AT THE OPERA COMIQUE.
Two days later Pierre Olsdorf arrived in Paris, at a quarter past seven
in the evening, by the Cologne express. He had traveled without a break.
By eight o'clock he was at the Grand Hotel, and in ten minutes' time,
Yvan, his body-servant, was on his way to the Rue Lafitte with a letter
which he was to deliver in person to the princess, if she were at home,
or to leave with a servant to be taken at once to his mistress, if it
were known where she was passing the evening. The prince did not wish
his letter to be read by a lady's-maid before it reached its address.
At the Rue Lafitte, Yvan was told that the princess had just gone to the
Opera Comique, and a promise was made that a footman should go to the
theater immediately with the letter.
The man, indeed, started at once, and the prince's servant, on his way
back to the boulevard, saw him turn down the Rue Marivaux.
A stock-piece was being played this evening. The princess was seated at
the front of the box, while Paul Meyrin, who was her companion, sat
behind her. As usual she was listening attentively to the music when the
door of the box opened. Rather surprised, for she was expecting nobody,
at least until between the acts, the young woman turned round and took
from the hat, held salver-wise, of her footman the letter he offered to
her.
"I beg pardon, madame, but a stranger who delivered this letter said
that it must be given to Madame the Princess at once."
"Is there any answer?" asked Lise Olsdorf, visibly growing paler, for
she had recognized her husband's writing on the envelope.
"The bearer went away without saying anything," the footman replied.
"Very well. You can go."
The door of the box was closed again. Frowning, the princess, who did
not want to open the letter before the end of the act, seemed to guess
what threatened her within the envelope.
"What is the matter?" asked Paul Meyrin, uneasy at her silence.
"The letter is from the prince," replied Lise Olsdorf.
"Well, is that very extraordinary?"
"It has not come by post. See, there is no stamp on it. A commissionaire
must have brought it to the house, so that my husband is in Paris. He
has left St. Petersburg without warning. I am lost!"
Paul Meyrin had grown very pale.
He had sometimes said to himself that the prince at last would be
surprised at his wife's long stay in Paris, and that in casting about a
bit he would easily find out that it was not merely care for her health
which kept her away from Russia. But like an irresolute man who dares
not look danger in the face, the artist would not dwell in fancy on the
possible consequences of his amour with a married woman, and now that
the upshot was near he trembled.
"Read it, any way," he said, in a changed voice.
The curtain had just fallen on the first act of the "Pre aux Clercs."
The princess rose from her chair, and supposing that Paul's fear was for
her alone, she pressed his hand; then, with quick fingers, she opened
the letter. It contained only these few lines:
"MADAME,--Made acquainted with the true reason for
your long stay in Paris, I am come hither not to force
you to return to your husband's roof, but to insist
upon the only possible ending, according to my view,
of the situation that you have made. Desiring,
therefore, to see you as soon as possible, I will call
upon you at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning.
"Do not fear either a scene or reproaches. You will
not have to treat with the outraged husband, but
merely with a father who would not that his son should
have either a compromised mother, or a dishonored
name.
"PRINCE PIERRE OLSDORF."
After reading this letter several times, which was full of threats the
more serious the less they were defined, the princess handed it to Paul
Meyrin.
He ran through it rapidly, and, not less alarmed than his mistress,
said:
"What will you do?"
"I don't know."
"Shall you see the prince?"
"How can I do otherwise?"
"Shall we go back home?"
"No. People saw the letter handed to me. Our going would seem strange,
and my return home would surprise my servants too much to not set them
thinking. We will sit out the 'Pre aux Clercs.' When it is over we will
decide what is best to be done."
Taking again the attentive attitude that she always assumed at the
theater, the princess seated at the front of the box seemed to forget
the terrible news she had just received.
At the thought of the struggle she was about to engage in, at the idea
of the dangers that threatened her, on the eve of the conjugal drama of
which she was the heroine, the actress's nature that she inherited from
her mother and from her true father awoke in her, counseling revolt and
strategy. She might have feared violence; but as the prince wrote that
she had nothing of the sort to face, she cared little for the rest,
provided always that she was not to be separated from her lover; as she
was prepared for everything but this sacrifice, her calmness had
suddenly returned.
Paul Meyrin was less at his ease. He thought more of the next day than
his mistress seemed to do. Would the prince force his wife to retire to
some convent far from Paris, not in France? From him, the lover, the
husband would surely demand satisfaction for the stain upon his honor.
The painter, without being a coward, was no duelist. He scarcely knew
how to hold a sword, and with a pistol he could not hit the target more
than once in ten shots. In a word, he loved Lise as much as his egotism
suffered him to love. She was a mistress that flattered his pride and
cost him nothing. We might even say that she was, on the contrary,
profitable to him, since, as we have seen, she heaped presents on the
whole Meyrin family and let slip no chance of offering Paul a trinket or
some costly knickknack.
And this baby a few months old whom the prince would not shelter! Paul
foresaw with alarm, for the paternal sentiment scarcely existed in him,
that it would fall to his care, and he did not hide from himself that
his mother, Mme. Meyrin, would refuse downright to take charge of it.
Foreseeing disputes without end, a thousand domestic worries, he forgot
completely in thinking only of himself what the princess might have to
dread and suffer.
It was in this frame of mind that the painter sat out the last two acts
of Herold's masterpiece, and when, accompanying Lise home, he found
himself again in the little room in the Rue Lafitte, where, in the
course of the past few months, he had spent so many long and happy
hours, he was seized by a deep sadness.
Lise Olsdorf, who had left him alone while her maid took off her things,
soon returned, wearing a long dressing-gown of blue velvet, but even
when she knelt before the artist, laying her head on his knees, Paul
scarcely roused himself.
The princess was the first to break silence.
"Come," she said, "we must not let ourselves be beaten like this. There
is one thing: whatever happens, nothing shall separate us. Anything may
come but that."
"Is it so?" exclaimed Paul, tenderly.
"Yes, I swear it. The prince may threaten as he likes. He shall not part
me from you."
Lise spoke the words with the savage passion that she felt for her
lover. At the moment she was a living proof of the physiological
phenomenon which too often makes of the most distinguished woman the
servile courtesan of a man whose birth, education, and sentiments would
seem to part him from her.
Reassured by this sensual fervor, and feeling that his mistress was
still his body and soul, Paul took her on to his knees, and as he
thanked her with a thousand caresses, she went on, thrilling in his
arms:
"After all, what can the prince do? We are not in Russia; I am not the
daughter of one of his serfs. I have my own fortune which he, a
nobleman, dare not touch. And I love you--I love you. Is it my fault?
Is not it rather his fault? Look! I would rather he should know
everything. I am tired of mysteries and lying. What has now happened was
fated. It is better so, for now I shall be yours only and always."
Lise Olsdorf was intoxicated by her own words. She was superb in her
unsatiated passion. Winding her bare arms about her lover, she was Venus
herself. Her long hair floated over her marble shoulders; she was Mary
Magdalene before her repentance.
"But who has betrayed us?" asked Paul Meyrin, suddenly, drawing himself
gently, after a long silence, from the ardent embrace of the young
woman. "Who can have given the prince such exact particulars?"
"Why, everybody," replied the princess with a smile which seemed to mean
that the fact could not have been otherwise; "first of all the
newspapers. This long time they have coupled your name and mine in their
notices of first nights. And then, no doubt, there are some dear friends
jealous of our happiness. What does it matter who it was?"
"But our daughter; we are forgetting the dear little thing. What will
become of her?"
"The prince will believe that Tekla is his daughter. There will be no
question about her between him and me."
"If he should doubt it?"
"It is impossible he should. At any rate, we shall see. Meanwhile say
nothing of what is happening to your mother, your sister, or anybody. It
will be time enough to tell them when we know ourselves what the result
is. As soon as the prince has left me, I will send for you. Come at
once. And now, good-bye until to-morrow. It will be our last farewell,
this; I hope it will be our last."
Then having sealed the amorous words with a last kiss, she left him at
the door of her room.
Within it, she went to bed, far more to think of the man she loved than
of the meeting with her husband with which she was threatened.