EDGAR DE MEILHAN _to the_ PRINCE DE MONBERT,
Poste-Restante (Rouen).
Paris, August 12th 18--.
What I wrote you yesterday was very infamous and incredible. You think
that is all; well, no! you have only half of the story. My hand trembles
with rage so that I can scarcely hold my pen. What remains to be told is
the acme of perfidy; a double-dyed treason; we have been made game of,
you as a plighted husband, I as a lover. All this seems as incoherent to
you as a dream. What can I have in common with Irene whom I have never
seen? Wait, you shall see!
My faithful Joseph discovered that the marriage was to take place at the
Church of the Madeleine, at six o'clock in the morning.
I was so agitated, so restless, so tormented by gloomy presentiments
that I did not go to bed. At the given hour I went out wrapped in my
cloak. Although it is summer-time I was cold; a slight feverish chill
ran through me. The catastrophe to come had already turned me pale.
The Madeleine stood out faintly against the gray morning sky. The livid
figures of some revellers, surprised by the day, were seen here and
there on the street corners. The stir of the great city had not yet
begun. I thought I had arrived too soon, but a carriage with neither
crest nor cipher, in charge of a servant in quiet livery, was stationed
in one of the cross-streets that run by the church.
I ascended the steps with uncertain footing, and soon saw, in one of
those spurious chapels, which have been stuck with so much trouble in
that counterfeit Greek temple, wax lights and the motions of the priest
who officiated.
The bride, enveloped in her veil, prostrated before the altar, seemed to
be praying fervently; the husband, as if he were not the most
contemptible of men, stood erect and proud, his face beaming with joy.
The ceremony drew to a close, Irene raised her head, but I was so placed
as not to be able to distinguish her features.
I leaned against a column in order to whisper in Irene's ear, as she
passed, a word as cutting as the crystal poniards of the bravos of
Venice, which break in the wound and slay without a drop of blood. Irene
advanced buoyantly along, leaning on Raymond's arm, with an undulating,
rhythmical grace, as if her feet trod the yielding clouds, instead of
the cold stones of the aisle. She no longer walked the earth, her
happiness lifted her up; the ardor of her delight made me comprehend
those assumptions of the Saints, who soared in their ecstasy above the
floors of their narrow cells and caverns; she felt the deep delight of a
woman who sacrifices herself.
When she reached the column that concealed me, an electrical current
doubtless warned her of my presence, for she shuddered as if struck by
an unseen arrow, and quickly turned her head; a stray sunbeam lit up her
face, and I recognised in Irene de Chateaudun, Louise Guérin; in the
rich heiress, the screen-painter of Pont de l'Arche!
Irene and Louise were the same person!
We have been treated as Cassandras of comedy; we have played in all
seriousness the scene between Horace and Arnolphe. We have confided to
each other our individual loves, hopes and sorrows. It is very amusing;
but, contrary to custom, the tragedy will come after the farce, and we
will play it so well that no one will be tempted to laugh at our
expense; we will convert ridicule into terror. Ah! Mademoiselle Irene de
Chateaudun, you imagined that you could amuse yourself with two such men
as the Prince de Moubert and Edgar de Meilhan! that there it would end,
and you had only to say to them: "I love another better!" And you,
Master Raymond, thought that your virtuous reputation would make your
perfidy appear like an act of devotion! No, no, in the drama where the
great lady was an adventuress, the artless girl a fast woman, the hero
a traitor, the lover a fool, and the betrothed husband a Geronte, the
rôles are to be changed.
A hoarse cry escaped me, Irene clung convulsively to Raymond's arm, and
precipitately left the church. Raymond, without understanding this
sudden flight, yielded to it and rapidly descended the steps. The
carriage was in waiting; they got into it; the coachman whipped up his
horses and soon they were out of sight.
Irene, Louise, whatever may be your name or your mask, you shall not
long remain Madame de Villiers; a speedy widowhood will enable you to
begin your coquetries again. I regret to be compelled to strike you
through another, for _you_ merit death.