A DOUBLE ATTACK
The Duke of Vallombreuse was not a man to neglect his love affairs, any
more than his enemies. If he hated de Sigognac mortally, he felt for
Isabelle that furious passion which the unattainable is apt to excite
in a haughty and violent nature like his, that has never met with
resistance. To get possession of the young actress had become the
ruling thought of his life. Spoiled by the easy victories he had always
gained heretofore, in his career of gallantry, his failure in this
instance was utterly incomprehensible to him, as well as astonishing
and maddening. He could not understand it. Oftentimes in the midst of a
conversation, at the theatre, at church, at the court, anywhere and
everywhere, the thought of it would suddenly rush into his mind,
sweeping everything before it, overwhelming him afresh with wonder and
amazement. And indeed it could not be easy for a man who did not
believe that such an anomaly as a truly virtuous woman ever
existed—much less a virtuous actress—to understand Isabelle’s firm
resistance to the suit of such a rich and handsome young nobleman as
himself. He sometimes wondered whether it could be that after all she
was only playing a part, and holding back for a while so as to obtain
more from him in the end—tactics that he knew were not unusual—but the
indignant, peremptory way in which she had rejected the casket of
jewels proved conclusively that no such base motives actuated Isabelle.
All his letters she had returned unopened. All his advances she had
persistently repulsed; and he was at his wit’s end to know what to do
next. Finally he concluded to send for old Mme. Léonarde to come and
talk the matter over with him; he had kept up secret relations with
her, as it is always well to have a spy in the enemy’s camp. The duke
received her, when she came in obedience to his summons, in his own
particular and favoured room, to which she was conducted by a private
staircase. It was a most dainty and luxurious apartment, fitted up with
exquisite taste, and hung round with portraits of beautiful
women—admirably painted by Simon Vouet, a celebrated master of that
day—representing different mythological characters, and set in richly
carved oval frames. These were all likenesses of the young duke’s
various mistresses, each one displaying her own peculiar charms to the
greatest possible advantage, and having consented to sit for her
portrait—in a costume and character chosen by the duke—as a special
favour, without the most remote idea that it was to form part of a
gallery.
When the duenna had entered and made her best curtsey, the duke
condescendingly signed to her to be seated, and immediately began to
question her eagerly about Isabelle—as to whether there were any signs
yet of her yielding to his suit, and also how matters were progressing
between her and the detested Captain Fracasse. Although the crafty old
woman endeavoured to put the best face upon everything, and was very
diplomatic in her answers to these searching questions, the information
that she had to give was excessively displeasing to the imperious young
nobleman, who had much ado to control his temper sufficiently to
continue the conversation. Before he let her go he begged her to
suggest some plan by which he could hope to soften the obdurate
beauty—appealing to her great experience in such intrigues, and
offering to give her any reward she chose to claim if she would but
help him to succeed. She had nothing better to propose, however, than
secretly administering a strong narcotic to Isabelle, and concerting
some plan to deliver her into his hands while unconscious from the
effects of it; which even the unscrupulous young duke indignantly
rejected. Whereupon, fixing her wicked old eyes admiringly upon his
handsome face, and apparently moved by a sudden inspiration, she said:
“But why does not your lordship conduct this affair in person? why not
begin a regular and assiduous courtship in the good old style? You are
as beautiful as Adonis, my lord duke! You are young, fascinating,
powerful, wealthy, a favourite at court, rich in everything that is
pleasing to the weaker sex; and there is not a woman on earth who could
long hold out against you, if you would condescend, my lord, to plead
your own cause with her.”
“By Jove! the old woman is right,” said Vallombreuse to himself,
glancing complacently at the reflection of his own handsome face and
figure in a full-length mirror opposite to him; “Isabelle may be
virtuous and cold, but she is not blind, and Nature has not been so
unkind to me that the sight of me should inspire her with horror. I can
at least hope to produce the same happy effect as a fine statue or
picture, which attracts and charms the eye by its symmetry, or its
beautiful and harmonious colouring. Then, kneeling at her feet, I can
softly whisper some of those persuasive words that no woman can listen
to unmoved—accompanied by such passionately ardent looks that the ice
round her heart will melt under them and vanish quite away. Not one of
the loftiest, haughtiest ladies at the court has ever been able to
withstand them—they have thawed the iciest, most immaculate of them
all; and besides, it surely cannot fail to flatter the pride of this
disdainful, high-spirited little actress to have a real duke actually
and openly kneeling at her feet. Yes, I will take the old woman’s
advice, and pay my court to her so charmingly and perseveringly that I
shall conquer at last—she will not be able to withstand me, my sweet
Isabelle. And it will be a miracle indeed if she has a regret left then
for that cursed de Sigognac; who shall no longer interfere between my
love and me—that I swear! She will soon forget him in my arms.”
Having dismissed old Mme. Léonarde with a handsome gratuity, the duke
next summoned his valet, Picard, and held an important consultation
with him, as to his most becoming costumes, finally deciding upon a
very rich but comparatively plain one, all of black velvet; whose
elegant simplicity he thought would be likely to suit Isabelle’s
fastidious taste better than any more gorgeous array, and in which it
must be confessed that he looked adorably handsome—his really beautiful
face and fine figure appearing to the utmost advantage.
His toilet completed, he sent a peremptory order to his coachman to
have the carriage, with the four bays, ready in a quarter of an hour.
When Picard had departed on this errand, Vallombreuse began pacing
slowly to and fro in his chamber, glancing into the mirror each time he
passed it with a self-satisfied smile. “That proud little minx must be
deucedly cross-grained and unappreciative,” said he, “if she does not
perceive how much more worthy I am of her admiration than that shabby
de Sigognac. Oh, yes! she’ll be sure to come round, in spite of her
obstinate affectation of such ferocious virtue, and her tiresome,
Platonic love for her impecunious suitor. Yes, my little beauty, your
portrait shall figure in one of those oval frames ere long. I think
I’ll have you painted as chaste Diana, descended from the sky, despite
her coldness, to lavish sweet kisses on Endymion. You shall take your
place among those other goddesses, who were as coy and hard to please
at first as yourself, and who are far greater ladies, my dear, than you
ever will be. Your fall is at hand, and you must learn, as your betters
have done before you, that there’s no withstanding the will of a
Vallombreuse. ‘Frango nec frangor,’ is my motto.”
A servant entered to announce that the carriage awaited his lordship’s
pleasure, and during the short drive from his own house to the Rue
Dauphine, the young duke, despite his arrogant assurance, felt his
heart beating faster than usual as he wondered how Isabelle would
receive him. When the splendid carriage, with its four prancing horses
and servants in gorgeous liveries, drove into the courtyard of the
hotel where the comedians were stopping, the landlord himself, cap in
hand, rushed out to ask the pleasure of the lordly visitor; but, rapid
as were his movements, the duke had already alighted before he could
reach him. He cut short the obsequious host’s obeisances and breathless
offers of service by an impatient gesture, and said peremptorily:
“Mlle. Isabelle is stopping here. I wish to see her. Is she at home? Do
not send to announce my visit; only let me have a servant to show me
the way to her room.”
“My lord, let me have the glory of conducting your lordship myself—such
an honour is too great for a rascally servant—I myself am not worthy of
so distinguished a privilege.”
“As you please,” said Vallombreuse, with haughty negligence, “only be
quick about it. There are people at every window already, staring down
at me as if I were the Grand Turk in person.”
He followed his guide, who, with many bows and apologies, preceded him
upstairs, and down a long, narrow corridor with doors on either side,
like a convent, until they reached Isabelle’s room, where the landlord
paused, and, bowing lower than ever, asked what name he should have the
honour of announcing.
“You can go, now,” the duke replied, laying his hand on the door; “I
will announce myself.”
Isabelle was sitting by the window, diligently studying her part in a
new play to be shortly put in rehearsal, and, at the moment the Duke of
Vallombreuse softly entered her chamber, was repeating, in a low voice
and with closed eyes, the verses she was learning by heart—just as a
child does its lessons. The light from the window shone full upon her
beautiful head and face—seen in profile—and her lovely figure, thrown
back in a negligent attitude full of grace and _abandon_. She made a
most bewitching picture thus, and with a delicious effect of
chiaroscuro that would have enchanted an artist—it enthralled the young
duke.
Supposing that the intruder who entered so quietly was only the
chambermaid, come to perform some forgotten duty, Isabelle did not
interrupt her study or look up, but went on composedly with her
recitation. The duke, who had breathlessly advanced to the centre of
the room, paused there, and stood motionless, gazing with rapture upon
her beauty. As he waited for her to open her eyes and become aware of
his presence, he sank gracefully down upon one knee, holding his hat so
that its long plume swept the floor, and laying his hand on his heart,
in an attitude that was slightly theatrical perhaps, but as respectful
as if he had been kneeling before a queen. Excitement and agitation had
flushed his pale cheeks a little, his eyes were luminous and full of
fire, a sweet smile hovered on his rich, red lips, and he had never
looked more splendidly, irresistibly handsome in his life. At last
Isabelle moved, raised her eyelids, turned her head, and perceived the
Duke of Vallombreuse, kneeling within six feet of her. If Perseus had
suddenly appeared before her, holding up Medusa’s horrid head, the
effect would have been much the same. She sat like a statue,
motionless, breathless, as if she had been petrified, or frozen
stiff—her eyes, dilated with excessive terror, fixed upon his face, her
lips parted, her throat parched and dry, her tongue paralyzed—unable to
move or speak. A ghastly pallor overspread her horror-stricken
countenance, a deathly chill seized upon all her being, and for one
dreadful moment of supreme anguish she feared that she was going to
faint quite away; but, by a desperate, prodigious effort of will, she
recalled her failing senses, that she might not leave herself entirely
defenceless in the power of her cruel persecutor.
“Can it be possible that I inspire such overwhelming horror in your
gentle breast, my sweet Isabelle,” said Vallombreuse in his most dulcet
tones, and without stirring from his position, “that the mere sight of
me produces an effect like this? Why, a wild beast, crouching to spring
upon you from his lair, with angry roar and blazing eyeballs, could not
terrify you more. My presence here may be a little sudden and
startling, I admit; but you must not be too hard upon one who lives
only to love and adore you. I knew that I risked your anger when I
decided to take this step; but I could not exist any longer without a
sight of you, and I humbly crave your pardon if I have offended you by
my ardour and devotion. I kneel at your feet, fair lady, a despairing
and most unhappy suppliant for your grace and favour.”
“Rise, my lord, I beseech you,” said the frightened, trembling girl,
speaking with great difficulty and in a voice that sounded strange in
her own ears; “such a position does not become your rank. I am only an
actress, and my poor attractions do not warrant such homage. Forget
this fleeting fancy, I pray you, and carry elsewhere the ardour and
devotion that are wasted upon me, and that so many great and noble
ladies would be proud and happy to receive and reward.”
“What do I care for other women, be they what they may?” cried
Vallombreuse impetuously, as he rose in obedience to her request; “it
is _your_ pride and purity that I adore, _your_ beauty and goodness
that I worship; your very cruelty is more charming to me than the
utmost favour of any other woman in the world. Your sweet modesty and
angelic loveliness have inspired in me a passion that is almost
delirium, and unless you can learn to love me I shall die—I cannot live
without you. You need not be afraid of me,” he added, as Isabelle
recoiled when he made one step forward, and tried to open the window
with her trembling hands, as if she meant to throw herself out in case
of his coming any nearer; “see, I will stay where I am. I will not
touch you, not even the hem of your garment, so great is my respect for
you, charming Isabelle! I do not ask anything more than that you will
deign to suffer my presence here a little longer now, and permit me to
pay my court to you, lay siege to your heart, and wait patiently until
it surrenders itself to me freely and of its own accord, as it surely
will. The most respectful lover could not do more.”
“Spare me this useless pursuit, my lord,” pleaded Isabelle, “and I will
reward you with the warmest gratitude; but love you I cannot, now or
ever.”
“You have neither father, brother, husband, or affianced lover,”
persisted Vallombreuse, “to forbid the advances of a gallant gentleman,
who seeks only to please and serve you. My sincere homage is surely not
insulting to you; why do you repulse me so? Oh! you do not dream what a
splendid prospect would open out before you if you would but yield to
my entreaties. I would surround you with everything that is beautiful
and dainty, luxurious and rare. I would anticipate your every wish; I
would devote my whole life to your service. The story of our love
should be more enchanting, more blissful than that of Love himself with
his delicious Psyche—not even the gods could rival us. Come, Isabelle,
do not turn so coldly away from me, do not persevere in this maddening
silence, nor drive to desperation and desperate deeds a passion that is
capable of anything, of everything, save renouncing its adored object,
your own sweet, charming self!”
“But this love, of which any other woman would be justly proud,” said
Isabelle modestly, “I cannot return or accept; you _must_ believe me,
my lord, for I mean every word I say, and I shall never swerve from
this decision. Even if the virtue and purity that I value more highly
than life itself were not against it, I should still feel myself
obliged to decline this dangerous honour.”
“Deign to look upon me with favour and indulgence, my sweet Isabelle,”
continued Vallombreuse, without heeding her words, “and I will make you
an object of envy to the greatest and noblest ladies in all France. To
any other woman I should say—take what you please of my treasures—my
châteaux, my estates, my gold, my jewels—dress your lackeys in liveries
richer than the court costumes of princes—have your horses shod with
silver—live as luxuriously as a queen—make even Paris wonder at your
lavish splendour if you will—though Paris is not easily roused to
wonder—but I well know that you have a soul far above all such sordid
temptations as these. They would have no weight with you, my noble
Isabelle! But there _is_ a glory that may touch you—that of having
conquered Vallombreuse—of leading him captive behind your chariot
wheels—of commanding him as your servant, and your slave. Vallombreuse,
who has never yielded before—who has been the commander, not the
commanded—and whose proud neck has never yet bowed to wear the fetters
that so many fair hands have essayed to fasten round it.”
“Such a captive would be too illustrious for my chains,” said Isabelle,
firmly, “and as I could never consent to accept so much honour at your
hands, my lord, I pray you to desist, and relieve me of your presence.”
Hitherto the Duke of Vallombreuse had managed to keep his temper under
control; he had artfully concealed his naturally violent and
domineering spirit under a feigned mildness and humility, but, at
Isabelle’s determined and continued—though modest and
respectful—resistance to his pleading, his anger was rapidly rising to
boiling point. He felt that there was love—devoted love—for another
behind her persistent rejection of his suit, and his wrath and jealousy
augmented each other. Throwing aside all restraint, he advanced towards
her impetuously—whereat she made another desperate effort to tear open
the casement. A fierce frown contracted his brow, he gnawed his under
lip savagely, and his whole face was transformed—if it had been
beautiful enough for an angel’s before, it was like a demon’s now.
“Why don’t you tell the truth,” he cried, in a loud, angry voice, “and
say that you are madly in love with that precious rascal, de Sigognac?
_That_ is the real reason for all this pretended virtue that you
shamelessly flaunt in men’s faces. What is there about that cursed
scoundrel, I should like to know, that charms you so? Am I not
handsomer, of higher rank, younger, richer, as clever, and as much in
love with you as he can possibly be? aye, and more—ten thousand times
more.”
“He has at least one quality that you are lacking in, my lord,” said
Isabelle, with dignity; “he knows how to respect the woman he loves.”
“That’s only because he cares so little about you, my charmer!” cried
Vallombreuse, suddenly seizing Isabelle, who vainly strove to escape
from him, in his arms, and straining her violently to his
breast—despite her frantic struggles, and agonized cry for help. As if
in response to it, the door was suddenly opened, and the tyrant, making
the most deprecating gestures and profound bows, entered the room and
advanced towards Isabelle, who was at once released by Vallombreuse,
with muttered curses at this most inopportune intrusion.
“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle,” said Hérode, with a furtive glance
at the duke, “for interrupting you. I did not know that you were in
such good company; but the hour for rehearsal has struck, and we are
only waiting for you to begin.”
He had left the door ajar, and an apparently waiting group could be
discerned without, consisting of the pedant, Scapin, Leander, and
Zerbine; a reassuring and most welcome sight to poor Isabelle. For one
instant the duke, in his rage, was tempted to draw his sword, make a
furious charge upon the intruding _canaille_, and disperse them “_vi et
armis_”—but a second thought stayed his hand, as he realized that the
killing or wounding of two or three of these miserable actors would not
further his suit; and besides, he could not stain his noble hands with
such vile blood as theirs. So he put force upon himself and restrained
his rage, and, bowing with icy politeness to Isabelle, who, trembling
in every limb, had edged nearer to her friends, he made his way out of
the room; turning, however, at the threshold to say, with peculiar
emphasis, “Au revoir, mademoiselle!”—a very simple phrase certainly,
but replete with significance of a very terrible and threatening nature
from the way in which it was spoken. His face was so expressive of evil
passions as he said it that Isabelle shuddered, and felt a violent
spasm of fear pass over her, even though the presence of her companions
guaranteed her against any further attempts at violence just then. She
felt the mortal anguish of the fated dove, above which the cruel kite
is circling swiftly in the air, drawing nearer with every rapid round.
The Duke of Vallombreuse regained his carriage, which awaited him in
the court followed by the obsequious landlord, with much superfluous
and aggravating ceremony that he would gladly have dispensed with, and
the next minute the rumble of wheels indicated to Isabelle that her
dangerous visitor had taken his departure.
Now, to explain the timely interruption that came so opportunely to
rescue Isabelle from her enemy’s clutches. The arrival of the duke in
his superb carriage at the hotel in the Rue Dauphine had caused an
excitement and flutter throughout the whole establishment, which soon
reached the ears of the tyrant, who, like Isabelle, was busy learning
his new part in the seclusion of his own room. In the absence of de
Sigognac, who was detained at the theatre to try on a new costume, the
worthy tyrant, knowing the duke’s evil intentions, determined to keep a
close watch over his actions, and having summoned the others, applied
his ear to the key-hole of Isabelle’s door, and listened attentively to
all that passed within—holding himself in readiness to interfere at any
moment, if the duke should venture to offer violence to the defenceless
girl—and to his prudence and courage it was due that she escaped
further persecution, on that occasion, from her relentless and
unscrupulous tormentor.
That day was destined to be an eventful one. It will be remembered that
Lampourde, the professional assassin, had received from Mérindol—acting
for the Duke Of Vallombreuse—a commission to put Captain Fracasse
quietly out of the way, and accordingly that worthy was dodging about
on the Pont-Neuf, at the hour of sunset, waiting to intercept his
intended victim, who would necessarily pass that way in returning to
his hotel. Jacquemin awaited his arrival impatiently, frequently
breathing on his fingers and rubbing them vigorously, so that they
should not be quite numb with the cold when the moment for action came,
and stamping up and down in order to warm his half-frozen feet. The
weather was extremely cold, and the sun had set behind the Pont Rouge,
in a heavy mass of blood-red clouds. Twilight was coming on apace, and
already there were only occasional foot-passengers, or vehicles, to be
encountered hurrying along the deserted streets.
At last de Sigognac appeared, walking very fast, for a vague anxiety
about Isabelle had taken possession of him, and he was in haste to get
back to her. In his hurry and preoccupation he did not notice
Lampourde, who suddenly approached and laid hold of his cloak, which he
snatched off, with a quick, strong jerk that broke its fastenings.
Without stopping to dispute the cloak with his assailant, whom he
mistook at first for an ordinary foot-pad, de Sigognac instantly drew
his sword and attacked him. Lampourde, on his side, was ready for him,
and pleased with the baron’s way of handling his weapon, said to
himself, though in an audible tone, “Now for a little fun.” Then began
a contest that would have delighted and astonished a connoisseur in
fencing—such swift, lightning-like flashing of the blades, as they gave
and parried cut and thrust—the clashing of the steel, the blue sparks
that leaped from the contending swords as the fight grew more
furious—Lampourde keeping up meanwhile an odd running commentary, as
his wonder and admiration grew momentarily greater and more
enthusiastic, and he had soon reached an exulting mood. Here at last
was a “foeman worthy of his steel,” and he could not resist paying a
tribute to the amazing skill that constantly and easily baffled his
best efforts, in the shape of such extraordinary and original
compliments that de Sigognac was mightily amused thereby. As usual, he
was perfectly cool and self-possessed, keeping control of his temper as
well as of his sword—though by this time he felt sure that it was
another agent of the Duke of Vallombreuse’s he had to deal with, and
that his life, not his cloak, was the matter at stake. At last
Lampourde, who had begun to entertain an immense respect for his
valiant opponent, could restrain his curiosity no longer, and eagerly
asked,
“Would it be indiscreet, sir, to inquire who was your instructor?
Girolamo, Paraguante, or Cote d’Acier would have reason to be proud of
such a pupil. Which one of them was it?”
“My only master was an old soldier, Pierre by name,” answered de
Sigognac, more and more amused at the oddities of the accomplished
swordsman he was engaged with. “Stay, take that! it is one of his
favourite strokes.”
“The devil!” cried Lampourde, falling back a step, “I was very nearly
done for, do you know! The point of your sword actually went through my
sleeve and touched my arm—I felt the cold steel; luckily for me it was
not broad daylight—I should have been winged; but you are not
accustomed, like me, to this dim, uncertain light for such work. All
the same, it was admirably well done, and Jacquemin Lampourde
congratulates you upon it, sir! Now, pay attention, to me—I will not
take any mean advantage of such a glorious foe as you are, and I give
you fair warning that I am going to try on you my own secret and
special thrust Captain Fracasse—the crowning glory of my art, the ‘ne
plus ultra’ of my science—the elixir of my life. It is known only to
myself, and up to this time has been infallible. I have never failed to
kill my man with it. If you can parry it I will teach it to you. It is
my only possession, and I will leave it to you if you survive it;
otherwise I will take my secret to the grave with me. I have never yet
found any one capable of executing it, unless indeed it be
yourself—admirable, incomparable swordsman that you are! It is a joy to
meet such an one. But suppose we suspend hostilities a moment to take
breath.”
So saying Jacquemin Lampourde lowered the point of his sword, and de
Sigognac did the same. They stood eyeing each other for a few moments
with mutual admiration and curiosity, and then resumed the contest more
fiercely than ever—each man doing his best, as he had need to do, and
enjoying it. After a few passes, de Sigognac became aware that his
adversary was preparing to give the decisive blow, and held himself on
his guard against a surprise; when it came, delivered with terrible
force, he parried it so successfully that Lampourde’s sword was broken
short off in the encounter with his own trusty weapon, leaving only the
hilt and a few inches of the blade in his hand.
“If you have not got the rest of my sword in your body,” cried
Lampourde, excitedly, “you are a great man!—a hero!—a god!”
“No,” de Sigognac replied calmly, “it did not touch me; and now, if I
chose, I could pin you to the wall like a bat; but that would be
repugnant to me, though you did waylay me to take my life, and besides,
you have really amused me with your droll sayings.
“Baron,” said Jacquemin Lampourde, calmly, “permit me, I humbly pray
you, to be henceforth, so long as I live, your devoted admirer, your
slave, your dog! I was to be paid for killing you—I even received a
portion of the money in advance, which I have spent. But never mind
that; I will pay it back, every penny of it, though I must rob some one
else to do it.”
With these words he picked up de Sigognac’s cloak, and having put it
carefully, even reverentially, over his shoulders, made him a profound
obeisance, and departed.
Thus the efforts of the Duke of Vallombreuse, to advance his suit and
to get rid of his rival, had once more failed ignominiously.