THE RECITAL
"You may remember when, two years since, before my marriage, I left you
at Venice to go to Florence with my aunt Vasari, and Gianetta our
waiting-maid. You had been an invalid for a long time, and were unable
to accompany us."
"I remember it well. Gianetta wrote to me sometimes, by your desire, to
tell me how you were."
"That Gianetta was very inquisitive, indiscreet, and faithless. I fear I
kept her in my service too long."
"During your residence in Florence she wrote me but a few lines, just to
say that you were well; and she seemed to do this very unwillingly,"
added Iris, with incredible assurance.
She lied, for Gianetta had, on the contrary, kept her constantly and
fully informed of all that was going on at Florence during her
godmother's absence.
"At the end of six months," resumed the princess, "I returned to
Venice."
"It was then you had that long nervous attack which so nearly killed
you."
"And during which you gave me so many proofs of your devotion and
affection; and from that time, Iris, I loved you like a sisterlike a
daughter."
Iris took her godmother's hand and silently placed it to her lips.
"My aunt Vasari," continued Paula, "went to Florence to attend to a
lawsuit she had there. She went out every day, being able, as she
thought, to influence her judges. In the evening we went out to walk,
and there I frequently met a Frenchman named M. Charles de Brévannes.
He was very soon my constant shadow; his pursuit of me became incessant
and troublesome, and from that time my indifference was changed to
aversion."
"Was he a man likely to cause such a sentiment?" "Why do you ask?"
inquired the princess, scrutinising Iris's features; then adding, "You
were so young then, you could not have remarked. Yes, at your age, that
is natural. You recollect my cousin, Raphael Monti, the son of my
father's brother?"
Iris imperceptibly contracted her eyebrows, and replied in a short
manner,--
"Yes; each time he returned from sea he came to pass his leisure at
Venice. Isn't he in the East? Have you had any news of him lately? When
we left Italy his mother was becoming very anxious about his absence."
"He is dead," said Madame de Hansfeld, with desperate calmness.
"Raphael dead!" exclaimed Iris, with feigned astonishment.
"Charles de Brévannes killed him."
"And your aunt is ignorant of this?"
"Listen--the hour is come to disclose every thing to you. I had been, as
you know, brought up with Raphael. When a child, I loved him as a
brother; as a young girl, as my betrothed husband; or, rather, these two
sentiments united themselves into one. You were then young and giddy,
and our mutual affection, no doubt, escaped you."
"Why, to tell you the truth, godmother, now I remember some
circumstances which ought to have enlightened me on that subject. But is
it possible--is Raphael dead? And when and where did this happen?"
"Listen. I was to hare been married to him on my return to Florence. You
may now comprehend why M. de Brévannes inspired me with so much
aversion."
"I understand."
"His pursuit of me redoubled. Informed of our residence in Florence, he,
by dint of perseverance and encouragement, contrived to form a connexion
with those persons who would be of so much service to my aunt in her
process, and obtained such influence with them, that he was very soon in
a position to be of the greatest possible use to us.
"His way thus cleared, he one day boldly announced himself at my aunt's
under the plea of lodging in the same hôtel. Our reception of him was
very chilling, but the man soon proved himself so insinuating, such a
flatterer, and so clearly shewed my aunt how greatly he could aid the
progress of her suit, that she begged him to visit us as frequently as
he pleased. As he left the room, he cast at me a very significant look.
He had only done this in order to be able to approach me.
"I told my aunt all my suspicions, and her reply was that I was crazy;
that it was requisite we should avail ourselves of M. de Brévannes'
kind offices, since he could be so advantageous to us. You know my aunt
had been very handsome, and at this time she was only forty years of
age. M. de Brévannes saw one day that she took in earnest some little
gallantries which he addressed to her in jest. He increased his
attentions, so that, in a very short time, she could really not do
without him. He accompanied us every where, walking, or to the theatre.
I remarked to my aunt that he was young and rich, and that this intimacy
might compromise me. She then told me, with as much joy as pride, that I
was quite wrong to alarm myself. She was a widow and free; M. de
Brévannes had avowed his love for her, adding that he only took so deep
an interest in our lawsuit because it gave him an opportunity of being
so constantly near her. I wished to make some observations to my aunt,
but she would not even allow me to finish them, but broke out into a
tirade as to the vanity of young girls, and reproached me with ever
having believed for a moment that M. de Brévannes bestowed a thought on
me. He saw us every day, often sent minstrels under our windows, and
continually presented us with similar bouquets, in order (as he told my
aunt) that my self-love might not be wounded.
"One day, finding me alone, he made me a declaration of love,
considering as a merit in my eyes the ability with which he had deceived
my aunt, and taken off from me the gaze of the world by appearing
smitten with her, and for this enormous sacrifice he considered I should
admire and feel kindly disposed towards him."
"And was your aunt informed of this avowal of Charles de Brévannes?"
"That very evening she was told all."
"Then he was unmasked?"
"Child, you do not comprehend the weakness and vanity of women!"
"What!--she would not believe you?"
"Yes, at first; and that same evening our door was closed against M. de
Brévannes. He guessed the fact, and wrote a long letter to my aunt. The
very next day he was received even more kindly than usual. When she left
me, my aunt came and scolded me severely. Jealous, as she declared, of
M. de Brévannes' love for her, I had calumniated him in order to have
him excluded from the house."
"Unhappy woman! she was mad!"
"Matters resumed their usual course. Charles de Brévannes did not utter
one other word of love to me, but he passed whole days with us. On the
13th of April--ah! I shall never forget that date--my aunt said to me
after breakfast, that the noise of the court-yard of the hôtel
disturbed her so much, that she would, from that evening, change
apartments with me. My room looked into the street, and had a balcony.
What I have to add is fearful. That day we had been out for a long drive
in the carriage, accompanied by M. de Brévannes. On our return we sat
together until very late in the evening, my aunt appearing very much
preoccupied. At length he retired, and I went to bed."
The princess turned horribly pale, shuddered, and then continued in a
broken voice:--
"The next morning I wished to go as usual to wish my aunt good morning,
when Gianetta, with an embarrassed air, told me that Madame Vasari was
much indisposed, and could not see me.
"At the moment I was returning towards my own apartment, a stranger
inquired for me, and a dark, pale man handed me a letter without
uttering a syllable. I knew not why, but a tremor ran through my veins.
I opened the letter--it inclosed a ring which I had given to Raphael."
"And the letter, godmother,--the letter?"
"Was from Raphael, who was dying."
"From Raphael?"
"Yes, and contained these words, which seemed to me written in
characters of blood:--"
"'I have been in Florence for two days. I know all. This very night I
saw Brévannes descending from your balcony; after which you closed the
window. I fought with him instantly, as we both agreed. I sought death,
and he has given it to me. Be thou accursed! Osorio will tell you when
you return to Venice. Conceal from my mother. My sight is----'
"And nothing more," added Madame de Hansfeld, with agonising expression,
"nothing but some shapeless letters."
"What a mystery!" said Iris, clasping her hands. "Who then could have
appeared at your chamber-window?"
"Have I not told you that my aunt had occupied the chamber that very
evening which I had before slept in? No doubt, Charles de Brévannes had
obtained a rendezvous from her in order to serve his wicked designs, you
will see how. She is my height--dark as I am; and thus was Raphael
fatally deceived."
"Oh! how horrible!"
"After I had read this letter I was almost mad. I believed I was in a
dream. Osorio told me the rest. Raphael, on his return from a voyage to
Constantinople, had reached Venice. He only passed a day in that city,
but, misled by some abominable calumny which had reached thither from
Florence, he left that city suddenly with Osorio, to whom he said,--
"'They tell me that Paula has betrayed me shamefully; if that be true, I
will kill my rival or he shall kill me.'"
"But who could thus have slandered you in Venice?"
"How do I know? Raphael had not even seen his mother. Every body was in
utter ignorance of his short stay in Venice. In vain did I question
Osorio on this point: he was mute."
"That is very strange."
"Unfortunately he shared Raphael's suspicions. What I foresaw arrived.
The attentions of M. de Brévannes, explained by shameful scandal, had
compromised me most fatally. I passed in Florence as his mistress, and,
when Raphael inquired of me, I was accused by one common voice. However,
determined not to be misled by appearances, he had gone straight to M.
de Brévannes, had told him of his love for me, and that we were
betrothed, that young girls being frequently giddy and coquettish,
without being culpable, and that the world was slanderous,--and then
entreated M. de Brévannes, in the name of honour, not to conceal the
truth, and, whatever it was, he would believe it."
"And Charles de Brévannes?"
"Far from being touched by this language, he treated Raphael with
_hauteur_, and said to him,--
"'Since you have watched Paula Monti for two days, you must know which
is her chamber.' 'I know it; for, without being perceived by her, this
very morning I saw her in the balcony.' 'Well, be this night at three
o'clock in front of that balcony, and you shall have my reply.' You know
the rest. Brévannes then said insolently to Raphael, 'Are you
satisfied?'
"In his rage, Raphael struck him in the face; a duel ensued at break of
day, and he fell. His last wish was to conceal his death from his
mother. He preferred leaving her, in that uncertainty in which people
remain for many years with respect to sailors, to allowing her to learn
that my treachery had killed him. Osorio told me all this; and, his sad
mission fulfilled, he went away without listening to a word of my
assurances and protestations. I have since heard that he died in the
East; and Raphael's mother is continually expecting her son. He died
cursing me--died in calling and believing me infamous and
perjured--dead--killed by Charles de Brévannes, that calumniator and
murderer!"
"Ah, it is horrible! and your aunt Vasari?"
After a moment's silence, during which the princess appeared borne down
by the weight of a painful recollection, she thus resumed:--
"The laws of duelling were of excessive severity. Charles de Brévannes
went away that same day. Raphael was unknown in Florence: neither Osorio
nor the second of M. de Brévannes appeared again. No one, therefore,
could betray this fatal secret. My aunt was the more inconsolable for
the sudden departure of Charles de Brévannes, as for want of his
support she lost her suit, and was completely ruined. We returned to
Venice, when I became so very ill."
"And in a year afterwards you were the Princess de Hansfeld?"
"Yes, to save my family from dire misfortune, I resigned myself to this
marriage, for which I could hardly have looked. Thanks to the kindness,
the cares, and delicacy of the prince, I saw before me a prospect of
happy days once more; and to gratitude there was gradually succeeding a
sentiment more tender and delightful, when, suddenly, M. de Hansfeld,
affected in some most extraordinary manner, forgot his kindness and his
accustomed gentleness; and," added Madame de Hansfeld, with a deep sigh,
"then began the life I now lead. Sometimes I ask myself, how my reason
can have received such shocks and not have broken down beneath them? The
fear and amazement caused in me by the singular and alarming behaviour
of the prince follow me even into the world when I go sometimes to seek,
not amusement, but forgetfulness. For nearly six months had I dragged on
this wretched existence, in appearance so splendid and happy, when I
accidentally met M. de Morville. I remarked him, because I had heard so
much said of his fidelity, which he had, like myself, vowed to an adored
remembrance. Every where they talked of his devotion, his delicacy, and
above all, his tender constancy for a lady from whom he had been
forcibly separated. Rendered sad by his love, entirely devoted to his
invalid mother, he went out but very little. He resided near us in the
Rue Guillaume. One day I found a letter on the bench in the most lonely
part of our garden. Without at all comprehending the means by which that
letter had reached there, my first impression, as you know, was to
believe that it came from him.
"I was confirmed in this idea the next day, when I remained for some
hours concealed in a clump, and towards evening saw another letter fall,
dropped out of a window concealed by ivy.
"M. de Morville seemed to penetrate the causes of the thoughts which
agitated me. Gay, if I were gay, sad, if I were sad, dull and
despairing, if I were so, his letters seemed the echo of my most deep or
light impressions."
"How could he guess them?"
"By observing me, he read in my countenance the situation of my mind."
"He loves you well," said Iris, with a voice deeply agitated.
"You see, as I do, that M. de Morville regretted a lost love; and,
strange, fatal event! our common regrets served, as it were, as a link
between the past love and the new love."
"You may love,--the prince has given you liberty."
"I know it,--I know it; but he has often recurred to those harsh words.
How often has he passed from the most chilling, most disdainful, most
overwhelming cruelty, to language of most affectionate tenderness. But
what avails it now! his cruelties, and his tenderness, alike find me
unmoved; my love gives me courage to brave them; my love! and still my
conscience reproaches me for forgetting Raphael!
"Since I have seen M. de Brévannes again, it seems to me, that in
redoubling my hatred against this murderer, I seek to expiate my
inconstancy; it seems to me, indeed, that if I obtained a sweeping
revenge against this man, my fresh love would be excused; and then,
again--wretch that I am!--has this fresh love need of any excuse? An
insurmountable barrier separates me for ever from M. de Morville."
"An insurmountable barrier?" said Iris.
"Yes, some fatality pursues me; my soul was being renewed; the most
delightful future was opening to me; I believed myself assured of the
love of M. de Morville. I had contrived to form an intimacy with Madame
de Lormoy, one of his relatives; he had begged to be introduced to me,
when, suddenly, he appeared to feel towards me the most intense hatred,
and avoided a meeting with so offensive a pertinacity, that I resolved
on the step which I have to-day put into execution."
"And what was the cause of his hatred, godmother?"
"Oh, it is not hatred,--he loves me, my girl--loves me as passionately
as I love him, although I have concealed my infatuation from him. But, I
repeat to you, an insurmountable obstacle separates us for ever. To tell
you what I have suffered at this disclosure, and the energy it required
to maintain my composure, would be impossible. Well! still I might have
accepted this position almost with happiness, but for this infernal
Brévannes."
"How?"
"Devoted entirely to this sad and pure love, I would never again have
seen M. de Morville; but, at least, I should have known that he loved me
as I love him. Human nature is so fantastical, that the reasons which
opposed themselves to this love being happy would, perhaps, have assured
its permanency; but if M. de Brévannes speaks, misery--misery for me!
Then contempt would succeed to the adoration now in the heart of M. de
Morville; and he, so frank, so noble, would not then find sufficient
disdain to overwhelm me. Despised by him, ah! I know what I have
suffered when I thought myself the sole possessor of this fatal secret;
and to think that Brévannes could direct this heavy blow at me by again
spreading the infamous calumny which caused Raphael's death,--it is
enough to drive one mad!"
"From all this, godmother, two things result. You must learn the mystery
which impels Morville to avoid you, and you must reduce Charles de
Brévannes to silence."
"Yes, it must be done; but how?--alas!--how: I am indeed wretched!"
"Then Iris is nothing with you?" said the young girl, with great
bitterness.
The princess was struck with it, and replied kindly,--
"Yes, my dear child, I can tell all to you, and that is consolation to
me."
At this moment a solemn, sonorous, and powerful sound, full of sweetest
harmony, but rendered faint by the distance, reached the ears of the two
women. It was the notes of an organ, touched with an exquisite finger
and saddened expression.
At these tones the princess shuddered, and then cried,--
"Ah, 'tis he! He is still watching. Ah! Now, my head is so weak that the
sound of this organ appears to me fearful and supernatural; they are not
the sounds of this instrument I hear, but the mysterious voices of an
invisible world replying to the prince who questions them. Oh, mercy,
mercy! it terrifies me!"
By a singular chance, and as if the entreaty of the princess were heard,
the sound of the organ slowly died away in the silence of the night,
like a complaint that gradually subsides.
"This conversation overpowers me. I tremble all over," said Paula.
"You must go to bed, godmother."
After having aided her in undressing with the utmost care, and
respectfully kissed Madame de Hansfeld's hand, Iris closed the door of
her godmother's chamber, drew a sofa across the sill, which, opening,
formed a bed, and, having carefully bolted the entrance of the secret
staircase, threw herself on the couch, and was soon in a deep slumber.