THE INSURGENTS.
"H----, July, 1863.
"The Russians had scarcely vacated the village when the insurgents
arrived. They marched through the streets, bearing a banner on which
the national colours were surmounted by a white eagle painted on wood.
They were a small band of men, armed for the most part with scythes and
pike-staffs, while some had only heavy sticks with pointed iron ends.
There were no uniforms. Each one was equipped and clad as circumstances
had permitted at the time of his enrolment. Their forms were strong,
and their faces expressed energy already clouded by dark despair. All
knew that they were marching to certain death, and knew not what
torture or misery awaited them.
"The body of Ivas had been cut down after the execution, but the gibbet
still presented its gloomy front to the market-place. The chief of the
insurgents saluted it, and inclined his head, and all his troop
followed his example. It was a mute and solemn homage rendered to a
martyr.
"I could not help feeling for these men a sentiment in which was
mingled compassion, sympathy, and respect.
"The young commander recognized me, for he had seen me with Ivas at
Warsaw. He was much affected to hear from me that the condemned man had
been our mutual friend. 'One of our bravest,' murmured he; 'but our
country demands such sacrifices. Oh, if only we were better armed!'
"Our conversation was not of long duration. The detachment had entered
the village only to recruit, and succeeded in gaining a dozen
volunteers. They also found some guns and swords, dating from 1831,
covered with rust.
"This heroism in poverty transported me back several centuries to the
times when the Israelites rose against Roman oppression. Here was the
same self-sacrificing spirit, the same love of liberty. My eyes filled
with tears, and thoughts came into my head that I had not before
entertained.
"Let us go with them, thought I. Let us die in the ranks of these
heroes. It is glorious to shed one's blood for his brothers.
"Yesterday I would have hesitated. To-day I felt around me such an
empty void that the future appeared aimless, and the thought of action
inspired me. I, who had refused money for the revolution, I would offer
my life. This seems strange, does it not? But do not condemn me without
reflection. It is necessary to seal the act of alliance, contracted
between the Israelites and Poles. My example will prove that this
alliance is accomplished.
"This letter, friend of my youth, is like my last testament.
"I recommend to you my mother. Let my brother Israelites know why I
have taken this step. I owe to the mission that we have received from
God to return again to the past of an elect people. This mission is, to
be more noble, more devout, and more loving than other men.
"Farewell! You already know all I wish to say, for you have always been
the confidante of my inmost thoughts. It is you who have inspired me
with the resolution I have taken. If you had left me the shadow of a
hope, I would, perhaps, have valued my life more; but you said one
evening that a woman ought to be the wife of one man only, and as at
the same time my brother Israelites have refused to listen to my voice,
I am convinced that I am useless here below.
"Do not regret me. God will give me grace to meet death joyfully.
"To-morrow we leave here. I am well equipped. I have bought a horse and
arms; I shall serve as a private soldier, for there are already too
many leaders.
"God is great; the soul is immortal, and pure spirits may, perhaps,
meet again in another world."
The reader has already divined that this was a letter addressed by
Jacob to Mathilde. We have suppressed the commencement, which related
to events spoken of in the preceding pages.
Henri Segel received it in his mail, and hastened to take it to his
wife.
"What can it be?" asked he.
"A letter from Jacob," she replied, without hesitation, recognizing his
writing.
She read it hastily.
"What has become of him," asked Henri again.
"He has joined the insurrection."
"Ah, it wanted only that! He has done us a great injury. The government
will imagine that we are all more or less implicated in his folly. But
is the thing certain?"
"There is no doubt whatever," and Mathilde read with a trembling voice
a passage from the letter. The husband seeing her so agitated left her,
and himself became thoughtful and gloomy.
The news spread from mouth to mouth over the city. Some refused to
believe it, while others rejoiced at it. Jacob had no warm friends, and
few were sorry for him.
The same evening Sofronof went in triumph to Muse.
"Well! He has joined the insurgents, this man that you accused me of
suspecting without motive!"
"You jest. Was he not the enemy of the revolution?"
"Yet he has enlisted under their banner. The Poles are all the same.
The sight of their eaglet always has an irresistible attraction for
them."
"It is nothing to me," replied Muse; "but I will not believe it without
more ample information."
Just then Henri Segel arrived and confirmed the news. He had a dejected
air, and was careful not to speak of the letter the colonel had had in
his hand that morning. He well knew that all suspicious letters were
read before the distribution of the post.
Mathilde's father also was much chagrined on hearing the news. Without
deep feeling, he had, nevertheless, a certain affection for his cousin.
Perhaps, also, he counted on him for restoring to health his daughter,
whom he saw daily fade before his eyes. Without saying anything, he
hastened to Mathilde at the hour when he was sure to find her alone.
The servant said to him that she was ill, and had given orders to admit
no one; but the father, using his authority, went straight to her
bedroom. He found her with disordered hair, eyes red with weeping, and
cheeks burning with fever. Mathilde was no longer the marble statue,
cold, resigned, impassable, inert.
At the sight of an unexpected visitor she blushed with the timidity of
a child. But her education had inculcated a respect, almost a
veneration, for her father, who had repelled all familiarity, all
confidence; she tried, with a forced smile, to conceal the violence of
her grief.
"I pity Jacob," said the father abruptly. "He courts his ruin; I wish
to save him."
"But how can you?" asked the daughter.
Samuel did not reply immediately. He took several steps about the room.
It cost him something to be, for the first time in his life, frank with
his child. Suddenly he stopped before her, and, looking at her fixedly,
said:--
"Your secret is known to me. Common sense has until now commanded me to
close my eyes. But the time has come to treat the wound by severe
cauterization. Now or never. You love Jacob, and he loves you. This
love has not died out. I believed that your childish affection would
disappear, but, contrary to my expectations, it has remained permanent,
and surpasses all my ideas of love. You are unhappy with Henri; he was
not made for you; his spirit is earthly, and yours is exalted in a high
degree."
"Nevertheless," said Mathilde, "I have nothing to say against Henri."
"You mean that he observes the proprieties; and yet he has let himself
be fascinated by Muse, who deceives and despoils him. Do you wish to
save Jacob? You can do it; you alone. I will arrange a divorce with
Henri. He is anxious for it. Give your consent, and the thing is done;
then I will marry you to Jacob, who will make you happy. You can live
in Italy, and in a few years, when the country is again peaceful, you
can return to Poland. I will obtain Jacob's amnesty; I have influence
enough for that."
Mathilde kissed her father's hand, and said:--
"Dear father, I have never seen you as you are today, so sympathetic
toward your child, so thoughtful for Jacob. Do not be angry, do not
tell me that I am foolish, but it is impossible."
"Why? Why?"
Mathilde replied with timidity:--
"I love him too well to throw myself in his arms. I, a poor faded
creature, broken and soiled by another. Do you understand me?"
"No! Truly! This is refinement which is beyond my comprehension, a
morbid sentimentality. You say you love him? The devil! What more do
you want?"
Mathilde, sighing, replied:--
"I have dreamed of a different kind of happiness."
"Give up these reveries, and content yourself with the reality. Do you
accept my proposition? Yes or no?"
"Read his letter," said she, drawing near to the lamp. "Here it is; I
will reply afterward."
Samuel took the letter, and commenced to read it attentively. Mathilde
retired to the next room, which was not lighted. She sank into
meditation. She was torn by two conflicting feelings: her unworthiness
of becoming Jacob's wife, and the desire to belong to the man she
loved. In her perplexity she seemed to hear an inner voice which said,
"Let your father decide." At the same time she accused herself of
weakness, and her heart beat violently.
"The letter," said her father, "confirms me in my opinion. You alone
can save him. A strange dreamer is your Jacob; but, after all, he
possesses that which most of us lack,--firm principles and profound
convictions. One esteems him in spite of one's self."
Not caring to appear in the full light, the young woman murmured in an
agitated voice:--
"I am proud of you, my father. Dispose of your child as you please."
Then she threw herself at his knees, and Samuel felt awaken in his
heart feelings which he had not believed himself capable of indulging.
Lifting her up tenderly, he said, smiling:--
"I will attend to the affair. Sit down and write to Jacob that you are
free. He has only to equip fifty or a hundred soldiers to replace him,
and excuse his retirement."
He spoke with a rapidity and warmth that surprised himself, and he
experienced a sensation of happiness altogether novel to him.
When his daughter had finished the letter, he kissed her tenderly, and
whispered in her ear:--
"Not a word of this to Henri. I will manage everything, and spare you
needless annoyance."
Soon after Samuel appeared at the _salon_ of the Wtorkowskas. The siren
was at the piano, surrounded by her Muscovite gallants, who, listening,
forgot their administrative cares. Under cover of a general movement,
he quietly drew near Madame Wtorkowska.
"I have something to say to you, madame," whispered he. "It is about an
important matter that concerns you."
"Very good!" replied she, rising and taking his arm. "Come to my room."
When they were alone, Samuel asked:--
"No one can hear us, I hope? I wish to speak to you with entire
frankness."
"Do as you would in your own house," replied she.
"To play a part is disagreeable to me, and so to open the matter I will
tell you, without reserve, that I know that you are ruined, dear
madame."
"Softly, softly!"
"Softly, softly! I am aware that your only fortune is your debts. Your
only hope is your daughter. To find a rich husband is not so easy. I am
sure that these are your opinions."
"We have several persons in view, monsieur."
"Who are they?"
"Count Bavorof."
"Bah! A Russian who has no fortune but his position. Beside, he is
married. His wife lives in Paris, and has no wish to be free, and in
Russia divorce can be obtained only by special influence. I do not
think you would be willing to give Muse to the count."
"What nonsense you are talking."
"Who next?"
"Colonel Sofronof is madly in love."
"In the Russian fashion. Sofronof lives by his appointments and thefts.
He possesses some land, mortgaged to its full value. Let him pass.
Next?"
"The counsellor of state, Pikulinski."
"What! that old fool?"
"For a husband it does not matter."
"That is true. In marriage, foolishness is at times a good quality; but
his little property is pledged to the Credit Foncier. Your counsellor
is a nobody. His emoluments are too slender. Another?"
Madame Wtorkowska sighed deeply. She was at the end of her list, for it
was hardly worth while to mention, after the counsellor, two petty
officials who possessed only their titles and their brilliant uniforms.
Naturally she dared not suggest Henri Segel to his father-in-law.
"Why, madame," replied Samuel, "are you lacking in sincerity, when I
come to chat with you in the most confidential manner?"
"And whence comes, monsieur, this suddenly friendly guardianship for my
daughter and myself?"
"Your question is logical. It may be possible that I am myself
interested in the affair, and that may be the cause of my solicitude to
serve you. Confess, then, with an open heart. Do not hesitate to
mention the name of my son-in-law, whom you have so entangled."
"What do you mean? I cannot shut my door on Monsieur Segel."
"I know your plans, dear lady," replied Samuel laughing. "Let us show
our cards and be friends. You have speculated--own it--on Mathilde's
phthisis. You have even wished that her physician would confirm your
hopes. Bitter deception! And during this time you have endeavoured to
ensnare Henri, and you have made an easy conquest. Now, listen to me,
madame. My daughter cannot be happy with him. I cede him to you. Take
him. Try and persuade him to demand a divorce; the initiative will
never come from Mathilde. You will have me for an accomplice. I give
him up freely. Do what you wish, provided you rid me of him. Do you now
understand the cause of my solicitude for you?"
Madame Wtorkowska was stupefied. She stood still a moment. Then her joy
overcame her. She threw her arms around Samuel's neck, and kissed him
several times; but, as he did not enjoy the caresses of elderly
matrons, he freed himself from her embraces, and said:--
"Twenty or twenty-five years ago this exuberance of affection on your
part would have charmed me. To-day it is too late. I am too old. What
do you think of my proposition?"
"Dear benefactor," replied she, wiping the perspiration from her face
with her handkerchief, "I cannot reply without consulting Emusia. In a
few moments my rooms will be empty; she will see you herself. Wait
here."
"With pleasure, madame; but I will light a cigar if you will permit
it."
"Ten if you wish," replied the mother, closing the door on Samuel.
There were still some visitors in the _salon_. She made a secret sign
to her daughter, and a few moments afterward Muse complained of a
headache. Her admirers regretfully took their hats and left the house.
The particulars of the interview were soon learned, and her delight was
equal to that of her mother.
Nevertheless, before going to meet Samuel, she assumed a calm and
dignified mien.
"Your mother has no doubt spoken of my proposition. Let us discuss,
then, without restraint," said Mathilde's father.
"But, monsieur, the subject is so delicate, so embarrassing, so
painful."
"Painful, mademoiselle, in what way? Not for you; nor for me, I think.
Delicate. Yes! Let us treat it with delicacy."
"I like Mathilde so much," said Muse.
"Then you will give her a real proof of your friendship by delivering
her of a husband who does not suit her, who will suit you, and who
loves you."
Muse tried to appear very much embarrassed.
"Dear mademoiselle," said Samuel, "we can dispense with acting; you can
gain nothing by it. I ask of you entire frankness. If you wish to
succeed, you must act. Make Henri believe that Sofronof is a dangerous
rival. I will tell everywhere that the colonel wishes to marry you at
any price. Henri will be in despair; then push him to the end of the
wall; exact a divorce, and advise him to take Mann for an intermediary
between him and me."
"That is admirably planned," cried Madame Wtorkowska.
"Yes, the plan is excellent," added Muse, putting aside all
embarrassment. "I am sure I shall play my part to the satisfaction of
its author."
"Well, I will be obliged to you if you do not make the play long. I am
anxious for the end."
"I will do my best."
"I do not doubt that you will accomplish wonders," said Samuel,
gallantly kissing her hand. "And now, mademoiselle, do not fail to tell
me if I can be in any way useful to you at any time."
He then took his leave. Madame Wtorkowska conducted him to the
antechamber, and then returned to throw herself in her daughter's arms.
She laughed and wept by turns for very joy. Muse was more quiet, but no
less delighted, and she passed part of the night making plans for the
morrow.
The news soon spread through their circle of acquaintances that
Mademoiselle Wtorkowska was soon to marry Colonel Sofronof. At first
Henri shrugged his shoulders; but he heard it from so many different
sources, with details added by this one and that one, that he grew
uneasy, and, wishing to hear the rumour denied, hastened to Muse.
She received him coldly, and was so reticent on the subject that it
seemed as if she were on her guard, and afraid of committing some
indiscretion.
Segel thought that there must be some truth in the rumour. He became
furiously angry, and the ingenious coquette soon brought about a
quarrel. He took his hat, and she did not detain him; but at the door
he paused, then returned, threw his hat on the floor, and seated
himself again, filled with wrath.
A violent scene ensued. Her mother appeared as the _deus ex machina_.
She reproached Henri with compromising her daughter, and called him
selfish and heartless. The comedy waxed pathetic. Finally, Henri had to
choose between a dismissal or a divorce. Vanquished and subdued, he
promised to take at once the steps required by them.
Muse then feigned to shed tears, and he tried to console her. Her
mother disappeared, leaving the lovers alone. Segel obtained some
kisses, and advice to take Monsieur Mann as an intermediary, and he
promised to see Mann at once. Mann, well instructed, at first resisted,
moralized, and deplored the situation, but ended by consenting.
And yet, when Henri returned home, he experienced a strange feeling of
repentance for his haste. Mathilde presented herself to his mind as
calm, sweet, and pure; Muse, on the contrary, under a menacing aspect.
The one he did not love, but esteemed; the other he loved, but did not
esteem. He loved her, if a passion which was entirely sensual merits
that name.
He saw himself in the future bound to a new companion, full of coquetry
and schemes, and endowed with an unendurable mother-in-law. He saw the
luxury with which he would have to surround them, and the slavery to
which he would be doomed. He shivered with dread at the very idea.
Unhappily for him, it was now too late to draw back.
Mathilde looked for an outburst the next morning at breakfast; but none
came. Henri was unusually reserved, almost timid; he looked at his
watch often, and under pretext of important business soon left the
house.
Mann came to dinner, and informed Segel of the happy result of his
negotiations. At table the couple, already morally divorced, seemed ill
at ease. Mathilde taciturn, Henri almost mute, let Mann and two other
guests do the talking. At dessert came Samuel, who amused the company
for some time with his witty sayings. On leaving the table he took his
daughter by the hand to lead her to the garden. He insisted on her
putting on her hat, saying the sun was yet warm; then he conducted her
to the street, where a carriage awaited them.
"My dear child," said the father, "we will take a short ride. It will
do you good, for the air is fresh and agreeable this evening." A
half-hour after, the carriage stopped at the door of her father's
house.
"Here," said he, embracing Mathilde, "is your home. You will not return
to Segel's. I have had your old room prepared for you."
The gordian knot was thus severed with the greatest simplicity. The
young woman saw no more of her former husband. Aided by the English
governess, she occupied herself with household cares. With what secret
satisfaction she renewed her former life! Her springtime revived. But
she was at times a prey to deep anxiety, for Jacob had not written
since his letter of farewell, and all traces of him were lost.
The revolution, contrary to all expectations, took on larger
proportions daily.
Owing to the assumed names which the chiefs and soldiers of the
insurrection bore, all steps to ascertain Jacob's whereabouts proved
fruitless.
Mathilde was almost in despair, yet she seemed to hear a voice say to
her:--
"God will give him back to you."
From that time she believed in God.
Each day she questioned her father, who, without giving her great
hopes, encouraged her not to despair. Weeks and months passed. At last,
early one morning, he entered her chamber, and, in spite of his
endeavours to conceal his feelings, appeared much agitated.
"Prepare to leave to-day," said he. "Jacob is at Cracow, wounded, but
not dangerously."
Mathilde gave a great cry, and fainted, but soon came to herself, and
on the morrow was with her father at the bedside of her beloved.
EPILOGUE.
In the year eighteen hundred and sixty-five a numerous company were
reunited at the Albergo della Grotta, where we will finish, as we have
begun, our veracious history.
To-day the company assumed a more cheerful aspect than at the first
meeting. It was composed only of persons whose appearance denoted
wealth or competence. Here were no unfortunates who fainted from want,
like poor Ivas, and on whose faces could be seen traces of misery and
care.
In the privileged corner of the grotto, near the murmuring fountain, a
sumptuous table was set for the most distinguished travellers.
Instinctively Firpo, the host, gave their titles in advance to Monsieur
le Comte and Madame la Comtesse. The choicest wines, the freshest
fruits, and a tablecloth whose snowy whiteness was only excelled by the
brilliancy of the polished silver knives, forks, and spoons, were for
them. The other tables were already occupied by the guests, here
singly, there in groups. All belonged to the class usually called
aristocratic, who lead an easy and luxurious life.
The day was warm; the blue Italian sky shone in all its splendour. The
sea sang its immortal symphony. The trees rustled harmoniously, the
laurels exhaled their perfumes, the golden oranges contrasted with the
dark green leaves, and the fresh sea-breeze sweetly refreshed the
limpid air.
Alone at a table a man was seated. He was the same who, some years
before, travelled this way in company with the sprightly dancer,
Gigante. But he was no longer in joyous humour. He was Henri Segel; but
how changed!
Equally isolated and bored we find our Tsigane, Stamlo Gako, whom the
reader has not forgotten. He is more yellow and blacker than ever, and
he has grown stout, heavy, and somnolent.
There is another solitary traveller. It is Gromof, who is not now
accompanied by the charming Lucie Coloni. He carries his head high, as
if to brave destiny. But his irritation betrays itself in every
movement. He amuses himself by making little balls of bread crumbs, and
throws out of the window the fruit that he has scarcely tasted.
These three do not converse. The Russian and the gypsy have met before,
as we have seen, but they do not care to renew the acquaintance. As for
Segel, he has never spoken with either Gromof or Gako.
A sumptuous equipage entered the court of the inn. The host and the
servants hastened to meet it. A lady filled the whole interior of the
vehicle with her white robe, and one scarcely perceived in one corner
hidden under the immense crinoline, which was then so fashionable, a
little, thin, withered-looking man.
They were no doubt husband and wife. She was in all the splendour of
her youth, charming, elegant, confident of her beauty, proud and
victorious. He, as one soon perceived, was the most humble servant of
her who bore his name and disposed of his fortune.
He jumped out of the carriage, and with all the manner and gallantry of
a young man, despite his fifty and odd years, presented his hand to his
queen to aid her to descend. She raised herself with indifference, and
gathered together the train of her rustling robe.
At sight of this beauty, whom he immediately recognized through the
window near which he dined, Henri rose as if he wished to avoid a
disagreeable meeting, but a retreat was impossible. To go out he must
necessarily pass them. He made an ironical grimace and reseated
himself.
The reader has recognized Muse, now actually Baroness Von Kreig, the
wife of a wealthy speculator, whose nationality was a mystery to all,
for he carefully concealed his Jewish origin. He did not give himself
out as a Pole, although living in Poland, but passed sometimes for a
Russian, oftener for a German. Where and how did he steal the title of
baron? No one knew. It might have been, said some, the recompense of a
great financial operation. He wore on his travelling coat several
ribbons and decorations.
The reader doubtless expected to hear of the marriage of Muse and
Henri, who were supposed to be so much attached to each other; but in
consequence of the fickleness and calculation of the lady, the marriage
had not come to pass. Henri, for her sake, had divorced his wife, had
proposed, been accepted, and passed for her future husband everywhere.
Muse introduced him to all her friends, and he was proud of his
betrothed. It was then that the Baron Von Kreig met the enchantress on
the street. He had known the mother of old, but avoided her because she
had the bad habit of borrowing money which she always forgot to return.
The baron had just lost his second wife, and he required for his third,
above all, good health. He was struck with the blooming beauty of Muse,
and fell in love at first sight. The next day he went to pay her a
visit. Muse immediately coolly sat down, when she was alone, and
compared him with Henri. Von Kreig was ten times richer, a baron, and
could introduce her into the most brilliant circles of society. He was
well educated, and, although old and dried up, was an excellent match.
Muse put forth all her powers of fascination, and soon succeeded in
bringing the baron to her feet. The marriage with Henri was delayed
under pretext that the lace had not arrived from Paris. In the
meanwhile the baron gained over the mother by consenting without demur
to the most advantageous settlements for the daughter, imposed by
Madame Wtorkowska. The engagement was accomplished quietly. Then there
remained the rather unpleasant task of breaking with Henri, who
believed himself master of the situation, and laughed at the attentions
of the baron.
It puzzled even the genius of these two women to find a plausible or
decent excuse for the rupture. In the intervals of his life, as a
betrothed between the acts, as it were, Segel sought distraction at the
theatre. He was tied to the gauzy apron-strings of a sylph, or, in
plain words, a danseuse. This connection had lasted for more than two
years, and the evenings away from Muse were passed with the beautiful
danseuse. He made no secret of it, and his carriage was often seen at
the door of the ballet-girl's dwelling. It was with this, as a pretext,
that Madame Wtorkowska sought to break the engagement. In vain Segel
asked for pardon. He was dismissed, and received back the ring he had
given Muse. For this engagement ring he had paid ten thousand francs,
in Paris. It was a superb solitaire surrounded with smaller diamonds,
each half a carat in weight. It was shown, as if by accident, to the
baron; he felt the sacrifice, and with noble emulation Von Kreig
replaced it by another which cost thirty thousand francs.
Segel stormed, but the baron solemnly conducted Muse to the altar. The
newly married couple started on a wedding trip, which was to be the
grand tour of Europe, including all the large cities, baths, and
fashionable resorts.
The blackest ingratitude awaited Madame Wtorkowska. Her son-in-law paid
her debts, and settled on her a beggarly pension; then took his leave
courteously, and forbade more than rare communications with her
daughter. The poor woman, who had calculated on managing everything,
travelling with them, and spending money lavishly, prayed, begged, and
threatened. The baron was inexorable, and replied by silence only. The
daughter sacrificed her mother with Roman stoicism, playing the part of
a humble and obedient wife.
Madame was at first disheartened and fell ill; then, as one must live,
she rented an apartment in the faubourg, and, to augment her income,
set up an _ecarte_, taking care always to have around her many pleasing
young women to add to the attractions of the place. The house soon
became well known, although no one cared to avow openly that they
visited it. Sofronof, Bavorof, and others remained faithful to the
unfortunate.
As may be supposed, this meeting between Muse and Henri at the inn was
equally distasteful to both. The moment the baroness entered the grotto
her eyes fell on her old lover. Notwithstanding her usual presence of
mind, she was confused. More master of the situation, Segel saluted her
respectfully, and smiled bitterly.
At the same time there arrived another couple. They were quietly
dressed, yet with a certain distinction which is not always, as some
think, an exclusive possession of birth. They were the distinguished
guests expected by the host, Jacob and Mathilde. They came in, thinking
themselves unknown. The husband was relating his first visit to this
fairy grotto; the wife replied laughing. The sound of her voice came to
Henri's ears; he believed it at first a hallucination; he listened
attentively, and could not doubt the reality of his first impression.
There seemed to him a strange fatality in this simultaneous meeting of
the two persons, one of whom recalled his lost peace, the other his
vanished hopes. He could not see Mathilde, and the sound of her
well-known voice seemed to descend from the clouds. Curious to know if
it were she, he went to the end of the grotto, where, in an isolated
corner, Jacob dined with her. She seemed rejuvenated, and her face
shone with happiness. Her husband kissed her hands, believing himself
unobserved.
Segel experienced a feeling of wrath; his lips curled under a sardonic
smile.
"All happy!" said he. "And I"--
Then he returned to his place. The silvery voice of Madame Jacob
attracted the attention of the baroness also, and she, likewise, drew
near under pretext of examining the grotto. She gave a cry of surprise.
The couple turned and recognized Muse, who tenderly greeted the old
friend whom she had so often wished dead.
"Ah, my dear Mathilde," cried she, "what a happy and unexpected
meeting!"
Truly it was a romantic encounter, rarely met with in real life.
Chance, however, often plays us tricks altogether unforeseen.
Mathilde did not share the apparent joy of Muse, for whom she had no
great affection. But their acquaintance dated back to the time when
they both wore short dresses, and the remembrances of childhood are
always pleasant.
The proprieties required observance, and Jacob had his table carried to
the grand _salon_, where their friends were dining; he certainly did
not expect to see Henri Segel, and Mathilde saw him first. She drew
back, for all her involuntary unhappy experience with Henri appeared
before her. Her husband, although much annoyed, encouraged her to shake
off her distress.
Segel understood that his presence was disagreeable to all; therefore
it pleased him to impose it. It delighted him to see all countenances
grow pale and abstracted at sight of him. He affected a cynical gayety,
drank a glass of wine, lighted a cigar, then turned toward Jacob and
Mathilde.
With well-simulated indifference Muse watched the meeting. Her husband,
playing the young man, had risen quickly and received his wife's
friends with much courtesy. He was very polite to Jacob, and entirely
ignored the revolutionary role that he had played.
Von Kreig detested Henri, but he deemed it proper for a baron to
disguise his sentiments, and he was very courteous to his vanquished
rival. The scene was highly dramatic. There was no outward appearance
of excitement, however, for men of the world do not show their feelings
in public.
Gromof, roused from his meditations, looked around and perceived Jacob.
"How strange," said he, "to meet you again at Sestri."
"Yes," replied the latter, "a real accident. I am the same as ever, you
see, but not so gay as then."
The baron asked in a low voice:--
"Who is this person?"
"A Russian," replied Jacob.
Von Kreig, taking Gromof for a prominent official of the imperial
court, was going to ask for an introduction, when Jacob whispered in
his ear:--
"An outlaw."
The baron drew back and, as he was a strict conservative, thought:--
"What kind of company have we fallen in with, anyway?" Then he said to
Jacob:--
"Madame and yourself are travelling for pleasure, are you not?"
"We are obliged to leave Poland," replied Jacob. "I joined the
revolutionists, was wounded and was taken to Austria, whence orders
came for me to leave the country. My wife and I seek a retreat where we
may dwell peacefully. It is not so easy to find. Nowhere in Europe,
except in Switzerland or England, is there much security for exiles. In
Saxony they are given leave to remain only temporarily. In Bavaria they
are not given leave to remain at all. In France an arbitrary expulsion,
authorized by the law, always like the sword of Damocles, is suspended
over their heads; and in Belgium they are also unwelcome."
"But I think, monsieur, that you can better your position. The Russian
government is magnanimous; it has proclaimed a general amnesty."
"Yes, I could have obtained that amnesty by solicitation. Unfortunately
the pardon granted to-day does not always do for to-morrow. In Russia
the despotism of caprice is the only law."
Von Kreig frowned.
"The state of siege exists now," said he, "but will not last always."
"To ask permission to return is to avow a fault," said Jacob, "and to
return to Poland now would be to act against my conscience."
The baron knew not how to reply. Gromof relieved him of this
embarrassment by joining in the conversation.
"I told you," said he to Jacob, "what would be the result of your
insurrection."
"Yes, but it could not be avoided. It was written that Poland should be
bathed in blood. It was a trial or a chastisement of Providence; it is
not for me to say which."
"You still believe in Providence? What an incorrigible child! All
Europe suffers from your folly. You have revealed to the world the
weakness of England, the nullity of the imperial government of Napoleon
III., and the abasement of the moral level of all society. Formerly
other countries at least sympathized with nations that were so
oppressed, and looked with disfavour upon the cruel tyrants who caused
such suffering. Under Louis Philippe France did nothing for Poland, but
the two chambers at least protested against her being utterly crushed.
To-day policy reigns, and they bow before superior force. Formerly many
hearts beat at the words 'liberty' and 'fraternity.' To-day these words
provoke only a smile. Lord Byron, when he risked his life for the
independence of Greece, passed for a Don Quixote. And the country of
these heroes has legislators who pretend that humanity is not a family,
that there is no union among the people. Every one for himself! Every
one for himself! Behold a summary of the actual moral situation!
Neither you nor I will ever see the sun of liberty!"
Von Kreig, terrified, whispered in his wife's ear:--
"This Russian is a red revolutionist."
Henri interposed. He changed the subject of the conversation, and from
Poland passed to the Jews. Segel maintained that the Israelites ought
to profit by the situation of things, without caring what became of
Poland. Jacob held to his opinion that it was better to be with the
oppressed against the oppressors. Segel, laughing heartily, replied:--
"This is romantic, poetic, heroic, magnificent; but it is not
practical."
"Whatever you may think," replied Jacob, "it is our duty to convince
the Christians that our morals are not inferior to theirs, that love of
one's neighbour is taught in our books as in their Gospels, and that
between the Mosaic law and the Christian law there is accord and not
contradiction."
"Words, empty words," said Henri, "nothing but words! Material interest
should be the motive of nations as well as individuals. Liberty,
equality, fraternity are a triple aberration of mind! Behold their
result: fields strewn with dead men and bones!"
"Yes; but the dead will rise, the bones will be reanimated as in the
vision of Ezekiel."
Jacob commenced to recite the passage, then, remarking that no one
listened to him, turned gayly to his wife and asked:--
"Is not Italy beautiful?"
"It never seemed so lovely before," replied Mathilde tenderly.
"And what do you think of it, madame?" asked he of the baroness.
"Bah!" replied she. "I suppose one must conform to the fashion and
admire Italy. It is a picturesque country; but, all things considered,
this land filled with tombs and ruins has nothing agreeable for me.
Prosaic as it is, I prefer Paris."
"Now, I do not like Paris," said Jacob.
"Is it permitted not to like Paris?" cried Von Kreig. "You are joking,
monsieur."
"Not at all. The same places do not suit all characters or all
dispositions. To dreamy and poetic temperaments I recommend Italy;
Germany, to those who are positive and prosaic; England, to men of
enterprise and activity; and Paris, to high livers, and to ladies who
love the excitements and gayeties of society."
"And Poland?" asked Henri.
"To those who thirst for martyrdom," replied Jacob sadly.
"But now-a-days every one laughs at these Polish theories of suffering
and of sacrifice!"
"Oh, dear and charming Paris!" cried the baroness.
"One vegetates elsewhere, one lives only in Paris," added her husband,
"and perhaps a little in London."
"Do not compare London with its fogs to my dear Paris," replied his
wife.
In the midst of this desultory chatting Henri remained obstinately
near, until the veturino which he had ordered was announced. He could
not deny himself the bitter pleasure of seeing side by side her who had
been his wife, and her who was to have been. He seemed unable to leave
the place.
Meanwhile the dinner drew to a close. The dessert was brought in,
consisting of figs, spoiled pears, green grapes, and musty peaches.
"No comparison is possible," said the baron, "between these wretched
fruits and the delicious fruits we get at Paris."
"These are horrible!" added his wife, biting into the bad part of a
peach. Then she turned to Mathilde and asked her if she should return
to Genoa.
"Yes; but not until evening," she replied.
"Well, we must make haste, for we are going to the theatre," said Muse.
They all arose from the table. The baron offered cigars to Jacob and
Henri Segel, but he hastened to quit their society. One appeared to be
compromising, the other altogether odious.
Gromof and the Tsigane chatted together. Muse drew Mathilde into an
obscure corner of the grotto to ask her this question:--
"Are you happy?"
"Above all expression," replied she. "I have only one sorrow,--to see
our native land in such an unhappy condition."
"And Jacob?"
"He is the best of men; he is my ideal."
"What do you think of that horrid Henri?"
"I had to summon all my courage when he looked at me so fixedly, a cold
sweat came on my forehead. He is capable of killing both of us."
"No! He is not susceptible of so violent an emotion. We ought to pardon
him, for he suffers keenly."
"Oh, no! I know better than that. He will easily console himself."
The baron was impatient to depart, and coughed to bring back his wife
from the grotto. At last the two friends separated, saying farewell,
and Muse bowed to Henri from the distance, with a grave dignity. The
brilliant star entered her carriage and disappeared in a cloud of dust
on the highway. Jacob conducted his wife to her room in the inn and
descended to the grotto.
Gromof and the Tsigane came to talk with him. The Russian saw the
future outlook dark and gloomy. Jacob was rather optimistic.
"Man," said he, "ought never to abandon himself to despair. If he
object to his own individual lot, it is narrow-minded and weak. If he
complain of the lot of humanity, it is blindness or error. In the
annals of the world human events are submitted to a normal development,
an intelligent fatality which is not arrested by the stupidity and
malevolence of men. The law of destiny, whatever we may do, will
prevail. Patience, and the storm will disappear."
"And we,--we cannot expect to live to see the sun appear!"
"Our children will see it, perhaps. In the collective existence of
humanity there is a cohesion of facts which do not exist in the same
individual existences. Individuals are only the stones of a vast
edifice."
"You are a happy man from all points of view," declared Henri. "You
have faith in the aim of life, you possess serenity of soul; nothing is
lacking."
"And you? Can you not acquire the same happiness?"
"No. I have squeezed life like a lemon. There remains to me only the
bitter peel. I exist aimlessly; I believe in nothing; everything seems
to me senseless or ridiculous. It is the malady of the age. Your dreams
are worth more than the reality."
"They are not dreams. For me it is the living reality. Your materialism
is what is false. You will soon return to Poland; there is much to do
there. Do your duty there, and life will have a new meaning for you."
Henri laughed ironically and said:--
"In the meanwhile I have another work on hand. I am going to attach
myself to Muse. I shall follow her everywhere. She will see
continuously my mocking face. I will be the skeleton at the feast, and
I will enjoy this revenge to satiety. Every one to his taste! I really
believe that Satan cradled me, and that this nurse has injected into my
blood some of his own character."
He gave an infernal laugh, took his hat, and left them, saying:--
"I will join Muse at the theatre."
THE END.