CHAPTER XXV

A WOMAN IN POLITICS

Here come to an end the fragments of the journal I formerly wrote at the

Grove.

During the four months which followed Catherine's confession of her

love, and which we passed in this total isolation, my life was so

engrossed by the delights of our ever growing love that I had neither

time nor inclination to make a record of emotions so entrancing.

Catherine confessed to me that she had felt greatly attracted to me ever

since our departure from Khios.

I asked her why she had treated me so harshly on one occasion, when she

had requested me not to see her little girl any more. She answered that

her despair at feeling herself at the mercy of the affection I inspired,

added to her jealousy and grief when she saw me smitten by so giddy a

woman as Madame de V----, had alone decided her to put an end to the

mysterious intimacy of which Irene was the bond, however painful to her

was this determination.

Later on, when she learned of the termination of my supposed intrigue

with Madame de V----, and finding that absence, instead of diminishing,

only increased the power I had gained over her, she endeavoured to renew

our former relations. Moreover, Irene commenced to be seriously affected

by my absence. "Love is so inexplicable in its contrasts and its

sensitiveness," said Catherine to me, "that this very reason, added to

your seeming coldness and disdain, made me hesitate frankly to come to

you, fearing that this step might have appeared to you simply dictated

by my anxiety for my child's health.

"The condition of that poor child became so much worse that I resolved

to conquer my timidity and tell you all at that ball at the Tuileries,

but your greeting was so freezing, your departure so abrupt, that it

became impossible for me. The next day I wrote to you; you did not

answer. It was not, alas! until Irene's life was despaired of that I

dared once more to write to you at Havre! God only knows with what

admirable generosity you responded."

After the first bitterness of her remorse, Catherine's love for me

became calm, dignified, almost serene.

One felt that, having exercised all her might to resist an unconquerable

passion, this woman was prepared to endure with courageous resignation

the consequences of her weakness.

The four months we spent at the Grove were for me, for her, the ideal of

happiness.

But wherefore speak of happiness? This is now but Dead Sea ashes!

What matter, alas! Let me continue the sad task I have imposed upon

myself.

When I was able to snatch some moments from the love which engrossed me,

I wrote to M. de Sérigny to thank him for his good intentions towards

me, which I had learned from the article in the official newspaper, and

informed him that I would be absent for some months yet, that I was

unable to disclose to him my place of abode, but begged him, in case any

one inquired of him for me, to answer in such a way as might lead people

to infer that I was in a foreign country.

In the month of September Catherine heard that her husband would return

towards the close of the year, and informed me that she intended

returning to Paris.

Catherine's intention surprised and grieved me.

We had considerably discussed whether or not I should resume the duties

I had taken upon me with M. de Sérigny.

Catherine had persistently urged me to do so.

I vainly represented to her that those hours devoted to uncongenial work

would be stolen from our love, and that I should find very tedious an

occupation which I had sought simply as a distraction to my grief. In

vain I told her that all the correspondence with which I was entrusted

treated of the most futile subjects, and in no way interested me.

To this she replied that at no distant period questions of the greatest

importance would necessarily be discussed in high political spheres, and

that I would then regret having abandoned that position. She felt so

proud, so happy, of the distinction drawn upon me by the king's

recognition of my merits, she said, she so gloried in my success, that I

ended by promising to do as she wished.

It was therefore decided between us that I should resume my position

with M. de Sérigny.

To avoid returning to Paris at the same time as Madame de Fersen, and in

order that people might suppose I had been travelling for some time, I

left the Grove for London, and came back to Paris, where I found

Catherine on my arrival, after fourteen days' sojourn in London.

M. de Sérigny had ably fulfilled my wishes, and in society it was

generally supposed that an important foreign mission had been the cause

of my absence from home.

The minister seemed quite pleased at having me once more sharing his

labours; for the king, he told me, had frequently inquired as to the

period of my return, expressing his regret that the briefing of

despatches was no longer made by me.

To the eyes of the world, I did not at first visit Madame de Fersen more

assiduously than before our sojourn at the Grove; but little by little

my visits became more frequent without being so noticeably.

My character as an ambitious man, wholly absorbed by state affairs, and

Madame de Fersen's high reputation were too firmly established in public

opinion for society, so constant to its routine habits, not to accept

this situation; and appearances very contrary to these ideas would have

been needed to make it change its point of view towards us.

The impenetrable mystery surrounding our love redoubled it.

I frequently regretted our radiant days at the Grove,--days so calmly

happy, so peaceful,--but on the other hand, in Paris, when I exchanged

with Catherine a tender glance, unperceived by all, I felt that joyful

pride which one always experiences when in possession of a secret at

once formidable and enticing, from which depends the honour, the

existence, and the future of the woman beloved.

Some time before his departure, M. de Fersen had confided to me that his

wife had become indifferent to political matters, which until then had

engaged her attention to a great extent.

After returning to Paris I noticed, with astonishment, that Catherine by

degrees resumed her former relations.

Her salon, where I visited assiduously, was, as formerly, the habitual

meeting-place of the _corps diplomatique._ Before long, subjects which

were spoken of daily became so serious that, with the exception of the

ministers and some influential speakers of the two chambers, the elegant

and frivolous French society disappeared almost entirely from the

gatherings at Madame de Fersen's.

Although serious, these discussions had no true importance; either they

rose so high as to become abstract and impracticable theories, or they

descended to such paltry and positive interests that they became

frivolous and narrow.

The discussions were as infinite and barren as ever on this well-worn

theme: "Would the Restoration resist or yield to democratic influence?"

etc.

Catherine always surprised me by the subtlety of her intellect and the

liberal tendencies of her convictions. One of her great triumphs was in

demonstrating the advantages which France would derive by preferring the

Russian to the English alliance. When I complimented her on this

subject, she laughingly told me that I was France, and that the sole

secret of her eloquence was that.

I might as well have answered that she was my diplomacy; for to please

her I conquered my profound aversion to the European gossip of the

diplomats who habitually met at her house, and I persevered with my work

under M. de Sérigny. Perhaps, also, I remained in this position from a

feeling of pride, which I would not acknowledge, and which, no doubt,

the marked distinction with which the king honoured me had given rise

to, as well as from the sort of importance which it gave me in the

world. Thanks also to my duties, my assiduous presence at Madame de

Fersen's might be attributed to purely political associations.

What charmed me in Catherine was, perhaps, less the influence which she

possessed over those surrounding her, than the exquisite grace with

which she renounced this highly esteemed influence with me. This woman,

with a strong, lofty, even judicial mind, who was listened to with rare

deference, whose least words were heard with respect, showed herself in

our intimacy what she had been at the Grove,--kindly, simple, and gay,

of an effusive tenderness, I might almost say of a submission full of

grace and consideration, always placing her triumphs at my feet, and

laughing with me at their conceit.

Then, for the sake of our love, I would implore her to abandon this life

so uselessly employed.

On this subject alone, did I find Catherine ever intractable. She would

set forth that M. de Fersen would return to Paris; that she had been

guilty of a fault, a grave fault, and that she should at least atone for

it by devoting herself to her husband's wishes. Before his departure he

had bid her most expressly to maintain, and even to extend, the

relations which she had established; and she was obeying his injunctions

more to satisfy her conscience than for her own pleasure.

As much as I, she regretted the former conversations of the saloon on

board the frigate, and, above all, the four months spent at the Grove:

this period of the heart's paradise, as she called it, those priceless

days which shine but once, and never return in life,--no more than youth

returns.

There is nothing more exclusive, more madly absolute than passion. While

acknowledging the truth of Catherine's observations, I could not avoid

feeling wretched at these obligations imposed upon her by remorse for a

fault which I had caused her to commit.

Catherine, however, showed herself so tender, so considerate! With an

incredible tact, she found means to speak to me covertly of ourselves,

even in the midst of apparently serious conversations, and thus won me

to bear in patience the obstacles to our love.

There is nothing, in fact, so delightful as this conventional talk, by

means of which lovers can speak of themselves, their hopes, and their

memories, in the midst of the gravest company. Nothing amused me more

than to see the most solemn men innocently taking part in our ambiguous

conversations.

But these people often made me pay cruelly for these mysterious joys.

They robbed me almost entirely of Catherine's society of an evening, for

they generally met at her house; and frequently of a morning a letter

from one or the other, asking for an interview with Madame de Fersen,

disarranged all our plans.

Catherine suffered from these obstacles as much as I, but how could it

be avoided? Under what pretext could she refuse the request for an

interview? I, who had carried to the most scrupulous sensitiveness the

fear of compromising in the slightest degree her reputation, could I

encourage her in so perilous a step?

No, certainly not; but I suffered cruelly from the thousand obstacles

ever recurring which continually irritated the jealous impatience of my

heart.

Our happiness at the Grove had been so perfect! Enchanting season,

lovely country, complete isolation, mysterious and extreme freedom,

everything had been so beautifully arranged by chance that the

comparison of that past with the present was a continuous source of

irritation.

These regrets did not prevent my enjoying the delightful moments that

remained to us. I had perfect faith in Madame de Fersen's love; my

attacks of distrust of myself and others yielded to the influence of her

noble character, and the conviction that I had this time conducted

myself towards Catherine as few men would have conducted themselves in

my place, and that I, therefore, was deserving of all her tenderness.

I felt so sure of myself that I ventured on certain analytical thoughts

which I would formerly have dreaded. In a word, I had fruitlessly sought

the hidden motives of Madame de Fersen's love; and I confess that,

seeing her high rank, her great influence, her wealth and position, I

could not, in spite of my inventive shrewdness and the resources of my

suspicious mind, I could not, I say, discover what interest Catherine

could have in pretending to love me.

CHAPTER XXVI

SOCIETY GOSSIP

We were at the beginning of November, a Friday, ominous day for me.

For some time, Madame de Fersen, informed of her husband's approaching

return, desirous of dispelling suspicion, had thought best to be at home

at all times, and accessible to every one. Still, she had pledged

herself to give me a few hours to myself.

Our private meetings had become so rare, so difficult to arrange, on

account of the crowd which beset her, that we both attached great value

to this day of happiness. Catherine had been preparing for some time for

this blissful meeting by postponing or putting an end to a thousand

trifling engagements which are like invisible fetters in which a woman

of society, however free she may appear, is daily entangled. The

previous evening, at tea-time, Catherine had renewed her promise, in the

presence of her wonted circle, by telling me, in accordance with the

understanding between us, that she hoped it would be fine weather for

her walk on the morrow.

I remember that Baron de ----, a walking encyclopedia, thereupon opened

a learned meteorologic and astronomic parenthesis, and a lively

discussion ensued upon planetary influences and atmospheric causes.

Several times Catherine and I could scarcely suppress a smile, as we

thought of the mysterious and bewitching cause which served as a basis

for the learned lucubrations of so many wise people. We had to exercise

the greatest control over ourselves to refrain from laughing aloud at

the excellent reasons the papal nuncio gave as a proof that the next day

the weather would be splendid. I was so strongly of this opinion, that I

wildly launched myself on his side, and between us we got the better of

a devilish _chargé d'affaires_ of the United States, who rabidly

predicted, envious republican that he was, execrable weather.

I therefore left Catherine in a state of hopeful excitement, and as

impatient as in the first days of our love.

It seemed to me that my love was greater this day than other days. I had

a thousand golden dreams regarding this meeting, and my heart overflowed

with love and hope.

That evening Catherine had seemed to me even more beautiful and witty.

She had been more admired and more deferred to than usual; and, to our

shame be it said, the praise or censure of the indifferent or envious

invariably cause love to fluctuate between fervour and coldness.

The next morning I was on the point of leaving home, when I received a

line from her. Our meeting could not take place. She had learned that a

discussion of the highest importance, which had been supposed adjourned,

was to take place that very day in the Chamber of Deputies, and that she

was to go there with M. P. de B----, the Russian ambassador.

My regrets, my vexation, my anger and sorrow, were excessive.

The hour for the opening of the debate had not arrived, so I went at

once to Madame de Fersen's.

The footman, instead of announcing me, told me that the princess had

denied herself to every one, as she was then in conference with the

Prussian minister.

If all the ancestors of the Marquis de Brandebourg had been in the

drawing-room I would have entered. I therefore ordered the footman to

announce me.

As a culmination to my despair, Catherine had never been more lovely,

and my vexation, my ill temper, increased still more.

She seemed amazed at my entrance, and the aged Comte de W---- was

visibly annoyed, which, however, was quite immaterial to me.

He took his departure, saying to the princess that they would resume

their conversation later.

"How miserable I am at this disappointment!" said Catherine, sadly, "but

it is nearly one o'clock; the meeting begins at two, and our

ambassador--"

"Eh, madame!" I exclaimed, interrupting her, and violently stamping my

foot, "say no more about Chambers and ambassadors; it is a question of

choosing between my love and the interests of countries to which you

devote yourself. The connection is ridiculous, I admit, but your

unreasonable ways provoke it."

Madame de Fersen gazed at me in profound and pained astonishment, for I

had never accustomed her to such acrimonious methods.

I continued:

"I am moreover delighted to find this opportunity of telling you, once

for all, that your parleys and continual verbiage with these tiresome

and self-sufficient persons are very displeasing to me, and make me

impatient beyond all expression. I never find you alone. You are for

ever surrounded by these people, who find it very convenient to make

your parlours an annex to their legations. I would infinitely prefer

that you should be surrounded by a bevy of the most elegant and the

wittiest young men, and that you showed yourself towards them as great a

coquette as Madame de V----! At least I could be jealous of somebody, I

could vie with some rival in attentions and tenderness for you. But

here, against whom can I struggle? Whom shall I call to account?--the

various nations? I declare to you that I find nothing more humiliating,

more abject, than being reduced to feel jealous of Europe, or to contest

for the heart of the woman I love with orators in the Chambers, as I am

doing this day."

"My dearest, are you speaking seriously?" said Madame de Fersen, with a

timid, shrinking, and yet bantering uncertainty, which would have

enraptured me if Catherine had been less desperately beautiful, and if

certain vexations did not drive you senseless as well as wicked. Madame

de Fersen's question, moreover, exasperated me, for it showed me that my

exhibition of anger approached the comic.

"Loving hearts and generous minds divine the impressions, and do not

question. If you are reduced to asking me what I feel, I pity you. As

for me, I am more clear-sighted, and understand but too well that you no

longer love me."

"I not love you!" exclaimed Madame de Fersen, clasping her hands in

distressed amazement; then she repeated: "I not love you! You say

that--to me?"

"If you loved me, you would for my sake sacrifice all this following

which I detest, because it hampers me, because it is useless, because it

warps your mind. If you loved me, you would sacrifice the gratification

of your vanity to my happiness."

"The gratification of my vanity! It is then from vanity that I preserve,

that I cultivate these relations! _Mon Dieu!_ Must I then repeat to you,

Arthur, what I never say without sorrow and shame? I have been guilty,

let me, at least, do all I can not to aggravate my error."

"Now you are beginning with your remorse," said I, harshly; "a rupture

is not far distant, but, let me tell you, you might be anticipated."

"Ah, what are you saying? It is dreadful,--have I deserved it?" cried

Catherine, her eyes filling with tears.

"His Excellency the Russian ambassador," announced the footman.

Madame de Fersen had barely time to disappear behind the portière which

concealed the door between the parlour and her bedchamber.

"I am, like you, waiting for Madame de Fersen," I said to M. P. de

B----, "she is doubtless finishing her toilet. You are going to the

Chambers, I believe?"

"Yes; it will be a most brilliant and interesting sitting; they say that

Benjamin Constant, Foy, and Casimir Perier are going to speak, and that

M. de Villèle will answer."

Catherine entered, calm and composed, as if nothing had passed between

us.

Her control over herself angered me.

After a few unmeaning words M. P. de B---- remarked that it was getting

late, and it was best to start at once in order to find places in the

diplomatic gallery. He offered his arm to Madame de Fersen, who

suggested that I should go with them, accompanying the proposal with an

imploring glance to which I was insensible.

I left Madame de Fersen in a state of irritation, dissatisfied with her

and with myself.

My carriage drove me to the Tuileries, where I got down for a walk.

By chance I met Pommerive.

I had not seen him since I left Paris in the spring.

I felt so sad, so gloomy, that I was not sorry to find some distraction

for my thoughts.

"Where do you come from, M. de Pommerive?" I inquired.

"Don't speak of it! I have been for three months in Franche-Comté, at

St. Prix, with the D'Aranceys. Don't speak of it, it is disgusting!"

"They are certainly rich enough to give you some of those excellent

dinners you are so fond of, and for which you show yourself so grateful,

M. de Pommerive."

"The only way to show one's gratitude for a good dinner is to eat it

with pleasure," said the cynic. "I don't complain of the table at

D'Arancey's, they have first-rate fare. The father of D'Arancey has

stolen enough by his contracts and otherwise; he has brought about

enough fraudulent bankruptcies to enable his son to display all that

luxury. By the bye, do you know that he has as much right to call

himself D'Arancey, as I have to call myself Jeroboam! His name is simply

something like Polimard; now, this common, low name is not pleasing to

this fine gentleman, so, by means of a slight change, skilfully

substituting D'Aran for Poli, and cey for mard, he has changed the

distinguished name of Polimard into D'Arancey. He likes that better. You

may tell me that this bankrupt's son had no reason to cling to his name,

since he had none at all, for he had never been acknowledged by old

Polimard, who died the victim of an epizooty, which made havoc in his

district. This, however, is not a reason for him to take the name of the

D'Aranceys, and what is worse, their arms, which that vulgar and

impudent little creature, forsooth, calls her arms, and which she

displays, I believe, even on her scullery maids' kitchen aprons. This is

certainly very nice for the escutcheon of the D'Aranceys, whose name

unfortunately is extinct; without that, the Polimards, male and female,

should be whipped and branded, as ought to have been done to old

Polimard, the first of the name."

This time I did not have the courage to censure Pommerive; these people

were, in fact, such low-bred parvenus, their effrontery was so plebeian,

their back-stairs insolence so ridiculous, that I freely and willingly

relinquished them to his tender mercies. "But what has made you so

indignant with your excellent friends, M. de Pommerive?"

"Everything; because everything is first-class, and that their presence

spoils all. Surrounded by this household of common folks, it seemed to

me all the time that I was being entertained by the steward and

housekeeper of some absent lord, who were having fine sport in the

absence of their master. But that is not all. Would you believe it? This

Polimard-d'Arancey gets a fancy to set up a hunting retinue, and he has

dared, actually dared, to engage as his first huntsman the famous La

Brisée, who had just left the kennels of his Highness the Duke of

Bourbon. Of course you will understand that I made La Brisée feel so

ashamed at being chief huntsman to a M. Polimard, that I made him

desert, giving him, however, a recommendation to the Marquis D. H----,

where, at least, he will have an honourable position and be

appreciated."

"I see, M. de Pommerive, that you are not much changed; you are as ever

the most amiable of men."

"But you,--what are you doing? Still a statesman! A diplomat? Ah, by the

bye, talking of diplomats, do you still go to that idiot of a Russian

prince, that bad substitute for Potier and Brunet? I never set my foot

now inside his door, or rather inside his wife's door, for happily for

us he has taken himself away."

"And for what reason is the Princesse de Fersen deprived of the honour

of seeing you, M. de Pommerive?"

"Why? Because I generally do like every one else; and, excepting

diplomats and a few strangers, nobody in society sets a foot inside the

princess's door."

"And why is this?" I inquired, almost mechanically, of M. de Pommerive.

"Forsooth! It is no secret, everybody knows it. The beautiful Muscovite

is just simply a spy in high life."

CHAPTER XXVII

THE LAST EVENING

One more effort, and this cruel task will be at an end.

In vain I call upon my memory; I cannot remember what I said to

Pommerive, and believe I made no reply.

I only remember that I felt neither indignant nor angry, as I would have

been had this man uttered a calumny or an insult; on the contrary, I was

utterly overwhelmed in the presence of this terrible accusation! It

suddenly illumined the past with a sinister light, it abruptly aroused

those implacable suspicions, of which I at once felt the sharp sting.

My grief was such that my brain was frenzied.

Mechanically I returned home, finding my way by instinct.

By degrees, I regained the thread of my ideas.

I had already suffered so much from similar causes that I endeavoured to

struggle with all my might against this new suspicion.

I hoped to sift truth from falsehood, by submitting the past to the

horrible interpretation given to Madame de Fersen's life.

Armed with this infamous accusation, cold and calm, like a man about to

stake his life and honour on a chance, I set myself to this work of

hateful analysis.

This time, also, I cleared my thoughts, by writing them down, and I find

these notes. They contrast cruelly with the preceding radiant pages,

with those days of sunlight written formerly at the Grove.

PARIS, 13th December, 18--.

Let us examine the facts.

Madame de Fersen is accused of being a spy.

What credit does her conduct give to these infamous suspicions?

I meet Catherine at Khios. After several days of intercourse, I attempt

a declaration, which she severely repulses; then I surround her with the

most respectful attentions, I give her counsels the most delicate and

disinterested. If I do not utter the word love, everything in my tender

and eager attentions reveals this sentiment.

She remains cold, and offers me her friendship.

I again meet Catherine in Paris. In spite of my blind submission to

Irene's painful whims, in spite of the numberless proofs of the deepest

and most noble passion, one day, without cause, without hesitation,

under the most frivolous pretext, Catherine cruelly breaks with me.

Later, it is true, she tells me that jealousy alone was responsible for

her conduct.

She said that; but I remember the harshness of her accent, her steely

glance, which struck me to the heart.

She was doubtless feigning; she can, therefore, dissimulate; she is

false. I did not believe it.

The mysterious affection of which Irene was the bond is now broken.

Catherine loves me no more! She shows herself even ungrateful, as a

friend. I see her no more.

In despair, I seek distraction in work. I accept a position of apparent

importance with the minister; public opinion attributes to me an

exaggerated share in state affairs. From this time, Madame de Fersen,

until now so inflexible towards me, by degrees becomes less cold when

she meets me in society; her looks, the tone of her voice, do not

harmonise with the conventional trifling of her conversation; and, at

last, at a ball at the château, she comes resolutely towards me, with

the view of renewing our interrupted relations. I meet coldly these

advances, and the next morning she writes to me.

This she has confessed to me. This sudden change in her affections she

attributes to her joy at my breaking with Madame de V---- and to the

alarming condition in which her child had once more fallen.

I wish to believe her, for it would be odious to think that the abrupt

change from disdain to tenderness should have been brought about by the

hope of securing to herself a tool in the very heart of the French

cabinet.

I leave for Havre. Irene is at death's door; her mother recalls me. I

hasten, I save her.

During a whole month that I am by the child's bedside, does Catherine

utter one word of gratitude, one word of tenderness?

No.

We go to the Grove; she shows the same calm, cold feeling towards me.

But one day an official publication announces that I am to be called to

a high post, where state secrets culminate.

The evening of that very day, this woman, until then so austere, so

reserved, so chaste, throws herself suddenly into my arms.

It is true, she says she was drawn by her grateful admiration for a

sacrifice unknown to her until then.

If she is to be believed, what is her heart made of?

I have saved her child's life, and Catherine remains insensible.

I sustain a financial loss, and Catherine forgets all for my sake.

And yet I prefer to believe Catherine more sensitive to material

sacrifices, and almost indifferent to the soul's devotion, than to

believe she unblushingly gave herself to the future confidant of the

Minister of Foreign Affairs.

Those four months passed at the Grove were radiant, oh, very radiant for

me, whose happiness was pure, and not tinged with shame.

Only, at this moment, circumstances strike me which I had not previously

observed.

At the Grove, Catherine plied me with questions as to my labours with M.

de Sérigny; she interrogated me minutely as to the impressions or

memories which I retained. When I confessed frankly their

insignificance, and chose rather to speak of our love, she was annoyed

and pouted, she reproached me with being either too discreet or too

frivolous.

When I wished to abandon the ungrateful career which I had adopted in

idleness, Catherine employed all the resources of her mind, all her

influence, all her power over me to deter me from resigning my position.

It is true that these questions and this persuasion were alike used in

the name of the profound interest which she felt for me.

I believe it, for it would be outrageous to suppose that her reluctance

to see me abandon my career was prompted by her reluctance to forfeit

the price of her long premeditated error.

Since her return to Paris, what has her life been? Did she sacrifice at

my request her accustomed social relations? On the contrary, she

increased them, and her drawing-room has become a centre of diplomatic

intrigue.

Our long days of tender affection have given place to occupations which

are not those of a woman dominated by love.

If I sadly reproach her for this unhappy change, her answer is that she

must obey her husband's expressed wishes,--wishes that are all the more

sacred to her since she has been guilty of so censurable an error.

I believe her in this case, without hesitation. I believe her very

anxious to please the prince.

But I also have some rights.

I saved her child's life.

And what did she give me in return?

Herself, yes, she gave me herself.

This sacrifice of her honour, of her duties, has been either terrible

and intoxicating, or it has only been an infamous, an odious

calculation!

If this proof of love has been for her what it ever is for a virtuous,

passionate woman, a most agonising sacrifice, why did she then refuse to

abandon interests that were of the utmost insignificance in comparison

with the irreparable fault she had committed?

Are these interests dearer to her than her love? Is her love only

secondary to them?

It is, then, only a means, a pretext?

So be it; I have been the puppet of an intriguing woman, but she is very

beautiful, and I am only half her dupe.

Such was the abominable theme I developed with the diabolical power of

paradoxes.

I was so incensed that I firmly believed I had wrestled against these

frightful suspicions; and I became convinced of these horrors with the

same bitter satisfaction of the man who discovers the vile snare into

which he has fallen.

As an executioner I struck pitilessly, as a victim I moaned bitterly.

The remembrance of Hélène, of Marguerite, of Falmouth,--nothing could

bring me to my senses.

From the confirmation of so much infamy to the hate and scorn it

inspired, there was but one step for my fierce monomania.

From this point of view, all that was noble and generous in my conduct

seemed to me shamefully ridiculous.

I was oppressed by these reflections when this letter from Catherine was

handed to me:

"A sad, unhappy petitioner asks you to be kind and indulgent towards

her; she wants you to pardon all that she has suffered to-day; she hopes

to be alone this evening, and will expect you. Come; she is, moreover,

resolved that Europe shall no longer be your rival."

In my state of mind, this letter so tenderly imploring, this simple

allusion to my reproaches, seemed to me so humbly offensive, so coldly

insulting, that I was on the point of writing to Madame de Fersen that I

would never again see her.

But I changed my mind.

I wrote to her that I would call on her that evening.

I waited for the hour with frightful anxiety.

I had laid my plan.

At ten o'clock I went to Madame de Fersen's, expecting to find her

alone.

A thousand confused thoughts were rushing through my mind. Anger, hate,

love, a remorseful anticipation of the wrong I was about to commit, a

vague instinct of the injustice of my suspicions, all combined to put me

in a feverish exasperated condition, the consequences of which I could

not foresee.

Contrary to my expectations, Catherine had several persons with her.

This new proof of what I called her falsehood incensed me; for a moment

I was on the point of turning back and abandoning my purpose, but an

irresistible force drove me, and I entered.

The sight of people, and the control which I had always possessed over

myself, at once changed my violent anger into a polished, cold, and

biting irony.

This scene is still present to me. Catherine, seated near the fireplace,

was chatting with a friend.

My first look was doubtless very terrible, for Madame de Fersen,

bewildered, suddenly turned pale.

The conversation continued; I shared in it with the greatest calmness,

even asserting my superiority, for I was gay, almost brilliant.

For those who were unacquainted with the circumstances, there was

nothing extraordinary; it was a pleasant evening of friendly

conversation, like a thousand other evenings; but between Catherine and

me, a mute, mysterious, tragic scene was being enacted.

Our way of understanding each other by half words, of seeking and

divining the value of an inflection of the voice, of a gesture, or a

smile, enabled me now to make Catherine undergo the reaction of my

odious thoughts.

At my entrance, Catherine was amazed.

She endeavoured, however, to recover herself, and, to show me that she

had received people against her will, she graciously thanked M. de ----

for having forced an entrance to acquaint her with the result of the

vote which had been taken at a very late hour. "Without that," continued

Catherine, "I would have been deprived of the pleasure of seeing several

of my friends, who took advantage of the breach you made to invade my

solitude."

An imploring glance at me accompanied these words. While continuing my

conversation with M. de ----, my neighbour, I replied by so scornful a

smile that Catherine all but betrayed herself.

What shall I say? All these attempts which she indirectly made to calm

me, or to grasp at the cause of so deep a resentment, were thus cruelly

repulsed.

She knew too well the various expressions of my countenance, her heart

was too much in unison with mine, she was of too sensitive a nature, not

to divine that it was not a question of a lover's quarrel, but that a

great danger menaced her love.

She had a presentiment of this danger; in despair she sought its cause,

and was obliged to smile, and to follow an indifferent conversation.

This torture lasted one hour.

By degrees, her strength and self-control abandoned her; two or three

times her absent-mindedness had been noticed; and, at last, there was

such a change in her features that M. de ---- inquired if she were not

well.

This question confused her; she answered she was well, and rang the bell

for tea.

It was eleven o'clock.

She took advantage of the momentary disturbance caused by the

preparations for tea to come near me, saying:

"Will you come and see a picture which is offered me for sale? It is

there in the small parlour."

"I am not much of a connoisseur," I replied, "but if I cannot venture on

advising you, madame, I promise to give you truthfully my impressions."

I followed her into the next room.

At the risk of being seen, she took my hand, and in a voice almost

extinct she said: "Arthur, have pity on me! What I am suffering is

beyond my strength, beyond my courage!"

At this moment, M. de ---- also entered the parlour to see the picture.

Madame de Fersen had so completely lost her head, that I had abruptly to

withdraw my hand from hers.

I believe M. de ---- noticed the movement, for he appeared confused.

"This picture is very good," I said to Catherine, "the expression is

charming. Art has never more closely approached to nature."

Madame de Fersen was so weak that she leaned upon an easy chair.

M. de ---- admired the picture complacently. The servant announced to

the princess that tea was ready.

We returned to the drawing-room. Catherine could scarcely stand.

According to her custom, she stood near the table pouring out the tea;

she offered me a cup, and was gazing at me almost wildly, when the

cracking of a whip and the jingling of bells were heard in the

courtyard.

Struck by a terrible presentiment, Catherine allowed the cup to slip

from her fingers just as I was about to take hold of it, and cried, in a

strangled voice: "What is that?"

"A thousand pardons for my awkwardness, madame, and for the noise those

wretches are making. As I take my departure to-night, I have taken the

liberty to order my travelling carriage to come for me here, not wishing

to lose one moment of the precious time I might enjoy your society."

Catherine could not resist this last shock; she forgot herself

completely, and, in a smothered voice, resting her trembling hands upon

my arm, she cried: "It is impossible, you are not leaving, you shall not

leave! I will not allow you to leave!"

At the movement of general consternation, at the confused, embarrassed

expression of the spectators of this scene, I could see that Madame de

Fersen's reputation, hitherto unassailed, was now for ever lost.

I remained inflexible.

Gently disengaging my arm from her hands, I said:

"I feel so happy and proud, madame, at the regret my departure seems to

give you, that I would already be thinking of my return, were it not

unfortunately impossible to predict it." Then in saluting her I added:

"Here, madame, are the particulars you asked of me."

And I handed her a duplicate of the commentary I had written on her

love.

Catherine no longer heard me; she had fallen prostrated into an

armchair, mechanically holding in her hands the notes I had left her.

I took my departure.

The next evening I was here,--at Serval.

Three months ago I heard that Irene was dead,--dead, doubtless, of grief

at seeing me no more.

Madame de Fersen has returned to Russia with her husband.

To put the crowning stroke to my remorse and despair, I also learned

that the Prince de Fersen had been on the point of obtaining the post of

Russian ambassador to France, but that suddenly he had withdrawn.

This explained Catherine's persistence in her diplomatic relations.

She wanted to assist her husband in obtaining an important post, in

order that they might remain in France, and be with me.

Since the day following that terrible evening I reside at Serval, this

old and gloomy ancestral château.

When I heard of Irene's death, I became almost insane.

I loathe myself as her murderer.

My life here is isolated and desolate.

For the last six months I have seen no one, not a soul.

Each day I meditate for hours before my father's portrait.

I had charged myself with the task of writing this journal.

My task is now accomplished.

I have been the cause of suffering to some innocent creatures, but I,

also, have suffered much. Ah, _mon Dieu!_ am I not still suffering?

What is my future?

Before me life is dark and gloomy; I am pursued by remorse for the past.

What is my fate?

Am I to perish by suicide? Am I to die the violent death Irene predicted

for me?

What thoughts!

And this very day I am twenty-eight.

MARIE BELMONT

CHAPTER XXVIII

MARIE BELMONT

SERVAL, January 20, 18--.

Who would have said six months ago that I would ever take up this

journal again, or, rather, that I would ever recover from the apathy of

heart and mind into which I had been thrown by my rupture with Madame de

Fersen, by the death of Irene?

Such, though, is the case.

And yet my despair was frightful!

To-day, though the remembrance of that time gives me sore pain, a

distant hope, new sensations mitigate that soreness.

I smile, sadly when I read in my journal, which I have just been looking

over, these words repeated so often:

"Never was there greater sorrow--"

"Never was there more happiness--"

"Never can I forget--"

And now new joys have obliterated those sorrows; new troubles have faded

those joys. Thus day after day, forgetfulness, that dark, cold tide,

creeps up higher, higher, and swallows up in the black abyss of the past

the souvenirs that time has discoloured.

My mother! my father! Hélène! Marguerite! Catherine! you to whom I owe

so much sorrow and so much felicity! Space or the tomb now separates you

all from me; and I scarcely think of you at all!

Perhaps, alas! it will be even so with the feelings and impressions that

fill my mind at the present time.

In spite of which I cannot help believing that they will last for ever.

Ah, my father! my father! you told me a very dreadful, a very dangerous

truth, when you affirmed that forgetfulness was the only reality of our

lives.

Thus, then, will I open this journal that I believed was closed for

ever.

I believed, too, that my heart was closed to all tender and happy

impressions.

But since I can still suffer, I will continue to write:

Three months ago on a cloudy autumn morning I went out early. A cold,

thick fog was falling. I followed the edge of the forest, and was

walking dreamily along, while behind me came an old black pony, the

venerable Black that my cousin Hélène used to ride so often in the old

days.

As I went along thus, with my head bowed towards the ground, I saw the

newly made tracks of a great wild boar.

Having lately been seeking to divert myself by violent exercise, I had

brought thirty fox-hounds over from London, and begun to hunt in fairly

good style, to the great delight of old Lefort, one of my father's

"whippers-in," whom I had retained as head keeper.

In following, out of curiosity, the trace of the boar, whose presence in

the forest had been unknown up to this time, I left the edge of the

woods and plunged deep into the undergrowth. After walking about three

leagues I arrived at a little farm, called the _ferme des Prés_, which

was situated on the confines of immense fields. Here I lost trace of the

wild boar.

This farm had recently been leased to a widow, named Madame Kerouët. My

superintendent had spoken to me of the great activity of this woman, who

came from the neighbourhood of Nantes, the death of her husband having

caused her to quit the place that she helped him to farm in Brittany. I

thought I would profit by the chance that had led me to the farm to make

the acquaintance of my new tenant.

_La ferme des Prés_ was in a very picturesque situation. Its principal

building, surrounded by a vast courtyard, backed up on the edge of the

forest. This habitation, which had formerly been a hunting lodge, was

built in the form of a little castle, flanked by two towers. An arched

doorway, surmounted by a coat-of-arms, led in to the ground floor. Time

had given a gray colouring to these old walls, which were built with

antique solidity. The tiles of the roof were all covered with moss, and

clouds of pigeons swarmed around the pointed cone of one of the towers

which had been changed into a pigeon-house.

Contrary to the custom of most of our farmers, the courtyard of the

farm, instead of being littered with rubbish, was extremely clean and

well kept. The ploughs, the harrows, the drills, were all newly painted

of a fine olive-green colour, and were symmetrically arranged under a

vast shed, along with the harness of the workhorses and yokes of the

oxen.

A thick trellis divided the courtyard in its entire length, and

separated it into two parts, one of which was given up to fowls of every

kind, while the other was well sprinkled sand the colour of yellow

ochre, and led up to the arched door of the little manor-house, on each

side of which were great clumps of hollyhocks and sunflowers.

I was examining with satisfaction the exterior of the farmhouse, when I

heard with the greatest surprise the harmonious warbling of a sweet,

clear voice.

These sounds seemed to come from a little window. It was high and

narrow, and was placed near the middle of one of the towers, where it

was curtained by the thick vines of the morning-glory and nasturtiums.

After preluding thus, the voice was silent for awhile, but soon broke

out again, singing the romance of the willow from Rossini's "Othello."

The voice was of remarkable quality, and showed high cultivation. It was

very expressive, and full of sweetness and sadness.

I was greatly astonished. The song had ceased and I was still listening,

when I saw a woman of fifty or thereabouts appear on the sill of the

little arched doorway. She wore a black dress and a cap which was as

white as the snow.

When she noticed me, she gave me a look of uneasy interrogation.

She was of medium height, sturdy, brown-eyed, and sunburnt. Her face had

a remarkable expression of frankness and good temper.

"What can I do to serve you, monsieur?" she asked, with a half courtesy,

which was no doubt due to my poor old pony, and my costume of

gentleman-farmer, as the English say.

"It is beginning to rain, madame. Will you permit me to wait here awhile

under shelter, and tell me if I am very far from the village of

Blémur?"

This question was nothing but a pretext to gain time, and try to

discover the Desdemona.

"The village of Blémur, blessed Virgin! but you will never get there

before the black night, monsieur, though you have got a famous little

horse there," said the _fermière_, as she examined Black with the eye

of a connoisseur.

"Must I follow the highroad of the forest to go to Blémur?"

"Straight ahead, monsieur; one way you go to Blémur, and the other way

to the château de Serval, and it is three good leagues, they say so at

least, for I haven't been very long in this part of the country."

"Then you will allow me, madame, to wait here under the shed until the

shower is over?"

"I can do better than that, monsieur; you will be much better off here

in the house, come in if you please."

"I will be very glad to accept your offer, madame, though seeing such a

beautifully kept shed, I could easily fancy myself in a salon."

This compliment pleased Madame Kerouët immensely, for she said, in an

important way:

"Ah, _dame!_ that is the way we always keep our farms in our Brittany."

All the while I was talking with the _fermière_ I had not taken my eyes

off the little window in the tower; several times I fancied I saw a

white hand cautiously push aside some branches of the verdure which

covered the window.

Madame Kerouët preceded me into the farmhouse. I tied up Black, and

followed the good woman into her home.

To the left of the entrance door was a kitchen ornamented with all its

accessories of copper and tin, which two strong peasant girls were

busily scouring and which shone like gold and silver.

On the right we entered a great chamber, where there were two beds with

twisted columns hung with curtains of green serge which were embroidered

in red. These two beds were separated by a high chimneypiece where a

good fire of pine cones was flaming. On the mantelpiece the only

ornaments were an old looking-glass with its frame of red lacquer, and

two wax statuettes under glass shades,--a St. John with his lamb, and a

St. Genevieve with her fawn.

Between the two windows with their little diamond panes there hung on

the wall an antique clock called a cuckoo; it was of gray wood painted

with pink and blue flowers, and its two weights hung down on two cords

of unequal length.

There was a spinning-wheel, a great armchair covered with tapestry,

which was sacred to the mistress, a chair for Desdemona, two stools for

the servant-maids, and a dresser loaded with faience. These articles,

with a round, well-waxed walnut table, completed the furniture of the

room, which served as a parlour, dining-room, and bedroom.

From the diamond window-panes to the floor everything shone with

cleanliness. From the brown beams which crossed the ceiling were hanging

long garlands of grapes dried for use in winter, and the whitewashed

walls were ornamented with a set of coloured engravings framed in black

wood, which illustrated the story of the Prodigal Son.

The mistress received my compliments on the neatness of her house with

evident pride. While I was speaking the door opened, and the young woman

who sang so well came in. When she saw me, she blushed, and started out

again.

"Stay with us, Marie," Madame Kerouët said to her, affectionately.

I could not look on the enchanting beauty of that face without thinking

of the Holy Virgins of Raphaël.

My admiration was so marked, my astonishment so great, on finding such

beauty hidden in a farmhouse,--and I took no pains to conceal my

feelings,--that Marie was quite taken back.

"This is my niece, monsieur," said the _fermière_, who neither noticed

my surprise nor Desdemona's trouble. "She is the daughter of my poor

brother, lieutenant in the Old Guard, who was killed at Waterloo. Thanks

to the protection of Monseigneur the Bishop of Nantes, we were permitted

to send Marie to St. Denis, where she was educated like a demoiselle.

She remained there until her marriage, which took place at Nantes about

a year ago." Madame Kerouët said this with a sigh. Then she continued:

"But sit down, monsieur; and thou, Marie, go get a bottle of wine and a

bit of warm _galette._"

"A thousand thanks, madame," said I, "I would rather not take anything.

As soon as the rain is over I will continue on my journey."

To keep herself in countenance, Marie sat down to her aunt's

spinning-wheel.

"Perhaps you are on your way to the château de Serval?"

"Non, madame; I told you I was going to Blémur."

"Ah, yes, to be sure, to Blémur; pardon, monsieur,--so much the better

for you."

"How is that, madame? Is the master of Serval inhospitable?"

"I don't know anything about that, monsieur; but they do say that he has

no more wish to see human faces than human faces have to see him,"

replied Madame Kerouët.

"And why is that? Does he wish to live alone?"

"Hum, hum!" said the _fermière_, shaking her head, "I have only just

come to these parts, and don't know the truth of the ugly stories they

tell about him; besides, monsieur, the count is our master, and a very

good master, they say; so I won't speak of what is none of my business.

But, Marie, you are tangling all my flax again," she called out to the

young woman. "Never wilt thou know how to use a distaff; hand it to me."

"And you, madame," I said to Marie, "have you any more certain

information than madame your aunt as to the redoubtable inhabitant of

Serval?"

"No, monsieur, I have only heard them say that M. the count lived a very

retired life; and as I love solitude myself, I can understand that

others care for it as well."

"You have so many means of charming your retreat, madame, that I can

readily believe it must be attractive; in the first place, you are an

excellent musician. I can say so, because I have just been fortunate

enough to hear you sing."

"And she can draw and paint, too," added Madame Kerouët, admiringly.

"Then, madame," said I to Marie, "I must beg you, in the name of the

cherished occupation which we share in common, to ask your aunt to grant

me the permission of making some sketches of this farm whose situation I

find so charming."

"You have no need of asking Marie's aid for that," said Madame Kerouët;

"you can make as many sketches as you wish, it can do nobody any harm."

I thanked the _fermière_; and, not wishing to make too long a first

visit, I mounted my pony and started off.

Through caprice, I desired to keep up my _incognito_, which would be

easy enough for awhile at least, for the Field Farm was quite a distance

from Serval, and the tenants and farm hands from the one place hardly

ever came over to the other.

The day after my first interview with Marie I furnished myself with the

complete outfit of an artist; for since my return to Serval, I, too, had

sought distraction in painting, and, mounted on good old Black, I

started for the Field Farm.

Thanks to my frequent visits, a certain amount of friendliness was

established between Marie, her aunt, and myself.

As I never saw any M. Belmont, I supposed him to be on a journey, and

asked no questions about him. I drew the farm from every point of view,

and I gave two or three of the sketches to Madame Kerouët, who was

enchanted with them. Very often Marie came out and sketched with me. She

had a great deal of talent.

Contrary to the habit of most young girls, Marie had profited by the

excellent education that is afforded in such establishments as St.

Denis. Fond of learning, she had neglected none of her studies, none of

the useful or agreeable arts that were taught in that institution; so

that, being naturally gifted, she had cultivated her talents to the

utmost. To a solid, extended, and varied instruction, she added a real

vocation for art. But Marie was quite unconscious of the rarity of such

an assemblage of delightful talents. She never showed the least vanity

in her superiority, but would often, with a schoolgirl's satisfaction,

tell me of her former successes in history, painting, or music, as I had

heard other women tell of their triumphs in coquetry.

Marie was only eighteen, and had the happy and fanciful imagination of a

child. When she was in a confidential mood, I found her to be simple,

sweet-tempered, and gay. She possessed that innocent gaiety which is the

outcome of a serene soul and a life of intelligent and noble occupation.

The more I studied her guileless nature, the more attached to her I

became.

I did not feel for Marie a violent and wild passion, but when she was

near me I was so perfectly and entirely happy that I had no desire for

anything further, nor any regret for the turmoil of a passionate love.

Strangely, though Marie was so angelically beautiful, though her form

was charming, I was more interested in her wit, her candour, and the

thousand aspirations of her young soul, than in her physical

perfections. I had never made her the least compliment on her beauty,

but I had never made any secret of the interest I felt in her talents

and her exquisite natural gifts.

Although she was a married woman, she possessed such a mysterious and

virginal charm that my behaviour towards her was respectful and even

singularly timid.

Madame Kerouët, Marie's aunt, was a woman of rare good sense. She was

high-minded and kind-hearted. Her piety, which was sweet and fervent,

inspired her to do the most charitable actions. No poor person ever left

the farm without having received, besides a trifling sum of money, some

of those words of encouragement more precious than alms.

Little by little I discovered in this good woman a very treasure-house

of kindness and practical virtue. Her conversations were always

interesting to me, for she could tell me many curious facts concerning

agriculture. Sometimes her perfect faith gave an elevation to her

thoughts that surprised me, and I would say to myself, "What is the

secret of a religion that can so illuminate a simple mind?"

I had been visiting the farm assiduously for two months when one day

Madame Kerouët said to me:

"It must astonish you to see Marie thus living the life of a widow. As

you are our friend I am going to tell you the whole sad story. Figure to

yourself, monsieur, that my husband and I had the lease of a farm at

Thouars near Nantes. The farm belonged to M. Duvallon, a rich ship-owner

of the town, who owed the beginning of his fortune to having sailed as a

pirate during the war with England.

"Though he was surly, M. Duvallon was kind; he was very fond of my

husband. One day Kerouët told him about our niece, who was soon to come

home from St. Denis. With her fine education, that dear child could not

marry a peasant, and we were not rich enough to marry her to a monsieur.

Seeing our state of embarrassment, M. Duvallon said to Kerouët: 'If

your niece is reasonable I will take it upon myself to settle her in

life.'

"'With whom?' asked my husband.

"'With one of my old comrades, a sea captain who wishes to give up the

sea and live as a good bourgeois. He has just come here. He is rich. He

is not a dandy, but he is as good as gold and as true as steel, and I am

sure he will make your niece perfectly happy.'

"Kerouët came home and told me all this. It was a rare piece of good

luck for us and, above all, for Marie, the poor orphan.

"This was in the month of October last year. Marie being now eighteen

years old could no longer remain at St. Denis. So we sent for her to

come to the farm, and arranged for a day on which M. Duvallon should

bring his friend, M. Belmont, to see our niece before coming to any

conclusion, you understand.

"That day, it was a Sunday, our farm was as clean as a pin. Kerouët,

Marie, and I were all decked out in our best, when M. Duvallon arrives

in a cabriolet with his friend. What could we do, monsieur? Without

doubt his friend was not what you call a _joli garçon_, but he had the

cross of honour, the look of a brave man, and he seemed very well

preserved for his age, which might be from forty-five to fifty.

"This monsieur was very amiable to us. From time to time I would look at

Marie; she did not seem to be particularly taken with M. Belmont, but I

knew she was reasonable, and then, monsieur, with her education I felt

that what she needed above all things was a certain amount of means, and

that we ought to sacrifice a great many things to that end. It was a

misfortune, no doubt, but we were not in a position to choose. When

those messieurs were gone, we told Marie frankly what it was all about.

"_Dame!_ monsieur, we all shed a lot of tears, she and I and my poor

Kerouët, for our poor dear child was very young, and M. Belmont was

very old for her, but at least Marie would be provided for in the future

and we could die in peace and tranquillity.

"She understood all that and was resigned, so the next day when M.

Duvallon came back we gave him our word.

"For a fortnight M. Belmont came to see us every day. Folks say that

sailors are rough and surly. He was very polite, very kind, very

complaisant to Marie, so she ended by seeing him without dislike and was

touched by the proofs of affection that he showed her.

"Then what was more pleasing to us was that Marie was not to be

separated from us, for he meant to buy a little country place near

Thouars, and so we should be able to see each other every day.

"Well, at last she got so used to seeing M. Belmont that she consented

to paint his portrait. She keeps it up there in her study in the tower,

where she doesn't permit any one to enter. It is as like as like can be.

"About the last of December, M. Belmont told us that he was going to

Paris to buy the wedding presents, the marriage was to take place at

Nantes during the month of January.

"At the end of a fortnight, M. Belmont came back with splendid things

for Marie.

"Since the sad event which has separated us, I have remembered that

after his return from Paris M. Belmont often seemed to be very much

depressed; but he was always good and kind to us; only he insisted that

instead of waiting until the first of February, the date fixed for the

marriage, the wedding should take place sooner.

"We consented to this, and they were married on the seventeenth of

January; it was a Friday. In the morning we signed the contract. M.

Belmont settled on Marie six thousand francs a year. For folks like us

it was very fine, was it not, monsieur?

"After signing the contract we went to the _mairie_, and then to the

church, and we all came back to dinner to the country house of M.

Duvallon, who was M. Belmont's best man.

"We were all seated at the table and had got as far as dessert. M.

Belmont had just begun to sing some verses he had composed on his

marriage, the poor dear man, when all of a sudden there arrived from

Nantes one of M. Duvallon's servants. He hands a letter to his master.

M. Duvallon turns pale, gets up from the table and cries out, 'Belmont!

listen!' I remember that poor Belmont was singing at that moment a verse

that began like this: 'Hymen waves his torch.'

"M. Belmont gets up, but he has hardly read the letter which Duvallon

shows him when he makes a face,--ah, monsieur, such a terrible face,

that I have yet to understand how a man who had ordinarily such a kind

look could ever take on such an expression of ferocity.

"Then, controlling himself, he goes up to Marie, kisses her, and says:

'Don't worry about me, my _petite femme_, thou shalt have news of me

very soon;' then he disappeared with Duvallon, who said to us, as he

went out: 'Belmont is compromised in a political affair

like--_carbonaro._' Yes, that is the word, _carbonaro_," added Madame

Kerouët, in recalling her souvenirs. "'He must escape, his life depends

on it. If they come here to arrest him, try and keep the _commissaire_

here as long as possible.'

"They had hardly been gone a quarter of an hour when an officer of the

gendarmerie arrives in a carriage with a _commissaire_ of police, as

they had foreseen. They ask for M. Belmont, sea captain.

"You know very well that we said never a word. They seek everywhere, but

find no one, and they keep that up for at least two hours.

"The _commissaire_ was about to give it up when some one of the company,

having by accident spoken of the three-master _La Belle Alexandrine_,

which was to sail that day from Nantes, the brigadier of gendarmerie

cried out: 'And the tide is high at three o'clock! And now it is five!

Before we can get back to Nantes it will be seven o'clock. If our man

means to get away on that ship, he will be out of the mouth of the river

by seven o'clock this evening, and beyond our reach.'

"Thereupon they all get into the carriage with the _commissaire_, and

start back for Nantes at a gallop; but they got there too late. That

poor dear Belmont had been lucky enough to embark on _La Belle

Alexandrine_, and was off to Havana. M. Duvallon came the next day to

tell us all about it.

"Alas! monsieur, misfortunes never come alone. Two months after all

these events, my poor Kerouët died of lung fever.

"M. Duvallon sold the farm he owned at Thouars, and I should have been

without resources if the superintendent of the château of Serval, who

was acquainted with Kerouët, and knew that I was capable of managing a

farm, had not proposed that I should rent this one, where I am very

contented, but alas, I regret every day my poor Kerouët, and am still

very uneasy as to the fate of M. Belmont, who has only written to us

once by a vessel from Nantes which _La Belle Alexandrine_ met at sea.

"In his letter, Belmont told us not to worry, and that one of these days

he would return and surprise us. As for Marie, I cannot say that she

grieves very much for M. Belmont, the poor dear child, she knew him too

little for that; but, monsieur, I am sorry for all this on her account,

for should I die to-morrow what would become of her?

"To complete all, she is so scrupulous that it is impossible to get her

to decide to touch a cent of the six thousand francs which M. Belmont

settled on her, and which M. Duvallon sends her every three months. We

take the money to a notary at Nantes, and there it will stay until

Belmont comes back again, and that will be the Lord knows when."

Such was the recital of Madame Kerouët.

In fact, about the time of M. Belmont's departure, the police had

discovered several Liberal plots. It was a time when secret societies

were organising on a formidable scale; therefore, it was quite possible

that he had been seriously mixed up in a conspiracy against the

government.

Since having this confidential conversation with her aunt, Marie

appeared lovelier than ever to me, and more charming.

So I continued my daily visits to the farm; sometimes even, when it was

snowing or excessively cold, good Madame Kerouët invited me to stay

there all night, and became quite provoked when I proposed starting off

in the dark to go through the forest by the ill-kept road which led to

Blémur, where I was supposed to live.

If I decided to remain, Marie would innocently show how pleased she was;

there would be almost a little fête at the farm. Madame Kerouët busied

herself about the details of the dinner, and Marie, who slept in her

aunt's room, with attentive and gracious hospitality saw that nothing

was wanting in the little room destined for me, which was up in one of

the towers.

That hospitality so kindly and thoughtful touched me deeply; but what

proved to me the purity of sentiment of these two women, and their

generous confidence in me, was the fact, that they never thought for a

moment that the frequency of my visits might compromise them. My arrival

always pleased them; I enlivened and brightened their solitude; and if I

thanked them with effusion for all their kindness to me, Madame Kerouët

would say, naïvely: "Should not we poor country women rather be

grateful that you, monsieur, an artist (they supposed I was a painter),

should help us to pass our long winter evenings so pleasantly, coming

almost every day, three leagues to come and three leagues to go back

again,--such horrid weather, too! _Tenez_, M. Arthur," said the

good-hearted woman. "I don't know how it has come about, but now you are

like one of our own family, and if you had to give up your visits we

would be quite miserable and sad, is not that so, Marie?"

"Oh, certainly we would, my aunt," said Marie, with adorable candour.

I knew that Marie had very few books. She spoke perfectly well both

English and Italian. I therefore sent to Paris for a set of books, and

ordered them to be sent by way of Nantes, and from Nantes to be

forwarded to the farm.

Just as I had hoped, the present of the books was attributed to M.

Belmont, or to his friend, M. Duvallon.

By such means, I succeeded in surrounding Marie and her aunt with a

certain degree of comfort which was until then wanting. Little at a time

furniture and carpets arrived at the farm, and were received joyfully as

an attention from the exile or his friend.

Filled with gratitude, Marie wrote a charming letter of thanks to M.

Duvallon, who answered her saying that he did not understand a word of

Madame Belmont's gratitude.

Fearing discovery, I begged Madame Kerouët not to speak any more of

these presents, making her believe that M. Belmont had good reasons for

wishing for secrecy.

Marie's birthday was soon to be celebrated. On that anniversary she was

to permit me to enter the mysterious little room she called her study,

and which I had not been allowed to see before.

Knowing that the room was exactly like the one I inhabited in the

opposite tower, such times as I slept all night at the farm, I had sent

from Paris, still by the way of Nantes, all that was needed to furnish

it with elegance. One of Marie's greatest regrets was that she had

neither piano nor harp. I sent then for these two instruments, which

were to arrive at the farm in time for Marie's birthday. All these

details gave me infinite satisfaction.

Every day, well wrapped up, I started from Serval on my pony, braving

the rain and the snow. I arrived at the farm, where I found a bright

fire crackling in my room. I dressed myself with some care in spite of

the everlasting teasing of the worthy _fermière_, who reproached me for

being too _coquet_, then I went down into the _grande chambre._

If the weather was not too bad, Marie took my arm and we sallied forth

to affront the wind and cold, climb the mountainsides, where we gathered

plants for Marie's herbarium, or tramp through the forest, where we

would amuse ourselves by startling the doe with her faun, from her

hiding-place in these solitary glades.

During these long walks, Marie, who was always lively, laughed and joked

like a schoolgirl, and treated me like a brother. In her chaste

innocence she often made me undergo severe trials. Sometimes it was her

fur collar to fasten, sometimes to push up her long hair under her hat,

or to fasten the lace of her shoe, which had become undone.

So, in those long tramps, as I would gaze on the lovely face of Marie,

which under its curls, all powdered with sleet, looked like a rose

covered with snow,--how many times an avowal came to my lips! How often

was I on the point of declaring my love! But Marie, crossing both of her

arms on mine, would lean on me with such confidence, would look at me

with such candour and security, that each day I was fain to put off this

declaration until the next.

I was fearful that, if I risked a premature word, I might destroy all

this tranquil happiness.

I waited then patiently. I was not deceived as to the sentiments I had

inspired in Marie's breast; without being foolishly conceited or

ridiculously vain, I could not withstand the evidence of my own eyes.

For the last two months and more I had seen her almost every day. My

attentions to her, to one so young, so unsophisticated, so little

accustomed to the ways of the world, had made a deep impression on her;

but I had recognised in her such high principles, such decided religious

sentiment, and such a deep sense of duty, that I felt I would have to

undergo a long struggle, perhaps a painful one, although a thousand

trifles showed me that Marie cared for me with a measure of affection of

which she herself was most likely ignorant.

In the evening, after one of my dinners at the farm, Madame Kerouët,

seated in her great armchair at the chimney-corner, would spin off a

distaff of flax, while Marie and I, seated at the same table, arranged

the plants we had collected for our herbariums in the course of our

winter walks.

When fixing the slight stalks on paper, our hands would often touch.

Often when we were both leaning over the table my hair would be pressed

against Marie's forehead, or I would feel her warm breath caressing my

cheek.

At such times she would blush, her breast would heave rapidly, and

sometimes her hand would tremble on the paper.

Then, as if awakening from a dream, she would say to me, pretending to

be reproachful: "See, now, how badly you have placed that plant."

"It is your fault," I would answer, laughing. "You neither help me, nor

hold the paper."

"Not at all. It is you who have not the least patience, you are always

afraid of getting gum on your fingers when you are pasting the little

bands."

"Ah, what terrible wranglers!" said Madame Kerouët, "one of you is no

better than the other!"

At other times, we took turns at reading aloud some of the works of

Walter Scott, in which Madame Kerouët took great interest. Marie had a

clear, sweet voice, and one of my greatest pleasures was to listen to

her as she read.

But it was a greater pleasure still to watch her. So, when the time came

for me to read, if I found any allusion to my love, I would first read

the phrases with my eyes, and then repeat them aloud from memory, fixing

on Marie a passionate look. Sometimes Marie would lower her eyes, and

put on a severe expression, but then, at others, she would blush, and

with the end of her pretty forefinger make me an imperious sign to keep

my eyes on my book.

Another trick that I invented was this: I would improvise whole

passages, and introduce them into the book I was reading, so that when

the situation permitted me I could give Marie a more distinct insight as

to my love for her.

Thus, one evening, in that chaste and passionate scene where Ivanhoe

declares his love for the beautiful Saxon, I substituted for the speech

of the Crusader a long monologue, in which I made the most direct

allusions to Marie and myself, by recalling a thousand souvenirs of our

walks and talks.

Marie seemed quite overcome,--troubled. She looked at me reprovingly.

I stopped reading.

"I don't wish to interrupt you, M. Arthur," said Madame Kerouët, "for I

don't think I ever heard you read so well as you have to-day."

Then putting down her distaff, she said, naïvely: "Ah, a woman would

surely have a heart of stone not to have pity on a lover who talked like

that. I know very little about it, but it seems to me that one could say

no more than what Ivanhoe says,--it is all so true and natural."

"Oh, it is really all very beautiful," said Marie, "but M. Arthur must

be tired. I will read now in my turn."

As she took, in spite of my resistance, the book from my hand, she

looked for the improvised passage, and not finding it said, saucily:

"The pages that you have just been reading are so beautiful that I want

to read them over again."

"Thou art right, Marie," said her aunt; "I, too, would like to hear them

once more."

"Ah, _mon Dieu_, ten o'clock, already!" said I, to change the subject.

"I must be going."

"So it is, already!" said Madame Kerouët, as she looked at the clock.

Usually, when I started to go, Marie would go to the window to see what

sort of weather it was. This evening she remained motionless.

Her aunt said to her: "Why don't you look to see if it is snowing, my

child?"

Marie rose up and came back, saying, "It is snowing hard."

"It snows hard. What a heartless way you say that! You don't seem to

remember that M. Arthur has three leagues to ride in the pitch-dark, and

right through the forest."

I tried to meet Marie's eyes. She turned away her head; so I said to

her, sadly, "_Bon soir_, madame."

"_Bon soir_, M. Arthur," she replied, without looking at me.

I heard the impatient whinnying of Black; the farm boy was bringing him

from the stable. I was just leaving the room, when Marie, seizing an

opportunity when her aunt was not looking, came close to me, and, taking

my hand, said, with deep emotion:

"I am very angry with you. You do not know how much you have distressed

me!"

The words were not precisely an avowal; and yet, in spite of the dark,

in spite of the storm, I rode back to Serval with a joyful heart.

From that evening I began to take hope.

That was a week ago.

To-morrow is Marie's birthday, a solemn festival, when we are going to

inaugurate the mysterious room in the tower.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE PORTRAIT

SERVAL, 10th December, 18--.

I can scarcely believe what I have seen to-day.

What a strange fate is mine!

This morning, as we had agreed, I went to the farm.

It was the anniversary of Marie's birth; she had promised to allow me to

enter the mysterious chamber that she occupies in one of the towers. It

is there that she has had placed the harp and piano which recently

arrived from Nantes.

"Come and see my retreat," said Marie to me, after breakfast.

We went up into the tower with Madame Kerouët.

We enter the room; what do I behold?

Facing me, in a large gold frame, there stands the portrait of the

pirate of Porquerolles! the pilot of Malta!

"How did you come by that picture? Do you know who that man is?" I cried

out, addressing the two women, who were staring at me in the greatest

astonishment.

"Why, I painted that portrait myself, and that is M. Belmont," said

Marie, with surprise.

"That is M. Belmont?"

"Certainly; that is my husband. But what is the matter with you, M.

Arthur? Why are you so astonished, so overcome?"

"Have you ever seen M. Belmont anywhere?" asked Madame Kerouët.

I thought I was dreaming, or the victim of some extraordinary

resemblance.

"The fact is," said I to Madame Kerouët, "I have met M. Belmont

somewhere in my travels, or it might have been some one who is

remarkably like him; for, on account of the circumstances under which we

met, I cannot believe that the person I speak of can be the M. Belmont

of this portrait."

"There is a very easy way of finding out if your M. Belmont is ours.

What are your M. Belmont's teeth like?" said Marie's aunt.

"There is no longer the slightest doubt. It is he!" thought I.

"His teeth are like no one else's," I said, "they are sharp, and very

wide apart."

"That is just how they are," said Madame Kerouët, laughing, "and so for

fun we call him the ogre."

Then it was he!

Everything was explained now.

In the ballroom at the château, the English ambassador had told me that

they were on the track of the pirate, and hoped to capture him. The ball

had taken place about the middle of January, just the time that Belmont

had returned to Nantes, to hasten his union with Marie.

Our rencontre at the Variétés, and the fear of discovery, had,

doubtless, caused the anxiety Madame Kerouët noticed in his behaviour

subsequent to that time.

Thus, had it not been for the note of warning, the _commissaire_ and the

officer of gendarmerie would have arrested this miserable man on the day

of his marriage. And I quite understood that M. Duvallon, the pirate's

best man, should have held him up to the eyes of Marie and her aunt in

the light of a political victim, in order to deceive them as to the real

cause of his arrest.

Did Duvallon know the vile traffic of Belmont, or had he, too, been

deceived by him?

All these thoughts and questions rushed confusedly through my mind, and

excited me so much that I left the farm much earlier than usual, under

the pretext of a headache. Marie and her aunt were annoyed and worried

by my sudden departure.

Thus the day, which was to have been a little fête to us, ended very

sadly.

What ought I to do?

I love Marie with all the strength of my soul. It would be no crime to

carry her off from Belmont, that brigand, that assassin; it would be a

noble and generous action.

Marie has been basely deceived. Her family thought they were uniting her

to a brave and honest sailor, and not to a vile murderer. This marriage

is void, in the name of reason and honour.

It should also be null in the sight of men! This very day I will tell

everything to these unhappy women.

But will they believe what I have to say? What proof can I give them of

my truthfulness?

And then there would be, in such a denunciation on my part, something

low and mean, which is revolting.

After all, Marie is the legitimate wife of Belmont. I am in love with

Marie. Such a love almost puts that man on a level with me.

Now it is to be, henceforth, open war between us. I have already the

advantage, for he is absent; it would not be fair to augment my chances

of success by turning informer. So, finally, if Marie loves me enough to

vanquish her scruples to forget her duty towards a man whom she believes

to be honest and good, shall I not take more pride in my conquest than

if she believed herself only sacrificing a vile creature, who was

unworthy of her and who had deceived her, a man that the law might claim

as its prey?

Decidedly, I shall say nothing at all.

But suppose that man should return? My God, what a frightful thought!

Marie is his wife after all, and it is only by a extraordinary hazard

that she has been saved from being defiled by that infamous man.

My scruples are crazy, are stupid. Why should I hesitate to tell Marie

all?

But what good would it do? Would such a disclosure hasten, or would it

hinder this man's return?

He may come back at any time.

What shall I do? What shall I do?

SERVAL, 12th December, 18--.

My _incognito_ has been discovered, Marie knows who I am.

Yesterday I went to the farm.

I was still irresolute as to what I ought to say in regard to the

pirate.

I was talking with Marie and her aunt when my overseer entered.

I became very red, very much embarrassed; the man never noticed it; he

made me a low and respectful bow.

"_Tiens_, you know M. Arthur?" asked Madame Kerouët.

"Have I the honour of knowing M. le comte?" repeated the overseer, with

surprise.

"M. le comte!" cried out at the same time Marie and her aunt as they

rose up with bewildered looks.

Fearing the man would put a bad interpretation on my reasons for hiding

my name, I said to him: "You are very stupid, Rivière. I wished to get

some information about the state of cultivation of this farm, as I

thought of raising the rent, now you have come and spoiled all. Please

go and wait for me at Serval, for I want to talk about it with you."

The overseer went out.

"You have deceived us, M. le comte!" said Madame Kerouët to me, with

much dignity. "It was very wrong in you."

Marie said not a word, but disappeared without even looking at me.

"And why was it wrong?" said I to that excellent woman. "If I had told

you who I was, your scruples would never have allowed you to treat me

with such freedom and cordial affection as you have always manifested

towards me. I should have remained towards you the master of this farm,

and would never have become your friend."

"There can be no safe, no possible friendship except between equals, M.

le comte," said Madame Kerouët, with great coolness.

"But in what way are our positions different at the present hour? If my

friendship was pleasant to you until now, why should we change our

relations? Why should we forget four or five months of charming

intimacy?"

"I shall not forget them, M. le comte, but they shall give place to

sentiments more suitable to the modest position of Marie and myself."

One of the farm women came then to find Madame Kerouët, and begged her

to go to Marie.

She bowed to me respectfully and went out. I left the farm in a violent

rage with my overseer.

Then I reflected that, after all, this _incognito_ could not be kept up

for ever, and, though the discovery might have been a shock to Marie, it

certainly would not alter her love for me.

SERVAL, 15th December, 18--.

I have seen Marie once more.

For some days she was sad and distressed at my dissimulation, which she

could not understand. She asked why I had thus concealed my name. I told

her that, knowing false and malignant stories had reached her ears,

which showed me in the very worst colours, I had preferred being

unknown.

It was hard to convince her, but I finally succeeded in chasing all

these unhappy impressions from her mind.

Though Madame Kerouët frowns on me sometimes, our intimacy, which for a

time was threatened, has resumed all former charm.

SERVAL, 20th December, 18--.

Marie loves me, she loves me, I can no longer have any doubt. May this

day remain ever engraved in my heart!

SERVAL, 30th December, 18--.

What a terrible thing has happened! No, no, a thousand times no; she

shall not leave me. Now that I have the right to watch over her, never

will I abandon her.

This morning a farm servant came over to the château. He brought me a

letter from Marie.

She besought me to come to her instantly.

An hour after I was at the farm.

I found Marie and her aunt both in tears.

"What is the matter? What has happened?" I cried out.

"We have had a letter," said Madame Kerouët, "a letter from M.

Duvallon; he says that he is coming here to-day to take away Marie, by

order of M. Belmont."

"And you would allow her to go?" I exclaimed. "And you, Marie, would you

consent to go?"

Marie, pale as death, passed her hands over her eyes and cried out:

"What an awakening! _Mon Dieu!_ what shall I do? I am lost."

I made an expressive sign to Marie. Her aunt, preoccupied by her own

distress, had not heard her.

"Ah, _mon Dieu!_" said Madame Kerouët. "Give up my child! I never will

have the strength to do it."

"You shall not give her up, you ought not, good mother! You must not

give her up to such a man as Duvallon."

"Alas! monsieur, what objection can we make? Is not M. Duvallon the

intimate friend of M. Belmont? Has he not received his orders?"

"It is just because he is the intimate friend of a man like Belmont that

you must be on your guard against him."

Marie and Madame Kerouët stared at me with astonishment, but I

continued: "Listen to me, you, Madame Kerouët, and you, Marie. Allow me

to receive M. Duvallon; I will take it upon myself to make him listen to

reason. When do you expect him to arrive?"

"If he comes when he says he will, it will be by the diligence from

Bourges. He will get here at three o'clock," said Madame Kerouët.

"Make him no promises, but send him to me, and let us hope for the

best."

And on a signal from Marie I went out.

After awhile, at five o'clock, I heard the noise of a _carriole_ in the

courtyard of the château. I could not repress an exclamation of anger.

I felt the blood rush to my face, and my temples throb violently.

M. Duvallon was ushered in.

I beheld a robust man of great height, apparently about sixty years of

age. His complexion was high-coloured, his manner impertinent, vulgar,

but self-satisfied. He was dressed like a Frenchman on a journey, that

is to say, shabbily.

I made him a sign to be seated, and he sat down.

"Monsieur," said I to him, "I beg your pardon for any trouble I may have

given you, but I am charged by Madame Kerouët, who leases one of my

farms, and who has some confidence in me--"

"_Parbleu!_ her niece has confidence in you, too, and a great deal too

much of it!" cried out the man, rudely interrupting me.

"It is true, monsieur," said I, trying to keep my temper, "I have the

honour of being one of Madame Belmont's friends."

"And I am one of M. Belmont's friends, monsieur, and as such am

commissioned to bring his wife back to him at Nantes, where she will

remain under the surveillance of my spouse until the return of her

husband, my friend Belmont, which will not be very long."

"You call yourself the friend of Belmont?" said I to Duvallon, staring

at him fixedly. "Do you know what that man is?"

"That man,--that man is as good as any other man, _morbleu!_" cried out

Duvallon, rising quickly from his seat.

I remained seated.

"That man is a brigand, monsieur! That man is an assassin, monsieur! a

murderer!" and I accented with an imperious and resolute nod each one of

these charges.

"If you were not in your own house!" said Duvallon to me as he doubled

up his fists.

"I am not a child, monsieur, and your threats are ridiculous. Let us

speak frankly and have it out. The proof that your friend is an assassin

is that I was wounded by him on board of a yacht that he attacked in the

Mediterranean; is that clear? The proof that your friend is a brigand is

that I was on board of the same yacht, which he villainously wrecked off

the coast of the island of Malta; is that clear? And to conclude, the

proof that these accusations are true is that the English ambassador to

France and the Foreign Office, informed by me of the presence of this

wretch in Paris, have taken measures for his arrest, which would have

been successful if you, on his wedding day, had not helped him to escape

from justice."

Duvallon looked at me stupidly; he bit his lips with rage. I continued:

"Neither Madame Belmont nor her aunt have heard a word of all this,

monsieur; but I solemnly declare to you that, if you insist upon

carrying away Madame Belmont from her aunt, I will tell them the whole

story, and at the same time advise them to seek legal advice, or put

this affair in the hands of justice."

"Thousand thunders!" cried out Duvallon, stamping with his foot, "not a

word of all that is true. I mean to carry off that wench from under your

very nose, _mort-Dieu!_ or you will see what will happen."

"If you were not the intimate friend of Belmont, you would pay dearly

for your lies and your threat. Leave the room instantly, monsieur."

"I defy you, I dare you to order me out of here!" said the old corsair,

as he stepped towards me with a threatening scowl.

But on second thoughts, as he compared his age to my age and his

strength to mine, he restrained himself, contenting himself with saying,

in a very concentration of fury:

"You mean, then, to raise up yourself in opposition to me, fearing that

I will carry off your mistress? Any one can see that. But I have said

that I would take her off, and I mean to take her, _mort-Dieu!_ Don't

you suppose that I know all that has been going on here? Don't I know

all about the presents you have made her? And haven't I been getting

these letters of thanks from those two foolish women, letters that I

could not understand, thanking me for all those fine presents? But it

has all come to an end, it has got to stop; do you hear? Belmont is on

his way home, and in the meantime I take the demoiselle, whether or no,

by force if I must."

Not wishing to answer this man, I rang the bell.

"Pierre," said I to the servant-man, "I wish you to saddle two horses,

one for myself and one for George, who must go with me. I also wish you

to tell Lefort to mount his horse, and tell his son to do the same. They

are to go to the _ferme des Prés_ and wait for me."

The servant went out.

"Now, monsieur," said I to Duvallon, "reflect well on what you are about

to do. If you do not instantly quit this part of the country I will tell

all to Madame Belmont and her aunt, and shall advise them to put

themselves under the protection of the law. I am going immediately to

the Field Farm. I shall wait there for you, monsieur, and I shall see if

you dare to come."

Then ringing again for Pierre, I said: "Show monsieur out."

Without waiting for a reply from Duvallon, I went out, mounted my horse,

and set off for the farm.

Lefort and his son had already started ahead of me.

SERVAL, 31st December, 18--.

Yesterday Duvallon did not dare to come to the farm.

He wrote to Marie telling her that he had gone back to Nantes. The

letter was filled with the grossest insults. He threatened her with the

return of Belmont.

Marie is plunged in the darkest despair. To-day I was not able to see

her.

There is but one thing left for me to do: that is to persuade Marie to

follow me.

What can her life be from this time?

If Belmont comes back he will sooner or later be arrested, whether I

denounce him or no.

If he is acquitted, he is Marie's master: she is his wife; she will be

obliged to go with him.

If he is found guilty, if he is condemned, what a horrible fate for

Marie! And what is to become of me? My life belongs to her, as hers does

to me.

If she refuses to come with me, what is to be done?

The former crimes of this man will not annul the marriage, or if they

do, what publicity, what disgusting revelations, will Marie have to

submit to!

She must do it, she must follow me, it is the only thing she can do.

What has she to keep her here, poor orphan girl?

Her aunt, that excellent woman.

But perhaps she would come with us,--no, no. If she suspected the truth;

if she knew that there was between us a sweeter bond than that of

friendship, that we belonged to each other for ever and always; if she

knew--

No, no! it is not to be thought of.

But will Marie ever consent to leave her?

However, it must be done!

If Marie will follow me, what a future! We would retire to some solitary

place, where I would spend the rest of my life at her side.

Though I am young, I have seen so much of life, I have suffered so much,

I have learned so much about men and things, and have been so weary of

them, that it would be rapture to me, this solitary and peaceful life of

trusting love.

And besides she has in herself so many resources that fit her for such a

life of isolation: heart, soul, mind, artistic talents, an angelic

disposition, adorable simplicity, the imagination of a young girl who

can please, occupy, or amuse herself with the veriest trifle.

She must follow me, she will follow me.

CHAPTER XXX

THE FLIGHT

SERVAL, 10th March, 18--.

I open again this journal which I have not written a line in for three

months.

I wish to write one more date, one last page here at Serval, in this

poor old paternal château that I am about to leave, perhaps, for ever.

Strange coincidence! It was here that my mundane life began with my love

for Hélène.

It is here my mundane life is to end with my love for Marie.

Henceforth she and I mean to live in the greatest seclusion. Oh, if we

are only able to realise our dreams, our life will be one of

enchantment.

But by how many cruel trials it will have been purchased.

For three months Marie has been weeping in secret! but little by little

I have been able to overcome her resistance.

At last she has consented to fly with me.

Besides, she dare not, she cannot, remain here; she is about to become a

mother!

And now, my faithful George, who has been living in Nantes to keep a

watch on Duvallon, wrote me this morning that a man I cannot fail to

recognise as Belmont arrived last night at the house of the old corsair.

I told Marie of his return, and then she decided.

How would she dare to appear before her husband?

And how could she bear the reproaches of her aunt?

To-morrow night, then, we are to depart secretly.

So as to be sure of no mistakes, let me set down what I have arranged to

do.

Send relays of horses before me as far as ----, across the country, so

as to leave no traces; it is twenty-five leagues shorter.

Take the mail coach at ----, and in thirty hours we will be at the

frontier.

Once outside of France, and the first noise of our elopement calmed, we

will wait to see what happens. Perhaps we will return, perhaps Belmont

will be arrested.

DOUX REPOS, September, 18--.

You have asked me, Marie, to tell you the story of my whole life.

We have broken off all connection with the world.

Retired from society, here in this peaceful and charming abode, we have

been living for two years with our dear child, and ineffably happy.

You have been my angel, my saviour, my god, my love, my only treasure,

because you possess all the riches of heart, mind, and soul.

In the midst of our solitude, each day brings a new joy that makes you

dearer to my heart.

Thus the pearls of the sea owe their imperishable lustre to the shadows

of each succeeding wave.

You often tell me, Marie, that my nature is noble, generous, and, above

all, good.

When you will have read this journal of my whole life, Marie, my

beautiful and gentle Marie, you will find out that I have often been

hard-hearted and wicked.

That goodness for which you praise me, it is to you that I owe it!

Under your holy influence, my beautiful guardian angel, all my bad

instincts have disappeared, all my highest sentiments have been exalted;

in a word I have loved you, I love you now as you deserve to be loved.

To love you thus, and to be loved by you, Marie, is to believe oneself

the first and noblest of men, to despise glory, ambition, fortune, to

feel above them all.

It is to have gone beyond the limits of all possible happiness.

This superhuman happiness would alarm me, had we not purchased it by

your sorrow and remorse, poor Marie!

This remorse has been, and still is, your only grief; the time has come

to deliver you from it.

You shall be told the truth about the man you married, whom you have

believed to be in prison as a political criminal, for these last two

years.

Later you will know why I hid this secret from you until now.

These lines which I now write in this journal retrace almost all the

events of my life, up to the moment when we quitted Serval together.

They will be the last I shall write in it.

Why should I henceforth need such a cold confidant?

It is in your angelic heart, Marie, that I will trace all my thoughts;

or, rather, it is there that I will leave the imprint of the perfect

bliss that intoxicates me.

You will read this journal, Marie; you will see that I have been very

guilty, that I have suffered greatly.

You will read the story of our love from its very inception.

Since leaving Serval I have ceased to write in this journal. What could

I have written? Whatever I have said, Marie, will apply to the future

years I shall spend with you.

You will not find here the date of the birth of our Arthur,--our

child,--the greatest joy of my life. Nor will you find the date of that

terrible day on which I trembled for your life, my day of most fearful

torture.

While the paroxysm of that unknown joy, of that unknown grief, lasted, I

neither thought, reflected, nor acted, I did not exist.

When one still has the consciousness of one's sufferings, when one can

contemplate one's own joy, then neither has joy nor sorrow arrived at

its highest degree.

I had thus far suffered atrociously. I had experienced the most

intense delights, but I had never been so absorbed as to lose

self-consciousness, or the power of self-investigation.

I have spoken of an unknown happiness, Marie, and yet the date of the

blissful day when I no longer doubted of your love is written in this

journal, while the date of our Arthur's birth is not found here.

Your tender soul will understand and appreciate the difference, will it

not?

As for our child, Marie, our beautiful and adorable child, we will think

of his future, and--

These were the last words of the journal of an unknown.

By looking at the dates, and comparing them with the information given

me by the curé of the village of ----, in the first volume, one can see

that this last passage must have been written the day or the day before

the triple assassination of the count, Marie, and their child, by

Belmont, the pirate of Porquerolles, who, having escaped from prison,

and knowing the retreat of the count, wished to wreak upon him a

terrible vengeance before leaving France for ever.

THE END.