Scarcely were the two children out of the parlour, when Madeleine said
to her friend, quickly:
"Now we are alone, Sophie, I pray you, answer me; what is the matter
with you? What is the cause of this sudden oppression? Have absence and
distance destroyed your confidence in me?"
Sophie had courage enough to overcome her feelings, and hide without
falsehood the painful secret which was not hers. Not daring to confess,
even to her best friend, the probable and approaching ruin of Dutertre,
she said to Madeleine, with apparent calmness:
"If I must tell you my weakness, my friend, I share sometimes, and
doubtless exaggerate, the financial troubles of my husband in this
crisis,--temporary they may be, but at the same time very dangerous to
our industry," said Sophie, trying to smile.
"But this crisis, my dear Sophie, is, as you say, only temporary, is it
not? It is not yet grave and should it become so, what can be done to
render it less painful to you and your husband? Without being very rich
I live in perfect ease,--is there anything I would not do?"
"Good, dear, excellent friend!" said Sophie, interrupting Madeleine,
with emotion, "always the same heart! Reassure yourself,--this time of
crisis will, I hope, be only a passing evil,--let us talk no more about
it, let me have all the joy of seeing you again."
"But, Sophie, if these troubles--"
"Madeleine," replied Sophie, sweetly, interrupting her friend again,
"first, let us talk of yourself."
"Egoist!"
"That is true, when it touches you; but tell me, you are happy, are you
not? because, marquise as you are, you have made a marriage of love,
have you not? And what about your husband?"
"I am a widow."
"Oh, my God, already!"
"I was a widow the evening of my wedding, my dear Sophie."
"What do you mean?"
"As extraordinary as it may seem, it is nevertheless quite simple.
Listen to me: when I left boarding-school and returned to Mexico, where
I was ordered, as you know, by my father, I found but one relative of my
mother, the Marquis de Miranda, mortally attacked by one of those
epidemics which so often ravage Lima. He had no children and had seen me
when I was a small child. He knew that my father's fortune had been
entirely destroyed by disastrous lawsuits. He had a paternal sentiment
for me, and almost on his death-bed offered me his hand. 'Accept, my
dear Magdelena, my poor orphan,' said he to me, 'my name will give you a
social position, my fortune will assure your independence, and I shall
die content in knowing that you are happy.'"
"Noble heart!" said Sophie.
"Yes," replied Madeleine, with emotion, "he was the best of men. My
isolated position and earnest entreaties made me accept his generous
offer. The priest came to his bedside to consecrate our union, and the
ceremony was hardly over when the hand of the Marquis de Miranda was
like ice in my own."
"Madeleine, forgive me," said Madame Dutertre, involuntarily, "I have
made you sad by recalling such painful memories."
"Painful? no, it is with a sweet melancholy that I think of Marquis de
Miranda. It is only ingratitude that is bitter to the heart."
"And so young still, does not your liberty incommode you? Alone, without
family, are you accustomed to this life of isolation?"
"I think I am the happiest of women, after you, let it be understood,"
replied Madeleine, smiling.
"And do you never think of marrying again, or rather," added Sophie,
smiling in her turn, "of marrying? Because, really, notwithstanding your
widowhood, you are a maiden."
"I hide nothing from you, Sophie. Ah, well, yes. One time I had a desire
to marry,--that was a grand passion, a romance," replied Madeleine,
gaily.
"Well, as you are free, who prevented this marriage?"
"Alas! I saw my hero for five minutes only, and from my balcony."
"Only five minutes?"
"Not more."
"And you loved him at once?"
"Passionately."
"And you have never seen him since?"
"Never! No doubt he has been translated to heaven among his brothers,
the archangels, whose ideal beauty he possessed."
"Madeleine, are you speaking seriously?"
"Listen: six months ago I was in Vienna. I lived in the country situated
near one of the suburbs of the city. One morning I was in a kiosk, the
window of which looked out upon a field. Suddenly my attention was
attracted by the noise of stamping and the clash of swords. I ran to my
window; it was a duel."
"Oh, my God!"
"A young man of nineteen or twenty at most, as gracious and beautiful as
they paint the angels, was fighting with a sort of giant with a
ferocious face. My first wish was that the blond archangel--for blond is
my passion--might triumph over the horrible demon, and although the
combat lasted in my presence not more than two minutes, I had time to
admire the intrepidity, the calmness, and dexterity of my hero,--his
white breast half naked, his long, blond hair floating to the wind, his
brow serene, his eyes brilliant, and a smile upon his lips, he seemed to
brave danger with a charming grace, and at that moment, I confess it,
his beauty appeared to me more than human. Suddenly, in the midst of a
kind of fascination that the flashing of the swords had for me, I saw
the giant stagger and fall. Immediately my beautiful hero threw away his
sword, clasped his hands, and, falling on his knees before his
adversary, lifted to heaven his enchanting face, where shone an
expression so touching, so ingenuous, that to see him thus bending in
grief over his vanquished enemy, one would have thought of a young
girl's grief for her wounded dove, if we can compare this hideous giant
to a dove. But his wound did not seem to be mortal, for he sat up, and,
in a hoarse voice, which I could hear through my window-blind, said to
his young enemy:
"'On my knees, monsieur, I ask your pardon for my disloyal conduct and
my rude provocation; if you had killed me it would have been justice.'
"Immediately a carriage arrived and carried the wounded man away, and a
few minutes afterward all the witnesses of the duel had disappeared. It
happened so rapidly that I would have thought I had dreamed it, but for
the remembrance of my hero, who has been in my thought always since that
day, the ideal of all that is most beautiful, most brave, and most
generous."
"Now, Madeleine, I conceive that under such circumstances one might, in
five minutes, feel a profound impression, perhaps ineffaceable. But have
you never seen your hero again?"
"Never, I tell you. I do not know his name even; yet, if I marry, I
should marry no man except him."
"Madeleine, you know that our old friendship gives me the privilege of
being frank with you."
"Could you be otherwise?"
"It seems to me that you bear this grand passion very cheerfully."
"Why should I be sad?"
"But when one loves passionately, nothing is more cruel than absence and
separation, and, above all, the fear of never seeing the beloved object
again."
"That is true; and notwithstanding the effects of this profound passion,
I declare to you they have a very different result with me."
"What must I say to you? When I began to love Charles, I should have
died of distress if I had been separated from him."
"That is singular. My passion, I repeat to you, manifests itself in an
entirely different fashion. There is not a day in which I do not think
of my hero, my ideal; not a day in which I do not recall with love, in
the smallest details, the only circumstances under which I saw him; not
a day in which I do not turn all my thought to him; not a day in which I
do not triumph with pride in comparing him to others, for he is the most
beautiful of the most beautiful, most generous of the most generous; in
fact, thanks to him, not a day in which I do not lull myself in the most
beautiful dreams. Yes, it seems to me that my soul is for ever attached
to his by cords as mysterious as they are indissoluble. I do not know if
I shall ever behold him again, and yet I feel in my heart only delight
and cheerfulness."
"I must say, as you do, my dear Madeleine, that it is very singular."
"Come, Sophie, let us talk sincerely; we are alone and, among women,
although I am still a young lady to be married or a marriageable girl,
we can say the truth. You find my love, do you not, a little platonic?
You are astonished to see me so careless or ignorant of the thrill you
felt, when for the first time the hand of Charles pressed your hand in
love?"
"Come, Madeleine, you are getting silly."
"Be frank, I have guessed your feeling."
"A little, but less than you think."
"That little suffices to penetrate your inmost thought, Madame
Materialist."
"I say again, Madeleine, you are growing silly."
"Oh, oh, not so silly!"
Then, after a moment's silence, the marquise resumed, with a smile:
"If you only knew, Sophie, the strange, extraordinary, I might say
incomprehensible things that have come in my life! What extravagant
adventures have happened to me since our separation! My physician and my
friend, the celebrated Doctor Gasterini, a great philosopher as well,
has told me a hundred times there is not a creature in the world as
singularly endowed as myself."
"Explain your meaning."
"Later, perhaps."
"Why not now?"
"If I had a sorrow to reveal, do you think I would hesitate? But,
notwithstanding all that has been extraordinary in my life, or perhaps
for that particular reason, I have been the happiest of women. Oh, my
God! wait, for this moment I have almost a sorrow for my want of heart
and memory."
"A want of memory?"
"Yes, of Antonine; have I not forgotten her since I have been here,
talking to you only of myself? Is it wicked? Is it ingratitude enough?"
"I would be at least as culpable as you, but we need not reproach
ourselves. This morning she came to bring me your letter and announce
your arrival to me. Think of her joy, for she has, you can believe me,
the strongest and most tender attachment to you."
"Poor child, how natural and charming she was! But tell me, has she
fulfilled the promise of her childhood? She ought to be as pretty as an
angel, with her fifteen years just in flower."
"You are right; she is a rosebud of freshness; add to that the finest,
most delicate features that you could ever see. After the death of her
nearest relative, she came, as you know, to live with her uncle,
President Hubert, who has always been kind to her. Unhappily, he is now
seriously ill, and should she lose him she would be compelled to go and
live with some distant relatives, and the thought makes her very sad.
Besides, you will see her and she will give you her confidence. She has
made one to me, in order to ask my advice, for the circumstances are
very grave."
"What is this confidence?"
"'If you see Madeleine before I do,' said Antonine to me, 'tell her
nothing, my dear Sophie. I wish to confide all to her myself; it is a
right which her affection for me gives me. I have other reasons, too,
for laying this injunction on you.' So you see, my dear friend, I am
obliged, perforce, to be discreet."
"I do not insist upon knowing more. To-day or to-morrow I will go to see
this dear child," said the marquise, rising to take leave of Madame
Dutertre.
"You leave me so soon, Madeleine?"
"Unfortunately, I must. I have an appointment from three to four, at the
house of the Mexican envoy, my compatriot. He is going to conduct me
to-morrow to the palace of a foreign Royal Highness. You see, Sophie, I
am among the grandees."
"A Highness?"
"Such a Highness that, like all princes who belong to the reigning
foreign families, he resides in the Élysée-Bourbon during his sojourn in
Paris."
Madame Dutertre could not restrain a movement of surprise, and said,
after a minute's reflection:
"That is singular."
"What, pray?"
"Antonine lives in a house contiguous to the Élysée. There is nothing
very surprising in that, but--"
"But what?"
"I cannot tell you more, Madeleine; when you have heard Antonine's
confidences you will comprehend why I have been struck with this
coincidence."
"What is there in common with Antonine and the Élysée?"
"I tell you again, my dear friend, wait for the confidences of
Antonine."
"So be it, my mysterious friend. Besides, I did not know she lived near
the palace. I addressed a letter to her at her old dwelling-house. That
suits my plans marvellously; I will go to see her before or after my
audience with the prince."
"Come, what a great lady you are!"
"Pity me, rather, my dear Sophie, because it is a question of entreaty,
not for myself, I am not in the habit of begging, but it concerns an
important service to be done for a proscribed family, and one worthy of
the highest interest. The mission is very difficult, very delicate;
however, I consented to undertake it at the time of my departure from
Venice, and I desire to try everything which can further my success."
"And surely you will succeed. Can any one refuse you anything? Do you
remember when we were at school, as soon as a petition was to be
addressed to our mistress you were always chosen as ambassadress; and
they were right, for, really, you seem to possess a talisman for
obtaining all you want."
"I assure you, my good Sophie," replied Madeleine, smiling in spite of
herself, "I assure you I am often a magician without trying to be one.
My God!" added the marquise, laughing, "how many fine extravagances I
have to tell you. But we will see, some other time. Come, dear Sophie,
good-bye,--will see you soon."
"Oh, yes, come again soon, I implore you!"
"My God! you can count on my coming almost every day, because I am a
bird of passage, and I have decided to employ my time in Paris well,
that is to say, I shall see you very often."
"What! you are not thinking of leaving Paris soon?"
"I do not know; that will depend upon the inspiration that my hero, my
passion, my ideal will give me, for I decide on nothing without
consulting him in thought. But, as he always inspires me admirably, I
doubt not he will induce me to stay near you as long a time as
possible."
"Ah, my God, Madeleine; but, now I think of it, you told my husband that
you had a favour to ask of him."
"That is true, I forgot it. It is a very simple thing. I understand
nothing of money affairs. I learned that recently, to my cost, in
Germany. I had a letter of credit on a certain Aloysius Schmidt, of
Vienna; he cheated me shamefully, so I promised myself to be on my guard
in the future. So I have taken another letter of credit on Paris. I wish
to ask your husband to demand money for me when I have need of it. He
will watch over my interests, and, thanks to him, I shall not be exposed
to the possibility of falling into the clutches of a new Aloysius
Schmidt."
"Nothing easier, my dear Madeleine. Charles will endorse your letter of
credit and verify at hand all your accounts."
"That will be all the more necessary, since, between us, I am told that
the person on whom they have given me this letter of credit is
enormously rich, and as solvent as one could be, but crafty and sordid
to the last degree."
"You do well to inform me beforehand. Charles will redouble his
watchfulness."
"Besides, your husband, who is in business, ought to know the man of
whom I speak,--they say he is one of the greatest capitalists in
France."
"What is his name?"
"M. Pascal."
"M. Pascal?" repeated Madame Dutertre.
And she could not help trembling and turning pale.
The marquise, seeing her friend's emotion, said, quickly:
"Sophie, pray, what is the matter?"
"Nothing, nothing, I assure you."
"I see that something is the matter; answer me, I implore you."
"Ah, well, if I must tell you, my husband has had some business
relations with M. Pascal. Unhappily, a great misunderstanding was the
result, and--"
"Why, Sophie, you are very unreasonable to give yourself so much
concern, because, in consequence of this misunderstanding with M.
Pascal, your husband cannot render me the good office I expected from
him."
Madame Dutertre, willing to leave her friend in this error, tried to
regain her calmness, and said to her:
"Indeed, it disappoints me very much to think that Charles will not be
able to do you the first service that you ask of us."
"Stop, Sophie, you will make me regret having appealed so cordially to
you."
"Madeleine--"
"Really, it is not such a great pity! And, besides, to prevent my being
deceived, I will address myself directly to this M. Pascal, but I will
demand my accounts every week. Your husband can examine them, and, if
they are not correct, I will know perfectly well how to complain of them
to monsieur, my banker, and to take another."
"You are right, Madeleine," said Sophie, recovering by degrees her
self-possession, "and the supervision of my husband will, in fact, be
more necessary than you think."
"So this M. Pascal is a sordid fellow?"
"Madeleine," said Madame Dutertre, unable longer to conquer her emotion,
"I beseech you, and let me speak to you as a friend, as a sister,
whatever may be the reason, whatever may be the pretext, place no
dependence in M. Pascal!"
"What do you mean, Sophie?"
"In a word, if he offers you his services, refuse them."
"His services? But I have no service to ask of him. I have a letter of
credit on him. I will go and draw money from his bank when I have need
of it--that is all."
"That may be, but you might, through mistake or ignorance of business,
exceed your credit, and then--"
"Well, what then?"
"I know from a person who has told Charles and myself that, once M.
Pascal has you in his debt, he will abuse his power cruelly, oh, so
cruelly."
"Come, my good Sophie, I see that you take me for a giddy prodigal.
Reassure yourself, and admire my economy. I have so much order that I
lay by every year something from my income, and although these savings
are small I place them at your disposal."
"Dear, tender friend, I thank you a thousand times! I repeat, the crisis
which gives my husband and myself so much concern will soon end; but let
me tell you again, do not trust M. Pascal. When you have seen Antonine,
I will tell you more."
"Antonine again! You just spoke of her in connection with the Élysée."
"Yes, it all hangs together; you will see it yourself after to-morrow. I
will explain myself entirely, which will be important to Antonine."
"After to-morrow, then, my dear Sophie. I must confess you excite my
curiosity very much, and I try in vain to discover what there can be in
common between Antonine and the Élysée, or between Antonine and that
wicked man, for so at least he appears who is named M. Pascal."
Half-past three sounded from the factory clock.
"My God! how late I am!" said Madeleine to her friend. "I shall barely
have time, but I must embrace your angelic children before I go."
The two women left the parlour.
We will return with the reader to the Élysée-Bourbon, where we left the
archduke alone, after the departure of M. Pascal.