THE GORDIAN KNOT.
The same morning that Jacob left his house for fear of arrest, Henri
Segel returned to breakfast. It was only at meal-times that he saw his
wife, and then for but a few moments. He usually went away so early in
the morning that Mathilde rarely saw him until evening.
This day the poor woman, consoled by her explanation with Jacob, had
more colour than usual, and appeared to have recovered her health.
"I am really distressed," said Henri, seating himself at table, "and
you will share my anxiety when you hear that Mann's prophecy has been
realized. They have tried to arrest Jacob."
Mathilde grew very pale, and cried:--
"Arrested? Did you say arrested?"
"Why this emotion?" replied her husband smiling.
"Answer me! I beg of you!"
"He was warned in time, and has eluded the police, but they have
searched his house."
"I breathe," said Mathilde. "Is that all you know?"
"Provided with a passport he will probably leave for Austria or
Prussia. He is a strange man, I never could understand his character."
His wife smiled. Henri was annoyed at this mocking smile and said:--
"It seems to amuse you that he should, be an enigma to me."
"Not at all. It is very natural. Your characters are so dissimilar,
that you could not possibly understand each other."
Henri replied, with some bitterness:--
"You are very flattering. If this man, so opposite to me, has all your
sympathy, what sentiment then have you for your humble servant?"
"My sentiment for you," replied Mathilde simply, "you already know. It
has satisfied you, and you have never tried to awaken any other."
Henri looked at his watch, took his hat, and started to go; then he
returned, and said in an offended tone:--
"My dear, if you are tired of our conjugal tie you have only to say so.
It is very distressing to me to be the cause of your regret and of your
secret sorrows."
Mathilde looked at him with an air of dignity.
"You wish to say," asked she, "that you do not find the situation to
your taste?"
"How can it be agreeable for me to contemplate without ceasing the
statue of melancholy? Is this happiness? I think not. You must at least
admit that I bear my fate heroically."
"You reproach me?"
"Your sadness, your gloomy looks, say plainly that you are not happy."
"You believe, then, that the honour of being your wife ought to make me
happy? What can we do? We cannot change anything, can we? We must bear
it, for we have taken before God a sacred vow, and must drink from the
same cup, be it bitter or sweet."
Henri grew excited, while his wife's face remained as calm as marble.
He shrugged his shoulders, and hastily left the room. The carriage
awaited him, and he was driven alone to Muse. She was all alone, but
ready to receive company. She was elegantly dressed, perfumed, and in
charming humour, and she greeted Segel warmly.
"Have you heard the news?" asked he.
"What news?"
"Jacob has fled."
"How could I, living in the same house, be ignorant of it; and I
trembled for him, from what I know of Colonel Sofronof and Count
Bavorof."
"He is now almost an outlaw," replied Henri. "More than once I have
attempted, but unsuccessfully, to make him listen to reason. What
eccentricity! He has often argued with the Russians and told all his
thoughts, and the Russians did not like his sincerity; they required
that men's convictions should bow to them, or else be concealed. I pity
Jacob; but he is incorrigible and destitute of all prudence or policy."
Several visitors arrived. There was as usual a mixed crowd, and on one
side Mann harangued a little group of friends.
"I avow to you, gentlemen," said he, "that I am delighted to be
delivered from Jacob. He was a most compromising person, who belonged
to neither party. He stood entirely alone, and such individuals are
naturally victims of their narrow individuality; but after all I hope
that nothing very bad will happen to him."
"Provided that he is not drawn into the revolution," remarked some one.
"I do not fear that," replied Mann. "Jacob is not a man of action. He
knows how to think and talk only."
Just then Mathilde's father came in; he was much disturbed.
"What has become of Jacob," asked he.
"He has gone."
"Where? That is what I wish to know. He was the cause of a pretty scene
at my house. His old Jewess mother came there in her ridiculous costume
early this morning. She caused a general laugh in the house. That is
not all. Unfortunately there arrived just then an aide of the Grand
Duke Constantine. She was seated in the _salon_. Groans, tears,
lamentations; judge of my situation! I had great trouble to rid myself
of her. What a foolish visit! The good woman does not know where her
son has gone but she is sure he has not crossed the frontier."
"We shall, no doubt, soon hear of his exploits," said Henri. "The
laurels of Berko will prevent his sleeping. He dreamed of the picture
of Kossack, and of giving the artist a new subject. That which is most
deplorable in this adventure is that it prejudices the government
against us all. It will be necessary for us to be very circumspect, and
to furnish fresh proofs of our devotion and of our loyalty."
During these remarks from Mann the fascinating Muse questioned Colonel
Sofronof about Jacob. He feigned surprise, and vowed that he had not
heard of Jacob's flight, with an assurance that proved that he knew
more about it than any one else. He questioned right and left,
expressed some chagrin, and promised to make some inquiries, and from
his face even Mann guessed that the source of the denunciation was well
known to him.
"In these days," murmured Sofronof, "it is wise to be doubly prudent as
to what we say. Jacob did not weigh his words. I think, however, that
he is not threatened with anything terrible. Perhaps temporary exile to
the borders of Russia. He will not be executed."
After the visitors had gone, Muse was going to the piano when her
mother came to her.
"Let us have a chat," said she.
"Well, say on, dear mamma."
"In all probability Jacob will never return."
"No matter, he is crossed off my list."
"Against whom, then, are your batteries directed?"
"Against Henri first. Failing him, Sofronof."
"I wish to talk of this Muscovite. Under his polished exterior I can
discern the Tartar; his fortune is problematic, and his character is
amiable enough in society to be disagreeable in private life. I do not
like him. He is a cold-blooded animal. Why do you not repulse him?"
"Alas! It may be necessary to take him as a last resort."
"Henri gives us very little hope. He will not divorce Mathilde, and she
obstinately lives on. She is not consumptive; her physician has told me
so. Her malady is only _ennui_ and weakness. She may live for years."
"Never fear. Henri becomes more amorous each day. He has no secrets
from me, and he has decided to divorce her; but, can you believe it,
mamma, she does not wish it. As she loves, I thought the idea would
please her; but no. She has I know not what strange notions of the
sanctity of marriage, the marital tie, and marriage vows, such
ridiculous ideas! The English governess, who often hears the
conversation of the lovers, has related to me these sentimental scenes.
It is a Platonic love taken from some old romance, and not from the
romances of to-day,--a mystical and unintelligible love. What fools
they are to refuse their own happiness! Mathilde has even told me of
her theories. I adroitly led the conversation to the subject. Poor
woman! I could scarcely keep from laughing in her face. Henri seeks
his own desires and mine. He dreads only the explanation with his
father-in-law."
"If you have gone so far with Henri, I must hesitate no longer," said
the mother. "We cannot wait in this suspense until the judgment day."
"These Russians, Bavorof and Sofronof, have played me a villanous trick
in forcing Jacob's flight. He would have been of great use to us. Henri
counted on his presence when he put the question of divorce before his
father-in-law, for Samuel would be disposed to consent on condition
that Mathilde would marry Jacob immediately after the rupture. No
Jacob, no divorce. We counted on him, and now he is gone."
"What a misadventure," cried Madame Wtorkowska, wringing her hands.
"Bah! We can arrange it. I will have Henri. The others? I am disgusted
with them."
Her mother said in a low voice:--
"To marry Henri will be the same as to marry a widower, for a divorce
is almost the same thing."
"What has that to do with it? I wonder how many times most men have
been widowers before marriage."
"That is true. Then that is no objection; but you must hasten things,
my child. Be quick about it."
"Ah! I understand that there is no money in the house. I will borrow
some of Henri."
Madame Wtorkowska thanked Heaven that had given her so practical a
daughter.