THE DÉNOUEMENT
The Archduke's threat was uttered in a way that betrayed an inflexible
resolution. It did not cause the young woman to flinch or to lower her
gaze. She did not remember anything of this scene, one, nevertheless,
that was momentous for her, since it called down upon her the hatred of
the most vindictive and unjust of men. She did not remember anything
that had passed when she regained her room save one thing, and that was
quite foreign to herself. As she had listened to the Archduke's
passionate cry, wrung from him by wounded friendship, she saw, as though
in a flash of blinding revelation, what had been the strength of the
bonds uniting Olivier and Pierre. She realized keenly the sentiment that
linked them in their revolt against her--the revolt of suffering Man
against Woman and against Love. She understood at last the impulse that
had made them take refuge in a virile fraternal affection, the one
fortress which the fatal passion cannot subdue. She had seen the
passions of Love and Friendship in conflict.
In Verdier's heart love had conquered. He had for the Prince only the
affection of a pupil for his master, of a debtor for his benefactor. It
was a sentiment made up of deference and gratitude. Besides, Verdier
esteemed the woman he loved. How different would have been his attitude
had he returned his protector's friendship with a similar sentiment, had
he felt for the Prince the affection that Olivier had for Pierre, that
Pierre had for Olivier! And, above all, what a change there would have
been in him had he had to condemn Miss Marsh as Pierre had been forced
to condemn his mistress!
This analogy and its contrast forced themselves upon Ely's notice, when
she left the laboratory, with an intensity that completely exhausted all
the physical strength that was left in her. She was no longer supported
by the necessity of working for the sake of others. She was now alone,
face to face with her grief. And, as often happens after any violent
emotion that has been followed by too energetic efforts, she succumbed
under the shock. Hardly had she reached her room than she was
overpowered by an agonizing nervous headache. Such a crisis is really
the shattering of the nervous system, whose strength has been exhausted
by the force of will, and which has finally to surrender.
Ely did not try to struggle any longer. She lay down on her bed like
some one in death agony, at one o'clock, after having sent off a
despatch to the one woman whose presence she felt she could support, the
one woman upon whom she could rely--to Louise Brion, whose devotion she
had almost forgotten during the past weeks.
"She is my friend," she thought, "and our friendship is better than
theirs, for the friendship of those men is made up of hate!"
In the extremity of her distress she, therefore, also had recourse to
the sentiment of friendship. She was mistaken in thinking that Louise
was more devoted to her than was Pierre to Olivier, or than was the
Archduke to Verdier. But she was not mistaken in thinking the devotion
of her friend was of a different character. In reality, feminine
friendship and masculine friendship have a striking difference. The
latter is almost always the mortal foe of love, while the former is most
often only love's complacent ally. It is rare that a man can regard with
any indulgence the mistress of his friend, while a woman, of even the
most upright character, has almost always a natural sympathy for her
friend's lover so long as he makes her friend happy; it is because the
majority of women have a tender feeling for love, for all love, for that
of others as well as for that which concerns them more closely. Men, on
the contrary, have an instinct which remains in them, a relic of the
savage despotism of an earlier barbarism. They do not sympathize with
any love that they do not feel, that they do not inspire.
Louise Brion had felt a pity for Hautefeuille at the very moment when
she had received Ely's confession in the garden of her villa, at the
very moment she had implored her friend to give up the dangerous passion
she had inspired in the young Frenchman. From that evening she had felt
an interest in the young man, in his sentiments, in his movements, even
though at the time she was using all the eloquence that her trembling
affection could suggest to persuade Ely to see him no more. When Ely
gave herself up entirely to her passion later, Louise had withdrawn, had
effaced herself, on account of her scruples, and in order that she might
not be a witness of an intrigue which her conscience considered a great
crime. She had gone away through discretion, so as to not impose an
inopportune friendship on the two lovers, and delicacy had also had its
share in her retirement, for she had felt all the shrinking of the pure
woman from forbidden ecstasy. But she had not felt the least hostility
to Pierre in her retirement and self-effacement. Her tender woman's
imagination had not ceased to link him, in spite of herself, with the
romantic passion of her friend. The singular displacement of her
personality, which had always made her lead, in imagination, the life
Ely was living, rather than her own individual existence, had continued,
had been even accentuated.
Since Olivier's return this identification of her feelings with those of
her dear friend had been more and more complete. The dinner at Monte
Carlo with the Du Prats in such close proximity had made her feverish
with anxiety. She had expected an appeal from her friend from that
moment. She had lived in expectancy of this summons to help Ely to bear
her terrors, to fight with her friend, to share the sufferings of a love
whose happiness she had vainly striven to ignore.
She was thus neither surprised nor deceived by Ely's despatch, which
simply spoke of a little indisposition. She divined the catastrophe that
had happened at once, and before the end of the afternoon she was
sitting at the bedside of the poor woman, receiving, accepting,
provoking all her confidences, without any further inclination to
condemn her. She was ready to do anything to dry the tears that flowed
down the beloved face, to calm the fever that burned in the little hand
she held. She was ready for anything, weak enough for anything, with
indulgence for all and in the secret of all!
For a day and a half Ely was helpless with a severe headache. Then she
asked her friend to assist her in her plans. Like all people of vigorous
frame, Ely was never either well or ill in extremes. When at last she
was able to sleep the heavy slumber that follows such a shock, she felt
as well, as energetic, as strong-willed as upon the day her happiness
had been so completely destroyed. But she did not knowhow to employ her
recovered energy. Again and again she asked herself the question, upon
whose answer her movements depended: "Is Pierre still in Cannes?"
She hoped to see some one in the afternoon who would inform her, but
none of the visitors who came to see her even uttered Hautefeuille's
name. Upon her part she had not the courage to speak of the young man.
She felt that her voice could not utter the beloved syllables without
her face suffusing with blood, without her emotion being apparent to
every one.
And yet there were only very dear friends who called upon her that
afternoon. Florence Marsh was one of the first. Her eyes were bright
with a deep, contented happiness. Her pleasant smile wreathed her lips
at every moment.
"I felt that I had to come to thank you, my dear Baroness. I am engaged
to Monsieur Verdier. I shall never forget all that I owe you. My uncle
asked me to excuse him to you. He has so many things to do, and we leave
to-morrow upon the _Jenny_. My _fiancé_ comes with us."
How could Ely mingle any of the pain which oppressed her heart with the
joy whose innocence caused her deep suffering? How could she let
Andryana, who came in smiling at the footman's announcement, "Madame la
Comtesse de Corancez"--how could she let Andryana suspect her pain?
"Well," said the Venetian, "Alvise took it very calmly. How childish it
was to be afraid! We might have spared ourselves so much trouble if I
had only spoken to him from the first. But," she added, "I do not regret
our folly. It is such a pleasant memory. And I had told such tales about
Alvise to Marius that he was afraid. What could he do to us now?"
Next the Chésys arrived, Madame Chésy quivering with her new-found
gayety, while Gontran was simply astoundingly impertinent as he spoke
with aristocratic nonchalance of his rôle of horse-breeder in the West.
"When horses are in question, poor Marsh is simply a child," he said.
"But he is such a lucky fellow. At the very moment that he undertakes
such an enterprise he finds me ready to hand!"
"I am glad I am going to see the Americans at home," said Yvonne. "I am
not sorry to be able to give them a few lessons in real _chic_."
How was Ely to trouble this little household of childlike Parisians? How
could she stop their amusing babble? She congratulated herself that they
did not even speak of the subject that lay so close to her heart. She
listened to them talking of their American expedition with a gayety that
gave the impression that they were once more playing at housekeeping,
forgetful of the terrible trial they had just gone through.
Ely could not help envying them these faculties of forgetfulness, of
freshness, of illusion. But were not the destinies of Marsh, of Verdier,
and of Corancez all alike? Had they not all before them space, and the
future? Did they not resemble ships sailing upon a vast flood carrying
them toward the open ocean? Her destiny, on the contrary, was like that
of a boat locked in the narrow turn of a river, arrested and imprisoned
by some barrier beyond which lie the rapids, the cataract, the
precipice! A word uttered by Yvonne, who was wild with joy at the idea
of seeing Niagara, brought this simile up in Ely's mind. The idea
pleased her. It was a true image of her sentimental isolation. And while
her visitors stayed she looked incessantly at Louise as if she wished to
convince herself that there was one witness to her emotions, that there
was one heart capable of understanding her, of pitying her, of serving
her. Above all, of serving her!
In spite of the conversation she listened to, notwithstanding the
questions to which she replied, her thoughts followed one idea. She felt
she must know if Pierre had left Cannes. And this was the question that
came quite naturally to her lips the instant she was alone with Madame
Brion.
"You heard all they said?" she said to her. "I know no more than I did
before. Is Pierre still here? And if he is, when is he going away? Ah!
Louise!"
She did not finish. The service she wanted to ask of her friend was of
too delicate a nature. She was ashamed of her own desire. But the tender
creature to whom she spoke understood her and was grateful to her for
her hesitation.
"Why do you not speak frankly?" she said. "Would you like me to find out
for you?"
"But how can you?" replied Ely, without feeling any astonishment at the
facility with which her weak-minded friend lent herself to a mission
that was so opposed to her own character, to her principles, and to her
reason.
What result could possibly come from this inquiry about Pierre's
presence and about his approaching departure? Was not this the occasion
for Louise to repeat, with still more energy, the counsels she had given
to Ely after her first confidence? There could be nothing but silence
and forgetfulness between Madame de Carlsberg and Hautefeuille in
future. For them to see each other again would be simply to condemn them
to the most useless and painful explanations. For them to recommence
their relations would be purgatory. Louise Brion knew all this very
well. But she also knew that if she obeyed Ely's wishes, those dear
eyes, now so sad, would be brightened by a gleam of joy. And the only
reply she gave to the question was to rise and say:--
"How can I arrange it? That is the simplest thing in the world. In half
an hour I shall know all you want to know. Have you the list of visitors
here?"
"You'll find it on the fourth page of one of the papers," said Ely. "Why
do you wish to see it?"
"In order to find the name of a person whom I know and who is staying at
the Hôtel des Palmes. I have it. Here it is, Madame Nieul. Try and be
patient until I get back."
"Well," she said, re-entering the salon about half an hour later, as she
had said she would, "they are both here, and they do not leave for a few
days. Madame du Prat is very ill. It cost me little to find that out,"
she added, with a little nervous smile. "I went to the Hôtel des Palmes
and asked if Madame Nieul was there, and sent up my card. Then I looked
through the list of visitors and questioned the secretary with an
indifferent air. 'I thought Monsieur and Madame du Prat had already
left,' I said to him. 'Do they stay much longer?' And his answer told me
all I wanted to know."
"How good you were to take all that trouble for me!" replied Ely, taking
her hand and stroking it lovingly. "How I love you! It seems to have
given me a fresh lease of life. I feel that I shall see him again. And
you will help me to meet him. Promise me that. I must speak with him
once more, only once. I feel that I must tell him the truth, so that he
may know at least how well I have loved him, how sincere and passionate
and deep is my love for him! It is so hard not to know what he thinks of
me."
Yes! What did Pierre Hautefeuille think of the mistress whom he had
idolized only a few days before, of the mistress who had stood so high
in his esteem, and who was suddenly convicted in his eyes so shamefully?
Alas! The unhappy youth did not even know himself. He was not capable of
finding his way among the maze of ideas and of contradictory impressions
that crowded, jostled, and succeeded each other in his soul. If he had
been able to leave Cannes at once, this interior tumult might have been
less intense. It was the only plan to be followed after the vow that
Olivier and he had exchanged. They ought to have gone away, to have put
distance and time and events between them and the woman they both loved,
and that they had sworn to give up to their friendship. But what can the
will do, no matter what its strength, against imagination, sentiment,
against the emotion in the troubled depths of the heart? We are only
masters of our acts. We cannot govern our dreams, our regrets, and our
desires. They awake, quiver, and increase by themselves. They bring back
memories until recollection becomes an obsession. All the charm of
looks, of smiles, of a face, all the splendor of outline, the beauty of
form of a beloved creature, is made a living reality, and the old fever
once more burns in our veins. The mistress whom we have abandoned stands
before us. She wishes for us, she calls for us, she recovers possession
of us. And if we are in the same city with her, if it only requires a
quarter of an hour's walk to see her again, what courage is needed in
order not to yield!
Pierre and Olivier felt the necessity of this saving flight, and they
had taken a resolution to go away. Then an unfortunate event kept them
in the hotel. As the secretary had told Louise Brion, Madame du Prat was
really ill. She had felt the influence of a shock too great for her
strength, and she could not recover from it. A weakness of the heart
remained, of such intensity that even when she could leave her bed and
stand erect, the least movement brought on palpitations that seemed to
suffocate her. The doctor studying her case forbade her to even attempt
to travel for several days.
Under these circumstances, if Hautefeuille had been wise, he would have
gone away alone. This he did not do. It was impossible for him to leave
Du Prat alone in Cannes. He said to himself that it was because he could
not leave his friend at such a moment. If he had gone down to the bottom
of his heart, if he had probed the place where we dissemble thoughts of
which we are ashamed, where lie hidden plans and secret egoism, he would
have discovered that there were other motives that kept him there,
motives that were much more degrading. Although he had the most complete
confidence in Olivier's word, he trembled at the idea of his remaining
alone in the same town as Ely de Carlsberg. In spite of the heroic
effort to preserve a friendship that was so dear to them both,
notwithstanding the esteem, the tenderness and pity they felt for each
other, in spite of so many sacred recollections, in spite of honor, a
woman stood between them. And that woman had introduced with her all the
fatal influence that so quickly creeps into friendly relations, all the
instinctive jealousy, the quivering susceptibility and uneasy
taciturnity that destroys all.
They were not long in feeling this. Each understood how deeply the fatal
poison had eaten into their souls. And soon they understood a thing that
is both strange and monstrous in appearance, and yet is really so
natural--they realized that the love whose death they had vowed in the
name of their friendship was now bound up in that friendship by the
closest ties!
Neither one nor the other could think of his friend, could look at him,
or hear him, without immediately seeing Ely's image, without immediately
thinking of the mistress who had belonged to them both. They were in the
grasp of an idea that turned the few following days of intimacy into a
veritable crisis of madness, a madness that was all the more torturing
because they both avoided the name of the woman out of fidelity to their
promise.
But was it necessary for them to speak of her, seeing that each knew the
other was thinking of her? How painful these few days were! Although
they were not many, they seemed interminable!
They met the morning following their conversation about ten o'clock in
Olivier's salon. To hear them greet each other, to hear Pierre ask about
Berthe, to listen to Olivier's replies, and then to hear the two speak
of the paper they had been reading, of the weather, of what they were
going to do, one would never have thought their first meeting so
painful. Pierre felt that his friend was studying him. And he was
studying his friend. Each hungered and thirsted to know at once if the
other had had the same thoughts, or rather the same thought, during the
hours they had been separated. Each read this thought in the eyes of the
other, as distinctly as though it had been written upon paper like the
horrible sentence that had enlightened Pierre. The invisible phantom
stood between them, and they were silent. And yet they saw through the
open window that the radiant Southern spring still filled the sky with
blue, still beautified the roads with flowers and sweetened the air with
perfume.
One of them proposed a walk, in the vain hope that a little of the
luminous serenity of nature might enter their souls. They used to like
to walk together formerly, thinking aloud, keeping step in their minds
as in their bodies. They went out, and after ten minutes conversation
came to an end between them. Instinctively, and without prearrangement,
they shunned the quarters in Cannes where they ran the risk of meeting
either Ely or any one of her set. They kept away from the Rue d'Antibes,
La Croisette, and the Quai des Yachts. They avoided even the pine forest
near Vallauris, where they had spoken of her upon the day that Olivier
arrived.
Behind one of the hills which served as outposts to California, they
found a deserted valley, quite neglected on account of its northern
situation. In this valley there was a kind of wild park, which had been
for sale for years. There, in this ravine without horizon, they came
almost like two wounded animals taking refuge in the same fold. The
roads were so narrow that they could no longer walk abreast. This gave
them a pretext for ceasing to talk. The branches stung their faces,
their hands were torn with thorns before they arrived at the little
rivulet running at the bottom of the gorge. They sat down upon a rock
among the tall ferns, and the savageness of this corner of the world, so
solitary, and yet so close to the charming city, soothed their suffering
for a few moments. The fresh humidity of the vegetation growing in the
shadow recalled to their minds similar ravines in the woods of
Chaméane. And then they could speak again together, could recall their
childhood and their distant friendly souvenirs. It seemed as though they
felt their friendship dying away, and that they sought desperately the
place whence it had sprung in order to revive its force. From their
childhood they passed to their youth, to the years spent together in
college, to the impression the war had made upon them.
But there was something forced in these glances backward. There was
something conventional, something prearranged, that arrested all freedom
of intercourse between them. They felt too keenly in comparison with
their former talks in the same way that the spontaneity, the plenitude
that had been the charm of their most unimportant conversations formerly
was now lacking.
Was their affection any less than at that distant period? Would their
friendship never be happy again? Would it never be delivered from this
horrible taint of bitterness?
In addition, during their morning and afternoon walks, they only were
witnesses to their suffering. If they did not speak freely of their
thoughts, at any rate there was no deception. There was no necessity to
act before each other. This was all changed during the meal times. They
lunched and dined in the salon so that Berthe could be present.
The immediate recommencement of a daily familiarity after such scenes as
those which had taken place between the two friends and the young woman
appeared at first impossible. In reality it is quite simple and easy.
Family life is made up of that only. Olivier and Pierre forced
themselves to talk gayly and incessantly out of delicacy toward their
companion. The effort was a painful one. And then even the most guarded
conversation may be full of danger. A phrase, a word even, was
sufficient to send the minds of both back to their relations with Ely.
If Olivier made any allusion to something in Italy, Pierre's imagination
would turn to Rome. He could see Ely, his Ely of the terrace covered
with white and red camellias, his Ely of the garden of Ellenrock, his
Ely of the night he had spent at sea. But instead of coming to him she
was going toward Olivier. Instead of pressing him to her heart, she
flung her arms round Olivier and kissed him. And the vision, prompted by
a retrospective jealousy, tortured him.
And if, on his part, he made the most innocent allusion to the beauty of
the promenades around Cannes, he saw his friend's eyes dim with a pain
which recalled his own sufferings. Olivier could see him in thought
walking with Ely, taking her in his arms, kissing her lips. This
communion of suffering in the same thought, while it wrung their souls,
attracted them with a morbid fascination. How they wished at such
moments to question each other about the most secret details of their
reciprocal romance! How they wished to know all, to understand all, to
suffer at every episode!
When they were alone, a final remnant of dignity forbade them giving way
to these hideous confidences, and, when Berthe was there at table, they
turned the conversation at once so as not to cause any suffering to the
young woman. They could hear her breathe with that uneven respiration,
at times short and at others too deep, the breathing that reveals
heart-disease. And this sensation of a physical suffering so close to
them stirred up a remorse in Olivier and a pity in Pierre that took away
all power to act.
Thus the mornings and afternoons and evenings passed away. And both
awaited with fear and impatience the moment of retiring. With
impatience, because solitude brought with it the liberty of giving
themselves up completely to their sentiments; with fear, because they
both felt that the vow they had exchanged had not settled the conflict
between their love and their friendship.
It is written, "Thou shalt not commit adultery." And the Book adds, "He
that hath looked upon the wife of another with desire in his heart hath
already committed adultery." The phrase is admirable in its truth. It
defines in a word the moral identity that exists between thought and
act, concupiscence and possession. The conscience of the two friends was
too delicate not to feel with shame that their thoughts, when once
alone, were but one long, passionate infidelity to their vow.
Olivier would begin to walk about from his room to that of his wife when
Pierre had left him, talking to her, trying to utter affectionate words,
fighting against the haunting idea which he knew would completely
possess him shortly. Immediately he entered his room, what he called
"his temptation" grasped him, bound him, and dominated him. All his
Roman souvenirs recurred to his imagination. He saw Ely again. Hot the
proud, coquettish Ely of former times, not the woman he had brutalized
while desiring her, hated while loving her, through despair of never
possessing her completely, but the Ely of the present moment, the woman
whom he had seen so tender, so passionate, so sincere, with a soul that
resembled her beauty. And all his soul went out toward this woman in an
impulse of love and longing. He spoke to her aloud, appealing to her
like a madman. The tone of his own voice would awake him from his dream.
He felt all the horror and madness of this childishness. He realized the
crime of his cowardly yearning. He thought of his friend, saying to
himself, "If he only knew!" He would like to have begged his pardon for
the impossibility of ceasing to love Ely, and also pardon for having
made the vow he had not the power to keep. He knew that at the same
moment Pierre was suffering as he was himself. The idea was dreadful. At
these moments of his martyrdom one thought recurred again and again to
Olivier's mind, one idea possessed his heart. He felt that he ought to
go to Pierre and say: "You love her, and she loves you. Remain with her,
and forget me."
Alas! when such a project, with all its supreme magnanimity, occurred to
him, he felt strongly that Pierre would reply, No! and that he himself
was not sincere. He understood it with a mingling of terror and shame.
In spite of all it was a joy for him--a savage, hideous joy, but still a
joy--to think that if Ely was no longer his mistress she would nevermore
be the mistress of his friend.
They were cruel moments. The time was not less miserable for Pierre. He
also, the moment he was alone, tried not to think of Ely. And in trying
he felt that he was yielding. In order to drive her image away he would
call up in his mind the image of his friend, and this formed the very
nature of his suffering. He would tell himself that Olivier had been
this woman's lover, and this fact, which he knew to be the truth, which
he knew to be of the most complete, the most, indisputable verity, took
possession of his brain. He felt as though a hand had taken him by the
head, a hand that would never let him go again.
While Olivier was thinking about his mistress in Rome, a softened,
ennobled mistress, transformed by the love that Pierre inspired in her,
Pierre perceived, beyond the sweet and gentle Ely of the past winter,
the woman whom Olivier had described to him without naming her. He saw
her again, coquettish and perverse, with the same beautiful face in
which he had believed so sincerely. He told himself that she had had two
other lovers, one when she was Olivier's mistress and one before then.
Olivier, Pierre, and those two men made four, and probably there were
others of whom he did not know. The idea that this woman, whom he had
believed he possessed in all the purity of her soul, had simply passed
from one adultery to another, the idea that she had come to him sullied
by so many intrigues, maddened him with pain. All the episodes of his
delightful romance, of his fresh and lovely idyl, faded away and became
vile in his eyes. He saw nothing in it now save the lustful desire of a
woman, wounded in her pride, who had attracted him by one artful plan
after another.
Then he would open the drawer in which he preserved the relics of what
had been his happiness. He would take out the cigarette case he had
bought at Monte Carlo with such happiness. The sight of this foreign
trinket wounded his soul, for it brought back to him the words uttered
by his friend in the woods of Vallauris, "She had lovers before me; at
any rate she had one, a Russian, who was killed at Plevna."
It was probably this lover who had given Ely the object around which he,
Pierre, had woven so many cherished ideas, which he had worshipped
almost with a scrupulous piety. This ironical contrast was so
humiliating that the young man quivered with indignation.
Then he would see in another corner of the drawer the packet of letters
from his mistress. He had not had strength to destroy them. Other words
spoken by Olivier recurred to his memory--words in which he had
affirmed, had vowed that she had loved him, Pierre, truly and sincerely.
Did not every detail of their romantic intimacy prove that Olivier was
right? Was it possible that she had lied upon the yacht, at Genoa, and
in so many other unforgetable hours? A passionate desire to see her
again took possession of Pierre. It appeared to him that if he could
only see her, question her, understand her, his sufferings would be
soothed. He imagined the questions that he would ask and her replies. He
could hear her voice. All his energy melted away before the fatal
weakness of his desire, a degraded desire whose sensuality was sharpened
by scorn. And at such moments the young man hated himself. He remembered
his vow. He remembered all he owed to his self-respect, all he owed to
his friend. What he had said at the moment of the sacrifice was true--he
felt that it was true. If ever he again saw Ely, nevermore could he meet
Olivier. He had a confused impression already that he hated them both.
He had suffered so much from him on her account; so much from her on his
account. Honor finally always won the day, and he would hold himself
erect, strengthen himself in the renunciation he had resolved upon. "It
is only a trial," he said to himself, "and it will not last forever.
Once I am far from here I shall forget it."
This singular existence had lasted five days, when two incidents
happened, one after the other, one caused by the other--two incidents
that were to have a decisive influence upon the tragic dénouement of
the tragic situation.
The first was a visit from the jovial and artful Corancez. Pierre had,
in fact, expected him before. In order to put a bar to any tentative at
reconciliation, the young man had given strict orders that he was at
home to no one. But Corancez was one of those people who have the gift
of triumphing over the most difficult obstacles. And on the morning of
the sixth day, a morning as bright and radiant as the one upon which
they had visited the Jenny together, Hautefeuille saw him again enter
his room, the everlasting bunch of pinks in his buttonhole, a smile on
his lips, a healthy color in his face, and his eyes bright with
happiness. A patch of dry collodion upon his temple bore witness to the
fact that he had received a severe blow either the night before or very
recently. The purple swelling was still visible. But this sign of an
accident did not diminish his good humor nor the gayety of his
physiognomy.
"Oh, this little cut," he said to Hautefeuille, after having lightly
excused himself for insisting upon seeing him, "you want to know what
caused it? Well, it's another proof of my luck. And, in spite of the
homily of Monseigneur Lagumina, the Frenchman has cheated the Italian.
It was caused by a little attempt that my brother-in-law made to bring
about my death. That is all," he added, with his usual jesting laugh.
"You are not speaking seriously," said Hautefeuille.
"I never was more serious in my life," replied Corancez. "But it is
written that I shall meet with a cheerful end. I do not lend myself to
tragedy, it appears. In the first place, you know that my marriage was
made public about five days ago. That is why you have not seen me
before. I had to pay my wedding visits to all the highnesses and lords
in Cannes. I met with a great deal of sympathy and provoked a vast
amount of astonishment. Everybody was asking, 'But why did you have a
secret marriage?' Acting under my advice, Andryana invented an old vow
as the reason. Everybody thought it was very original and very charming.
"I had even too much success, above all with Alvise. He only made one
reproach--that we had hidden it from him, that we had ever supposed for
a moment he would have stood in the way of his sister's happiness. It
was 'my brother' here, 'my brother' there. It was the only thing one
heard in the entire house. But we Southerners understand revenge,
particularly when Corsicans, Sardinians, or Italians are in question. I
asked myself at every moment, 'When is the sword going to fall?'"
"It was very imprudent of him to get so quickly to work," interrupted
Pierre.
"You don't know the anecdote," said Corancez, "of some one who saw a
poor devil going past on his way to the gallows. 'There is a man who has
miscalculated,' he said. Every murderer does that, and, after all, he
hadn't calculated so badly as you think. Who would ever have suspected
Count Alvise Navagero of having made away with his sister's husband, the
man who was his intimate friend? I told you before that he was a man of
the time of Machiavelli, very modernized.
"Just judge for yourself. I kept my eyes open, without appearing to
notice anything. A couple of days ago, just about this hour, he proposed
that we should go for a bicycle ride. It's funny, isn't it, the idea of
Borgia bicycling along a public road with his future victim? I suppose I
am the only one who ever enjoyed this spectacle. We were going along as
quick as the wind, descending the winding road of Villauris upon the
edge of a species of cliff which cut sheer down at one side, when
suddenly I felt my machine double up under me. I was thrown about twenty
metres--on the opposite side to the abyss, luckily. That's the cause of
this cut. I was not killed. In fact, I was so little hurt that I
distinctly read on my companion's face something which made me think
that my accident belonged to the sixteenth century, in spite of the
prosaic means employed. Navagero went off to get a carriage to bring me
back. When I was alone I dragged myself to the ruins of my bicycle,
which still lay in the road, and I saw that a file had been cleverly
used on two of the pieces in such a way that, after a half hour of
violent exercise, the whole thing would break up--and me with it."
"And didn't you have the wretch arrested?" asked Hautefeuille.
"Oh, I don't like a scandal in the family," replied Corancez, who was
enjoying his effect. "Besides, my brother-in-law would have maintained
that he had nothing to do with it. And how could I have proved that he
had? No, I simply opened my other eye, the best one, knowing very well
that he would not wait long before recommencing.
"Well, yesterday evening, before dinner, I entered the salon and there I
found this rascal with his eyes gaining so brightly and with such a
contented air that I said at once to myself, 'It is going to take place
this evening.'
"I can't explain how it was that I began to think about Pope Alexander
VI. and the poisoned wine which killed him. I suppose I have a good
scent, like foxhounds. You know, or perhaps you don't know, that
Andryana drinks nothing but water, and that Anglomaniac, my
brother-in-law, only drinks whiskey and soda.
"'I think to-night,' I said, when we were at table, and wine was offered
me, 'I think I will follow your example. Give me some whiskey.'
"'All right,' he replied.
"To be poisoned with an English drink by a Venetian struck me as rather
novel. At the same time he was so calm when I refused to take any wine
that I thought I must have been mistaken. But he praised a certain port
that he has received from Lord Herbert so highly that I at once had the
idea that this was the particular wine I must not touch. He pressed it
upon me. I allowed the servant to pour me out a glass and smelled it.
"'What a singular odor,' I said to him, calmly. 'I am sure there must be
something in this wine.'
"'It must be a bad bottle,' said Navagero; 'throw it away.'
"His voice, his look, his bearing, convinced me. I felt I was right. I
said nothing. But at the moment the _maître d'hôtel_ was going to take
away my glass I laid my hand upon it, and asked for a little bottle.
"'I am going to take this wine to an analyst,' I said, with the most
natural air in the world. 'They say that port made for the English
market never even sees a grape. I am curious to know if that is the
truth.'
"They brought me a little bottle, and with the greatest calmness
possible I filled it with the wine, corked it up and placed the bottle
in my pocket. I wish you could have seen my brother-in-law's expression.
We had a little explanation later on in the evening, at the end of which
it was decided between us, in quite a friendly way, that I would not
denounce him to the police, but that he would leave for Venice to-day.
He will reside in the Palace, he will have a decent income, and I am
certain he will not begin again. I warned him, in any case, I would have
the wine analyzed, and that the result of this analysis would be placed
somewhere safely. I may tell you that he had put a strong dose of
strychnine in the bottle. I have two copies of the analyst's report. One
of them I have given to Madame de Carlsberg and the other I would like
you to keep. Will you?"
"Gladly," replied Pierre, taking the paper that the Southerner held out
to him.
Such is the egoism of passion that, notwithstanding the astounding
adventure of which he had just been made the confidant, Ely's name,
uttered by chance, had moved him more than all the rest. It appeared to
him that, as he spoke of Madame de Carlsberg, Corancez looked at him
inquisitively. He wondered whether he had brought a message for him. No!
Ely was not a woman to choose such a man as Corancez as ambassador.
But Corancez was just the man to undertake such a conciliatory mission
upon his own responsibility. He had gone to Ely's villa the night before
to tell her the same story and to ask of her the same service. He had
naturally spoken of Hautefeuille, and he had suspected a quarrel. This
strange creature had a real affection, almost a religion, for Pierre. He
felt a tender gratitude to Ely. Forgetting his own story, of which he
was nevertheless very proud, he at once began to try to bring the two
lovers together again. With all his intelligence he could not guess the
truth of the tragedy being enacted in the souls of these two beings. He
had seen them so loving and so happy together! He thought that to tell
Pierre that Ely was suffering would be sufficient to bring him back to
her.
"Is it long since you saw Madame de Carlsberg?" he asked, after having
finished commenting upon his adventure, which he did very modestly, for
he was amiable enough in his triumph.
"Not for several days," replied Hautefeuille. And the question made his
heart beat.
In order to keep his word scrupulously, he ought not to have permitted
his wily friend to go any further. On the contrary, he could not resist
asking:--
"Why?"
"Oh, nothing," said Corancez. "I only wished to ask your opinion about
her. I am not satisfied that she is very well. She was very charming
last night, as usual, but nervous and melancholy. I am afraid her
household affairs are going from bad to worse, and that brute of an
Archduke is leading her a life of martyrdom--all the more because she
has helped Verdier to marry Miss Marsh. Did you not know? Dickie, our
friend of the Jenny, has left for the East with the Chésys, his niece,
and Verdier on board. You can just imagine the Prince's fury."
"So you think he is cruel with her?" asked Pierre.
"I don't think it, I am sure. Go and see her, it will do her good. She
feels a real affection for you. Of that I am convinced. And she was
thinking about you, I feel certain, when she said that all her friends
had abandoned her."
So she was unhappy! While Corancez was speaking, it seemed to Pierre
that he heard the echo of the sigh that had issued from the heart of the
woman he loved so much! He saw again the sad, longing look of the
mistress he judged so harshly. This indirect contact with her, short as
it was, moved him deeply--so deeply, in fact, that Olivier noticed his
agitation. He immediately suspected that something had happened.
"I met Corancez leaving the hotel," he said. "Did you see him?"
"He has just paid me a long visit," replied Pierre. He told Olivier the
story of the two attempts which had been made upon the life of
Andryana's husband.
"He would only have had what he deserves," said Olivier. "You know what
my opinion is about him and his marriage. Was that all he had to tell
you?"
There was a short silence. Then he added:--
"He did not speak to you of--you know whom?"
"Yes," replied Pierre.
"And it has pained you?" asked Olivier.
"Very much."
The two friends looked at each other. For the first time in six days
they had made a definite allusion to the being constantly in their
thoughts. Olivier hesitated, as if the words he was going to say were
beyond his strength. Then he went on in a dull tone of voice:--
"Listen, Pierre," he began; "you are too miserable. This state of things
cannot last. I am going away the day after to-morrow. Berthe is almost
well again. The doctor authorizes her to return to Paris; he even
advises it. Let things stay as they are for another forty-eight hours;
then, when I am no longer here, return to her. I release you from your
vow. I shall not see her, and I shall not know that you have seen her.
Let what is past remain dead between us. You love her more than you love
me. Let that love triumph."
"You are mistaken, Olivier," replied Pierre. "Of course it pains me; I
do not deny it. But the suffering does not come from my resolution--that
I have never regretted for a moment. No, the suffering is caused by the
past. But it is past, and forever. It would be intolerable for us both
were I to return to her under these conditions. No, I have given you my
word and I repeat it. As to what you say, that I love her more than I
love you, you have only to look at me."
Big, heavy tears were in his eyes and rolling down his cheeks as he
spoke. Tears also sprang from Olivier's heart to his eyes at the sight.
For a few moments they remained without speaking. This common suffering,
after their long silence, brought their souls closer together again. The
same impulse of pity had made Olivier release Pierre from his vow and
had made Pierre refuse to be released. It was the same impulse of pity
that brought tears to their eyes. Each pitied the other and each felt he
was pitied. Their affection returned in all its strength, and their
friendship moved them so deeply that once again love was conquered.
Pierre was the first to dry his eyes. With the same resolute tone as
when he made his vow, he said: "I shall leave when you do, in two days,
and it will not cause me a single pang. To remain here would be
impossible. I will not do you that injustice. I will not be a traitor to
our friendship."
"Ah, my dear boy," replied Olivier, "you give me a fresh lease of life.
I would have left you without a single reproach, without a complaint. I
was very sincere in my proposition, but it was too hard. I believe it
would have killed me."
After this conversation they passed an afternoon and evening that were
strangely quiet, almost happy. When the soul is ill, there are such
moments of respite, just as when the body is diseased--moments of
languid calm, when it appears as though one were brought to life again,
still feeble and bruised, it is true.
This sensation of recovery, fragile and feeble though it might be, was
increased in the two friends by the convalescence of Berthe. Olivier had
contented her and brought about her recovery, by what charitable
deceptions no one but he knew. But the young wife was much better and
could walk about, devoting her attention to the many details of their
approaching departure. She was so visibly happy to go away that a tiny
trace of reserve seemed to melt away before her pleasure. She had
suffered so much in these last few days, and the suffering had been
sufficient to awake her feminine tact from its long sleep. She had made
a resolution. It was to win her husband's love, and to merit it. Such
efforts are touching to a man who can understand them, for they indicate
such humility and so much devotion. It is so hard for a young wife, it
is so opposed to her instincts of sentimental pride, to beg for a
sentiment, to provoke it, to conquer. It is so hard to be loved because
she loves, and not because she is loved.
Olivier had too much delicacy not to feel this shade of sentiment. He
gave himself up to the peculiar impression which a man feels who suffers
through a woman, when he receives from another the caresses of which his
unhappy love has taught him the value. He smiled at Berthe as he had
never previously smiled, and Pierre was even deceived by this
semi-cheerfulness of his friend. Was it not in a certain sense his own
work? Was it not the price of the sacrifice he had made when he had
renewed his vow? It was one of those moments which often appear just
before the event of some great crisis of which the deceitful calmness
impresses our mind later, which astonishes us and makes us tremble when
we look back. Nothing bears a more eloquent witness that life is but a
dream, that we are simply the playthings of a superior power which urges
us along the road we have to take, in which we can never see to-day what
to-morrow will bring forth. Danger approaches and stands face to face
with us. The masters of our destiny are by our side. They live and
breathe without seeming to realize the work which is reserved for them.
Is it hazard, fatality, providence? What lot does Fate reserve for us?
Corancez called on Friday. The friends were to leave Cannes on Sunday.
On Saturday morning, about eleven o'clock, Hautefeuille was in his room
packing some of his clothes, when a knock at the door startled him.
Although he was firmly resolved to keep his word, he could not help
hoping. Hoping for what? He could not have told himself. But an
unconscious, irresistible intuition warned him that Ely would not let
him go without trying to see him again. And yet she had not given any
sign of life since he had returned her letter. She had not sent any one
to see him, for Corancez had come without her knowledge. But the young
man was in the state of nervous anxiety which presages and precedes any
great event close at hand. And his voice trembled as he called out "Come
in" to the unknown visitor who knocked at his door. He knew that this
visitor, no matter who it was, came from Ely.
It was simply one of the hotel servants. He brought a letter. It had
been delivered by a messenger who had gone away without waiting for a
reply. Hautefeuille looked at the envelope without opening it. Was he
going to read this letter? He knew it had been sent him by Madame de
Carlsberg. The address was not written in her handwriting. Pierre cast
about in his memory to find out where he had seen this nervous, uneven,
almost timid-looking writing. All at once he remembered the anonymous
note he had received after the evening spent at Monte Carlo. He had
shown it to Ely, who had said, "It is from Louise." The letter he held
in his hand also came from Madame Brion.
There was no longer any possible doubt. To open the envelope was to
communicate with Ely, to seek to hear from her, to break his word, to
betray his friend. Pierre felt all this, and, throwing the tempting
letter from him, he remained for a long while his face buried in his
hands. To do him justice, he did not try to excuse himself by any
sophistry. "I ought not to read this letter," he thought. "I ought not
to read it!" And then, after a few moments, after having locked the door
like a robber preparing for his work, his face purple with shame, he
suddenly tore the envelope open with trembling hand. A letter fell out,
followed by a second envelope, sealed and unaddressed. If there had
remained the least doubt in Pierre's mind as to the contents of this
second envelope, Madame Brion's note would have dissipated it. It read
as follows:--
"DEAR SIR--A few weeks ago you received a letter which begged you to
leave Cannes, and not to bring a certain misfortune upon some one who
was severely tried and who merited your regard. You did not listen to
the advice contained in this letter from an unknown friend. The dreaded
misfortune has now arrived, and the same friend begs you not to repulse
the second appeal as you did the first. The person into whose life you
have entered and taken up so large a place never hopes to recover the
happiness of which she has been robbed. All that she asks is that you
will not condemn her unheard. If you will search in your conscience, you
will admit that she has the right to ask it. She has written you a
letter which you will find enclosed in this one. Do not send it back, as
you did her first, with a harshness that is not natural to you. If you
ought not to read it, destroy it at once. But if you do, you will be
very cruel to a being who has given you all that has remained in her
that is sincere, noble, delicate, and true."
Pierre read again and again the simple, awkward sentences that were yet
so eloquent to him. He felt in them all the passionate fondness Louise
Brion had for Ely. He was touched by them as all unhappy lovers are
touched by proofs of devotion shown to their mistress. He felt such a
longing to know that she was loved, protected, and cared for, although
at the same moment he hated her with the most implacable hatred,
although he was ready to condemn her with all the madness of rage. And
what devotion could be greater than this shown by the pure-minded Louise
in going from weakness to weakness so far as to charge herself with a
letter from Ely to Hautefeuille. She had longed to go in person to the
Hôtel des Palmes to ask for Pierre, to speak with him, to give him the
envelope herself, but she had not dared. Perhaps she would have failed
had she done so, whereas this indirect expedient conquered the young
man's scruples. The emotions that the simple note had aroused left him
powerless to contend with the flood of loving souvenirs that swept over
him. He opened the second envelope and read:--
"PIERRE--I do not know whether you will even read these few words,
whether I am not writing them in vain, just as the tears that I have
shed in thinking of you ever since that frightful day have been shed
vainly. I do not know whether you will let me tell you once more how I
love you, whether you will let me tell you that I never loved any one in
the world except you, that I feel I shall never love any one else. But I
must tell it to you with the hope that my plea may reach you, the humble
plea of a heart that suffers less from its own pain than from the
knowledge that it has caused you to suffer. When I received back the
other letter I wrote,--the one that you would not open,--my heart bled
at the thought that you must have been mad with pain, or you would not
have been so harsh with me. And I felt nothing except that you were
suffering.
"No, my beloved, I cannot speak to you in any other way than I have done
since the hour when I called you to me to ask you to go away, the hour
when I took you in my arms. I have tried to conquer my feelings. It
caused me too much pain not to disclose all that I felt. If you do not
read these lines, you will not hate me for the loving words I have said
to you, for you will not know of them. But if you read them--ah! if you
read them you will remember the hours which passed so quickly on the
seashore in the shade of the calm pines at the Cap d'Antibes, the hours
spent upon the deck of the yacht, hours spent at Genoa before you were
struck down by the terrible blow, hours when I could still see you
happy, when I could still make you happy! You do not know, sweetheart,
you cannot know, what it is for a woman to make the man she loves happy!
If I did not tell you at once what you know to-day, it was because of
the certainty that never again should I see in your eyes the clear light
of complete happiness which shone from your enraptured soul--a light
that I have seen so much and loved so much.
"Understand me, beloved, I do not wish to excuse my crime. I was never
worthy of you. You were beauty, youth, and purity--all that is best,
tenderest, and most loving in this world. I had lost the right to be
loved by such a man as you. I ought to have told you the first day I met
you. Then, if you had wished for me, you could have taken me and left me
like a poor being that only lived for you, that was only made to please
you a moment, to distract you and then say good-by. I thought of it,
believe me, and I have paid very dearly for the movement not of pride,
but of love. I had a horror of being despised by you. And then the woman
that you had called into being in me was so different from what I had
been before I knew you. I said to myself, 'I am not deceiving him.' And,
believe me, I did not lie when I told you that I loved you. My heart was
so completely changed. All! how I loved you! How I loved you! You will
never know how much nor even I myself. It was something so deeply
implanted in my heart, it was so sad when I thought of what might have
been if I had only waited for you.
"You see, Pierre, that I speak of myself in the past as one speaks of
the dead. Do not be afraid. I have not any idea of ending my life. I
have caused you too much sorrow to increase your suffering by remorse. I
live, and I shall live, if that can be called living in a being who has
known you, who has loved and been beloved by you, and who has lost you.
I know that you are leaving Cannes, that you are going away to-morrow. I
cannot think that you will leave me forever without speaking to me. My
hand trembles even in writing. I cannot find the words with which to
explain my thoughts. Yet it will be too cruel if you leave me without
giving me the opportunity of making what excuse I have for the life I
once led. If you were near me for only one hour, you could go away and
then you would think differently of me. What once was can never be
again. But I wish to carry with me into the solitude which will surround
my life in future the consolation of thinking that you see me as I am,
and that you do not believe me capable of something I have never
committed. My beloved, the time is so short. You leave to-morrow. When
you read this letter, if you do read it, we shall not even have an
entire day to be in the same city. If you do read my poor letter, if it
touches you, if you find that my request is not too great, come to me at
the hour you used to come. At eleven o'clock I will wait for you in the
hothouse. If you condemn me without any appeal, if you refuse to grant
me this last interview, good-by again, and again good-by. Not a reproach
will ever find place in my heart, and I shall always say forever and
ever, 'Thanks, my beloved, for having loved me.'"
"I will not go," said the young man to himself, when he had finished
reading the pages, eloquent with a passionate emanation of love. He
repeated: "I will not go." But he felt that he was not frank with
himself. He knew that he could not resist. He knew that he would yield
to her imploring appeal, that he would obey the voice of the woman, a
voice whose music rang in every word of her letter, a voice that
implored him, that told of her adoration, that soothed his wounded heart
like a sad caress sweet as death.
But the nearer Pierre drew to the meeting-place the more he felt an
unspeakable sadness. His action appeared to him so culpable when he
realized all its infamy that he was overwhelmed. And yet he would not
draw back. On and on he went. The love potion the words of the letter
had poured into his veins continued to dominate his failing will. He
went on, but the contrast between this despicable, clandestine walk to a
woman that he despised, to a woman who made him despise himself for
longing for her, was very different from the pilgrimages he used to make
toward the same villa, along the same road, filled with a happy fervor.
And Olivier? Heaven! if Olivier could see him at present! If Olivier,
whom he was betraying so cruelly, could only see him!
The tension of his nerves was so great, he was so shaken by the double
emotions of love and remorse, that the tiniest noise startled him. The
surrounding objects took on an aspect that was both menacing and
fantastic. His heart beat and his nerves quivered. He was afraid. He
seemed to hear footsteps following him in the night, and he stopped to
listen. At the moment that he was going to ascend the slope by which he
had been accustomed to enter Ely's garden, the idea that he was being
followed became so strong that he retraced his steps, peering about
along the road, among the bushes and heaps of stones. He avoided the
strong rays of light of an electric lamp standing on one of the pillars
of the fence as though he had been a robber.
His examination, however, was fruitless. But the idea was so strong that
he was afraid to enter by the same path. It appeared too open, too easy
of access. He began to run, as though he had really been followed,
around the little park which ended the garden of the villa at its upper
end. A wall enclosed a part of it. With the help of the branches of an
oak growing at its foot, he climbed over. While still on the coping he
listened again. He heard but the sound of the dying breeze, the
quivering of the foliage, the vast silence of night, and far, far away,
the barking of a dog in some isolated house. He thought he must have
been dreaming, and slipped down on the other side of the wall. It was
about three metres in height, and he was lucky enough to fall upon a
spot of soft earth. Then he made his way toward the house.
A few minutes later he was at the door of the greenhouse. He pushed it
open gently and Ely's hand took his own.
But what would have been his thoughts if he had known that his fears
were well founded, if he had known that he had been followed since he
left the hotel, that the witness whose presence he had felt so near him
in the dark, until the moment he began to run, was none other than
Olivier?
The house stood closed and silent in all the mystery of its shadows,
with isolated spots of light where the lamp shone full upon it. The same
vast silence of night that had oppressed Pierre while upon the wall, the
silence broken by the distant baying of a dog, still enveloped the
country. The trees still quivered, and the flowers poured forth their
perfume. The stars still shone, and Olivier remained motionless at the
edge of the garden, in the place where he had thrown himself down so
that his friend might not see him.
His suffering at this moment was not the suffering of some one who
struggles and fights. When he saw Pierre at luncheon, his contracted
features, his shining eyes, his trembling lips, had revealed to him that
something had happened. He was so weary of fighting, so tired of always
struggling with his own heart, of seeing so much suffering in his
friend's heart! Besides, what more could he ask him after the
conversation of the night before? So he kept silent. What was the good
of continually torturing each other?
Then, as Hautefeuille's agitation increased, his suspicions were
aroused. He thought, "She has written to him asking for a meeting!" But
no, it was not possible! To receive a letter from Ely, read it, and not
speak about it was a crime against their friendship under their present
relations that Pierre would never be guilty of. Olivier struggled to
convince himself of the madness of his suspicion. The emotion of his
friend communicated itself to him. He felt, when he took his hand upon
separating for the night, that his betrayal was near, was certain, was
even then an accomplished fact!
Why did he not speak to him at that moment? A heart that has been
deceived often yields to such an impulse of renunciation. It is
impossible to struggle against certain unexpected events, it is
impossible to complain of them. What reproach could he make to Pierre?
What was the good of reproaching him if he had really conceived the idea
of breaking the compact he had entered into with him? Yes, what was the
good? And Olivier remained leaning upon the windowsill, summoning up all
his dignity to keep from going to his friend's room while repeating that
it was impossible.
And then, at a certain moment, he thought he saw Pierre's profile as
some one crossed the garden of the hotel. This time he could resist no
longer. He felt compelled to go down and question the concierge. He
learned that Pierre had just gone out. A few minutes later he himself
took the direction of the Villa Helmholtz. He recognized his friend and
followed him. He saw him turn, listen, and go on again. Just as Pierre
was entering the garden, Olivier could not help making a step forward.
It was at this moment that Pierre heard him. Olivier drew back into the
darkness. His friend passed quite close to him. Indeed, he almost
touched him, and then began to run, most probably toward another
entrance with which he was familiar, and Olivier ceased to follow him.
He sank down on the slope and gave way to unutterable despair, in which
were reunited and collected all the sorrow and suffering he had gone
through during the last two weeks. He knew that at that very minute, in
the silent house so near him, Ely and Pierre were together. He knew that
they had forgiven each other, that they loved each other. And the
thought caused him a pang of agony so keen that he could not move. He
almost fainted under the emotions caused by his passionate love for this
woman and the sentiment that his friend, a friend so dear to him, had
trampled him under foot on his way to her, mingled with the tortures of
jealousy and the bitterness of betrayal. He ended by flinging himself,
face downward, upon the cold earth, the gentle earth that takes us all
into her embrace one day, whose weight, while crushing us down, also
crushes out the intolerable sufferings of our heart. There he lay, his
arms extended, his face buried in the grass, like a corpse, longing for
death, longing to be free, longing to love this woman no more, to never
again see his friend, to have finished with existence, to sleep the
sleep that is without dreams, without memory, a sleep in which Ely and
Pierre and himself would seem as though they had never been.
How long did he remain thus, face to the ground, a prey to the complete,
irremediable sorrow which ends by calming the heart through its very
intensity? A sound of voices behind the hedge which separated him from
the garden aroused him abruptly from the paroxysm of suffering which had
overwhelmed him. They came from some men walking without a light,
measuring their steps, speaking in muffled tones. They came so close to
Olivier that he could have touched them if he had risen to his feet.
"He entered here, and went out again by this place the other nights that
he came, monseigneur," said one of the voices, a whispering,
insinuating, almost inaudible voice. "We cannot possibly miss him."
"Are you certain that none of your men suspect the truth?" said another
easily recognizable voice.
"Not one, monseigneur. They think they have to do with a robber."
"Monsieur von Laubach," said a third voice, the voice of an inferior,
"the gardener says that the door of the hothouse is open."
"I will go and see," went on the first speaker, while the second
imperious voice uttered a "Verfluchter Esel."
This exclamation showed how disagreeable this detail of surveillance was
to him who had ordered this trap. A trap for whom? Knowing what he knew,
Olivier had not a moment's doubt: the Archduke had learned that a man
was with his wife, and he was preparing for his vengeance. He desired an
anonymous vengeance, as was shown by the question he had asked of his
aid-de-camp, and afterwards his wrath against the "cussed ass" who had
mentioned the hothouse door. The lover was to be killed like a common
burglar, "to spare Ely's honor," reflected Olivier, who now got up and,
leaning his head forward, listened to the voices dying out in the
distance. Doubtless the Archduke and his lieutenant were completing the
surrounding of the garden. Pierre was lost.
Pierre was lost! Olivier rose to his feet. The possibility of saving the
friend he loved so dearly flashed across his mind. Suppose he entered
the garden? Suppose he penetrated as far as the greenhouse door, of
which one of the watchers had spoken and whence it was evident the man
they were about to kill would issue? Suppose he then rushed out so as to
make them believe he was returning to town?
The idea of such a substitution with its self-sacrifice took possession,
with irresistible force, of the unhappy man who had so keen a longing
for death. He began to walk along, at first in the shades of the bank
and then of the wall, which he climbed at almost the same place as his
friend had done. Then he walked straight toward the villa, which stood
silent and still before him, not a ray of light issuing from the
interstices of the shuttered windows.
Olivier regarded it with a strange ardor shining in his eyes. How he
longed to be able to pierce the walls with his gaze, to penetrate there
in spirit, to appear before him for whom he was risking his life!
Alas! Would his courage for the sacrifice he was about to make have been
strong enough to withstand the sight of Ely's room as it was at that
moment? Could he have supported the picture presented, in the rays of a
pink-shaded lamp, of Ely's head nestling close to Pierre's on the same
pillow?
The beautiful arm of the young woman was wound round his neck, and she
was saying:--
"I believe I should have died before morning of love and grief if you
had not come. But I felt you would come; I felt you would pardon me.
When I touched your hand, before I could even see you, all my sufferings
were forgotten. And yet, how hard you were to me at first! What cruel
things you said! How you made me suffer! But it is all forgotten! Say
that all is forgotten! You have taken me to your heart again, you know
that I love you, and that you let me love you! Tell me that you love me!
Ah, tell me again that you love me as you did upon the boat when we
listened to the sighing of the sea! Do you remember, sweet?"
And her eyes sought those of her lover, trying to find in them the light
of complete happiness, of which her letter had spoken. Alas! it was not
there. An expression of settled sadness and remorse dwelt in their
depths.
And this was soon to change to one of terror. At the very instant that
Ely pressed her more tender, more caressing, more loving lips on the
young man's eyelids, trying to drive away the melancholy she read in his
gaze, a report rang out in the garden, then a second, then a third, shot
after shot. A cry rent the air.
Then all was still again. A terrifying silence now reigned. The two
lovers looked at each other. The same idea flashed through their minds
at the same moment.
"Hide yourself behind the curtains," said Ely. "I will find out what has
happened."
She threw a dressing-gown over her shoulders and drew one of the
curtains of the alcove before the young man. Then, lamp in hand, she
walked toward the window, opened it, and asked in a loud voice:--
"Who is there? What is the matter?"
"Do not be alarmed, my dear," replied a voice whose sinister irony made
her shiver. "It was only a robber trying to break into the villa.--He
must have two or three bullets in him. We are just looking for him.
Don't be frightened. _He will never come back again_! Laubach fired at
him point-blank."
Ely closed the window. When she turned she saw that Pierre was already
more than half dressed. He was very pale, and his hands were trembling.
"You are not thinking of going?" she cried. "The garden is crowded with
men!"
"I must go!" he replied. "They were shooting at Olivier!"
"At Olivier?" she repeated. "You are mad!"
"Yes, at Olivier," he said with an agonized energy; "they took him for
me. He must have seen me leave the hotel and he followed me. They were
his steps that I heard."
"No, I cannot, I will not let you go," she said, standing in front of
the door. "Stop here for a few moments, I implore you. It was not
Olivier, it could not be he! They will kill you. Oh, my love, I pray you
to stay! Do not go, do not leave me!"
He had now finished dressing. He thrust her rudely to one side, and
said: "Let me go! Let me go!" without a look, without a word of adieu.
He had descended the stairs, passed through the hothouse into the
garden, before she could move. She remained leaning against the wall
where he had thrown her, listening, her head bent forward, listening
with an anguish that was maddening.--But there was no further report.
Pierre did not meet either the Prince or his men, for they were occupied
in hunting for some traces of the first fugitive.
"Ah" she moaned, "he is safe!--If the other has only escaped!"
Pierre's terror had taken possession of her. Yes, the unknown visitor at
whom the men had shot could be no one but Olivier. She had understood
too well the Prince's tone. Her husband had learned that she was with
her lover. He had laid a trap for him. Who, then, could have fallen into
it instead of Pierre?--For the first time in many years this woman, so
broad-minded, so permeated with the spirit of fatalism and nihilism,
this woman felt an impulse to appeal to a higher power. She was blinded
with terror at what she foresaw if she and Pierre had really brought
about the death of the man who had been her lover, of the man who had
been Pierre's sole friend; she was so overwhelmed that she fell upon her
knees and prayed that this punishment might be spared them.
Vain prayer! As fruitless as the mad flight of her guilty accomplice who
tore along the road, halting at intervals to cry, "Olivier! Olivier!"
He received no reply to his calls. At last he arrived at the hotel. He
would soon know whether he was not under the influence of some evil
dream. What were his feelings when the porter said in answer to his
inquiries:--
"Monsieur du Prat? He went out immediately after you had left, sir!"
"Did he ask if I had gone out?"
"Yes, sir. I'm surprised that you did not meet him, sir. He went along
the same road immediately after you."
So his presentiments had not deceived him! Olivier had really followed
him. Olivier had been taken by surprise in the garden. Was he dead? Was
he wounded? Where was he lying helpless?
All night long Hautefeuille wandered about the roads, searching in the
ditches, among the hedges, the stones, feeling about on the ground at
the foot of the trees. In the morning he was returning, literally mad
after his useless researches, when, going toward the hotel by another
road, he met two gardeners pushing a handcart. In it was laid a human
form. He walked up to it and recognized his friend.
Olivier had received two balls in the chest. Upon his face, soiled with
the sand of the road, was an expression of infinite sadness. Judging
from the place where the gardeners had found him, he must have walked
for a quarter of an hour after being wounded. Then his strength had
failed him; he had fainted and had died--probably without ever coming to
himself again--of a hemorrhage caused by his wounds and the effort he
had made.
Where are the dead, our dead? Where go those who have loved us, whom we
have loved, those to whom we have been gentle, kind, helpful, those
towards whom we have been guilty of inexplicable wrongs, those who have
left us before we have ever known if we have been pardoned?
But whether this life of the invisible dead which surround our
terrestrial existence be a dream or a reality, it is certain that Ely
has never dared to see Pierre or to write to him since that terrible
night. Whenever she takes up the pen to draw near him again, once more
something prevents her. And something always stays Pierre's hand when he
tries to give her a sign of his existence.
The dead stands between the living, the dead who will never, never
disappear.
THE END