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THE SEVEN CARDINAL SINS
LUXURY
[Illustration: "'_There he is._'"
Original etching by Adrian Marcel.]
Luxury--Gluttony. Two of the Seven
Cardinal Sins. _ILLUSTRATED WITH
ETCHINGS BY ADRIAN MARCEL.
BY EUGENE SUE
BOSTON
FRANCIS A. NICCOLLS & CO.
PUBLISHERS_
Edition de Luxe
_This edition is limited to one thousand copies, of which this is_
No. 505
_Copyright, 1899_
BY FRANCIS A. NICCOLLS & CO.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"'THERE HE IS'" _Frontispiece_
"'MONSEIGNEUR, LISTEN TO ME'" 125
"'IT IS NO'" 158
"'YOU SHALL NOT ESCAPE ME'" 242
"THE MOST DELICATE GAME WAS SUSPENDED" 324
Luxury and Gluttony
MADELEINE
LUXURY.
CHAPTER I.
The palace of the Élysée-Bourbon,--the old hôtel of the Marquise de
Pompadour,--situated in the middle of the Faubourg St. Honoré, was,
previous to the last revolution, furnished, as every one knows, for the
occupancy of foreign royal highnesses,--Roman Catholic, Protestant, or
Mussulman, from the princes of the German confederation to Ibrahim
Pacha.
About the end of the month of July, in a year long past, at eleven
o'clock in the morning, several young secretaries and gentlemen
belonging to the retinue of his Royal Highness, the Archduke Leopold
Maximilian, who had occupied the Élysée for six weeks, met in one of the
official parlours of the palace.
"The review on the Field of Mars in honour of his Royal Highness is
prolonged," remarked one of the company. "The audience of the prince
will be crowded this morning."
"The fact is," replied another, "five or six persons have already been
waiting a half-hour, and monseigneur, in his rigorous military
punctuality, will regret this enforced delay."
Then one of the doors opened; a young man not more than twenty years old
at most, a guest of the house, crossed the parlour, and entered an
adjoining chamber, after having saluted, with mingled kindness and
embarrassment, the speakers, who rose upon seeing him, thus testifying a
deference which seemed unwarranted by his age and position.
When he had disappeared, one of the gentlemen, alluding to him, said:
"Poor Count Frantz, always so timid! A young girl of fifteen, just out
of the convent, would have more assurance! To look at him, who would
believe him capable of such rare bravery, and that, too, for three years
in the Caucasus war? And that he came so valiantly and brilliantly out
of that duel forced on him in Vienna? I, gentlemen, picture to myself
Count Frantz modestly dropping his eyes as he gave the Circassians a
thrust of his sword."
"Besides, I believe that his Royal Highness makes a decided convenience
of the ingenuousness of his son--"
"The devil! No indiscretion, dear sir!"
"Let me finish, please. I say that monseigneur makes a convenience of
the unconquerable ingenuousness of his godson."
"Well and good. And I think with you that the prince does not see this
handsome boy exposed to the temptations of wicked Paris, without some
anxiety. But what are you smiling at, my dear sir?"
"Nothing."
"Do you think that Count Frantz has had some love affair, in spite of
his apparent innocence?"
"You can see after a little, gentlemen, all the fine things a smile may
mean, for I call you to witness I am satisfied with smiling."
"Seriously, my dear sir, what do you think of Count Frantz?"
"I think nothing, I say nothing, I shall be as mute as a diplomatist
whose interest it is to keep silent, or as a young officer of the noble
guards when he passes, for the first time, under the inspection of
monseigneur."
"The truth is, the prince has a glance which intimidates the boldest.
But to return to Count Frantz."
This conversation was interrupted by a number of persons who entered the
official chamber.
The newcomers banished the thought of Count Frantz, and two or three
voices asked at once:
"Well, what about your sightseeing? Is this famous manufactory in the
Faubourg St. Marceau worth the trouble of a visit?"
"For my part, gentlemen, I am always very curious about the construction
of machinery," replied one who had just entered. "The whole morning has
been interesting, and I declare M. Charles Dutertre, the proprietor of
this factory, one of the most accomplished and intelligent machinists
that I know, besides being a most agreeable man; I intend to persuade
monseigneur to visit his workshops."
"Well and good, my dear sir; we will not accuse you of wasting your time
in frivolities, but I have not such high pretensions, and my pretension
is only in a state of hope."
"And what hope?"
"To be invited to dine with the celebrated Doctor Gasterini."
"The most illustrious, the most profound gourmand of Europe."
"They say, really, that his table is an ideal of the paradise of
gourmands."
"I do not know, alas! if this paradise will be as open to me as the
other, but I hope so."
"I confess my weakness. Of all that I have seen in Paris, what has most
charmed me, fascinated me, dazzled me, I will even say instructed--"
"Well, is what?"
"It is--our proud and modest Germany will blush at the blasphemy--it
is--"
"Do finish!"
"It is the Mabille ball!"
The laughter and the exclamations provoked by this frank avowal lasted
until one of the secretaries of the archduke entered, holding two
letters in his hand, and saying, gaily:
"Gentlemen, fresh news from Bologna and Venice!"
"Bravo, my dear Ulrik, what news?"
"The most curious, the most extraordinary in the world!"
"Really?"
"Quick, tell us, dear Ulrik."
"In the first place, Bologna, and Venice afterward, have been for
several days in a state of incredible agitation, for reason of a series
of events not less incredible."
"A revolution?"
"A movement of young Italy?"
"Perhaps a new mandate from the papal defender?"
"No, gentleman, it concerns a woman."
"A woman?"
"Yes, if it is not the devil, which I am inclined to believe."
"Ulrik, you are putting us to entreaty, do explain."
"Do you remember, gentlemen, last year, having heard in Germany that
young Mexican widow, the Marquise de Miranda, spoken of?"
"Zounds! the one whom our poet, Moser-Hartmann, wrote of in such
magnificent and passionate verse, under the name of the modern
Aphrodite."
"Ah, ah, ah, what a charming mistake!" said one of the inquirers,
roaring with laughter. "Moser-Hartmann, the religious and soulful poet,
the chaste poet, pure and cold as the immaculate snow, sings Aphrodite,
in burning verses. I have heard those admirable verses repeated, but,
evidently, they are the production of another Hartmann."
"And I assure you, my dear sir, and Ulrik will confirm it, that this
poem, which they say rightfully ranks with the most beautiful odes of
Sappho, is truly the work of Moser-Hartmann."
"Nothing more true," replied Ulrik. "I heard Moser-Hartmann recite the
verses himself,--they are worthy of antiquity."
"Then I believe you, but how do you explain this sudden incomprehensible
transformation?"
"Ah, my God! This transformation which has changed a cold, correct man,
but a man of estimable talent, indeed, a man of genius, full of fire and
power, whose name is renowned through Europe--this transformation has
been wrought by the woman whom the poet has praised, by the Marquise de
Miranda."
"Moser-Hartmann so changed? I would have thought the thing impossible!"
"Bah!" replied Ulrik, "the marquise has done several things, and here is
one of her best tricks, written to me from Bologna. There was there a
cardinal legate of the Pope, the terror and aversion of the country."
"His name is Orsini, a man as detestable as he is detested."
"And his exterior reveals his nature. I saw him in Lombardy. What a
cadaverous, sinister face! He always seemed to me the very type of an
inquisitor."
"Well, the marquise took him to a ball at the Casino in Bologna,
disguised as a Hungarian hussar!"
"The cardinal legate as a Hungarian hussar!" cried the company, in one
voice.
"Come, Ulrik, you are telling an idle tale."
"You can read this letter, and when you see who signs it you will doubt
no longer, skeptical as you are," replied Ulrik. "Yes, the marquise made
Orsini accompany her so disguised; then, in the midst of the dance, she
tore his mask from his face and said, in a loud voice: 'Good evening,
Cardinal Orsini,' and, laughing like a crazy woman, she disappeared,
leaving the legate exposed to the hoots and hisses of the exasperated
crowd. He would have run some danger if his escort had not protected
him. The next day Bologna was in a stir, demanding the dismissal of
Orsini, who, after two days of excitement, was forced to leave the city
by night. In the evening every house was illuminated for joy, and my
correspondent says the monogram of the marquise was seen on many
transparencies."
"And what became of her?"
"She was not seen again, she left for Venice," replied Ulrik, showing a
second letter, "and there, they write me, another thing has happened."
"What a woman! What a woman!"
"What sort of a woman is she?"
"Have you seen her?"
"No."
"Nor I."
"Nor I."
"They say she is very tall and very slender."
"They told me she was above the ordinary height."
"One thing is sure, she is a brunette, because Moser-Hartmann praises
her black eyes and black eyebrows."
"All I can say is," replied Ulrik, "that in this letter from Venice,
which place the marquise has recently left for France, as I am informed,
she is poetically called the 'blonde star,' so I think she must be a
blonde."
"But what has she done in Venice? What has happened there?"
"My faith!" exclaimed Ulrik, "it is an adventure which smacks of the
manners of pagan antiquity and the middle ages of Italy at the same
time."
Unfortunately for the curiosity of Ulrik's auditors, the sudden beating
of a drum outside announced the return of the Archduke Leopold, and each
person in the house of the prince at once went to his post, ready to
receive the Royal Highness.
In fact, the sentinel of the Élysée, descrying the approach of several
carriages in the livery of the King of the French, had called "To
arms!" The soldiers on guard with their commanding officer were
immediately in line, and at the moment the carriages entered
successively the immense court of the Élysée, the drums beat and the
troops presented arms.
The first of the carriages stopped before the palace; the footmen in
bright red livery opened the door, and his Royal Highness, the Archduke
Maximilian Leopold, slowly ascended the steps, conversing with a
colonel, officer of ordinance, whose office it was to accompany him; a
few steps behind the prince came his aids-de-camp, dressed in brilliant
foreign uniforms, and took their places in order at the foot of the
steps by the royal carriages. The archduke, thirty-nine years old, was
robust, yet slenderly proportioned. He wore with military severity the
full-dress uniform of the field-marshal, white coat, with epaulettes of
gold; scarlet casimir breeches over which reached the shining black of
his high riding-boots, a little dusty, as he had assisted in the review
appointed in his honour. The great cordon red, the collar of the fleece
of gold, and five or six medallions of different orders ornamented his
breast; his hair was pale blond, as was his long moustache turned up in
military style, which gave a still more severe expression to his
features, and strongly augmented the breadth of his chin and the
prominent angle of his nose; his eye, cold and penetrating, half-covered
by the eyelid, was set under a very heavy eyebrow, which gave him the
air of always looking very high. This severe and disdainful glance,
united to an imperious manner and an inflexible carriage of the head,
gave to the whole personal bearing of the archduke a remarkable
character of arrogant, icy authority.
About a quarter of an hour after the prince had returned to the Élysée,
the carriage of a French minister, and that of an ambassador from a
great power in the North, stopped successively before the entrance, and
the statesman and the diplomatist entered the palace.
Almost at the same moment, one of the principal persons of this story
arrived on foot in the court of the Élysée-Bourbon.
M. Pascal, for such was our hero's name, appeared to be about thirty-six
years old. He was of middle stature, very dark, and wore quite a long
beard, as rough and black as his eyebrows, beneath which glittered two
little very piercing gray eyes. As he had the habit of holding his head
down, and his two hands in the pockets of his trousers, the attitude
served to increase the roundness of his broad shoulders. His features
were especially remarkable for their expression of sarcastic sternness,
to which was joined that air of inexorable assurance peculiar to people
who are convinced of their power and are vain of it. A narrow black
cravat, tied, as they say, à la Colin, a long waistcoat of Scotch cloth,
a light greatcoat, whitish in colour, a gray hat well worn, and wide
nankin trousers, in the pockets of which M. Pascal kept his hands, made
up his costume of doubtful cleanliness, and perfectly in harmony with
the extreme heat of the season and the habitual carelessness of the
wearer.
When M. Pascal passed before the porter's lodge, he was challenged by
that functionary, who from the depth of his armchair called:
"Eh!--speak, sir, where are you going?"
Either M. Pascal did not hear the porter, or he did not wish to give
himself the trouble to reply, as he continued to walk toward the
entrance of the palace without saying a word.
The porter, forced to rise from his armchair, ran after the mute
visitor, and said, impatiently:
"I ask again, sir, where are you going? You can reply, can you not?"
M. Pascal stopped, took a disdainful survey of his interlocutor,
shrugged his shoulders, and said, as he turned again toward the
entrance: "I am going--to see the archduke."
The porter knew the class with which he was accustomed to deal. He could
not imagine that this visitor, in a summer greatcoat and loose cravat,
really had an audience with the prince, or would dare to present himself
before his Highness in a costume so impertinently outside of the
regulation, for all persons who had the honour of being received at the
palace were usually attired in black; so taking M. Pascal for some
half-witted or badly informed tradesman, he followed him, calling in a
loud voice:
"But sir, tradespeople who come to see his Highness do not pass by the
grand staircase. Down there at the right you will see the door for
tradesmen and servants by which you ought to enter."
M. Pascal did not care to talk; he shrugged his shoulders again, and
continued his march toward the staircase without a word.
The porter, exasperated by this silence and this obstinacy, seized M.
Pascal by the arm, and, speaking louder still, said:
"Must I tell you again, sir, that you cannot pass that way?"
"What do you mean, scoundrel?" cried M. Pascal, in a tone of contempt
and anger, as if this outrage on the part of the porter was as insolent
as inconceivable, "do you know to whom you are talking?"
There was in these words an expression of authority so threatening, that
the poor porter, frightened for a moment, stammered:
"Monsieur,--I--do--not--know."
The great door of the vestibule was suddenly opened. One of the
aids-de-camp of the prince, having seen from the parlour window the
altercation between the visitor and the porter, hastily descended the
staircase, and, eagerly approaching M. Pascal, said to him in excellent
French, with a sympathetic tone:
"Ah, monsieur, his Royal Highness will, I am sure, be much grieved by
this misunderstanding. Do me the honour to follow me; I will introduce
you at once. I have just received orders from monseigneur concerning
you, sir."
M. Pascal bowed his head in assent, and followed the aid-de-camp,
leaving the porter amazed and afflicted by his own want of address.
When M. Pascal and his guide arrived in the chamber of waiting, where
other officials were congregated, the young officer said:
"The audience of his Royal Highness is crowded this morning, because the
review detained monseigneur much longer than he expected, so, desiring
to make you wait as short a time as possible, he has ordered me to
conduct you, upon your arrival, into a chamber adjoining his private
office, where his Royal Highness will meet you as soon as his conference
with the minister of foreign affairs is ended."
M. Pascal again made sign of assent, and, following the aid-de-camp,
crossed a dark passage, and entered a chamber overlooking the
magnificent garden of the Élysée-Bourbon.
Before withdrawing, the aid-de-camp, not a little annoyed by the
unfortunate altercation between the porter and M. Pascal, remarked the
negligent attire of the latter. Habituated to the severe formalities of
etiquette, the young courtier was shocked at the unconventional dress of
the person he was about to introduce, and hesitated between the fear of
antagonising a man like Pascal and the desire to protest against the
unsuitability of his bearing as an insult to the dignity of a prince,
who was known to be inexorable in all that pertained to the respect due
his rank; but the first fear prevailed, and as it was too late to insist
upon a change of dress consistent with the requirements of court
etiquette, the young courtier said:
"As soon as the foreign minister withdraws from the presence of his
Royal Highness, I will inform him, sir, that you are at his orders."
These last words, "that you are at his orders," did not appear to sound
very well in the ears of M. Pascal. A sardonic smile played upon his
lips, but making himself at home, so to speak, and finding the
temperature of the room too warm, he opened one of the windows, placed
his elbows on the balustrade, and, keeping his hat on his head, occupied
himself with a survey of the garden.