PARIS AND ST. PETERSBURG.
The first care of the princess was to leave the Baden Hotel where she
dreaded not being free to live according to her fantasy. She had found
very comfortable furnished rooms in the Rue Lafitte, a few yards from
the boulevard where she had taken up her residence after hiring the
necessary servants, a cook, a lady's-maid, and a steward.
She next hired from one of the livery places in the Champs Elysees a
well-appointed and well-horsed carriage, together with coachman and
footman; and, having done this, she said to Paul one morning:
"Now, dear, that my life is arranged as I wished it to be, you must
present me to your family. They already know me by name, so that it will
be quite simple."
"Certainly," said the painter, who also thought this wish of his
mistress a very natural one.
"Mesdames Meyrin must not know what I am toward you."
"My brother rather suspects the truth."
"Your brother? Well, what does it matter? When shall the introduction
take place?"
"The best way, I think, would be for me to bring Frantz and present him
to you."
"Yes. Well on what day? Ah, there is a good chance for us to make
acquaintance. The Countess Waranzoff will be giving almost immediately a
musical matinee for the benefit of the wounded in the last campaign in
the Caucasus. I will see her this evening, and ask her to send for your
brother to help her."
"Excellent. That will put you at once into my sister-in-law's good
books."
On the next day but one, in fact, after having received and accepted the
proposition of the Countess Waranzoff, Frantz came with his wife to
thank Lise Olsdorf, whose greeting of them was so gracious that they
returned home charmed with the great Russian lady.
Two days later the adroit princess returned the visit, and, as she had
promised Paul, she won his sister-in-law's heart completely by paying
her a thousand compliments about Nadeje. A few days afterward she took
the child in her carriage to the Bois and brought her back home loaded
with toys and having a pretty gold necklet about her throat. Then she
invited the Meyrins to dinner, took them to her box at the opera, and a
week had not passed before the conquest of the family was made.
An excellent pianist, Lise Olsdorf begged Frantz to come and play with
her twice a week, and she presented him in the Russian colony, where
concerts were often given at which the executants were paid on a high
scale.
All this flattered the Meyrins, and was profitable to them besides.
Therefore Mme. Frantz was careful not to seek to know more than she was
told of the relations between the princess and her brother-in-law. Lise
Olsdorf's end was gained.
In acting thus the daughter of the Countess Barineff only yielded to the
feeling which moves most devoted and truly loving women to become
intimate with the family of the man dear to them. It seems to them that
in not remaining strangers to the ordinary life of their lover, or his
business, or his work, they are something better and more than his
mistress. It is a sort of consecration or rehabilitation for them. They
feel less degraded, less alone, and armed so to speak, with a right.
Their affection grows the more inasmuch as they can thus, as legitimate
companions, share the sorrows and joys of the man who esteems them so
far as not to make of them mere instruments of pleasure. They become in
a sense morganatic wives, lacking only the name, and often not deserving
less respect than if they had it.
It soon came to pass that not a week went by without the princess
receiving the Meyrins or being invited by them. She always came with
hands full, seizing the slightest occasions, saints' days or
anniversaries, to make presents to all the members of the family.
As for Paul, she saw him every day: to begin with, in his studio, where
she posed for the picture in which she was painted half naked, as Diana
the huntress--a picture which promised to be one of the artist's best,
though the sittings were often suddenly interrupted and put off to the
following day.
In the evening the two lovers dined together and went to the theater,
leaving it arm in arm, without caring for the opinion of the public,
which the writers of gossip for the newspapers had left in no doubt on
the nature of their relations. It was a nine days' wonder, and then, as
happens with these things at Paris, no more was said about it.
Still, notwithstanding all the indiscretions she was guilty of, the
Princess Olsdorf was received as usual in the exclusive Russian set and
the best Parisian drawing-rooms, where so plenary an indulgence reigns
in matters of morality. This lasted a part of the winter, up to the time
when it was no longer possible for her to hide the state she was in.
She was then obliged to give up going into society, and as a consequence
she was more and more at the Meyrins', where she had made the
acquaintance of the charming Mme. Daubrel, whose whole life Paul had
told her.
Mme. Daubrel did not doubt that between the princess and the painter
there was a closer tie than the Mmes. Meyrin affected to suppose; but
as she recalled the time when she, too, an adulterous wife, had had so
much to dread, she felt a deep sympathy for the noble foreigner, who, in
return, showed her sincere affection.
It was this affection, as well as the lonely life that her state forced
her to live, that led Lise Olsdorf to tell all to the young woman, who
replied, after hearing the tale:
"Alas, I have not the right to blame you. My past forbids me; but may
God spare you the punishment I have suffered for my fault. A judicial
separation has branded me--that was only just; but, more than that, I
shall never see my son again, and I am abandoned by the man who made me
forget my duty. As for that, I should have left him, for, living with
him, I learned too late how worthy my husband was of my love. If I had
not had my mother to devote myself to, I should have killed myself or
gone into a convent."
"Ah, you did not love as I love," Lise said, interrupting her, "you were
not loved as I am. I know your story. Your seducer was a dreamer, as it
were--a man without genius or future. You fell through inexperience,
curiosity of the soul, rather than through love. You were little more
than a child. I was a woman when I gave myself to Paul. My heart and my
senses awaited him in the solitude, in the blank that my husband made
about me--a cold, austere, and passionless man, who had never been able
to understand or love me."
"But the future--the future!"
"It will be what circumstances may make it; like yours, perhaps, save
for the abandon of the man I love. I shall make a great artist of Paul.
He will owe everything to me--his reputation, his genius, his success."
"One day or other your husband will require you to return to Russia. You
will be forced then to separate from Monsieur Meyrin."
"No, never!"
"What reason will you give for prolonging your stay in Paris?"
"I don't know. I shall say the doctors dread the effect of the Russian
climate on my health. The prince will believe me. Meantime he will be
hunting, and will trouble himself very little about me. When I have been
confined we shall see."
Mme. Daubrel dared not add, "And your child--do you not think of him?"
She knew that that was the only vulnerable point of the princess, who,
in spite of her mad love for Paul, never spoke of her son except with
tenderness, tears filling her eyes. When the passion infusing all her
being let her think of anything else, she could not pardon herself for
leaving him.
In consequence of this interchange of confidences, the friendship
between Lise Olsdorf and Mme. Marthe Daubrel became closer, day by day,
and very soon the princess--an adulterous wife--happy in her sin, had as
her most devoted friend this little woman of the people, parted from her
husband and repentant.
The tender, loving heart of Marthe had found a very feeble echo in Mme.
Meyrin's, a woman of cold and reserved temperament; while the affection
of her mother, who had not pardoned her for the past, could not satisfy
all her longings. She therefore conceived the liveliest affection for
this stranger, whose situation one day might be so like her own. Mme.
Daubrel would have done anything to turn aside the danger that
threatened Lise Olsdorf. She would even have declared herself the mother
of the expected babe, but that before she could make this proposition to
her, the princess had determined on a course from which there was no
turning.
After hesitating long on what her conduct toward the prince should be,
after deliberating with herself whether or not she should conceal her
state from him, Lise Olsdorf felt that if she hid it she would be drawn
into a chain of lies and condemned to a life as dangerous as it would
be difficult. She therefore wrote to her husband shortly after her
arrival in Paris to tell him that she was _enceinte_.
The prince, whose confidence in her was absolute, replied that he was
happy at the event, and that, as she was in France, it would be best
that she should remain there until after her confinement. Besides, in
each of his succeeding letters, while affectionately recommending the
greatest prudence, he had added that he would not fail to come to Paris
for her accouchement.
This promise was a thunder-bolt for Lise Olsdorf, and from that moment
she had made up her mind to lie on the point, for if the prince were
with her she could not stir out-of-doors, it would be a separation from
her lover, and that she would not suffer at any cost. She therefore
wrote to her husband that she did not expect to be confined before the
end of April, whereas she was almost certain that she would be again a
mother some weeks earlier.
Meanwhile, as she could not decently show herself in public with Paul
Meyrin in the state she was in, the princess went out scarcely at all,
except on her visits to her lover's family, whose mother and
sister-in-law always gave her a warm welcome. Of course the Mmes. Meyrin
understood everything, but they pretended to see nothing out of the
common in what was happening. The Princess Olsdorf, a married woman, had
come to Paris to be confined; what could be more natural? If they had
allowed it to be supposed that they knew anything more they would have
had to break with this charming and generous woman. Both hypocrisy and
interest closed their eyes. They were blind.
As for Paul he never missed a day in going to see the princess, and he
was full of cares and attention for her but sometimes he shortened his
visits. If, through her state of health, Lise Olsdorf had become less
passionate and more tender; if her love was, so to speak, purified in
the maternity that absorbed it, Paul's, who had not the same reason to
change, grew colder, incapable as he was of ideal tenderness and
immaterial satisfaction. For her lover Lise Olsdorf ceased temporarily
to be the lascivious, unsatiated, delirious mistress; for the artiste
she was no longer the Diana whose sculptural form he had reproduced.
She was a suffering woman in a difficult situation, in the throes of an
event which might occasion both of them grave annoyance. The painter
paid little heed to the child about to be born, the sense of paternity
being wholly wanting in him. He would not of course disown it and would
no doubt love it, but he awaited it without impatience, very uneasy
about what would result from all this, and preoccupied at the near
arrival of Prince Olsdorf, in whose presence he was not at all eager to
find himself. Thenceforward he looked about for something to distract
his thoughts; he visited his brother artists more than ever, and one day
fate brought him face to face in one of their studios with Sarah Lamber
whom he had not seen since their rupture.
Nonplused for the moment, the artist wanted then to carry off the thing
easily. With a smile, offering his hand, he said:
"'Pon my word, Sarah, here is a bit of luck I was not looking for."
And as the model had fallen back a step, he added:
"Bah! We are angry then, are we? How silly you are!"
"Very likely," said Sarah; "but I have a good memory. You shall have a
proof of it one of these days, sooner than you think for. If you fancy I
have given up the thought of revenging myself on you and your princess
Olsdorf--you see I remember her name--you are wrong. It seems she is
going to make a father of you, this princess. My compliments to you--and
to her husband."
Happily the friend at whose place the scene began interrupted the young
woman at this point, for Paul Meyrin was at a loss what to say, being
troubled on Lise's account that her story should be so well known to
everybody and therefore in danger of being indiscreetly spoken of. He
cut short the visit to his friend and returned home much concerned. He
knew that Sarah was a girl likely to keep her word. Besides he could not
hide from himself that his intrigue with the Princess Olsdorf was now
common property. It was a wonder that her husband had not been told of
it long ago.
As it might easily chance that the prince hastening his journey, might
appear suddenly any day, Paul Meyrin began to long for Lise's
confinement. It did not take place for six weeks. At last, toward the
end of March, as she had reckoned, attended by the eminent Dr. de Soyre,
and affectionately cared for by Mme. Daubrel, the princess was delivered
of a little girl whose birth was registered next day at the Russian
legation, in the name of Catherine Tekla, legitimate daughter of the
Prince and Princess Olsdorf.
Then, twenty-four hours later, Lise telegraphed to her husband to inform
him of the event which she said had happened sooner than she had
expected. She added that her confinement had been so easy that she hoped
to be about again in a few days. Happy as she would be to see him, it
was useless for him to make the long journey from St. Petersburg to
Paris, as she meant to return to Russia in a few weeks, when her health
permitted.
Notwithstanding this interested advice that she gave to the prince, and
the hope she had that it would be followed, Lise was not quite easy
until she had received a reply from her husband in full conformity with
her wishes.
Pierre congratulated his wife on her happy delivery, told her to take
every precaution, sent his fond love to her and the little stranger, and
agreed to her proposal. He would not come to Paris, but would await her
in Courland, where all would be ready for her return at the end of a
month.
"Oh, at the end of a month, we shall see," she said to Paul, after
reading the letter to him. "Tekla's health will hinder the journey and
our return to Pampeln will be put off until summer. I say 'our' return,
for you will come to me there very soon, will you not? If not, I will
not go."
And winding her arms about her lover's neck the newly made mother drew
him toward her almost fiercely, as if the passion, laid to rest for some
months by her motherhood, had again suddenly possessed her.
Freed from all fear in regard to the prince, Paul returned the embrace
warmly, and from this time forward he was so full of care for her, he
seemed to love the child so much, that the princess had never been so
thoroughly happy.
The Meyrins, of course, had been among the first to congratulate the
young mother. The day when Lise Olsdorf gathered them all at her table
to celebrate her churching, each member of the family found under his or
her plate a princely present. After dinner the baby was brought in in a
cradle trimmed with lace and roses. Before dessert was over Paul's
paternity could no longer be a matter of doubt for any one present, the
princess had been so demonstrative with the man she loved.
However, the Meyrin ladies kept their countenances. They would not see
anything amiss; and Frantz's wife, by way of a sort of hypocritical
protestation intended to safeguard her middle-class virtue, was very
nearly proposing the health of Prince Olsdorf. Her husband, ashamed of
this comedy, had only just time to stop her.
These merrymakers would not have been so joyous nor so much at their
ease, if they could have foreseen what was to happen a few days later at
the chateau of Pampeln.
Although he had reckoned on the return of his wife at the end of April,
Prince Olsdorf was not very much surprised when she wrote to him that
the baby's health forced her to put off the journey for at least a
fortnight. He replied that she was right to be prudent and must think
first of all of the infant, adding that he would await her in Courland,
which would shorten the journey for her by almost one half. He asked her
to warn him by telegraph of her departure from Paris, so that he could
go to meet her with carriages at Mittau.
All these letters were in a tone so unusual with her husband, that is,
so full of tenderness, that the princess was in a sense alarmed at it;
and she was always careful not to show them to Paul Meyrin, whose
jealousy would certainly have been roused. She wrote to the prince that
she would be starting soon, at the same time promising herself that she
would put off the journey to the very last moment under any pretense
whatever.
Meanwhile Pierre Olsdorf had returned to Pampeln, and was overlooking
the equipping of the house for the season, when he received from St.
Petersburg, with other letters, a big envelope which had been addressed
to him at his town house.
Having carelessly opened the envelope he was rather surprised to see its
contents. They were a series of articles, for the most part reviews of
theatrical performances, cut from newspapers and pasted on good sized
sheets of paper, in which the names of Princess Lise and Paul Meyrin's
appeared in each paragraph.
The prince was puzzled for a moment, then a flush overspread his face,
and snatching up a note which accompanied the inclosures, he read these
infamous words:
"The articles do not tell everything to the husband of
the Princess Olsdorf. Otherwise they would inform him
that his wife lives publicly with Paul Meyrin, as is
known to all Paris, and that the baby she has just
had is her lover's."
"Oh, the wretches!" exclaimed the unhappy man, "I will kill them."
And, wishing to know all, he ran his eye through each of the paragraphs
that repeated his dishonor.
Then, his eyes filling with tears, he buried his face in big hands and
reflected.
In a few minutes he grew calmer. Determined not to take counsel either
of his anger or of his just indignation, he made for the shady woods of
the park, where he paced up and down for a part of the night.
Next morning, when he tenderly kissed his son Alexander at his waking,
nothing could have been read on his face. His resolution was irrevocably
taken.
He ordered his horse to be saddled, and he rode over to Elva.
Soublaieff, who was in the farm-yard when his master rode into it, ran
forward to hold his horse, and Pierre Olsdorf dismounted.
"I am glad to find you here," said he to the farmer, "I was afraid you
might be away somewhere in the fields. I have something serious to say
to you. How is your daughter?"
"Well, prince," replied Soublaieff. "She and I are at your orders. What
is the matter? Forgive my presumption, but you seem troubled and
preoccupied."
"I am. You shall know the cause afterward. Meanwhile I am come to ask a
favor of you."
"A favor from me! A master so good as you are asks it of a servant who
would give the last drop of his blood to him? Speak, prince, speak!"
"Will you trust Vera to me?"
"Trust Vera to you?"
"To take her to Paris."
The farmer grew pale. The tenderness of a father struggled within him
against blind devotion for his master. In the past he had besought the
prince not to take from him his daughter to place her at the chateau.
And now it was a question not of a separation of a few leagues but of a
journey to France. He hesitated.
"Come, make up your mind to it," Pierre Olsdorf went on. "I want Vera;
she alone, with your good will, can do me a great service."
"A great service? Are you going to join the princess?"
"Yes, I am going to her in Paris, and I must come to her with a pure,
intelligent, and beautiful young girl such as your daughter is. Ah!
Soublaieff, I am very unhappy."
The sad smile with which the prince spoke the words troubled the old
servitor still more, but at the sight of the pained look in the face of
the generous master to whom he owed everything, his hesitation vanished,
and he replied:
"Take Vera, prince; but suffer me to remind you that she is my idolized
child, and that the former serf trusts his honor to the honor of the
Olsdorfs."
"I will remember. Send for your daughter."
Vera came quickly at her father's first call, and as was her custom,
bent to kiss the prince's hand, but he drew her toward him and pressed a
chaste kiss on her forehead.
In a few words Soublaieff told his daughter of the agreement with the
prince. Vera, blushing with pleasure, bowed low and said, in a subdued
voice:
"I am ready to obey you, father."
Mingled with her surprise--perhaps without she herself knowing it--was
the curiosity natural in a daughter of Eve. She was grieved to leave her
father; but to travel, to see Paris! It had been one of her dreams.
"I thank you both," said Pierre Olsdorf after a moment of silence.
"Soublaieff, you are no longer a devoted servant, but a friend to me. As
for you, sweet Vera, I shall never forget the sacrifice she makes in
leaving her family to go with me for awhile."
Then offering his hand to the farmer, who pressed it respectfully in
his, he added:
"Bring Vera to-morrow morning to Pampeln; we will start at once for
Mittau, and take the night train thence to Paris. Again I thank you.
Adieu till to-morrow."
The prince, who had spoken the last words as he stood on the threshold
of the door, sprung upon his horse and rode off in the direction of the
chateau.
Next day, before ten o'clock, Soublaieff was at Pampeln with his
daughter. At noon the young Russian girl and Pierre Olsdorf got into a
post-chaise, on the box-seat being Yvan, his old and faithful
body-servant; and Soublaieff, with tearful eyes, saw them drive off, as
he murmured:
"Perhaps I was wrong to yield, but he seemed so unhappy. What is the
mystery? God preserve my child."