The prince, carried away by the vehemence of his furious indignation,
had, as he talked, come nearer and nearer the marquise, who still sat at
her ease in the armchair.
When she threw back her veil, at the same time throwing her head back
lightly, so as to be able to fix her eyes upon the eyes of the prince,
he stood motionless, and experienced that mingling of surprise,
admiration, and involuntary pain which almost everybody felt at the
sight of that charming face, to which a pallid complexion, large azure
blue eyes, black eyebrows, and blonde hair gave a fascination so
singular.
This profound impression made upon the prince, Charles Dutertre had also
received, notwithstanding his love for his wife, notwithstanding the
agonising fears of ruin and disaster by which he was besieged.
For a few seconds the archduke remained, so to speak, under the
fascination of this fixed, penetrating gaze, in which the marquise
endeavoured to concentrate all the attraction, all the magnetism which
was in her, and to cast it into the eyes of the prince, for the
projecting power of Madeleine's glance was, so to speak, intermittent,
subject, if we may use the expression, to pulsations; so at each of
these pulsations, the rebound of which he seemed to feel physically, the
archduke started involuntarily; his icy pride appeared to melt like snow
in the sun; his haughty attitude seemed to bend; his arrogant
countenance betrayed inexpressible uneasiness.
Suddenly Madeleine pulled her veil over her face, bowed her head, and
tried to efface herself as much as possible under the ample folds of her
mantle and trailing robe, which completely hid her small foot, as her
wide sleeves hid the beautiful hand she had extended to the prince, who
now saw before him only an undefined and chastely veiled form.
The most provoking coquetry, the boldest exposure of personal charms,
would have been ingenuousness itself compared to this mysterious
reserve, which, concealing from view the whole person from the point of
the foot to the tips of the fingers, gave free rein to the imagination,
which took fire at the recollection of the wonderful stories of the
marquise current in Paris.
When Madeleine's face again disappeared under her veil, the prince,
delivered from the influence which had held him in spite of himself,
regained his self-possession, roughly curbed his weakness, and, as a
safeguard against all dangerous allurement, forced himself to ponder the
deplorable adventures which proved how fatal was the power of this woman
over men known to be strong and inexorable.
But alas! the fall or transformation of these men only brought back more
forcibly the irresistible fascination of the marquise. He felt the grave
and imminent peril, but every one knows the attraction of danger.
In vain the prince argued with himself, that, naturally phlegmatic, he
had attained the maturity of age without ever having submitted to the
empire of those gross passions which degrade men. In vain he said to
himself that he was a prince of the royal blood, that he owed it to the
sovereign dignity of his rank not to debase himself by yielding to
shameful enticements. In a word, the unhappy archduke philosophised
marvellously well, but as uselessly as a man who, seeing in terror that
he is rolling down a steep declivity, gravely philosophises upon the
delightful advantages of repose.
Words, phrases, and pages are necessary to portray impressions as
instantaneous as thought, and all that we have described at such length,
from the moment Madeleine lifted her veil to the moment she dropped it
again, transpired in a few seconds, and the archduke, in the midst of
his efforts at self-restraint, unconsciously, no doubt,--so much did his
philosophy disengage his mind from matter,--tried, we say, yes, tried
again to see Madeleine's features through the lace which concealed them.
"I told you, monseigneur," said the marquise, holding her head down from
the covetous and anxious gaze of the archduke, "I told you that I was a
poor widow who values her reputation, and who really does not deserve
your severity."
"Madame--"
"Oh, I do not reproach you, monseigneur. You, no doubt, like many
others, believe certain rumours--"
"Rumours, madame!" cried the archduke, delighted to feel his anger
kindle again. "Rumours! The scandalous apostasy of the poet,
Moser-Hartmann, was a rumour, was it?"
"What you call his apostasy is a fact, monseigneur; that may be, but--"
"Perhaps the degradation of the cardinal legate was also a vain rumour?"
continued the archduke, impetuously interrupting Madeleine.
"That may be a fact, monseigneur, but--"
"So, madame, you confess yourself that--"
"Pardon me, monseigneur, listen to me. I am called Madeleine; it is the
name of a great sinner, as you know."
"She received pardon, madame."
"Yes, because she loved much; nevertheless, believe me, monseigneur, I
am not seeking an excuse in the example of the life of my patron saint.
I have done nothing which requires pardon, no, nothing, absolutely
nothing, monseigneur. That seems to astonish you very much. So, to make
myself entirely understood, which is quite embarrassing, I shall be
obliged, at the risk of appearing pedantic, to appeal to the classical
knowledge of Your Highness."
"What do you mean, madame?"
"Something very odd; but the acrimony of your reproaches, as well as
other reasons, compels me to a confession, or rather to a very singular
justification."
"Madame, explain yourself."
"You know, monseigneur, upon what condition the vestal virgins at Rome
were chosen?"
"Certainly, madame," replied the prince, with a modest blush, and, he
added, ingenuously, "but I cannot see what relation--"
"Ah, well, monseigneur," interrupted Madeleine, smiling at the Germanism
of the prince, "if we were at Rome under the empire of the Cæsars, I
would have every possible right to keep the sacred fire on the altar of
the chaste goddess. In a word, I am a widow without ever having been
married; because, upon my return from Europe the Marquis de Miranda, my
relative and benefactor, died, and he married me on his death-bed that
he might leave me his name and his fortune."
The accent of truth is irresistible, and the prince at once believed the
words of Madeleine, in spite of the amazement produced by this
revelation so diametrically opposite to the rumours of adventures and
gallantries which were rife about the marquise.
The astonishment of the prince was mingled with a vague satisfaction
which he did not care to estimate. However, fearing he might fall into a
snare, he said, no longer with passion, but with a sorrowful
recrimination:
"You count too much on my credulity, madame. What! when just now you
confessed to me that--"
"I beg your pardon, monseigneur; do me the favour to reply to a few
questions."
"Speak, madame."
"You certainly have all the valiant exterior of a man of war,
monseigneur, and when I saw you in Vienna, mounted on your beautiful
battle-horse, proudly cross the Prater, followed by your aides-de-camp,
I often said, 'That is my type of an army general; there is a man made
to command soldiers.'"
"You saw me in Vienna?" asked the archduke, whose voice softened
singularly. "You observed me there?"
"Fortunately you did not know it, monseigneur, or you would have exiled
me, would you not?"
"Well," replied the prince, smiling, "I fear so."
"Come, that is gallantry; I like you better so. I was saying to you,
then, monseigneur, that you have the exterior of a valiant man of war,
and your character responds to this exterior. But will you not confess
to me that sometimes the most martial figure may hide a poltroon--"
"No one better understands that than I. I had under my orders a
major-general who had the most ferocious-looking personality that could
be imagined, and he was the most arrant coward."
"You will admit again, monseigneur, that sometimes the most
contemptible-looking personality may hide a hero."
"Certainly, Frederick the Great, Prince Eugene, were not great in
manner--"
"Alas! monseigneur, it is even so, and I, on the contrary, am different
from these great men; unfortunately, I have too much manner."
"What do you mean, madame?"
"Ah, my God, yes! I am like the coward who makes everybody tremble by
his stern appearance, and who is really more afraid than the most
cowardly of the cowards he intimidates. In a word, I inspire that which
I do not feel; picture to yourself, monseigneur, the poor icicle
carrying around him flame and conflagration. And I would have the
presumption to call myself a phenomenon if I did not recollect that the
beautiful fruits of my country, so bright-coloured, so delicate, so
fragrant, awaken in me a furious appetite, without sharing the least in
the world the fine appetite they give, or ever feeling the slightest
desire to be crunched. It is so with me, monseigneur, it seems that as
innocently as the fruits of my country I excite, in some respects, the
hunger of an ogre, I who am of a cenobitic frugality. So now I have
concluded to be no longer astonished at the influence I exercise
involuntarily, but as, after all, this action is powerful, inasmuch as
it excites the most violent passions of men, I try to elicit the best
that is possible from my victims, either for themselves or for the good
of others, and that, I swear without coquetry, deception, or promises,
if one says to me, 'I am passionately in love with you,' I answer,
'Well, cherish your passion, perhaps its fire will melt my ice, perhaps
the lava will hide itself in me under the snow. Fan your flame, then,
let it burn until it wins me; I ask nothing better, for I am as free as
the air, and I am twenty-two years old.'"
As she uttered these words, Madeleine raised her head, lifted her veil,
and gazed intently at the archduke.
The marquise spoke truly, for her passion for her blond archangel, of
whom she had talked to Sophie Dutertre, had never had anything
terrestrial in it.
The prince believed Madeleine; first, because truth almost always
carries conviction with it, then, because he felt happy in putting faith
in the words of the young woman. He blushed less in acknowledging to
himself the profound and sudden impression produced on him by this
singular creature, when he realised that, after all, she had been worthy
of guarding the sacred fire of Vesta; so, the imprudent man, his eyes
fixed on the eyes of Madeleine, contemplating them with passionate
eagerness, drank at leisure the enchanted love-potion.
Madeleine resumed, smiling:
"At this moment, monseigneur, you are asking yourself, I am sure, a
question which I often ask myself."
"What is that, pray?"
"You are asking yourself (to speak like an old-time romance), 'Who is he
who will make me share his passion?' Ah, well, I, too, am very anxious
to penetrate the future on this subject."
"That future, nevertheless, depends on you."
"No, monseigneur, to draw music from the lyre, some one must make it
vibrate."
"And who will that happy mortal be?"
"My God! who knows? Perhaps you, monseigneur."
"I!" cried the prince, charmed, transported. "I!"
"I say perhaps."
"Oh, what must I do?"
"Please me."
"And how shall I do that?"
"Listen, monseigneur."
"I pray you, do not call me monseigneur; it is too ceremonious."
"Oh, oh, monseigneur; it is a great favour for a prince to be treated
with familiarity; he must deserve it. You ask me how you may please me.
I will give you not an example, but a fact. The poet, Moser-Hartmann,
whose apostasy you say I caused, addressed to me the most singular
remark in the world. One day he met me at the house of a mutual friend,
looked at me a long time, and then said, with an air of angry alarm:
'Madame, for the peace of spirituality, you ought to be buried alive!'
And he went out, but next day he came to see me, madly in love, a
victim, he told me, to a sudden passion,--as sudden and novel as it was
uncontrollable. 'Let your passion burn,' I said to him, 'but hear the
advice of a friend; the passion devours you, let it flow in your verse.
Become a great poet, and perhaps your glory will intoxicate me.'"
"And did the inebriation ever come to you?" said the prince.
"No, but glory has come to my lover to console him, and a poet can be
consoled for the loss of everything by glory. Ah, well, monseigneur,
have I used my influence well or ill?"
Suddenly the archduke started.
A keen suspicion pierced his heart. Dissimulating this painful doubt, he
said to Madeleine, with a forced smile:
"But, madame, your adventure with the cardinal legate did not have so
happy an end for him. What is left to console him?"
"There rests with him the consciousness of having delivered a country
that abhorred him from his presence," replied Madeleine, gaily. "Is
there nothing in that, monseigneur?"
"Come now, between us, what interest had you in making this unhappy man
the victim of a terrible scandal?"
"How! What interest, monseigneur? What but the interest of unmasking an
infamous hypocrite, of chasing him out of a city that he oppressed,--in
short, to cover him with contempt and shame. 'I believe in your
passion,' said I to him, 'and perhaps I may share it if you will mask as
a Hungarian hussar, and come with me to the ball of the Rialto, my dear
cardinal; it is an extravagant, foolish caprice on my part, no doubt,
but that is my condition, and, besides, who will recognise you under the
mask?' This horrible priest had his head turned; he accepted, and I
destroyed him."
"And you will destroy me, madame, as you did the cardinal legate," cried
the archduke, rising and making a supreme effort to break the charm
whose irresistible power he already felt. "I see the snare; I have
enemies; you wish by your perfidious seductions, to drag me into some
dangerous proceeding, and afterwards to hand me over to the contempt
and ridicule that my weakness would deserve. But, bless God! he has
opened my eyes in time. I recognise with horror that infernal
fascination which took from me the use of my reason, and which was not
love even,--no, I yielded to the grossest, most degrading passion which
can lower man to the level of a brute, to that passion which, to my
shame and to yours, I desire to stigmatise aloud as lust, madame!"
Madeleine shrugged her shoulders and began to laugh derisively, then
rising from her seat and walking up to the prince, who had stepped back
to the chimney, she took him gently by the hand, and led him back to a
chair near her own, without his having the strength to resist this
peaceable violence.
"Do me the favour to listen to me, monseigneur," said Madeleine. "I have
only a few more words to say to you, and then you will not see the
Marquise de Miranda again in your life."