Jacques de Boiscoran was evidently anxious to have done with his
recital, to come to that night of the fire at Valpinson, and to learn at
last from the eminent advocate of Sauveterre what he had to fear or to
hope. After a moment’s silence, for his breath was giving out, and after
a few steps across his cell, he went on in a bitter tone of voice,--
“But why trouble you with all these details, Magloire? Would you believe
me any more than you do now, if I were to enumerate to you all my
meetings with the Countess Claudieuse, or if I were to repeat all her
most trifling words?
“We had gradually learnt to calculate all our movements, and made
our preparations so accurately, that we met constantly, and feared no
danger. We said to each other at parting, or she wrote to me, ‘On such a
day, at such an hour, at such a place;’ and however distant the day, or
the hour, or the place, we were sure to meet. I had soon learned to know
the country as well as the cleverest of poachers; and nothing was so
useful to us as this familiarity with all the unknown hiding-places.
The countess, on her side, never let three months pass by without
discovering some urgent motive which carried her to Rochelle, to
Angouleme, or to Paris; and I was there to meet her. Nothing kept her
from these excursions; even when indisposed, she braved the fatigues of
the journey. It is true, my life was well-nigh spent in travelling; and
at any moment, when least expected, I disappeared for whole weeks. This
will explain to you that restlessness at which my father sneered, and
for which you, yourself, Magloire, used to blame me.”
“That is true,” replied the latter. “I remember.”
Jacques de Boiscoran did not seem to notice the encouragement.
“I should not tell the truth if I were to say that this kind of life was
unpleasant to me. Mystery and danger always add to the charms of love.
The difficulties only increased my passion. I saw something sublime
in this success with which two superior beings devoted all their
intelligence and cleverness to the carrying-on of a secret intrigue. The
more fully I became aware of the veneration with which the countess was
looked up to by the whole country, the more I learned to appreciate her
ability in dissembling and her profound perversity; and I was all the
more proud of her. I felt the pride setting my cheeks aglow when I saw
her at Brechy; for I came there every Sunday for her sake alone, to
see her pass calm and serene in the imposing security of her lofty
reputation. I laughed at the simplicity of all these honest, good
people, who bowed so low to her, thinking they saluted a saint; and I
congratulated myself with idiotic delight at being the only one who knew
the true Countess Claudieuse,--she who took her revenge so bravely in
our house in Passy!
“But such delights never last long.
“It had not taken me long to find out that I had given myself a master,
and the most imperious and exacting master that ever lived. I had almost
ceased to belong to myself. I had become her property; and I lived and
breathed and thought and acted for her alone. She did not mind my tastes
and my dislikes. She wished a thing, and that was enough. She wrote to
me, ‘Come!’ and I had to be instantly on the spot: she said to me, ‘Go!’
an I had to leave at once. At first I accepted these evidences of her
despotism with joy; but gradually I became tired of this perpetual
abdication of my own will. I disliked to have no control over myself,
to be unable to dispose of twenty-four hours in advance. I began to feel
the pressure of the halter around my neck. I thought of flight. One of
my friends was to set out on a voyage around the world, which was to
last eighteen months or two years, and I had an idea of accompanying
him. There was nothing to retain me. I was, by fortune and position,
perfectly independent. Why should I not carry out my plan?
“Ah, why? The prism was not broken yet. I cursed the tyranny of the
countess; but I still trembled when I heard her name mentioned. I
thought of escaping from her; but a single glance moved me to the bottom
of my heart. I was bound to her by the thousand tender threads of habit
and of complicity,--those threads which seem to be more delicate than
gossamer, but which are harder to break than a ship’s cable.
“Still, this idea which had occurred to me brought it about that I
uttered for the first time the word ‘separation’ in her presence, asking
her what she would do if I should leave her. She looked at me with a
strange air and asked me, after a moment’s hesitation,--
“‘Are you serious? Is it a warning?’
“I dared not carry matters any farther, and, making an effort to smile,
I said,--
“‘It is only a joke.’
“‘Then,’ she said, ‘let us not say any thing more about it. If you
should ever come to that, you would soon see what I would do.’
“I did not insist; but that look remained long in my memory, and made me
feel that I was far more closely bound than I had thought. From that day
it became my fixed idea to break with her.”
“Well, you ought to have made an end of it,” said Magloire.
Jacques de Boiscoran shook his head.
“That is easily said,” he replied. “I tried it; but I could not do
it. Ten times I went to her, determined to say, ‘Let us part;’ and ten
times, at the last moment, my courage failed me. She irritated me. I
almost began to hate her; but I could not forget how much I had loved
her, and how much she had risked for my sake. Then--why should I not
confess it?--I was afraid of her.
“This inflexible character, which I had so much admired, terrified me;
and I shuddered, seized with vague and sombre apprehensions, when
I thought what she was capable of doing. I was thus in the utmost
perplexity, when my mother spoke to me of a match which she had long
hoped for. This might be the pretext which I had so far failed to find.
At all events, I asked for time to consider; and, the first time I saw
the countess again, I gathered all my courage, and said to her,--
“‘Do you know what has happened? My mother wants me to marry.’
“She turned as pale as death; and looking me fixedly in the eyes, as if
wanting to read my innermost thoughts, she asked,--
“‘And you, what do you want?’
“‘I,’ I replied with a forced laugh,--‘I want nothing just now. But
the thing will have to be done sooner or later. A man must have a home,
affections which the world acknowledges’--
“‘And I,’ she broke in; ‘what am I to you?’
“‘You,’ I exclaimed, ‘you, Genevieve! I love you with all the strength
of my heart. But we are separated by a gulf: you are married.’
“She was still looking at me fixedly.
“‘In other words,’ she said, ‘you have loved me as a pastime. I have
been the amusement of your youth, the poetry of twenty years, that
love-romance which every man wants to have. But you are becoming
serious; you want sober affections, and you leave me. Well, be it so.
But what is to become of me when you are married?’
“I was suffering terribly.
“‘You have your husband,’ I stammered, ‘your children’--
“She stopped me.
“‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I shall go back go live at Valpinson, in that
country full of associations, where every place recalls a rendezvous. I
shall live with my husband, whom I have betrayed; with daughters, one of
whom--That cannot be, Jacques.’
“I had a fit of courage.
“‘Still,’ I said, ‘I may have to marry. What would you do?’
“‘Oh! very little,’ she replied. ‘I should hand all your letters to
Count Claudieuse.’”
During the thirty years which he had spent at the bar, M. Magloire had
heard many a strange confession; but never in his life had all his ideas
been overthrown as in this case.
“That is utterly confounding,” he murmured.