AT PAMPELN.
Toward the end of May, after a most brilliant winter season, all the
society of St. Petersburg made ready for its departure. The sledges were
put away in the coach-houses, the theaters were closed, and very soon
all that were not kept back by their duties or business began their
flight.
Some went to Yalta, to be at the sea-side with the court, which goes
every year for the summer to the Palace of Livadia; others to the
Caucasus, to hunt the lynx and the bear. Many prepared to refill their
places at Paris and the watering-places of north-eastern France, in the
charming Russian colony which is so truly French in its elegance and
tastes.
The moment, then, was come for the Prince Olsdorf, like other great
landed proprietors, to visit his estates. He had given his orders at
Pampeln some time back. Moreover, as we have said, he had been thither
in person to see that all was ready for the reception, not only of his
wife, but also of General Podoi, his wife, and the many guests invited
to pass part of the summer in Courland.
Somewhat fatigued by balls and receptions, Lise Olsdorf was not less
wishful than her husband to quit the city, so that on the appointed day
she did not keep the post-chaise waiting that was to take them to
Pampeln.
At the time of which we are writing, in 1860, the railway that now joins
St. Petersburg and Konigsberg did not exist. The distance between the
prince's town house and his country place at Pampeln was not less than a
hundred leagues.
All the household he took with him to Courland where his valet, a
faithful servant who, so to speak, had seen his master born; his cook,
formerly the head cook at the French Embassy, and two women servants for
the princess. One of them was a French woman. General Podoi had
transferred her services to his daughter when Lise married, being
assured thus of always knowing what might be passing in the young
people's household when he himself would be away from it.
The servants followed their master and mistress in a big coach, which
carried the necessary provisions as well, for no dependence was to be
placed on the hotel accommodation in the towns they had to pass through.
In most of them the only thing that could be found was the "samovar,"
ready for the brewing of tea.
After a three days' journey the prince and his people reached the end of
their journey.
It was dark when they arrived. All that the princess could make out of
the chateau was its monumental appearance, but next day she had to
confess that all that had been told her of Pampeln was short of the
truth.
Built in the reign of the Empress Anne on a hill which overlooks the
Wandau River, the residence of the Olsdorfs shows signs of the
eclecticism which influenced Russian architecture in the eighteenth
century. After having been Grecian in style, and then Italian, it did
not take a truly national character until the time of the Czar Nicholas.
Though, regarded as a building, the massive and heavy-looking chateau
offered nothing remarkable to the view in its colossal dimensions, the
Pampeln estate was, nevertheless, the most important in the
neighborhood, from its extent, the richness of the soil, and the
immensity of its forests.
A true gentleman farmer, as his father had been before him, Prince
Pierre overlooked everything himself, sometimes being on horseback at
day-break to visit the most distant parts of his property. His care was
not wholly for the improvement of the land; as we have said before, he
was ever anxious for the well-being of his tenants.
The inside of the chateau was luxuriously and comfortably furnished.
The wood-work, in cedar, of the great banqueting halls, in the style of
Henry II., had been carved by the most skilled Flemish workmen. The
fencing-room, the large Gothic windows of which looked on to the park,
contained a curious collection of arms of all periods, from the heavy,
damasked weapons of the forefathers of the house to the modern musket;
while the chapel, whose service was performed by a pope who lived at the
chateau the year round, was a marvel of Byzantine art.
As for the suite of apartments of the princess, it was easy for her to
think in entering it that she had not left St. Petersburg, so scrupulous
had the prince been about the furnishing of it, and every petty detail.
Besides the principal bed and reception-rooms there were forty guest
chambers. The stables could accommodate at least a hundred horses, and
the kennels were filled by the handsomest packs of hounds in the
country.
The servants' quarters were at the end of the great shady park full of
old trees, where huntsmen, grooms, and all the servants, to the number
of forty or fifty, who were not employed within the mansion, were
lodged. Counting in the gamekeepers who looked after his ponds and
woods, the master of Pampeln had thus at his orders quite a small army,
disciplined, alert, and wholly devoted to him.
The pride can easily be imagined that Lise Olsdorf felt when a few days
after her arrival her husband conducted her over this splendid domain of
which she was to be the queen, and wished to be the benefactress.
A week later her mother and General Podoi arrived. About a score of
guests soon followed them, and the hunting season began in full earnest.
The princess had scarcely the time to become used to this stirring
pleasure. Being _enceinte_, she was obliged to remain comparatively
quiet, which she did very willingly.
From this time forth she was satisfied to go with the hunters in her
carriage, as far as the state of the roads would permit. Then with her
mother and some women friends she would return to the chateau, where in
the evening she did the honors of the house with a grace and ease that
charmed the guests.
Toward the end of August, Lise, to the great joy of her husband, was
delivered of a son, whom they named Alexander. The happy event formed an
excuse for a series of entertainments, which brought the season to a
close in princely fashion.
September came, and everybody was making the best of their way back to
St. Petersburg. The Olsdorf mansion was open again. The princess often
stole away from the drawing-room to be with her son.
Lise Olsdorf made a good mother. For two years she was not a single day
absent from her child. She had scruples even about trusting him for a
few hours to strange hands, and she nursed him through all his infantile
troubles.
This tender, complete, and devoted maternal love estranged her somewhat
from her husband, and gave her a special distaste for the life he led at
Pampeln. She went with the prince, of course, to Courland, but she was
rarely to be seen with him on his hunting expeditions and excursions on
the banks of the Livonian gulf. The result of this was the birth of a
sort of coolness between the prince and his wife, which was sure to grow
day by day. Mme. Podoi very quickly saw what was happening. She spoke to
her daughter about it, but Lise only replied:
"Why, mother, the prince is a very amiable man, but he is far from being
the husband I dreamed of. He never in his life had a passion, and never
will have, except for horses and dogs; I am sure of it."
The princess spoke the words in so bitter a tone, and with such a gleam
in her fine eyes, that the ex-actress, well versed in this sort of
thing, felt a presentiment of some catastrophe in the future.
She was careful, however, to betray no sign of uneasiness. She smiled
even, and, smiling, made up her mind to watch.
At the end of three years from the birth of her son, when her constant
care for him had become less indispensable, the princess showed a
disposition to return to worldly pleasures. At first she was seen at the
Michael Theatre, then she began to hold receptions anew, opening her
doors to the foreign artistes that her mother introduced to her; and,
finally, her reappearance at the court balls was triumphantly welcomed.
Then, when the season in the capital was over, she became, to the
surprise and joy of the prince, the hardy amazon that she had been in
the first months of their marriage.
It was like a new birth in Lise, attributable, one might suppose, to the
development of her symmetrical and dazzling beauty, while her bearing
betrayed a kind of new vigor, surprising to her friends, which seemed to
welcome noise and movement. She was soon a constant attendant at all
entertainments, and took her place at the head of fashionable women in
the highest circles of Russian society.
Still, notwithstanding the active, frivolous, and trying life she was
leading, the heart of the Princess Olsdorf was calm. Amid the crowd of
adorers her high position and beauty had won for her, she remained an
irreproachable wife, but a radical change had occurred in both her mind
and disposition. Her comparative indifference for frivolous things was
replaced by a sort of unhealthy curiosity. She now lent a ready ear to
risky stories which formerly had been very distasteful to her. Her
imagination, suddenly aroused, seemed to question the unknown, and be in
search of emotions of which she was ignorant. In theatrical performances
she preferred a love story to a comedy of modern life and manners. After
having for long read nothing in French but the historical romances of
the elder Alexander Dumas, she began to devour highly spiced novels,
which she obtained from France by stealth; for in Russia then, as now,
the government forbade the introduction into the country of many of the
best-known and least moral novels of the day.
In the earliest days of her marriage, as we have said, the princess
would accompany her husband in his excursions, but only to please him.
Now she was grown into a daring sportswoman, eager in the pursuit of the
quarry, greedy of danger, and finding a sharp pleasure in encountering
it. In these mad gallops, mounted on one of the small, fiery, and swift
horses that are used in the country for hunting purposes, she was
wonderfully handsome, her eyes glistening, her bosom heaving, her lips
quivering. She seemed to try, by wearying her body, to keep her soul in
repose.
These were the only moments in their married life in which there was a
full community of ideas and sensations between Pierre Olsdorf and his
wife; for when once the prince was on horseback and in pursuit of the
game, he was no longer the cold and self-contained man he ordinarily
was. He was like a soldier on the field of battle. For the time being he
was on fire. The most spirited horses were controlled by his strong
hand; no horn sounded so clear and loud as his. He was superbly cool and
brave when he had a bear at bay. He seemed to be possessed with a love
of courage when he attacked a wolf in its lair, and watched the beast
being tossed piece by piece to the hounds.
The day over, all this manly energy vanished. Sitting down to table in
the evening at the chateau, when the guests saw Pierre in his black
coat, his face calm, his eyelids drooping, it was hard to believe that
this was the man whose impetuous daring would sometimes frighten his
companions in the chase.
The strange glances which Lise cast furtively on her husband then might
have been observed. Her face expressed surprise and contempt, and when
the prince paid her a compliment, she would reply dryly or
sarcastically, though she tried not to betray the state of her mind.
The fact was that the princess, who had never really loved the man whose
name she bore, and, above all, had never felt any sensual attraction
toward him, began to avoid him, instituting comparisons between him and
the other men by whom she was surrounded.
The calm and respectful affection of Pierre was not enough for her. That
was not the love which, as a consequence of the active life she led, her
awakened senses gave her glimpses. She felt that the contact of two
beings really in love with each other must be more troubling to both. By
what right was she cheated of the deep emotions, the burning pleasures,
that she had heard some of her women friends whispering about? Was not
her beauty worthy of being passionately loved? Was not she desirable
from every point of view? Where, then, was the excuse for this monotony
in her life, this lake without a ripple on its surface, this heaven
without a cloud? She thirsted unconsciously, as it were, for unknown
storms, and the fact made her irritable and nervous.
This moral and physical excitement led the princess at first to try and
rouse her husband. Supposing that she might succeed by making him
jealous, she grew coquettish, whimsical, frivolous, much like many of
the young women of the Russian aristocracy; but Pierre did not seem to
even notice the change. Lise's strangest whims drew from him no
reproach. But as, doubtless, he had not found in her his ideal of a
woman, he saw less and less of her each day, giving himself up to his
own pursuits. Then Lise, humiliated and offended, isolated too, began to
look about her with disquieted curiosity.
This happened in the middle of summer, when there were many guests at
Pampeln, and certainly the princess had only to choose. None of them,
however, brilliant as they were, pleased her so much that she
distinguished him by particular favor.
They were what the young men were who had formed her court since her
marriage--most of them military men, handsome cavaliers, elegant, brave,
extravagant. They had all much the same good qualities and much the same
bad. Their declarations offered no variety, they scarcely made her
smile. Their attempts to win her heart were alike. The same madrigals
were used, the same melodramatic protestations were spoken by all. There
was nothing about them that was simple or natural, true or from the
heart. Some of them loved or desired her ardently, no doubt; but such of
them as dared to tell her so, all did it in the same way, with the tone
of that frivolous world for which love is a pleasant episode of life,
and not its end and aim.
Besides, each of these sighers and adorers was a friend of the prince,
and Lise was revolted by the thought. She thought them vile to wish to
abuse the confidence of the man whose hand they pressed with a thousand
protestations of devotion.
This was the state of mind of the Countess Barineff's daughter when
Count Barewski, a regular visitor at Pampeln, arrived at the chateau. He
brought with him his wife and a young painter from Paris, M. Paul
Meyrin, whom General Podoi had already presented to the Olsdorfs at one
of their last receptions of the previous winter, on the eve, almost, of
their departure for Courland, so that the prince scarcely remembered the
young man's name.
Paul Meyrin was none the less hospitably received, like all guests at
the chateau. When he approached and saluted the princess, she recalled
so vividly at the sight of him how the beauty of this young foreigner
had struck her at St. Petersburg, that she was for the moment confused.
She recovered herself quickly, however, and offering her hand, after the
English and Russian fashion, to the young man, she bade him welcome in a
perfectly calm voice.
Still, while Count Barewski was telling Prince Olsdorf that M. Paul
Meyrin was only an indifferent huntsman, though a skillful horseman, so
that he was more often to be seen with his sketching materials than with
a gun, Lise examined the new-comer with curious eyes, such as she had
turned on nobody else as yet.
Above the middle height, broad-shouldered, and carrying himself with a
slight swagger, the friend of Count Barewski was quite the romantic hero
in appearance. His colorless face made his silky beard look the darker.
He had fine eyes, and boldly marked eyebrows. On his full red lips the
smile of youth played. His expression of face was gentle in the extreme,
almost simple. Born in Bucharest, he was, in a word, one of the purest
specimens of that handsome Latin race which crossing is making rarer and
rarer.
As though he felt the young woman's eyes were fixed on him, Paul Meyrin
turned abruptly toward her, and as their eyes met both of them felt a
secret tremor.
Lise, surprised, bent to caress a dog lying at her feet, while Paul,
certainly not analyzing or fully understanding what he felt, took leave
of the prince for the moment, Pierre having said kindly, in reply to
Count Barewski:
"Monsieur Meyrin must make himself at home. At Pampeln every one lives
in his own way. I shall console myself about his indifference to hunting
by admiring the pictures he will be inspired to paint by his walks and
musings."
No one remarked that the princess returned the artist's bow with
downcast eyes.
We are not of those who believe in love at first sight, but we do
believe that, in given cases, the attraction of two beings one for the
other is, in a degree, a matter of fate; and that, from the first, each
of them has a vague presentiment of possession in the future. The
feeling is due to neither the heart nor the imagination.
It is a kind of magnetic attraction of the senses, a nervous shock such
as sensitive natures feel in case of sudden emotion--say, at an
unexpected chord in music, a too pungent odor, a glorious sunset, a
glance into space from the top of a high precipice. There is surprise
and a dazed feeling. They last but a second or two, and are like a
dream. Then comes forgetfulness, until a new meeting or a memory, though
only indirectly evoked, reawakens the undefined and unavowed feeling,
and gives double vigor to the sensation originally felt.
Lise Olsdorf and Paul Meyrin unconsciously underwent this purely
physiological experience.
That evening, when they were near each other again at dinner, there was
an exchange of looks which troubled them. The artist, already rather
spoiled by his successes with women, was quite ready to think that the
princess looked on him with favorable eyes. Conceit thus operated with
him. Up to now his conquests had not been of so high an order; he soon
fancied that he was deeply in love with Lise Olsdorf. The simple truth
was that he desired her, and that as much out of vanity as passion.
Unfortunately, Paul had no idea how to set about paying his court to a
"great lady." He had heard a friend maintain the paradox that the best
means one can use with women is to treat them by contraries; scrupulous
politeness, tender care, timid and romantic declarations, for women of
the town, and exactly the opposite for women in good society. But if the
latter way is successful, as unhappily it too often is, thanks to the
manners of to-day, Paul was not convinced that it was; besides which, he
had no aptitude for the part of a coarse libertine, nor did he think
that the princess was a woman to put up with a want of respect. Without
any preconceived plan, then, he made up his mind to wait until a
favorable occasion should offer itself.
As for Lise Olsdorf, without analyzing her own emotions, she felt
herself so strongly drawn to the handsome stranger that, fearing to
betray herself, she was during dinner less gracious to him than she
ordinarily was to guests in general newly arrived at the chateau; nor
could she without a tremor think of the approaching moment when, after
the Russian custom, the mistress of the house, standing on the threshold
of the dining-room, receives the homage of her guests, who, passing one
by one before her, each kiss her hand, while her lips touch their
forehead.
From modesty, or perhaps designedly, Paul Meyrin was among the last few.
When Lise offered him her hand he pressed his lips to it in so long a
kiss that she withdrew it sharply and fell back a step, without giving
him the expected kiss in return.
Fearful that he had offended her, he raised his head quickly to ask the
question by a look; but the princess had turned from him and was moving
toward the rooms where the guests spent their evenings according to
their varying fancies. Some liked music, others would rather talk.
There was dancing, too; but most of the visitors were to be seen
gathered round the play-tables. Though the prince was the declared enemy
of gambling as an amusement, he would not deny his guests the pleasure.
Throughout the evening, try as he might, Paul could not get near Lise;
his eyes did not meet hers once. She retired early, and had slipped away
before he had guessed that she was going.
The next day he hardly saw her, for she did not come down to dinner, the
prince making her excuses to their friends on the plea of slight
indisposition. After this day, however, Lise, as if she had schooled
herself to calmness, again appeared gracious and smiling, with that care
for the comfort of her guests that she always showed in fulfilling her
duties as mistress of the household.
Still, calm and indifferent as she made herself appear before the
artist, she doubtless distrusted her strength too much to risk a
_tete-a-tete_, for Paul never found himself quite alone with her. When
he greeted her at meeting, she had always to respond at that moment to
some other greeting as well. She returned his bow hurriedly, with
downcast eyes and an absent look; and if she met him by chance in
passing through the fencing-room, in one of the vestibules, or at any
other part of the house for the moment deserted, she quickened her step,
though not too markedly, as he accompanied her, and, beginning to speak
on different topics, she would continue to do so without giving him the
chance to speak, until they had encountered some one else.
Paul Meyrin understood the tactics adopted by the mistress of Pampeln.
He was vain enough to infer that she feared him, and in consequence grew
more charmed with her, and the more decided to declare his love.
Things had gone on thus for a week, and the Roumanian had not yet found
the chance he watched for, the more eagerly in proportion as he saw that
the princess often seemed nervous, preoccupied, and fanciful, when one
evening the prince announced to his guests an interesting hunting-party
for the following day.
A few minutes later Lise retired, bending on Paul a look which he caught
but hesitated to give a meaning. Was it on her part a sort of haughty
defiance? Or was it, on the contrary, a kind of encouragement? Did she
mean, "You dare go no further, and you are prudent," or "Why dare not
you? I am waiting!"
Whichever it was, the painter slept little that night, and rose at
daylight. He supposed he must be one of the first of the guests stirring
in the house, but when he reached the court-yard he found the princess
there before him, on horseback, though it was only just seven o'clock.
Pierre Olsdorf and his usual companions were to start for the banks of
the Wandau, there to hunt the stag; and Lise had determined to accompany
her husband's friends as far as the Elva farm, three leagues distant
from the chateau, and cultivated by one Soublaieff, an old retainer of
the prince, whom he had brought from his estates in the Crimea and for
whom he had a great affection.
At this early hour, under the oblique rays of the sun, the great
court-yard of Pampeln was a charming sight for a painter. There was a
noise, a movement, and a kaleidoscope of colors not easy to describe.
Excited by the barking of the hounds, which the footmen held coupled in
leashes, by the blasts on the horns of the huntsmen giving the signal
for the start, and by the different orders that were being shouted one
over the other, the horses, with erect ears and waving manes, pawed the
ground impatiently under their riders, who all wore the correct hunting
costume, which the prince had been one of the first to make fashionable
in Russia--wide breeches, high boots, and a double-breasted tunic,
caught in at the waist with a leathern belt, in which a Circassian
dagger was stuck.
In front of the flight of steps leading up to the house were the
carriages for General Podoi's wife and her friends. The horses were
superb creatures which the drivers could scarcely control.
The artist saw none of these things, however. His eyes were fixed on the
princess, and could not quit her. In her riding-habit, a masterpiece of
some great Parisian costumer, which showed the symmetry of her form and
the rich swell of her bust, Lise Olsdorf was wonderfully beautiful.
Under the coquettish hat, made in the Louis XV. style, her clearly cut
face had a brave and almost saucy look. Her little gloved hand held
firmly and gracefully the reins of the splendid thorough-bred she was
riding. Paul, in admiration, stopped short at a few paces' distance,
forgetting even to salute her.
Not until the princess spoke did he recover himself.
"Are you not going to join us?" she asked in an amused tone. "What are
you thinking?"
"Pardon me, madame, pardon me," said the painter, doffing his hat. "I
was admiring."
He had not dared to say, "I was admiring you," but Lise Olsdorf
understood.
"That is not a reply," she said, smiling. "See, yonder are two horses
ready saddled. But perhaps you are not a rider, and I warn you that our
animals are pretty spirited."
"I should not be one of my race or my country, madame, if I were not a
horseman."
At a sign from him the groom holding the two horses brought them up and
gave him one. Not using the stirrup, he leaped into the saddle.
"Bravo!" exclaimed the prince, coming up at that moment to ask his wife
if he should give the order for a start. "Are you going with us?"
"Only as a companion on the road, prince," Paul replied, taking a
whip--the _najayka_, as it is called--that one of the footmen handed to
him.
The princess having replied to her husband that she was ready, the
master of Pampeln gave a signal, the horns sounded, the dogs barked
twice as loud as before, the riders gave the reins to their mounts, and
the party set out.
Five minutes later the whole troop was galloping along the road to Elva.
It was about twenty minutes from the start when, taking advantage of the
fact that Pierre Olsdorf was in earnest conference with his
_stremenoy_--as the Russians call the chief huntsman--Paul Meyrin drew
near to the princess. As usual, she was encircled by a crowd of adorers,
among whom was naturally found that good fellow Podoi, who, in spite of
his age, was still a daring sportsman.
It seemed as if the old soldier had foretold the truth in assuring the
Countess Barineff, to persuade her to accept his name, that in marrying
him she would be restoring his youth to him. He had never been more
smart.
"I must compliment you, monsieur," said Lise Olsdorf to the young
painter when she saw him take up a position at some paces from her,
after making his horse execute a curvet that was both clever and daring.
The fact is, Paul Meyrin, without belonging to any great school of
horsemanship, rode as few men can ride. His horse, a hardy little mare
of the country, full of fire, at first had tried all she could to unseat
him, but soon finding that she was under her master, she had yielded,
her mouth full of foam and her flanks quivering.
Paul, replying only by a bow to the young woman's compliment, joined the
others who were cantering near her.
In rather more than another half hour they came to the Elva farm, where
such as did not accompany the prince further were to rest a short time
before returning to Pampeln.
Forewarned by a huntsman sent on in advance, the farmer Soublaieff was
there with his people, but before any one else had approached the
princess, the painter was by her side and offering his hand.
A little surprised at his quick movement, Lise Olsdorf hesitated for a
moment; but feeling that to refuse the aid of the young foreigner would
be to confess, by implication, that she thought him dangerous, she
swayed forward, and he lifted her to the ground so lightly and cleverly,
and with such strength of arm, that the sensation was a pleasant one for
her.
"Thanks, monsieur," she said, lifting the long skirt of her riding-habit
over her arm. "Do you stay with us, then?"
"I am not a sportsman, Madame la Princess," he replied, "so that I ask
permission to return with you to Pampeln."
"You know well that all our guests are perfectly free to do what best
pleases themselves."
And Lise Olsdorf, who was unwilling to approve in any other form the
artist's intention, left him, to respond affectionately to the
salutation of a young girl barely sixteen years old who was advancing to
meet her.
It was Vera, Soublaieff's daughter.
Like most women of Southern Russia, Vera was a decided brunette. From
the purity of her features, the perfect oval of her face, and the
smallness of her head, she might have been taken to be of Grecian
origin. Her large eyes, shaded by long, up-curled lashes, were
unspeakably gentle: a virginal smile was constantly playing about her
scarlet and slightly parted lips, revealing the pearly teeth. From the
national head-gear that she wore two long braids of hair hung, reaching
to below the waist, which was defined by her linen dress of various
bright colors. Reared at the chateau until she was fifteen years old,
Vera spoke French with a pure accent, had some knowledge of music, and,
through her natural elegance of movement of bearing, was a charming
child.
Her father, who loved her fondly, could not make up his mind to part
with her to the princess, who had several times asked him to do so,
wishing that Vera should be a sort of elder sister to her little son.
Paul Meyrin was too much of an artist not to pay homage to Vera's
beauty. The princess had kissed her tenderly. Thinking that it could not
but please Lise Olsdorf, he said, approaching her:
"What a lovely young girl that is. I supposed that only women of your
station in life could be so perfectly beautiful."
"You see that you were mistaken, monsieur," the princess replied, rather
ungraciously. "Vera is, in fact, very pretty. She is just as good and as
modest, and I love her very much."
Then, moving toward the group of hunters, who had not dismounted, she
left the painter standing there, and asking himself uneasily if he had
not a second time displeased the woman whom he was growing more
infatuated about hour by hour.
A few minutes later the blasts on the horns were again heard, the
hunters went off on their way toward the Wandau, and the princess,
having remounted with the aid of one of the servants, gave the signal
for a start to be made. She wished to be back at the chateau by
breakfast-time.
Paul was the only male guest of the prince who had not joined the hunt,
and he reckoned on the fact to afford the chance of an explanation
between himself and Lise; but in the course of the hour that was spent
on the return journey to Pampeln he could not get a moment alone with
the princess. She never was away from the side of the carriages in which
her mother and friends were.
Vexed and desperate, wondering whether it was that Lise Olsdorf dreaded
him or that she was merely a coquette and laughing at him, Paul Meyrin
determined to force her hand. Fortune was about to give him a chance of
doing so sooner than he had dared to hope--that very day indeed.
In the evening, about six o'clock, when the few guests remaining at the
chateau were going to their rooms to dress for dinner, the artist saw
the princess crossing the lawn and going toward one of the alleys of the
park.
Within five minutes, having gone a roundabout way, Paul, as if he had
come from the outskirts of the park, met the young woman face to face.
Lise was walking with lowered head, pushing aside idly with the end of
her parasol the dead leaves blown from the oaks and cedars, whose great
branches met overhead in a thick arch, which made the spot dim and
mysterious.
At the sound of the painter's footsteps she raised her eyes.
"You?" she exclaimed, in an ironical voice. "So you are as good a runner
as you are a horseman."
"I don't understand you," said Paul, bowing.
"Because you don't want to. A few moments ago, as I was coming down the
steps from the house, I saw you at one of the windows of the
fencing-room. You must have been very fleet, then, to be here as soon as
I am, coming direct from the chateau, while you seem to be coming from
the other side of the park."
Finding his stratagem exposed, Paul Meyrin could not but blush slightly.
He quickly recovered his composure, and said frankly:
"Well then, yes, you are right, madame. Chance is not to be thanked for
this meeting. For some days now I have been trying in vain to speak to
you. You seemed to avoid me; and I have dared, therefore, to join you
here and now."
After hesitating a moment or two, and seeming about to turn and retrace
her steps, the daughter of the Countess Barineff, with an odd, resolute
gesture, walked onward.
Paul walked beside her.
The last rays of the sun scarcely pierced the thick wall of verdure
formed by the great trees of the avenue; the air was warm, charged with
electricity, and heavy with the balsamic odors of the Norwegian
pine-trees. From the woods could only be heard the rustle of a breeze,
and the first timid notes, at long intervals, of the song-birds of the
evening. Under these shades, in the perfumed air, a mysterious harmony
reigned, a thrilling calm, of which nature alone has the secret.
"What have you to say to me that is so interesting?" said the princess,
after a momentary silence.
"I have a favor to ask of you."
"A favor? What?"
"That you will sit to me for a few hours."
Whether or not this was the proposal she had expected, the mistress of
Pampeln trembled slightly.
As the princess did not reply, the painter added:
"You would not have me paint a masterpiece, then?"
The artist had spoken the words in so fervid and exalted a tone, that
the princess, halting abruptly, and plunging as it were her eyes into
Paul's, said, in a firm, vibrating voice:
"You love me, Monsieur Meyrin. That is what your request poorly hides."
"Madame."
"Let me speak. Neither of us is timid or fearful of calling things by
their real name; neither of us is a coward, ready to fly before danger.
You love me, or think you do; and you fancy that in the sittings you ask
of me the chance would surely offer to speak to me of your love. But
what if I do not love you?--if I look upon your protestations and
declarations as outrages, and have you expelled from the house by my
servants, what will you do, what will you say, what will become of you?
Do you still hold by this masterpiece, which I say is a mere pretext?"
Lise Olsdorf, speaking thus, was superb in her energy. Paul looked at
her with admiration. She had never seemed more beautiful or more
desirable.
"You do not answer," she went on. "So, then, I am not wrong."
"You are wrong, madame--wholly wrong. It is true that I love you madly,
but my love is one of the feverish passions that have their birth in the
hearts alone of artists who are adorers of the beautiful. I feel within
me a medley of passions. You are not for the man who loves merely the
woman desired; you are also for the painter, the model he has dreamed
of--the marvel of grace and beauty that will inspire him. You are not
simply the woman who says 'Love;' you are the ideal as well that says
'Glory.' If it were otherwise, should I have had the courage to follow
you, should I dare to speak as I am speaking, to take your hand and tell
you that with my soul, with my senses, with my imagination--I love
you--I love you?"
Paul had seized her hands and was covering them with kisses.
Then there happened a strange and fatal thing between the two beings
drawn one to the other by every passion. After tearing away her hands
from his grasp, Lise Olsdorf, falling back a pace, grew deathly pale and
staggered. Her eyes gleamed, her lips were parted, a guttural cry,
passionate and almost savage, broke from them, and she fell into the
arms of Paul, who had sprung forward to support her.
With a savage movement he crushed her in his arms, gluing his lips to
hers.
Under the gloomy shades of the great alleys of Pampeln was no longer an
irreproachable wife, or a Princess Olsdorf proud of her name. There was
only a yielding woman conquered by desires until then unsatiated.
The other was the conqueror. The beast killed the soul.