TWO VICTIMS.
"I doe rejoyce
That you wil take me for your choyce,
And my degree's so base."
Considerable as was the anxiety which Count Kora's rout caused the
Marquis de Tricotrin, his state of mind as he was carried home was
enviable compared to that of his daughter. He at least had the relief of
active scheming to console him, but she could only lean back in her
chair and confess herself utterly miserable.
So deep was her melancholy that she found herself wondering if she were
not really in love with the handsome, high-souled Prince. But the
thought had no sooner framed itself than a bitter smile crossed her
beautiful face, and she mocked away the only consolation that could
lighten her sorrow.
"How I befool myself," she murmured, "to think I grieve for his love! It
is for his power and his throne that I sigh. I know that well enough. It
is all I care for."
Poor Mlle de Tricotrin! She had long ceased to credit herself with one
good thought, with one womanly motive. Her education had been such that
it would have been strange if she had had any self-respect left.
Deprived in babyhood of a mother's love and care, she had been left
entirely in the hands of her selfish and ambitious father. He was a man
no better, and perhaps not much worse, than his fellows--a self-seeking
courtier, who clung with the rest to the sickly heart of France, and
sucked its blood till the Revolution came and swept them all away, like
the noxious parasites they were. Till then their one idea was to get a
better place, where they could suck a fuller draught, and to that end
they pushed and schemed and struggled, and thought no sacrifice too
great.
It was the "Court of Petticoats" where M. de Tricotrin strove with the
rest. Women ruled supreme. Hitherto the Marquis had not been successful.
He had learnt by bitter experience that the only path to wealth and fame
lay in the track of a fascinating woman. But each of them had her crowd
of jostling followers; and time after time, as he had tried to grasp the
flying skirts, he had been thrust out and left behind.
He was almost in despair when, after a long period of neglect, he
chanced to visit his little motherless daughter at the convent where she
was placed. She had grown from babyhood to be a lovely child since he
had seen her last, and he at once recognised the promise of
extraordinary beauty that she showed. A few hours spent with her assured
him of the brightness of her wit and the fascination of her manners, and
he saw that a new career and a new interest was before him.
His determination was taken at once. She was removed from the convent
and taken to Paris; for the Marquis had resolved to fit her for a
position which was thoroughly understood in Paris alone. It was the
position to which nothing was denied, to which all things were open. It
was the throne before which the greatest, the most sagacious, the most
upright, statesmen had to bow--before which even the proudest
ecclesiastics would cringe like hounds. Who can wonder that when the
brilliancy of the career was so dazzling, that the shame on which it
rested could hardly be seen?
For this, then, was Mlle de Tricotrin brought up. For this she was
taught to struggle, heedless of all but the end. The only duty which she
learned was to be beautiful; her only books were the philosophic chatter
which was the fashion of the hour; her only friends were the creatures
which that rotten society engendered, and which it seems profanity to
call women.
We have seen how the system succeeded. As the child came to womanhood,
the Marquis knew his triumph had been greater than he had ever hoped. He
saw his daughter courted and petted, and he laughed to see the skill
and delight with which she played her part. For no one can blame the
poor child that her head was turned. The extravagant admiration with
which she was everywhere greeted told her that the most honoured and
powerful position in France was almost within her grasp.
Then came the crash. The long-nursed hopes were shattered to the ground,
and father and daughter had to fly the country before the rising storms
of the Revolution. In England M. de Tricotrin hoped to find a new arena
for his child; but poor _émigrés_ were too plentiful, and English ideas
so unintelligible, and he could nowhere find even a beginning. Broken in
hopes and health, he was forced at last to the South, as we have seen.
It could hardly be that, to a girl of Mlle de Tricotrin's natural
refinement, moments of regret and repentance did not sometimes come; but
they had always been stifled with the excitement of her personal
triumphs. To win the power that belongs by nature to men, she had been
trained to fling away the most precious treasures of women, and she did
it with a light heart in the intoxication of the game. But when the lull
came her self-reproach grew so constant as to be almost a pain, and so
infected her as to become something she could not entirely throw off
again.
The pure presence and innocent talk of Penelophon had only served to
make her trouble more distinct. The beggar-maid was the first real woman
she had ever known, and for the first time her own womanliness was
really aroused in sympathy. She could see clearly what she was, and felt
she could never be otherwise now. She despised herself, and knew the
only solace was to brazen out her base career bravely. So she rejoiced
cynically over the influence she was winning with Kophetua, and despised
herself in secret too much to allow there was anything good in her joy.
In marrying him she would gain the queenly power for which she had
struggled so hard, and for which everything had been sacrificed; and in
marrying him she would also escape the path of shame, by which alone she
thought the goal was to be reached.
Which thought was it that made her heart ache so as she reached her room
that night, and saw how she was losing him? Who shall tell? Who can read
aright the thoughts that vexed that lovely figure which had thrown
itself in weary grace upon the soft divan? How can a thing so beautiful
know the ugliness of sorrow? Yet it is there, and tells her that
Kophetua is slipping from her hands, that life will be unendurable
without him, and worst of all--worst of all, the only voice to which she
has ever been taught to listen is whispering the old things in her ears.
It is whispering what it is that has come between her and her end. She
looks down at herself where she sits and thinks; she sees the gleaming
beauty of her restless breasts, and the soft white arms and the obedient
folds that wrap so closely the voluptuous figure; but the voice only
whispers it is all of no avail. There is something between her and him;
something which draws his eyes from her; something she has in her power
to sweep away at a word.
Even as she wondered what childish scruples or silly affection it was
that made her hesitate, the door opened and her father broke into the
midst of her temptation. For a while he held the door in his hand, and
stood admiring her as she lay curled upon the divan. At last she looked
up at him with a deep-drawn breath, as though to brace herself for the
crisis she saw was at hand.
"My child," said the Marquis, as he caught her glance, "you did not look
well to-night. Are you ill?"
"No, sir."
"Was not the King pleased with you, then?"
"No, sir."
"That is most unfortunate," said the Marquis, in a feigned tone of
extreme anxiety. "He was in a very strange humour to-night."
"Yes, sir?" said Mlle de Tricotrin, assuming an air of complete
indifference.
"He spoke to me in a very extraordinary manner," continued her father.
"It causes me no inconsiderable anxiety."
"What did he say, sir?" said she, apparently as little concerned as
ever.
M. de Tricotrin told his daughter all the opinions which the King had
expressed to him, and which led him to believe that he had determined to
remain a bachelor, and let things take their course; but he omitted all
the arguments by which he considered he had so successfully opposed the
King's intention. "So you see, my dear," he concluded, "that our
Quixotic Kophetua is bent on abdication and a republic."
Mlle de Tricotrin had listened attentively as her father unfolded to her
the King's indifference as to whether he reigned or not. It was the last
blow on her already shattered resolution. She saw one more guarantee of
her ultimate success disappearing. Though she could not own it to
herself, the very loftiness and unselfishness of the King's ideas made
her desire him more. It was more than she could bear, added to the load
of temptation under which she already struggled. Suddenly laying aside
her indifference, she started up in her seat, and, with a violent
gesture, cried out, "He shall not abdicate!"
"How will you prevent it?" asked the Marquis, unmoved.
"I cannot prevent it; but Turbo can, and he shall!"
"But you forget there is a price to pay first, my child."
"No, I do not, sir. I remember it very well. It is not a thing to forget
so soon. Bad as you have made me, I have not yet been guilty of so many
sins that this one should be lost in the throng."
"Well, well, my child, we need not go into ethics now. Do I understand
that you mean to pay the Chancellor his price."
"I do."
"I congratulate you on your good sense."
"I want no congratulations. I only want a throne; and for that I am
ready to disgrace myself, as you have taught me, sir. So if you will
tell me how this business is to be arranged, it shall be done."
"Turbo will be in the street on which the little garden door opens. You
can send her to him with a note, and he will manage the rest. See, here
is a letter that I have already prepared."
"What is in it, sir?"
"Nothing; it is a mere pretence."
"Does he really mean to come in person?"
"Yes; it is more than he can afford to intrust his secret to another."
"When will he be here?"
"In a quarter of an hour."
"Then pray leave me, sir, and I will see that she is there too."
"My child," said the Marquis, laying his hand with awkward affection on
the warm brown hair, "I am very pleased with you. I have never seen you
more sensible."
She shook his hand off with a gesture of disgust, and with a shrug he
left the room. It was some time before she could gather her cruelty
sufficiently to summon Penelophon. She knew well enough that the
indignation with which she had at first repudiated her father's
suggestion was due to the beneficent influence which the purity and
innocence of her handmaid had upon her. She had been talking to her
then, and the charming sweetness of her presence had expelled the devil
she had taken to herself. That influence away, the sight of what she
longed for still receding, had brought the evil spirit back, and she had
resolved that this thing should cease. Whether Penelophon appeared to
her as an actual obstacle in the path of her ambition, or as a siren who
beckoned her away from the worldly road in which alone she had faith, it
was clear that the girl must be cast away.
And, after all, where was the crime? Penelophon would only go to a lot
which she herself had lived for. It was only the child's silly prudery
that frightened her. But that would soon pass. Yet, how the poor thing
loathed the man to whom she was sold, and how she adored him who had
saved her from his embraces! And no wonder, when he had dared so much to
make the rescue. That was it. He, her own King, had dared too much for
the girl. She could not forgive her for that; and, resolved at last, she
clapped her hands.
Penelophon answered to the call immediately; and the sight of her
delicate form in the doorway disturbed her mistress strangely. She
looked so tender and fragile a thing to be flung out, as it were, to the
beasts; and the iniquity of Mlle de Tricotrin's resolve grew very
distinct to her. To add to her mistress's distress, the girl came
forward with the same glad smile with which she always greeted the
summons of her idolised protector; and Mlle de Tricotrin's heart beat
faster at the sight of her devotion.
"Will you undress now?" asked Penelophon, as her mistress only looked at
her and did not speak.
"Not yet, Penelophon," was the answer. "I have something I want you to
do. It is a little thing, and yet my happiness depends upon it."
"Will it bring Trecenito nearer to you, then?" asked Penelophon.
"Yes, it will bring him nearer--very near indeed, Penelophon."
"And you will let me do this little thing?" said the maid.
"Yes," answered Mlle de Tricotrin; "it is you I ask to do it, because I
know how you love me."
"Ah!" cried Penelophon, clasping her hands before her mistress, in an
attitude of glad devotion; "but I wish it were a great thing you asked
of me, and then I could show you indeed how I love you and him."
"Nay, there is no need," said Mlle de Tricotrin, feeling that a choking
sensation was coming in her throat. "I know how you love us, and long to
see us one; and now I have but a little thing for you to do."
"What must it be, then?"
"Only to take a note to a man who is waiting in the street by the little
garden door."
"What, now? to-night? in the dark?" exclaimed Penelophon, her great dark
eyes dilating with sudden fear.
"Yes, now. You are not afraid of the dark?"
"No; but I dread what is in the dark," the girl answered, shuddering.
"Why, what is it you fear?"
"It is a terrible thing. You cannot know how terrible. It is wrapped in
a cloak, and it limps as it goes, and it glares at me. Even in my own
soft bed at your feet it glares at me, so that I have to creep close to
you before it will go away."
"Why, child, that is only a baby's fancy. You will not meet it,"
answered Mlle de Tricotrin, steadying her voice with difficulty; for her
breath was coming thick, and her heart was beating fast, to see the poor
girl's terror.
"Yes, I know," answered Penelophon, in an awe-hushed voice; "but as I
looked at the stars just now, and wondered which was yours, and which
was Trecenito's, and which was my little one, I saw it pass under the
window. It limped and glared, and was wrapped in its cloak. Oh, I saw
it!" she cried, again covering her face in terror,--"I saw it, and it
will be there to glare at me when I open the gate. Oh, I dare not go!
Can you not send another?"
"No, Penelophon," said her mistress, after a pause; for she was hardly
able to speak in her growing agitation. "It is only you that will do. I
promised you should take the letter, as a token that it came indeed from
me. So be brave, child. On you it all depends. Be brave this once, and
then Trecenito will be mine, and we shall both be always with him."
The iniquitous deceit of her words seemed to stab her like a knife, and
for shame she dared not so much as look at her humble maid. She felt
that one more of those devoted, trusting looks from the girl's dog-like
eyes would overcome her. So she did not see how Penelophon drew herself
up and set her lips, and she was surprised to hear her speak quite
calmly and cheerfully again.
"And will it really bring you and Trecenito together if I go?" she said.
"Yes," answered her mistress; "and it is the only thing that will."
"Then I will go," said Penelophon. "Where is the note I shall take?"
"I will write it," said her mistress. The sight of the maid she loved
so well--and yet, as she thought, had such cause to hate--and the
devotion with which she overcame her terror, had softened Mlle de
Tricotrin out of her former hard mood, although she knew it was only the
girl's deep love for Kophetua that gave her the strength she showed.
Still she was softened, and determined not to let her go without one
little attempt to lighten the terrible lot to which she was condemning
her. So she reached to the dwarf table beside the divan, and wrote on
the blank paper which her father had given her this short note:--
"Here is the price you ask for your adhesion. Use her kindly, as
you value the love of
"HÉLOISE DE TRICOTRIN."
She folded the note and addressed it; but her heart beat so hard and her
breath came so thick that she could not speak as she handed it to
Penelophon. The girl took it, kissed the white hand that gave it, and
then turned to go. It was well-nigh more than Mlle de Tricotrin could
endure to see such simple faith and love in her victim, and a tear had
fallen on the hand the maid had kissed. There came to her a sudden sense
that she was looking for the last time on the child in whom she had
found the only pure delight she could ever remember, who had shown her
how holy is the unstained soul of a woman, who had made her almost feel
worthy to be a true wife to Kophetua. She could not let her part so to
the sacrifice, where the poor lamb was to lose all that she might win
her little end; and suddenly she started to her feet.
"Penelophon!" she cried, in a strange, unnatural voice, in spite of a
great effort to control herself. The girl came back directly, looking
anxiously into her mistress's troubled face. Then Mlle de Tricotrin saw
how the dark eyes were brimming with tears, and in an uncontrollable
impulse she threw her arms about the beggar-maid's neck, and kissed her
passionately on either cheek.
"Now begone quickly," she said to the wondering girl; and Penelophon, in
a transport of delight at her mistress's affection, tripped lightly away
to the garden. For a moment Mlle de Tricotrin stood with hard-clenched
hands, and stared at the door that had closed on her victim. Then a
convulsive sob shook her lovely form, and she cast herself prostrate
upon the divan in an agony of tears.