Madeleine did not doubt that the hero of the duel of which she had been
an invisible witness, her blond archangel, and the ideal of her passion,
Frantz, and the lover of Antonine, were one and the same person.
At this sudden discovery the marquise felt a profound agitation. Until
then, this love, surrounded with the mystery of the unknown, this vague
and charming love which seemed like the memory of a sweet dream, had
sufficed to fill her heart in the midst of the perturbations of her
life, rendered so fantastic by the calm of her own indifference and the
foolish transport that she involuntarily inspired in others.
It had never occurred to Madeleine that her ideal could be in love with
another woman, or, rather, her thought had never rested on this doubt;
for her, this radiant archangel was provided with beautiful wings, which
might carry him away before all eyes into the infinite plains of ether.
Incessantly besieged by lovers, by no means platonic, she experienced a
joy, an ineffable moral repose, in lifting herself into immaterial
regions, where her charmed and dazzled eyes saw her ideal hovering. But
suddenly reality cut the wings of the archangel, and, fallen from his
celestial sphere, he was no more than a handsome young man, in love with
a pretty girl of fifteen, who adored him.
At this discovery, Madeleine could not repress a sort of sadness, or,
rather, of sweet melancholy like that which follows the awakening from
an enchanted dream, for to experience the tortures of jealousy, would be
to love carnally. In short, if Frantz had almost always occupied the
thought of Madeleine, he had never had part in her life; it only
concerned her, then, to break the thousand ties that habit, sympathy,
and confidence had rendered so dear. Nevertheless, she felt herself a
prey to a growing disquietude, to painful presentiments which she could
not explain to herself. Suddenly she started, and said:
"If fate should order that this strange charm that I exercise on almost
all who approach me should also act upon Frantz, if I, too, should share
his feeling on seeing the only man who has ever occupied my heart and my
thought!"
Then, trying to reassure herself by an appeal to her humility, Madeleine
said:
"No, no; Frantz loves Antonine too much, it is his first love; the
purity, the sincerity of this love will protect him. He will have for me
that coldness which I have for all. Yes, and who can say that my pride,
my self-esteem will not revolt from the coldness of Frantz? Who can tell
me that, forgetting the duties of sacred friendship, almost maternal,
toward Antonine, I may not employ all the resources of my mind and all
my power of seduction to conquer Frantz? Oh, no, that would be odious,
and then I deceive myself again, Frantz loves Antonine too much. Alas!
the husband of Sophie loves her tenderly, too, and I fear that--"
These reflections of the marquise were interrupted by the sound of the
archduke's voice as he ordered Pascal to go out; listening to this
discussion, she said to herself:
"After he has put this man out, the prince will come in here. I must
attend to what is most urgent."
Drawing a memorandum-book from her pocket, the marquise detached one of
the leaflets, wrote a few lines with a pencil, folded the paper, and
closed it firmly by means of a pin. After writing the address, "For the
prince," she laid the note where it could be seen on a marble table in
the middle of the parlour, put on her hat, and went out, as we have
said, a little before the departure of M. Pascal.
While the archduke, astonished and disappointed not to find the
marquise, was opening with inexpressible anguish the note she had left,
she was on her way to the home of Antonine, where Sophie Dutertre was
also expected.
Upon her arrival at the house of President Hubert, introduced in a
modest parlour, the marquise was received by Sophie Dutertre, who,
running to her, asked, anxiously:
"Ah, well, Madeleine, have you seen the prince?"
"Yes, and I have good hope."
"Will it be possible?"
"Possible; yes, my dear Sophie, but that is all. I do not wish to excite
foolish hope in the heart of this poor child. Where is she?"
"With her uncle. Happily, the crisis of this morning appeared to leave
results more and more satisfactory. The physician has just said that, if
the present condition continues, M. Hubert will perhaps be out of danger
this evening."
"Tell me, Sophie, do you think M. Hubert is in a state to receive a
visitor?"
"From whom?"
"From a certain person. I cannot tell you more now."
"I think so; because one of his friends has just seen him. Only the
physician advised him not to stay too long, as the invalid might become
fatigued."
"That suits marvellously. And poor little Antonine! She must be in
mortal uneasiness."
"Poor dear child! She is to be pitied. It is such an innocent sorrow,
and at the same time so desperate, that my own heart is almost broken.
Indeed, Madeleine, I am sure she will die of grief if she must give up
Frantz. Ah, death is preferable to some kinds of suffering," added
Sophie, with an accent so profoundly sad that the tears rose to her
eyes; then, drying them, she added, "Yes, but when one has children, one
must live."
Madeleine was so impressed by the tone of Madame Dutertre, by her pallor
that she had not observed before, and by the tears that she saw her
shed, that she said to her:
"My God! Sophie, what is the matter, pray? Why these painful words? Why
these tears? Yesterday I left you calm and happy, except, as you told
me, the concern occasioned by your husband's business. Is there anything
new to-day?"
"No, I--think--not," replied Sophie Dutertre, with hesitation. "But
since yesterday--my husband's business concerns me less than--"
"Go on."
"No, no; I am foolish," replied Madame Dutertre, restraining herself,
and seeming to hold back some words ready to escape; "but let us not
talk of me, let us talk of Antonine; I am so touched by the despair of
this poor child that one might say her suffering is mine."
"Sophie, you are not telling me the truth."
"I assure you."
"I see you are pale and changed. Yes, since yesterday you have suffered,
and suffered much, I am sure."
"No," replied the young woman, putting her handkerchief to her eyes,
"you are mistaken."
"Sophie," said Madeleine, quickly taking her friend's hands in her own,
"you do not know how much your lack of confidence distresses me; you
will make me think you have some complaint against me."
"What are you saying?" cried Sophie, pained by this suspicion, "you are
and you will always be my best friend, and I am only afraid of fatiguing
you with my grievances."
"Ah, again?" replied the marquise, in a tone of affectionate reproach.
"Forgive me, forgive me, Madeleine; but really, is it not enough to
confide to your friends your real sorrows, without saddening them by the
confession of vague apprehensions, which are, nevertheless, very
distressing?"
"My dear Sophie, tell me these apprehensions."
"Since yesterday,--but, again, I say no, no, I shall appear too foolish
to you."
"You appear foolish to me, well, what of it? Speak, I beseech you."
"Ah, well, it seems to me that since yesterday my husband is under the
influence of some idea which completely absorbs him."
"Business matters, perhaps?"
"No, oh, no; it is something else, and that is what confounds and alarms
me."
"What have you observed?"
"Yesterday, after your departure, it had been agreed that he would
undertake two measures of great importance to us. Seeing the hour slip
away I went into our chamber, where he had gone to dress himself. I
found him with his working apparel on, seated before a table, his head
leaning on his hand; he had not heard me enter. 'Charles,' said I to
him, 'you forget the hour. You are to go out, you know.' 'Why am I to go
out?' he asked. 'My God! why, on urgent business,' and I recalled to his
mind the two matters requiring his immediate attention. 'You are right,'
said he, 'I had not thought of them again.' 'But what are you thinking
of, Charles,' I asked. He blushed, appeared embarrassed, and did not
answer a word."
"Perhaps he has some project, some plan he is meditating, that he thinks
he ought not to confide to you yet."
"That is possible; yet he has never hidden anything from me, even his
most undeveloped plans. No, no, it is not business affairs which absorb
him, because yesterday, instead of talking with his father and me of the
state of things, which I confess to you, Madeleine, is graver than I
thought, or than I told you, Charles talked of things altogether
irrelevant to the subject which concerned us so deeply. And then I did
not have the courage to blame him, because he talked to us especially of
you."
"Of me? And what did he say?"
"That you had been so full of kindness to him yesterday morning. Then he
asked me a thousand little details about you, about your infancy and
your life. I replied to him with pleasure, as you can well believe,
Madeleine. Then suddenly he relapsed into a gloomy silence,--into a sort
of meditation so deep that nothing could draw him out of it, not even
the caresses of our children."
At this moment the old servant of M. Hubert entered, with a surprised
and busy air, and said to Sophie:
"Madame, Mlle. Antonine is with her uncle, no doubt!"
"Yes, Peter; what is the matter?"
"My God, madame! it has astonished me so that I do not know what to
answer."
"What is it, Peter? Explain yourself."
"Well, madame, it is this. There is a strange officer there; probably
one belonging to the prince who now occupies the Élysée."
"Well?"
"This officer has a letter which he wishes to deliver himself, he says,
into the hands of President Hubert, who must give an answer. I tried in
vain to make this officer understand that monsieur was very sick. He
assured me that it concerned a very important and very urgent matter,
and that he came from his Highness who occupies the Élysée. Then,
madame, in my embarrassment I have come to you to ask what I must do."
Madame Dutertre, forgetting her grievance, turned to Madeleine and said,
quickly, with the greatest joy:
"Your hope has not been mistaken. This letter from the prince is,
perhaps, his consent to this marriage. Poor Antonine, how happy she will
be!"
"We must not rejoice too soon, dear Sophie. Let us wait. But do you go
and see this officer, who is no doubt an aid of the prince. Tell him
that M. Hubert, although a little better, is not able to receive him.
Ask the officer to give you the letter, assuring him that you will
deliver it at once to M. Hubert, who will send an answer."
"You are right, Madeleine. Come, Peter," said Sophie, going out of the
room, accompanied by the old servant.
"I was not mistaken," said the marquise, when she was alone. "Those
glances of M. Dutertre. Really it seems a fatality. But I hope," added
she, smiling, "in Sophie's interest, and in her husband's, I shall be
able to draw some good from this slight infidelity."
Then, reflecting a moment, Madeleine added:
"The prince is remarkably punctual. Is it possible that he has given
such immediate attention to the advice contained in my note!"
Antonine came out of her uncle's chamber. At the sight of the marquise
the poor child did not dare take another step. She remained motionless,
mute and trembling, waiting her fate with mortal agony, for Madeleine
had promised that morning to intercede with the prince.
Sophie then entered, holding in her hand the letter which the
aide-de-camp had just delivered. She gave it to Antonine, and said:
"Here, my child, carry this letter to your uncle immediately. It is very
urgent, very important. He will give you an answer, and I will take it
to the man who is waiting."
Antonine took the letter from the hand of Madame Dutertre, throwing a
look of anxious curiosity upon her two friends, who exchanged a hopeful,
intelligent glance. Their expressions of countenance so impressed
Antonine that, addressing the two young women in turn, she said to them:
"Sophie, Madeleine, what is the matter? You look at each other in
silence, and what is this letter? Pray, what has happened? My God!"
"Go quick, my child," said Madeleine. "You will find us here when you
return."
Antonine, more and more perplexed, ran precipitately to her uncle's
room. Madame Dutertre, seeing the marquise bend her head in silent
thought, said to her:
"Madeleine, now what is the matter with you?"
"Nothing, my friend. I am thinking of the happiness of poor
Antonine,--that is, if my hopes do not deceive me."
"Ah, her happiness she will owe to you! With what enthusiastic delight
she and Count Frantz will thank you! Will you not have been their
special providence?"
At the name of Frantz, Madeleine started, blushed slightly, and a cloud
passed over her brow. Sophie had not time to perceive the emotion of her
friend, as Antonine rushed suddenly out of the adjoining chamber, her
charming face radiant with an expression of joy and surprise impossible
to describe. Then, without uttering a word, she threw herself on
Madeleine's neck; but her emotion was excessive; she suddenly turned
pale, and the two friends were obliged to support her.
"God be praised!" said Sophie, "for, in spite of your pallor and
agitation, my poor Antonine, I am certain you have good news."
"Do not tremble so, dear child," said Madeleine, in her turn. "Recover
yourself! Calm yourself!"
"Oh, if you only knew!" murmured the young girl. "No, no, I cannot
believe it yet."
The Marquise de Miranda, taking Antonine's hands affectionately in her
own, said to her:
"You must always believe in happiness, my child. But come now, explain
what you mean."
"Just now," the young girl went on to say, with a voice broken by tears
of joy, "I carried the letter to my uncle. He said to me: 'Antonine, my
sight is very weak; read this letter to me, please.' Then I broke the
seal of the envelope; I did not know why my heart beat with such
violence, but it palpitated so I felt sick. Wait, it is beating now,"
added the young girl, putting her hand on her side, as if she would
restrain the rapid pulsations which interrupted her narrative. Then she
continued:
"I then read the letter; there was--Oh, I have not forgotten a single
word of it.
* * * * *
"'MONSIEUR PRESIDENT HUBERT:--I pray you, notwithstanding your condition
of illness, to grant me at once, if it is possible, a moment of
conversation upon a most urgent and important subject.
"'Your affectionate,
"'LEOPOLD MAXIMILIAN.'
* * * * *
"'But,' said my uncle, sitting up in bed,'this is the name of the prince
who now occupies the Élysée, is it not?' 'I--I--think--it is, uncle,' I
replied. 'What can he wish with me?' asked my uncle. 'I do not know,'
said I, trembling and blushing, because I was telling a falsehood, and I
reproached myself for not daring to confess my love for Frantz. Then my
uncle said, 'It is impossible for me, although I am suffering, to refuse
to receive the prince, but I cannot reply to his letter, I am too
feeble. Take my place, Antonine, and write this,--recollect it well:
"'MONSEIGNEUR:--My weak condition does not permit me to have the honour
of replying to your Highness with my own hand, and I ask another to say
to you, monseigneur, that I am at your service.'
* * * * *
"I am going to write this letter now for my uncle," said Antonine,
approaching a desk in the parlour. "But, say, Sophie," added the young
girl, impulsively, "ought I not to bless Madeleine and thank her on both
knees? For if the prince intended to oppose my marriage with Frantz, he
would not come to see my uncle,--do you think he would, Sophie? And but
for Madeleine, the prince would never have consented to come, would he?"
"Like you, my child, I say that we ought to bless our dear Madeleine,"
replied Madame Dutertre, pressing the hand of the marquise. "But really,
I repeat it again and again, Madeleine, you have a talisman for getting
all you want."
"Alas, dear Sophie!" replied the marquise, smiling, "this talisman, if
indeed I have one, only serves others; not myself."
While the two friends conversed Antonine had seated herself at the desk,
but, at the end of a few moments' vain effort, she was obliged to give
up writing; her little hand trembled so violently that she could not
hold her pen.
"Let me take your place, my dear child," said Madeleine, who had not
taken her eyes off the young girl. "I will write for you."
"Excuse me, Madeleine," said Antonine, yielding her place to the
marquise. "It is not my fault, this excitement is too much for me."
"It is the fault of your heart, poor little thing. I understand your
emotion," writing President Hubert's reply with a firm hand. "Now,"
added she, "ring for some one, Antonine, so that this letter can be
delivered to the officer of the prince without delay."
The old servant entered, and was instructed to deliver the letter to the
officer.
"Now, my little Antonine," said the marquise to the young girl, "there
remains one duty to be fulfilled, and I am certain that Sophie will be
of my opinion; before the arrival of the prince, you must confess all to
your uncle."
"What Madeleine says is very right," replied Sophie. "It would have a
bad effect if your uncle should not be prepared for the probable
intention of the visit of the prince."
"Your uncle is very kind and considerate, my dear Antonine," added
Madeleine, "and he will forgive a lack of confidence, caused
principally, I do not doubt, by your timidity."
"You are right, both of you, I know it," said Antonine, "and, besides, I
ought not to blush at this confession, for, my God, I loved Frantz
without thinking of it, and in spite of myself."
"That is why you should hasten to confide in your uncle, my child, for
the prince will not delay his visit. But tell me," added the marquise,
"because, for reasons of my own, I do not wish to be found here when the
prince arrives, can I not enter your chamber from this parlour?"
"The corridor into which this door opens," replied Antonine, "leads to
my chamber; Sophie knows the way."
"Certainly, I will conduct you, Madeleine," replied Sophie, rising with
the marquise, who, kissing Antonine tenderly on the forehead, said to
her as she pointed to the door of her uncle's chamber, "Go quick, my
dear little one, the moments are precious."
The young girl threw a glance of affectionate gratitude on the two
friends, who, leaving the parlour, followed the corridor on their way to
Antonine's chamber, when they saw the old servant coming.
He approached and said to Sophie:
"Madame, M. Dutertre wishes to speak to you this moment."
"My husband! where is he?"
"Below, madame, in a carriage at the door; he told the porter to order
me to ask you to come down without delay."
"That is strange! Why did he not come up?" said Sophie, looking at her
friend.
"M. Dutertre has something to say to you, madame," said Peter.
Madame Dutertre, not a little disquieted, followed him, as she said to
the marquise,--
"I shall return immediately, my friend, for I am eager to know the
result of the prince's visit to M. Hubert."
Madeleine was left alone.
"I did well to hurry," thought she, with a sort of bitterness. "I did
well to yield to my first instinct of generosity; to-morrow it would
have been too late. I would not, perhaps, have had the courage to
sacrifice myself to Antonine. How strange it is! An hour ago, in
thinking of Frantz and her, I had not a feeling of jealousy or pain, and
only a sweet melancholy, but now by degrees my heart is contracted and
filled with sorrow, and this moment I suffer--oh, yes, how I suffer!"
The abrupt entrance of Sophie interrupted the reflections of the
marquise, and she guessed that some great misfortune had happened by the
frightened, almost wild, expression of Madame Dutertre, who said to her,
in a short, panting voice:
"Madeleine, you have offered me aid, and now I accept it!"
"Great God! Sophie, what is the matter?"
"Our condition is desperate."
"Do explain."
"To-morrow, this evening, perhaps, Charles will be arrested."
"Your husband?"
"Arrested, I say; oh, my God!"
"But what for? What is it?"
"That monster of wickedness, whom we thought our benefactor, M. Pascal,
has--"
"M. Pascal!"
"Yes, yesterday--I did not dare--I have not told you all, but--"
"M. Pascal!" interrupted Madeleine.
"Our fate is in the hands of that pitiless man; he can, and he wishes to
reduce us to the last degree of misery. My God! what will become of us?
What will become of our children and the father of my husband? What will
become of us all? Oh, it is horrible! It is horrible!"
"M. Pascal!" said the marquise, with restrained indignation, "the
wretch! Oh, yes, I read it in his face; I have seen his insolence and
meanness--such a man would be without pity."
"You are acquainted with him?"
"This morning I met him at the palace with the prince. Ah, now I regret
having yielded to the anger, the contempt, which this man inspired in
me. Why did you not tell me sooner? It is a great misfortune that you
did not, Sophie, a great misfortune."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, no matter. There is no use in going back to the past. But let us
see, Sophie, my friend, do not allow yourself to despond, exaggerate
nothing and tell me all, and we will find some way of escaping the blow
which threatens you."
"It is impossible; all that I come to ask in the name of Charles, in the
name of my children, is that--"
"Let me interrupt you. Why do you say it is impossible to prevent this
disaster?"
"M. Pascal is relentless."
"That may be, but what is your position toward him?"
"A year ago my husband found himself, like so many other manufacturers,
in an embarrassed position. M. Pascal offered his services to us.
Charles, deceived by fair appearances, accepted. It would be too long to
explain to you by what a train of affairs Charles, trusting the promises
of M. Pascal, soon discovered that he was absolutely dependent on this
man, who could any day recall more than a hundred thousand crowns,--that
is to say, could ruin our business and plunge us in misery. At last that
day has come, and M. Pascal, strong in this terrible power, places my
husband and myself in the alternative of submitting to this ruin or
consenting to two unworthy deeds he imposes upon us."
"The wretch! The infamous wretch!"
"Yesterday, when you arrived, he had just made known to us his
intentions. We answered according to our hearts and our honour; he swore
to revenge himself on us and to-day he has kept his word. We are lost, I
tell you; he claims, too, that by reason of some authority, he will put
Charles in prison temporarily. My idea, above everything else, is to
save my husband from prison, but he refuses to escape, saying it is only
a decoy, that he has nothing to fear, and that he--"
Madeleine, who had remained silent and thoughtful for some time, again
interrupted her friend, and said to her:
"What would be necessary to free you from all fear of M. Pascal?"
"To reimburse him."
"And what does your husband owe him?"
"More than a hundred thousand crowns, our factory as security, but once
deprived of our property we would possess nothing in the world. My
husband would be declared a bankrupt, and our future would be
hopeless."
"And is there absolutely no other way of escaping M. Pascal than by
immediate repayment?"
"There is one on which my husband had always relied, resting on the word
of this wicked man."
"And what is that way?"
"To give Charles ten years to pay off the debt."
"And suppose you had that assurance?"
"Alas! we would be saved, but M. Pascal wishes to have his revenge, and
he will never consent to give us any means of salvation."
This sad conversation was interrupted by Antonine, who, beaming with
joy, ran into the room, saying:
"Oh, Madeleine! come! come!"
"What is it, my child? Some happy news, I know it by your radiant
countenance."
"Ah, dear friends," said the young girl, "all my fear is that I will not
be able to bear so much happiness! My uncle and the prince consent to
all, and the prince,--oh, he was so kind, so fatherly to me, for he
wanted me to take part in his conversation with my uncle, and he even
asked my pardon for the grief he had caused me in opposing our marriage.
'My only excuse,' said he, with the greatest tenderness, 'is, Mlle.
Antonine, that I did not know you. Madame Marquise de Miranda began my
conversion, and you have finished it, and since she is here, you say,
have the goodness to let her know that I would like to thank her before
you for having put me in the way of repairing the wrong I have done
you.' Were not those noble, touching words!" added the young girl. "Oh,
come, Madeleine, come, my benefactress, my sister, my mother, you to
whom Frantz and I will owe our happiness. And you come too, Sophie,"
added Antonine, taking Madame Dutertre by the hand, "are you not also a
sharer in my happiness as you have been in my confidence and my
despair?"
"My dear child," said Madame Dutertre, trying to disguise her trouble,
"I need not tell you that I share your joy; but the presence of the
prince would embarrass me, and besides, as I was telling Madeleine just
now, I must return home. I cannot leave my children alone too long.
Come, embrace me, Antonine, your happiness is assured; that thought will
be sweet to me, and if I have some sorrow, believe me, it will help me
to bear it. Good-bye. If you have anything new to tell me, come to see
me to-morrow morning."
"Sophie," said the marquise, in a low but firm voice to her friend,
"courage and hope! Do not let your husband go away; wait for me at your
house to-morrow, all the morning."
"What do you mean?"
"I cannot explain more, only let Antonine's experience give you a little
confidence. This morning she was in despair, now you see her radiant
with happiness."
"Yes, thanks to you."
"Come, now, embrace me once more; courage and hope."
Then, approaching Antonine, Madeleine said to her:
"Now, my child, go back to the prince."
The young girl and the marquise left Madame Dutertre, who, yielding in
spite of herself to the conviction which seemed to ring from Madeleine's
words, returned to her dwelling with a ray of hope. The prince waited
for Madeleine in the parlour of President Hubert; he saluted her
respectfully, and said to her, with that ceremonious formality which
Antonine's presence imposed:
"I had it in my heart, marquise, to thank you for the great service you
have rendered me. You have put it in my power to appreciate Mlle. Hubert
as she deserves to be; the happiness of my godson Frantz is for ever
assured. I have agreed with M. President Hubert, who willingly consents
to it, that to-morrow morning the betrothal of Frantz and Mlle. Hubert
will take place according to the German custom, that is to say, that I
and President Hubert will sign, under penalty of perjury and
infidelity, the contract of marriage which Frantz and mademoiselle will
sign under the same conditions."
"Since you have said to Antonine, monseigneur, that I have put you in
the way of truth, Antonine is under obligation to prove to you all the
good that I have told you of her."
"I have a favour to ask of you, marquise," continued the prince, drawing
from his pocket a letter and presenting it to Madeleine. "You are
acquainted with the family of Colonel Pernetti?"
"Very well, monseigneur."
"Then do me the kindness to have this letter delivered to the colonel,
after you have taken knowledge of its contents. I am certain," added the
archduke, emphasising his last words, "that you will have as much
pleasure in sending this letter as he to whom it is addressed will have
pleasure in receiving it."
"I do not doubt it, monseigneur, and I here renew my very sincere
thanks," said the marquise, making a ceremonious curtsey.
"To-morrow, Mlle. Antonine," said the prince to the young girl, "I am
going to break the good news very gently to my poor Frantz, for fear he
may be overcome by his emotion; but I am certain when he knows all he,
like you, will forgive me for the grief I have caused him."
And, after having again formally saluted Antonine and the marquise, with
whom he exchanged a look of intelligence, the prince returned to the
Élysée-Bourbon.
* * * * *
The next day at ten o'clock Madeleine entered a carriage, and was
conducted first to the office of a notary, and then to the house of M.
Pascal.