“So that,” said she, standing face to face with the Baron, and pointing to Cydalise — ”that is the other side of your fidelity? You, who have made me promises that might convert a disbeliever in love! You, for whom I have done so much — have even committed crimes! — You are right, monsieur, I am not to compare with a child of her age and of such beauty!
“I know what you are going to say,” she went on, looking at Wenceslas, whose undress was proof too clear to be denied. “This is my concern. If I could love you after such gross treachery — for you have spied upon me, you have paid for every step up these stairs, paid the mistress of the house, and the servant, perhaps even Reine — a noble deed! — If I had any remnant of affection for such a mean wretch, I could give him reasons that would renew his passion! — But I leave you, monsieur, to your doubts, which will become remorse. — Wenceslas, my gown!”
She took her dress and put it on, looked at herself in the glass, and finished dressing without heeding the Baron, as calmly as if she had been alone in the room.
“Wenceslas, are you ready? — Go first.”
She had been watching Montes in the glass and out of the corner of her eye, and fancied she could see in his pallor an indication of the weakness which delivers a strong man over to a woman’s fascinations; she now took his hand, going so close to him that he could not help inhaling the terrible perfumes which men love, and by which they intoxicate themselves; then, feeling his pulses beat high, she looked at him reproachfully.
“You have my full permission to go and tell your history to Monsieur Crevel; he will never believe you. I have a perfect right to marry him, and he becomes my husband the day after to-morrow. — I shall make him very happy. — Good-bye; try to forget me.”
“Oh! Valerie,” cried Henri Montes, clasping her in his arms, “that is impossible! — Come to Brazil!”
Valerie looked in his face, and saw him her slave.
“Well, if you still love me, Henri, two years hence I will be your wife; but your expression at this moment strikes me as very suspicious.”
“I swear to you that they made me drink, that false friends threw this girl on my hands, and that the whole thing is the outcome of chance!” said Montes.
“Then I am to forgive you?” she asked, with a smile.
“But you will marry, all the same?” asked the Baron, in an agony of jealousy.
“Eighty thousand francs a year!” said she, with almost comical enthusiasm. “And Crevel loves me so much that he will die of it!”
“Ah! I understand,” said Montes.
“Well, then, in a few days we will come to an understanding,” said she.
And she departed triumphant.
“I have no scruples,” thought the Baron, standing transfixed for a few minutes. “What! That woman believes she can make use of his passion to be quit of that dolt, as she counted on Marneffe’s decease! — I shall be the instrument of divine wrath.”
Two days later those of du Tillet’s guests who had demolished Madame Marneffe tooth and nail, were seated round her table an hour after she has shed her skin and changed her name for the illustrious name of a Paris mayor. This verbal treason is one of the commonest forms of Parisian levity.
Valerie had had the satisfaction of seeing the Brazilian in the church; for Crevel, now so entirely the husband, had invited him out of bravado. And the Baron’s presence at the breakfast astonished no one. All these men of wit and of the world were familiar with the meanness of passion, the compromises of pleasure.
Steinbock’s deep melancholy — for he was beginning to despise the woman whom he had adored as an angel — was considered to be in excellent taste. The Pole thus seemed to convey that all was at an end between Valerie and himself. Lisbeth came to embrace her dear Madame Crevel, and to excuse herself for not staying to the breakfast on the score of Adeline’s sad state of health.
“Be quite easy,” said she to Valerie, “they will call on you, and you will call on them. Simply hearing the words two hundred thousand francs has brought the Baroness to death’s door. Oh, you have them all hard and fast by that tale! — But you must tell it to me.”
Within a month of her marriage, Valerie was at her tenth quarrel with Steinbock; he insisted on explanations as to Henri Montes, reminding her of the words spoken in their paradise; and, not content with speaking to her in terms of scorn, he watched her so closely that she never had a moment of liberty, so much was she fettered by his jealousy on one side and Crevel’s devotion on the other.
Bereft now of Lisbeth, whose advice had always been so valuable she flew into such a rage as to reproach Wenceslas for the money she had lent him. This so effectually roused Steinbock’s pride, that he came no more to the Crevels’ house. So Valerie had gained her point, which was to be rid of him for a time, and enjoy some freedom. She waited till Crevel should make a little journey into the country to see Comte Popinot, with a view to arranging for her introduction to the Countess, and was then able to make an appointment to meet the Baron, whom she wanted to have at her command for a whole day to give him those “reasons” which were to make him love her more than ever.
On the morning of that day, Reine, who estimated the magnitude of her crime by that of the bribe she received, tried to warn her mistress, in whom she naturally took more interest than in strangers. Still, as she had been threatened with madness, and ending her days in the Salpetriere in case of indiscretion, she was cautious.
“Madame, you are so well off now,” said she. “Why take on again with that Brazilian? — I do not trust him at all.”
“You are very right, Reine, and I mean to be rid of him.”
“Oh, madame, I am glad to hear it; he frightens me, does that big Moor! I believe him to be capable of anything.”
“Silly child! you have more reason to be afraid for him when he is with me.”
At this moment Lisbeth came in.
“My dear little pet Nanny, what an age since we met!” cried Valerie. “I am so unhappy! Crevel bores me to death; and Wenceslas is gone — we quarreled.”
“I know,” said Lisbeth, “and that is what brings me here. Victorin met him at about five in the afternoon going into an eating-house at five-and-twenty sous, and he brought him home, hungry, by working on his feelings, to the Rue Louis-le-Grand. — Hortense, seeing Wenceslas lean and ill and badly dressed, held out her hand. This is how you throw me over — ”
“Monsieur Henri, madame,” the man-servant announced in a low voice to Valerie.
“Leave me now, Lisbeth; I will explain it all to-morrow.” But, as will be seen, Valerie was ere long not in a state to explain anything to anybody.
Towards the end of May, Baron Hulot’s pension was released by Victorin’s regular payment to Baron Nucingen. As everybody knows, pensions are paid half-yearly, and only on the presentation of a certificate that the recipient is alive: and as Hulot’s residence was unknown, the arrears unpaid on Vauvinet’s demand remained to his credit in the Treasury. Vauvinet now signed his renunciation of any further claims, and it was still indispensable to find the pensioner before the arrears could be drawn.
Thanks to Bianchon’s care, the Baroness had recovered her health; and to this Josepha’s good heart had contributed by a letter, of which the orthography betrayed the collaboration of the Duc d’Herouville. This was what the singer wrote to the Baroness, after twenty days of anxious search: —
“MADAME LA BARONNE, — Monsieur Hulot was living, two months since,
in the Rue des Bernardins, with Elodie Chardin, a lace-mender, for
whom he had left Mademoiselle Bijou; but he went away without a
word, leaving everything behind him, and no one knows where he
went. I am not without hope, however, and I have put a man on this
track who believes he has already seen him in the Boulevard
Bourdon.
“The poor Jewess means to keep the promise she made to the
Christian. Will the angel pra
y for the devil? That must sometimes
happen in heaven. — I remain, with the deepest respect, always your
humble servant,
“JOSEPHA MIRAH.”
The lawyer, Maitre Hulot d’Ervy, hearing no more of the dreadful Madame Nourrisson, seeing his father-in-law married, having brought back his brother-in-law to the family fold, suffering from no importunity on the part of his new stepmother, and seeing his mother’s health improve daily, gave himself up to his political and judicial duties, swept along by the tide of Paris life, in which the hours count for days.
One night, towards the end of the session, having occasion to write up a report to the Chamber of Deputies, he was obliged to sit at work till late at night. He had gone into his study at nine o’clock, and, while waiting till the man-servant should bring in the candles with green shades, his thoughts turned to his father. He was blaming himself for leaving the inquiry so much to the singer, and had resolved to see Monsieur Chapuzot himself on the morrow, when he saw in the twilight, outside the window, a handsome old head, bald and yellow, with a fringe of white hair.
“Would you please to give orders, sir, that a poor hermit is to be admitted, just come from the Desert, and who is instructed to beg for contributions towards rebuilding a holy house.”
This apparition, which suddenly reminded the lawyer of a prophecy uttered by the terrible Nourrisson, gave him a shock.
“Let in that old man,” said he to the servant.
“He will poison the place, sir,” replied the man. “He has on a brown gown which he has never changed since he left Syria, and he has no shirt — ”
“Show him in,” repeated the master.
The old man came in. Victorin’s keen eye examined this so-called pilgrim hermit, and he saw a fine specimen of the Neapolitan friars, whose frocks are akin to the rags of the lazzaroni, whose sandals are tatters of leather, as the friars are tatters of humanity. The get-up was so perfect that the lawyer, though still on his guard, was vexed with himself for having believed it to be one of Madame Nourrisson’s tricks.
“How much to you want of me?”
“Whatever you feel that you ought to give me.”
Victorin took a five-franc piece from a little pile on his table, and handed it to the stranger.
“That is not much on account of fifty thousand francs,” said the pilgrim of the desert.
This speech removed all Victorin’s doubts.
“And has Heaven kept its word?” he said, with a frown.
“The question is an offence, my son,” said the hermit. “If you do not choose to pay till after the funeral, you are in your rights. I will return in a week’s time.”
“The funeral!” cried the lawyer, starting up.
“The world moves on,” said the old man, as he withdrew, “and the dead move quickly in Paris!”
When Hulot, who stood looking down, was about to reply, the stalwart old man had vanished.
“I don’t understand one word of all this,” said Victorin to himself. “But at the end of the week I will ask him again about my father, if we have not yet found him. Where does Madame Nourrisson — yes, that was her name — pick up such actors?”
On the following day, Doctor Bianchon allowed the Baroness to go down into the garden, after examining Lisbeth, who had been obliged to keep to her room for a month by a slight bronchial attack. The learned doctor, who dared not pronounce a definite opinion on Lisbeth’s case till he had seen some decisive symptoms, went into the garden with Adeline to observe the effect of the fresh air on her nervous trembling after two months of seclusion. He was interested and allured by the hope of curing this nervous complaint. On seeing the great physician sitting with them and sparing them a few minutes, the Baroness and her family conversed with him on general subjects.
“You life is a very full and a very sad one,” said Madame Hulot. “I know what it is to spend one’s days in seeing poverty and physical suffering.”
“I know, madame,” replied the doctor, “all the scenes of which charity compels you to be a spectator; but you will get used to it in time, as we all do. It is the law of existence. The confessor, the magistrate, the lawyer would find life unendurable if the spirit of the State did not assert itself above the feelings of the individual. Could we live at all but for that? Is not the soldier in time of war brought face to face with spectacles even more dreadful than those we see? And every soldier that has been under fire is kind-hearted. We medical men have the pleasure now and again of a successful cure, as you have that of saving a family from the horrors of hunger, depravity, or misery, and of restoring it to social respectability. But what comfort can the magistrate find, the police agent, or the attorney, who spend their lives in investigating the basest schemes of self-interest, the social monster whose only regret is when it fails, but on whom repentance never dawns?
“One-half of society spends its life in watching the other half. A very old friend of mine is an attorney, now retired, who told me that for fifteen years past notaries and lawyers have distrusted their clients quite as much as their adversaries. Your son is a pleader; has he never found himself compromised by the client for whom he held a brief?”
“Very often,” said Victorin, with a smile.
“And what is the cause of this deep-seated evil?” asked the Baroness.
“The decay of religion,” said Bianchon, “and the pre-eminence of finance, which is simply solidified selfishness. Money used not to be everything; there were some kinds of superiority that ranked above it — nobility, genius, service done to the State. But nowadays the law takes wealth as the universal standard, and regards it as the measure of public capacity. Certain magistrates are ineligible to the Chamber; Jean-Jacques Rousseau would be ineligible! The perpetual subdivision of estate compels every man to take care of himself from the age of twenty.
“Well, then, between the necessity for making a fortune and the depravity of speculation there is no check or hindrance; for the religious sense is wholly lacking in France, in spite of the laudable endeavors of those who are working for a Catholic revival. And this is the opinion of every man who, like me, studies society at the core.”
“And you have few pleasures?” said Hortense.
“The true physician, madame, is in love with his science,” replied the doctor. “He is sustained by that passion as much as by the sense of his usefulness to society.
“At this very time you see in me a sort of scientific rapture, and many superficial judges would regard me as a man devoid of feeling. I have to announce a discovery to-morrow to the College of Medicine, for I am studying a disease that had disappeared — a mortal disease for which no cure is known in temperate climates, though it is curable in the West Indies — a malady known here in the Middle Ages. A noble fight is that of the physician against such a disease. For the last ten days I have thought of nothing but these cases — for there are two, a husband and wife. — Are they not connections of yours? For you, madame, are surely Monsieur Crevel’s daughter?” said he, addressing Celestine.
“What, is my father your patient?” asked Celestine. “Living in the Rue Barbet-de-Jouy?”
“Precisely so,” said Bianchon.
“And the disease is inevitably fatal?” said Victorin in dismay.
“I will go to see him,” said Celestine, rising.
“I positively forbid it, madame,” Bianchon quietly said. “The disease is contagious.”
“But you go there, monsieur,” replied the young woman. “Do you think that a daughter’s duty is less binding than a doctor’s?”
“Madame, a physician knows how to protect himself against infection, and the rashness of your devotion proves to me that you would probably be less prudent than I.”
Celestine, however, got up and went to her room, where she dressed to go out.
“Monsieur,” said Victorin to Bianchon, “have you any hope of saving Monsieur and Madame Crevel?”
“I hope, but I do not believe tha
t I may,” said Bianchon. “The case is to me quite inexplicable. The disease is peculiar to negroes and the American tribes, whose skin is differently constituted to that of the white races. Now I can trace no connection with the copper-colored tribes, with negroes or half-castes, in Monsieur or Madame Crevel.
“And though it is a very interesting disease to us, it is a terrible thing for the sufferers. The poor woman, who is said to have been very pretty, is punished for her sins, for she is now squalidly hideous if she is still anything at all. She is losing her hair and teeth, her skin is like a leper’s, she is a horror to herself; her hands are horrible, covered with greenish pustules, her nails are loose, and the flesh is eaten away by the poisoned humors.”
“And the cause of such a disease?” asked the lawyer.
“Oh!” said the doctor, “the cause lies in a form of rapid blood-poisoning; it degenerates with terrific rapidity. I hope to act on the blood; I am having it analyzed; and I am now going home to ascertain the result of the labors of my friend Professor Duval, the famous chemist, with a view to trying one of those desperate measures by which we sometimes attempt to defeat death.”
“The hand of God is there!” said Adeline, in a voice husky with emotion. “Though that woman has brought sorrows on me which have led me in moments of madness to invoke the vengeance of Heaven, I hope — God knows I hope — you may succeed, doctor.”
Victorin felt dizzy. He looked at his mother, his sister, and the physician by turns, quaking lest they should read his thoughts. He felt himself a murderer.
Hortense, for her part, thought God was just.
Celestine came back to beg her husband to accompany her.
“If you insist on going, madame, and you too, monsieur, keep at least a foot between you and the bed of the sufferer, that is the chief precaution. Neither you nor your wife must dream of kissing the dying man. And, indeed, you ought to go with your wife, Monsieur Hulot, to hinder her from disobeying my injunctions.”
Adeline and Hortense, when they were left alone, went to sit with Lisbeth. Hortense had such a virulent hatred of Valerie that she could not contain the expression of it.
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 722