AVOID TEMPTATION!
It is night. Profound silence reigns in the pavilion inhabited by
Jacques Ferrand, interrupted only at intervals by gusts of wind and the
dashing of rain, which falls in torrents. These melancholy sounds seemed
to render still more complete the solitude of this abode. In a
sleeping-room in the first floor, very nicely and newly furnished, and
covered with a thick carpet, a young female is standing up before a
fireplace, in which there is a cheerful blaze. It is strange, but in the
centre of the door, carefully bolted, and which is opposite to the bed,
is a small glass door, five or six inches square, which opens from the
outside. A small reflecting lamp casts a half shadow in this chamber,
hung with garnet-coloured paper; the curtains of the bed and the window,
as well as the cover of the large sofa, are of silk and woollen damask
of the same colour. We are precise in the details of this demi-luxury so
recently imported into the notary's residence, because it announces a
complete revolution in the habits of Jacques Ferrand, who, until now,
was of the most sordid avarice, and of Spartan disregard (especially as
it concerned others) to everything that respected comfortable existence.
It is on this garnet-coloured ground that was shadowed forth the figure
of Cecily, which we will now attempt to paint.
Tall and graceful, the creole was in the full flower of her age. Her
spreading shoulders and hips made her waist appear so singularly small
that it seemed as if it could be easily spanned. As simple as it was
coquettish, her Alsatian costume was of singular taste, somewhat
theatrical,--but for that reason more capable of producing the effect
she desired. Her bodice, of black cassimere, half open on her full
bosom, was very long-waisted, with tight sleeves, plain back, and
slightly embroidered with purple wool down the seams, perfected by a row
of small cut silver buttons. A short petticoat, of orange merino, which
seemed of vast fullness, descended little lower than the knee; her
stockings were of scarlet, with blue clocks, as we see them in the
drawings of the old Flemish painters, who so complacently show us the
garters of their robust heroines.
No artist ever drew more perfect legs than were those of Cecily:
symmetrical and slim beneath the swelling calf, they terminated in a
small foot, quite at ease, and yet restrained in a small slipper of
black morocco, with silver buckles. Cecily was looking into the glass
over the mantelpiece. The slope of her bodice displayed her elegant and
dimpled neck of dazzling but not transparent whiteness.
Taking off her cap of cherry-coloured velvet to replace it with a
kerchief, she displayed her thick, magnificent head of hair, of lustrous
black, which, divided over her brows, and naturally curling, came down
only to the necklace of Venus, which unites the neck and shoulders.
It is necessary to know the inimitable taste with which the Creoles
twist around their heads their kerchiefs of bright hues, to have an idea
of the graceful head-dress of Cecily, and the piquant contrast of this
variegated covering of purple, blue, and orange, with the black silky
tresses, which, escaping from beneath the tight fold of the
nightkerchief, surrounded her pale but round and firm cheeks. With her
two arms raised above her head, she proceeded with the ends of her
fingers, as slender as spindles of ivory, to arrange a large rosette,
placed very low on the left side, almost over the ear.
Cecily's features were such as once seen it is impossible ever to
forget. A bold forehead, somewhat projecting, surmounts her face, which
was a perfect oval; her pearly white complexion, the satiny freshness of
the camelia leaf slightly touched by a sun-ray; her eyes, of almost
disproportionate size, have a singular expression, for their irises,
extremely large, black, and brilliant, hardly allow the blue
transparency of the orbits, at the two extremities of the lids, fringed
with long lashes, to be visible; her chin is very distinctly prominent;
her nose, straight and thin, ends in two delicate nostrils, which dilate
on the least emotion; her mouth, insolent and amorous, is of bright
purple.
We must imagine this colourless countenance, with its bright black
glance, its two red, pulpy, and humid lips, which glisten like wet
coral. Such was Cecily. Her infamous instincts, at first repressed by
her real attachment for David, not being developed till she reached
Europe, civilisation and the influence of northern climates had tempered
their violence.
We have already said that Cecily had scarcely reached Germany, when,
first seduced by a man of desperately depraved habits, she, unknown to
David, who loved her with equal idolatry and blindness, exercised and
turned to account, for a considerable time, all her seductive powers;
but soon the scandal of her adventures was raised abroad, and such
exposures ensued that she was sentenced to perpetual imprisonment.
To all this let there be joined a plastic, adroit, insinuating mind, an
intelligence so wonderful that in a year she spoke French and German
with perfect ease, sometimes even with natural eloquence; then add a
corrupted heart worthy of the courtesan queen of ancient Rome, an
audacity and courage proof against everything, instincts of diabolical
wickedness, and then we may understand the new servant of Jacques
Ferrand, the resolute being who had dared to venture into the wolf's
den.
Yes, strange anomaly! On learning from M. de Grauen the inciting and
platonic part she was to play with the notary, and what avenging ends
were to be derived from her seductions, Cecily had promised to go
through the character with love, or, rather, terrible hatred against
Jacques Ferrand, being sincerely indignant at the recital of the
infamous violence he had exercised against Louise,--a recital necessary
to be unfolded to the creole, to put her on her guard against the
hypocritical attempts of this monster. A few retrospective words as to
this latter are indispensable.
When Cecily was presented by Madame Pipelet as an orphan over whom she
did not desire to maintain any right, any control, the notary was,
perhaps, less smitten by the beauty of the creole than fascinated by her
irresistible look,--a look which, at the first interview, disturbed the
reason of Jacques Ferrand.
We have already said, in reference to the insensate boldness of some of
his words when conversing with Madame de Lucenay, that this man, usually
so completely master of himself, so calm, so cunning, so subtle, forgot
the cold calculations of his deep dissimulation when the demon of desire
darkened his better sense.
Besides, he had no cause to distrust the protegee of Madame Pipelet.
After her conversation with Alfred's spouse, Madame Seraphin had
proposed to Jacques Ferrand a young girl, almost destitute, to replace
Louise, and he had eagerly accepted the offer, in the hopes of taking
advantage of the isolated and precarious position of his new servant.
Moreover, far from being predisposed to mistrust, Jacques Ferrand found,
in the march of events, fresh motives for security.
All succeeded to his utmost wishes. The death of Madame Seraphin
released him from a dangerous accomplice; the death of Fleur-de-Marie
(he believed her dead) delivered him from a living proof of one of his
earliest crimes. Finally, thanks to the death of the Chouette, and the
unexpected murder of the Countess Macgregor (whose life was despaired
of), he no longer had these two women to fear, whose disclosures and
attacks might have been most disastrous to him.
The disposition, habits, and former life of Jacques Ferrand known and
displayed, the exciting beauty of the creole admitted, as we have
endeavoured to paint her, together with other facts we shall detail as
we proceed, will account, we presume, for the sudden passion, the
unbridled desire of the notary for this seductive and dangerous
creature. Then we must add, that if women of Cecily's stamp inspire
nothing but repugnance and disgust to men endued with tender and
elevated sentiments, with delicate and pure tastes, they exercise a
sudden action, a magic omnipotence, over men of brutal sensuality like
Jacques Ferrand. Thus a just, an avenging fatality, brought the creole
into contact with the notary, and a terrible expiation was beginning for
him. A fierce passion had urged him on to persecute, with pitiless
malice, an indigent and honest family, and to spread amongst them
misery, madness, and death. This passion was now to be the formidable
chastisement of this great culprit.
Although Jacques Ferrand was never to have his desires realised, the
creole took care not to deprive him of all hope; but the vague and
distant prospects she held out were so coloured by caprices that they
were an additional torture, and more completely enslaved him.
If we are astonished that a man of such vigour and audacity had not
recourse to stratagem or violence to triumph over the calculating
resistance of Cecily, we forget that Cecily was not a second Louise.
Besides, the day after her presentation to the notary, she had played
quite another part from that by aid of which she had been introduced to
her master, for he had not been the dupe of his servant two days.
Forewarned of the fate of Louise by the Baron de Grauen, and knowing
besides by what abominable means she had become the prey of the notary,
the creole, on entering this solitary house, had taken excellent
precautions for passing her first night there in perfect security. The
evening of her arrival, being alone with Jacques Ferrand, he, in order
not to alarm her, pretended scarcely to look at her, and rudely ordered
her to bed. She told him, _naively_, that she was afraid of thieves in
the night, but that she was resolute, and capable of defending herself;
at the same time drawing from her large woollen pelisse a small but
exceedingly keen stiletto, the sight of which set the notary thinking.
Believing that Cecily was afraid of robbers only, he showed her to the
late chamber of Louise; after having examined it, Cecily said,
trembling, she would sleep in a chair, because the door had neither lock
nor bolt. Jacques Ferrand, unwilling to compromise himself by rousing
Cecily's suspicions, promised a bolt should be fixed. The creole did not
go to bed.
In the morning the notary sent to her to show her how to set about her
work. He had promised himself to preserve for the first few days a
hypocritical reserve with respect to his new servant, in order to
inspire her with confidence; but smitten by her beauty, which by
daylight was even more striking, blinded, maddened by his desires, which
already got the better of him, he stammered out some compliments as to
the figure and beauty of Cecily. She, with keen sagacity, had judged
that, from her first interview with the notary, he was completely caught
in her spells; at the confession he made of his flame, she thought it
policy to cast aside at once her feigned timidity, and, as we have said,
to change her mask. The creole suddenly assumed a bold air. Jacques
Ferrand again complimented her beauty and her graceful figure.
"Look at me well!" said Cecily to him, in a bold tone. "Although I am
dressed as an Alsatian peasant, do I look like a servant?"
"What do you mean?" cried Jacques Ferrand.
"Look at this hand, does it appear accustomed to hard labour?" and she
presented a white, delicate hand, with long and slender fingers, with
nails as rosy and polished as agate, but whose root, slightly browned,
betrayed the creole blood. "And this foot, is it that of a servant?" and
she protruded a beautiful small foot, coquettishly shod, which the
notary had not before remarked, and from which he only removed his eyes
to gaze on Cecily with amazement. "I told my Aunt Pipelet what story I
chose; she knew nothing of my former life, and believes me reduced to my
present condition through the death of my parents, and takes me for a
servant,--but you, I hope, have too much sagacity to show her error,
dear master."
"Who, then, are you?" exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, more and more surprised
at her language.
"That is my secret. For reasons best known to myself I was obliged to
quit Germany in this attire. I wished to remain concealed in Paris for
some time, being as secluded as possible. My aunt, supposing me reduced
to misery, proposed to me your service, telling me of the solitary life
which I must of compulsion lead in your house, informing me that I
should never have leave to quit it. I accepted the offer
unhesitatingly,--without knowing it my aunt had anticipated my most
earnest desire. Who would think of looking for and finding me here?"
"And what have you done to compel you to seek concealment?"
"Agreeable sins, perhaps; but that is, also, my secret."
"And what are your intentions, mademoiselle?"
"What they always have been. But for your significant compliments as to
my shape and beauty, perhaps I should not have confessed so much to you;
although, no doubt, your clear-sightedness would, sooner or later, have
induced my confession. Now listen to me, my dear master. I have for the
moment accepted the condition--or, rather, the character--of a servant;
circumstances compelled me. I have courage enough to sustain the
character to the end, and will risk all the consequences. I will serve
you with zeal, activity, and respect, in order to retain my situation,
that is to say, a sure and unknown asylum. But on the least word of
gallantry, the least liberty you take with me, I will leave you,--not
from prudery, there is nothing of the prude about me, I fancy." And she
darted a look at the notary which had full effect. "No, I am no prude!"
she continued, with a provoking smile, which displayed her teeth of
dazzling whiteness. "Indeed, no, when I love, I do love! But be
discreet, and you will see that your unworthy servant has no desire but
honestly to discharge her duty as a servant.
"Now you have my secret, or, at least, a portion of it. But should you,
by any chance, desire to act as a gentleman, should you find me too
handsome to serve you, should you like to change parts, and become my
slave, be it so! Frankly speaking, I should prefer it, and had rather
you should feel paternally disposed towards me. That would not prevent
you from saying that you found me charming; this will be the recompense
of your devotion and discretion."
"The only one? The only one?" stammered Jacques Ferrand.
"The only one, unless solitude make me mad,--which is impossible, for
you will keep me company. Come, make up your mind,--no ambiguity. I
either serve you, or you shall serve me; if not, I leave your house, and
beg my aunt to find me another place. All this may, perhaps, appear
strange to you; but if you take me for an adventuress, without any means
of existence, you are wrong. In order that my aunt should be my
accomplice without knowing it, I have made her believe that I was so
poor that I could not purchase any other garments than those I now wear.
I have, however, as you see, a tolerably well filled purse; on this side
gold, on the other diamonds" (and Cecily displayed before the notary's
eyes a long, red silk purse, filled with gold, and through the meshes of
which he could also see several sparkling gems). "Unfortunately all the
money in the world could not purchase for me a retreat so secure as your
house,--so isolated, from the very solitude in which you live. Accept,
then, one or other of my offers, and you will do me a kindness. You see
I place myself almost at your discretion; for to say to you, I conceal
myself, is to say to you I am sought for. But I am sure you will not
betray me, even if you could."
This romantic confidence, this sudden change of character, completely
upset all Jacques Ferrand's ideas. Who was this woman? Why did she
conceal herself? Was it chance alone that had brought her to him? If she
came with some secret aim, what could it be? Amongst all the ideas which
this singular adventure gave rise to in the notary's mind, the real
motive of the creole's presence did not occur to him. He had not, or,
rather, he believed he had no other enemies than the victims of his
licentiousness and his cupidity, and all these were in such miserable
circumstances that he could not suspect them capable of spreading any
net for him, of which Cecily should be the bait.
And then, moreover, what could be the motive of any such snare? No, the
sudden transformation of Cecily inspired Jacques Ferrand with one fear
only--he believed that this woman did not tell the truth, and was,
perhaps, an adventuress, who, thinking him rich, had introduced herself
into his house to wheedle and get money from him, and, perhaps, induce
him to marry her. But although his avarice at once revolted at this
idea, he perceived (and trembled) that his suspicions and reflections
were too late, for he might by one word have calmed his distrust by
sending away this woman from his house,--but this word he could not say.
These thoughts hardly occupied him a moment, so fascinated had he
become. He already loved, after his own fashion, and the idea of being
separated from this enchanting creature seemed impossible; and he felt
also a jealousy, which made him say to himself, "So long as she is
immured in my house, she can have no other lover." The boldness of her
language, the wantonness of her look, the freedom of her manner, all
revealed that she was not (as she had said) a prude. This conviction,
giving vague hopes to the notary, still more assured Cecily's empire. In
a word, Jacques Ferrand's passion choking the calm voice of reason, he
blindly resigned himself to all that might result.
* * * * *
It was agreed that Cecily should only be the servant in appearance; thus
there would be no scandal. Besides, in order the more completely to
render his guest at her ease, he was not to engage any other servant,
but make up his mind to wait on her and on himself. The meals were
brought from a neighbouring tavern, the porter swept out and attended to
the office, and he paid for his clerks' breakfast. Then the notary would
furnish at once an apartment on the first floor, as Cecily wished. She
desired to pay for it, but he refused, and spent two thousand francs
(80_l._). This was enormous generosity, and proved the unheard-of
violence of his passion.
Then began the terrible life of this miserable wretch. Enclosed in the
impenetrable solitude of this house, inaccessible to all, more and more
under the galling yoke of his mad love, careless of penetrating the
secret of this singular woman; from a master he was made a slave,--he
was Cecily's valet, served her at meal-times, and took care of her
apartment. Forewarned by the baron that Louise had been overcome by a
narcotic, the creole drank only pure water, eating only of dishes with
which it was impossible to tamper. She had selected the apartment she
was to occupy, assuring herself that there was there no concealed
entrance. Besides, Jacques Ferrand soon discovered that Cecily was not a
woman whom he could assail with impunity; she was vigorous, agile, and
dangerously armed; thus a frenzied delirium alone could have incited him
to attempt force, and she was quite protected from this peril.
Yet, that she might not weary and utterly repulse the notary's passion,
the creole seemed sometimes touched by his assiduities, and flattered by
the control which she exercised over him. And, perceiving that he hoped,
by dint of proofs of devotion and self-denial, he should contrive to
make her overlook his age and ugliness, she amused herself with telling
him that, if she ever could love him, how excessive that love would be.
With this Jacques Ferrand's reason wandered, and he would frequently
walk in his garden at night absorbed in his own reflections. Sometimes
he gazed for hours into the bedroom of the creole; for she had allowed a
small window to be made in the door, which she frequently and
intentionally left open. Absorbed, lost, wandering, indifferent to his
most important interests, or the preservation of his reputation as an
austere, serious, and pious man,--a reputation usurped, it is true, but,
at the same time, acquired after long years of dissimulation and
chicanery,--he amazed his clerks by his aberration of mind, offended his
clients by his refusals to receive them, and abruptly refused the visits
of the priests, who, deceived by his hypocrisy, had been until then his
warmest champions.
We have said that Cecily was dressing her head before her glass. At a
slight noise in the corridor she turned her head towards the door. In
spite of the noise she had heard, Cecily continued her night toilet
tranquilly. She drew from her corsage, where it was placed almost like a
busk, a stiletto five or six inches long, enclosed in a case of black
shagreen, having a small ebony handle, with silver threads,--a plain
handle, but very fit for use; it was not a mere weapon for show. Cecily
took the dagger from its scabbard with excessive precaution, and laid it
on the marble mantelpiece. The blade, of finest temper and Damascus
steel, was triangular, with keen edges; and the point, as sharp as a
needle, would have pierced a shilling without turning the edge.
Impregnated with a subtle and rapid poison, the slightest puncture of
this poniard was mortal. Jacques Ferrand having one day alluded to the
danger of this weapon, the creole made in his presence an experiment,
_in anima vita_,--that is to say, on the unfortunate house-dog, which,
slightly pricked on the nose, fell and died in horrible convulsions. The
stiletto placed on the mantelpiece, Cecily took off her black bodice,
and was then, with her shoulders, neck, and arms denuded, like a lady in
her ball-dress. Like most of the creole women, she wore, instead of
stays, another bodice of stout linen, which fitted her figure very
closely; her orange-coloured petticoat, remaining attached to this sort
of white spencer, with short sleeves, and cut very low, formed a costume
less precise than the other, and harmonised wonderfully with the scarlet
stocking, and the coloured handkerchief, so coquettishly arranged around
the creole's head. Nothing could be more perfect, more beautifully
defined, than the graceful contour of her arms and shoulders. A heavy
sigh aroused Cecily's attention. She smiled, as she twisted around her
finger one of her curling tresses, which had escaped from beneath her
head-dress.
"Cecily! Cecily!" murmured a voice, which was plaintive though coarse.
And through the wicket was visible the pale and flat face of Jacques
Ferrand.
Cecily, silent until then, began to hum a creole air; the words of this
melody were sweet and expressive. Although repressed, the full
contra-alto of Cecily was heard above the noise of the torrents of the
rain and gusts of wind, which seemed to shake the old house to its very
foundation.
"Cecily! Cecily!" repeated Jacques Ferrand, in a tone of supplication.
The creole paused suddenly and turned her head around quickly, as if,
for the first time, she then heard the notary's voice; and going towards
the door,--
"What, dear master (she called him so in derision), you there?" she
said, with a slight foreign accent, which gave additional charm to her
full and sarcastic voice.
"Oh, how beautiful you are!" murmured the notary.
"You think so?" said Cecily. "Doesn't my head-dress become me?"
"I think you handsomer every day."
"Only see how white my arm is."
"Monster, begone! Begone!" shouted Jacques Ferrand, furious.
Cecily burst into a loud fit of laughter.
"No, no, it is too much to suffer! Oh, if I were not afraid of death!"
said the notary, gloomily. "But to die is to renounce you altogether,
and you are so beautiful! I would rather, then, suffer--and look at
you."
"Look at me? Why, that's what the wicket was made for; and so we can
thus chat, like two friends in our solitude, which really is not irksome
to me, you are such a good master! What a dangerous confession I make
through the door!"
"Will you never open this door? You see how submissive I am; this
evening I might have tried to enter into your chamber with you, but I
did not do so."
"You are submissive for two reasons: in the first place, because you
know that, having, from the necessity of my wandering life, always had
the precaution to carry a stiletto, I can manage with a strong hand this
inestimable jewel, whose tooth is sharper than a viper's; and you know,
too, that, from the day in which I have to complain of you, I will quit
this roof for ever, leaving you a thousand times more enamoured than
ever,--since you have so greatly honoured your unworthy servant as to
say that you are enamoured of her."
"My servant? It is I who am your slave,--your mocked, derided, despised
slave!"
"That's true enough."
"And yet it does not move you?"
"It amuses me; the days, and especially the nights, are so long!"
"Accursed creature!"
"But, seriously, you look so perfectly wretched, your features have so
sensibly altered, that I am quite flattered at it. It is a poor triumph,
but you are the only one here."
"To hear that, and me consume in impotent rage!"
"Have you really any understanding? Why, I never said anything more
tender."
"Jeer at me,--jeer at me!"
"I do not jeer. I never before saw a man of your age in love after your
fashion; and, I must confess, a young and handsome man would be
incapable of these outrageous passions. An Adonis admires himself as
much as he admires us; he likes us, and we choose to notice
him,--nothing more simple. He has a claim to our love, but is hardly
grateful; but to show favour to a man like you, my master dear, would be
to take him from earth to heaven, to fulfil his wildest dreams, his most
insensate hopes. For if some being were to say to you, 'You love Cecily
to distraction, if I chose she should be yours next minute,' you would
suppose such a being endued with supernatural power, shouldn't you,
master dear?"
"Yes! Ah, yes!"
"Well, if you could convince me more satisfactorily of your passion, I
might, perchance, have the whimsical fancy to enact this supernatural
part myself in your favour. Do you comprehend?"
"I comprehend that you are still fooling me,--that you are still
pitiless."
"Perhaps,--for solitude creates so many singular fancies."
Until this moment Cecily's accent had been sarcastic, but she pronounced
these last words with a serious, reflecting tone, and accompanied them
with a look which made the notary start.
"Silence! Do not look at me thus,--you will drive me mad! I would rather
you denied me,--at least, I could then hate you,--drive you from my
house!" cried Jacques Ferrand, who again gave himself up to a vain hope.
"Yes, for I should then hope nothing from you. But, misery! Misery! I
know you well enough now to hope, in spite of myself, that one day I
might, from your very hate or proud caprice, obtain what I shall never
owe to your love. You bid me convince you of my passion,--do you not see
how unhappy I am? I will do all I can to please you. You desire to, be
concealed from all eyes, and from all eyes I conceal you, perchance at
the risk of compromising myself most seriously; for, indeed, I know not
who you are. I respect your secret,--I never speak to you of it. I have
interrogated you as to your past life, and you have given me no answer."
"Well, then, I was very wrong. I'll give you a mark of blind confidence,
oh, master, dear! And so, listen."
"Another bitter jest, no doubt."
"No, a serious tale. You ought, at least, to know the life of her to
whom you afford such generous hospitality." Then Cecily continued, in a
tone of hypocritical and lachrymose earnestness, "Daughter of a brave
soldier, brother of my Aunt Pipelet, I received an education, beyond my
condition. I was seduced, and then abandoned, by a rich young gentleman;
then, to escape the anger of my father, whose notions of honour were
most strict, I fled my native country." Then bursting into a loud fit of
laughter, Cecily added, "Now I hope that's what you call a very pretty
and particularly probable tale, for it has been very often told. Amuse
your curiosity with that until you get hold of some other story more
interesting."
"I was certain it was some cruel jest," said the notary, with
concentrated rage; "nothing touches you,--nothing. What must I do? Tell
me. I serve you like the lowest footboy, for you I neglect my dearest
interests,--I no longer know what I do. I am a subject of astonishment
and derision to my own clerks; my clients hesitate any longer to entrust
me with their affairs; I have severed my connection with some religious
persons whom I knew intimately. I dare not think of what the world will
say of my change of demeanour and habits. But you do not know,--no, you
do not know the fatal consequences my mad passion for you may entail on
me. Yet I give you ample proof of my devotion. Will you have more?
Speak! Is it gold you would have? They think me richer than I am, but
I--"
"What could I do with your gold?" asked Cecily, interrupting the notary,
and shrugging her shoulders; "living in this chamber, what is the use of
gold? Your invention is at fault."
"It is no fault of mine if you are a prisoner. Is this chamber
displeasing to you? Will you have one more splendid? Speak! Order!"
"Once more, what is the use? What is the use? Oh, if I might here
expect a beloved one, full of the love he inspires and participates, I
would have gold, silks, flowers, perfumes, all the wonders of luxury;
nothing could be too sumptuous, too enchanting to enshrine my love,"
said Cecily, with an impassioned voice.
"Well, these wonders of luxury, say but a word, and--"
"What's the use? What's the use? Why make a frame for which there is no
picture? And the adored one! Where is he,--where is he, master, dear?"
"True," exclaimed the notary, with bitterness, "I am old, I am ugly, I
can only inspire disgust and aversion. She overwhelms me with contempt,
jests at me,--and yet I have not the resolution, the power to send her
away. I have only the resolution to suffer!"
"Oh, silly old mourner! And what an absurd elderly gentleman, with his
sufferings!" cried Cecily, in a contemptuous and sarcastic tone; "he
only knows how to groan, to despair,--and yet he has been for ten days
shut up alone with a young woman in a lone house."
"But this woman scorns me,--this woman is armed,--this woman is shut
up!" groaned the notary, furiously.
"Well, conquer her scorn, make the dagger fall from her hands, compel
her to open the door which separates her from yourself! But not by brute
force, that would be useless."
"How, then?"
"By the strength of your passion."
"Passion! And can I inspire it?"
"Why, you are nothing but a lawyer, affecting piety,--I really pity you.
Is it for me to teach you your part? You are ugly,--be terrible, and one
may forget your ugliness. You are old,--be energetic, and one may forget
your age. You are repulsive,--become menacing. Since you cannot be the
noble steed that neighs proudly in the midst of his harem, do not
become the stupid camel that bends the knee and offers his back; be the
tiger! The old tiger, that roars in the midst of carnage, still excites
admiration; his tigress responds to him from the deepest recesses of the
desert."
At this language, which was not deficient in a sort of natural and hardy
eloquence, Jacques Ferrand shuddered; struck by the expression, wild and
almost fierce, which Cecily's features displayed, as, with her bosom
palpitating, her nostrils open, her mouth defying, she fastened on him
her large and brilliant black eyes. Never had she seemed to him more
fascinating, or more resplendently beautiful than at this moment.
"Speak,--speak again!" he exclaimed, with excitement. "For now you speak
in earnest. Oh, if I could--"
"One can do what one wishes," replied Cecily, sternly.
"But--"
"But I tell you, old as you are, if I were in your place I would
undertake to engage the affections of a young and handsome woman, and
once having achieved this result, what had been against me would turn to
my advantage. What pride, what triumph to say to oneself, I have made my
age and ugliness forgotten! The love that is shown me I do not owe to
pity, but to my spirit, my courage, and my skill. Yes, and now if there
were here some handsome young fellows, brilliant with grace and
attractions, the lovely woman, whom I have subdued by proofs of a
resistless and unbounded devotion, would not deign to cast a look at
them. No; for she would know that these elegant effeminates would fear
to compromise the tie of their cravat, or a curl of their hair, in
obedience to her caprices; whilst if she cast her handkerchief in the
midst of flames, on a signal from her her old tiger would rush into the
furnace with a roar of ecstasy."
"Yes, I would do it! Try! Try!" exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, more and more
excited.
Cecily continued drawing nearer to the aperture, and fixing on Jacques
Ferrand a steadfast and penetrating look.
"For this woman would well know," continued the creole, "that she would
have some exorbitant caprice to satisfy,--that these dandies would look
at their money, if they had any, or, if they had not, at some other low
consideration, whilst her old tiger--"
"Would consider nothing,--nothing, I tell you.
Fortune,--honour,--he--he--would sacrifice all!"
"Really?" said Cecily, putting her lovely fingers on the bony fingers of
Jacques Ferrand, whose clutched hands, passed through the small glass
door, were clasping the top of the ledge. "Would not this woman be
ardently loved?" added Cecily. "If she had an enemy, and with a gesture
pointed him out to her old tiger, and said to him, Strike--"
"And he would strike!" exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, attempting to press
Cecily's fingers with his parched lips.
"Really, the old tiger would strike?" said the creole, placing her hand
gently on the hand of Jacques Ferrand.
"To possess you," cried the wretch, "I could commit a crime--"
"Ah, master," said Cecily, suddenly, and withdrawing her hand,
"go--go,--in my turn I scarcely know you,--you do not seem to me so ugly
as you did just now. But go--go!" and she left the aperture abruptly.
The artful creature gave to her gestures and these last words an
appearance of truth so perfect, and a look of such surprise, as if angry
and disappointed with herself for having for an instant only appeared to
forget the ugliness of Jacques Ferrand, that he, transported by frenzied
hope, cried, as he clung convulsively to the ledge of the aperture:
"Cecily, come back,--come back! Bid me do what you will, I will be your
tiger."
"No, no, master!" said Cecily, still retreating. "And in order to forget
you, I will sing a song of my country."
"Cecily, return!" exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, in a supplicating tone.
"No, no! Later, when I can without danger. But the light of this lamp
hurts my eyes,--a soft languor overcomes my senses!" and Cecily
extinguished the lamp, took down a guitar, and made up the fire, whose
increased blaze then lighted up the whole apartment.
From the narrow window, where he stood motionless, such was the picture
that Jacques Ferrand perceived. In the midst of the luminous circle
formed by the flickering blaze on the fire Cecily, in a position full of
softness and _abandonnement_, half reclining on a large sofa of garnet
damask, held a guitar, on which she ran over several harmonious
preludes. The fire-light threw its red tints on the creole, who appeared
thus in strong relief. To complete the tableau, the reader must call to
mind the mysterious and singular appearance of a room in which the fire
from the grate struggles with the deep and large black shadows, which
tremble on the ceiling and the walls. The storm without increased, and
roared loudly.
Whilst she preludised on her guitar, Cecily fixed her eyes immovably on
Jacques Ferrand, who, fascinated, could not take his look from her.
"Now, master mine," said the creole, "listen to a song of my country. We
do not understand how to make verses, but have a simple recitative,
without rhyme, and between each rest we improvise, as well as we can, a
symphony appropriate to the idea of the couplet; it is very simple and
pastoral, and I am sure, master, it will please you."
And Cecily began a kind of recitative, much more accentuated by the
expression of the voice than the modulation of the music. Some soft and
vibrating chords served as accompaniment. This was Cecily's song:
"Flowers--still flowers, everywhere.
My lover is coming--my hope of happiness unnerves me.
Let us subdue the glare of daylight, pleasure seeks the softer
shade.
My lover prefers my breath to the perfume of the sweetest
flowers.
The brightness of day will not affect his eyelids, for my kisses
will keep them closed.
Come--come--come--come, love! Come--come--come!"
These words, uttered with animation, as if the creole was addressing an
unseen lover, were rendered by her the theme of a delicious melody; her
charming fingers produced from the guitar, an instrument of no great
power, vibrations full of harmony. The impassioned look of Cecily, her
half closed, humid eyes fastened on Jacques Ferrand, were full of the
expression of expectation. Words of love, delicious music, together
conspired at the moment to bereave Jacques Ferrand of his reason; and,
half frenzied, he exclaimed:
"Mercy, Cecily, mercy! You will drive me distracted! Oh, be silent, or I
die! Oh, that I were mad!"
"Listen to the second couplet, master," said the creole, again touching
the chords; and she thus continued her impassioned recitative:
"If my lover were here, and his hand touched my bare shoulder, I
should tremble and die.
If he were here, and his curly hair touched my cheek, my pale
cheek would become purple--my pale cheek would be on fire.
Soul of my Soul, if thou wert here, my parched lips would not
utter a word.
Life of my Life, if thou wert here, I should expiring ask thy
pardon.
'Tis sweet to die for and with those we love.
Angel, come--come to my heart--come--come--come!"
If the creole had rendered the first strophe with languid pleasure, she
put in her last words all the enthusiasm of antique love; and as if the
music had been powerless to express her intense passion, she threw her
guitar from her, and, half rising and extending her arms towards the
door, where Jacques Ferrand stood, she repeated, in a faltering, dying
tone, "Oh, come--come--come!" It would be impossible to depict the
electric look with which she accompanied these words. Jacques Ferrand
uttered a terrible cry.
"Oh, death! Death to him whom you could thus love!" he cried, shaking
the door in a burst of jealousy and furious rage.
Agile as a panther, Cecily was at the door with one bound; and, as if
she with difficulty repressed her feigned transports, she said to
Jacques Ferrand, in a low, concentrated, palpitating voice:
"Well, then, I will confess I am excited by my song. I did not mean to
approach the door again, yet here I am, in spite of myself; for I hear
still the words you said just now, 'If you bade me strike, I would
strike.' You love me, then?"
"Will you have gold,--all my gold?"
"No, I have enough."
"Have you an enemy? I will kill him."
"I have no enemy."
"Will you be my wife? I'll marry you."
"I am married."
"What would you, then? Oh, what would you?"
"Prove to me that your passion for me is blind,--furious! And that you
would sacrifice all to it."
"Ah!--yes--all. But how?"
"I do not know,--but a moment since your eyes fascinated me. If again
you give me one of those marks of intense love, which excite the
imagination of a woman to madness, I know not of what I should not be
capable. Make haste, then, for I am capricious, and to-morrow, perhaps,
all the impression will be effaced."
"But what proof can I give you at this moment?" cried the notary.
"You are but a fool, after all!" replied Cecily, retreating from the
aperture with an air of disdain. "I was deceived,--I believed you
capable of energetic devotion. Goodnight! It's a pity!"
"Cecily, do not leave me! Return! What can I do?"
"I was but too much disposed to listen to you; you will never have such
another opportunity."
"But oh, tell me what you would have!" cried the notary, half mad.
"Eh! If you were as passionately in love as you say, you would find
means to persuade me. Good night!"
"Cecily."
"I will shut the door, instead of opening it."
"Cecily,--listen! I will give you yet another proof of my devotion."
"What is this proof of your love?" said the creole, who, having
approached the mantelpiece to resume her dagger, returned slowly towards
the door, lighted by the flame of the hearth. Then, unobserved by the
notary, she made sure of the action of an iron chain, which terminated
in two small knobs, one of which was screwed into the door, and the
other into the door-post.
"Listen!" said Jacques Ferrand, in a hoarse and broken voice, "listen!
If I place my honour, my fortune, my life, at your mercy,--now, this
very instant,--will you then believe I love you?"
"Your honour, your fortune, your life! I do not comprehend you."
"If I confide to you a secret which may bring me to the scaffold, will
you then believe me?"
"You a criminal? You do but jest. What, then, of your austere
life,--your piety,--your honesty?"
"All--all a lie!"
"You pass for a saint, and yet you boast of these iniquities! No, there
is no man so craftily skilful, so fortunately bold, as thus to captivate
the confidence and respect of men; that were, indeed, a fearful defiance
cast in the teeth of society!"
"I am that man,--I have cast that sarcasm, that defiance, in the face of
society!" exclaimed the monster, in a tone of ecstatic pride.
"Jacques! Jacques! Do not speak thus!" said Cecily, with a tone of
emotion. "You make me mad!"
"My head for your love,--will you have it so?"
"Ah, this, indeed, is love! Here, take my poniard,--you disarm me!"
Jacques Ferrand took, through the wicket, the dangerous weapon, with due
precaution, and flung it from him to a distance in the corridor.
"Cecily, you believe me, then!" he exclaimed with transport.
"Do I believe you?" said the creole, energetically pressing her
beautiful fingers on the clasped hands of Jacques Ferrand. "Oh, yes, I
do! For now, again, you look as you did a short time since, when my very
soul seemed fascinated by your gaze."
"Cecily, you will speak the words of, truth--and truth only--to me?"
"And can you doubt it for a moment? Ah, you will soon have ample proof
of my sincerity. But what you are about to tell me is quite true,--is it
not?"
"I repeat that you may believe each word I utter."
"So much the better, since you are enabled to prove your passion by the
avowal of them."
"And if I tell you all?"
"Then will I, in return, withhold nothing from you; for if, indeed, you
have this blind, this courageous confidence in me, Jacques, I will call
no more for the ideal lover of my song, but you,--my hero, my tiger! to
whom I will sing, 'Come--come--oh, come!'"
As Cecily uttered these words, with an air and voice of seductive
tenderness, she drew so close to the wicket that Jacques Ferrand could
feel the hot breath of the creole pass over his cheek, while her fresh,
full lip lightly touched his coarse, vulgar hand. "Call me your
tiger,--your slave,--what you will,--and if after that you but divulge
what I entrust to you, my life will be the consequence. Yes,
enchantress, a word from you, and I perish on a scaffold. My honour,
reputation, nay, my very existence, are henceforward in your hands."
"Your honour?"
"Yes, even so. But listen. About ten years ago I was entrusted with the
care of a child, and a sum of money for her use, amounting to two
hundred thousand francs; well, I wronged the little creature by
spreading a false report of her death, and then appropriated the money
to my own purposes."
"It was boldly and cleverly done! Who would ever have believed you
capable of such conduct?"
"Again. I had a cashier whom I detested, and I determined upon ruining
him one way or other. Well, one evening, under some great emergency, he
took from my cash-box a trifling amount of gold, which he paid back the
next day; but to wreak my malice on the object of my dislike, I accused
him of having stolen a large sum. Of course my testimony was believed,
and the wretched man was thrown into prison. Now is not my honour--my
very safety--at your will and pleasure? At your word both would be in
peril."
"Then you love me, Jacques,--oh, truly, blindly love me! Since you thus
surrender to me the most precious secrets of your heart, how plainly
does it prove the empire I must have over you! Ah, believe me, I will
not be niggardly in repaying you. Stoop that brow, from which have
emanated so many infernal schemes, that I may press it with my lips."
"Were the scaffold erected for me," cried the excited notary, "did death
stare me in the face, I would not now recall my words. But hearken to
what I have still to confess. The child I formerly wronged and forsook
has again crossed my path, her reappearance disquieted me, and I have
had her murdered."
"Murdered! and by your orders? But how--in what manner?"
"A few days since; it occurred thus: Near the bridge of Asnieres, at the
Isle du Ravageur, a man named Martial, for a bribe, contrived to sink
her in a boat made purposely with a false bottom. Are these particulars
sufficient? Will you believe me now?"
"Oh, fiend! demon! You terrify while you fascinate me! In what consists
your marvellous power and influence?"
"But listen further, for I have not yet finished my catalogue of crimes.
Previously to that a man had entrusted me with one hundred thousand
crowns. I contrived to waylay and blow out his brains, making it appear
he had fallen by his own hand. Afterwards, when his sister claimed the
money entrusted to my charge, I denied all knowledge of it. Now, then, I
have proclaimed myself a malefactor, guilty of every crime. Will you not
open your door, and admit a lover so ardent, so impatient as myself?"
"Jacques," exclaimed the creole, with much excitement, "I
admire,--love,--nay, adore you!"
"Let a thousand deaths come!" cried the notary, in a state of
enthusiastic delight impossible to describe, "I will brave them all! Oh,
you are right! Were I ever so young, so handsome, or so seducing, I
could not hope for joy such as now swells my heart. But delay not,
charmer of my soul,--give me the key, or yourself undo the bolts which
separate us. I can endure this torturing suspense no longer!"
The creole took from the lock, which she had carefully secured
beforehand, the key so ardently prayed for, and, handing it to the
notary through the aperture, said, in a languishing tone of utter
abandonnement:
"Jacques, my senses seem forsaking me,--my brain is on fire,--I know not
what I do or say."
"You are mine, then, at length, my adorable beauty!" cried he, with a
wild shout of savage exultation, and hastily turning the key in the
lock. But the firmly bolted door yielded not yet.
"Come, beloved of my heart!" murmured Cecily, in a languid voice; "bless
me with your presence,--come!"
"The bolt! The bolt!" gasped out Jacques Ferrand, breathless with his
exertions to force open the door.
"But what if you have been deceiving me?" cried the creole, as though a
sudden thought had seized her; "if you have only invented the secrets
with which you affect to entrust me, to mock at my credulity, to ensnare
my confidence?"
The notary appeared thunderstruck with surprise at this fresh expression
of doubt, at the very moment when he believed himself upon the point of
attaining his wishes; to find a new obstacle arise when he considered
success certain drove him almost furious. He rapidly thrust his hand
into his breast, opened his waistcoat, impatiently snapped a steel
chain, to which was suspended a small red morocco pocketbook, took it,
and showing it to Cecily, through the aperture, cried, in a thick,
palpitating voice:
"This book contains papers that would bring me to a scaffold; only undo
the bolts which deny me entrance to your presence, and this book, with
all its precious documents, is yours."
"Oh, then, let us seal the compact!" exclaimed Cecily, as, drawing back
the bolt with as much noise as possible with one hand, with the other
she seized the pocketbook.
But Jacques Ferrand permitted it not to leave his possession till he
felt the door yield to his pressure. But though it partially gave way,
it was but to leave an opening about half a foot wide, the solid chain
which passed across it above the lock preventing any person's entering
as completely as before. At this unexpected obstacle Jacques Ferrand
precipitated himself against the door and shook it with desperate fury,
while Cecily, with the rapidity of thought, took the pocket-book between
her teeth, opened the window, threw a large cloak out into the yard
below, and, light and agile as bold and daring, seized a knotted cord
previously secured to the balcony, and glided from her chamber on the
first floor to the court beneath, descending with the swiftness of an
arrow shot from a bow. Then wrapping herself hastily in the mantle, she
flew to the porter's lodge, opened the door, drew up the string, ran
into the street, and sprang into a hackney-coach, which, ever since
Cecily had been with Jacques Ferrand, came regularly every evening, in
case of need, by Baron Grauen's orders, and took up its station a short
distance from the notary's house. Directly she had entered the vehicle
it drove off at the topmost speed of the two strong, powerful horses
that drew it, and had reached the Boulevards ere Jacques Ferrand had
even discovered Cecily's flight.
We will now return to the disappointed wretch. From the situation of the
door he was unable to perceive the window by which the creole had
contrived to prepare and make good her flight; but concentrating all his
powers, by a vigorous application of his brawny shoulders Jacques
Ferrand succeeded in forcing out the chain which kept the door from
opening.
With furious impatience he rushed into the chamber,--it was empty. The
knotted cord was still suspended to the balcony of the window from which
he leaned; and then, at the other extremity of the courtyard, he saw by
means of the moon, which just then shone out from behind the stormy
clouds which had hitherto obscured it, the dim outline of the outer gate
swinging to and fro as though left open by some person having hastily
passed through. Then did Jacques Ferrand divine the whole of the scheme
so successfully laid to entrap him; but a glimmer of hope still
remained. Determined and vigorous, he threw his leg over the balcony,
let himself down in his turn by the cord, and hastily quitted the house.
The street was quite deserted,--not a creature was to be seen; and the
only sound his ear could detect was the distant rumbling of the wheels
of the vehicle that bore away the object of his search. The notary, who
supposed it to be the carriage of some person whose business or pleasure
took them late from home, paid no attention to this circumstance.
There was then no chance of finding Cecily, whose absence was the more
disastrous, as she carried with her the positive proof of his crimes. As
this fearful certainty came over him, he fell, struck with
consternation, on a bench placed against his door, where he long
remained, mute, motionless, and as though petrified with horror. His
eyes fixed and haggard, his teeth clenched, and his lips covered with
foam, tearing his breast, as though unconsciously, till the blood
streamed from it, he felt his very brain dizzy with thought, till his
ideas were lost in a fathomless abyss.
When he recovered from his stupor he arose and staggered onwards with an
unsteady and faltering step, like a person just aroused from a state of
complete intoxication. He violently shut the entrance door and returned
to the courtyard. The rain had by this time ceased, but the wind still
continued strong and gusty, and drove rapidly along the heavy gray
clouds which veiled without entirely excluding the brightness of the
moon, whose pale and sickly light shone on the house.
Somewhat calmed by the clear freshness of the night air, Jacques
Ferrand, as though hoping to find relief from his internal agitation by
the rapidity of his movements, plunged into the muddy paths of his
garden, walking with quick, hurried steps, and from time to time
pressing his clenched hands against his forehead. Heedless of the
direction he proceeded in, he at length reached the termination of a
walk, adjoining to which was a dilapidated greenhouse.
Suddenly he stumbled heavily against a mass of newly disturbed earth.
Mechanically he stooped down to examine the nature of the impediment
which presented itself; the deep hole which had been dug, and morsels of
torn garments lying by, told him with awful certainty that he stood by
the grave dug by poor Louise Morel to receive the remains of her dead
infant,--her infant, which was also the child of the heartless, hardened
wretch who now stood trembling and conscience-stricken beside this
fearful memento of his sensuality and brutal persecution of a poor and
helpless girl. And spite of his hardihood, his long course of sin and
seared conscience, a deadly tremor shook his frame, he felt an
instinctive persuasion that the hour of deep retribution was at hand.
Under other circumstances Jacques Ferrand would have trampled the humble
grave beneath his feet without remorse or concern, but now, exhausted by
the preceding scene, he felt his usual boldness forsake him, while fear
and trembling came upon him. A cold sweat bedewed his brow, his
tottering knees refused to support him, and he fell motionless beside
the open grave.