Michel Menko was alone in the little house he had hired in Paris, in the
Rue d’Aumale. He had ordered his coachman to have his coupe in readiness
for the evening. “Take Trilby,” he said. “He is a better horse than
Jack, and we have a long distance to go; and take some coverings for
yourself, Pierre. Until this evening, I am at home to no one.”
The summer day passed very slowly for him in the suspense of waiting. He
opened and read the letters of which he had spoken to Marsa the evening
before; they always affected him like a poison, to which he returned
again and again with a morbid desire for fresh suffering--love-letters,
the exchange of vows now borne away as by a whirlwind, but which revived
in Michel’s mind happy hours, the only hours of his life in which he had
really lived, perhaps. These letters, dated from Pau, burned him like
a live coal as he read them. They still retained a subtle perfume, a
fugitive aroma, which had survived their love, and which brought Marsa
vividly before his eyes. Then, his heart bursting with jealousy and
rage, he threw the package into the drawer from which he had taken it,
and mechanically picked up a volume of De Musset, opening to some page
which recalled his own suffering. Casting this aside, he took up another
book, and his eyes fell upon the passionate verses of the soldier-poet,
Petoefi, addressed to his Etelka:
Thou lovest me not? What matters it?
My soul is linked to thine,
As clings the leaf unto the tree:
Cold winter comes; it falls; let be!
So I for thee will pine. My fate pursues me to the tomb.
Thou fliest? Even in its gloom
Thou art not free.
What follows in thy steps? Thy shade?
Ah, no! my soul in pain, sweet maid,
E’er watches thee.
“My soul is linked to thine, as clings the leaf unto the tree!” Michel
repeated the lines with a sort of defiance in his look, and longed
impatiently and nervously for the day to end.
A rapid flush of anger mounted to his face as his valet entered with a
card upon a salver, and he exclaimed, harshly:
“Did not Pierre give you my orders that I would receive no one?”
“I beg your pardon, Monsieur; but Monsieur Labanoff insisted so
strongly--”
“Labanoff?” repeated Michel.
“Monsieur Labanoff, who leaves Paris this evening, and desires to see
Monsieur before his departure.”
The name of Labanoff recalled to Michel an old friend whom he had met in
all parts of Europe, and whom he had not seen for a long time. He liked
him exceedingly for a sort of odd pessimism of aggressive philosophy,
a species of mysticism mingled with bitterness, which Labanoff took no
pains to conceal. The young Hungarian had, perhaps, among the men of his
own age, no other friend in the world than this Russian with odd ideas,
whose enigmatical smile puzzled and interested him.
He looked at the clock. Labanoff’s visit might make the time pass until
dinner.
“Admit Monsieur Labanoff!”
In a few moments Labanoff entered. He was a tall, thin young man, with
a complexion the color of wax, flashing eyes, and a little pointed
mustache. His hair, black and curly, was brushed straight up from his
forehead. He had the air of a soldier in his long, closely buttoned
frock-coat.
It was many months since these two men had met; but they had been
long bound together by a powerful sympathy, born of quiet talks and
confidences, in which each had told the other of similar sufferings.
A long deferred secret hope troubled Labanoff as the memory of Marsa
devoured Menko; and they had many times exchanged dismal theories upon
the world, life, men, and laws. Their common bitterness united them.
And Michel received Labanoff, despite his resolution to receive no one,
because he was certain that he should find in him the same suffering as
that expressed by De Musset and Petoefi.
Labanoff, to-day, appeared to him more enigmatical and gloomy than ever.
From the lips of the Russian fell only words of almost tragical mystery.
Menko made him sit down by his side upon a divan, and he noticed that an
extraordinary fever seemed to burn in the blue eyes of his friend.
“I learned that you had returned from London,” said Labanoff; “and, as
I was leaving Paris, I wished to see you before my departure. It is
possible that we may never see each other again.”
“Why?”
“I am going to St. Petersburg on pressing business.”
“Have you finished your studies in Paris?”
“Oh! I had already received my medical diploma when I came here. I have
been living in Paris only to be more at my ease to pursue--a project
which interests me.”
“A project?”
Menko asked the question mechanically, feeling very little curiosity to
know Labanoff’s secret; but the Russian’s face wore a strange, ironical
smile as he answered:
“I have nothing to say on that subject, even to the man for whom I have
the most regard.”
His brilliant eyes seemed to see strange visions before them. He
remained silent for a moment, and then rose with an abrupt movement.
“There,” he said, “that is all I had to tell you, my dear Menko. Now,
‘au revoir’, or rather, good-by; for, as I said before, I shall probably
never see you again.”
“And why, pray?”
“Oh! I don’t know; it is an idea of mine. And then, my beloved Russia is
such a strange country. Death comes quickly there.”
He had still upon his lips that inexplicable smile, jesting and sad at
once.
Menko grasped the long, white hand extended to him.
“My dear Labanoff, it is not difficult to guess that you are going on
some dangerous errand.” Smiling: “I will not do you the injustice to
believe you a nihilist.”
Labanoff’s blue eyes flashed.
“No,” he said, “no, I am not a nihilist. Annihilation is absurd; but
liberty is a fine thing!”
He stopped short, as if he feared that he had already said too much.
“Adieu, my dear Menko.”
The Hungarian detained him with a gesture, saying, with a tremble in his
voice:
“Labanoff! You have found me when a crisis in my life is also impending.
I am about, like yourself, to commit a great folly; a different one from
yours, no doubt. However, I have no right to tell you that you are about
to commit some folly.”
“No,” calmly replied the Russian, very pale, but still smiling, “it is
not a folly.”
“But it is a danger?” queried Menko.
Labanoff made no reply.
“I do not know either,” said Michel, “how my affair will end. But, since
chance has brought us together today, face to face--”
“It was not chance, but my own firm resolution to see you again before
my departure.”
“I know what your friendship for me is, and it is for that reason that I
ask you to tell me frankly where you will be in a month.”
“In a month?” repeated Labanoff.
“Give me the route you are going to take? Shall you be a fixture at St.
Petersburg?”
“Not immediately,” responded the Russian, slowly, his gaze riveted upon
Menko. “In a month I shall still be at Warsaw. At St. Petersburg the
month after.”
“Thanks. I only ask you to let me know, in some way, where you are.”
“Why?”
“Because, I should like to join you.”
“You!”
“It is only a fancy,” said Menko, with an attempt at a laugh. “I am
bored with life--you know it; I find it a nuisance. If we did not spur
it like an old, musty horse, it would give us the same idiotic round of
days. I do not know--I do not wish to know--why you are going to Russia,
and what this final farewell of which you have just spoken signifies; I
simply guess that you are off on some adventure, and it is possible that
I may ask you to allow me to share it.”
“Why?” said Labanoff, coldly. “You are not a Russian.”
Menko smiled, and, placing his hands upon the thin shoulders of his
friend, he said:
“Those words reveal many things. It is well that they were not said
before an agent of police.”
“Yes,” responded Labanoff, firmly. “But I am not in the habit of
recklessly uttering my thoughts; I know that I am speaking now to Count
Menko.”
“And Count Menko will be delighted, my dear Labanoff, if you will let
him know where, in Poland or Russia, he must go, soon, to obtain news
of you. Fear nothing: neither there nor here will I question you. But
I shall be curious to know what has become of you, and you know that I
have enough friendship for you to be uneasy about you. Besides, I long
to be on the move; Paris, London, the world, in short, bores me, bores
me, bores me!”
“The fact is, it is stupid, egotistical and cowardly,” responded
Labanoff.
He again held out to Menko his nervous hand, burning, like his blue
eyes, with fever.
“Farewell!” he said.
“No, no, ‘au revoir’!”
“‘Au revoir’ be it then. I will let you know what has become of me.”
“And where you are?”
“And where I am.”
“And do not be astonished if I join you some fine morning.”
“Nothing ever astonishes me,” said the Russian. “Nothing!”
And in that word nothing were expressed profound disgust with life and
fierce contempt of death.
Menko warmly grasped his friend’s thin and emaciated hand; and, the last
farewell spoken to the fanatic departing for some tragical adventure,
the Hungarian became more sombre and troubled than before, and
Labanoff’s appearance seemed like a doubtful apparition. He returned to
his longing to see the end of the most anxious day of his life.
At last, late in the evening, Michel entered his coupe, and was driven
away-down the Rue d’Aumale, through the Rue Pigalle and the Rue de
Douai, to the rondpoint of the Place Clichy, the two lanterns casting
their clear light into the obscurity. The coupe then took the road
to Maisons-Lafitte, crossing the plain and skirting wheat-fields and
vineyards, with the towering silhouette of Mont Valerien on the left,
and on the right, sharply defined against the sky, a long line of hills,
dotted with woods and villas, and with little villages nestling at their
base, all plunged in a mysterious shadow.
Michel, with absent eyes, gazed at all this, as Trilby rapidly trotted
on. He was thinking of what lay before him, of the folly he was about to
commit, as he had said to Labanoff. It was a folly; and yet, who could
tell? Might not Marsa have reflected? Might she not; alarmed at his
threats, be now awaiting him? Her exquisite face, like a lily, rose
before him; an overwhelming desire to annihilate time and space took
possession of him, and he longed to be standing, key in hand, before the
little gate in the garden wall.
He was well acquainted with the great park of Maisons-Lafitte, with the
white villas nestling among the trees. On one side Prince Tchereteff’s
house looked out upon an almost desert tract of land, on which a
racecourse had been mapped out; and on the other extended with the
stables and servants’ quarters to the forest, the wall of the Avenue
Lafitte bounding the garden. In front of the villa was a broad lawn,
ending in a low wall with carved gates, allowing, through the branches
of the oaks and chestnuts, a view of the hills of Cormeilles.
After crossing the bridge of Sartrouville, Michel ordered his coachman
to drive to the corner of the Avenue Corneille, where he alighted in the
shadow of a clump of trees.
“You will wait here, Pierre,” he said, “and don’t stir till I return.”
He walked past the sleeping houses, under the mysterious alleys of the
trees, until he reached the broad avenue which, cutting the park in
two, ran from the station to the forest. The alley that he was seeking
descended between two rows of tall, thick trees, forming an arch
overhead, making it deliciously cool and shady in the daytime, but now
looking like a deep hole, black as a tunnel. Pushing his way through the
trees and bushes, and brushing aside the branches of the acacias, the
leaves of which fell in showers about him, Michel reached an old wall,
the white stones of which were overgrown with ivy. Behind the wall the
wind rustled amid the pines and oaks like the vague murmur of a coming
storm. And there, at the end of the narrow path, half hidden by the
ivy, was the little gate he was seeking. He cautiously brushed aside the
leaves and felt for the keyhole; but, just as he was about to insert the
key, which burned in his feverish fingers, he stopped short.
Was Marsa awaiting him? Would she not call for help, drive him forth,
treat him like a thief?
Suppose the gate was barred from within? He looked at the wall, and saw
that by clinging to the ivy he could reach the top. He had not come here
to hesitate. No, a hundred times no!
Besides, Marsa was certainly there, trembling, fearful, cursing him
perhaps, but still there.
“No,” he murmured aloud in the silence, “were even death behind that
gate, I would not recoil.”