THE LAW SUIT.
“So,” said she after having listened with attention, “there is no way of
losing it?”
“The opinion of my father as well as of myself, is that in order to lose
it, it would be necessary to desire its loss.”
“But your worthy father has surely understood that I did wish it
absolutely?”
“No, madame,” replied I with firmness, for it was a question of my duty,
and I assumed the only part proper for me to play, in the presence of
this noble lady. “No, my father does not so understand it. His
conscience forbids him to betray the interests confided to him by M. le
comte d’Ionis. He thinks that you will induce your husband to adopt a
compromise and he will render it as acceptable as possible to the
adversaries that you protect. But he will never bring himself to
persuade M. d’Ionis that his cause is bad in justice.”
“In legal justice,” she replied, with a sweet sad smile; “but, in real
justice, in moral and natural justice, your worthy father knows well
that our right leads us to exercise a cruel spoliation.”
“What my father thinks of this subject,” I replied a little confused,
“he is only accountable for to his own conscience. When a lawyer can
defend a cause where the two justices of which you speak are in his
favor, he is very fortunate, thoroughly compensated for those cases
where he finds them in opposition; but he ought never to observe this
distinction when he has voluntarily accepted the charge, and you know,
madame, that my father has only consented to oppose M. d’Aillane because
you wished him to do so.”
“I did wish it, yes! I obtained my husband’s consent that this suit
should not be confided to another; I hoped that your father, the best
and most honest man of my acquaintance would succeed in saving this
unhappy family from the rigorous pursuit of my own. A lawyer can always
show himself reticent and generous, above all when he knows that he will
not be blamed by his principal client. And I am this client, monsieur.
It concerns my fortune, and not M. d’Ionis, which nothing menaces.”
“It is true, madame but you are in the power of your husband; and the
husband, like the chief of the community....”
“Ah! I know the rest! He has more rights over my fortune than I myself
possess, and he uses them in my interest, I am willing to believe it,
but he forgets, that in this, my conscience is concerned; and for whom?
He has an immense personal fortune and no children; I have then before
God the right to despoil myself of a portion of my wealth in order not
to ruin honest people, victims of a question of procedure.”
“Such a sentiment is worthy of you, madame, and I am not here to dispute
so fine a right, but to remind you of our duty, and to beg of you not to
require us to be faithless to our trust. All the concessions consistent
with the success of your suit, we will observe, even should we incur the
reproaches of M. d’Ionis and those of his mother. But to withdraw from
the accepted task, declaring that success is doubtful, and that it would
be better to compromise, is what a thorough investigation of the affair
forbids us to do, under penalty of falsehood and betrayal.”
“Indeed, no! You are mistaken,” cried Madame d’Ionis excitedly. “I
assure you, you are mistaken. These are legal subtilities which may
deceive a man grown old in the practice of law, but that a _sensible_
young man ought not to accept as an absolute rule of conduct.... If your
father has undertaken the suit, and you admit that he has done so at my
request, it is because he foresaw my intentions. Had he been ignorant of
them, I should greatly regret the fact, and I would think that you did
not entertain the esteem for me that I would have liked to inspire in
the members of your family. In this case where one feels that victory
would be horrible, one does not fear to propose peace before the battle.
To act otherwise is to conceive a false idea of duty. Duty is not a
military password, it is a religion, and a religion which would
prescribe evil, ceases to be one. Hush! speak to me no more of your
charge. Do not place M. d’Ionis’ ambition above my honor, do not make a
sacred thing of this ambition. It is a disgraceful thing, no more, and
no less. Unite your efforts with mine to save these unfortunate people.
Act so that I may find in you a friend after my own heart, rather than
an infallible legislator and an implacable lawyer!”
While speaking thus she gave me her hand and enveloped me in the
enthusiastic fire of her beautiful eyes. I lost my head and covering her
hand with kisses, I felt myself conquered. In fact, I was so in advance
I had been of her opinion before seeing her. I still defended myself
however, for I had sworn to my father that I would not yield to the
sentimental considerations that his client had caused him to foresee in
her letters. Madame d’Ionis would not hear a word of my defense.
“You speak,” said she, “like a good son, who is pleading his father’s
cause, but I would like you better, were you not so good a lawyer.”
“Ah! madame,” I cried heedless of consequences, “do not say that I am
pleading against you, for you would make me hate too much a calling for
which I feel that I have not the requisite insensibility.”
I will not weary you with the particulars of the law suit instituted by
the d’Ionis family against the d’Aillanes. The conversation I have just
reported will suffice to explain my story. It concerned an estate of
five hundred thousand francs, that is to say, almost all the funded
fortune of our beautiful client. M. d’Ionis made a very bad use of the
immense wealth that he possessed on his own side of the house. He was
given over to dissipation, and the doctors allowed him but two years to
live. It was quite possible that he would leave his widow more debts
than money. Should Madame d’Ionis renounce the benefit of the law suit,
she would then incur the risk of falling from a state of opulence, into
a condition of mediocrity to which she had not been brought up. My
father pitied the d’Aillane family greatly, a family deserving the
highest esteem, and which included a worthy gentleman, his wife and his
two children. The loss of the law suit would plunge them into misery;
but my father naturally preferred to devote himself to the future of his
client and to preserve her from disaster. This was for him a true case
of conscience; but he had recommended me not to urge this consideration
with her. “Her soul is romantic and sublime,” said he, “and the more her
personal interest is alleged, the greater pride and pleasure she will
take in the joy of her sacrifice; but with the approach of age, her
enthusiasm will disappear. Then look out for regrets; and look out also
for the reproaches that she will justly heap upon us for not having
wisely counselled her.”
My father did not know that I was so much of an enthusiast in fact.
Engaged in numberless affairs, he had confided to me the care of
subduing the generous impulses of this admirable woman, by taking refuge
behind pretended scruples which he only considered as accessories. It
was a very good idea, but he had not foreseen any more than myself that
I would share Madame d’Ionis’ opinion to such an extent. I was at an age
when material wealth is of no value in the imagination; it is a period
of a wealth of heart.
And then this woman, who produced upon me the effect of a spark on
powder; this despicable absent husband condemned by his physicians; the
moderate circumstances which threatened her, and towards which she
smilingly stretched her arms—how did I know?
I was an only son, my father possessed some fortune and I could also
acquire one. I was only a _bourgeois_, who owed a position to a
magistracy in the past, and in the present to the consideration attached
to talent and probity; but we were in the midst of a philosophical
period, and without thinking ourselves on the verge of a radical
revolution, one could readily admit the idea of an impoverished woman of
quality, marrying a man of lower condition in easy circumstances.
In short, my youthful imagination was fired, and my young heart
instinctively desired the loss of Madame d’Ionis’ fortune. While she
talked with animation about the annoyances of wealth and the happiness
of a reduced condition _à la_ Jean-Jacques Rousseau, I made such rapid
strides in my romance that it seemed as if she were deigning to guess at
my thoughts and was alluding to them in each one of the intoxicating
words that fell from her lips.
I did not however surrender openly. My word was pledged; I could only
promise to try and dissuade my father. I could give no assurance of
success, for I did not myself participate in any. I knew the firmness of
his decisions. The solution was approaching, we had reached the
termination of delays and evasive procedures. Madame d’Ionis proposed a
plan, in case she should bring me over to her views. It was that my
father should feign illness when the time arrived to plead the cause,
that the case then should be confided to me, and that I should lose it!
I confess that I took fright at this hypothesis and that I then
understood my father’s scruples. To hold in one’s hands the destiny of a
client and to sacrifice her rights to a question of sentiment, is a fine
role when one can fill it openly and by her order; but such was not my
position. On account of M. d’Ionis, it was necessary to preserve
appearances, to execute errors adroitly, and to employ deceit in order
that virtue might triumph. I became frightened, I grew pale, I almost
wept, for I was in love, and the idea of refusing broke my heart.
“Let us say no more about it,” said Madame d’Ionis kindly, she seemed
now to divine, if she had not already done so, the passion she had
awakened in me. “Pardon me for having put your conscience to this proof.
No! You must not sacrifice it to mine, we must find some other means of
securing these poor adversaries. We will search for it together, for you
are on my side, I see it, I feel it, in spite of yourself. You must stay
with me for several days. Write to your father that I am resisting and
that you are endeavoring to overcome my scruples. To my mother-in-law,
we will have the appearance of studying the chances of success together.
She is persuaded that I am a born lawyer, and Heaven is my witness, that
before this deplorable affair, I knew no more about such things than she
herself, which isn’t saying much! Come,” she added, resuming her
charming and sympathetic gayety, “do not let us torment ourselves and
don’t be so sad! We will contrive to find some cause for delay. Ah! I
have one now, a most singular and absurd one, but which none the less
would exercise an all-powerful influence over the mind of the good
dowager, and even over M. d’Ionis. Can’t you guess it?”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Well then it is this, to make the green ladies speak.”
“What! really, does M. d’Ionis share his mother’s credulity?”
“M. d’Ionis is very brave, he has given proofs of it; but he believes in
ghosts and fears them. Let the three young ladies forbid us to hasten
the law suit and the suit will remain inactive.”
“So, you can think of nothing better to satisfy the desire I feel of
aiding you, than that of condemning me to the use of abominable
impostures? Ah! Madame, how well you understand the art of making people
unhappy!”
“What! you are so scrupulous as all that? Haven’t you already
participated with a good grace?”
“A joke without consequences was all very well; but if M. d’Ionis
inquires into the matter and summons me to declare upon my honor....”
“True! ’Tis only another worthless idea! Let us attempt no more to-day.”
“_La nuit porte conseil._” “To-morrow, perhaps, I shall at last be able
to propose something practicable. It is getting late, and I hear the
abbé Lamyre who is looking for us.”
The abbé Lamyre was a charming little man. Although fifty years old, he
was still fresh and good-looking. He was kind, frivolous, witty,
entertaining, full of fun, and in fact, held philosophical opinions,
always agreeing with those whom he conversed with, for the question with
him was not to persuade, but to please. He threw his arms around my
neck, and heaped praises upon me which I esteemed at their proper value,
as coming from one whom I knew lavished them upon everyone, but for
which I was more thankful than usual, on account of the pleasure they
seemed to afford Madame d’Ionis.
He praised my great talents as a lawyer and poet and forced me to recite
some verses, which appeared to be relished more than they deserved.
Madame d’Ionis, after having complimented me with an air of emotion and
sincerity, left us together to attend to the cares of her household.
The abbé talked of a thousand things that did not interest me. I would
have liked to be alone to indulge in a revery, to recall each word, each
gesture of Madame d’Ionis; but the abbé attached himself to me, and told
me numerous ingenious stories that I consigned to the devil. At last,
the conversation assumed a lively interest for me, when it turned upon
the burning ground of my relations with Madame d’Ionis.
“I know what brings you here,” said he, “she has already spoken to me
about it. Without knowing the day of your visit, she was expecting you.
Your father does not wish her to ruin herself, and, _parbleu_, he is
very right. But he will not convince her, and you must either quarrel
with her, or let her have her own way. If she believed in the green
ladies, _à la bonne heure_, you might make them speak in her interest,
but unfortunately she has no more faith in them than you or I!”
“Madame d’Ionis pretends however that you do believe in them, Monsieur
l’abbé.”
“I? She told you that? Yes, yes, I know she treats her little friend as
if he were a great coward! Sing the duo with her, I am not afraid of the
green ladies, I do not believe in them; but there is certainly one thing
that alarms me, it is having seen them.”
“How then do you reconcile such contradictory assertions?”
“Nothing more simple, either there are ghosts or there are none. I
myself have seen them, and I have paid the penalty for knowing that they
exist. Only I do not consider them malicious, I am not afraid of their
injuring me, I was not born a coward, but I mistrust my brain which is
composed of saltpetre. I know that shadows have no more power over
bodies than bodies have over shadows, since I have held the sleeve of
one of these young ladies without discovering any kind of arm. From that
moment, which I shall never forget; and which has changed all my ideas
about the things of this world and of the next, I have sworn to myself
that never again would I put human weakness to such a test. I am not at
all desirous of losing my reason. So much the worse for me if I have not
sufficient moral strength to coolly and philosophically contemplate what
passes my understanding; but why should I deceive myself? I began by
trifling with myself, and laughingly summoned the ghost. The ghost
appeared.—_Bonjour!_ Once is enough for me, you won’t catch me in it
another time.”
One can readily imagine that I was strongly impressed by what I had
heard. The abbé’s faith was evident. He did not believe that he was the
victim of a mania. Since the emotions he had experienced in “_la chambre
aux dames_,” he had never again dreamed of them. He added that he was
convinced that they would have done him no kind of harm or injury, had
he possessed sufficient courage to examine them.
“But I did not,” he observed, “for I almost lost consciousness, and
realizing my weakness, I said: “Whoever wishes to do so may penetrate
this mystery, I will not assume the charge, I am not equal to such a
task.”
I questioned the abbé carefully. His vision had been almost exactly like
my own. I made a great effort not to let him suspect the similarity of
our adventures. I knew he was too much of a gossip to preserve the
secret inviolate, and I feared Madame d’Ionis’ sarcasms more than all
the demons of the night; so I assumed an air of ignorance while the abbé
questioned me, assuring him that nothing had disturbed my sleep; and
when the moment arrived at eleven o’clock in the evening, to re-enter
this fatal room, I laughingly promised the dowager to keep a secret
account of my dreams, and took leave of the company with an air of
gayety and valor.
Nevertheless I was far from feeling either the one or the other. The
presence of the abbé, the supper and the evening spent under the
dowager’s eyes, had rendered Madame d’Ionis more reserved than she had
been with me in the morning. She also seemed to say in each allusion to
our sudden and cordial intimacy: “You know at what price I have granted
it to you.” I was vexed with myself, I had been neither submissive
enough, or sufficiently independent, I seemed to have betrayed the
mission my father had confided to me, without in the least advancing my
chimeras of love.
The sombre interior reacted upon my impressions and my beautiful
apartment wore a gloomy and lugubrious air. I knew not what to think of
either the abbé’s reason or my own. Had it not been for a feeling of
_mauvaise honte_, I would have asked for other lodgings and I really
experienced a sensation of anger, when I saw Baptiste enter with the
accursed waiter, the basket, the three loaves and all the absurd
accompaniments of the previous evening.
“What does this mean?” said I testily. “Am I hungry? Haven’t I just left
the table?”
“Indeed, Monsieur,” he replied, “I think it is very odd. It was
Mademoiselle Zéphyrine who ordered me to bring it to you. It was of no
use for me to tell her that you were in the habit of passing your nights
in sleeping, and not in eating, she answered laughingly:
“Take it all the same, it is a custom we have always observed. It will
not annoy your master and you will see that he will be pleased to have
you leave it in his room.”
“Very well, _mon ami_, do me the favor of carrying it back, without
saying anything about it in the servant’s hall. I need my table to write
upon.”
Baptiste obeyed. I locked myself in, and retired, after having written
to my father. I confess that I slept splendidly and dreamed of but one
lady, Madame d’Ionis.
The next day, the dowager assailed me anew with questions. I was so rude
as to declare that I had dreamed nothing worth mentioning. The good lady
was greatly disappointed.
“I am sure,” said she to Zéphyrine, “that you did not put the ladies’
supper in M. Nivières’ room?”
“Pardon me, madame,” replied Zéphyrine, looking at me reproachfully.
Madame d’Ionis seemed also to say with her eyes, that I was disobliging.
The abbé exclaimed ingenuously:
“It is strange; these things then happen only to me?”
After breakfast he left, and Madame d’Ionis appointed a meeting with me,
at one o’clock, in the library. I was there at noon; but she sent me
word by Zéphyrine that she was besieged by importunate visitors and that
I must have patience. This was easier to ask than acquire. I waited; the
minutes seemed centuries. I asked myself how I had managed to exist up
to this time, without this _tête-à-tête_ that I already called _daily_,
and how I could go on living when there would be no further occasion to
expect it. I sought for some means that should entail the necessity, and
resolved at last to protract the law suit, to the extent of my poor
abilities, and I puzzled my brains over a thousand subterfuges which did
not even possess the merit of common sense.
While walking up and down the gallery, in my agitation, I every now and
then stopped before the fountain and sometimes seated myself upon its
brink, that was surrounded by magnificent flowers, artistically disposed
in the crevices of the rough rock on top of which rested a block of
white marble. This rugged base gave a more finished effect to the work
of the chisel causing the water to overflow in brilliant sheets into the
lower receptacles, which were adorned with aquatic plants.
It was a delicious spot, and the reflection of the stained glass
occasionally imparted an appearance of life to the fantastical features
of the statuary.
I regarded the naiad with renewed wonder, surprised to find it so
beautiful and realizing at last the exalted sense of this mysterious
loveliness which I no longer thought of comparing unfavorably with that
of Madame d’Ionis. I felt that all comparisons are puerile between
inanimate objects and beings that bear no resemblance to each other.
This inspiration of Jean Goujon’s had a beauty peculiar to itself—the
face wore an expression of sublime sweetness—and seemed to communicate a
feeling of repose and happiness to the mind, like the sensation of
freshness imparted by the continuous murmur of the limpid waters of the
fountain. At last Madame d’Ionis made her appearance.
“Here is some news,” said she, seating herself familiarly near me; “look
at this strange letter that I have just received from M. d’Ionis.”
And she showed it to me with an _abandon_ that affected me strongly. I
was disgusted with a husband whose letters to such a wife could be shown
without embarrassment to the first comer.
The letter was cold, long and diffuse, the characters slender and
tremulous, the orthography very doubtful. Here is the substance of it:
“You ought not to have any scruples about gaining your end. I have none
whatever in employing the most rigid legal means. I refuse all other
arrangements than those I have already proposed to the d’Aillanes, and I
wish to see a termination to this law suit. You may, when it is once
gained, extend a helping hand to them, I shall not oppose your
generosity, but I wish for no compromise. Their lawyer has offended me
in his address in the first place, and the appeal that they have lodged
is presumptuous beyond belief. I find M. Nivières very sluggish, and I
have expressed my displeasure through the mail to-day. Act, yourself,
stimulate his zeal, unless some higher order should issue from ——. You
know what I mean, and I am surprised that you say nothing to me about
what may have been observed in the room—since my departure. Has no one
had the courage to pass the night there and to write down what he may
have heard? Must we depend alone on the assertions of the abbé de
Lamyre, a man who does not speak seriously? Let some one _worthy of
belief_ attempt this proof, unless you have sufficient courage to do so
yourself, which would not surprise me.”
As she read this last sentence, Madame d’Ionis burst out laughing.
“M. d’Ionis amuses me,” she said. “He flatters me so that he may induce
me to attempt a thing that he would never think of doing himself, and he
is indignant at the cowardice of people for whose benefit nothing would
induce him to give such an example.”
“What I find most remarkable in this,” said I, “is M. d’Ionis’ faith in
these apparitions, and his respect for the decisions he believes them
capable of rendering.”
“You see now,” said she, “that this is the only means of subduing his
rigor towards the poor d’Aillanes; I told you so, and I repeat it, and
you will not lend yourself to it, when the opportunity is so fine. Since
he is so anxious to receive the green ladies’ revelations perhaps he
will not go so far as to ask you for your word of honor.”
“It seems to me, on the contrary, that I must seriously assume the role
of imposter, since M. d’Ionis demands the assertion of a person ‘_worthy
of belief_.’”
“And then you fear the ridicule, the blame, the jests that you would not
fail to meet with; but I could answer for M. d’Ionis’ absolute silence
so far as that is concerned.”
“No, madame, no! I would fear neither ridicule nor blame, as long as it
was a question of obedience to your wishes. But you would despise me if
I merited this blame by a false oath. Besides, why not try to induce the
d’Aillanes to consent to a compromise conveying honorable conditions to
themselves?”
“You know perfectly well that those M. d’Ionis proposes are not
honorable.”
“You have then no hope of modifying his intentions?”
She shook her head and was silent. This gesture was an eloquent
explanation of the kind of man her husband was, a creature without heart
or principle, indifferent to such an array of charms, and given over to
excesses.
“Still,” replied I, “he authorizes you to be generous after victory.”
“And what does he take them for?” cried she, crimsoning with anger. “He
forgets that the d’Aillanes are the soul of honor, and will never
receive as a favor or benefit, what justice causes them to regard as the
legal property of their family.”
I was struck with the energy she infused into this reply.
“Are you then so intimate with the d’Aillanes?” I asked. “I was not
aware of it.”
She blushed again and answered in the negative.
“I have never had much to do with them,” said she; “but they are nearly
enough related to me for our honor to be identical. I am quite sure that
it was my uncle’s wish to leave them his fortune, and still more as M.
d’Ionis having married me for what is termed _mes beaux yeux_, did not
at that time have the countenance to look up a fortune for me by means
of breaking this will, through some legal defect.” Then she added:
“Are you not acquainted with any of the d’Aillanes?”
“I have seen the father quite often, the children never, the son is an
officer in a garrison somewhere or other.”
“At Tours,” said she quickly. Then she added, still more hastily:
“At least I think so.”
“They say he is a very fine fellow!”
“I am told so, but I have not seen him since he has grown up.”
This answer reassured me. For an instant it had occurred to me that the
disinterested magnanimous motives of Madame d’Ionis might be
attributable to a passion that she entertained for her cousin d’Aillane.
“His sister is charming,” said she; “Have you never seen her?”
“Never, isn’t she still in the convent?”
“Yes, at Angers, they say she is an angel. Will you not be proud when
you have succeeded in plunging a daughter of a good house into misery?
One who counted rightfully, upon an honorable marriage and a life
agreeable to her rank and education? This is what troubles her poor
father more than anything else. But come, tell me your expedients, for
you have sought and found some, have you not?”
“Yes,” I replied, after having reflected as well as one can reflect in a
fever. “I have found a solution.”