“There is certainly much truth in what you say with such warmth,” said la Peyrade, finally.
“Much truth!” exclaimed Corentin, going back to his chair, “say, rather, that it is all true, and nothing but the truth; yet it is not the whole truth. But enough for to-day, monsieur. To succeed me in my functions, and to marry your cousin with a ‘dot’ that will not be less than five hundred thousand francs, that is my offer. I do not ask you for an answer now. I should have no confidence in a determination not seriously reflected upon. To-morrow, I shall be at home all the morning. I trust that my conviction may then have formed yours.”
Dismissing his visitor with a curt little bow, he added: “I do not bid you adieu, but au revoir, Monsieur de la Peyrade.”
Whereupon Corentin went to a side-table, where he found all that he needed to prepare a glass of “eau sucree,” which he had certainly earned, and, without looking at la Peyrade, who left the room rather stunned, he seemed to have no other interest on his mind than that prosaic preparation.
Was it, indeed, necessary that the morning after this meeting with Corentin a visit from Madame Lambert, now become an exacting and importunate creditor, should come to bear its weight on la Peyrade’s determination? As the great chief had pointed out to him the night before, was there not in his nature, in his mind, in his aspirations, in the mistakes and imprudences of his past life, a sort of irresistible incline which drew him down toward the strange solution of existence thus suddenly offered to him?
Fatality, if we may so call it, was lavish of the inducements to which he was destined to succumb. This day was the 31st of October; the vacation of the Palais was just over. The 2nd of November was the day on which the courts reopened, and as Madame Lambert left his room he received a summons to appear on that day before the Council of his order.
To Madame Lambert, who pressed him sharply to repay her, under pretence that she was about to leave Monsieur Picot and return to her native place, he replied: “Come here the day after to-morrow, at the same hour, and your money will be ready for you.”
To the summons to give account of his actions to his peers he replied that he did not recognize the right of the Council to question him on the facts of his private life. That was an answer of one sort, certainly. Inevitably it would result in his being stricken from the roll of the barristers of the Royal courts; but, at least, it had an air of dignity and protestation which saved, in a measure, his self-love.
Finally, he wrote a letter to Thuillier, in which he said that his visit to du Portail had resulted in his being obliged to accept another marriage. He therefore returned to Thuillier his promise, and took back his own. All this was curtly said, without the slightest expression of regret for the marriage he renounced. In a postscript he added: “We shall be obliged to discuss my position on the newspaper,” — indicating that it might enter into his plans not to retain it.
He was careful to make a copy of this letter, and an hour later, when, in Corentin’s study, he was questioned as to the result of his night’s reflections, he gave that great general, for all answer, the matrimonial resignation he had just despatched.
“That will do,” said Corentin. “But as for your position on the newspaper, you may perhaps have to keep it for a time. The candidacy of that fool interferes with the plans of the government, and we must manage in some way to trip up the heels of the municipal councillor. In your position as editor-in-chief you may find a chance to do it, and I think your conscience won’t kick at the mission.”
“No, indeed!” said la Peyrade, “the thought of the humiliations to which I have been so long subjected will make it a precious joy to lash that bourgeois brood.”
“Take care!” said Corentin; “you are young, and you must watch against those revengeful emotions. In our austere profession we love nothing and we hate nothing. Men are to us mere pawns of wood or ivory, according to their quality — with which we play our game. We are like the blade that cuts what is given it to cut, but, careful only to be delicately sharpened, wishes neither harm nor good to any one. Now let us speak of your cousin, to whom, I suppose, you have some curiosity to be presented.”
La Peyrade was not obliged to pretend to eagerness, that which he felt was genuine.
“Lydie de la Peyrade,” said Corentin, “is nearly thirty, but her innocence, joined to a gentle form of insanity, has kept her apart from all those passions, ideas, and impressions which use up life, and has, if I may say so, embalmed her in a sort of eternal youth. You would not think her more than twenty. She is fair and slender; her face, which is very delicate, is especially remarkable for an expression of angelic sweetness. Deprived of her full reason by a terrible catastrophe, her monomania has something touching about it. She always carries in her arms or keeps beside her a bundle of linen which she nurses and cares for as though it were a sick child; and, excepting Bruneau and myself, whom she recognizes, she thinks all other men are doctors, whom she consults about the child, and to whom she listens as oracles. A crisis which lately happened in her malady has convinced Horace Bianchon, that prince of science, that if the reality could be substituted for this long delusion of motherhood, her reason would assert itself. It is surely a worthy task to bring back light to a soul in which it is scarcely veiled; and the existing bond of relationship has seemed to me to point you out as specially designated to effect this cure, the success of which Bianchon and two other eminent doctors who have consulted with him declare to be beyond a doubt. Now, I will take you to Lydie’s presence; remember to play the part of doctor; for the only thing that makes her lose her customary serenity is not to enter into her notion of medical consultation.”
After crossing several rooms Corentin was on the point of taking la Peyrade into that usually occupied by Lydie when employed in cradling or dandling her imaginary child, when suddenly they were stopped by the sound of two or three chords struck by the hand of a master on a piano of the finest sonority.
“What is that?” asked la Peyrade.
“That is Lydie,” replied Corentin, with what might be called an expression of paternal pride; “she is an admirable musician, and though she no longer writes down, as in the days when her mind was clear, her delightful melodies, she often improvises them in a way that moves me to the soul — the soul of Corentin!” added the old man, smiling. “Is not that the finest praise I can bestow upon her? But suppose we sit down here and listen to her. If we go in, the concert will cease and the medical consultation begin.”
La Peyrade was amazed as he listened to an improvisation in which the rare union of inspiration and science opened to his impressionable nature a source of emotions as deep as they were unexpected. Corentin watched the surprise which from moment to moment the Provencal expressed by admiring exclamations.
“Hein! how she plays!” said the old man. “Liszt himself hasn’t a firmer touch.”
To a very quick “scherzo” the performer now added the first notes of an “adagio.”
“She is going to sing,” said Corentin, recognizing the air.
“Does she sing too?” asked la Peyrade.
“Like Pasta, like Malibran; but hush, listen to her!”
After a few opening bars in “arpeggio” a vibrant voice resounded, the tones of which appeared to stir the Provencal to the depths of his being.
“How the music moves you!” said Corentin; “you were undoubtedly made for each other.”
“My God! the same air! the same voice!”
“Have you already met Lydie somewhere?” asked the great master of the police.
“I don’t know — I think not,” answered la Peyrade, in a stammering voice; “in any case, it was long ago — But that air — that voice — I think — ”
“Let us go in,” said Corentin.
Opening the door abruptly, he entered, pulling the young man after him.
Sitting with her back to the door, and prevented by the sound of the piano from hearing what happened behind her, Lydie did not notice t
heir entrance.
“Now have you any remembrance of her?” said Corentin.
La Peyrade advanced a step, and no sooner had he caught a glimpse of the girl’s profile than he threw up his hands above his head, striking them together.
“It is she!” he cried.
Hearing his cry, Lydie turned round, and fixing her attention on Corentin, she said: —
“How naughty and troublesome you are to come and disturb me; you know very well I don’t like to be listened to. Ah! but — ” she added, catching sight of la Peyrade’s black coat, “you have brought the doctor; that is very kind of you; I was just going to ask you to send for him. The baby has done nothing but cry since morning; I was singing to put her to sleep, but nothing can do that.”
And she ran to fetch what she called her child from a corner of the room, where with two chairs laid on their backs and the cushions of the sofa, she had constructed a sort of cradle.
As she went towards la Peyrade, carrying her precious bundle with one hand, with the other she was arranging the imaginary cap of her “little darling,” having no eyes except for the sad creation of her disordered brain. Step by step, as she advanced, la Peyrade, pale, trembling, and with staring eyes, retreated backwards, until he struck against a seat, into which, losing his equilibrium, he fell.
A man of Corentin’s power and experience, and who, moreover, knew to its slightest detail the horrible drama in which Lydie had lost her reason, had already, of course, taken in the situation, but it suited his purpose and his ideas to allow the clear light of evidence to pierce this darkness.
“Look, doctor,” said Lydie, unfastening the bundle, and putting the pins in her mouth as she did so, “don’t you see that she is growing thinner every day?”
La Peyrade could not answer; he kept his handkerchief over his face, and his breath came so fast from his chest that he was totally unable to utter a word.
Then, with one of those gestures of feverish impatience, to which her mental state predisposed her, she exclaimed, hastily: —
“But look at her doctor, look!” taking his arm violently and forcing him to show his features. “My God!” she cried, when she had looked him in the face.
Letting fall the linen bundle in her arms, she threw herself hastily backwards, and her eyes grew haggard. Passing her white hands rapidly over her forehead and through her hair, tossing it into disorder, she seemed to be making an effort to obtain from her memory some dormant recollection. Then, like a frightened mare, which comes to smell an object that has given it a momentary terror, she approached la Peyrade slowly, stooping to look into his face, which he kept lowered, while, in the midst of a silence inexpressible, she examined him steadily for several seconds. Suddenly a terrible cry escaped her breast; she ran for refuge into the arms of Corentin, and pressing herself against him with all her force, she exclaimed: —
“Save me! save me! It is he! the wretch! It is he who did it!”
And, with her finger pointed at la Peyrade, she seemed to nail the miserable object of her terror to his place.
After this explosion, she muttered a few disconnected words, and her eyes closed; Corentin felt the relaxing of all the muscles by which she had held him as in a vice the moment before, and he took her in his arms and laid her on the sofa, insensible.
“Do not stay here, monsieur,” said Corentin. “Go into my study; I will come to you presently.”
A few minutes later, after giving Lydie into the care of Katte and Bruneau, and despatching Perrache for Doctor Bianchon, Corentin rejoined la Peyrade.
“You see now, monsieur,” he said with solemnity, “that in pursuing with a sort of passion the idea of this marriage, I was following, in a sense, the ways of God.”
“Monsieur,” said la Peyrade, with compunction, “I will confess to you — ”
“Useless,” said Corentin; “you can tell me nothing that I do not know; I, on the contrary, have much to tell you. Old Peyrade, your uncle, in the hope of earning a POT for this daughter whom he idolized, entered into a dangerous private enterprise, the nature of which I need not explain. In it he made enemies; enemies who stopped at nothing, — murder, poison, rape. To paralyze your uncle’s action by attacking him in his dearest spot, Lydie was, not abducted, but enticed from her home and taken to a house apparently respectable, where for ten days she was kept concealed. She was not much alarmed by this detention, being told that it was done at her father’s wish, and she spent her time with her music — you remember, monsieur, how she sang?”
“Oh!” exclaimed la Peyrade, covering his face with his hands.
“I told you yesterday that you might perhaps have more upon your conscience than the Thuillier house. But you were young; you had just come from your province, with that brutality, that frenzy of Southern blood in your veins which flings itself upon such an occasion. Besides, your relationship became known to those who were preparing the ruin of this new Clarissa Harlowe, and I am willing to believe than an abler and better man than you might not have escaped the entanglement into which you fell. Happily, Providence has granted that there is nothing absolutely irreparable in this horrible history. The same poison, according to the use that is made of it, may give either death or health.”
“But, monsieur,” said la Peyrade, “shall I not always be to her an object of horror?”
“The doctor, monsieur,” said Katte, opening the door.
“How is Mademoiselle Lydie?” asked la Peyrade, eagerly.
“Very calm,” replied Katte. “Just now, when we put her to bed, — though she did not want to go, saying she felt well, — I took her the bundle of linen, but she told me to take it away, and asked what I meant her to do with it.”
“You see,” said Corentin, grasping the Provencal’s hand, “you are the lance of Achilles.”
And he left the room with Katte to receive Doctor Bianchon.
Left alone, Theodose was a prey to thoughts which may perhaps be imagined. After a while the door opened, and Bruneau, the old valet, ushered in Cerizet. Seeing la Peyrade, the latter exclaimed: —
“Ha! ha! I knew it! I knew you would end by seeing du Portail. And the marriage, — how does that come on?”
“What are you doing here?” asked la Peyrade.
“Something that concerns you; or rather, something that we must do together. Du Portail, who is too busy to attend to business just now, has sent me in here to see you, and consult as to the best means of putting a spoke in Thuillier’s election; it seems that the government is determined to prevent his winning it. Have you any ideas about it?”
“No,” replied la Peyrade; “and I don’t feel in the mood just now to be imaginative.”
“Well, here’s the situation,” said Cerizet. “The government has another candidate, which it doesn’t yet produce, because the ministerial negotiations with him have been rather difficult. During this time Thuillier’s chances have been making headway. Minard, on whom they counted to create a diversion, sits, the stupid fool, in his corner; the seizure of that pamphlet has given your blockhead of a protege a certain perfume of popularity. In short, the ministry are afraid he’ll be elected, and nothing could be more disagreeable to them. Pompous imbeciles, like Thuillier, are horribly embarrassing in the Opposition; they are pitchers without handles; you can’t take hold of them anywhere.”
“Monsieur Cerizet,” said la Peyrade, beginning to assume a protecting tone, and wishing to discover his late associate’s place in Corentin’s confidence, “you seem to know a good deal about the secret intentions of the government; have you found your way to a certain desk in the rue de Grenelle?”
“No. All that I tell you,” said Cerizet, “I get from du Portail.”
“Ah ca!” said la Peyrade, lowering his voice, “who is du Portail? You seem to have known him for some time. A man of your force ought to have discovered the real character of a man who seems to me to be rather mysterious.”
“My friend,” replied Cerizet, “du Portail is a pr
etty strong man. He’s an old slyboots, who has had some post, I fancy, in the administration of the national domain, or something of that kind, under government; in which, I think, he must have been employed in the departments suppressed under the Empire.”
“Yes?” said la Peyrade.
“That’s where I think he made his money,” continued Cerizet; “and being a shrewd old fellow, and having a natural daughter to marry, he has concocted this philanthropic tale of her being the daughter of an old friend named Peyrade; and your name being the same may have given him the idea of fastening upon you — for, after all, he has to marry her to somebody.”
“Yes, that’s all very well; but his close relations with the government, and the interest he takes in elections, how do you explain all that?”
“Naturally enough,” replied Cerizet. “Du Portail is a man who loves money, and likes to handle it; he has done Rastignac, that great manipulator of elections, who is, I think, his compatriot, several signal services as an amateur; Rastignac, in return, gives him information, obtained through Nucingen, which enables him to gamble at the Bourse.”
“Did he himself tell you all this?” asked la Peyrade.
“What do you take me for?” returned Cerizet. “With that worthy old fellow, from whom I have already wormed a promise of thirty thousand francs, I play the ninny; I flatten myself to nothing. But I’ve made Bruneau talk, that old valet of his. You can safely ally yourself to his family, my dear fellow; du Portail is powerfully rich; he’ll get you made sub-prefect somewhere; and thence to a prefecture and a fortune is but one step.”
“Thanks for the information,” said la Peyrade; “at least, I shall know on which foot to hop. But you yourself, how came you to know him?”
“Oh! that’s quite a history; by my help he was able to get back a lot of diamonds which had been stolen from him.”
At this moment Corentin entered the room.
“All is well,” he said to la Peyrade. “There are signs of returning reason. Bianchon, to whom I have told all, wishes to confer with you; therefore, my dear Monsieur Cerizet, we will postpone until this evening, if you are willing, our little study over the Thuillier election.”
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 846