You ask for verse from me, the feeble prey
Of this self-seeking world, a waif and stray
With none to whom to cling;
From me--unhappy, purblind, hopeless devil!
Who e’en in what is good see only evil
In any earthly thing!
This page, the pastime of a dame so fair,
May not reflect the shadow of my care,
For all things have their place.
Of love, to ladies bright, the poet sings,
Of joy, and balls, and dress, and dainty things--
Nay, or of God and Grace.
It were a bitter jest to bid the pen
Of one so worn with life, so hating men,
Depict a scene of joy.
Would you exult in sight to one born blind,
Or--cruel! of a mother’s love remind
Some hapless orphan boy?
When cold despair has gripped a heart still fond,
When there is no young heart that will respond
To it in love, the future is a lie.
If there is none to weep when he is sad,
And share his woe, a man were better dead!--
And so I soon must die.
Give me your pity! often I blaspheme
The sacred name of God. Does it not seem
That I was born in vain?
Why should I bless him? Or why thank Him, since
He might have made me handsome, rich, a prince--
And I am poor and plain?
ETIENNE LOUSTEAU. September 1836, Chateau d’Anzy.
“And you have written those verses since yesterday?” cried Clagny in a
suspicious tone.
“Dear me, yes, as I was following the game; it is only too evident! I
would gladly have done something better for madame.”
“The verses are exquisite!” cried Dinah, casting up her eyes to heaven.
“They are, alas! the expression of a too genuine feeling,” replied
Lousteau, in a tone of deep dejection.
The reader will, of course, have guessed that the journalist had stored
these lines in his memory for ten years at least, for he had written
them at the time of the Restoration in disgust at being unable to get
on. Madame de la Baudraye gazed at him with such pity as the woes of
genius inspire; and Monsieur de Clagny, who caught her expression,
turned in hatred against this sham _Jeune Malade_ (the name of an
Elegy written by Millevoye). He sat down to backgammon with the cure
of Sancerre. The Presiding Judge’s son was so extremely obliging as to
place a lamp near the two players in such a way as that the light
fell full on Madame de la Baudraye, who took up her work; she was
embroidering in coarse wool a wicker-plait paper-basket. The three
conspirators sat close at hand.
“For whom are you decorating that pretty basket, madame?” said Lousteau.
“For some charity lottery, perhaps?”
“No,” she said, “I think there is too much display in charity done to
the sound of a trumpet.”
“You are very indiscreet,” said Monsieur Gravier.
“Can there be any indiscretion,” said Lousteau, “in inquiring who the
happy mortal may be in whose room that basket is to stand?”
“There is no happy mortal in the case,” said Dinah; “it is for Monsieur
de la Baudraye.”
The Public Prosecutor looked slily at Madame de la Baudraye and her
work, as if he had said to himself, “I have lost my paper-basket!”
“Why, madame, may we not think him happy in having a lovely wife, happy
in her decorating his paper-baskets so charmingly? The colors are red
and black, like Robin Goodfellow. If ever I marry, I only hope that
twelve years after, my wife’s embroidered baskets may still be for me.”
“And why should they not be for you?” said the lady, fixing her fine
gray eyes, full of invitation, on Etienne’s face.
“Parisians believe in nothing,” said the lawyer bitterly. “The virtue of
women is doubted above all things with terrible insolence. Yes, for some
time past the books you have written, you Paris authors, your farces,
your dramas, all your atrocious literature, turn on adultery--”
“Come, come, Monsieur the Public Prosecutor,” retorted Etienne,
laughing, “I left you to play your game in peace, I did not attack you,
and here you are bringing an indictment against me. On my honor as a
journalist, I have launched above a hundred articles against the writers
you speak of; but I confess that in attacking them it was to attempt
something like criticism. Be just; if you condemn them, you must condemn
Homer, whose _Iliad_ turns on Helen of Troy; you must condemn Milton’s
_Paradise Lost_. Eve and her serpent seem to me a pretty little case of
symbolical adultery; you must suppress the Psalms of David, inspired by
the highly adulterous love affairs of that Louis XIV. of Judah; you must
make a bonfire of _Mithridate, le Tartuffe, l’Ecole des Femmes, Phedre,
Andromaque, le Mariage de Figaro_, Dante’s _Inferno_, Petrarch’s
Sonnets, all the works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, the romances of the
Middle Ages, the History of France, and of Rome, etc., etc. Excepting
Bossuet’s _Histoire des Variations_ and Pascal’s _Provinciales_, I do
not think there are many books left to read if you insist on eliminating
all those in which illicit love is mentioned.”
“Much loss that would be!” said Monsieur de Clagny.
Etienne, nettled by the superior air assumed by Monsieur de Clagny,
wanted to infuriate him by one of those cold-drawn jests which consist
in defending an opinion in which we have no belief, simply to rouse the
wrath of a poor man who argues in good faith; a regular journalist’s
pleasantry.
“If we take up the political attitude into which you would force
yourself,” he went on, without heeding the lawyer’s remark, “and assume
the part of Public Prosecutor of all the ages--for every Government
has its public ministry--well, the Catholic religion is infected at its
fountain-head by a startling instance of illegal union. In the opinion
of King Herod, and of Pilate as representing the Roman Empire, Joseph’s
wife figured as an adulteress, since, by her avowal, Joseph was not
the father of Jesus. The heathen judge could no more recognize the
Immaculate Conception than you yourself would admit the possibility of
such a miracle if a new religion should nowadays be preached as based
on a similar mystery. Do you suppose that a judge and jury in a police
court would give credence to the operation of the Holy Ghost! And yet
who can venture to assert that God will never again redeem mankind? Is
it any better now than it was under Tiberius?”
“Your argument is blasphemy,” said Monsieur de Clagny.
“I grant it,” said the journalist, “but not with malicious intent.
You cannot suppress historical fact. In my opinion, Pilate, when he
sentenced Jesus, and Anytus--who spoke for the aristocratic party at
Athens--when he insisted on the death of Socrates, both represented
established social interests which held themselves legitimate, invested
with co-operative powers, and obliged to defend themselves. Pilate and
Anytus in their time were not less logical than the public prosecutors
who demanded the heads of the sergeants of La Rochelle; who, at this
day, are guillotining the republicans who take up arms against the
throne as established by the revolution of July, and the innovators
who aim at upsetting society for their own advantage under pretence of
organizing it on a better footing. In the eyes of the great families
of Greece and Rome, Socrates and Jesus were criminals; to those ancient
aristocracies their opinions were akin to those of the Mountain; and if
their followers had been victorious, they would have produced a little
‘ninety-three’ in the Roman Empire or in Attica.”
“What are you trying to come to, monsieur?” asked the lawyer.
“To adultery!--For thus, monsieur, a Buddhist as he smokes his pipe may
very well assert that the Christian religion is founded in adultery; as
we believe that Mahomet is an impostor; that his Koran is an epitome
of the Old Testament and the Gospels; and that God never had the least
intention of constituting that camel-driver His Prophet.”
“If there were many men like you in France--and there are more than
enough, unfortunately--all government would be impossible.”
“And there would be no religion at all,” said Madame Piedefer, who had
been making strangely wry faces all through this discussion.
“You are paining them very much,” said Bianchon to Lousteau in an
undertone. “Do not talk of religion; you are saying things that are
enough to upset them.”
“If I were a writer or a romancer,” said Monsieur Gravier, “I should
take the side of the luckless husbands. I, who have seen many things,
and strange things too, know that among the ranks of deceived husbands
there are some whose attitude is not devoid of energy, men who, at a
crisis, can be very dramatic, to use one of your words, monsieur,” he
said, addressing Etienne.
“You are very right, my dear Monsieur Gravier,” said Lousteau. “I never
thought that deceived husbands were ridiculous; on the contrary, I think
highly of them--”
“Do you not think a husband’s confidence a sublime thing?” said
Bianchon. “He believes in his wife, he does not suspect her, he trusts
her implicitly. But if he is so weak as to trust her, you make game of
him; if he is jealous and suspicious, you hate him; what, then, I ask
you, is the happy medium for a man of spirit?”
“If Monsieur de Clagny had not just expressed such vehement disapproval
of the immorality of stories in which the matrimonial compact is
violated, I could tell you of a husband’s revenge,” said Lousteau.
Monsieur de Clagny threw the dice with a convulsive jerk, and dared not
look up at the journalist.
“A story, from you!” cried Madame de la Baudraye. “I should hardly have
dared to hope for such a treat--”
“It is not my story, madame; I am not clever enough to invent such a
tragedy. It was told me--and how delightfully!--by one of our greatest
writers, the finest literary musician of our day, Charles Nodier.”
“Well, tell it,” said Dinah. “I never met Monsieur Nodier, so you have
no comparison to fear.”
“Not long after the 18th Brumaire,” Etienne began, “there was, as
you know, a call to arms in Brittany and la Vendee. The First Consul,
anxious before all things for peace in France, opened negotiations
with the rebel chiefs, and took energetic military measures; but, while
combining his plans of campaign with the insinuating charm of Italian
diplomacy, he also set the Machiavelian springs of the police in
movement, Fouche then being at its head. And none of these means were
superfluous to stifle the fire of war then blaring in the West.
“At this time a young man of the Maille family was despatched by the
Chouans from Brittany to Saumur, to open communications between certain
magnates of that town and its environs and the leaders of the Royalist
party. The envoy was, in fact, arrested on the very day he landed--for
he traveled by boat, disguised as a master mariner. However, as a man
of practical intelligence, he had calculated all the risks of the
undertaking; his passport and papers were all in order, and the men told
off to take him were afraid of blundering.
“The Chevalier de Beauvoir--I now remember his name--had studied
his part well; he appealed to the family whose name he had borrowed,
persisted in his false address, and stood his examination so boldly that
he would have been set at large but for the blind belief that the spies
had in their instructions, which were unfortunately only too minute. In
this dilemma the authorities were more ready to risk an arbitrary act
than to let a man escape to whose capture the Minister attached great
importance. In those days of liberty the agents of the powers in
authority cared little enough for what we now regard as _legal_. The
Chevalier was therefore imprisoned provisionally, until the superior
officials should come to some decision as to his identity. He had not
long to wait for it; orders were given to guard the prisoner closely in
spite of his denials.
“The Chevalier de Beauvoir was next transferred, in obedience to further
orders, to the Castle of l’Escarpe, a name which sufficiently indicates
its situation. This fortress, perched on very high rocks, has precipices
for its trenches; it is reached on all sides by steep and dangerous
paths; and, like every ancient castle, its principal gate has a
drawbridge over a wide moat. The commandant of this prison, delighted
to have charge of a man of family whose manners were most agreeable,
who expressed himself well, and seemed highly educated, received the
Chevalier as a godsend; he offered him the freedom of the place on
parole, that they might together the better defy its dulness. The
prisoner was more than content.
“Beauvoir was a loyal gentleman, but, unfortunately, he was also a very
handsome youth. He had attractive features, a dashing air, a pleasing
address, and extraordinary strength. Well made, active, full of
enterprise, and loving danger, he would have made an admirable leader
of guerillas, and was the very man for the part. The commandant gave his
prisoner the most comfortable room, entertained him at his table, and
at first had nothing but praise for the Vendean. This officer was a
Corsican and married; his wife was pretty and charming, and he thought
her, perhaps, not to be trusted--at any rate, he was as jealous as a
Corsican and a rather ill-looking soldier may be. The lady took a fancy
to Beauvoir, and he found her very much to his taste; perhaps they
loved! Love in a prison is quick work. Did they commit some imprudence?
Was the sentiment they entertained something warmer than the superficial
gallantry which is almost a duty of men towards women?
“Beauvoir never fully explained this rather obscure episode of the
story; it is at least certain that the commandant thought himself
justified in treating his prisoner with excessive severity. Beauvoir was
placed in the dungeon, fed on black bread and cold water, and fettered
in accordance with the time-honored traditions of the treatment lavished
on captives. His cell, under the fortress-yard, was vaulted with hard
stone, the walls were of desperate thickness; the tower overlooked the
precipice.
“When the luckless man had convinced himself of the impossibility of
escape, he fell into those day-dreams which are at once the comfort and
the crowning despair of prisoners. He gave himself up to the trifles
which in such cases seem so important; he counted the hours and the
days; he studied the melancholy trade of being prisoner; he became
absorbed in himself, and learned the value of air and sunshine; then,
at the end of a fortnight, he was attacked by that terrible malady, that
fever for liberty, which drives prisoners to those heroic efforts of
which the prodigious achievements seem to us impossible, though true,
and which my friend the doctor” (and he turned to Bianchon) “would
perhaps ascribe to some unknown forces too recondite for his
physiological analysis to detect, some mysteries of the human will of
which the obscurity baffles science.”
Bianchon shook his head in negation.
“Beauvoir was eating his heart out, for death alone could set him
free. One morning the turnkey, whose duty it was to bring him his food,
instead of leaving him when he had given him his meagre pittance, stood
with his arms folded, looking at him with strange meaning. Conversation
between them was brief, and the warder never began it. The Chevalier
was therefore greatly surprised when the man said to him: ‘Of course,
monsieur, you know your own business when you insist on being always
called Monsieur Lebrun, or citizen Lebrun. It is no concern of mine;
ascertaining your name is no part of my duty. It is all the same to
me whether you call yourself Peter or Paul. If every man minds his own
business, the cows will not stray. At the same time, _I_ know,’ said he,
with a wink, ‘that you are Monsieur Charles-Felix-Theodore, Chevalier
de Beauvoir, and cousin to Madame la Duchesse de Maille.--Heh?’ he added
after a short silence, during which he looked at his prisoner.
“Beauvoir, seeing that he was safe under lock and key, did not imagine
that his position could be any the worse if his real name were known.
“‘Well, and supposing I were the Chevalier de Beauvoir, what should I
gain by that?’ said he.
“‘Oh, there is everything to be gained by it,’ replied the jailer in an
undertone. ‘I have been paid to help you to get away; but wait a minute!
If I were suspected in the smallest degree, I should be shot out of
hand. So I have said that I will do no more in the matter than will just
earn the money.--Look here,’ said he, taking a small file out of his
pocket, ‘this is your key; with this you can cut through one of your
bars. By the Mass, but it will not be any easy job,’ he went on,
glancing at the narrow loophole that let daylight into the dungeon.
“It was in a splayed recess under the deep cornice that ran round the
top of the tower, between the brackets that supported the embrasures.
“‘Monsieur,’ said the man, ‘you must take care to saw through the iron
low enough to get your body through.’
“‘I will get through, never fear,’ said the prisoner.
“‘But high enough to leave a stanchion to fasten a cord to,’ the warder
went on.
“‘And where is the cord?’ asked Beauvoir.
“‘Here,’ said the man, throwing down a knotted rope. ‘It is made of
raveled linen, that you may be supposed to have contrived it yourself,
and it is long enough. When you have got to the bottom knot, let
yourself drop gently, and the rest you must manage for yourself. You
will probably find a carriage somewhere in the neighborhood, and friends
looking out for you. But I know nothing about that.--I need not remind
you that there is a man-at-arms to the right of the tower. You will take
care, of course, to choose a dark night, and wait till the sentinel is
asleep. You must take your chance of being shot; but--’
“‘All right! All right! At least I shall not rot here,’ cried the young
man.
“‘Well, that may happen nevertheless,’ replied the jailer, with a stupid
expression.
“Beauvoir thought this was merely one of the aimless remarks that such
folks indulge in. The hope of freedom filled him with such joy that he
could not be troubled to consider the words of a man who was no more
than a better sort of peasant. He set to work at once, and had filed
the bars through in the course of the day. Fearing a visit from the
Governor, he stopped up the breaches with bread crumb rubbed in rust
to make it look like iron; he hid his rope, and waited for a favorable
night with the intensity of anticipation, the deep anguish of soul that
makes a prisoner’s life dramatic.
“At last, one murky night, an autumn night, he finished cutting through
the bars, tied the cord firmly to the stump, and perched himself on the
sill outside, holding on by one hand to the piece of iron remaining.
Then he waited for the darkest hour of the night, when the sentinels
would probably be asleep; this would be not long before dawn. He knew
the hours of their rounds, the length of each watch, every detail with
which prisoners, almost involuntarily, become familiar. He waited till
the moment when one of the men-at-arms had spent two-thirds of his watch
and gone into his box for shelter from the fog. Then, feeling sure that
the chances were at the best for his escape, he let himself down knot by
knot, hanging between earth and sky, and clinging to his rope with the
strength of a giant. All was well. At the last knot but one, just as he
was about to let himself drop, a prudent impulse led him to feel for
the ground with his feet, and he found no footing. The predicament
was awkward for a man bathed in sweat, tired, and perplexed, and in a
position where his life was at stake on even chances. He was about to
risk it, when a trivial incident stopped him; his hat fell off; happily,
he listened for the noise it must make in striking the ground, and he
heard not a sound.
“The prisoner felt vaguely suspicious as to this state of affairs. He
began to wonder whether the Commandant had not laid a trap for him--but
if so, why? Torn by doubts, he almost resolved to postpone the attempt
till another night. At any rate, he would wait for the first gleam of
day, when it would still not be impossible to escape. His great strength
enabled him to climb up again to his window; still, he was almost
exhausted by the time he gained the sill, where he crouched on the
lookout, exactly like a cat on the parapet of a gutter. Before long, by
the pale light of dawn, he perceived as he waved the rope that there
was a little interval of a hundred feet between the lowest knot and the
pointed rocks below.
“‘Thank you, my friend, the Governor!’ said he, with characteristic
coolness. Then, after a brief meditation on this skilfully-planned
revenge, he thought it wise to return to his cell.
“He laid his outer clothes conspicuously on the bed, left the rope
outside to make it seem that he had fallen, and hid himself behind the
door to await the arrival of the treacherous turnkey, arming himself
with one of the iron bars he had filed out. The jailer, who returned
rather earlier than usual to secure the dead man’s leavings, opened the
door, whistling as he came in; but when he was at arm’s length, Beauvoir
hit him such a tremendous blow on the head that the wretch fell in a
heap without a cry; the bar had cracked his skull.
“The Chevalier hastily stripped him and put on his clothes, mimicked his
walk, and, thanks to the early hour and the undoubting confidence of the
warders of the great gate, he walked out and away.”
It did not seem to strike either the lawyer or Madame de la Baudraye
that there was in this narrative the least allusion that should apply
to them. Those in the little plot looked inquiringly at each other,
evidently surprised at the perfect coolness of the two supposed lovers.
“Oh! I can tell you a better story than that,” said Bianchon.
“Let us hear,” said the audience, at a sign from Lousteau, conveying
that Bianchon had a reputation as a story-teller.
Among the stock of narratives he had in store, for every clever man
has a fund of anecdotes as Madame de la Baudraye had a collection of
phrases, the doctor chose that which is known as _La Grande Breteche_,
and is so famous indeed, that it was put on the stage at the
_Gymnase-Dramatique_ under the title of _Valentine_. So it is not
necessary to repeat it here, though it was then new to the inhabitants
of the Chateau d’Anzy. And it was told with the same finish of gesture
and tone which had won such praise for Bianchon when at Mademoiselle
des Touches’ supper-party he had told it for the first time. The final
picture of the Spanish grandee, starved to death where he stood in the
cupboard walled up by Madame de Merret’s husband, and that husband’s
last word as he replied to his wife’s entreaty, “You swore on that
crucifix that there was no one in that closet!” produced their full
effect. There was a silent minute, highly flattering to Bianchon.
“Do you know, gentlemen,” said Madame de la Baudraye, “love must be
a mighty thing that it can tempt a woman to put herself in such a
position?”
“I, who have certainly seen some strange things in the course of my
life,” said Gravier, “was cognizant in Spain of an adventure of the same
kind.”
“You come forward after two great performers,” said Madame de la
Baudraye, with coquettish flattery, as she glanced at the two Parisians.
“But never mind--proceed.”
“Some little time after his entry into Madrid,” said the
Receiver-General, “the Grand Duke of Berg invited the magnates of the
capital to an entertainment given to the newly conquered city by the
French army. In spite of the splendor of the affair, the Spaniards were
not very cheerful; their ladies hardly danced at all, and most of the
company sat down to cards. The gardens of the Duke’s palace were so
brilliantly illuminated, that the ladies could walk about in as perfect
safety as in broad daylight. The fete was of imperial magnificence.
Nothing was grudged to give the Spaniards a high idea of the Emperor, if
they were to measure him by the standard of his officers.
“In an arbor near the house, between one and two in the morning, a party
of French officers were discussing the chances of war, and the not too
hopeful outlook prognosticated by the conduct of the Spaniards present
at that grand ball.
“‘I can only tell you,’ said the surgeon-major of the company of which I
was paymaster, ‘I applied formally to Prince Murat only yesterday to
be recalled. Without being afraid exactly of leaving my bones in the
Peninsula, I would rather dress the wounds made by our worthy neighbors
the Germans. Their weapons do not run quite so deep into the body as
these Castilian daggers. Besides, a certain dread of Spain is, with
me, a sort of superstition. From my earliest youth I have read Spanish
books, and a heap of gloomy romances and tales of adventures in this
country have given me a serious prejudice against its manners and
customs.
“‘Well, now, since my arrival in Madrid, I have already been, not
indeed the hero, but the accomplice of a dangerous intrigue, as dark and
mysterious as any romance by Lady (Mrs.) Radcliffe. I am apt to attend
to my presentiments, and I am off to-morrow. Murat will not refuse me
leave, for, thanks to our varied services, we always have influential
friends.’
“‘Since you mean to cut your stick, tell us what’s up,’ said an old
Republican colonel, who cared not a rap for Imperial gentility and
choice language.
“The surgeon-major looked about him cautiously, as if to make sure
who were his audience, and being satisfied that no Spaniard was within
hearing, he said:
“‘We are none but Frenchmen--then, with pleasure, Colonel Hulot. About
six days since, I was quietly going home, at about eleven at night,
after leaving General Montcornet, whose hotel is but a few yards from
mine. We had come away together from the Quartermaster-General’s, where
we had played rather high at _bouillotte_. Suddenly, at the corner of a
narrow high-street, two strangers, or rather, two demons, rushed upon me
and flung a large cloak round my head and arms. I yelled out, as you may
suppose, like a dog that is thrashed, but the cloth smothered my voice,
and I was lifted into a chaise with dexterous rapidity. When my two
companions released me from the cloak, I heard these dreadful words
spoken by a woman, in bad French:
“‘“If you cry out, or if you attempt to escape, if you make the very
least suspicious demonstration, the gentleman opposite to you will stab
you without hesitation. So you had better keep quiet.--Now, I will tell
you why you have been carried off. If you will take the trouble to put
your hand out in this direction, you will find your case of instruments
lying between us; we sent a messenger for them to your rooms, in your
name. You will need them. We are taking you to a house that you may
save the honor of a lady who is about to give birth to a child that
she wishes to place in this gentleman’s keeping without her husband’s
knowledge. Though monsieur rarely leaves his wife, with whom he is
still passionately in love, watching over her with all the vigilance
of Spanish jealousy, she had succeeded in concealing her condition; he
believes her to be ill. You must bring the child into the world. The
dangers of this enterprise do not concern us: only, you must obey us,
otherwise the lover, who is sitting opposite to you in this carriage,
and who does not understand a word of French, will kill you on the least
rash movement.”
“‘“And who are you?” I asked, feeling for the speaker’s hand, for her
arm was inside the sleeve of a soldier’s uniform.
“‘“I am my lady’s waiting-woman,” said she, “and ready to reward you
with my own person if you show yourself gallant and helpful in our
necessities.”
“‘“Gladly,” said I, seeing that I was inevitably started on a perilous
adventure.
“‘Under favor of the darkness, I felt whether the person and figure of
the girl were in keeping with the idea I had formed of her from her tone
of voice. The good soul had, no doubt, made up her mind from the first
to accept all the chances of this strange act of kidnapping, for she
kept silence very obligingly, and the coach had not been more than ten
minutes on the way when she accepted and returned a very satisfactory
kiss. The lover, who sat opposite to me, took no offence at an
occasional quite involuntary kick; as he did not understand French, I
conclude he paid no heed to them.
“‘“I can be your mistress on one condition only,” said the woman, in
reply to the nonsense I poured into her ear, carried away by the fervor
of an improvised passion, to which everything was unpropitious.
“‘“And what is it?”
“‘“That you will never attempt to find out whose servant I am. If I am
to go to you, it must be at night, and you must receive me in the dark.”
“‘“Very good,” said I.
“‘We had got as far as this, when the carriage drew up under a garden
wall.
“‘“You must allow me to bandage your eyes,” said the maid. “You can lean
on my arm, and I will lead you.”
“‘She tied a handkerchief over my eyes, fastening it in a tight knot at
the back of my head. I heard the sound of a key being cautiously fitted
to the lock of a little side door by the speechless lover who had sat
opposite to me. In a moment the waiting-woman, whose shape was slender,
and who walked with an elegant jauntiness’--_meneho_, as they call it,”
Monsieur Gravier explained in a superior tone, “a word which describes
the swing which women contrive to give a certain part of their dress
that shall be nameless.--‘The waiting-woman’--it is the surgeon-major
who is speaking,” the narrator went on--“‘led me along the gravel walks
of a large garden, till at a certain spot she stopped. From the louder
sound of our footsteps, I concluded that we were close to the house.
“Now silence!” said she in a whisper, “and mind what you are about. Do
not overlook any of my signals; I cannot speak without terrible
danger for both of us, and at this moment your life is of the first
importance.” Then she added: “My mistress is in a room on the ground
floor. To get into it we must pass through her husband’s room and close
to his bed. Do not cough, walk softly, and follow me closely, so as not
to knock against the furniture or tread anywhere but on the carpets I
laid down.”
“‘Here the lover gave an impatient growl, as a man annoyed by so much
delay.
“‘The woman said no more, I heard a door open, I felt the warm air of
the house, and we stole in like thieves. Presently the girl’s light hand
removed the bandage. I found myself in a lofty and spacious room, badly
lighted by a smoky lamp. The window was open, but the jealous husband
had fitted it with iron bars. I was in the bottom of a sack, as it were.
“‘On the ground a woman was lying on a mat; her head was covered with
a muslin veil, but I could see her eyes through it full of tears and
flashing with the brightness of stars; she held a handkerchief in her
mouth, biting it so hard that her teeth were set in it: I never saw
finer limbs, but her body was writhing with pain like a harp-string
thrown on the fire. The poor creature had made a sort of struts of her
legs by setting her feet against a chest of drawers, and with both hands
she held on to the bar of a chair, her arms outstretched, with every
vein painfully swelled. She might have been a criminal undergoing
torture. But she did not utter a cry; there was not a sound, all
three speechless and motionless. The husband snored with reassuring
regularity. I wanted to study the waiting-woman’s face, but she had
put on a mask, which she had removed, no doubt, during our drive, and
I could see nothing but a pair of black eyes and a pleasingly rounded
figure.
“‘The lover threw some towels over his mistress’ legs and folded the
muslin veil double over her face. As soon as I had examined the lady
with care, I perceived from certain symptoms which I had noted once
before on a very sad occasion in my life, that the infant was dead. I
turned to the maid in order to tell her this. Instantly the suspicious
stranger drew his dagger; but I had time to explain the matter to the
woman, who explained in a word or two to him in a low voice. On hearing
my opinion, a quick, slight shudder ran through him from head to foot
like a lightning flash; I fancied I could see him turn pale under his
black velvet mask.
“‘The waiting-woman took advantage of a moment when he was bending in
despair over the dying woman, who had turned blue, to point to some
glasses of lemonade standing on a table, at the same time shaking her
head negatively. I understood that I was not to drink anything in spite
of the dreadful thirst that parched my throat. The lover was thirsty
too; he took an empty glass, poured out some fresh lemonade, and drank
it off.
“‘At this moment the lady had a violent attack of pain, which showed
me that now was the time to operate. I summoned all my courage, and in
about an hour had succeeded in delivering her of the child, cutting
it up to extract it. The Spaniard no longer thought of poisoning me,
understanding that I had saved the mother’s life. Large tears fell on
his cloak. The woman uttered no sound, but she trembled like a hunted
animal, and was bathed in sweat.
“‘At one horribly critical moment she pointed in the direction of her
husband’s room; he had turned in his sleep, and she alone had heard the
rustle of the sheets, the creaking of the bed or of the curtain. We all
paused, and the lover and the waiting-woman, through the eyeholes of
their masks, gave each other a look that said, “If he wakes, shall we
kill him?”
“‘At that instant I put out my hand to take the glass of lemonade the
Spaniard had drunk of. He, thinking that I was about to take one of the
full glasses, sprang forward like a cat, and laid his long dagger over
the two poisoned goblets, leaving me his own, and signing to me to drink
what was left. So much was conveyed by this quick action, and it was
so full of good feeling, that I forgave him his atrocious schemes for
killing me, and thus burying every trace of this event.
“‘After two hours of care and alarms, the maid and I put her mistress
to bed. The lover, forced into so perilous an adventure, had, to provide
means in case of having to fly, a packet of diamonds stuck to paper;
these he put into my pocket without my knowing it; and I may add
parenthetically, that as I was ignorant of the Spaniard’s magnificent
gift, my servant stole the jewels the day after, and went off with a
perfect fortune.
“‘I whispered my instructions to the waiting-woman as to the further
care of her patient, and wanted to be gone. The maid remained with her
mistress, which was not very reassuring, but I was on my guard. The
lover made a bundle of the dead infant and the blood-stained clothes,
tying it up tightly, and hiding it under his cloak; he passed his hand
over my eyes as if to bid me to see nothing, and signed to me to take
hold of the skirt of his coat. He went first out of the room, and I
followed, not without a parting glance at my lady of an hour. She,
seeing the Spaniard had gone out, snatched off her mask and showed me an
exquisite face.
“‘When I found myself in the garden, in the open air, I confess that I
breathed as if a heavy load had been lifted from my breast. I followed
my guide at a respectful distance, watching his least movement with keen
attention. Having reached the little door, he took my hand and pressed a
seal to my lips, set in a ring which I had seen him wearing on a finger
of his left hand, and I gave him to understand that this significant
sign would be obeyed. In the street two horses were waiting; we each
mounted one. My Spaniard took my bridle, held his own between his teeth,
for his right hand held the bloodstained bundle, and we went off at
lightning speed.
“‘I could not see the smallest object by which to retrace the road we
came by. At dawn I found myself close by my own door, and the Spaniard
fled towards the Atocha gate.’
“‘And you saw nothing which could lead you to suspect who the woman was
whom you had attended?’ the Colonel asked of the surgeon.
“‘One thing only,’ he replied. ‘When I turned the unknown lady over, I
happened to remark a mole on her arm, about half-way down, as big as
a lentil, and surrounded with brown hairs.’--At this instant the rash
speaker turned pale. All our eyes, that had been fixed on his, followed
his glance, and we saw a Spaniard, whose glittering eyes shone through
a clump of orange-trees. On finding himself the object of our attention,
the man vanished with the swiftness of a sylph. A young captain rushed
in pursuit.
“‘By Heaven!’ cried the surgeon, ‘that basilisk stare has chilled me
through, my friends. I can hear bells ringing in my ears! I may take
leave of you; you will bury me here!’
“‘What a fool you are!’ exclaimed Colonel Hulot. ‘Falcon is on the track
of the Spaniard who was listening, and he will call him to account.’
“‘Well,’ cried one and another, seeing the captain return quite out of
breath.
“‘The devil’s in it,’ said Falcon; ‘the man went through a wall, I
believe! As I do not suppose that he is a wizard, I fancy he must belong
to the house! He knows every corner and turning, and easily escaped.’
“‘I am done for,’ said the surgeon, in a gloomy voice.
“‘Come, come, keep calm, Bega,’ said I (his name was Bega), ‘we will sit
on watch with you till you leave. We will not leave you this evening.’
“In point of fact, three young officers who had been losing at play went
home with the surgeon to his lodgings, and one of us offered to stay
with him.
“Within two days Bega had obtained his recall to France; he made
arrangements to travel with a lady to whom Murat had given a strong
escort, and had just finished dinner with a party of friends, when
his servant came to say that a young lady wished to speak to him.
The surgeon and the three officers went down suspecting mischief. The
stranger could only say, ‘Be on your guard--’ when she dropped down
dead. It was the waiting-woman, who, finding she had been poisoned, had
hoped to arrive in time to warn her lover.
“‘Devil take it!’ cried Captain Falcon, ‘that is what I call love! No
woman on earth but a Spaniard can run about with a dose of poison in her
inside!’
“Bega remained strangely pensive. To drown the dark presentiments that
haunted him, he sat down to table again, and with his companions drank
immoderately. The whole party went early to bed, half drunk.
“In the middle of the night the hapless Bega was aroused by the sharp
rattle of the curtain rings pulled violently along the rods. He sat up
in bed, in the mechanical trepidation which we all feel on waking with
such a start. He saw standing before him a Spaniard wrapped in a cloak,
who fixed on him the same burning gaze that he had seen through the
bushes.
“Bega shouted out, ‘Help, help, come at once, friends!’ But the Spaniard
answered his cry of distress with a bitter laugh.--‘Opium grows for
all!’ said he.
“Having thus pronounced sentence as it were, the stranger pointed to the
three other men sleeping soundly, took from under his cloak the arm of
a woman, freshly amputated, and held it out to Bega, pointing to a mole
like that he had so rashly described. ‘Is it the same?’ he asked. By
the light of the lantern the man had set on the bed, Bega recognized the
arm, and his speechless amazement was answer enough.
“Without waiting for further information, the lady’s husband stabbed him
to the heart.”
“You must tell that to the marines!” said Lousteau. “It needs their
robust faith to swallow it! Can you tell me which told the tale, the
dead man or the Spaniard?”
“Monsieur,” replied the Receiver-General, “I nursed poor Bega, who died
five days after in dreadful suffering.--That is not the end.
“At the time of the expedition sent out to restore Ferdinand VII. I was
appointed to a place in Spain; but, happily for me, I got no further
than Tours when I was promised the post of Receiver here at Sancerre. On
the eve of setting out I was at a ball at Madame de Listomere’s, where
we were to meet several Spaniards of high rank. On rising from the
card-table, I saw a Spanish grandee, an _afrancesado_ in exile, who had
been about a fortnight in Touraine. He had arrived very late at this
ball--his first appearance in society--accompanied by his wife, whose
right arm was perfectly motionless. Everybody made way in silence for
this couple, whom we all watched with some excitement. Imagine a picture
by Murillo come to life. Under black and hollow brows the man’s eyes
were like a fixed blaze; his face looked dried up, his bald skull was
red, and his frame was a terror to behold, he was so emaciated. His
wife--no, you cannot imagine her. Her figure had the supple swing for
which the Spaniards created the word _meneho_; though pale, she was
still beautiful; her complexion was dazzlingly fair--a rare thing in
a Spaniard; and her gaze, full of the Spanish sun, fell on you like a
stream of melted lead.
“‘Madame,’ said I to her, towards the end of the evening, ‘what
occurrence led to the loss of your arm?’
“‘I lost it in the war of independence,’ said she.”
“Spain is a strange country,” said Madame de la Baudraye. “It still
shows traces of Arab manners.”
“Oh!” said the journalist, laughing, “the mania for cutting off arms
is an old one there. It turns up every now and then like some of our
newspaper hoaxes, for the subject has given plots for plays on the
Spanish stage so early as 1570--”
“Then do you think me capable of inventing such a story?” said Monsieur
Gravier, nettled by Lousteau’s impertinent tone.
“Quite incapable of such a thing,” said the journalist with grave irony.
“Pooh!” said Bianchon, “the inventions of romances and play-writers are
quite as often transferred from their books and pieces into real life,
as the events of real life are made use of on the stage or adapted to a
tale. I have seen the comedy of _Tartufe_ played out--with the exception
of the close; Orgon’s eyes could not be opened to the truth.”
“And the tragi-comedy of _Adolphe_ by Benjamin Constant is constantly
enacted,” cried Lousteau.
“And do you suppose,” asked Madame de la Baudraye, “that such adventures
as Monsieur Gravier has related could ever occur now, and in France?”
“Dear me!” cried Clagny, “of the ten or twelve startling crimes that are
annually committed in France, quite half are mixed up with circumstances
at least as extraordinary as these, and often outdoing them in romantic
details. Indeed, is not this proved by the reports in the _Gazette des
Tribunaux_--the Police news--in my opinion, one of the worst abuses of
the Press? This newspaper, which was started only in 1826 or ‘27, was
not in existence when I began my professional career, and the facts of
the crime I am about to speak of were not known beyond the limits of the
department where it was committed.
“In the quarter of Saint-Pierre-des-Corps at Tours a woman whose husband
had disappeared at the time when the army of the Loire was disbanded,
and who had mourned him deeply, was conspicuous for her excess of
devotion. When the mission priests went through all the provinces to
restore the crosses that had been destroyed and to efface the traces
of revolutionary impiety, this widow was one of their most zealous
proselytes, she carried a cross and nailed to it a silver heart pierced
by an arrow; and, for a long time after, she went every evening to pray
at the foot of the cross which was erected behind the Cathedral apse.
“At last, overwhelmed by remorse, she confessed to a horrible crime. She
had killed her husband, as Fualdes was murdered, by bleeding him; she
had salted the body and packed it in pieces into old casks, exactly as
if it have been pork; and for a long time she had taken a piece every
morning and thrown it into the Loire. Her confessor consulted his
superiors, and told her that it would be his duty to inform the
public prosecutor. The woman awaited the action of the Law. The public
prosecutor and the examining judge, on examining the cellar, found the
husband’s head still in pickle in one of the casks.--‘Wretched woman,’
said the judge to the accused, ‘since you were so barbarous as to throw
your husband’s body into the river, why did you not get rid of the head?
Then there would have been no proof.’
“‘I often tried, monsieur,’ said she, ‘but it was too heavy.’”
“Well, and what became of the woman?” asked the two Parisians.
“She was sentenced and executed at Tours,” replied the lawyer; “but her
repentance and piety had attracted interest in spite of her monstrous
crime.”
“And do you suppose, said Bianchon, “that we know all the tragedies that
are played out behind the curtain of private life that the public never
lifts?--It seems to me that human justice is ill adapted to judge of
crimes as between husband and wife. It has every right to intervene as
the police; but in equity it knows nothing of the heart of the matter.”
“The victim has in many cases been for so long the tormentor,” said
Madame de la Baudraye guilelessly, “that the crime would sometimes seem
almost excusable if the accused could tell all.”
This reply, led up to by Bianchon and by the story which Clagny had
told, left the two Parisians excessively puzzled as to Dinah’s position.
At bedtime council was held, one of those discussions which take place
in the passages of old country-houses where the bachelors linger, candle
in hand, for mysterious conversations.
Monsieur Gravier was now informed of the object in view during this
entertaining evening which had brought Madame de la Baudraye’s innocence
to light.
“But, after all,” said Lousteau, “our hostess’ serenity may indicate
deep depravity instead of the most child-like innocence. The Public
Prosecutor looks to me quite capable of suggesting that little La
Baudraye should be put in pickle----”
“He is not to return till to-morrow; who knows what may happen in the
course of the night?” said Gatien.
“We will know!” cried Monsieur Gravier.
In the life of a country house a number of practical jokes are
considered admissible, some of them odiously treacherous. Monsieur
Gravier, who had seen so much of the world, proposed setting seals on
the door of Madame de la Baudraye and of the Public Prosecutor. The
ducks that denounced the poet Ibycus are as nothing in comparison with
the single hair that these country spies fasten across the opening of a
door by means of two little flattened pills of wax, fixed so high up, or
so low down, that the trick is never suspected. If the gallant comes out
of his own door and opens the other, the broken hair tells the tale.
When everybody was supposed to be asleep, the doctor, the journalist,
the receiver of taxes, and Gatien came barefoot, like robbers, and
silently fastened up the two doors, agreeing to come again at five
in the morning to examine the state of the fastenings. Imagine their
astonishment and Gatien’s delight when all four, candle in hand, and
with hardly any clothes on, came to look at the hairs, and found them in
perfect preservation on both doors.
“Is it the same wax?” asked Monsieur Gravier.
“Are they the same hairs?” asked Lousteau.
“Yes,” replied Gatien.
“This quite alters the matter!” cried Lousteau. “You have been beating
the bush for a will-o’-the-wisp.”
Monsieur Gravier and Gatien exchanged questioning glances which were
meant to convey, “Is there not something offensive to us in that speech?
Ought we to laugh or to be angry?”
“If Dinah is virtuous,” said the journalist in a whisper to Bianchon,
“she is worth an effort on my part to pluck the fruit of her first
love.”
The idea of carrying by storm a fortress that had for nine years stood
out against the besiegers of Sancerre smiled on Lousteau.
With this notion in his head, he was the first to go down and into the
garden, hoping to meet his hostess. And this chance fell out all the
more easily because Madame de la Baudraye on her part wished to converse
with her critic. Half such chances are planned.
“You were out shooting yesterday, monsieur,” said Madame de la Baudraye.
“This morning I am rather puzzled as to how to find you any new
amusement; unless you would like to come to La Baudraye, where you may
study more of our provincial life than you can see here, for you have
made but one mouthful of my absurdities. However, the saying about the
handsomest girl in the world is not less true of the poor provincial
woman!”
“That little simpleton Gatien has, I suppose, related to you a speech I
made simply to make him confess that he adored you,” said Etienne.
“Your silence, during dinner the day before yesterday and throughout the
evening, was enough to betray one of those indiscretions which we never
commit in Paris.--What can I say? I do not flatter myself that you
will understand me. In fact, I laid a plot for the telling of all those
stories yesterday solely to see whether I could rouse you and Monsieur
de Clagny to a pang of remorse.--Oh! be quite easy; your innocence is
fully proved.
“If you had the slightest fancy for that estimable magistrate, you would
have lost all your value in my eyes.--I love perfection.
“You do not, you cannot love that cold, dried-up, taciturn little
usurer on wine casks and land, who would leave any man in the lurch for
twenty-five centimes on a renewal. Oh, I have fully recognized Monsieur
de la Baudraye’s similarity to a Parisian bill-discounter; their nature
is identical.--At eight-and-twenty, handsome, well conducted, and
childless--I assure you, madame, I never saw the problem of virtue more
admirably expressed.--The author of _Paquita la Sevillane_ must have
dreamed many dreams!
“I can speak of such things without the hypocritical gloss lent them by
young men, for I am old before my time. I have no illusions left. Can a
man have any illusions in the trade I follow?”
By opening the game in this tone, Lousteau cut out all excursions in the
_Pays de Tendre_, where genuine passion beats the bush so long; he went
straight to the point and placed himself in a position to force the
offer of what women often make a man pray for, for years; witness the
hapless Public Prosecutor, to whom the greatest favor had consisted
in clasping Dinah’s hand to his heart more tenderly than usual as they
walked, happy man!
And Madame de la Baudraye, to be true to her reputation as a Superior
Woman, tried to console the Manfred of the Press by prophesying such a
future of love as he had not had in his mind.
“You have sought pleasure,” said she, “but you have never loved. Believe
me, true love often comes late in life. Remember Monsieur de Gentz, who
fell in love in his old age with Fanny Ellsler, and left the Revolution
of July to take its course while he attended the dancer’s rehearsals.”
“It seems to me unlikely,” replied Lousteau. “I can still believe in
love, but I have ceased to believe in woman. There are in me, I suppose,
certain defects which hinder me from being loved, for I have often been
thrown over. Perhaps I have too strong a feeling for the ideal--like all
men who have looked too closely into reality----”
Madame de la Baudraye at last heard the mind of a man who, flung into
the wittiest Parisian circles, represented to her its most daring
axioms, its almost artless depravity, its advanced convictions; who, if
he were not really superior, acted superiority extremely well. Etienne,
performing before Dinah, had all the success of a first night. _Paquita_
of Sancerre scented the storms, the atmosphere of Paris. She spent one
of the most delightful days of her life with Lousteau and Bianchon, who
told her strange tales about the great men of the day, the anecdotes
which will some day form the _Ana_ of our century; sayings and doings
that were the common talk of Paris, but quite new to her.
Of course, Lousteau spoke very ill of the great female celebrity of Le
Berry, with the obvious intention of flattering Madame de la Baudraye
and leading her into literary confidences, by suggesting that she could
rival so great a writer. This praise intoxicated Madame de la Baudraye;
and Monsieur de Clagny, Monsieur Gravier, and Gatien, all thought her
warmer in her manner to Etienne than she had been on the previous day.
Dinah’s three _attaches_ greatly regretted having all gone to Sancerre
to blow the trumpet in honor of the evening at Anzy; nothing, to hear
them, had ever been so brilliant. The Hours had fled on feet so light
that none had marked their pace. The two Parisians they spoke of as
perfect prodigies.
These exaggerated reports loudly proclaimed on the Mall brought
sixteen persons to Anzy that evening, some in family coaches, some in
wagonettes, and a few bachelors on hired saddle horses. By about seven
o’clock this provincial company had made a more or less graceful entry
into the huge Anzy drawing-room, which Dinah, warned of the invasion,
had lighted up, giving it all the lustre it was capable of by taking
the holland covers off the handsome furniture, for she regarded this
assembly as one of her great triumphs. Lousteau, Bianchon, and Dinah
exchanged meaning looks as they studied the attitudes and listened to
the speeches of these visitors, attracted by curiosity.
What invalided ribbons, what ancestral laces, what ancient flowers,
more imaginative than imitative, were boldly displayed on some perennial
caps! The Presidente Boirouge, Bianchon’s cousin, exchanged a few
words with the doctor, from whom she extracted some “advice gratis”
by expatiating on certain pains in the chest, which she declared were
nervous, but which he ascribed to chronic indigestion.
“Simply drink a cup of tea every day an hour after dinner, as the
English do, and you will get over it, for what you suffer from is an
English malady,” Bianchon replied very gravely.
“He is certainly a great physician,” said the Presidente, coming back to
Madame de Clagny, Madame Popinot-Chandier, and Madame Gorju, the Mayor’s
wife.
“They say,” replied Madame de Clagny behind her fan, “that Dinah sent
for him, not so much with a view to the elections as to ascertain why
she has no children.”
In the first excitement of this success, Lousteau introduced the great
doctor as the only possible candidate at the ensuing elections. But
Bianchon, to the great satisfaction of the new Sous-prefet, remarked
that it seemed to him almost impossible to give up science in favor of
politics.
“Only a physician without a practice,” said he, “could care to be
returned as a deputy. Nominate statesmen, thinkers, men whose knowledge
is universal, and who are capable of placing themselves on the high
level which a legislator should occupy. That is what is lacking in our
Chambers, and what our country needs.”
Two or three young ladies, some of the younger men, and the elder women
stared at Lousteau as if he were a mountebank.
“Monsieur Gatien Boirouge declares that Monsieur Lousteau makes twenty
thousand francs a year by his writings,” observed the Mayor’s wife to
Madame de Clagny. “Can you believe it?”
“Is it possible? Why, a Public Prosecutor gets but a thousand crowns!”
“Monsieur Gatien,” said Madame Chandier, “get Monsieur Lousteau to talk
a little louder. I have not heard him yet.”
“What pretty boots he wears,” said Mademoiselle Chandier to her brother,
“and how they shine!”
“Yes--patent leather.”
“Why haven’t you the same?”
Lousteau began to feel that he was too much on show, and saw in the
manners of the good townsfolk indications of the desires that had
brought them there.
“What trick can I play them?” thought he.
At this moment the footman, so called--a farm-servant put into
livery--brought in the letters and papers, and among them a packet
of proof, which the journalist left for Bianchon; for Madame de la
Baudraye, on seeing the parcel, of which the form and string were
obviously from the printers, exclaimed:
“What, does literature pursue you even here?”
“Not literature,” replied he, “but a review in which I am now finishing
a story to come out ten days hence. I have reached the stage of ‘_To
be concluded in our next_,’ so I was obliged to give my address to
the printer. Oh, we eat very hard-earned bread at the hands of these
speculators in black and white! I will give you a description of these
editors of magazines.”
“When will the conversation begin?” Madame de Clagny asked of Dinah, as
one might ask, “When do the fireworks go off?”
“I fancied we should hear some amusing stories,” said Madame Popinot to
her cousin, the Presidente Boirouge.
At this moment, when the good folks of Sancerre were beginning to murmur
like an impatient pit, Lousteau observed that Bianchon was lost in
meditation inspired by the wrapper round the proofs.
“What is it?” asked Etienne.
“Why, here is the most fascinating romance possible on some spoiled
proof used to wrap yours in. Here, read it. _Olympia, or Roman
Revenge_.”
“Let us see,” said Lousteau, taking the sheet the doctor held out to
him, and he read aloud as follows:--