I have again adopted the European costume, which I had so indolently
cast aside, and have been on board of the _Alexina_, to pay a visit to
M. and Madame de Fersen.
Madame de Fersen is not so young as I at first thought her to be. She
must be about thirty or thirty-three.
Her hair is very black, her eyes very blue, her complexion is fair, and
her hands and feet are beautiful. She has an expressive face, and seems
witty, though not malicious. What appears to be her predominant trait,
is to discuss, understandingly, European politics.
I cannot say how far her pretensions on this subject are justified, for
I am quite ignorant of all these questions. I stated this fact to Madame
de Fersen, who laughed at me, and evidently did not believe a word that
I said.
M. de Fersen is a very intelligent, agreeable, and cultivated man. By
way of relaxation, and as a change from his diplomatic duties, he has
given himself up to the study of light French literature, which taste he
shares with the dean of European diplomats, Prince Metternich.
I was astonished at M. de Fersen's memory, when he quoted, with the
fidelity of a catalogue, the titles of long-forgotten vaudevilles, and
recited passages from them; for he also delighted in acting comedy.
Unfortunately, I am as little versed in vaudevilles as in politics, and
could therefore not fully appreciate M. de Fersen's learning in this
specialty.
The prince only expressed one wish: it was to get to Paris as soon as
possible, in order to see the great actors of the minor theatres, who
were at once his heroes and his rivals.
M. and Madame de Fersen are exceptionally well bred, and seem to have
been born to fill the high position they hold in society.
To much native dignity, they unite that charming affability and
cordiality that are often found in distinguished members of the Russian
aristocracy; for in such alone can we now find the sprightly elegance of
the _Ancien Régime._
I went on board the frigate to-day, and spent a delightful evening.
There were only five of us: Madame de Fersen and her husband, the
captain of the _Alexina_, a distinguished young officer, Du Pluvier, and
I.
Du Pluvier had been attaché to the French legation in Constantinople,
but had soon become tired of his duties there, and had asked to be
recalled. He had profited by the visit of the Russian frigate to return
to Toulon.
It is so long since I have seen anything of society, that my visit had
all the attraction of novelty.
I made quite a study of Madame de Fersen, who sketched for me several
portraits, among them that of the British minister at Constantinople,
with a wit and power of description quite remarkable.
I have never met the honourable Sir ----, but his portrait is now for
ever imprinted on my memory.
I have always supposed that nothing could be more insupportable than a
woman who liked to talk politics. I have almost changed my mind since
listening to Madame de Fersen.
There is nothing vague or nebulous about her way of talking; she
sometimes explains events of serious importance by the human passions
that give rise to them, and by showing what private interests they
conflict with; thus going from effect to cause, from the infinitely
great to the infinitely small, she reaches very piquant and unexpected
conclusions.
Her theories suit me so well that I undoubtedly look on them with great
partiality; however, I think that I am safe in claiming for Madame de
Fersen a distinguished position among eminently clever women.
The prince having been entrusted with numerous missions to the different
European powers, his wife had naturally been intimately acquainted with
the most distinguished persons of each nation; nothing could be more
amusing than her conversation, as she passed in review these well-known
personages, and told the wittiest things about them.
Her dress was beautiful, and I was quite sure it was French, for such
toilets can only come from Paris.
It was with real delight that I noticed the long tresses of her black
hair, half hidden under a blonde lace barbe, in which she had fastened a
spray of geranium blossoms. She wore a robe of white India muslin,
adorably fresh and delicate, and her little feet were encased in black
satin slippers.
It was all so fresh and simple and new to me, that the bright coloured
yellaks and embroidered fezzes of the Grecian girls seemed horribly
crude and vulgar, and their gold and silver made me think of the tinsel
dresses of rope-dancers.
I know not whether to rejoice or be alarmed at what has happened.
I have been seized with a sudden disgust at the life I have been leading
here for the last year.
When I compare my gross pleasures and solitary reveries to the
conversation I have just had with that young, beautiful, and intelligent
woman, to such an exchanging of pleasant and clever thoughts, to the
necessity of disguising whatever would be a shock to refined feelings;
when I compare my indolent life of a satrap, who gives orders and is
obeyed, to the charming necessity of pleasing, to that choice language
and manner that a woman like Madame de Fersen imposes on you, even
though you are but a mere acquaintance.
When I compare the present with the past, I am astonished that I could
have lived so long in such a way.
I have, however, lived for eighteen happy months at Khios. If the future
shows itself under a more seductive form, I must not condemn the happy
days that I may live to regret.
I am terribly perplexed. What shall I do?
If I remain here regretfully, if my future life in Khios becomes
wearisome, it were better to leave the island at once. M. de Fersen has
kindly invited me to go with him back to France.
I know not what to do. I must wait; besides, Du Pluvier is to breakfast
with me to-morrow. I will make him talk about Madame de Fersen.
CHAPTER XI
THE DEPARTURE
ON BOARD THE FRIGATE ALEXINA.
October, 18--.
It is all over. I have left the island.
Yesterday morning Du Pluvier came to breakfast with me.
He seemed singularly preoccupied.
"My friend," said he, "you live here the life of a veritable pasha,--a
sybarite, a true odalisk. On my word of honour, it is charming; neither
I nor the princess can understand it."
"How so?"
"_Parbleu!_ She and the prince make wild suppositions as to the reasons
which prompted you to lead such a life. The princess particularly seems
puzzled; but as I know nothing, I can tell her nothing."
"My dear Du Pluvier, tell me, have you seen much of M. and Madame de
Fersen during your sojourn in Constantinople?"
"Very often, nearly every day; the Russian embassy was one of the most
agreeable houses of the Christian quarter. Little comedies were given
there twice a week, and my duties prevented my skipping a single
rehearsal."
"Your duties?"
"Yes, I was under-prompter,--our first secretary was naturally
prompter-in-chief."
"Oh, without doubt. But what was said of Madame de Fersen at
Constantinople?"
"A proud woman,--a second Joan d'Arc. She ruled the embassy with a rod
of steel,--she did everything. They say she even carried on a direct
correspondence with the Czar, and during that time the excellent prince
was acting one of Potier's rôles. In such a capacity he is perfection
personified! I have seen him act 'Les Frères Féroces,' and thought I
should die with laughter!"
"And did Madame de Fersen also act?"
"Not a bit of it; she had other things to do, _ma foi!_ Believe me or
not, just as you wish, but I have never heard a single evil word said
against her."
"No doubt she was entirely taken up with politics?"
"She thought of nothing else; which fact did not prevent her from being
gay and agreeable, as you noticed, no doubt. But as to her heart,--it is
a protocol lacking a signature."
"Always witty," said I to Du Pluvier, who was laughing at his own joke.
"But what makes you think Madame de Fersen so cold-hearted?"
"_Parbleu!_ the complaints of those whom she has repulsed; firstly,
Villeblanche, our first secretary, the prompter-in-chief. You remember
Villeblanche? Well, he wasted his time like all the others, and if any
one could have succeeded, most assuredly that man was Villeblanche."
"Who is Villeblanche?"
"Villeblanche is--well, just Villeblanche, _le beau_ Villeblanche--
_Parbleu!_ of course you know Villeblanche, you know him well."
"But I don't know him at all, I tell you."
"Is it possible you are not acquainted with _le beau_ Villeblanche? The
soul of our diplomatic corps! A fellow of many resources, to whom the
foreign office owes the invention of double seals called 'à la
Villeblanche.' How does it happen that you have never met him?"
"It is a great pity, but some persons, are very ignorant."
"It was at the Congress of Verona that Villeblanche's diplomatic career
was assured, for then it was that he rendered the government such a
service as only he could render."
"But I thought that France's greatest man, who was entrusted to
represent her at that congress, was the only one to whom the treaty was
due?"
"Who? Châteaubriand?"
"Yes, Châteaubriand."
"I do not wish to lessen his glory, but if it was he who did the
thinking, it was Villeblanche who accomplished the work, and
Châteaubriand, with all his genius, could never have done what
Villeblanche did; after all, one should judge according to actions, not
according to words."
"Besides which?"
"In truth, I cannot understand how it happens that you do not know. It
is universal, it is European! Well, know then that, during the congress,
Villeblanche, entrusted with the most important despatches, travelled
first from Verona to Paris, from Paris to Madrid, where he stayed one
hour; then from Madrid he came back to Paris, and left there immediately
for St. Petersburg. Nor is this all. From St. Petersburg he returned to
Verona, and left there like a flash of lightning for Madrid by way of
Paris. This is a mere nothing. From Madrid he again returned to Verona
by way of Paris, and finally he returned to Paris, passing through
Vienna and Berlin on his way. How is that, my friend?"
"But your diplomat's book of services must be a regular posting book,"
said I.
"And to think," said Du Pluvier, with admiration, "to think that
Villeblanche has never stopped in any European capital except just the
time that was necessary to deliver and receive his despatches,--and yet,
whenever he got down from his carriage he was charming, as well dressed
as though he had just been taken out of a box! That is what not one of
his colleagues can ever understand," added Du Pluvier, with a mysterious
air. "For two months to live in a travelling carriage without getting
out of one's harness,--it is wearisome, fatiguing to the last degree,
while this devilish Villeblanche always managed to look fresh as a rose.
It is stupefying! Besides, it has made him no end of enemies, jealous,
perhaps, for they now talk of sending him as minister to some German
court."
"I am quite of your opinion; Châteaubriand, with all his genius, could
never have done all that, but, fortunately for our diplomacy, there are
numerous Villeblanches. By the way, how could Madame de Fersen remain
insensible to such merits? She was doubtless afraid that, from mere
habit, the handsome diplomat would ask her to go too far!"
I only permitted myself this piece of pleasantry out of a feeling of
hospitality, and I was rewarded for the sacrifice by hearing Du Pluvier
break out in such a fit of laughing that the dogs barked and the parrots
began their screaming.
When all was quiet again, he continued, "Yes, my dear Arthur, Madame de
Fersen resisted Villeblanche and all the fine flowers of foreign
diplomacy in Constantinople. That is sufficient, is it not, alas! to
show that her virtue is not to be corrupted?" he added, with a deep
sigh.
"Wherefore such a sigh?"
"It is because Madame de Fersen's virtue is like all the other colossal
virtues that I have been shipwrecked on since ever I came into the
world. It is frightful to think how virtuous women can be!" said Du
Pluvier, in a very discouraged way. "And yet, to hear some fellows talk,
you would suppose one only had to choose."
"Admitting," said I to Du Pluvier, to console him a little,--"admitting
that those fellows are not liars, but simply indiscreet, is it not
better to do like you, and inspire a woman with an exalted idea of her
duty, to make her fond of her husband, no matter how ugly or
disagreeable he may be, than to inspire her with the guilty desire of
disturbing the peace of her family? For, my dear friend, your rôle is
much superior to that of a seducer, it being so much more difficult to
do good than to do evil."
"You are quite right; I tell myself so frequently," said Du Pluvier; "it
is much more moral, but I swear it becomes tiresome at last. I entered
the diplomatic corps in order to be successful in society. Well, it has
done nothing of the kind."
"I have felt just the same way, seeing, with horror, that people were
growing more and more high-principled; and wishing to respect social
laws, I sought a more primitive place, and established myself here,
where certain principles and social laws are no more spoken of than in
Otähiti."
"That is what I thought," said Du Pluvier, with a meditative air. "Since
seeing you so well established, I have had an idea. I said to myself,
'What am I to do in the future? If I return to Paris, I certainly will
not find things any more amusing than formerly. I am as free as air.
There is that dear Arthur, living all alone on his island like Robinson
Crusoe. A companion is always agreeable, even necessary, for one might
fall ill. Very well, then, as I am so fond of this dear Arthur, let me
show my friendship for him. If he is Robinson, let me become his Friday.
Stay with him six months,--a year,--ten years,--or as long as he remains
on his island, and live there, _pardieu!_ like a pair of sultans.'
There, my friend, these are the results of my last night's reflections.
What do you think of them? You see the night brings counsel. I will
become your Friday!"
I was terrified, for I had never dreamed of such a thing as this.
I said nothing, though, for fear of making things worse by contradicting
him. I pretended at first to be charmed with his plan, then I began to
throw every kind of difficulty in his way.
I spoke of a threatened raid by the Turks,--he feared nothing, for he
knew I was brave as a lion.
I exaggerated the expenses of my establishment that he wished to
share,--he had just come into a large inheritance from an uncle at
Saintonge.
He pressed me so hard that I had to avow my passion for solitude, saying
that it had now become a perfect monomania, and that sometimes, for
whole weeks and months, I could scarcely endure the sight of any
one,--he said he would vanish like a sprite (what a sprite!) until my
fit of loneliness was over.
At last, as a final argument, I said it would be impossible for me, from
certain reasons, to give him a lodging in the Carina Palace,--he said he
could easily find some villa in the neighbourhood, having decided to
live in Turkish fashion, and never to leave me.
The situation was becoming extremely serious.
Du Pluvier, like all obstinate and narrow-minded persons, might persist
in doing as he said, and then my sojourn on the island would be
unbearable.
This thought, added to the singular revulsion of feeling that Madame de
Fersen had produced in me, made me seriously think of abandoning Khios.
Perhaps, had it not been for this strange caprice of Du Pluvier's, I
might have hesitated to take this step. Perhaps I might have struggled
against this desire of reëntering society.
But, placed between the alternatives of returning to France with Madame
de Fersen, who was charming, or of remaining in Khios with my slaves,
that were beginning to be hateful to me, and sharing my solitude with Du
Pluvier, I had no hesitation in leaving the island.
I have always come to grave decisions with promptness.
As Du Pluvier continued to insist, I told him that I had not yet given
him my real reason for declining his offer, but that, since he forced me
to it, I must tell him that I was obliged to return to France.
"Leave your beautiful palace,--those adorable women,--that light your
pipe, and pour out your wine,--who dance for you as though you were at
the Opéra,--real houris! It is impossible!"
"Unfortunately, my dear Du Pluvier, there are some confessions that are
hard to make even to a friend, but to tell the truth, I have sustained
losses, and my diminished fortune obliges me to return to France, and
live less like a sultan."
"Really, really, my dear count," said Du Pluvier, who seemed sincerely
grieved, "you can't tell how sad that makes me. But what are you going
to do with all this establishment?"
"I am going to free the women, the birds, the dogs, and the dwarfs, pay
an indemnity to the Marquis Justiniani, and sell all the furniture in
Khios."
"You have decided to do that?"
"Quite decided."
"Positively?"
"Yes, yes, yes,--a hundred times yes."
"Then, my dear Arthur, you will not reproach me if I profit by your
decision?"
"How can that be? What do you mean?"
"This is my scheme. The life you are living in this earthly paradise has
turned my head. Will you sell me all of these treasures,--palace, women,
dogs, dwarfs, and parrots?"
I thought that he was joking, and looked at him incredulously.
"Is it a bargain? You will lose less than in selling everything
piecemeal," said he, with a resolute air. "But what do you ask for the
slaves and the furniture?"
"It is useless for you to ask the price of the slaves, for I will only
leave them with you on condition that when you leave the island you will
set them free."
"But how do you expect to get back to France?"
"I shall ask M. de Fersen to allow me to take your place on the
frigate."
"But the ship is to sail to-day."
"What difference does that make? If you are quite decided, I can leave
to-day."
"I am perfectly decided. Shake hands, my dear Arthur; I only need the
time it will take me to go on board and get my baggage."
"Then it is agreed."
And Du Pluvier left me.
This sudden resolution of his did not greatly astonish me. Du Pluvier
was one of those essentially imitative natures, who, never having any
ideas of their own, are always ready to appropriate those of others, and
disport in them, whether suitable or not. Like those persons who wear a
costume without stopping to see if it fits them, Du Pluvier had
doubtless been struck by the eccentricity of my existence, and thought
himself very original in adopting it.
No doubt the passengers on the frigate had spoken of my strange conduct,
and had either praised, blamed, or exaggerated the singular disposition
of a man of the world that could bring him to desire to lead such a
life; but, as they probably had, in spite of blame or praise, thought it
was quite out of the ordinary course, Du Pluvier thought he would
distinguish himself from the vulgar by taking my place. Perhaps the idea
of such a sensual life was seductive.
I got ready to leave the island. For a moment I admit that I was vaguely
sad; I was leaving the certain for the uncertain. This material
existence that I was beginning to despise had its disenchantments; but
nothing is perfect in this world. The most ideal and spiritualised life,
is it not also sometimes a disappointment?
But how could I hesitate when I thought of living with Du Pluvier?
Before leaving, I wished to assure myself of the future welfare of my
slaves. I sent for them, and presented them each with eight hundred
francs, which was a considerable sum for them; but they received it with
perfect indifference.
Then I sent for the renegade of Khios, who attended to the affairs of
the Marquis Justiniani, and told him that I left Du Pluvier in my stead
as tenant of the palace and master of the slaves. I warned him to say no
word about it until the frigate had weighed anchor.
Du Pluvier returned in ecstasy. He begged me to leave him my Albanian
costumes, as he wished to install himself immediately, and had not time
to buy himself a costume.
I consented and even helped him to dress. He was perfectly ridiculous
thus rigged up.
He asked me, then, to present him to the slave girls as their future
master.
I took care to do nothing of the kind, being conceited enough to believe
that there would be another revolt among the good creatures, if they
thought I was about to abandon them.
I told them, on the contrary, that I was going again on board the ship
as I had several times gone before, and that they must try and amuse my
friend during my absence.
Noémi looked at Du Pluvier with a deceitful smile, Daphné looked
disgusted, and Anathasia began to pout.
Having my misgivings on the future harmony in which the girls were to
live with Du Pluvier, I shook his hand, and, quite overcome by my
feelings, left the palace.
The ship's boat was waiting at the wharf, and I was soon on board.
M. de Fersen was very gracious and obliging to me, and the Russian
captain granted me my passage with the greatest hospitality.
Two hours after leaving the palace we were under way.
Du Pluvier's decision was the subject of our pleasantries for quite a
long time.
After tacking a few times, we arrived opposite the Carina Palace, which
was half-way up the hillside; a portion of the park extended down to the
waterside.
With a field-glass I gazed sadly on this beautiful spot, that I was
about to leave for ever, when a strange sight attracted my attention.
No doubt the renegade had told of my departure, and they had seen the
frigate sailing away, for I saw the slaves, rush suddenly down the bank,
and over the lawn, and assemble on the beach, where they stretched out
their arms towards the frigate in attitudes of despair.
Then, seeing that the ship was going farther and farther away, Noémi
tore off her fez in a rage, threw it on the ground, and stamped on it
with both feet; soon her thick black hair was flying in the wind. She
looked like a beautiful fury.
Daphné, who perhaps had not yet given up all hope, waved her silken
scarf by way of a signal.
Anathasia, the blonde, was kneeling on the beach.
Soon I beheld Du Pluvier, very much at his ease in my Albanian costume,
rush down to the beach, followed by the old Cypriote and the two dwarfs,
who were indulging in a thousand capers.
Doubtless the new sultan was inviting his odalisks to return to their
seraglio.
But unfortunately the odalisks were not very obedient, and the sultan
was not very persuasive, for after some exchange of words, with the old
Cypriote as an interpreter, all the women fell like so many furies on Du
Pluvier, who was lost to sight amid their raised and threatening arms.
I never saw the end of this entertaining sight, for the vessel rounded a
promontory which completely hid the palace from our sight.
Half an hour afterwards the captain said to me:
"I would like to know the meaning of that thick smoke that is going up
from the upper part of Khios, in the direction of the villa you lived
in."
Noémi's threat to burn the palace if I abandoned her flashed through my
mind.
Had these furious maidens carried her project to its execution? What had
become of Du Pluvier? Had he perished in the flames entwined in the arms
of his slaves? I could not answer the question, and we very soon were
out of sight of the island, and in a terrible state of anxiety as to the
fate of poor Du Pluvier.
THE PRINCESSE DE FERSEN
CHAPTER XII
THE ALEXINA
Such were the impressions left upon me by a year's sojourn in the island
of Khios, such the motives of my abrupt departure for France on board
the Russian frigate _Alexina._
Having introduced in its proper place this fragment of my journal of
former days, I resume my narrative.
I find myself in a state of mind eminently suitable to take up this
narrative and follow up the incidents, be they gay or sad, pathetic or
tragic.
The last and violent emotions that I have felt since my journey to the
East, up to this moment when I am writing these lines, have so worn out
my heart, I find myself so indifferent to the future and the past, that
I can relate this new episode of my life with the most profound
detachment, as if it in no way concerned me.
The reading of these pages, dated from the island of Khios, and written
in the East three years ago, has still further increased my indifference
to all that relates to myself.
When I once again return to calmness and reason, I find myself so
unquiet, so restless, so frenzied, so little made for the happiness
which fate seemed to bestow on me (perhaps for the very reason that I
never would profit by it), that I judge myself with an extreme and
perhaps unjust severity.
From the point of view in which I have placed myself, having but little
self-esteem, being prejudiced against myself, deficient in pride and
self-conceit, I exaggerate still more my defects, and the absence of
vanity in my character often prevents my esteeming at their full value
some truly generous actions of which I might be justly proud.
Hence, I believe if these pages were ever made known (which never can
happen, as I shall take good care to prevent it), they would give a very
poor opinion of my character.
And yet, would many have acted as I have?
If formerly I attributed to Hélène the most hateful duplicity, have I
not in my despair attempted everything, done everything, to repair my
fault? Had she been willing to accept my hand, would I not have given up
to her my fortune? And later, when I became aware that Frank was poor,
did I not come to his assistance as delicately as I could?
If I have been unjustly cruel towards Marguerite, at least I had for a
long time courageously defended her against the calumnies of the world,
even before I was known to her.
And that duel,--that fierce duel of which she has ever been ignorant?[5]
If, led astray by an attack of incurable frenzy, I outrageously insulted
Falmouth, had I not saved his life at the risk of mine?
The good I have done certainly does not acquit me of the evil imputed to
me, but is it not dreadful to think that all that was worthy and noble
in my conduct will ever vanish under the flood of bitterness and hate to
which my distrust gave birth?
But after all, what matter is the past now to me! These lines are
written that I may once more see the events of my life roll by before my
eyes; that they may shorten the long and weary hours of solitude in
which I live at present at Serval, in the old and gloomy ancestral
castle so long abandoned by me.
We therefore left the island of Khios in perfect ignorance as to the
fate of Du Pluvier.
Although we entered the equinox, the crossing was fine, though
frequently delayed by contrary winds.
The Russian sailors appeared to me quite different from the English.
These are submissive to the hardships of the most despotic military
discipline; they are, by nature and custom, full of deference for the
officers belonging to the highest aristocracy, officers of whom they are
above all proud, just as negroes pride themselves in belonging to a
white master rather than to a mulatto. Everything in them, however,
reveals that unconquerable national pride, that insolent British
arrogance, which renders the English sailor one of the best sailors in
the world, because he is always driven or sustained by an exaggerated
sentiment of his own value, and by his profound faith in the superiority
of his own country over all other maritime nations.
Now, however deluded they may be, fanaticism and faith always work
prodigies.
The Russian sailors, on the contrary, displayed a passive, almost
religious, obedience, a blind resignation, a mechanical submission to
the will of their superiors, in whom they almost appeared to acknowledge
a nature superior to their own. One felt, indeed, that a word, a sign,
from these officers might elevate the resignation and intrepid devotion
of the Russian sailors, even to the heroism of personal self-sacrifice.
Strange difference between the character of these two people and that of
the French,--of the French, sometimes strictly obedient, but never
respectful, gaily obeying superiors, of whom they make fun, or bravely
dying for causes which they revile!
I was led to these various reflections by observing the calm customs,
almost cloister-like, prevailing on board the Russian frigate, which,
after a few days, caused a very strange reaction upon us passengers.
Nothing, in fact, was more singular than the appearance of this vessel;
it was silence amidst the solitude of the waters. Except the orders of
the officers, not a word was ever heard. Mute and attentive, the crew
answered to the orders of the officers only by the noise of the
manœuvres, which were executed with mechanical precision.
At sundown, the chaplain read prayers, all the sailors humbly kneeling,
after which they descended into the forecastle.
But everywhere and always, an inexorable silence. If they were whipped
for some fault, never a cry; if they rested from their labours, never a
song.
The captain and his lieutenant, at whose table M. and Madame Fersen, as
well as I, sat, were well-bred men, and excellent sailors, but their
minds were not remarkably cultivated.
M. de Fersen read almost incessantly from a collection of French
dramatic works.
Madame de Fersen and I, therefore, were left almost isolated in the
midst of this little colony; neither men, things, nor events could
distract us from our individual preoccupations.
In the midst of this profound calm, this seclusion, this silence, the
slightest fancies became firmly impressed on the frame of so simple a
life; in a word, if one may so express it, never was canvas more evenly
prepared to receive the impressions of the painter, however varied,
however eccentric, they might be.
At noon we assembled for breakfast, followed by a walk on deck; then M.
de Fersen returned to the reading of his beloved plays, and the officers
to their nautical observations.
Madame de Fersen usually occupied the saloon of the frigate; thus every
day I chatted with her with scarcely any interruption from two o'clock
until the approach of the dinner-hour caused her to withdraw and make a
fresh, and always charming, toilet.
After dinner, when the weather permitted, coffee was served on deck.
Once more we took a walk, and about nine o'clock we again assembled in
the saloon.
Madame de Fersen was an excellent musician, and would often seat herself
at the piano, to the great delight of the prince, who then begged her to
accompany him in some vaudeville airs, which he sang remarkably well. At
other times, one of the officers of the frigate, who had a pleasant
voice, sang some quaint and very agreeable Russian songs.
With music and conversation, in which M. de Fersen took an active part,
and which he enlivened with sparkling and refined gaiety, the evening
passed agreeably until eleven o'clock, at which hour tea was served,
after which each one retired as he felt disposed.
It may be seen that, apart from the limit of the walks, we led the life
of a château, the most intimate and the most secluded.
On the third day after our departure from Khios, an incident occurred,
very slight, apparently, but which had, which was bound to have, a very
strange influence on my destiny.
Madame de Fersen had a little daughter called Irene, towards whom she
displayed a fondness almost approaching idolatry. It was impossible to
dream of anything more perfect, more ideal, than this child.
She was of a severe and stately beauty. Many mothers would have
preferred for their daughters a more childish and smiling face. I must
acknowledge I myself could not avoid, at times, a feeling of sadness,
while gazing on this adorable countenance, expressive of an indefinable
melancholy, incomprehensible at so tender an age.
Irene's brow was broad, her complexion bore a healthy pallor, and her
rounded checks denoted robust health. Her dark brown hair, very
abundant, fine, and silky, curled naturally about her neck; her large
eyes, of a liquid and velvety black, had a remarkably deep look, more
especially when, with that faculty natural to children, she would gaze
at you fixedly, without lowering the dark fringes of her eyelids. Her
nose was slender and beautiful, her mouth small and coral red, and her
lower lip slightly pouting and disdainful, if disdain had not seemed
incompatible with her youth. Her form, her hands, and her feet were of a
rare perfection.
Irene, by a touching superstition of her mother's, after a long illness,
had been dedicated to wear only white; the almost religious simplicity
of this garb gave marked individuality to her appearance.
As I have already stated, it was the third day of our departure from
Khios.
Irene, who until then had appeared to observe me with a kind of restless
mistrust, and who by degrees had become more friendly, came resolutely
towards me and said, with childish solemnity:
"Look at me, that I may see whether I am going to love you."
Then after having fixed upon me one of those long, piercing glances of
which I have spoken, and which compelled me to lower my eyes, Irene
continued:
"Yes, I shall love you very much." And after a renewed silence, she
turned to Madame de Fersen, saying:
"Yes, my dear mother, I shall love him very much. I shall love him as I
loved Ivan!"
In saying these words, her childish face assumed such a fascinating
expression of gravity that I could not avoid smiling.
But my astonishment was great when I saw Madame de Fersen look with
amazement, first at Irene, and then at me, as if she attached a great
importance to what her little girl had just said to me.
"Although I have nothing now to envy the happy Ivan, this is a
declaration, madame, which I much fear will be forgotten ten years
hence," said I to the princess.
"Forgotten! Irene forgets nothing. See her tears at the remembrance of
Ivan."
In fact two large pearls were rolling down the child's cheeks, while she
continued to fix upon me a glance at once sweet, sad, and questioning.
"But who, then, was Ivan?"
Madame de Fersen's features darkened, and she answered me, with a sigh:
"Ivan was one of our relatives who died quite young,"--she hesitated a
moment,--"died a violent and frightful death two years ago. Irene had
become so attached to him that I was almost jealous. I can hardly tell
you of the incredible grief of this child when she no longer saw Ivan,
for whom she asked incessantly. She was then four years old, and so deep
was her sorrow that she fell seriously ill, and came nigh unto death. At
this time it was that I dedicated her to the wearing of white, and
implored God to spare her to me. But what astonishes me exceedingly, is
that, for the past two years, you are the only person to whom Irene has
said that she would love him."
Irene, who had listened to her mother with all attention, now took my
hand, and, with an almost inspired air, she raised to heaven her eyes
still wet with tears, and said:
"Yes, I shall love him like Ivan, for soon he will go up there, like
Ivan."
"Irene, my child, what are you saying? Ah, pardon her, monsieur!" cried
Madame de Fersen, almost with terror, looking at me with an imploring
glance.
"Were I even to purchase it with the same end as poor Ivan," said I,
smiling, "allow me, madame, the enjoyment of so touching an affection."
I am neither weak nor superstitious, but I can hardly describe the
strange impression produced upon me by this childish speech which I will
explain presently. There is no half-way. Such incidents are either of
the utmost absurdity, or they act powerfully on certain minds.
By a happy chance, M. de Fersen came in at this moment to beg his wife
to accompany him in a vaudeville song, and thus a strange scene came to
an end.
I noticed that Madame de Fersen did not mention to her husband the
strange declaration that Irene had made me.
That day, after dinner, the princess complained of a bad headache, and
retired to her room.
[Footnote 5: Here some lines were erased in the "Journal of an Unknown."
The narrative of this duel not being found in the episode of Madame de
Pënâfiel, and Arthur again alluding to it at the time of the pirate's
fight against the yacht, it is probable that this omission was the
result of an involuntary or premeditated forgetfulness.--_Note by the
Author, E. S._]
CHAPTER XIII
THE PRINCESSE DE FERSEN
The next morning Madame de Fersen did not appear at breakfast. She was
not well, the prince said, and had spent a restless night. Then,
abruptly, to my great astonishment, he spoke to me most freely and
confidentially, regarding the character, the mind, the habits of his
wife, and the life led by her, perhaps to warn me of the futility of my
aspirations, in the event of my having dreamed of paying my court to
Madame de Fersen. I can in no other way explain his incomprehensible
whim in entering upon such details with me.
The following is the substance of what I learned from M. de Fersen about
his wife.
Mlle. Catherine Metriska, daughter of Count Metriska, governor of one of
the Asiatic provinces of the Russian Empire, was seventeen years of age
when she married M. de Fersen. She possessed a naturally fine mind, and
a highly cultivated education developed an intellect precociously
mature. At the time of the marriage, the prince was ambassador at
Vienna.
At first he feared for the inexperience of his wife, burdened at so
early an age with all the responsibilities devolving upon the
ambassadress of so great a power at a court so austere, so solemn, and
so imposing in its etiquette as the Austrian court. But Madame de
Fersen, wonderfully gifted, satisfied every demand of her position,
thanks to the exquisite tact, to the delicate shading, to the perfect
balance, she was able to bring in so difficult an intercourse.
"Quite young, full of grace and wit," said the prince, "you may well
imagine that Madame de Fersen was at once surrounded by the cream of
foreigners arriving at the court of Vienna.
"A husband should no more speak of his wife's virtue, than a man should
boast of the nobility of his race," added the prince smiling, "yet I can
say I believe, nay, I know, that Cæsar's wife has never been suspected,
though Cæsar was fifty years of age. I had married less perhaps for
love, though Catherine was charming, than because there are certain
embassies which are not entrusted to bachelors, and because in my
position I wished to have near me a frank and disinterested person, upon
whom I could try the effect of certain combinations, something, save the
ferocity of the combination," said the prince, laughing, "as some Roman
patricians tried the effect of certain poisons on their slaves.
Experience has proved to me that extreme purity was often harder to be
deceived than extreme craft, just as children almost always guess
intuitively the snares set for them. Hence, when I see Catherine
countenancing certain projects, certain ideas, skilfully disguised it is
true, in order that her nature, sensitive, delicate, and generous, may
not be shocked, I have no fear later in putting forth this idea, that I
may irritate the susceptibility of my dear colleagues, whose conscience
is usually tolerably tough.
"Little by little," continued the prince, "Madame de Fersen became
interested in politics, for, to continue my experiences, I entrusted to
her, under various aspects, many of the questions that I must solve. Do
not believe, however, that her policy was dry and selfish. No; an
exalted love of humanity was her sole impulse. When she spoke of
European nations, she spoke as of beloved sisters, not her country's
rivals. You may think me in my dotage in speaking thus seriously of what
seems to you, doubtless, the dreams of a young and romantic woman; but,
you cannot tell of what service has been to me that turn of mind which
makes her so wonderfully enthusiastic for universal peace and happiness.
Wisdom consists, does it not, in holding to the middle way at an equal
distance from all extremes. When, therefore, I have an important
decision to make, the generous and conciliatory policy of Madame de
Fersen marks one boundary, while, on the other hand, our traditional
selfish and cunning policy gives me the other limit. I may then, without
difficulty, choose a wise and prudent middle course between these two
extremes.
"I reaped another advantage from this mental tendency of Madame de
Fersen: that of being able to affirm that Cæsar's wife has never been
suspected, for when the powers of love and devotion in a woman's heart
find a brilliant scope through her intelligence, she does not seek other
employment for them, more especially when her feminine vanity is
flattered by the influence thus acquired.
"Add to this a fact of which I should have spoken earlier, but as one of
your most celebrated women, Madame de Sévigné, has said: 'Often the
gist of a letter is to be found in its postscript.' Well, without
referring to my attachment to my wife and her affection for me, without
speaking of the puritanic severity of her principles, do you know what,
above all, has preserved her from the indiscretions of youth? Her
devoted, her passionate love for her daughter. You could not comprehend
its excess, its exaltation. Doubtless, our Irene deserves such devotion,
but I sometimes tremble when I reflect that, if an unforeseen disaster
like that which has already menaced us should bereave us of that child,
her mother would assuredly lose her reason or her life."
M. de Fersen was in the prime of life; he had an almost European
reputation as a diplomat. His appearance denoted a distinguished man,
called by his superior gifts to the exercise of those high functions
which he had always filled; I could not but be astonished at the
confidence reposed in one so young and so complete a stranger to him.
As I could not suspect that a man long accustomed to handle public
affairs of the most difficult and serious character would act without
reflection on matters which interested him personally, I concluded that
M. de Fersen's discourse held a hidden purpose, and that it was not
without design that he had laid aside the reserve imposed by our age and
position.
I repeat, I could see in this eccentric confidence no other aim than to
prove to me that Madame de Fersen was unapproachable.
On the other hand, I had been disagreeably impressed when the prince
spoke of his wife as of an instrument necessary to his diplomatic
career. When he spoke of her, I had detected the most absolute
heartlessness, and in his daily intercourse with Madame de Fersen, not
only he showed no jealousy,--he was too much a man of the world to
become ridiculous,--but he appeared even indifferent.
I asked myself, then, what object he could have in confiding to me that
which I have just related.
I was thus plunged in an extreme perplexity.
CHAPTER XIV
THE TRADITION
I had not seen Madame de Fersen from the time that Irene had made the
strange prediction which had seemed to alarm her mother so greatly.
The uncommon affection shown to me by this child astonished me very
much. As soon as she was alone, she would come close to me. If I were
reading in the saloon, fearing doubtless to be troublesome, she would
sit on a cushion, resting her chin on her little hands, and I could not
raise my eyes without meeting her profound and solemn glance.
Sometimes I endeavoured to amuse her with childish games, but she
appeared disinclined for them, and said to me solemnly with her childish
treble: "I prefer staying here near you, and looking at you as I used to
look at Ivan."
I was formerly much more superstitious than I am now; but in thinking
over the strange fascination I seemed to have for this child, I recalled
with a certain heart pang (I must confess the weakness) a singular
Sanscrit tradition which my father had often read to me, because, he
said, he had witnessed two events which confirmed its text.
According to this tradition, "those predestined to an early and violent
death have the gift of fascinating children and lunatics."
Now, in fact, Ivan had fascinated Irene, and he died a violent death.
I also fascinated Irene, who, in total ignorance of the tradition, had
predicted for me a violent death.
This uncommon analogy was, to say the least, most extraordinary, and
sometimes forcibly preoccupied me.
Even now that time has elapsed since these occurrences, Irene's
prediction at times comes back to my mind.
This tradition had been translated by my father, and was written with
some other notes in a book containing the description of his travels in
England and the East Indies. I had brought this manuscript with me from
France, with other papers which were saved from the wreck of the yacht.
The day following the one when the princess was confined to her room by
indisposition, she came into the saloon about two o'clock; I was there
alone with her child.
Madame de Fersen's face was pale and sad.
She saluted me graciously; her smile seemed to me more than usually
friendly.
"I very much fear, monsieur, that my daughter is troublesome," said she,
seating herself and taking Irene on her lap.
"It is I, rather, madame, who may be accused of being troublesome, for
Irene has shown me several times, by the gravity of her demeanour and
speech, that she considered me too much of her age, and not enough of
mine."
"Poor child!" said Madame de Fersen, embracing her daughter. "Have you
no ill-will towards her, for her strange, her absurd prediction?"
"No, madame, for in turn I shall make a forecast, and then we shall be
quits. Mlle. Irene," said I, very seriously, taking her little hand in
mine, "I shall not tell you that you will go up there, but I promise
that ten or twelve years hence a beautiful angel will come down here
from up there expressly for you. He will be beautiful like you, good
like you, charming like you, and will lead you to a gorgeous palace, all
marble and gold, where you will live a long, long time, the happiest of
the happy with this beautiful angel, for he will love you as you love
your mother; and then, one day, this palace being no longer beautiful
enough for you, you and your angel together will fly away to go and
occupy a more beautiful one up there."
"And will you be there in that palace, with my mamma?" asked the child,
fixing her large, inquiring eyes by turns on Madame de Fersen and on me.
It was folly, but I could not help feeling delighted at the association
made by Irene in speaking of her mother and of me.
I know not whether Madame de Fersen noticed the sentiment, but she
blushed, and said to her daughter, doubtless to avoid answering her
question:
"Yes, my child, I shall be there,--at least I hope so."
"But will you be there with him?" persisted the child pointing at me
with her little finger.
Whether she was annoyed at Irene's strange insistence, or whether she
felt embarrassed, Madame de Fersen kissed her tenderly, took her in her
arms and pressed her to her heart, saying, "You are a little goose; go
to sleep, my pet."
Then with an absent air she looked through the window of the saloon,
saying, "It is a lovely day! How calm is the sea!"
"Very calm," said I, with some irritation at seeing the conversation
taking another turn.
Irene closed her eyes and seemed about to go to sleep. Her mother, with
infinite grace, caught some of her child's curls and drew them across
her eyes, saying softly with motherly fondness, "Sleep, my child, now
that I have closed your pretty curtains."
In the early phases of love, there are entrancing trifles which give
delight to sensitive souls.
It seemed to me delightful to be able to speak to Madame de Fersen in a
half whisper, under pretext of not waking the child. There was in this
apparently slight shade of difference something tender, mysterious,
veiled, which entranced me.
Irene soon closed her eyes.
"How beautiful she is!" I whispered to her mother. "How much happiness
may be read in that lovely face!"
Shall I say that I waited almost with anxiety Madame de Fersen's reply,
to know whether she also would whisper back to me?
Shall I say that I was happy, oh, so very happy to hear her reply in the
same tone?
"May you be a true prophet," she said; "may she be happy!"
"I could not tell her all I could foresee, madame, she would not have
understood; but will you permit me to tell you what I would dream for
her?"
"Certainly."
"Well, then, madame, let us not speak of the happiness which is assured
to her so long as she lives by your side; that would be too easy a
prophecy. Let us speak of the moment so cruel to a mother's heart, when
she must abandon her idolised child to the care of an unknown family, of
an unknown man. Poor mother! she can scarcely believe it. Her daughter,
so timid, so retiring, so sensitive a nature, that to her mother alone
she spoke without blushing, and with joyous assurance! Her
daughter,--whom she has never left by day or by night! Her
daughter,--her pride, her care, her solicitude, and her glory! Her
daughter,--that angel of grace and candour, whom she alone can
understand, whose joys and sorrows, susceptibility and diffidence she
alone can divine! She is now in the power of a stranger, one who has
ingratiated himself solely by coming daily for two months under the eyes
of her parents to talk to her of conventional trifles, or, perhaps, of
the duty that a wife owes her husband. They are now united; and here,
madame, I spare you the horribly vulgar and suggestive pageantry with
which we lead a young girl to the altar, under the eyes of an unblushing
crowd, with great parade, in the glare of daylight, and with the blare
of music and of pomp. In Otähiti they act with more modesty, or at
least with more reserve. At length, after the ceremony, this man carries
off his prey to his home, saying, 'Follow me, wife!' Well, madame,
should my predictions be realised, he who before God and before men
would have the right to say so harshly to your daughter, 'Wife, follow
me!' should rather say to her, in a soft, timid, supplicating voice,
'Come, my betrothed!'"
Madame de Fersen looked at me with astonishment.
"Yes, madame, above all, that man will respect with pious adoration,
with religious veneration, the chastely sublime terror of the maiden,
torn from her mother's arms, from her virgin couch, to be thrown
suddenly in a strange household. That deep and instinctive fear, that
sorrowful regret which his wife feels, he will calm by degrees, with
charming attention, with simple kindness, which will tame that poor
shrinking heart. He will know how to make himself beloved as the best of
brothers, in the hope of being some day the happiest of lovers."
"What a pity that dream is only a charming folly!" said Madame de
Fersen, with a sigh.
"Is it not a pity? Confess that nothing would be more adorable than the
mysterious phases of such a love, exalted as hope, passionate as desire,
and yet legitimate and authorised. The day on which the young wife,
after a prolonged courtship, inspired by passion, should confirm by a
tender avowal those rights so ardently desired, which her husband would
accept solely from her,--that day would be treasured in her heart as an
entrancing and enduring memory. When she had thus freely bestowed
herself she would find later that the gallantry and temptations of the
world pale before the memory of that dazzling, ardent happiness ever
present to her mind. Such a memory would assuredly protect a woman from
all sinful allurements, which could never offer to her the ineffable
rapture which she had found in a sacred and legitimate union."
Whilst I was talking, Madame de Fersen regarded me with increasing
astonishment. At last she said:
"Do you really hold on marriage views of such excessive delicacy?"
"Assuredly, madame, or at least I borrow them for my prediction from the
man who some day shall be so fortunate as to be entrusted with your
daughter's happiness. Do you not think that a husband such as I predict
for her, handsome, young, well born, intellectual, attractive, who
should hold these opinions, do you not think that he would offer the
greatest possibilities for durable happiness? I am sure that Mlle. Irene
is endowed with all those precious gifts of the soul which can inspire
and appreciate such a love."
"Of course, it is but a beautiful dream; but I must repeat that I am
greatly astonished that you should have such dreams," she said to me,
with a slightly mocking air.
"And why, madame?"
"What! you, monsieur, who came to the Orient to seek the idealisation of
material life!"
"It is true," I murmured, gazing at her fixedly; "but I renounced that
life from the moment when chance brought to my knowledge, and gave me
the opportunity of adoring, an idealisation of its opposites, of
intellect, grace, and love."
Madame de Fersen looked at me severely.
I do not know what she was about to say, when her husband entered and
asked me if I knew an air called "Anacreon and Polycrates."
Since the day on which the avowal passed my lips, Madame de Fersen
seemed carefully to avoid remaining alone with me, although before our
travelling companions her manner was unchanged.
Thanks to the singular affection, however, with which I had inspired
Irene, the princess found it difficult to carry out her project.
Whether I appeared on deck or in the saloon, the child took me by the
hand, and led me to Madame de Fersen, saying:
"Come, I like to see you with my mother."
At first I could hardly refrain from smiling at Madame de Fersen's
vexation at being thus forced into a tête-à-tête which she desired to
avoid.
But I feared that this vexation of which I was the involuntary cause
might make her take a dislike to me, and I tried to repulse Irene's
advances. When she insisted, I refused brusquely two or three times.
The poor child said not a word, two great tears trickled down her
cheeks, and she went silently and sat down at a distance from me and her
mother.
The latter tried to approach her, to console her, but Irene gently
repulsed her caresses.
That evening she ate nothing, and her nurse, who passed the night at her
bedside, said that she had hardly slept, and had had several fits of
silent weeping.
M. de Fersen, who was not aware of the cause of his daughter's trifling
ailment, made light of it and attributed it to the child's excessive
nervous susceptibility.
But Madame de Fersen gave me a look of irritation.
I understood her.
My avowal, by placing her on her guard, had made her avoid opportunities
of being alone with me.
Irene felt considerably aggrieved at this apparent coldness; the
princess naturally looked upon me as the primary cause of her daughter's
grief, and she loved her with mad devotion.
Madame de Fersen had therefore good cause to dislike me. I resolved to
end Irene's unhappiness.
I took advantage of a moment when I was alone with Madame de Fersen to
say to her:
"Madame, forgive an insensate avowal. I regret it the more that it has
not been alien to the sorrow and suffering of poor little Irene. I
pledge you my word that I will never again say a single word which might
trouble your maternal joys and thus expose me to forfeit your good
graces which I so highly value."
Madame de Fersen gave me her hand, with charming gratitude, and said:
"I believe you, and thank you with all my heart, for you will thus no
longer separate me from my daughter!"
CHAPTER XV
THE ADIEUX
I soon regretted having promised Madame de Fersen never to address her a
word of gallantry. Since she felt entirely at her ease with me, she
appeared to me more and more charming, and each day I became more deeply
in love.
Constant to our meetings in the saloon, where we were almost always
alone with Irene, our intercourse soon became quite friendly and
intimate.
I very skilfully displayed my total ignorance of politics so that they
should be entirely banished in our conversations. Having mastered the
situation, I succeeded in always bringing back our talks to the thousand
subjects relating to tender or passionate sentiments.
Sometimes, as though fearing the tendency of our intercourse, Madame de
Fersen insisted on speaking politics. Then I would profess my ignorance,
and the princess would wittily accuse me of acting like those lovers who
pretend to dislike sport, in order that they may stay at home with the
ladies while their husbands go tramping across the fields.
When the tediousness of navigation had given rise to a certain degree of
intimacy between me and the officers of the Russian frigate, our
conversation often introduced the name of Madame de Fersen, and I was
surprised at the profound respect with which they always spoke of her.
Calumny, they said, had never attacked her, be it in Russia,
Constantinople, or at the different courts where she had resided.
A reputation of unimpeachable purity has, I believe, an irresistible
charm, especially when found in a young, beautiful, and intellectual
woman, of an exalted position; for she must be endowed with a powerful
moral strength, to disarm envy, or to blunt its darts, and inspire, as
did Madame de Fersen, a general sentiment of benevolence and respect.
In comparing my love for Madame de Pënâfiel to what I felt for Madame
de Fersen, I appreciated the lofty and alluring charm of this seduction.
Marguerite had, doubtless, been shamefully maligned,--of this I had
received indisputable proofs; but, however false may be the rumours that
attack the woman you love, they will ever produce a feeling of
resentment.
Admitting, even, that you succeed in convincing yourself of the
falsehood of the rumour, you then accuse the woman who is its victim of
not possessing the wit to assert her virtue.
Hélène's life had been pure, and yet she had been attacked. My
attentions to her had alone occasioned those odious rumours, and yet, in
my unjust frenzy, I accused her of not having known how to hold herself
above suspicion.
Apart from the grace, the beauty, and intellect of Madame de Fersen,
what contributed most to the feeling of adoration in me was, I repeat
it, her reputation for exalted and calm virtue.
Most men, when they persist in combating the resistance of a woman
seriously attached to her duties, are only led on by the love of
contention, by the anticipation of a proud victory!
These were not the sentiments that made me persist in my love for Madame
de Fersen. It was an unlimited reliance on the purity of her heart, in
the nobility of her character; it was the certainty of loving her with
all the chaste delights of the soul, without fear of being deceived by
feigned severity or false prudery.
Moreover, I had given myself up to such coarse materialism during my
stay at Khios, that I had an inexpressible desire to abandon myself to
the exquisite refinement of a pure and lofty sentiment.
Our crossing, delayed by equinoctial winds, and followed by a long
quarantine at the Toulon lazaretto, lasted six weeks.
I did not think I had made any progress in the affections of Madame de
Fersen, for her manner towards me had become more and more unconstrained
and friendly. She had frankly confessed her pleasure at what she was
pleased to call my witty discourse, and expressed a hope that during her
stay in Paris we should renew as frequently as possible "our
conversations of the saloon."
It was evident Madame de Fersen considered me absolutely unimportant.
However unpleasant this discovery was to my vanity, such was my love for
Catherine, that I only thought of the happiness of seeing her as
frequently as possible, and hoped in the sincerity of my affection for
her.
At the end of our quarantine we landed at Toulon, and remained some days
to visit that port. M. de Fersen proposed to me that we should not yet
separate, and continue our journey together as far as Paris.
I accepted.
I sent for my carriage, which I had sent back to Marseilles when we
started from Porquerolles, and we left for Paris towards the beginning
of November.
M. de Fersen and his wife travelled in one coach; his daughter, with her
nurse, in another. As my travelling carriage was of the same
description, and could only accommodate two persons, every day, when
about to start after breakfast, M. de Fersen would beg me to take his
place in his wife's carriage, while he took his customary siesta in
mine.
Irene, who had shown much sorrow at the mere idea of separating from me,
always joined us at these times, and our "conversations of the saloon"
continued thus up to Paris.
Notwithstanding the promise I had made Madame de Fersen, I determined on
the last day of our journey, to renew my avowal of love.
Until then I had scrupulously kept my word, because I feared by not
doing so I would forfeit the privilege of our tête-à-tête during the
journey.
My hope had been to become, at least for Catherine, a daily thought, and
to captivate and interest her mind so that little by little she should
become keenly sensitive to my presence or my absence.
I believed that I had achieved this end. I loved Madame de Fersen
ardently. I had an excessive longing to please her, and except the word
"love," which never passed my lips, I put in my attentions to her all
the eagerness, all the tenderness, of the most passionate lover.
Without studying my conversation too deeply, I endeavoured to speak to
Catherine only on subjects that were new to her.
She knew neither Paris, nor France, nor England, nor Spain, and I was
thoroughly acquainted with them all. I tried, therefore, to amuse her
with my accounts of these places, and my descriptions of the customs and
habits of these nations.
I succeeded almost always, as I could perceive by the serious attention
given to my words, and the interested questions they elicited; then, in
spite of myself, I showed my happiness and delight in having interested
her.
Madame de Fersen had too much tact not to notice the great impression
she continued to make upon me, and she seemed grateful to me for my
reserve.
Especially, every time that I found the way, without grieving Irene too
deeply, to avoid the embarrassments which the child's strange affection
for me brought about at every moment, Madame de Fersen would thank me by
an enchanting glance.
One of Irene's chief delights was to take one of my hands, and, having
placed it between her mother's, she would silently gaze at us.
This slight favour would have been precious to me had it been granted
spontaneously by a tender sentiment on the part of Madame de Fersen;
but, not wishing to obtain it otherwise, each time that Irene had this
caprice I would carry her little fingers up to my lips without giving
her a chance to place my hand in her mother's.
The day before reaching Paris, I was resolved to make another attempt at
declaring my love, when a strange incident, which should perhaps have
encouraged me to take this step, deterred me from it.
I had not yet been able to ascertain whether or no Madame de Fersen was
jealous of her daughter's affection for me; sometimes she had spoken of
it in a gaily bantering manner, at other times, on the contrary, she had
alluded to it with sadness, almost with bitterness.
That day Irene, who occupied a place in her mother's carriage, asked her
if I should have a handsome room in Paris.
I hastily answered the child that I would have a house of my own, and
would not live with them.
At these words, Irene as usual silently wept.
Madame de Fersen, seeing her tears, exclaimed, with grieved impatience:
"_Mon Dieu!_ what is the matter with the child? Why does she love you
thus? It is hateful!"
"She loves me, perhaps, for the same reason that she loved Ivan," said
I.
As Madame de Fersen did not seem to understand my words, I explained to
her the meaning which I attached to them, and spoke of the Sanscrit
tradition.
Madame de Fersen thought I was joking.
I have already said that this tradition was written by my father in a
book full of notes relating to one of his journeys to England.
Fortunately, this manuscript was in my carriage, for quite recently I
had sought in it some particulars in order to explain to Madame de
Fersen certain customs which in Scotland are handed down from generation
to generation.
At one of the relays, I went for the manuscript, and showed it to Madame
de Fersen.
The date was so clear, the writing so faded, that Madame de Fersen could
not doubt its authenticity.
I shall never forget the tearful look which Madame de Fersen fixed on me
as she let the book fall on her lap.
Doubtless she experienced the same strange emotion I felt when I
considered Irene's affection for Ivan and his death, with the writing of
this extraordinary tradition:
"Those predestined to an early and violent death have the gift of
fascinating children and lunatics."
Irene displayed for me the same fondness she had for Ivan. Might not my
fate be the same?
To understand, moreover, all the interest felt by Madame de Fersen at
this discovery, one should know that I had frequently frankly confessed
to her my excessive superstition, and had so greatly impressed her by
relating many singular incidents of this character, that the germs of
the same weakness had been laid in her mind.
I must confess, I seemed to discover in Madame de Fersen's look, in her
emotion, in her agitation, more than friendship, more than the
expression of a touching regret.
Wild with hope, a fresh declaration sprang to my lips; but fortunately I
held back, for I would have committed an irreparable mistake.
If Madame de Fersen's sentiments were really tender, would it not have
been stupid in me to arouse her vigilance, which, under her imperious
will and sense of duty, would have smothered the first vague instinct of
love awakening in her heart?
On the contrary, if the interest which Madame de Fersen showed me was
simply friendly, my presumption would have covered me with ridicule in
her eyes.
The turn soon taken by our conversation led easily to a proposition
which I wished to make to Madame de Fersen, as much as a safeguard to
her reputation as in the interest of my affection.
We were speaking of Irene.
"Poor child!" said I to her mother, "how can she get accustomed not to
see me?"
"But she will retain, I hope for her and for me, this charming
intercourse," replied Catherine, "for it has been agreed that once in
Paris our 'conversations of the saloon,' as we call them, would
continue. M. de Fersen's position and mine, being most independent at
the Court of France, I shall not be submitted to any duties but such as
I am willing to assume, and I assure you that no pleasures, no
diversions, will induce me to miss these pleasant, friendly chats of
daily recurrence, if, however," added Madame de Fersen, smiling, "if
your old friends will allow you to think of your new friends. But I
count very much on my claims as a stranger, and on your perfect French
gallantry, to oblige you to be my cicerone, and to do the honours of
Paris for me, for I wish to see nothing, to admire nothing, unless under
your guidance."
I will confess, I had need of all my courage, all my love, and a great
terror of the withering calumnies of the world, to enable me to thrust
aside the delightful prospect which Madame de Fersen dreamt for us both.
After a few minutes of silence, "Madame," said I, with deep and sad
emotion, "you cannot doubt my respectful attachment for you?"
"What a question! On the contrary, I believe in it firmly; yes, I
believe I would be wretched if I could not believe."
"Well, then, madame, permit a true and devoted friend to tell you what
he might say to a sister; and when you will have heard me, do not permit
yourself to yield to your first impression, for it would be unfavourable
to me; but second thoughts will prove to you that what I am going to say
is dictated by the strongest and most sincere affection."
"Speak then, I beg you--speak--you alarm me."
"Until now, madame, you have never known calumny; it did not, it could
not, attack you. It is that sublime confidence in your own
high-mindedness that has saved you from the fear of evil speaking. Yet,
believe me, madame, were I to avail myself of the delightful prospect
you hold out to me, the irreproachable purity of your principles would
not guarantee you from the most perfidious attacks."
"Never shall I abandon my friends from fear, my conscience suffices me,"
said Madame de Fersen, with the courageous indifference of a woman sure
of herself.
"How can you tell, madame?" I exclaimed. "Have you struggled, to be so
sure of victory? Never! Until now the dazzling purity of your life has
sufficed to guard you. How could you have given rise to slander? But
reflect now. I have come with you all the way from Khios, all the way
from Toulon to Paris. I am aware that I am of not the slightest
importance; you know me now well enough to believe that I do not
exaggerate my importance for the sake of a miserable paltry vanity. But
what is that to the world so long as it can malign? Does it not know,
moreover, that slander is all the more odious when the object of the
guilty love it supposes is least worthy of that love? We shall associate
with the same people, I shall be seen every day at your house, escorting
you in your walks, in society with you, and you believe, you insist,
that jealousy, envy, and hatred will not seize upon the opportunity of
revenging themselves for your wit, your beauty, and your exalted
position; and above all for your shining virtue, the most precious jewel
in your noble crown! But think of it, madame, the arch-type of our
judge-executioners has said: 'Give me four lines of writing of the most
honest man in the world, and I will undertake to have him hung.' The
world, that judge-executioner, may say with equal assurance, 'Give me
four days of the life of the purest woman in the world, and I will
undertake to have her disgraced.'"
For some time Madame de Fersen had been gazing at me with an
astonishment she could not disguise. At first she seemed almost shocked
at my refusal and my remarks.
It was not unexpected. Then her features assumed a more amiable
expression, and she said, with a shade of coldness:
"I will not discuss with you as to your views of the world, especially
of Parisian society, which I am aware is most brilliant and dangerous;
but I believe you exaggerate the risk one would run, and above all the
effect of slander upon me."
"And why then, madame, should calumny have no effect on you? What am I
to you that you should hereafter hesitate for one instant to sacrifice
me to the imperious demands of your reputation? Would you put in the
balance the guardianship of your honour, your responsibility for your
child's future, with the charm of our daily conversations? Most
assuredly not, and you would be right; for if you persisted in your
project, if I were base enough to encourage you in it, when slander
reached you, you would have the right to turn upon me with scorn and
say: 'You pretended to be my friend! You were false! You took advantage
of my indiscretion to draw me into an intimacy where appearances may be
most damaging. Go; I shall never see you again!' And once more you would
be right, madame. Can you realise how much courage it takes to speak to
you as I do,--to refuse what you offer? Think of what you are, of all
that you are, and say if the pride and vanity of a less honest man than
I would not be gratified and flattered by those very rumours from which
I strive to save you. For, after all, what do I risk in aiding you to
compromise yourself? What do I risk? To assist the world to
misinterpret, to wither with its customary malice our intercourse,
however innocent it may be? But, you reply, in that case you would drive
me from your presence. What does that matter? Do you know how the world
would interpret this deserved banishment? It would be said that a
discord had arisen between us. If the world were well disposed towards
you, it would say you had discarded me in favour of some other lover. If
it was unfavourable to you it would say that I had abandoned you for
another mistress."
"Ah, monsieur, monsieur!" exclaimed Madame de Fersen, pressing her hands
together almost in terror. "What a picture! May it never come true!"
"It is but too true, madame; if the world were wise and clear-sighted as
it is supposed to be, it would be less dangerous, for it would keep to
the truth; but it is wicked, coarsely credulous, and a gossip, which
renders it most mischievous. The world clear-sighted! It is too willing
to slander to be clear-sighted. Has it time and leisure to penetrate the
sentiments it supposes? It loves too well to keep on the outside, and
conjecture from appearances which frequently are displayed without
mistrust because they are guiltless,--that is enough for the infernal
activity of its envy. Ah, believe me, madame, had I not the sad
experience I possess of men and things, the instinct of my attachment to
you would enlighten me, for you never can know how precious to me is all
that concerns you, how distressed I should be to see that radiant halo
which now enhances your beauty tarnished. I repeat it, the honour of my
mother, of my sister, are not more precious to me than yours. Think how
dreadful it would be for me if I were the cause of slander which should
attack that treasure in which I glory. I will confess another weakness.
Yes, it would be hateful to me to think that the world should speak with
its insolent and brutal scorn of that which was my happiness and my
pride. Yes, my dream is that this charming intimacy, which will ever be
one of the most delightful recollections of my life, shall remain
unknown to this world, for its shameless word would destroy the purity
of this intercourse,--and this dream, I shall realise it."
"Then," said Madame de Fersen, with an almost solemn air, "we must give
up all thought of meeting in Paris?"
"Not so, madame, not so! We shall meet the evenings you receive, just
like all the other people you receive. Later, perhaps, you will permit
me occasionally to call on you of a morning."
Madame de Fersen remained for some time in silent meditation, her head
bent low; then suddenly she drew herself up; her face was slightly
tinged with colour, and, with a voice betraying much agitation, she
said: "You have a generous heart. Your friendship is austere, but it is
great, strong, and noble. I understand the duties which it imposes and I
will be worthy of it. From this moment," and she gave me her hand, "you
have won a sincere and unalterable friendship."
I kissed her hand respectfully.
At the same moment we reached one of the last post-stations.
I left Madame de Fersen's coach, and sought her husband, who was asleep
in my chaise.
"My dear prince," I said to him, "I wish to ask a service of you."
"Speak, my dear count."
"For a reason which I must keep secret, I wish that no one should know
that I come from Khios, and consequently that I travelled from Toulon to
Paris with you. I am a personage of so little importance that my name
will not have been noticed on our journey. I shall stop at the next
relay, make a long round to reach Fontainebleau, where I shall remain
several days, and will thus arrive in Paris some time after you. All
that I ask of your friendship is that you will receive favourably the
request of one of my friends who will ask permission to present me to
you. I should regret it keenly were I obliged to suspend an intercourse
so delightful to me."
M. de Fersen, with his usual tact, made no objection, and promised all
that I asked.
At the next relay, I informed Madame de Fersen that I was unfortunately
obliged to take my leave of her, and delegated to the prince, who was
present, the task of explaining to her why I was deprived of the
pleasure of continuing the journey with her.
She gave me her hand, which I kissed.
Then I tenderly embraced Irene, throwing a sad farewell glance at her
mother.
Fresh horses were put to the carriages of the prince, they started, and
I remained alone.
My heart was broken.
Little by little the consciousness of having acted nobly towards Madame
de Fersen soothed my mind.
I reflected that I should thus learn without in any way endangering her
reputation whether Madame de Fersen felt for me a true friendship,
perhaps even a more tender sentiment, or whether I owed to isolation, to
idleness, and to the absence of all comparison, the interest which she
had shown me.
If she loved me, the constraint, the necessity of no longer seeing me,
would be irksome to her, would perhaps be painful, and this sorrow, this
regret, would assuredly betray itself.
If, on the other hand, I had only been an agreeable acquaintance who had
helped to while away the long hours of the journey, I should, without
doubt, be sacrificed to the first more entertaining conversation, or the
slightest worldly consideration.
I would never willingly expose myself to be superseded, and I thus
avoided it.
I would doubtless suffer much, should I find that Madame de Fersen's
sentiments for me were so weak that they were easily effaced, but in
acting otherwise I would have had the same sorrow and mortification
besides.
I remained eight days at Fontainebleau and then left for Paris.
CHAPTER XVI
A MINISTER IN LOVE
I reëntered Paris, from which I had been absent eighteen months, with a
certain heartache. I had a faint hope, or rather some dread, of meeting
Hélène or Marguerite.
I fancied myself completely cured of my fatal monomania of distrust; my
great love for Madame de Fersen had, in my eyes, performed this prodigy.
I promised myself, in case I should meet my cousin, or Madame de
Pënâfiel, frankly to ask their forgiveness, and to endeavour by the
most affectionate and friendly attentions to make amends for the hateful
follies of the lover of former days.
I met M. de Cernay, who from the Opéra had transferred his amorous
worship to the Comédie-Française, in the suite of Mlle. ----, a most
enticing soubrette.
M. de Pommerive was heavier, more slanderous, and more wearisome than
ever. Cernay greeted me with effusive cordiality, and asked me about my
travels with Falmouth, for as yet nothing had transpired.
As I was very reserved on this subject, as much by natural tendency as
by premeditation, Cernay and Pommerive ended by imagining the most
unheard-of things on the pretended mystery of my adventures.
In accordance with my arrangement with the prince, I begged a man of my
acquaintance, very intimate with the Russian ambassador, to present me
to Madame de Fersen.
The prince had rented a handsome furnished mansion in the Faubourg St.
Germain.
Before long his salons were the customary meeting-place of the _corps
diplomatique_ and of the cream of Parisian society, regardless of
political opinions.
Madame de Fersen's appearance in the world caused a sensation. Her
beauty, her name, and her reputation as a woman versed in politics and
interested in the great topics of the day, the respect which she
inspired, all contributed to place her very high in public estimation.
In a short time the just appreciation of the rare qualities that
distinguished her was followed by the most pronounced infatuation.
The women who shared her austere principles were delighted and proud to
strengthen their ranks with such a recruit. Those, on the contrary, who
might have dreaded her coldness, taking it as a mute censure of their
flightiness, were charmed and surprised at her great amiability. Assured
of not finding in her a rival, they became enthusiastic regarding the
beautiful stranger.
I can scarcely express my happiness at Madame de Fersen's success.
I went to her house for the first time one evening, five or six days
after my arrival in Paris.
Though rather late, there were as yet few people assembled.
She greeted me very gracefully; but I observed in her a certain reserve,
uneasiness, and sadness.
I fancied she wished to speak to me in private.
I was striving to ascertain what could be her anxiety, when, in the
course of conversation, M. de Sérigny, at that time Minister of Foreign
Affairs, spoke of children in connection with an admirable portrait
which Lawrence had just exhibited at the Salon.
Madame de Fersen gave me a rapid glance, and then complained that her
daughter was ailing and sad at finding herself thrown among strangers,
and that no distraction had availed to draw her out of her
melancholy,--neither games nor walks in the large gardens surrounding
the mansion.
"But, madame," said I, hoping to be understood, "would it not be better
to send your daughter to the Tuileries Gardens? She would find there
companions more of her own age, and their gaiety would doubtless divert
her."
A touching glance from Madame de Fersen showed me she had understood,
for she replied, quickly: "_Mon Dieu!_ you are right, monsieur. I am
very sorry I did not think of that sooner. From to-morrow, I shall
always send my little girl to the Tuileries. I am sure she will be very
happy there, and already I feel assured she will get well."
I was happy to see from this mysterious interchange of thoughts that
Madame de Fersen's heart read mine.
Fresh visitors interrupted the conversation, the circle grew larger, and
I rose to go and chat with some ladies of my acquaintance.
"Ah, _mon Dieu!_" exclaimed Madame de ----, "M. de Pommerive here! That
man thrusts himself everywhere, then?"
In fact, there was Pommerive, with a less impudent air than usual,
following in the steps of the _chargé d'affaires_ of some little German
court, who was doubtless leading him up to Madame de Fersen.
"It is a presentation," said Madame de ---- to me.
"If there were justice," I replied, "it would be an exposition."
"But how can Madame de Fersen receive affably so slanderous and false a
man?" said Madame de ----.
"To prove, doubtless, the weakness of that man's calumnies," replied I.
Pommerive made a profound bow to Madame de Fersen, then followed the
_chargé d'affaires_, and both went in search of M. de Fersen.
A few minutes later, I found myself face to face with Pommerive.
"Hello! Are you here?" he cried.
This exclamation was so absurdly impertinent, that I answered:
"If I were less polite, M. de Pommerive, I might express my astonishment
at finding you here."
"I am not at all astonished at it," said Pommerive with an impudent
assurance, for which he was indebted to his age, and to a reputation for
cynic cowardice, which I should have stated he was wont to boast of. "I
did not expect to meet you; that is all. But listen." Then, taking my
arm, he led me to the recess of a window, saying as we moved along: "Do
you know the Prince do Fersen very well?"
Pommerive was repugnant to me, but I was curious to know if people had
heard of my having travelled with the princess, and as Pommerive was
sure to pick up the slightest report, true or false, he might enlighten
me on this subject.
"I do not know M. de Fersen any better than you know him," I said.
"Then you know him very well," he replied, conceitedly.
"How is that?"
"Certainly. I dined with him yesterday, a miserable dinner it is true,
at Baron ----'s, _chargé d'affaires_ of ----, who brought me here just
now in his carriage! And what a carriage! a wretched concern with a
glass window in the back, a regular rattletrap. It is indeed a carriage
which seems made expressly to help to digest his bad dinners, so hard is
it; for that miserly fellow scrapes up dowries for his six hideous
daughters from the allowance made him for entertaining; and he is right,
for without dowry who the devil would look twice at any of his
daughters? But I come back to the prince."
"Very unfortunate for him, M. de Pommerive."
"Oh, not at all! I shall be careful of the dear prince, for he
appreciates me, and I have come to make an appointment for our
business."
"And what business, M. de Pommerive? May one, without being indiscreet,
inquire into this diplomatic secret?"
"Oh, it is quite plain; he asked that miserly baron--" and here
Pommerive opened a parenthesis to insert another piece of malice.
"Speaking of this miserly baron," he continued, "would you believe it?
when he gives his wretched dinners, a sort of _Maître Jacques_ goes
once around the table with a miserable bottle of champagne, not iced,
which he holds tightly in his arms, just as a nurse holds her precious
nursling; and he says very quickly, as he passes on still more quickly,
'Monsieur does not drink champagne,' without any point of interrogation,
the wretch, but with an accent of affirmation."
"See now the value of punctuation, M. de Pommerive! But come back to the
prince."
"Well, M. de Fersen having asked the baron to point out to him some one
of enlightenment and good taste who could coach him on theatrical
matters, and give him information about the actors, the baron has had
the good sense to present me."
"Ah, I understand," I replied, "you are going to be M. de Fersen's
dramatic cicerone."
"That is it exactly; but, between us, I find this fondness for the
theatre very ridiculous in a man like the prince. To judge by this
sample he must be a poor sort of a fellow, this Fersen. I am not
surprised at people saying that his wife directs all the diplomatic
affairs. She has the appearance of a strong-minded woman, sharp and
hard; and, moreover, they say a thirty-six carats virtue. What do I care
about her virtue? I do not grudge it to her, though there is not a
dissenting voice. It is astonishing!"
"There is something even more astonishing, M. de Pommerive."
"And what is it, dear count?"
"It is that some straightforward, honourable man has not the courage to
go to M. de Fersen and repeat word for word all the insolent things you
have permitted yourself to say about him, so that he might kick you out
of his house."
"Dash it! no one would surely go and repeat to him what I have said! I
feel pretty safe on that score; but if any one did I would not care, I
would stand by my words."
"You are boasting, M. de Pommerive!"
"What, I boasting! That does not prevent that on one occasion they
repeated to Verpuis--you know Verpuis, who was such a duellist--that I
had said that he had only the courage of foolhardiness. Verpuis comes to
me with his bullying air and asks me in the presence of twenty persons,
'Did you make use of these words, yes or no?' 'No, sir,' I replied, also
putting on a bullying air, 'I said, on the contrary, that you had only
the foolhardiness of courage.'"
"You certainly did not say that, M. de Pommerive!"
"I did, and the proof of it is that he kicked me. I then said that it
was cowardly to insult a man who would not fight; and he took that."
This disgusting boast of cowardice, for Pommerive had never quite
lowered himself to that extent, revolted me. I turned my back upon the
man, but could not shake him off readily.
"You will see," said he, "one of your old flames, the pretty Madame de
V----, with whom M. de Sérigny, Minister of Foreign Affairs, is madly
in love. They say really that he is crazy enough to be shut up in a
lunatic asylum since he has been pursuing that little woman; he knows
neither what he says, nor what he does. This diplomatic _céladon_ would
make you die with laughter, if he was not such a pitiable object. But
here he comes. I must go and beg him not to forget my recommendation of
my nephew. Let us hope that his ridiculous love affair has not made him
lose his memory as well as his wits."
And this insolent person approached M. de Sérigny with abject
salutations.
At this moment Madame de V---- was announced.
I had not seen her since my return to Paris. I found her, if possible,
looking younger, so much freshness, piquancy, and sparkle did that
lively, mobile countenance display.
Madame de V---- dressed in a manner quite her own, but never showy or
eccentric, and always with the most perfect taste.
The minister, who had got rid of Pommerive, watched with an anxious and
jealous eye the numerous salutations which she acknowledged on all sides
with her sparkling coquetry. He seemed somewhat easier when he saw
Madame de V---- seated between Lady Bury and another lady.
M. de Sérigny, at that time Minister of Foreign Affairs, was a man of
about fifty years of age, rather insignificant and careless in his
appearance. He affected a brusqueness of manner, a heedless
indifference, which, assumed or not, had always, people said, been of
remarkable service to him in his career. He was a man of fine, broad
mind, but in society he rarely made use of his intellectual faculties.
His superiority was summed up in his taciturnity, and the sole
expression of his countenance was concentrated in a smile. Now this
silence and this smile, completing, interpreting, and explaining one
another, could in turns be so admirably flattering, sarcastic, wicked,
or absent, that this language had really a great significance.
Jealous to an excess, his passion for Madame de V---- was intense, at
least according to the world of whom Pommerive was the faithful echo.
When a man of the age, character, and position of M. de Sérigny becomes
seriously enamoured of a woman so frivolous and coquettish as Madame de
V----, his amorous life can only be a prolonged torture.
As I wished to observe M. de Sérigny in his rôle of martyr, I slid
behind the easy chair in which sat Madame de V----, and went to salute
her.
I well knew the vivacity of her demeanour, and was quite prepared for
the explosive friendly recognition. I had formerly rejected the
conditions which might have made me succeed in obtaining her favours,
but we had parted on the best of terms, and I had kept secret all that
passed between us. Now Madame de V----, who unfortunately had more than
once exposed herself to being roughly handled, was naturally grateful to
me for my prudence.
Scarcely had she heard my voice, therefore, than she turned abruptly,
and holding out her hand exclaimed, with her customary volubility:
"What a delightful surprise! and how happy I am to see you once more!
But have you fallen from the clouds that no one knew of your return? and
I who have really so much to thank you for! Now then give me your arm,
and we will settle ourselves in some solitary nook in the next parlour,
for you cannot imagine all I have to say to you."
Thereupon, up she jumps from her seat, and, making her way through the
crowd surrounding the easy chair, she takes my arm, and we walk out of
the big salon into another room which was nearly empty.
Standing talking at the entrance of this room were Madame de Fersen and
M. de Sérigny.
Madame de V---- had such compromising ways that nothing with her was
insignificant, and she found means during our short progress from one
room to the other to call attention to herself by her affectation in
whispering to me and then bursting into peals of laughter.
Just as we passed in front of Madame de Fersen, the latter, astonished
at Madame de V----'s noisy ways, gave me a look which seemed uneasy and
almost inquiring.
The minister stared at me moodily, coloured up a little, assumed his
most affable smile, and said to Madame de V-----, with a foppish air,
without being heard by the princess: "You are going to establish there a
colony of admirers which will soon become more populous than the
metropolis."
"Provided you do not interfere in its administration," retorted Madame
de V----, laughing playfully; then she added, in a low voice, "You must
confess that there is nothing like love to make an idiot of a man. M. de
Sérigny is a man of great intellect, and yet you heard him! Is it
flattering to inspire a sentiment which is expressed so stupidly under
pretence of being sincere?" While saying these words, she seated herself
near a table covered with albums. I took a place near her, and we
chatted.
During this conversation, two or three times my eyes met those of Madame
de Fersen, who, each time she perceived I was looking at her, quickly
turned her gaze.
M. de Sérigny watched Madame de V---- all the time and seemed on
thorns.
A woman came up; Madame de Fersen took her arm and went into the salon.
The minister was doubtless coming towards us when he was arrested by
Baron ----, who, according to Pommerive, accumulated his daughters'
dowries from the appropriation for entertainments.
I do not know if the subject of his talk with M. de Sérigny was very
important, but I have my doubts as to the attention given him by the
minister, so engaged was he in watching Madame de V----.
"Well," said I to my companion, "it is then true? Those charming hands
hold the fate of Europe? The reign of female sovereigns and of enslaved
ministers is returning? How delightful! It looks as rococo as possible
and seems very pretty. See now, for instance, at this very moment you
are entangling wildly the destinies of the grand duchy of ----, for the
_chargé d'affaires_ of that poor little court seems to me to have
exhausted all his arguments, and you look as if he had spoken Greek."
"Let us for once exhaust this miserable subject of conversation," said
Madame de V---- with vivacity, "never to return to it. Yes, M. de
Sérigny pays furious court to me, and I do not reject his attentions. I
am even very coquettish with him, because it amuses me to tyrannise over
a man in so high a position; and then, as they attribute to me as much
influence over him as they attribute to him worship of me, you can have
no idea of the snares laid for me by the _corps diplomatique_ to make me
talk. For my own amusement, I make quite innocently the most absurd half
confidences, but you can well see that all this can hardly afford
amusement to a boarding-school miss. This is my confession; grant me
plenary absolution, at least out of pity, for M. de Sérigny is a
wearisome sin. And now, in your turn, tell me of your travels, your
adventures, your love affairs, and I will see if I can grant you
absolution."
"To speak in your own language, I will confess, in the first place, that
my greatest sin is being still in love with you."
"Hold!" said Madame de V----, changing voice, manner, and expression,
and taking a tone until now unknown to me. "You behaved nobly as regards
Madame de Pënâfiel; she was worth a thousand times more than I. I
hated her, perhaps I envied her, for she deserved all your love. I
demanded of you a base act which might have ruined her, and you refused.
Nothing was more simple for you. But this shameful proposition, which I
have not ceased to blush having made you, you have kept it secret; you
have not made use of this weapon to strike a woman whom every one
attacks, perhaps because she deserves it; and true, true as I am a dolt,
I shall never, in all my life, forget how good and generous you have
been to me in this matter." Madame de V---- looked at me with a softened
glance, and for a moment I saw tears in those eyes usually bright and
sparkling like brilliants.
I was at first tempted to attribute these tears to a skilful flash, but
the mind of this woman was so mobile and inconstant that I believed in
the sincerity of this temporary emotion, and I was touched by it.
Softness in this woman, however, could only be an accident, and I
replied:
"I have done for you what any honourable man would have done; but you,
do something for me truly meritorious; come, love me frankly in your own
way, as a coquette, heedlessly, faithlessly, if you will, and I will
imitate you. One is never more amiable than when one has to implore
forgiveness, therefore we shall be mutually charming. Nothing more
delightful; we shall confide our faithlessness to one another, and will
betray each other in the frankest way possible."
"M. Arthur," said Madame de V----, still with a serious, softened air
and with a voice trembling with emotion, "I am going to say something
which to any other but you would appear improper and incomprehensible;
but remember this, and believe that I honour you too much--I love you
too much--to have you appear as M. de Sérigny's successor."
In spite of myself I was struck by the expression with which Madame de
V---- uttered these words.
This attack of sensitiveness, however, was of short duration; for she
soon commenced answering with her accustomed gaiety and bantering to the
minister's gallantries. He, with considerable difficulty, had shaken off
the Baron de V----, and had come up to us.
Caring very little to be a third in M. de Sérigny's company, I rose.
Madame de V---- then said: "Do not forget that I am always at home on
Thursdays, so as to avoid me on those days which are devoted to bores;
but on the other days, if your triumphs leave you leisure, do not
neglect an old friend. You are pretty sure to find me in the mornings,
and sometimes even of an evening before I make my evening toilet." With
these words, which she accompanied with a most gracious smile, she rose,
took M. de Sérigny's arm, and said: "I would like a cup of tea, for I
am cold."
"I am at your service, madame," said the minister, who happily had
assumed his most absent and indifferent smile, while Madame de V----
invited me to call and see her.
Returning to the salon, my eyes sought Madame de Fersen; I met her
glance, which seemed austere.
I went home.
When I was no longer under the charm of Madame de V----'s attractive
face, I compared that daring levity with Madame de Fersen's dignified
and serious grace. I also compared the profound respect and almost
obsequious reserve with which men approached her to the cavalier
deportment they exhibited towards Madame de V----, and I felt more and
more how powerful is the attraction a virtuous woman possesses, and I
felt my love for Catherine still increasing.
I was glad that I might look forward to meeting Irene at the Tuileries,
and that I had been so well understood by Madame de Fersen. I fancied
also--was it an illusion of love?--that Madame de Fersen had seemed
almost sad at my long conversation with Madame de V----.
CHAPTER XVII
THE TUILERIES
I waited with extreme impatience the hour for going to the Tuileries to
meet Irene.
I attached a thousand thoughts of love and noble devotion in reflecting
that child was coming to me covered with the bloom of her mother's
kisses, and doubtless bringing me a thousand secret wishes.
About one o'clock, though the air was opaque with a slight autumnal fog,
I saw Irene approaching, accompanied by her nurse, an excellent woman
who had filled the same position to Madame de Fersen.
Generally at Toulon, or Lyons for instance, where we had made a few
days' stay, one of the princess's maids, followed by a footman, had
always accompanied Irene in her walks.
I noticed with pleasure that Madame de Fersen, by entrusting her little
girl this time to the nurse, of whose attachment she felt sure, had
understood the necessity of keeping these meetings secret.
Tears sprang to my eyes when I saw how much Irene had changed. Her
charming face was pale and pinched; no longer with its habitual pallor,
delicate and roseate, but with a sickly pallor; her large eyes had dark
rings under them, and her cheeks, formerly plump and round, were now
slightly hollowed.
Irene did not see me at first; she walked close to her nurse, her pretty
head bent down, her arms hanging, and with the tips of her pretty feet
she crushed the dead leaves which littered the path.
"Good morning, Irene," I said to her.
Scarcely had she heard the sound of my voice, than she gave a piercing
cry, threw herself into my arms, closed her eyes and fainted.
I carried her to a bench near by with the help of Madame Paul, her
nurse.
"I feared this shock, monsieur," she said to me; "fortunately, I brought
a bottle of salts with me. Poor child! she is so nervous."
"Look--look," said I, "the colour returns to her cheeks; her hands are
not so cold; she is regaining consciousness."
In fact, this attack passed, Irene raised herself, and when she could
sit up she hung to my neck, shedding silent tears which fell hot upon my
cheeks.
"Irene, Irene, my dearest, do not weep thus. I shall see you every day."
I pressed her hands while my eyes sought hers.
She held herself up, and with a familiar motion of her head, full of
grace and vivacity, she threw back the big curls which half concealed
her tear-stained eyes. Then fastening upon me one of her steady,
piercing glances, she said to me:
"I believe what you say. Will you not come to see me here, since you
cannot come to our house?"
"Yes, Mlle. Irene," answered the nurse. "Monsieur will come to see you
every day, if you promise to be very good,--not to cry, and to do what
the doctor orders you."
"Certainly, my dear child; for unless you promise that, you will not see
me again," I added, with great seriousness.
"You would never again see monsieur," rejoined Madame Paul, with an air
of severity.
"But, Paul," exclaimed Irene, stamping her little foot with charming
fractiousness, "you know very well I shall no longer cry. I shall not be
ill any more, for I shall see him every day."
The good nurse gave me a touching glance. I quickly embraced Irene, and
said to her, "Explain to me, little one, why you are so glad to see me?"
"I don't know," she replied, shrugging her shoulders and shaking her
brown curls, with an air of sweet, unconscious simplicity. "When you
look at me, I cannot help going to you, your eyes draw me; and when you
do not look at me, then I feel so badly here," and she placed her hand
on her heart. "And then at night, I see you in my dreams, with me and
the angels up there." She raised her little finger and her large eyes
solemnly towards heaven. Then with a sigh she added, "And, besides, you
are good, like Ivan."
I could not help starting.
Madame Paul, evidently informed of this mysterious adventure, exclaimed:
"Mademoiselle, remember what your mother told you."
But engrossed in her thoughts, and seeming not to have heard her nurse's
remark, Irene continued:
"Only, when I dreamt of Ivan and the angels, I never saw my mother up
there; but since I dream of you, my mother is always with us. I told
mamma so," Irene added, seriously.
Madame Paul looked at me again, and bursting into tears said: "Ah,
monsieur, all my dread is that this child will not live; her beauty, her
gravity, like her ideas and her character, are not suited to her age,
are not of this world. Would you believe it, except to the princess, to
you, and to me, she never speaks to any one of what she has just said?
The princess has impressed upon her not to mention to any one that she
saw you here, and I am very sure she never will. Ah, monsieur, I pray
Heaven daily that this child may be spared to us."
"And she will be spared, be assured! Children who are silent and
thoughtful are always dreamy and excitable; it is not surprising. Do not
be uneasy. Well, good-bye, Irene; and you, Madame Paul, assure the
princess of my respectful regards, and say how grateful I am for the
promise she made me to send me daily my little friend."
"Adieu, then, till to-morrow, Irene," and I kissed her tenderly.
"Till to-morrow," repeated the child, with a happy but grave and serious
smile.
Then her nurse wrapped her warm pelisse around her, and Irene went off,
turning several times, however, to say adieu with her little hand.
Superstitious as I am, and inclined to tender and lofty sentiments by my
love for Catherine, this conversation had aroused in me the most varied
emotions,--emotions at once sombre and beaming, cruel and radiant.
I was happy. The strange predictions which Irene repeated to her mother
must, if Catherine loved me, recall me to her heart daily, and it was
the voice of her child, her beloved child, which continually uttered my
name!