” said Jacques

Dumoulin to himself, as the carriage drove rapidly down the Rue Clovis.

“I have repaired my error--and now I laugh at the rest.”

CHAPTER VII. ANOTHER SECRET.

The following scene took place a few days after the abduction of Rose

Pompon by Ninny Moulin. Mdlle. de Cardoville was seated in a dreamy

mood, in her cabinet, which was hung with green silk, and furnished

with an ebony library, ornamented with large bronze caryatides. By some

significant signs, one could perceive that Mdlle. de Cardoville had

sought in the fine airs some relief from sad and serious thoughts.

Near an open piano, was a harp, placed before a music-stand. A little

further, on a table covered with boxes of oil and water-color, were

several brilliant sketches. Most of them represented Asiatic scenes,

lighted by the fires of an oriental sun. Faithful to her fancy of

dressing herself at home in a picturesque style, Mademoiselle de

Cardoville resembled that day one of those proud portraits of Velasquez,

with stern and noble aspect. Her gown was of black moire, with wide

swelling petticoat, long waist, and sleeve slashed with rose-colored

satin, fastened together with jet bugles. A very stiff, Spanish ruff

reached almost to her chin, and was secured round her neck by a broad

rose-colored ribbon. This frill, slightly heaving, sloped down as far as

the graceful swell of the rose-colored stomacher, laced with strings of

jet beads, and terminating in a point at the waist. It is impossible to

express how well this black garment, with its ample and shining folds,

relieved with rose-color and brilliant jet, skin, harmonized with the

shining whiteness of Adrienne’s and the golden flood of her beautiful

hair, whose long, silky ringlets descended to her bosom.

The young lady was in a half-recumbent posture, with her elbow resting

on a couch covered with green silk. The back of this piece of furniture,

which was pretty high towards the fireplace, sloped down insensibly

towards the foot. A sort of light, semicircular trellis-work, in gilded

bronze, raised about five feet from the ground, covered with flowering

plants (the admirable passiflores quadrangulatoe, planted in a deep

ebony box, from the centre of which rose the trellis-work), surrounded

this couch with a sort of screen of foliage enamelled with large

flowers, green without, purple within, and as brilliant as those flowers

of porcelain, which we receive from Saxony. A sweet, faint perfume,

like a faint mixture of jasmine with violet, rose from the cup of these

admirable passiflores. Strange enough, a large quantity of new books

(Adrienne having bought them since the last two or three days) and

quite fresh-cut, were scattered around her on the couch, and on a little

table; whilst other larger volumes, amongst which were several atlases

full of engravings, were piled on the sumptuous fur, which formed

the carpet beneath the divan. Stranger still, these books, though of

different forms, and by different authors, alt treated of the same

subject. The posture of Adrienne revealed a sort of melancholy

dejection. Her cheeks were pale; a light blue circle surrounded her

large, black eyes, now half-closed, and gave to them an expression of

profound grief. Many causes contributed to this sorrow--amongst others,

the disappearance of Mother Bunch. Without absolutely believing the

perfidious insinuations of Rodin, who gave her to understand that, in

the fear of being unmasked by him, the hunchback had not dared to remain

in the house, Adrienne felt a cruel sinking of the heart, when she

thought how this young girl, in whom she had had so much confidence, had

fled from her almost sisterly hospitality, without even uttering a word

of gratitude; for care had been taken not to show her the few lines

written by the poor needlewoman to her benefactress, just before her

departure.

She had only been told of the note of five hundred francs found on her

desk; and this last inexplicable circumstance had contributed to awaken

cruel suspicions in the breast of Mdlle. de Cardoville. She already felt

the fatal effects of that mistrust of everything and everybody, which

Rodin had recommended to her; and this sentiment of suspicion and

reserve had the more tendency to become powerful, that, for the first

time in her life, Mdlle. de Cardoville, until then a stranger to all

deception, had a secret to conceal--a secret, which was equally her

happiness, her shame, and her torment. Half-recumbent on her divan,

pensive and depressed, Adrienne pursued, with a mind often absent, one

of her newly purchased books. Suddenly, she uttered an exclamation of

surprise; the hand which held the book trembled like a leaf, and from

that moment she appeared to read with passionate attention and devouring

curiosity. Soon, her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, her smile

assumed ineffable sweetness, and she seemed at once proud, happy,

delighted--but, as she turned over the last page, her countenance

expressed disappointment and chagrin. Then she recommenced this reading,

which had occasioned her such sweet emotion, and this time she read with

the most deliberate slowness, going over each page twice, and spelling,

as it were, every line, every word. From time to time, she paused,

and in a pensive mood, with her forehead leaning on her fair hand, she

seemed to reflect, in a deep reverie, on the passages she had read with

such tender and religious love. Arriving at a passage which so affected

her, that a tear started in her eye, she suddenly turned the volume,

to see on the cover the name of the author. For a few seconds, she

contemplated this name with a singular expression of gratitude, and

could not forbear raising to her rosy lips the page on which it was

printed. After reading many times over the lines with which she had

been so much struck, forgetting, no doubt, the letter in the spirit, she

began to reflect so deeply, that the book glided from her hand, and

fell upon the carpet. During the course of this reverie, the eyes of the

young girl rested, at first mechanically, upon an admirable bas-relief,

placed on an ebony stand, near one of the windows. This magnificent

bronze, recently cast after a plaster copy from the antique, represented

the triumph of the Indian Bacchus. Never, perhaps, had Grecian art

attained such rare perfection. The youthful conqueror, half clad in a

lion’s skin, which displayed his juvenile grace and charming purity

of form shone with divine beauty. Standing up in a car, drawn by two

tigers, with an air at once gentle and proud, he leaned with one hand

upon a thyrsus, and with the other guided his savage steeds in tranquil

majesty. By this rare mixture of grace, vigor, and serenity, it was easy

to recognize the hero who had waged such desperate combats with men and

with monsters of the forest. Thanks to the brownish tone of the figure,

the light, falling from one side of the sculpture, admirably displayed

the form of the youthful god, which, carved in relievo, and thus

illumined, shone like a magnificent statue of pale gold upon the dark

fretted background of the bronze.

When Adrienne’s look first rested on this rare assemblage of divine

perfections, her countenance was calm and thoughtful. But this

contemplation, at first mechanical, became gradually more and more

attentive and conscious, and the young lady, rising suddenly from her

seat, slowly approached the bas-relief, as if yielding to the invincible

attraction of an extraordinary resemblance. Then a slight blush appeared

on the cheeks of Mdlle. de Cardoville, stole across her face, and spread

rapidly to her neck and forehead. She approached still closer, threw

round a hasty glance, as if half-ashamed, or as if she had feared to

be surprised in a blamable action, and twice stretched forth her hand,

trembling with emotion, to touch with the tips of her charming fingers

the bronze forehead of the Indian Bacchus. And twice she stopped short,

with a kind of modest hesitation. At last, the temptation became too

strong for her. She yielded to it; and her alabaster finger, after

delicately caressing the features of pale gold, was pressed more boldly

for an instant on the pure and noble brow of the youthful god. At this

pressure, though so slight, Adrienne seemed to feel a sort of electric

shock; she trembled in every limb, her eyes languished, and, after

swimming for an instant in their humid and brilliant crystal, were

raised, half-closed, to heaven. Then her head was thrown a little way

back, her knees bent insensibly, her rosy lips were half opened, as if

to give a passage to her heated breath, for her bosom heaved violently,

as thought youth and life had accelerated the pulsations of her heart,

and made her blood boil in her veins. Finally, the burning cheeks of

Adrienne betrayed a species of ecstasy, timid and passionate, chaste and

sensual, the expression of which was ineffably touching.

An affecting spectacle indeed is that of a young maiden, whose modest

brow flushes with the first fires of a secret passion. Does not the

Creator of all things animate the body as well as the soul, with a

spark of divine energy? Should He not be religiously glorified in the

intellect as in the senses, with which He has so paternally endowed His

creatures? They are impious blasphemers who seek to stifle the celestial

senses, instead of guiding and harmonizing them in their divine flight.

Suddenly, Mdlle. de Cardoville started, raised her head, opened her eyes

as if awakening from a dream, withdrew abruptly from the sculptures,

and walked several times up and down the room in an agitated manner,

pressing her burning hands to her forehead. Then, falling, as it were,

exhausted on her seat, her tears flowed in abundance. The most bitter

grief was visible in her features, which revealed the fatal struggle

that was passing within her. By degrees, her tears ceased. To this

crisis of painful dejection succeeded a species of violent scorn and

indignation against herself, which were expressed by these words that

escaped her: “For the first time in my life, I feel weak and cowardly.

Oh yes! cowardly--very cowardly!”

The sound of a door opening and closing, roused Mdlle. de Cardoville

from her bitter reflections. Georgette entered the room, and said to her

mistress: “Madame, can you receive the Count de Montbron?”

Adrienne, too well-bred to exhibit before her women the sort of

impatience occasioned by this unseasonable visit, said to Georgette:

“You told M. de Montbron that I was at home?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Then beg him to walk in.” Though Mdlle. de Cardoville felt at that

moment much vexed at the arrival of Montbron, let us hasten to say,

that she entertained for him an almost filial affection, and a profound

esteem, though, by a not unfrequent contrast, she almost always differed

from him in opinion. Hence arose, when Mdlle. de Cardoville had nothing

to disturb her mind, the most gay and animated discussions, in which M.

de Montbron, notwithstanding his mocking and sceptical humor, his

long experience, his rare knowledge of men and things, his fashionable

training, in a word, had not always the advantage, and even acknowledged

his defeat gayly enough. Thus, to give an idea of the differences of

the count and Adrienne, before, as he would say laughingly, he had made

himself her accomplice, he had always opposed (from other motives than

those alleged by Madame de Saint-Dizier) Adrienne’s wish to live alone

and in her own way; whilst Rodin, on the contrary, by investing

the young girl’s resolve on this subject with an ideal grandeur of

intention, had acquired a species of influence over her. M. de Montbron,

now upwards of sixty years of age, had been a most prominent character

during the Directory, Consulate, and the Empire. His prodigal style of

living, his wit, his gayety, his duels, his amours, and his losses at

play, had given him a leading influence in the best society of his day;

while his character, his kind-heartedness, and liberality, secured him

the lasting friendship of nearly all his female friends. At the time

we now present him to the reader, he was still a great gambler; and,

moreover, a very lucky gambler. He had, as we have stated, a very lordly

style; his manners were decided, but polished and lively; his habits

were such as belong to the higher classes of society, though he could be

excessively sharp towards people whom he did not like. He was tall and

thin, and his slim figure gave him an almost youthful appearance; his

forehead was high, and a little bald; his hair was gray and short, his

countenance long, his nose aquiline, his eyes blue and piercing, and his

teeth white, and still very good.

“The Count de Montbron,” said Georgette, opening the door. The count

entered, and hastened to kiss Adrienne’s hand, with a sort of paternal

familiarity.

“Come!” said M. de Montbron to himself; “let us try to discover the

truth I am in search of, that we may escape a great misfortune.”

CHAPTER VIII. THE CONFESSION.

Mdlle. de Cardoville, not wishing to betray the cause of the violent

feelings which agitated her, received M. de Montbron with a feigned and

forced gayety. On the other hand, notwithstanding his tact and knowledge

of the world, the count was much embarrassed how to enter upon the

subject on which he wished to confer with Adrienne, and he resolved

to feel his way, before seriously commencing the conversation. After

looking at the young lady for some seconds, M. de Montbron shook

his head, and said, with a sigh of regret: “My dear child, I am not

pleased.”

“Some affair of the heart, or of hearts, my dear count?” returned

Adrienne, smiling.

“Of the heart,” said M. de Montbron.

“What! you, so great a player, think more of a woman’s whim than a throw

of the dice?”

“I have a heavy heart, and you are the cause of it, my dear child.”

“M. de Montbron, you will make me very proud,” said Adrienne, with a

smile.

“You would be wrong, for I tell you plainly, my trouble is caused by

your neglect of your beauty. Yes, your countenance is pale, dejected,

sorrowful; you have been low-spirited for the last few days; you have

something on your mind, I am sure of it.”

“My dear M. de Montbron, you have so much penetration, that you may be

allowed to fall for once, as now. I am not sad, I have nothing on my

mind, and--I am about to utter a very silly piece of impertinence--I

have never thought myself so pretty.”

“On the contrary, nothing could be more modest than such an assertion.

Who told you that falsehood? a woman?”

“No; it was my heart, and it spoke the truth,” answered Adrienne, with a

slight degree of emotion. “Understand it, if you can,” she added.

“Do you mean that you are proud of the alteration in your features,

because you are proud of the sufferings of your heart?” said M. de

Montbron, looking at Adrienne with attention. “Be it so; I am then

right. You have some sorrow. I persist in it,” added the count, speaking

with a tone of real feeling, “because it is painful to me.”

“Be satisfied; I am as happy as possible--for every instant I take

delight in repeating, how, at my age, I am free--absolutely free!”

“Yes; free to torment yourself, free to be miserable.”

“Come, come, my dear count!” said Adrienne, “you are recommencing

our old quarrel. I still find in you the ally of my aunt and the Abbe

d’Aigrigny.”

“Yes; as the republicans are the allies of the legitimists--to destroy

each other in their turn. Talking of your abominable aunt, they say that

she holds a sort of council at her house these last few days, a regular

mitred conspiracy. She is certainly in a good way.”

“Why not? Formerly, she would have wished to be Goddess of Reason, now,

we shall perhaps see her canonized. She has already performed the first

part of the life of Mary Magdalen.”

“You can never speak worse of her than she deserves, my dear child.

Still, though for quite opposite reasons, I agreed with her on the

subject of your wish to reside alone.”

“I know it.”

“Yes; and because I wished to see you a thousand times freer than you

really are, I advised you--”

“To marry.”

“No doubt; you would have had your dear liberty, with its consequences,

only, instead of Mdlle. de Cardoville, we should have called you Madame

Somebody, having found an excellent husband to be responsible for your

independence.”

“And who would have been responsible for this ridiculous husband? And

who would bear a mocked and degraded name? I, perhaps?” said Adrienne,

with animation. “No, no, my dear count, good or ill, I will answer for

my own actions; to my name shall attach the reputation, which I alone

have formed. I am as incapable of basely dishonoring a name which is

not mine, as of continually bearing it myself, if it were not held in,

esteem. And, as one can only answer for one’s own actions, I prefer to

keep my name.”

“You are the only person in the world that has such ideas.”

“Why?” said Adrienne, laughing. “Because it appears to me horrible,

to see a poor girl lost and buried in some ugly and selfish man, and

become, as they say seriously, the better half of the monster--yes! a

fresh and blooming rose to become part of a frightful thistle!--Come,

my dear count; confess there is something odious in this conjugal

metempsychosis,” added Adrienne, with a burst of laughter.

The forced and somewhat feverish gayety of Adrienne contrasted painfully

with her pale and suffering countenance; it was so easy to see that she

strove to stifle with laughter some deep sorrow, that M. de Montbron

was much affected by it; but, dissembling his emotion, he appeared to

reflect a moment, and took up mechanically one of the new, fresh-cut

books, by which Adrienne was surrounded. After casting a careless glance

at this volume, he continued, still dissembling his feelings: “Come, my

dear madcap: this is another folly. Suppose I were twenty years old,

and that you did me the honor to marry me--you would be called Lady de

Montbron, I imagine?”

“Perhaps.”

“How perhaps? Would you not bear my name, if you married me?”

“My dear count,” said Adrienne, with a smile, “do not let us pursue this

hypothesis, which can only leave us--regrets.”

Suddenly, M. de Montbron started, and looked at Mdlle, de Cardoville

with an expression of surprise. For some moments, whilst talking to

Adrienne, he had mechanically--taken up two or three of the volumes

scattered over the couch, and had glanced at their titles in the same

careless manner. The first was the “Modern History of India.” The

second, “Travels in India.” The third, “Letters on India.” Much

surprised, M. de Montbron had continued his investigation, and found

that the fourth volume continued this Indian nomenclature, being

“Rambles in India.” The fifth was, “Recollections of Hindostan.” The

sixth, “Notes of a Traveller in the East Indies.”

Hence the astonishment, which, for many serious reasons, M. de Montbron

had no longer been able to conceal, and which his looks betrayed to

Adrienne. The latter, having completely forgotten the presence of the

accusing volumes by which she was surrounded, yielded to a movement of

involuntary confusion, and blushed slightly; but, her firm and resolute

character again coming to her aid, she looked full at M. de Montbron,

and said to him: “Well, my dear count! what surprises you?”

Instead of answering, M. de Montbron appeared still more absorbed in

thought, and contemplating the young girl, he could not forbear saying

to himself: “No, no--it is impossible--and yet--”

“It would, perhaps, be indiscreet in me to listen to your soliloquy, my

dear count,” said Adrienne.

“Excuse me, my dear child; but what I see surprises me so much--”

“And pray what do you see?”

“The traces of so great and novel an interest in all that relates to

India,” said M. de Montbron, laying a slight stress on his words, and

fixing a piercing look upon the young girl.

“Well!” said Adrienne, stoutly.

“Well! I seek the cause of this sudden passion--”

“Geographical?” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, interrupting M. de Montbron:

“you may find this taste somewhat serious for my age my dear count--but

one must find occupation for leisure hours--and then, having a cousin,

who is both an Indian and a prince, I should like to know something of

the fortunate country from which I derive this savage relationship.”

These last words were pronounced with a bitterness that was not lost on

M. de Montbron: watching Adrienne attentively, he observed: “Meseems,

you speak of the prince with some harshness.”

“No; I speak of him with indifference.”

“Yet he deserves a very different feeling.”

“On the part of some other person, perhaps,” replied Adrienne, dryly.

“He is so unhappy!” said M, de Montbron, in a tone of sincere pity.

“When I saw him the other day, he made my heart ache.”

“What have I to do with it?” exclaimed Adrienne, with an accent of

painful and almost angry impatience.

“I should have thought that his cruel torments at least deserved your

pity,” answered the count gravely.

“Pity--from me!” cried Adrienne, with an air of offended pride. Then

restraining herself, she added coldly: “You are jesting, M. de Montbron.

It is not in sober seriousness that you ask me to take interest in the

amorous torments of your prince.”

There was so much cold disdain in these last words of Adrienne, her pale

and agitated countenance betrayed such haughty bitterness, that M. de

Montbron said, sorrowfully: “It is then true; I have not been deceived.

I, who thought, from our old and constant friendship, that I had some

claim to your confidence have known nothing of it--while you told all to

another. It is painful, very painful to me.”

“I do not understand you, M. de Montbron.”

“Well then, since I must speak plainly,” cried the count, “there is, I

see, no hope for this unhappy boy--you love another.”

As Adrienne started--“Oh! you cannot deny it,” resumed the count;

“your paleness and melancholy for the last few days, your implacable

indifference to the prince--all prove to me that you are in love.”

Hurt by the manner in which the count spoke of the sentiment he

attributed to her, Mdlle. de Cardoville answered with dignified

stateliness: “You must know, M. de Montbron, that a secret discovered is

not a confidence. Your language surprises me.

“Oh, my dear friend, if I use the poor privilege of experience--if I

guess that you are in love--if I tell you so, and even go so far as

to reproach you with it--it is because the life or death of this poor

prince is concerned; and I feel for him as if he were my son, for it is

impossible to know him without taking the warmest interest in him.”

“It would be singular,” returned Adrienne, with redoubled coldness, and

still more bitter irony, “if my love--admitting I were in love--could

have any such strange influence on Prince Djalma. What can it matter to

him?” added she, with almost agonizing disdain.

“What can it matter to him? Now really, my dear friend, permit me to

tell you, that it is you who are jesting cruelly. What! this unfortunate

youth loves you with all the blind ardor of a first love--twice

has attempted to terminate by suicide the horrible tortures of his

passion--and you think it strange that your love for another should be

with him a question of life or death!”

“He loves me then?” cried the young girl, with an accent impossible to

describe.

“He loves you to madness, I tell you; I have seen it.”

Adrienne seemed overcome with amazement. From pale, she became crimson;

as the redness disappeared, her lips grew white, and trembled. Her

emotion was so strong, that she remained for some moments unable

to speak, and pressed her hand to her heart, as if to moderate its

pulsations.

M. de Montbron, almost frightened at the sudden change in Adrienne’s

countenance, hastily approached her, exclaiming: “Good heaven, my poor

child! what is the matter?”

Instead of answering, Adrienne waved her hand to him, in sign that

he should not be alarmed; and, in fact, the count was speedily

tranquillized, for the beautiful face, which had so lately been

contracted with pain, irony, and scorn, seemed now expressive of the

sweetest and most ineffable emotions; Adrienne appeared to luxuriate

in delight, and to fear losing the least particle of it; then, as

reflection told her, that she was, perhaps, the dupe of illusion or

falsehood, she exclaimed suddenly, with anguish, addressing herself to

M. de Montbron: “But is what you tell me true?”

“What I tell you!”

“Yes--that Prince Djalma--”

“Loves you to madness?--Alas! it is only too true.”

“No, no,” cried Adrienne, with a charming expression of simplicity;

“that could never be too true.”

“What do you say?” cried the count.

“But that woman?” asked Adrienne, as if the word scorched her lips.

“What woman?”

“She who has been the cause of all these painful struggles.”

“That woman--why, who should it be but you?”

“What, I? Oh! tell me, was it I?”

“On my word of honor. I trust my experience. I have never seen so ardent

and sincere a passion.”

“Oh! is it really so? Has he never had any other love?”

“Never.”

“Yet I was told so.”

“By whom?”

“M. Rodin.”

“That Djalma--”

“Had fallen violently in love, two days after I saw him.”

“M. Rodin told you that!” cried M. de Montbron, as if struck with a

sudden idea. “Why, it is he who told Djalma that you were in love with

some one else.”

“I!”

“And this it was which occasioned the poor youth’s dreadful despair.”

“It was this which occasioned my despair.”

“You love him, then, just as he loves you!” exclaimed M. de Montbron,

transported with joy.

“Love him!” said Mdlle. de Cardoville. A discreet knock at the door

interrupted Adrienne.

“One of your servants, no doubt. Be calm,” said the count.

“Come in,” said Adrienne, in an agitated voice.

“What is it?” said Mdlle. de Cardoville. Florine entered the room.

“M. Rodin has just been here. Fearing to disturb mademoiselle, he would

not come in; but he will return in half an hour. Will mademoiselle

receive him?”

“Yes, yes,” said the count to Florine; “even if I am still here, show

him in by all means. Is not that your opinion?” asked M. de Montbron of

Adrienne.

“Quite so,” answered the young girl; and a flash of indignation darted

from her eyes, as she thought of Rodin’s perfidy.

“Oho! the old knave!” said M. de Montbron, “I always had my doubts

of that crooked neck!” Florine withdrew, leaving the count with her

mistress.

CHAPTER IX. LOVE.

Mdlle. de Cardoville was transfigured. For the first time her beauty

shone forth in all its lustre. Until now overshadowed by indifference,

or darkened by grief, she appeared suddenly illumined by a brilliant ray

of sunshine. The slight irritation caused by Rodin’s perfidy passed like

an imperceptible shade from her brow. What cared she now for falsehood

and perfidy? Had they not failed? And, for the future, what human power

could interpose between her and Djalma, so sure of each other? Who would

dare to cross the path of those two things, resolute and strong with the

irresistible power of youth, love, and liberty? Who would dare to follow

them into that blazing sphere, whither they went, so beautiful and

happy, to blend together in their inextinguishable love, protected by

the proof armor of their own happiness? Hardly had Florine left the

room, when Adrienne approached M. de Montbron with a rapid step.

She seemed to have become taller; and to watch her advancing, light,

radiant, and triumphant, one might have fancied her a goddess walking

upon clouds.

“When shall I see him?” was her first word to M. de Montbron.

“Well--say to-morrow; he must be prepared for so much happiness; in so

ardent a nature, such sudden, unexpected joy might be terrible.”

Adrienne remained pensive for a moment, and then said rapidly: “To

morrow--yes--not before to-morrow. I have a superstition of the heart.”

“What is it?”

“You shall know. HE LOVES ME--that word says all, contains all,

comprehends all, is all--and yet I have a thousand questions to ask

with regard to him--but I will ask none before to-morrow, because, by a

mysterious fatality, to-morrow is with me a sacred anniversary. It will

be an age till then; but happily, I can wait. Look here!”

Beckoning M. de Montbron, she led him to the Indian Bacchus. “How much

it is like him!” said she to the count.

“Indeed,” exclaimed the latter, “it is strange!”

“Strange?” returned Adrienne, with a smile of gentle pride; “strange,

that a hero, a demi-god, an ideal of beauty, should resemble Djalma?”

“How you love him!” said M. de Montbron, deeply touched, and almost

dazzled by the felicity which beamed from the countenance of Adrienne.

“I must have suffered a good deal, do you not think so?” said she, after

a moment’s silence.

“If I had not made up my mind to come here to-day, almost in despair,

what would have happened?”

“I cannot tell; I should perhaps have died, for I am wounded mortally

here”--she pressed her hand to her heart. “But what might have been

death to me, will now be life.”

“It was horrible,” said the count, shuddering. “Such a passion, buried

in your own breast, proud as you are--”

“Yes, proud--but not self-conceited. When I learned his love for

another, and that the impression which I fancied I had made on him at

our first interview had been immediately effaced, I renounced all hope,

without being able to renounce my love. Instead of shunning his image,

I surrounded myself with all that could remind me of him. In default

of happiness, there is a bitter pleasure in suffering through what we

love.”

“I can now understand your Indian library.”

Instead of answering the count, Adrienne took from the stand one of the

freshly-cut volumes, and, bringing it to M. de Montbron, said to him,

with a smile and a celestial expression of joy and happiness: “I was

wrong--I am vain. Just read this--aloud, if you please. I tell you that

I can wait for to-morrow.” Presenting the book to the count, she pointed

out one passage with the tip of her charming finger. Then she sank down

upon the couch, and, in an attitude of deep attention, with her body

bent forward, her hands crossed upon the cushion, her chin resting upon

her hands, her large eyes fixed with a sort of adoration on the Indian

Bacchus, that was just opposite to her, she appeared by this impassioned

contemplation to prepare herself to listen to M. de Montbron.

The latter, much astonished, began to read, after again looking at

Adrienne, who said to him, in her most coaxing voice, “Very slowly, I

beg of you.”

M. de Montbron then read the following passage from the journal of a

traveller in India: “‘When I was at Bombay, in 1829, I constantly heard

amongst the English there, of a young hero, the son of--’”

The count having paused a second, by reason of the barbarous spelling

of the name of Djalma’s father, Adrienne immediately said to him, in her

soft voice: “The son of Kadja-sing.”

“What a memory!” said the count, with a smile. And he resumed: “‘A young

hero, the son of Kadja-sing, king of Mundi. On his return from a distant

and sanguinary expedition amongst the mountains against this Indian

king, Colonel Drake was filled with enthusiasm for this son of

Kadja-sing, known as Djalma. Hardly beyond the age of childhood, this

young prince has in the course of this implacable war given proofs

of such chivalrous intrepidity, and of so noble a character, that his

father has been surnamed the Father of the Generous.’”

“That is a touching custom,” said the count. “To recompense the father,

as it were, by giving him a surname in honor of his son, is a great

idea. But how strange you should have met with this book!” added the

count, in surprise. “I can understand; there is matter here to inflame

the coolest head.”

“Oh! you will see, you will see,” said Adrienne.

The count continued to read: “‘Colonel Drake, one of the bravest and

best officers of the English army, said yesterday, in my presence, that

having been dangerously wounded, and taken prisoner by Prince Djalma,

after an energetic resistance, he had been conveyed to the camp

established in the village of--”

Here there was the same hesitation on the part of the count, on seeing

a still more barbarous name than the first; so, not wishing to try the

adventure, he paused, and said to Adrienne, “Now really, I give this

up.”

“And yet it is so easy!” replied Adrienne; and she pronounced with

inexpressible softness, a name in itself soft, “The village of

Shumshabad.”

“You appear to have an infallible process for remembering geographical

names,” said the count, continuing: “‘Once arrived at the camp, Colonel

Drake received the kindest hospitality, and Prince Djalma treated

him with the respect of a son. It was there that the colonel became

acquainted with some facts, which carried to the highest pitch his

enthusiasm for prince Djalma. I heard him relate the two following.

“‘In one of the battles, the prince was accompanied by a young Indian of

about twelve years of age, whom he loved tenderly, and who served him

as a page, following him on horseback to carry his spare weapons.

This child was idolized by its mother; just as they set out on the

expedition, she had entrusted her son to Prince Djalma’s care, saying,

with a stoicism worthy of antiquity, “Let him be your brother.” “He

shall be my brother,” had replied the prince. In the height of a

disastrous defeat, the child is severely wounded, and his horse killed;

the prince, at peril of his life, notwithstanding the perception of a

forced retreat, disengages him, and places him on the croup of his own

horse; they are pursued; a musket-ball strikes their steed, who is just

able to reach a jungle, in the midst of which, after some vain efforts,

he falls exhausted. The child is unable to walk, but the prince carries

him in his arms, and hides with him in the thickest part of the jungle.

The English arrive, and begin their search; but the two victims escape.

After a night and a day of marches, counter-marches, stratagems,

fatigues, unheard-of perils, the prince, still, carrying the child, one

of whose legs is broken, arrives at his father’s camp, and says, with

the utmost simplicity, “I had promised his mother that I would act a

brother’s part by him--and I have done so.”’

“That is admirable!” cried the count.

“Go on--pray go on!” said Adrienne, drying a tear, without removing

her eyes from the bas-relief, which she continued to contemplate with

growing adoration.

The count continued: “‘Another time, Prince Djalma, followed by two

black slaves, went, before sunrise, to a very wild spot, to seize a

couple of tiger cubs only a few days old. The den had been previously

discovered. The two old tigers were still abroad. One of the blacks

entered the den by a narrow aperture; the other, aided by Djalma,

cut down a tolerably large tree, to prepare a trap for one of the old

tigers. On the side of the aperture, the cavern was exceedingly steep.

The prince mounted to the top of it with agility, to set his trap, with

the aid of the other black. Suddenly, a dreadful roar was heard; and, in

a few bounds, the tigress, returning from the chase, reached the opening

of the den. The black who was laying the trap with the prince had his

skull fractured by her bite; the tree, falling across the entrance,

prevented the female from penetrating the cavern, and at the same time

stopped the exit of the black who had seized the cubs.

“‘About twenty feet higher, upon a ledge of rock, the prince lay flat

on the ground, looking down upon this frightful spectacle. The tigress,

rendered furious by the cries of her little ones, gnawed the hands of

the black, who, from the interior of the den, strove to support

the trunk of the tree, his only rampart, whilst he uttered the most

lamentable outcries.’

“It is horrible!” said the count.

“Oh! go on! pray go on!” exclaimed Adrienne, with excitement; “you will

see what can be achieved by the heroism of goodness.”

The count pursued: “‘Suddenly the prince seized his dagger between his

teeth, fastened his sash to a block of stone, took his axe in one hand,

and with the other slid down this substitute for a rope; falling a few

steps from the wild beast, he sprang upon her, and, swift as lightning,

dealt her two mortal strokes, just as the black, losing his strength,

was about to drop the trunk of the tree, sure to have been torn to

pieces.’”

“And you are astonished at his resemblance with the demi-god, to whom

fable itself ascribes no more generous devotion!” cried the young lady,

with still increasing excitement.

“I am astonished no longer, I only admire,” said the count, in a voice

of emotion; “and, at these two noble instances of heroism, my heart

beats with enthusiasm, as if I were still twenty.”

“And the noble heart of this traveller beat like yours at the recital,”

said Adrienne; “you will see.”

“‘What renders so admirable the intrepidity of the prince, is, that,

according to the principle of Indian castes, the life of a slave is of

no importance; thus a king’s son, risking his life for the safety of

a poor creature, so generally despised, obeyed an heroic and truly

Christian instinct of charity, until then unheard of in this country.”

“‘Two such actions,’ said Colonel Drake, with good reason, ‘are

sufficient to paint the man; it is with a feeling of profound respect

and admiration, therefore, that I, an obscure traveller, have written

the name of Prince Djalma in my book; and at the same time, I have

experienced a kind of sorrow, when I have asked myself what would be the

future fate of this prince, buried in the depths of a savage country,

always devastated by war. However humble may be the homage that I pay

to this character, worthy of the heroic age, his name will at least be

repeated with generous enthusiasm by all those who have hearts that beat

in sympathy with what is great and noble.’”

“And just now, when I read those simple and touching lines,” resumed

Adrienne, “I could not forbear pressing my lips to the name of the

traveller.”

“Yes; he is such as I thought him,” cried the count, with still more

emotion, as he returned the book to Adrienne, who rose, with a grave and

touching air, and said to him: “It was thus I wished you to know him,

that you might understand my adoration; for this courage, this heroic

goodness, I had guessed beforehand, when I was an involuntary listener

to his conversation. From that moment, I knew him to be generous as

intrepid, tender and sensitive as energetic and resolute; and when I saw

him so marvellously beautiful--so different, in the noble character of

his countenance, and even in the style of his garments, from all I had

hitherto met with--when I saw the impression that I made upon him, and

which I perhaps felt still more violently--I knew that my whole life was

bound up with his love.”

“And now, what are your plans?”

“Divine, radiant as my heart. When he learns his happiness, I wish that

Djalma should feel dazzled as I do, so as to prevent my gazing on my

sun; for I repeat, that until tomorrow will be a century to me. Yes, it

is strange! I should have thought that after such a discovery, I should

feel the want of being left alone, plunged in an ocean of delicious

dreams. But no! from this time till to-morrow--I dread solitude--I

feel a kind of feverish impatience--uneasy--ardent--Oh! where is the

beneficent fairy, that, touching me with her wand, will lull me into

slumber till to-morrow!”

“I will be that beneficent fairy,” said the count, smiling.

“You?”

“Yes, I.”

“And how so?”

“The power of my wand is this: I will relieve you from a portion of your

thoughts by making them materially visible.”

“Pray explain yourself.”

“And my plan will have another advantage for you. Listen to me; you

are so happy now that you can hear anything. Your odious aunt, and her

equally odious friends, are spreading the report that your residence

with Dr. Baleinier--”

“Was rendered necessary by the derangement of my mind,” said Adrienne,

with a smile; “I expected that.”

“It is stupid enough; but, as your resolution to live alone makes many

envious of you, and many hostile, you must feel that there will be no

want of persons ready to believe the most absurd calumny possible.”

“I hope as much. To pass for mad in the eyes of fools is very

flattering.”

“Yes; but to prove to fools that they are fools, and that in the face

of all Paris, is much more amusing. Now, people begin to talk of your

absence; you have given up your daily rides; for some time my niece has

appeared alone in our box at the Opera; you wish to kill the time till

to-morrow--well! here is an excellent opportunity. It is two o’clock;

at halfpast three, my niece will come in the carriage; the weather is

splendid; there is sure to be a crowd in the Bois de Boulogne. You can

take a delightful ride, and be seen by everybody. Then, as the air and

movement will have calmed your fever of happiness, I will commence my

magic this evening, and take you to India.”

“To India?”

“Into the midst of one of those wild forests, in which roar the lion,

the panther, and the tiger. We will have this heroic combat, which so

moved you just now, under our own eyes, in all its terrible reality.”

“Really, my dear count, you must be joking.”

“Not at all; I promise to show you real wild beasts, formidable tenants

of the country of our demigod--growling tigers--roaring lions--do you

not think that will be better than books?”

“But how?”

“Come! I must give you the secret of my supernatural power. On returning

from your ride, you shall dine with my niece, and we will go together

to a very curious spectacle now exhibiting at the Porte-Saint-Martin

Theatre. A most extraordinary lion-tamer there shows you a number of

wild beasts, in a state of nature, in the midst of a forest (here only

commences the illusion), and has fierce combats with them all--tigers,

lions, and panthers. All Paris is crowding to these representations, and

all Paris will see you there, more charming than ever.”

“I accept your offer,” said Adrienne, with childish delight. “Yes,

you are right. I feel a strange pleasure in beholding these ferocious

monsters, who will remind me of those that my demi-god so heroically

overcame. I accept also, because, for the first time in my life, I am

anxious to be admired--even by everybody. I accept finally because--”

Here Mdlle. de Cardoville was interrupted by a low knock at the door,

and by the entrance of Florine, who announced M. Rodin.

CHAPTER X. THE EXECUTION.

Rodin entered. A rapid glance at Mdlle. de Cardoville and M. de Montbron

told him at once that he was in a dilemma. In fact, nothing could be

less encouraging than the faces of Adrienne and the count. The latter,

when he disliked people, exhibited his antipathy, as we have already

said, by an impertinently aggressive manner, which had before now

occasioned a good number of duels. At sight of Rodin, his countenance at

once assumed a harsh and insolent expression; resting his elbow on the

chimney-piece, and conversing with Adrienne, he looked disdainfully over

his shoulder, without taking the least notice of the Jesuit’s low bow.

On the other hand, at sight of this man, Mdlle. de Cardoville almost

felt surprise, that she should experience no movement of anger or

hatred. The brilliant flame which burned in her heart, purified it from

every vindictive sentiment. She smiled, on the contrary; for, glancing

with gentle pride at the Indian Bacchus, and then at herself, she asked

herself what two beings, so young, and fair, and free, and loving,

could have to fear from this old, sordid man, with his ignoble and base

countenance, now advancing towards her with the writhing of a reptile.

In a word, far from feeling anger or aversion with regard to Rodin, the

young lady seemed full of the spirit of mocking gayety, and her large

eyes, already lighted up with happiness, now sparkled with irony and

mischief. Rodin felt himself ill at ease. People of his stamp greatly

prefer violent to mocking enemies. They can encounter bursts of

rage--sometimes by falling on their knees, weeping, groaning, and

beating their breasts--sometimes by turning on their adversary, armed

and implacable. But they are easily disconcerted by biting raillery; and

thus it was with Rodin. He saw that between Adrienne de Cardoville and

M. de Montbron, he was about to be placed in what is vulgarly termed a

“regular fix.”

The count opened the fire; still glancing over his shoulder, he said to

Rodin: “Ah! you are here, my benevolent gentleman!”

“Pray, sir, draw a little nearer,” said Adrienne, with a mocking smile.

“Best of friends and model of philosophers--as well as declared enemy of

all fraud and falsehood--I have to pay you a thousand compliments.”

“I accent anything from you, my dear young lady, even though

undeserved,” said the Jesuit, trying to smile, and thus exposing his

vile yellow teeth; “but may I be informed how I have earned these

compliments?”

“Your penetration, sir, which is rare--” replied Adrienne.

“And your veracity, sir,” said the count, “which is perhaps no less

rare--”

“In what have I exhibited my penetration, my dear young lady?” said

Rodin, coldly. “In what my veracity?” added he, turning towards M. de

Montbron.

“In what, sir?” said Adrienne. “Why, you have guessed a secret

surrounded by difficulties and mystery. In a word, you have known how to

read the depths of a woman’s heart.”

“I, my dear young lady?”

“You, sir! rejoice at it, for your penetration has had the most

fortunate results.”

“And your veracity has worked wonders,” added the count.

“It is pleasant to do good, even without knowing it,” said Rodin, still

acting on the defensive, and throwing side glances by turns on the count

and Adrienne; “but will you inform me what it is that deserves this

praise--”

“Gratitude obliges me to inform you of it,” said Adrienne, maliciously;

“you have discovered, and told Prince Djalma, that I was passionately in

love. Well! I admire your penetration; it was true.”

“You have also discovered, and told this lady, that Prince Djalma

was passionately in love,” resumed the count. “Well! I admire your

penetration, my dear sir; it was true.”

Rodin looked confused, and at a loss for a reply.

“The person that I loved so passionately,” said Adrienne, “was the

prince.”

“The person that the prince loved so passionately,” resumed the count,

“was this lady.”

These revelations, so sudden and alarming, almost stunned Rodin; he

remained mute and terrified, thinking of the future.

“Do you understand now, sir, the extent of our gratitude towards

you?” resumed Adrienne, in a still more mocking tone. “Thanks to your

sagacity, thanks to the touching interest you take in us, the prince and

I are indebted to you for the knowledge of our mutual sentiments.”

The Jesuit had now gradually recovered his presence of mind, and

his apparent calmness greatly irritated M. de Montbron, who, but for

Adrienne’s presence, would have assumed another tone than jests.

“There is some mistake,” said Rodin, “in what you have done me the honor

to tell me, my dear young lady. I have never in my life spoken of the

sentiments, however worthy and respectable, that you may entertain for

Prince Djalma--”

“That is true,” replied Adrienne; “with scrupulous and exquisite

discretion, whenever you spoke to me of the deep love felt by Prince

Djalma, you carried your reserve and delicacy so far as to inform me

that it was not I whom he loved.”

“And the same scruple induced you to tell the prince that Mdlle. de

Cardoville loved some one passionately--but that he was not the person,”

added the count.

“Sir,” answered Rodin, dryly, “I need hardly tell you that I have no

desire to mix myself up with amorous intrigues.”

“Come! this is either pride or modesty,” said the count, insolently.

“For your own interest, pray do not advance such things; for, if we took

you at your word, and it became known, it might injure some of the nice

little trades that you carry on.”

“There is one at least,” said Rodin, drawing himself up as proudly as

M. de Montbron, “whose rude apprenticeship I shall owe to you. It is the

wearisome one of listening to your discourse.”

“I tell you what, my good sir!” replied the count, disdainfully: “you

force me to remind you that there are more ways than one of chastising

impudent rogues.”

“My dear count!” said Adrienne to M. de Montbron, with an air of

reproach.

With perfect coolness, Rodin replied: “I do not exactly see, sir, first,

what courage is shown by threatening a poor old man like myself, and,

secondly--”

“M. Rodin,” said the count, interrupting the Jesuit, “first, a poor old

man like you, who does evil under the shelter of the age he dishonors,

is both cowardly and wicked, and deserves a double chastisement;

secondly, with regard to this question of age, I am not aware that

gamekeepers and policemen bow down respectfully to the gray coats of old

wolves, and the gray hairs of old thieves. What do you think, my good

sir?”

Still impassible, Rodin raised his flabby eyelids, fixed for hardly a

second his little reptile eye upon the count, and darted at him one of

his rapid, cold, and piercing glances--and then the livid eyelid again

covered the dull eye of that corpse-like face.

“Not having the disadvantage of being an old wolf, and still less an

old thief,” said Rodin, quietly, “you will permit me, sir, to take no

account of the pursuit of hunters and police. As for the reproaches made

me, I have a very simple method of answering--I do not say of justifying

myself--I never justify myself--”

“You don’t say!” said the count.

“Never,” resumed Rodin coolly; “my acts are sufficient for that. I

will then simply answer that seeing the deep, violent, almost fearful

impression made by this lady on the prince--”

“Let this assurance which you give me of the prince’s love,” said

Adrienne interrupting Rodin with an enchanting smile, “absolve you of

all the evil you wished to do me. The sight of our happiness be your

only punishment!”

“It may be that I need neither absolution nor punishment, for, as I have

already had the honor to observe to the count, my dear young lady, the

future will justify my acts. Yes; it was my duty to tell the prince that

you loved another than himself, and to tell you that he loved another

than yourself--all in your mutual interest. That my attachment for you

may have misled me, is possible--I am not infallible; but, after my past

conduct towards you, my dear young lady, I have, perhaps, some right to

be astonished at seeing myself thus treated. This is not a complaint. If

I never justify myself, I never complain either.”

“Now really, there is something heroic in all this, my good sir,” said

the count. “You do not condescend to complain or justify yourself, with

regard to the evil you have done.”

“The evil I have done?” said Rodin, looking fixedly at the count. “Are

we playing at enigmas?”

“What, sir!” cried the count, with indignation: “is it nothing, by your

falsehoods, to have plunged the prince into so frightful a state of

despair, that he has twice attempted his life? Is it nothing, by similar

falsehoods, to have induced this lady to believe so cruel and complete

an error, that but for the resolution I have to-day taken, it might have

led to the most fatal consequences?”

“And will you do me the honor to tell me, sir, what interest I could

have in all this despair and error, admitting even that I had wished to

produce them?”

“Some great interest no doubt,” said the count, bluntly; “the more

dangerous that it is concealed. You are one of those, I see, to whom the

woes of others are pleasure and profit.”

“That is really too much, sir,” said Rodin, bowing; “I should be quite

contented with the profit.”

“Your impudent coolness will not deceive me; this is a serious matter,”

said the count. “It is impossible that so perfidious a piece of roguery

can be an isolated act. Who knows but this may still be one of the

fruits of Madame de Saint-Dizier’s hatred for Mdlle. de Cardoville?”

Adrienne had listened to the preceding discussion with deep attention.

Suddenly she started, as if struck by a sudden revelation.

After a moment’s silence, she said to Rodin, without anger, without

bitterness, but with an expression of gentle and serene calmness: “We

are told, sir, that happy love works miracles. I should be tempted

to believe it; for, after some minutes’ reflection, and when I recall

certain circumstances, your conduct appears to me in quite a new light.”

“And what may this new perspective be, my dear young lady?”

“That you may see it from my point of view, sir, allow me to remind you

of a few facts. That sewing-girl was generously devoted to me; she had

given me unquestionable proofs of her attachment. Her mind was equal

to her noble heart; but she had an invincible dislike to you. All on a

sudden she disappears mysteriously from my house, and you do your

best to cast upon her odious suspicions. M. de Montbron has a paternal

affection for me; but, as I must confess, little sympathy for you; and

you have always tried to produce a coldness between us. Finally, Prince

Djalma has a deep affection for me, and you employ the most perfidious

treachery to kill that sentiment within him. For what end do you act

thus? I do not know; but certainly with some hostile design.”

“It appears to me, madame,” said Rodin, severely, “that you have

forgotten services performed.”

“I do not deny, sir, that you took me from the house of Dr. Baleinier;

but, a few days sooner or later, I must infallibly have been released by

M. de Montbron.”

“You are right, my dear child,” said the count; “it may be that your

enemies wished to claim the merit of what must necessarily have happened

through the exertions of your friends.”

“You are drowning, and I save you--it is all a mistake to feel

grateful,” said Rodin, bitterly; “some one else would no doubt have

saved you a little later.”

“The comparison is wanting in exactness,” said Adrienne, with a smile;

“a lunatic asylum is not a river, and though, from what I see, I think

you quite capable of diving, you have had no occasion to swim on this

occasion. You merely opened a door for me, which would have opened of

itself a little later.”

“Very good, my dear child!” said the count, laughing heartily at

Adrienne’s reply.

“I know, sir, that your care did not extend to me only. The daughters

of Marshal Simon were brought back by you; but we may imagine that the

claim of the Duke de Ligny to the possession of his daughters would not

have been in vain. You returned to an old soldier his imperial cross,

which he held to be a sacred relic; it is a very touching incident.

Finally, you unmasked the Abbe d’Aigrigny and Dr. Baleinier: but I had

already made up my mind to unmask then. However, all this proves that

you are a very clever man--”

“Oh, madame!” said Rodin, humbly.

“Full of resources and invention--”

“Oh, madame!”

“It is not my fault if, in our long interview at Dr. Baleinier’s, you

betrayed that superiority of mind which struck me so forcibly, and

which seems to embarrass you so much at present. What would you have,

sir?--great minds like yours find it difficult to maintain their

incognito. Yet, as by different ways--oh! very different,” added the

young lady, maliciously, “we are tending to the same end (still keeping

in view our conversation at Dr. Baleinier’s), I wish, for the sake of

our future communion, as you call it, to give you a piece of advice, and

speak frankly to you.”

Rodin had listened to Mdlle. de Cardoville with apparent impassibility,

holding his hat under his arm, and twirling his thumbs, whilst his hands

were crossed upon his waistcoat. The only external mark of the intense

agitation into which he was thrown by the calm words of Adrienne, was

that the livid eyelids of the Jesuit, which had been hypocritically

closed, became gradually red, as the blood flowed into them.

Nevertheless, he answered Mdlle. de Cardoville in a firm voice, and with

a low bow: “Good advice and frankness are always excellent things.”

“You see, sir,” resumed Adrienne, with some excitement, “happy love

bestows such penetration, such energy, such courage, as enables one to

laugh at perils, to detect stratagems, and to defy hatred. Believe me,

the divine light which surrounds two loving hearts will be sufficient to

disperse all darkness, and reveal every snare. You see, in India--excuse

my weakness, but I like to talk of India,” added the young girl, with

a smile of indescribable grace and meaning--“in India, when travellers

sleep at night, they kindle great fires round their ajoupa (excuse this

touch of local coloring), and far as extends the luminous circle, it

puts to flight by its mere brilliancy, all the impure and venomous

reptiles that shun the day and live only in darkness.”

“The meaning of this comparison has quite escaped me,” said Rodin,

continuing to twirl his thumbs, and half raising his eyelids, which were

getting redder and redder.

“I will speak more plainly,” said Adrienne, with a smile. “Suppose,

sir, that the last is a service which you have rendered me and the

prince--for you only proceed by way of services--that, I acknowledge, is

novel and ingenious.”

“Bravo, my dear child!” said the count, joyfully. “The execution will be

complete.”

“Oh! this is meant for an execution?” said Rodin, still impassible.

“No, sir,” answered Adrienne, with a smile; “it is a simple conversation

between a poor young girl and an old philosopher, the friend of

humanity. Suppose, then, that these frequent services that you have

rendered to me and mine have suddenly opened my eyes; or, rather,” added

the young girl, in a serious tone, “suppose that heaven, who gives to

the mother the instinct to defend her child, has given me, along with

happiness, the instinct to preserve my happiness, and that a vague

presentiment, by throwing light on a thousand circumstances until now

obscure, has suddenly revealed to me that, instead of being the friend,

you are perhaps, the most dangerous enemy of myself and family.”

“So we pass from the execution to suppositions,” said Rodin, still

immovable.

“And from suppositions, sir, if you must have it, to certainty,” resumed

Adrienne, with dignified firmness; “yes, now I believe that I was for

awhile your dupe, and I tell you, without hate, without anger, but with

regret--that it is painful to see a man of your sense and intelligence

stoop to such machinations, and, after having recourse to so many

diabolical manoeuvres, finish at last by being ridiculous; for, believe

me, there is nothing more ridiculous for a man like you, than to

be vanquished by a young girl, who has no weapon, no defence, no

instructor, but her love. In a word, sir, I look upon you from to-day as

an implacable and dangerous enemy; for I half perceive your aim, without

guessing by what means you will seek to accomplish it, No doubt your

future means will be worthy of the past. Well! in spite of all this,

I do not fear you. From tomorrow, my family will be informed of

everything, and an active, intelligent, resolute union will keep us all

upon our guard, for it doubtless concerns this enormous inheritance, of

which they wish to deprive us. Now, what connection can there be between

the wrongs I reproach you with and the pecuniary end proposed? I do

not at all know--but you have told me yourself that our enemies are

so dangerously skillful, and their craft so far-reaching, that we must

expect all, be prepared for all. I will remember the lesson. I have

promised you frankness, sir, and now I suppose you have it.”

“It would be an imprudent frankness if I were your enemy,” said Rodin,

still impassible; “but you also promised me some advice, my dear young

lady.”

“My advice will be short; do not attempt to continue the struggle,

because, you see, there is something stronger than you and yours--it is

a woman’s resolve, defending her happiness.”

Adrienne pronounced these last words with so sovereign a confidence; her

beautiful countenance shone, as is it were, with such intrepid joy,

that Rodin, notwithstanding his phlegmatic audacity, was for a moment

frightened. Yet he did not appear in the least disconcerted; and, after

a moment’s silence, he resumed, with an air of almost contemptuous

compassion: “My dear young lady, we may perhaps never meet again; it is

probable. Only remember one thing, which I now repeat to you: I never

justify myself. The future will provide for that. Notwithstanding which,

my dear young lady, I am your humble servant;” and he made her a low

bow.

“Count, I beg to salute you most respectfully,” he added, bowing still

more humbly to M. de Montbron; and he went out.

Hardly had Rodin left the room than Adrienne ran to her desk, and

writing a few hasty lines, sealed the note, and said to M. de Montbron:

“I shall not see the prince before to-morrow--as much from superstition

of the heart as because it is necessary for my plans that this interview

should be attended with some little solemnity. You shall know all; but I

write to him on the instant, for, with an enemy like M. Rodin, one must

be prepared for all.”

“You are right, my dear child; quick! the letter.” Adrienne gave it to

him.

“I tell him enough,” said she, “to calm his grief; and not enough to

deprive me of the delicious happiness of the surprise I reserve for to

morrow.”

“All this has as much sense as heart in it: I will hasten to the

prince’s abode, to deliver your letter. I shall not see him, for I

could not answer for myself. But come! our proposed drive, our evening’s

amusement, are still to hold good.”

“Certainly. I have more need than ever to divert my thoughts till

to morrow. I feel, too, that the fresh air will do me good, for this

interview with M. Rodin has warmed me a little.”

“The old wretch! but we will talk further of him. I will hasten to the

prince’s and return with Madame de Morinval, to fetch you to the Champs

Elysees.”

The Count de Montbron withdrew precipitately, as joyful at his departure

as he had been sad on his arrival.

CHAPTER XI. THE CHAMPS-ELYSEES

It was about two hours after the interview of Rodin with Mdlle. de

Cardoville. Numerous loungers, attracted to the Champs-Elysees by the

serenity of a fine spring day (it was towards the end of the month of

March) stopped to admire a very handsome equipage. A bright-blue open

carriage, with white-and-blue wheels, drawn by four superb horses,

of cream color, with black manes, and harness glittering with silver

ornaments, mounted by two boy postilions of equal size, with black

velvet caps, light-blue cassimere jackets with white collars, buckskin

breeches, and top-boots; two tall, powdered footmen, also in light-blue

livery, with white collars and facings, being seated in the rumble

behind.

No equipage could have been turned out in better style. The horses, full

of blood, spirit, and vigor, were skillfully managed by the postilions,

and stepped with singular regularity, gracefully keeping time in their

movements, champing their bits covered with foam, and ever and anon

shaking their cockades of blue and white silk, with long floating ends,

and a bright rose blooming in the midst.

A man on horseback, dressed with elegant simplicity, keeping at the

other side of the avenue, contemplated with proud satisfaction

this equipage which he had, as it were, created. It was M. de

Bonneville--Adrienne’s equerry, as M. de Montbron called him--for the

carriage belonged to that young lady. A change had taken place in the

plan for this magic day’s amusement. M. de Montbron had not been able to

deliver Mdlle. de Cardoville’s note to Prince Djalma. Faringhea had told

him that the prince had gone that morning into the country with Marshal

Simon, and would not be back before evening. The letter should be given

him on his arrival. Completely satisfied as to Djalma, knowing that

he could find these few lines, which, without informing him of the

happiness that awaited him, would at least give him some idea of it,

Adrienne had followed the advice of M. de Montbron, and gone to the

drive in her own carriage, to show all the world that she had quite

made up her mind, in spite of the perfidious reports circulated by the

Princess de Saint Dizier, to keep to her resolution of living by herself

in her own way. Adrienne wore a small white bonnet, with a fall of

blonde, which well became her rosy face and golden hair; her high

dress of garnet-colored velvet was almost hidden beneath a large green

cashmere shawl. The young Marchioness de Morinval, who was also very

pretty and elegant, was seated at her right. M. de Montbron occupied the

front seat of the carriage.

Those who know the Parisian world, or rather, that imperceptible

fraction of the world of Paris which goes every fine, sunny day to the

Champs Elysees, to see and be seen, will understand that the presence

of Mdlle. de Cardoville on that brilliant promenade was an extraordinary

and interesting event.

The world (as it is called) could hardly believe its eyes, on seeing

this lady of eighteen, possessed of princely wealth, and belonging to

the highest nobility, thus prove to every one, by this appearance in

public, that she was living completely free and independent, contrary to

all custom and received notions of propriety. This kind of emancipation

appeared something monstrous, and people were almost astonished that

the graceful and dignified bearing of the young lady should belie so

completely the calumnies circulated by Madame de Saint-Dizier and her

friends, with regard to the pretended madness of her niece. Many beaux,

profiting by their acquaintance with the Marchioness de Morinval or M.

de Montbron, came by turns to pay their respects, and rode for a few

minutes by the side of the carriage, so as to have an opportunity

of seeing, admiring, and perhaps hearing, Mdlle. de Cardoville; she

surpassed their expectations, by talking with her usual grace and

spirit. Then surprise and enthusiasm knew no bounds. What had at first

been blamed as an almost insane caprice, was now voted a charming

originality, and it only depended on Mdlle. de Cardoville herself, to be

declared from that day the queen of elegance and fashion. The young lady

understood very well the impression she had made; she felt proud and

happy, for she thought of Djalma; when she compared him to all these

men of fashion, her happiness was the more increased. And, verily, these

young men, most of whom had never quitted Paris, or had ventured at most

as far as Naples or Baden, looked insignificant enough by the side of

Djalma, who, at his age, had so many times commanded and combated in

bloody wars, and whose reputation far courage and generosity, mentioned

by travellers with admiration, had already reached from India to Paris.

And then, how could these charming exquisites, with their small hats,

their scanty frock-coats, and their huge cravats, compare with the

Indian prince, whose graceful and manly beauty was still heightened by

the splendor of a costume, at once so rich and so picturesque?

On this happy day, all was joy and love for Adrienne. The sun, setting

in a splendidly serene sky, flooded the promenade with its golden light.

The air was warm. Carriages and horsemen passed and repassed in rapid

succession; a light breeze played with the scarfs of the women, and

the plumes in their bonnets; all around was noise, movement, sunshine.

Adrienne, leaning back in her carriage, amused herself with watching

this busy scene, sparkling with Parisian luxury; but, in the vortex

of this brilliant chaos, she saw in thought the mild, melancholy

countenance of Djalma--when suddenly something fell into her lap, and

she started. It was a bunch of half-faded violets. At the same instant

she heard a child’s voice following the carriage, and saying: “For the

love of heaven, my good lady, one little sou!” Adrienne turned her head,

and saw a poor little girl, pale and wan, with mild, sorrowful features,

scarcely covered with rags, holding out her hand, and raising her eyes

in supplication. Though the striking contrast of extreme misery, side

by side with extreme luxury, is so common, that it no longer excites

attention, Adrienne was deeply affected by it. She thought of Mother

Bunch, now, perhaps, the victim of frightful destitution.

“Ah! at least,” thought the young lady, “let not this day be one of

happiness for me alone!”

She leaned from the carriage-window, and said to the poor child: “Have

you a mother, my dear?”

“No, my lady, I have neither father nor mother.”

“Who takes care of you?”

“No one, my lady. They give me nosegays to sell, and I must bring home

money--or they beat me.”

“Poor little thing!”

“A sou, my good lady--a sou, for the love of heaven!” said the child,

continuing to follow the carriage, which was then moving slowly.

“My dear count,” said Adrienne, smiling, and addressing M. de Montbron,

“you are, unfortunately, no novice at an elopement. Please to stretch

forth your arms, take up that child with both hands, and lift her into

the carriage. We can hide her between Lady de Morinval and myself; and

we can drive away before any one perceives this audacious abduction.”

“What!” said the count, in surprise. “You wish--”

“Yes; I beg you to do it.”

“What a folly!”

“Yesterday, you might, perhaps, have treated this caprice as a folly;

but to-day,” said Adrienne, laying great stress upon the word, and

glancing at M. de Montbron with a significant air, “to-day, you should

understand that it is almost a duty.”

“Yes, I understand you, good and noble heart!” said the count,

with emotion; while Lady de Morinval, who knew nothing of Mdlle. de

Cardoville’s love for Djalma, looked with as much surprise as curiosity

at the count and the young lady.

M. de Montbron, leaning from the carriage, stretched out his arms

towards the child, and said to her: “Give me your hands, little girl.”

Though much astonished, the child obeyed mechanically, and held out both

her little arms; then the count took her by the wrists, and lifted her

lightly from the ground, which he did the more easily, as the carnage

was very low, and its progress by no means rapid. More stupefied than

frightened, the child said not a word. Adrienne and Lady de Morinval

made room for her to crouch down between them, and the little girl was

soon hidden beneath the shawls of the two young women. All this was

executed so quickly, that it was hardly perceived by a few persons

passing in the side-avenues.

“Now, my dear count,” said Adrienne, radiant with pleasure, “let us make

off at once with our prey.”

M. de Montbron half rose, and called to the postilions. “Home!” and the

four horses started at once into a rapid and regular trot.

“This day of happiness now seems consecrated, and my luxury is excused,”

thought Adrienne; “till I can again meet with that poor Mother Bunch,

and from this day I will make every exertion to find her out, her place

will at least not be quite empty.”

There are often strange coincidences in life. At the moment when this

thought of the hunchback crossed the mind of Adrienne, a crowd had

collected in one of the side-avenues, and other persons soon ran to join

the group.

“Look, uncle!” said Lady de Morinval; “how many people are assembled

yonder. What can it be? Shall we stop, and send to inquire?”

“I am sorry, my dear, but your curiosity cannot be satisfied,” said

the count, drawing out his watch; “it will soon be six o’clock, and the

exhibition of the wild beasts begin at eight. We shall only just have

time to go home and dine. Is not that your opinion, my dear child?” said

he to Adrienne.

“And yours, Julia?” said Mdlle. de Cardoville to the marchioness.

“Oh, certainly!” answered her friend.

“I am the less inclined to delay,” resumed the count, “as when I have

taken you to the Porte-Saint-Martin, I shall be obliged to go for half

an-hour to my club, to ballot for Lord Campbell, whom I propose.”

“Then, Adrienne and I will be left alone at the play, uncle?”

“Your husband will go with you, I suppose.”

“True, dear uncle; but do not quite leave us, because of that.”

“Be sure I shall not: for I am curious as you are to see these terrible

animals, and the famous Morok, the incomparable lion-tamer.”

A few minutes after, Mdlle. de Cardoville’s carriage had left the Champs

Elysees, carrying with it the little girl, and directing its course

towards the Rue d’Anjou. As the brilliant equipage disappeared from

the scene, the crowd, of which we before have spoken, greatly increased

about one of the large trees in the Champs-Elysees, and expressions of

pity were heard here and there amongst the groups. A lounger approached

a young man on the skirts of the crowd, and said to him: “What is the

matter, sir?”

“I hear it is a poor young girl, a hunchback, that has fallen from

exhaustion.”

“A hunchback! is that all? There will always be enough hunchbacks,” said

the lounger, brutally, with a coarse laugh.

“Hunchback or not, if she dies of hunger,” answered the young man,

scarcely able to restrain his indignation, “it will be no less sad--and

there is really nothing to laugh at, sir.”

“Die of hunger! pooh!” said the lounger, shrugging his shoulders. “It

is only lazy scoundrels, that will not work, who die of hunger. And it

serves them right.”

“I wager, sir, there is one death you will never die of,” cried the

young man, incensed at the cruel insolence of the lounger.

“What do you mean?” answered the other, haughtily.

“I mean, sir, that your heart is not likely to kill you.”

“Sir!” cried the lounger in an angry tone.

“Well! what, sir?” replied the young man, looking full in his face.

“Nothing,” said the lounger, turning abruptly on his heel, and grumbling

as he sauntered towards an orange-colored cabriolet, on which was

emblazoned an enormous coat-of-arms, surmounted by a baron’s crest.

A servant in green livery, ridiculously laced with gold, was standing

beside the horse, and did not perceive his master.

“Are you catching flies, fool?” said the latter, pushing him with his

cane. The servant turned round in confusion. “Sir,” said he.

“Will you never learn to call me Monsieur le Baron, rascal?” cried his

master, in a rage--“Open the door directly!”

The lounger was Baron Tripeaud, the manufacturing baron the

stock-jobber. The poor hunchback was Mother Bunch, who had, indeed

fallen with hunger and fatigue, whilst on her way to Mdlle. de

Cardoville’s. The unfortunate creature had found courage to brave the

shame of the ridicule she so much feared, by returning to that house

from which she was a voluntary exile; but this time, it was not for

herself, but for her sister Cephyse--the Bacchanal Queen, who had

returned to Paris the previous day, and whom Mother Bunch now sought,

through the means of Adrienne, to rescue from a most dreadful fate.

Two hours after these different scenes, an enormous crowd pressed round

the doors of the Porte-Saint-Martin, to witness the exercises of Morok,

who was about to perform a mock combat with the famous black panther of

Java, named Death. Adrienne, accompanied by Lord and Lady de Morinval,

now stepped from a carriage at the entrance of the theatre. They were to

be joined in the course of the evening by M. de Montbron, whom they had

dropped, in passing, at his club.

CHAPTER XII. BEHIND THE SCENES.

The large theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin was crowded by an impatient

multitude. All Paris had hurried with eager and burning curiosity to

Morok’s exhibition. It is quite unnecessary to say that the lion-tamer

had completely abandoned his small taste in religious baubles, which he

had so successfully carried on at the White Falcon Inn at Leipsic.

There were, moreover, numerous tokens by which the surprising effects

of Morok’s sudden conversion had been blazoned in the most extraordinary

pictures: the antiquated baubles in which he had formerly dealt would

have found no sale in Paris. Morok had nearly finished dressing himself,

in one of the actor’s rooms, which had been lent to him. Over a coat of

mail, with cuishes and brassarts, he wore an ample pair of red trousers,

fastened round his ankles by broad rings of gilt brass. His long caftan

of black cloth, embroidered with scarlet and gold, was bound round his

waist and wrist by other large rings of gilt metal. This sombre costume

imparted to him an aspect still more ferocious. His thick and red-haired

beard fell in large quantities down to his chest, and a long piece

of white muslin was folded round his red head. A devout missionary in

Germany and an actor in Paris, Morok knew as well as his employers, the

Jesuits, how to accommodate himself to circumstances.

Seated in one corner of the room, and contemplating with a sort of

stupid admiration, was Jacques Rennepont, better known as “Sleepinbuff”

(from the likelihood that he would end his days in rags, or his present

antipathy to great care in dress). Since the day Hardy’s factory had

been destroyed by fire, Jacques had not quitted Morok, passing

the nights in excesses, which had no baneful effects on the iron

constitution of the lion-tamer. On the other’s features, on the

contrary, a great alteration was perceptible; his hollow cheeks, marble

pallor, his eyes, by turns dull and heavy, or gleaming with lurid

fire, betrayed the ravages of debauchery, his parched lips were almost

constantly curled by a bitter and sardonic smile. His spirit, once

gay and sanguine, still struggled against the besotting influence of

habitual intoxication. Unfitted for labor, no longer able to forego

gross pleasures, Jacques sought to drown in wine a few virtuous impulses

which he still possessed, and had sunk so low as to accept without shame

the large dole of sensual gratification proffered him by Morok, who paid

all the expenses of their orgies, but never gave him money, in order

that he might be completely dependent on him. After gazing at Morok for

some time in amazement, Jacques said to him, in a familiar tone: “Well,

yours is a famous trade; you may boast that, at this moment, there are

not two men like you in the whole world That’s flattering. It’s a pity

you don’t stick to this fine trade.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, how is the conspiracy going on, in whose honor you make me keep it

up all day and all night?”

“It is working, but the time is not yet come; that is why I wish to have

you always at hand, till the great day. Do you complain?”

“Hang it, no!” said Jacques. “What could I do? Burnt up with brandy as

I am, if I wanted to work, I’ve no longer the strength to do so. I have

not, like you, a head of marble, and a body of iron; but as for fuddling

myself with gunpowder, instead of anything else, that’ll do for me; I’m

only fit for that work now--and then, it will drive away thought.”

“Oh what kind?”

“You know that when I do think, I think only of one thing,” said

Jacques, gloomily.

“The Bacchanal queen?--still?” said Morok, in a disdainful tone.

“Still! rather: when I shall think of her no longer, I shall be dead--or

stupefied. Fiend!”

“You were never better or more intelligent, you fool!” replied Morok,

fastening his turban. The conversation was here interrupted. Morok’s

aider entered hastily.

The gigantic form of this Hercules had increased in width. He was

habited like Alcides; his enormous limbs, furrowed with veins as thick

as whipcord, were covered with a close-fitting flesh-colored garment, to

which a pair of red drawers formed a strong contrast.

“Why do you rush in like a storm, Goliath?” said Morok.

“There’s a pretty storm in the house; they are beginning to get

impatient, and are calling out like madmen. But if that were all!”

“Well, what else?”

“Death will not be able to play this evening.”

Morok turned quickly around. He seemed uneasy. “Why so?” he exclaimed.

“I have just seen her! she’s crouching at the bottom of her cage; her

ears lie so close to her head, she looks as if they had been cut off.

You know what that means.”

“Is that all?” said Morok, turning to the glass to complete his head

dress.

“It’s quite enough; she’s in one of her tearing fits. Since that night

in Germany, when she ripped up that old hack of a white horse, I’ve not

seen her look so savage! her eyes shine like burning candles.”

“Then she must have her fine collar on,” said Morok, quietly.

“Her fine collar?”

“Yes; her spring-collar.”

“And I must be lady’s-maid,” said the giant. “A nice toilet to attend

to!”

“Hold your tongue!”

“That’s not all--” continued Goliath, hesitating.

“What more?”

“I might as well tell you at once.”

“Will you speak?”

“Well! he is here.”

“Who, you stupid brute?”

“The Englishman!”

Morok started; his arms fell powerless by his side. Jacques was struck

with the lion-tamer’s paleness and troubled countenance.

“The Englishman!--you have seen him?” cried Morok, addressing Goliath.

“You are quite sure?”

“Quite sure. I was looking through the peep-hole in the curtain; I saw

him in one of the stage-boxes--he wishes to see things close; he’s easy

to recognize, with his pointed forehead, big nose, and goggle eyes.”

Morok shuddered again; usually fierce and unmoved, he appeared to be

more and more agitated, and so alarmed, that Jacques said to him: “Who

is this Englishman?”

“He has followed me from Strasburg, where he fell in with me,” said

Morok, with visible dejection. “He travelled with his own horses, by

short stages, as I did; stopping where I stopped, so as never to miss

one of my exhibitions. But two days before I arrived at Paris, he left

me--I thought I was rid of him,” said Morok, with a sigh.

“Rid of him!--how you talk!” replied Jacques, surprised; “such a good

customer, such an admirer!”

“Aye!” said Morok, becoming more and more agitated; “this wretch has

wagered an enormous sum, that I will be devoured in his presence,

during one of my performances: he hopes to win his wager--that is why he

follows me about.”

Sleepinbuff found the John Bull’s idea so amusingly eccentric, that, for

the first time since a very long period, he burst into a peal of hearty

laughter. Morok, pale with rage, rushed towards him with so menacing an

air, that Goliath was obliged to interpose.

“Come, come,” said Jacques, “don’t be angry; if it is serious, I will

not laugh any more.”

Morok was appeased, and said to Sleepinbuff in a hoarse voice: “Do you

think me a coward?”

“No, by heaven!”

“Well! And yet this Englishman, with his grotesque face, frightens me

more than any tiger or my panther!”

“You say so, and I believe it,” replied Jacques; “but I cannot

understand why the presence of this man should alarm you.”

“But consider, you dull knave!” cried Morok, “that, obliged to watch

incessantly the least movement of the ferocious beast, whom I keep in

subjection by my action and my looks, there is something terrible in

knowing that two eyes are there--always there--fixed--waiting till

the least absence of mind shall expose me to be torn in pieces by the

animals.”

“Now, I understand,” said Jacques, shuddering in his turn. “It is

terrible.”

“Yes; for once there, though I may not see this cursed Englishman, I

fancy I have his two round eyes, fixed and wide open, always before me.

My tiger Cain once nearly mutilated my arm, when my attention was drawn

away by this Englishman, whom the devil take! Blood and thunder!” cried

Morok: “this man will be fatal to me.” And Morok paced the room in great

agitation.

“Besides, Death lays her ears close to her skull,” said Goliath,

brutally. “If you persist--mind, I tell you--the Englishman will win his

wager this evening.”

“Go away, you brute!--don’t vex my head with your confounded

predictions,” cried Morok: “go and prepare Death’s collar.”

“Well, every one to his taste; you wish the panther to taste you,” said

the giant, stalking heavily away, after this joke.

“But if you feel these fears,” said Jacques, “why do you not say that

the panther is ill?”

Morok shrugged his shoulders, and replied with a sort of feverish

ferocity, “Have you ever heard of the fierce pleasure of the gamester,

who stakes his honor, his life, upon a card? Well! I too--in these daily

exhibitions where my life is at stake--find a wild, fierce pleasure in

braving death, before a crowded assembly, shuddering and terrified at my

audacity. Yes, even in the fear with which this Englishman inspires me,

I find, in spite of myself, a terrible excitement, which I abhor, and

which yet subjugates me.”

At this moment, the stage-manager entered the room, and interrupted the

beast-tamer. “May we give the signal, M. Morok?” said the stage-manager.

“The overture will not last above ten minutes.”

“I am ready,” said Morok.

“The police-inspector has just now given orders, that the double chain

of the panther, and the iron ring riveted to the floor of the stage, at

the end of the cavern in the foreground, shall be again examined; and

everything has been reported quite secure.”

“Yes--secure--except for me,” murmured the beast-tamer.

“So, M. Morok, the signal may be given?”

“The signal may--be given,” replied Morok. And the manager went out.

CHAPTER XIII. UP WITH THE CURTAIN.

The usual bell sounded with solemnity behind the scenes the overture

began, and, to say the truth, but little attention was paid to it. The

interior of the theatre offered a very animated view. With the exception

of two stage-boxes even with the dress circle, one to the left, the

other to the right of the audience, every seat was occupied. A great

number of very fashionable ladies, attracted, as is always the case, by

the strange wildness of the spectacle, filled the boxes. The stalls were

crowded by most of the young men who; in the morning, had walked their

horses on the Champs-Elysees. The observations which passed from one

stall to another, will give some idea of their conversation.

“Do you know, my dear boy, there would not be so crowded or fashionable

an audience to witness Racine’s Athalia?”

“Undoubtedly. What is the beggarly howling of an actor, compared to the

roaring of the lion?”

“I cannot understand how the authorities permit this Morok to fasten his

panther with a chain to an iron ring in the corner of the stage. If the

chain were to break?”

“Talking of broken chains--there’s little Mme. de Blinville, who is no

tigress. Do you see her in the second tier, opposite?”

“It becomes her very well to have broken, as you say, the marriage

chain; she looks very well this season.”

“Oh! there is the beautiful Duchess de Saint-Prix; all the world is here

to-night--I don’t speak of ourselves.”

“It is a regular opera night--what a festive scene!”

“Well, after all, people do well to amuse themselves, perhaps it will

not be for long.”

“Why so?”

“Suppose the cholera were to come to Paris?”

“Oh! nonsense!”

“Do you believe in the cholera?”