ON THE GROUND
When Maud Gorka left the house on the Rue Leopardi she walked on at first
rapidly, blindly, without seeing, without hearing anything, like a
wounded animal which runs through the thicket to escape danger, to escape
its wounds, to escape itself. It was a little more than half-past three
o'clock when the unhappy woman hastened from the studio, unable to bear
near her the presence of Lydia Maitland, of that sinister worker of
vengeance who had so cruelly revealed to her, with such indisputable
proofs, the atrocious affair, the long, the infamous, the inexpiable
treason.
It was almost six o'clock before Maud Gorka really regained
consciousness. A very common occurrence aroused her from the
somnambulism of suffering in which she had wandered for two hours.
The storm which had threatened since noon at length broke. Maud, who had
scarcely heeded the first large drops, was forced to seek shelter when
the clouds suddenly burst, and she took refuge at the right extremity of
the colonnade of St. Peter's. How had she gone that far? She did not
know herself precisely. She remembered vaguely that she had wandered
through a labyrinth of small streets, had crossed the Tiber--no doubt by
the Garibaldi bridge--had passed through a large garden--doubtless the
Janicule, since she had walked along a portion of the ramparts. She had
left the city by the Porte de Saint-Pancrace, to follow by that of
Cavallegieri the sinuous line of the Urban walls.
That corner of Rome, with a view of the pines of the Villa Pamfili on one
side, and on the other the back part of the Vatican, serves as a
promenade during the winter for the few cardinals who go in search of the
afternoon sun, certain there of meeting only a few strangers. In the
month of May it is a desert, scorched by the sun, which glows upon the
brick, discolored by two centuries of that implacable heat which caresses
the scales of the green and gray lizards about to crawl between the bees
of Pope Urbain VIII's escutcheon of the Barberini family. Madame Gorka's
instinct had at least served her in leading her upon a route on which she
met no one. Now the sense of reality returned. She recognized the
objects around her, and that framework, so familiar to her piety of
fervent Catholicism, the enormous square, the obelisk of Sixte-Quint in
the centre, the fountains, the circular portico crowned with bishops and
martyrs, the palace of the Vatican at the corner, and yonder the facade
of the large papal cathedral, with the Saviour and the apostles erect
upon the august pediment.
On any other occasion in life the pious young woman would have seen in
the chance which led her thither, almost unconsciously, an influence from
above, an invitation to enter the church, there to ask the strength to
suffer of the God who said: "Let him who wishes follow me, let him
renounce all, let him take up his cross and follow me!" But she was
passing through that first bitter paroxysm of grief in which it is
impossible to pray, so greatly does the revolt of nature cry out within
us. Later, we may recognize the hand of Providence in the trial imposed
upon us. We see at first only the terrible injustice of fate, and we
tremble in the deepest recesses of our souls with rebellion at the blow
from which we bleed. That which rendered the rebellion more invincible
and more fierce in Maud, was the suddenness of the mortal blow.
Daily some pure, honest woman, like her, acquires the proof of the
treason of a husband whom she has not ceased to love. Ordinarily, the
indisputable proof is preceded by a long period of suspicion. The
faithless one neglects his hearth. A change takes place in his daily
habits. Various hints reveal to the outraged wife the trace of a rival,
which woman's jealousy distinguishes with a scent as certain as that of a
dog which finds a stranger in the house. And, finally, although there is
in the transition from doubt to certainty a laceration of the heart, it
is at least the laceration of a heart prepared. That preparation, that
adaptation, so to speak, of her soul to the truth, Maud had been deprived
of. The care taken by Madame Steno to strengthen the friendship between
her and Alba had suppressed the slightest signs. Boleslas had no need to
change his domestic life in order to see his mistress at his convenience
and in an intimacy entertained, provoked, by his wife herself. The wife,
too, had been totally, absolutely deceived. She had assisted in her
husband's adultery with one of those illusions so complete that it seemed
improbable to the indifferent and to strangers. The awakening from such
illusions is the most terrible. That man whom society considered a
complaisant husband, that woman who seemed so indulgent a wife, suddenly
find that they have committed a murder or a suicide, to the great
astonishment of the world which, even then, hesitates to recognize in
that access of folly the proof, the blow, more formidable, more
instantaneous in its ravages, than those of love-sudden disillusion.
When the disaster is not interrupted by acts of violence, it causes an
irreparable destruction of the youthfulness of the soul, it is the idea
instilled in us forever that all can betray, since we have been betrayed
in that manner. It is for years, for life, sometimes, that powerlessness
to be affected, to hope, to believe, which caused Maud Gorka to remain,
on that afternoon, leaning against the pedestal of a column, watching the
rain fall, instead of ascending to the Basilica, where the confessional
offers pardon for all sins and the remedy for all sorrows. Alas! It was
consolation simply to kneel there, and the poor woman was only in the
first stage of Calvary.
She watched the rain fall, and she found a savage comfort in the
formidable character of the storm, which seemed like a cataclysm of
nature, to such degree did the flash of the lightning and the roar of the
thunder mingle with the echoes of the vast palace beneath the lash of the
wind. Forms began to take shape in her mind, after the whirlwind of
blind suffering in which she felt herself borne away after the first
glance cast upon that fatal letter. Each word rose before her eyes, so
feverish that she closed them with pain. The last two years of her life,
those which had bound her to Countess Steno, returned to her thoughts,
illuminated by a brilliance which drew from her constantly these words,
uttered with a moan: How could he? She saw Venice and their sojourn in
the villa to which Boleslas had conducted her after the death of their
little girl, in order that there, in the restful atmosphere of the
lagoon, she might overcome the keen paroxysm of pain.
How very kind and delicate Madame Steno had been at that time; at least
how kind she had seemed, and how delicate likewise, comprehending her
grief and sympathizing with it.... Their superficial relations had
gradually ripened into friendship. Then, no doubt, the treason had
begun. The purloiner of love had introduced herself under cover of the
pity in which Maud had believed. Seeing the Countess so generous, she
had treated as calumny the slander of the world relative to a person
capable of such touching kindness of heart. And it was at that moment
that the false woman took Boleslas from her! A thousand details recurred
to her which at the time she had not understood; the sails of the two
lovers in the gondola, which she had not even thought of suspecting; a
visit which Boleslas had made to Piove and from which he only returned
the following day, giving as a pretext a missed train; words uttered
aside on the balcony of the Palais Steno at night, while she talked with
Alba. Yes, it was at Venice that their adultery began, before her who
had divined nothing, her whose heart was filled with inconsolable regret
for her lost darling! Ah, how could he? she moaned again, and the
visions multiplied.
In her mind were then opened all the windows which Gorka's perfidity and
the Countess's as well, had sealed with such care. She saw again the
months which followed their return to Rome, and that mode of life so
convenient for both. How often had she walked out with Alba, thus
freeing the mother and the husband from the only surveillance annoying to
them. What did the lovers do during those hours? How many times on
returning to the Palazzetto Doria had she found Catherine Steno in the
library, seated on the divan beside Boleslas, and she had not mistrusted
that the woman had come, during her absence, to embrace that man, to talk
to him of love, to give herself to him, without doubt, with the charm of
villainy and of danger! She remembered the episode of their meeting at
Bayreuth the previous summer, when she went to England alone with her
son, and when her husband undertook to conduct Alba and the Countess from
Rome to Bavaria. They had all met at Nuremberg. The apartments of the
hotel in which the meeting took place became again very vivid in Maud's
memory, with Madame Steno's bedroom adjoining that of Boleslas's.
The vision of their caresses, enjoyed in the liberty of the night, while
innocent Alba slept near by, and when she rolled away in a carriage with
little Luc, drew from her this cry once more: "Ah, how could he!"....
And immediately that vision awoke in her the remembrance of her husband's
recent return. She saw him traversing Europe on the receipt of an
anonymous letter, to reach that woman's side twenty-four hours sooner.
What a proof of passion was the frenzy which had not allowed him any
longer to bear doubt and absence!.... Did he love the mistress who did
not even love him, since she had deceived him with Maitland? And he was
going to fight a duel on her account!.... Jealousy, at that moment,
wrung the wife's heart with a pang still stronger than that of
indignation. She, the strong Englishwoman, so large, so robust, almost
masculine in form, mentally compared herself with the supple Italian with
her form so round, with her gestures so graceful, her hands so delicate,
her feet so dainty; compared herself with the creature of desire, whose
every movement implied a secret wave of passion, and she ceased her cry--
"Ah, how could he?"--at once. She had a clear knowledge of the power of
her rival.
It is indeed a supreme agony for an honorable woman, who loves, to feel
herself thus degraded by the mere thought of the intoxication her husband
has tasted in arms more beautiful, more caressing, more entwining than
hers. It was, too, a signal for the return of will to the tortured but
proud soul. Disgust possessed her, so violent, so complete, for the
atmosphere of falsehood and of sensuality in which Boleslas had lived two
years, that she drew herself up, becoming again strong and implacable.
Braving the storm, she turned in the direction of her home, with this
resolution as firmly rooted in her mind as if she had deliberated for
months and months.
"I will not remain with that man another day. Tomorrow I will leave for
England with my son."
How many, in a similar situation, have uttered such vows, to abjure them
when they find themselves face to face with the man who has betrayed
them, and whom they love. Maud was not of that order. Certainly she
loved dearly the seductive Boleslas, wedded against her parents' will the
perfidious one for whom she had sacrificed all, living far from her
native land and her family for years, because it pleased him, breathing,
living, only for him and for their boy. But there was within her--as her
long, square chin, her short nose and the strength of her brow revealed--
the force of inflexibility--which is met with in characters of an
absolute uprightness. Love, with her, could be stifled by disgust, or,
rather, she considered it degrading to continue to love one whom she
scorned, and, at that moment, it was supreme scorn which reigned in her
heart. She had, in the highest degree, the great virtue which is found
wherever there is nobility, and of which the English have made the basis
of their moral education--the religion, the fanaticism of loyalty. She
had always grieved on discovering the wavering nature of Boleslas. But
if she had observed in him, with sorrow, any exaggerations of language,
any artificial sentiment, a dangerous suppleness of mind, she had
pardoned him those defects with the magnanimity of love, attributing them
to a defective training. Gorka at a very early age had witnessed a
stirring family drama--his mother and his father lived apart, while
neither the one nor the other had the exclusive guidance of the child.
How could she find indulgence for the shameful hypocrisy of two years'
standing, for the villainy of that treachery practised at the domestic
hearth, for the continued, voluntary disloyalty of every day, every hour?
Though Maud experienced, in the midst of her despair, the sort of
calmness which proves a firm and just resolution, when she reentered the
Palazzetto Doria--what a drama had been enacted in her heart since her
going out!--and it was in a voice almost as calm as usual that she asked:
"Is the Count at home?"
What did she experience when the servant, after answering her in the
affirmative, added: "Madame and Mademoiselle Steno, too, are awaiting
Madame in the salon." At the thought that the woman who had stolen from
her her husband was there, the betrayed wife felt her blood boil, to use
a common but expressive phrase. It was very natural that Alba's mother
should call upon her, as was her custom. It was still more natural for
her to come there that day. For very probably a report of the duel the
following day had reached her. Her presence, however, and at that
moment, aroused in Maud a feeling of indignation so impassioned that her
first impulse was to enter, to drive out Boleslas's mistress as one would
drive out a servant surprised thieving. Suddenly the thought of Alba
presented itself to her mind, of that sweet and pure Alba, of that soul
as pure as her name, of her whose dearest friend she was. Since the
dread revelation she had thought several times of the young girl. But
her deep sorrow having absorbed all the power of her soul, she had not
been able to feel such friendship for the delicate and pretty child.
At the thought of ejecting her rival, as she had the right to do, that
sentiment stirred within her. A strange pity flooded her soul, which
caused her to pause in the centre of the large hall, ornamented with
statues and columns, which she was in the act of crossing. She called
the servant just as he was about to put his hand on the knob of the door.
The analogy between her situation and that of Alba struck her very
forcibly. She experienced the sensation which Alba had so often
experienced in connection with Fanny, sympathy with a sorrow so like her
own. She could not give her hand to Madame Steno after what she had
discovered, nor could she speak to her otherwise than to order her from
her house. And to utter before Alba one single phrase, to make one
single gesture which would arouse her suspicions, would be too
implacable, too iniquitous a vengeance! She turned toward the door which
led to her own room, bidding the servant ask his master to come thither.
She had devised a means of satisfying her just indignation without
wounding her dear friend, who was not responsible for the fact that the
two culprits had taken shelter behind her innocence.
Having entered the small, pretty boudoir which led into her bedroom, she
seated herself at her desk, on which was a photograph of Madame Steno, in
a group consisting of Boleslas, Alba, and herself. The photograph smiled
with a smile of superb insolence, which suddenly reawakened in the
outraged woman her frenzy of rancor, interrupted or rather suspended for
several moments by pity. She took the frame in her hands, she cast it
upon the ground, trampling the glass beneath her feet, then she began to
write, on the first blank sheet, one of those notes which passion alone
dares to pen, which does not draw back at every word:
"I know all. For two years you have been my husband's mistress. Do not
deny it. I have read the confession written by your own hand. I do not
wish to see nor to speak to you again. Never again set foot in my house.
On account of your daughter I have not driven you out to-day. A second
time I shall not hesitate."
She was just about to sign Maud Gorka, when the sound of the door opening
and shutting caused her to turn. Boleslas was before her. Upon his face
was an ambiguous expression, which exasperated the unhappy wife still
more. Having returned more than an hour before, he had learned that Maud
had accompanied to the Rue Leopardi Madame Maitland, who was ill, and he
awaited her return with impatience, agitated by the thought that
Florent's sister was no doubt ill owing to the duel of the morrow, and in
that case, Maud, too, would know all. There are conversations and, above
all, adieux which a man who is about to fight a duel always likes to
avoid. Although he forced a smile, he no longer doubted. His wife's
evident agitation could not be explained by any other cause. Could he
divine that she had learned not only of the duel, but, too, of an
intrigue that day ended and of which she had known nothing for two years?
As she was silent, and as that silence embarrassed him, he tried, in
order to keep him in countenance, to take her hand and kiss it, as was
his custom. She repelled him with a look which he had never seen upon
her face and said to him, handing him the sheet of paper lying before
her:
"Do you wish to read this note before I send it to Madame Steno, who is
in the salon with her daughter?"
Boleslas took the letter. He read the terrible lines, and he became
livid. His agitation was so great that he returned the paper to his wife
without replying, without attempting to prevent, as was his duty, the
insult offered to his former mistress, whom he still loved to the point
of risking his life for her. That man, so brave and so yielding at once,
was overwhelmed by one of those surprises which put to flight all the
powers of the mind, and he watched Maud slip the note into an envelope,
write the address and ring. He heard her say to the servant:
"You will take this note to Countess Steno and you will excuse me to the
ladies.... I feel too indisposed to receive any one. If they insist,
you will reply that I have forbidden you to admit any one. You
understand--any one."
The man took the note. He left the room and he had no doubt fulfilled
his errand while the husband and wife stood there, face to face, neither
of them breaking the formidable silence. They felt that the hour was a
solemn one.
Never, since the day on which Cardinal Manning had united their destinies
in the chapel of Ardrahan Castle, had they been engaged in a crisis so
tragical. Such moments lay bare the very depths of the character.
Courageous and noble, Maud did not think of weighing her words. She did
not try to feed her jealousy, nor to accentuate the cruelty of the cause
of the insult which she had the right to launch at the man toward whom
that very morning she had been so confiding, so tender. The baseness and
the cruelty were to remain forever unknown to the woman who no longer
hesitated as to the bold resolution she had made. No. That which she
expected of the man whom she had loved so dearly, of whom she had
entertained so exalted an opinion, whom she had just seen fall so low,
was a cry of truth, an avowal in which she would find the throb of a last
remnant of honor. If he were silent it was not because he was preparing
a denial. The tenor of Maud's letter left no doubt as to the nature of
the proofs she had in her hand, which she had there no doubt. How?
He did not ask himself that question, governed as he was by a phenomenon
in which was revealed to the full the singular complexity of his nature.
The Slav's especial characteristic is a prodigious, instantaneous
nervousness. It seems that those beings with the uncertain hearts have a
faculty of amplifying in themselves, to the point of absorbing the heart
altogether, states of partial, passing, and yet sincere emotion.
The intensity of their momentary excitement thus makes of them sincere
comedians, who speak to you as if they felt certain sentiments of an
exclusive order, to feel contradictory ones the day after, with the same
ardor, with the same untruthfulness, unjustly say the victims of those
natures, so much the more deceitful as they are more vibrating.
He suffered, indeed, on discovering that Maud had been initiated into his
criminal intrigue, but he suffered more for her than for himself. It was
sufficient for that suffering to occupy a few moments, a few hours. It
reinvested the personality of the impassioned and weak husband who loved
his wife while betraying her. There was, indeed, a shade of it in his
adventure, but a very slight shade. And yet, he did not think he was
telling an untruth, when he finally broke the silence to say to her whom
he had so long deceived:
"You have avenged yourself with much severity, Maud, but you had the
right.... I do not know who has informed you of an error which was very
culpable, very wrong, very unfortunate, too.... I know that I have in
Rome enemies bent upon my ruin, and I am sure they have left me no means
of defending myself. I have deceived you, and I have suffered."
He paused after those words, uttered with a tremor of conviction which
was not assumed. He had forgotten that ten minutes before he had entered
the room with the firm determination to hide his duel and its cause from
the woman for whose pardon he would at that moment have sacrificed his
life without hesitation. He continued, in a voice softened by affection:
"Whatever they have told you, whatever you have read, I swear to you, you
do not know all."
"I know enough," interrupted Maud, "since I know that you have been the
lover of that woman, of the mother of my intimate friend, at my side,
under my very eyes.... If you had suffered by that deception, as you
say, you would not have waited to avow all to me until I held in my hands
the undeniable proof of your infamy.... You have cast aside the mask,
or, rather, I have wrested it from you.... I desire no more.... As for
the details of the shameful story, spare me them. It was not to hear
them that I reentered a house every corner of which reminds me that I
believed in you implicitly, and that you have betrayed me, not one day,
but every day; that you betrayed me the day before yesterday, yesterday,
this morning, an hour ago.... I repeat, that is sufficient."
"But it is not sufficient for me!" exclaimed Boleslas. "Yes, all you
have just said is true, and I deserve to have you tell it to me. But
that which you could not read in those letters shown to you, that which I
have kept for two years in the depths of my heart, and which must now be
told--is that, through all these fatal impulses, I have never ceased to
love you.... Ah, do not recoil from me, do not look at me thus....
I feel it once more in the agony I have suffered since you are speaking
to me; there is something within me that has never ceased being yours.
That woman has been my aberration. She has had my madness, my senses,
my passion, all the evil instincts of my being.... You have remained my
idol, my affection, my religion.... If I lied to you it was because I
knew that the day on which you would find out my fault I should see you
before me, despairing and implacable as you now are, as I can not bear to
have you be. Ah, judge me, condemn me, curse me; but know, but feel,
that in spite of all I have loved you, I still love you."
Again he spoke with an enthusiasm which was not feigned. Though he had
deceived her, he recognized only too well the value of the loyal creature
before him, whom he feared he should lose. If he could not move her at
the moment when he was about to fight a duel, when could he move her?
So he approached her with the same gesture of suppliant and impassioned
adoration which he employed in the early days of their marriage, and
before his treason, when he had told her of his love. No doubt that
remembrance thrust itself upon Maud and disgusted her, for it was with
veritable horror that she again recoiled, replying:
"Be silent! That lie is the worst of all. It pains me. I blush for
you, in seeing that you have not even the courage to acknowledge your
fault. God is my witness, I should have respected you more, had you
said: 'I have ceased loving you. I have taken a mistress. It was
convenient for me to lie to you. I have lied. I have sacrificed all to
my passion, my honor, my duties, my vows and you.'.... Ah, speak to me
like that, that I may have with you the sentiment of truth.... But that
you dare to repeat to me words of tenderness after what you have done to
me, inspires me with repulsion. It is too bitter."
"Yes," said Boleslas, "you think thus. True and simple as you are, how
could you have learned to understand what a weak will is--a will which
wishes and which does not, which rises and which falls?.... And yet,
if I had not loved you, what interest would I have in lying to you?
Have I anything to conceal now? Ah, if you knew in what a position I am,
on the eve of what day, I beseech you to believe that at least the best
part of my being has never ceased to be yours!"
It was the strongest effort he could make to bring back the heart of his
wife so deeply wounded--the allusion to his duel. For since she had not
mentioned it to him, it was no doubt because she was still ignorant of
it. He was once more startled by the reply she made, and which proved to
him to what a degree indignation had paralyzed even her love. He
resumed:
"Do you know it?"
"I know that you fight a duel to-morrow," said she, "and for your
mistress, I know, too."
"It is not true," he exclaimed; "it is not for her."
"What?" asked Maud, energetically. "Was it not on her account that you
went to the Rue Leopardi to provoke your rival? For she is not even true
to you, and it is justice. Was it not on her account that you wished to
enter the house, in spite of that rival's brother-in-law, and that a
dispute arose between you, followed by this challenge? Was it not on her
account, and to revenge yourself, that you returned from Poland, because
you had received anonymous letters which told you all? And to know all
has not disgusted you forever with that creature?.... But if she had
deigned to lie to you, she would have you still at her feet, and you dare
to tell me that you love me when you have not even cared to spare me the
affront of learning all that villainy--all that baseness, all that
disgrace--through some one else?"
"Who was it?" he asked. "Name that Judas to me, at least?"
"Do not speak thus," interrupted Maud, bitterly; "you have lost the
right.... And then do not seek too far.... I have seen Madame Maitland
to-day."
"Madame Maitland?" repeated Boleslas. "Did Madame Maitland denounce me
to you? Did Madame Maitland write those anonymous letters?"
"She desired to be avenged," replied Maud, adding: "She has the right,
since your mistress robbed her of her husband."
"Well, I, too, will be avenged!" exclaimed the young man. "I will kill
that husband for her, after I have killed her brother. I will kill them
both, one after the other.".... His mobile countenance, which had just
expressed the most impassioned of supplications, now expressed only
hatred and rage, and the same change took place in his immoderate
sensibility. "Of what use is it to try to settle matters?" he
continued. "I see only too well all is ended between us. Your pride and
your rancor are stronger than your love. If it had been otherwise, you
would have begged me not to fight, and you would only have reproached me,
as you have the right to do, I do not deny.... But from the moment that
you no longer love me, woe to him whom I find in my path! Woe to Madame
Maitland and to those she loves!"
"This time at least you are sincere," replied Maud, with renewed
bitterness. "Do you think I have not suffered sufficient humiliation?
Would you like me to supplicate you not to fight for that creature?
And do you not feel the supreme outrage which that encounter is to me?
Moreover," she continued with tragical solemnity, "I did not summon you
to have with you a conversation as sad as it is useless, but to tell you
my resolution.... I hope that you will not oblige me to resort for its
execution to the means which the law puts in my power?"
"I don't deserve to be spoken to thus," said Boleslas, haughtily.
"I will remain here to-night," resumed Maud, without heeding that reply,
"for the last time. To-morrow evening I shall leave for England."
"You are free," said he, with a bow.
"And I shall take my son with me," she added.
"Our son!" he replied, with the composure of a man overcome by an access
of tenderness and who controls himself. "That? No. I forbid it."
"You forbid it?" said she. "Very well, we will appeal it. I knew that
you would force me," she continued, haughtily, in her turn, "to have
recourse to the law.... But I shall not recoil before anything.
In betraying me as you have done, you have also betrayed our child.
I will not leave him to you. You are not worthy of him."
"Listen, Maud," said Boleslas, sadly, after a pause, "remember that it is
perhaps the last time we shall meet.... To-morrow, if I am killed, you
shall do as you like.... If I live, I promise to consent to any
arrangement that will be just.... What I ask of you is--and I have the
right, notwithstanding my faults--in the name of our early years of
wedded life, in the name of that son himself, to leave me in a different
way, to have a feeling, I don't say of pardon, but of pity."
"Did you have it for me," she replied, "when you were following your
passion by way of my heart? No!".... And she walked before him in order
to reach the door, fixing upon him eyes so haughty that he involuntarily
lowered his. "You have no longer a wife and I have no longer a
husband.... I am no Madame Maitland; I do not avenge myself by means of
anonymous letters nor by denunciation.... But to pardon you?.... Never,
do you hear, never!"
With those words she left the room, with those words into which she put
all the indomitable energy of her character.... Boleslas did not essay
to detain her. When, an hour after that horrible conversation, his valet
came to inform him that dinner was served, the wretched man was still in
the same place, his elbow on the mantelpiece and his forehead in his
hand. He knew Maud too well to hope that she would change her
determination, and there was in him, in spite of his faults, his folly
and his complications, too much of the real gentleman to employ means of
violence and to detain her forcibly, when he had erred so gravely. So
she went thus. If, just before, he had exaggerated the expression of his
feelings in saying, in thinking rather, that he had never ceased loving
her, it was true that amid all his errors he had maintained for her an
affection composed particularly of gratitude, remorse, esteem and, it
must be said, of selfishness.
He loved for the devotion of which he was absolutely sure, and then, like
many husbands who deceive an irreproachable wife, he was proud of her,
while unfaithful to her. She seemed to him at once the dignity and the
charity of his life. She had remained in his eyes the one to whom he
could always return, the assured friend of moments of trial, the haven
after the tempest, the moral peace when he was weary of the troubles of
passion. What life would he lead when she was gone? For she would go!
Her resolution was irrevocable. All dropped from his side at once.
The mistress, to whom he had sacrificed the noblest and most loving
heart, he had lost under circumstances as abject as their two years of
passion had been dishonorable. His wife was about to leave him,
and would he succeed in keeping his son? He had returned to be avenged,
and he had not even succeeded in meeting his rival. That being so
impressionable had experienced, in the face of so many repeated blows,
a disappointment so absolute that he gladly looked forward to the
prospect of exposing himself to death on the following day, while at the
same time a bitter flood of rancor possessed him at the thought of all
the persons concerned in his adventure. He would have liked to crush
Madame Steno and Maitland, Lydia and Florent--Dorsenne, too--for having
given him the false word of honor, which had strengthened still more his
thirst for vengeance by calming it for a few hours.
His confusion of thoughts was only greater when he was seated alone with
his son at dinner. That morning he had seen before him his wife's
smiling face. The absence of her whom at that moment he valued above all
else was so sad to him that he ventured one last attempt, and after the
meal he sent little Luc to see if his mother would receive him. The
child returned with a reply in the negative. "Mamma is resting.... She
does not wish to be disturbed." So the matter was irremissible. She
would not see her husband until the morrow--if he lived. For vainly did
Boleslas convince himself that afternoon that he had lost none of his
skill in practising before his admiring seconds; a duel is always a
lottery. He might be killed, and if the possibility of an eternal
separation had not moved the injured woman, what prayer would move her?
He saw her in his thoughts--her who at that moment, with blinds drawn,
all lights subdued, endured in the semi-darkness that suffering which
curses but does not pardon. Ah, but that sight was painful to him!
And, in order that she might at least know how he felt, he took their son
in his arms, and, pressing him to his breast, said: "If you see your
mother before I do, you will tell her that we spent a very lonesome
evening without her, will you not?"
"Why, what ails you?" exclaimed the child. "You have wet my cheeks with
tears--you are sweeping!"
"You will tell her that, too, promise me," replied the father, "so that
she will take good care of herself, seeing how we love her."
"But," said the little boy, "she was not ill when we walked together
after breakfast. She was so gay."
"I think, too, it will be nothing serious," replied Gorka. He was
obliged to dismiss his son and to go out. He felt so horribly sad that
he was physically afraid to remain alone in the house. But whither
should he go? Mechanically he repaired to the club, although it was too
early to meet many of the members there. He came upon Pietrapertosa and
Cibo, who had dined there, and who, seated on one of the divans, were
conferring in whispers with the gravity of two ambassadors discussing the
Bulgarian or Egyptian question.
"You have a very nervous air," they said to Boleslas, "you who were in
such good form this afternoon."
"Yes," said Cibo, "you should have dined with us as we asked you to."
"When one is to fight a duel," continued Pietrapertosa, sententiously,
"one should see neither one's wife nor one's mistress. Madame Gorka
suspects nothing, I hope?"
"Absolutely nothing," replied Boleslas; "you are right. I should have
done better not to have left you. But, here I am. We will exorcise
dismal thoughts by playing cards and supping!"
"By playing cards and supping!" exclaimed Pietrapertosa. "And your hand?
Think of your hand.... You will tremble, and you will miss your man."
"Alright dinner," said Cibo, "to bed at ten o'clock, up at six-thirty,
and two eggs with a glass of old port is the recipe Machault gives."
"And which I shall not follow," said Boleslas, adding: "I give you my
word that if I had no other cause for care than this duel, you would not
see me in this condition." He uttered that phrase in a tragical voice,
the sincerity of which the two Italians felt. They looked at each other
without speaking. They were too shrewd and too well aware of the
simplest scandals of Rome not to have divined the veritable cause of the
encounter between Florent and Boleslas. On the other hand, they knew the
latter too well not to mistrust somewhat his attitudes. However, there
was such simple emotion in his accent that they spontaneously pitied him,
and, without another word, they no longer opposed the caprices of their
strange client, whom they did not leave until two o'clock in the morning
--and fortune favored them. For they found themselves at the end of a
game, recklessly played, each the richer by two or three hundred louis
apiece. That meant a few days more in Paris on the next visit. They,
too, truly regretted their friend's luck, saying, on separating:
"I very much fear for him," said Cibo. "Such luck at gaming, the night
before a duel--bad sign, very bad sign."
"So much the more so that some one was there," replied Pietrapertosa,
making with his fingers the sign which conjures the jettutura. For
nothing in the world would he have named the personages against whose
evil eye he provided in that manner. But Cibo understood him, and,
drawing from his trousers pocket his watch, which he fastened a
l'anglaise by a safety chain to his belt, he pointed out among the charms
a golden horn:
"I have not let it go this evening," said he. "The worst is, that Gorka
will not sleep, and then, his hand!"
Only the first of those two prognostics was to be verified. Returning
home at that late hour, Boleslas did not even retire. He employed the
remainder of the night in writing a long letter to his wife, one to his
son, to be given to him on his eighteenth birthday, all in case of an
accident. Then he examined his papers and he came upon the package of
letters he had received from Madame Steno. Merely to reread a few of
them, and to glance at the portraits of that faithless mistress again,
heightened his anger to such a degree that he enclosed the whole in a
large envelope, which he addressed to Lincoln Maitland. He had no sooner
sealed it than he shrugged his shoulders, saying: "Of what use?" He
raised the piece of material which stopped up the chimney, and, placing
the envelope on the fire-dogs, he set it on fire. He shook with the
tongs the remains of that which had been the most ardent, the most
complete passion of his life, and he relighted the flames under the
pieces of paper still intact. The unreasonable employment of a night
which might be his last had scarcely paled his face. But his friends,
who knew him well, started on seeing him with that impassively sinister
countenance when he alighted from his phaeton, at about eight o'clock,
at the inn selected for the meeting. He had ordered the carriage the day
before to allay his wife's suspicions by the pretense of taking one of
his usual morning drives. In his mental confusion he had forgotten to
give a counter order, and that accident caused him to escape the two
policemen charged by the questorship to watch the Palazzetto Doria, on
Lydia Maitland's denunciation. The hired victoria, which those agents
took, soon lost track of the swift English horses, driven as a man of his
character and of his mental condition could drive.
The precaution of Chapron's sister was, therefore, baffled in that
direction, and she succeeded no better with regard to her brother, who,
to avoid all explanation with Lincoln, had gone, under the pretext of a
visit to the country, to dine and sleep at the hotel. It was there that
Montfanon and Dorsenne met him to conduct him to the rendezvous in the
classical landau. Hardly had they reached the eminence of the circus of
Maxence, on the Appian Way, when they were passed by Boleslas's phaeton.
"You can rest very easy," said Montfanon to Florent. "How can one aim
correctly when one tires one's arm in that way?"
That had been the only allusion to the duel made between the three men
during the journey, which had taken about an hour. Florent talked as he
usually did, asking all sorts of questions which attested his care for
minute information--the most of which might be utilized by his brother-
in-law-and the Marquis had replied by evoking, with his habitual
erudition, several of the souvenirs which peopled that vast country,
strewn with tombs, aqueducts, ruined villas, with the line of the Monts
Albains enclosing them beyond.
Dorsenne was silent. It was the first affair at which he had assisted,
and his nervous anxiety was extreme.
Tragical presentiments oppressed him, and at the same time he apprehended
momentarily that, Montfanon's religious scruples reawakening, he would
not only have to seek another second, but would have to defer a solution
so near. However, the struggle which was taking place in the heart of
the "old leaguer" between the gentleman and the Christian, was displayed
during the drive only by an almost imperceptible gesture. As the
carriage passed the entrance to the catacomb of St. Calixtus, the former
soldier of the Pope turned away his head. Then he resumed the
conversation with redoubled energy, to pause in his turn, however, when
the landau took, a little beyond the Tomb of Caecilia, a transverse road
in the direction of the Ardeatine Way. It was there that 'l'Osteria del
tempo perso' was built, upon the ground belonging to Cibo, on which the
duel was to take place.
Before l'Osteria, whose signboard was surmounted by the arms of Pope
Innocent VIII, three carriages were already waiting--Gorka's phaeton, a
landau which had brought Cibo, Pietrapertosa and the doctor, and a simple
botte, in which a porter had come. That unusual number of vehicles
seemed likely to attract the attention of riflemen out for a stroll, but
Cibo answered for the discretion of the innkeeper, who indeed cherished
for his master the devotion of vassal to lord, still common in Italy.
The three newcomers had no need to make the slightest explanation.
Hardly had they alighted from the carriage, when the maid conducted them
through the hall, where at that moment two huntsmen were breakfasting,
their guns between their knees, and who, like true Romans, scarcely
deigned to glance at the strangers, who passed from the common hall into
a small court, from that court, through a shed, into a large field
enclosed by boards, with here and there a few pine-trees.
That rather odd duelling-ground had formerly served Cibo as a paddock.
He had essayed to increase his slender income by buying at a bargain some
jaded horses, which he intended fattening by means of rest and good
fodder, and then selling to cabmen, averaging a small profit. The
speculation having miscarried, the place was neglected and unused, save
under circumstances similar to those of this particular morning.
"We have arrived last," said Montfanon, looking at his watch; "we are,
however, five minutes ahead of time. Remember," he added in a low voice,
turning to Florent, "to keep the body well in the background," these
words being followed by other directions.
"Thanks," replied Florent, who looked at the Marquis and Dorsenne with a
glance which he ordinarily had only for Lincoln, "and you know that,
whatever may come, I thank you for all from the depths of my heart."
The young man put so much grace in that adieu, his courage was so simple,
his sacrifice for his brother-in-law so magnanimous and natural--in fact,
for two days both seconds had so fully appreciated the charm of that
disposition, absolutely free from thoughts of self--that they pressed his
hand with the emotion of true friends. They were themselves, moreover,
interested, and at once began the series of preparations without which
the role of assistant would be physically insupportable to persons
endowed with a little sensibility. In experienced hands like those of
Montfanon, Cibo and Pietrapertosa, such preliminaries are speedily
arranged. The code is as exact as the step of a ballet. Twenty minutes
after the entrance of the last arrivals, the two adversaries were face to
face. The signal was given. The two shots were fired simultaneously,
and Florent sank upon the grass which covered the enclosure. He had a
bullet in his thigh.
Dorsenne has often related since, as a singular trait of literary mania,
that at the moment the wounded man fell he, himself, notwithstanding the
anxiety which possessed him, had watched Montfanon, to study him. He
adds that never had he seen a face express such sorrowful piety as that
of the man who, scorning all human respect, made the sign of the cross.
It was the devotee of the catacombs, who had left the altar of the
martyrs to accomplish a work of charity, then carried away by anger so
far as to place himself under the necessity of participating in a duel,
who was, no doubt, asking pardon of God. What remorse was stirring
within the heart of the fervent, almost mystical Christian, so strangely
mixed up in an adventure of that kind? He had at least this comfort,
that after the first examination, and when they had borne Florent into a
room prepared hastily by the care of Cibo, the doctor declared himself
satisfied. The ball could even be removed at once, and as neither the
bone nor the muscles had been injured it was a matter of a few weeks at
the most.
"All that now remains for us," concluded Cibo, who had brought back the
news, "is to draw up our official report."
At that instant, and as the witnesses were preparing to reenter the house
for the last formality, an incident occurred, very unexpected, which was
to transform the encounter, up to that time so simple, into one of those
memorable duels which are talked over at clubs and in armories. If
Pietrapertosa and Cibo had ceased since morning to believe in the
jettatura of the "some one" whom neither had named, it must be
acknowledged that they were very unjust, for the good fortune of having
gained something wherewith to swell their Parisian purses was surely
naught by the side of this--to have to discuss with the Cavals, the
Machaults and other professionals the case, almost unprecedented, in
which they were participants.
Boleslas Gorka, who, when once his adversary had fallen, paced to and fro
without seeming to care as to the gravity of the wound, suddenly
approached the group formed by the four men, and in a tone of voice which
did not predict the terrible aggression in which he was about to indulge,
he said:
"One moment, gentlemen. I desire to say a few words in your presence to
Monsieur Dorsenne."
"I am at your service, Gorka," replied Julien, who did not suspect the
hostile intention of his old friend. He did not divine the form which
that hostility was about to take, but he had always upon his mind his
word of honor falsely given, and he was prepared to answer for it.
"It will not take much time, sir," continued Boleslas, still with the
same insolently formal politeness, "you know we have an account to
settle.... But as I have some cause not to believe in the validity of
your honor, I should like to remove all cause of evasion." And before
any one could interfere in the unheard-of proceedings he had raised his
glove and struck Dorsenne in the face. As Gorka spoke, the writer turned
pale. He had not the time to reply to the audacious insult offered him
by a similar one, for the three witnesses of the scene cast themselves
between him and his aggressor. He, however, pushed them aside with a
resolute air.
"Remember, sirs," said he, "that by preventing me from inflicting on
Monsieur Gorka the punishment he deserves, you force me to obtain another
reparation. And I demand it immediately.... I will not leave this
place," he continued, "without having obtained it."
"Nor I, without having given it to you," replied Boleslas. "It is all I
ask."
"No, Dorsenne," cried Montfanon, who had been the first to seize the
raised arm of the writer, "you shall not fight thus. First, you have no
right. It requires at least twenty-four hours between the provocation
and the encounter.... And you, sirs, must not agree to serve as seconds
for Monsieur Gorka, after he has failed in a manner so grave in all the
rules of the ground.... If you lend yourselves to it, it is barbarous,
it is madness, whatsoever you like. It is no longer a duel."
"I repeat, Montfanon," replied Dorsenne, "that I will not leave here and
that I will not allow Monsieur Gorka to leave until I have obtained the
reparation to which I feel I have the right."
"And I repeat that I am at Monsieur Dorsenne's service," replied
Boleslas.
"Very well, sirs," said Montfanon. "There only remains for us to leave
you to arrange it one with the other as you wish, and for us to
withdraw.... Is not that your opinion?" he continued, addressing Cibo
and Pietrapertosa, who did not reply immediately.
"Certainly," finally said one; "the case is difficult."
"There are, however, precedents," insinuated the other.
"Yes," resumed Cibo, "if it were only the two successive duels of Henry
de Pene."
"Which furnish authority," concluded Pietrapertosa.
"Authority has nothing to do with it," again exclaimed Montfanon. "I
know, for my part, that I am not here to assist at a butchery, and that I
will not assist at it.... I am going, sirs, and I expect you will do the
same, for I do not suppose you would select coachmen to play the part of
seconds.... Adieu, Dorsenne.... You do not doubt my friendship for
you.... I think I am giving you a veritable proof of it by not
permitting you to fight under such conditions."
When the old nobleman reentered the inn, he waited ten minutes, persuaded
that his departure would determine that of Cibo and of Pietrapertosa,
and that the new affair, following so strangely upon the other, would be
deferred until the next day. He had not told an untruth. It was his
strong friendship for Julien which had made him apprehend a duel
organized in that way, under the influence of a righteous indignation.
Gorka's unjustifiable violence would certainly not permit a second
encounter to be avoided. But as the insult had been outrageous, it was
the more essential that the conditions should be fixed calmly and after
grave consideration. To divert his impatience, Montfanon bade the
innkeeper point out to him whither they had carried Florent, and he
ascended to the tiny room, where the doctor was dressing the wounded
man's leg.
"You see," said the latter, with a smile, "I shall have to limp a little
for a month.... And Dorsenne?"
"He is all right, I hope," replied Montfanon, adding, with ill-humor:
"Dorsenne is a fool; that is what Dorsenne is. And Gorka is a wild
beast; that is what Gorka is." And he related the episode which had just
taken place to the two men, who were so surprised that the doctor,
bandage in hand, paused in his work. "And they wish to fight there at
once, like redskins. Why not scalp one another?.... And that Cibo and
that Pietrapertosa would have consented to the duel if I had not opposed
it! Fortunately they lack two seconds, and it is not easy to find in
this district two men who can sign an official report, for it is the mode
nowadays to have those paltry scraps of paper. One of my friends and
myself had two such witnesses at twenty francs apiece. But that was in
Paris in 'sixty-two." And he entered upon the recital of the old-time
duel, to calm his anxiety, which burst forth again in these words: "It
seems they do not decide to separate so quickly. It is not, however,
possible that they will fight.... Can we see them from here?" He
approached the window, which indeed looked upon the enclosure. The sight
which met his eyes caused the excellent man to stammer.... "The
miserable men!.... It is monstrous.... They are mad.... They have
found seconds.... Whom have they taken?.... Those two huntsmen!....
Ali, my God! My God!".... He could say no more. The doctor had
hastened to the window to see what was passing, regardless of the fact
that Florent dragged himself thither as well. Did they remain there a
few seconds, fifteen minutes or longer? They could never tell, so
greatly were they terrified.
As Montfanon had anticipated, the conditions of the duel were terrible.
For Pietrapertosa, who seemed to direct the combat, after having measured
a space sufficiently long, of about fifty feet, was in the act of tracing
in the centre two lines scarcely ten or twelve metres apart.
"They have chosen the duel a 'marche interrompue'," groaned the veteran
duellist, whose knowledge of the ground did not deceive him. Dorsenne
and Gorka, once placed, face to face, commenced indeed to advance, now
raising, now lowering their weapons with the terrible slowness of two
adversaries resolved not to miss their mark.
A shot was fired. It was by Boleslas. Dorsenne was unharmed. Several
steps had still to be taken in order to reach the limit. He took them,
and he paused to aim at his opponent with so evident an intention of
killing him that they could distinctly hear Cibo cry:
"Fire! For God's sake, fire!"
Julien pressed the trigger, as if in obedience to that order, incorrect,
but too natural to be even noticed. The weapon was discharged, and the
three spectators at the window of the bedroom uttered three simultaneous
exclamations on seeing Gorka's arm fall and his hand drop the pistol.
"It is nothing," cried the doctor, "but a broken arm."
"The good Lord has been better to us than we deserve," said the Marquis.
"Now, at least, the madman will be quieted.... Brave Dorsenne!" cried
Florent, who thought of his brother-in-law and who added gayly, leaning
on Montfanon and the doctor in order to reach the couch: "Finish quickly,
doctor, they will need you below immediately."
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One of those trustful men who did not judge when they loved
That suffering which curses but does not pardon