Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “How shameful!”

  “You understand? Women have so much self-love, — a little more and we should have been separated; but, fortunately, last evening she explained all frankly to me, and I disabused her mind. To tell you her extreme delight would be impossible, for she loves me, — oh, yes, she loves me! The coldness she evinced towards me lay as cruelly on herself as on me, and now, at length, our distressing separation has ended. Only conceive my delight!”

  “Can it be true?” cried Joseph, with tears in his eyes. “Can it really be true, M. le Marquis? And now your life will be happy, for it was only my lady’s love that you required, or, rather, since her estrangement was your sole misery, as you told me.”

  “And to whom but you should I have told it, my worthy old Joseph? Do not you possess, also, a still sadder secret? But do not let us say anything more of sorrows now, — it is too bright a time. You see, perhaps, that I have been weeping? It is because this happiness has come over me so suddenly, when I so little anticipated it! How weak I am! — am I not?”

  “Well, well, M. le Marquis, you may weep for joy as much as you please, for you have wept long enough for pain; and now see, do not I do as you do? They are right sort of tears, and I would not give them for ten years more of life. I have now but one fear, and that is, not to be able to prevent myself from falling at the feet of Madame la Marquise the first time I see her.”

  “Silly old fellow! Why you are as weak as your master. And now I have but one fear.”

  “And what is that?”

  “That this will not last; I am too happy. What now is wanting to me?”

  “Nothing, — nothing, M. le Marquis, — absolutely nothing.”

  “That is why I mistrust such perfect happiness, — too complete.”

  “Alas! If that is all, why, M. le Marquis — But no, I dare not.”

  “I understand you. Well, I believe your fears are vain. The change which my happiness causes me is so intense, so complete, that I am almost sure of being nearly cured.”

  “How?”

  “My doctor has told me a hundred times that a violent emotion is frequently sufficient either to bring on or to cure this terrible malady.”

  “You are right, monsieur, — you are cured, and what a blessing that is! Ah, as you say, M. le Marquis, the marquise is a good angel come down from heaven; and I begin myself to be almost alarmed lest the happiness is too great; but now I think of it, if you only want a small matter just to annoy you, thank God, I have just the very thing!”

  “What is it?”

  “One of your friends has very luckily had a sword-wound, very slight, to be sure; but that’s all the same, it is quite enough for you, as you desire to make a small black spot in your too happy day.”

  “What do you mean, and of whom do you speak?”

  “The Duke de Lucenay.”

  “Is he wounded?”

  “A scratch in the arm. M. the Duke came yesterday to call on you, sir, and told me he should come again this morning, and invite himself to a cup of tea.”

  “Poor Lucenay! And why did you not tell me this?”

  “I could not see you last night, M. le Marquis.”

  After a moment’s reflection, M. d’Harville resumed:

  “You are right, this slight regret will, doubtless, satisfy jealous Fate. But an idea has come across me; I should like to get up a bachelors’ breakfast this morning of all the friends of M. de Lucenay, to celebrate the fortunate result of his duel; not anticipating such a meeting, he will be delighted.”

  “A capital idea, M. le Marquis. Vive la joie! Let us make up for lost time. For how many shall I desire the maître d’hôtel to lay covers?”

  “For six, in the small winter dining-room.”

  “And the invitations?”

  “I will write them. Let a groom get his horse ready, and take them instantly. It is very early, and he will find everybody at home. Ring.”

  Joseph rang the bell.

  M. d’Harville entered into his cabinet, and wrote the following letter, with no other alteration than the name of each invited guest.

  “My dear —— : This is a circular, and is also an impromptu. Lucenay is coming to breakfast with me this morning, expecting only a tête-à-tête. Will you join me and several friends, whom I also invite, in giving him an agreeable surprise?

  “Twelve punctually.

  “M. d’Harville.”

  A servant entered.

  “Desire some one to get on horseback, and deliver these notes directly,” said M. d’Harville; and then, addressing Joseph, “Write the addresses: M. le Vicomte de Saint-Remy, — Lucenay cannot get on without him,” said M. d’Harville to himself; “M. de Monville, one of the duke’s travelling companions; Lord Douglas, his beloved partner at whist; the Baron de Sézannes, one of the friends of his childhood. Have you done?”

  “Yes, M. le Marquis.”

  “Send them off, then, without losing a minute’s time,” said M. d’Harville.

  “Ah, Philippe, request M. Doublet to come and speak to me.”

  Philippe left the room.

  “Well, what is the matter with you?” inquired M. d’Harville of Joseph, who looked at him with astonishment.

  “I cannot get over it, sir; I never saw you in such spirits, — so lively; and then you, who are usually so pale, have got such a colour, and your eyes sparkle.”

  “Happiness, my old friend, — happiness, and nothing else; and you must assist me in my little plot. You must go and learn of Mlle. Juliette, Madame d’Harville’s waiting-woman, who has the care of her diamonds.”

  “Yes, M. le Marquis, it is Mlle. Juliette who has the charge of them, for it is not eight days since I helped her to clean them.”

  “Ask her to tell you the name of her lady’s jeweller, but not to say a word on the subject to her mistress.”

  “Ah, I understand, — a surprise.”

  “Go as quickly as possible. Here is M. Doublet.”

  And the steward entered as Joseph quitted the apartment.

  “I have the honour to attend the orders of M. le Marquis.”

  “My dear M. Doublet, I am going to alarm you,” said M. d’Harville, smiling; “I shall compel you to utter fearful cries of distress.”

  “Me, sir?”

  “You.”

  “I will endeavour to give satisfaction to M. le Marquis.”

  “I am going to spend an enormous sum, M. Doublet.”

  “Why not, M. le Marquis? We are well able to do so.”

  “I have been planning a considerable extent of building. I propose to annex a gallery in the garden, on the right wing of the hôtel. After having hesitated at this folly, of which I have not before spoken to you, I have made up my mind on the point, and I wish you to send to-day to my architect, desiring him to come and talk over the plans with me. Well, M. Doublet, you do not seem to object to the outlay.”

  “I can assure your lordship that I have no objection whatsoever.”

  “This gallery is destined for fêtes, and I wish to have it erected as though by enchantment; and, as enchantments are very dear, we must sell fifteen or twenty thousand livres of income in order to meet the expenditure, for I wish the work to be begun as speedily as possible.”

  “I have always said there is nothing which M. le Marquis wants, unless it be a certain taste. That for building has the advantage of having the buildings always left; as to money, M. le Marquis need not alarm himself, and he may, if he pleases, build the gallery.”

  Joseph returned.

  “Here, M. le Marquis, is the address of the jeweller, whose name is M. Baudoin,” said he to M. d’Harville.

  “My dear M. Doublet, will you go to this jeweller’s, and desire him to bring here in an hour a river of diamonds, worth, say, two thousand louis? Women never have too many jewels, now they wear gowns decorated with them. You can arrange with the jeweller as to the payment.”

  “Yes, M. le Marquis; and I do not even yet begin to groan. Diamon
ds are like buildings, — they remain. And then, no doubt, the surprise will greatly please Madame la Marquise, without counting the pleasure that you yourself will experience. It is as I had the honour of saying the other day, there is not in the world any person whose existence can be more delightful than that of M. le Marquis.”

  “My dear M. Doublet,” said M. d’Harville, with a smile, “your congratulations are always so peculiarly apropos.”

  “That is their only merit, M. le Marquis; and they possess that merit, perhaps, because they proceed from the heart. I will run to the jeweller.”

  As soon as he was alone, M. d’Harville began to pace up and down his cabinet, with his arms folded, and his eye fixed and meditative. His features suddenly changed, and no longer expressed that somewhat feverish contentment of which the steward and his old servant had been the dupes, but assumed a calm, sad, and chilling resolution. Afterwards, having paced up and down for a short time, he sunk into a chair heavily, and, as though weighed down with sorrow, placed his elbows on his desk, and hid his face in his hands. After a moment he rose suddenly, wiped a tear which moistened his red eyelid, and said with effort:

  “Come, come! Courage, courage!”

  He then wrote to several persons on very trifling matters, and postponed various meetings for some days. The marquis had concluded this correspondence when Joseph again entered, so gay, and so forgetful of himself, as to hum a tune in his turn.

  “M. Joseph, what a charming voice you have!” said his master, jestingly.

  “Ma foi! so much the worse, M. le Marquis, for I don’t care about it. I am singing so merrily within, that my music must be heard without.”

  “Send these letters to the post.”

  “Yes, M. le Marquis; but where will you receive the gentlemen who are expected this morning?”

  “Here, in my cabinet; they will smoke after breakfast, and then the smell of the tobacco will not reach Madame d’Harville.”

  At this moment the noise of carriage wheels was heard in the courtyard of the hôtel.

  “It is Madame la Marquise going out; she ordered her carriage very early this morning,” said Joseph.

  “Run and request her to be so kind and come here before she goes out.”

  “Yes, M. le Marquis.”

  The domestic had scarcely left the room when M. d’Harville approached a mirror, and looked at himself attentively.

  “Well, well,” said he, in a hoarse voice, “it is there, — the flushed cheeks — the bright look — joy or fever, it is little consequence which, so that they are deceived; now, then, for the smile on the lips, — there are so many sorts of smiles! But who can distinguish the false from the true? Who can peep beneath the false mask, and say, ‘That laugh hides a dark despair, that noisy gaiety conceals a thought of death?’ Who could guess that? No one, — fortunately, no one, — no one! Ah, yes, love would never be mistaken; his instinct would enlighten him. But I hear my wife, — my wife! Now, then, sinister actor, play thy part.”

  Clémence entered M. d’Harville’s apartment.

  “Good morrow, dear brother Albert,” she said, in a tone full of sweetness. Then, observing the smiling expression of her husband’s countenance, “But what is it, my dear, that gives you such a smiling air?”

  “It was because, when you entered, my dear sister, I was thinking of you, and, moreover, I was under the influence of an excellent resolution.”

  “That does not surprise me.”

  “What took place yesterday, — your extreme generosity, the prince’s noble conduct, — has given me much food for reflection, and I am converted, — entirely converted to your ideas.”

  “Indeed! That is a happy change!” exclaimed Madame d’Harville. “Ah! I was sure that, when I appealed to your heart, to your reason, you would understand me; and now I have no doubt about the future.”

  “Nor I either, Clémence, I assure you. Yes, since my resolution last night, the future, which seemed so vague and sombre, is singularly brightened and simplified.”

  “Nothing can be more natural, my dear. Now we both go towards the same end, like a brother and sister, mutually dependent on each other; at the end of our career we shall find each other what we are to-day. The feeling will be unalterable. In a word, I wish you to be happy; and you shall be, for I have resolved it there,” said Clémence, placing her finger on her forehead. Then she added, with charming emphasis, lowering her hand to her heart, “No, I mistake, it is here. That is the good thought that will watch over you incessantly, and myself also; and you shall see, my brother, in what the obstinacy of a devoted heart consists.”

  “Dear Clémence!” said M. d’Harville with repressed emotion; then, after a moment’s silence, he continued, in a gay tone:

  “I sent to beg you to come here before you went out, to tell you that I could not take tea with you this morning. I have some friends to breakfast, — a sort of impromptu, — to celebrate the fortunate result of a duel of poor Lucenay, who, by the way, was only very slightly wounded by his adversary.”

  Madame d’Harville blushed when she reflected on the origin of this duel, — an absurd remark addressed in her presence by the Duke de Lucenay to M. Charles Robert. It reminded her of an erreur of which she was ashamed, and, to escape from the pain she felt, she said to her husband:

  “What a singular chance! M. de Lucenay is coming to breakfast with you, and I am going, perhaps rather indiscreetly, to invite myself this morning to Madame de Lucenay’s; for I have a great deal to say to her about my two unknowns. From her, it is my intention to go to the prison of St. Lazare with Madame de Blinval, for you do not know all my projects; at this time I am intriguing to get admittance into the workroom of the young prisoner-girls.”

  “You are really insatiable,” said M. d’Harville, with a smile; and then he added, with a painful emotion, which, despite his efforts, betrayed itself a little, “Then I shall see you no more to-day.”

  “Does it annoy you that I should go out so early?” asked Clémence, quickly, astonished at the tone of his voice. “If you wish it, I can put off my visit to Madame de Lucenay.”

  The Marquis had nearly betrayed himself, but continued, in an affectionate tone:

  “Yes, my dear little sister, I am as annoyed to see you go out, as I shall be impatient to see you return, and these are faults of which I shall never be corrected.”

  “And you are quite right, dear; for if you did I should be very, very sorry.”

  The sound of a bell, announcing a visit, was now heard.

  “Here is one of your guests, no doubt,” said Madame d’Harville. “I leave you; but, by the way, what are you going to do in the evening? If you have no better engagement, I require you to accompany me to the Italian Opera; perhaps now you will like the music better.”

  “I am at your orders with the utmost pleasure.”

  “Are you going out by and by? Shall I see you before dinner?”

  “I shall not go out; you will find me here.”

  “Well, then, on my return, I shall come and inquire if your bachelors’ breakfast has been amusing.”

  “Adieu, Clémence!”

  “Adieu, dear! We shall soon meet again. I leave you a clear house, and wish you may be as merry as possible. Be very gay and lively, mind.”

  Having cordially shaken her husband’s hand, Clémence went out of one door as M. de Lucenay entered by another.

  “She wished me to be as merry as possible, and bade me be gay! In the word adieu, in that last cry of my soul in its agony, in that word of complete and eternal separation, she has understood that we should meet again soon, — this evening, — and leaves me tranquilly, and with a smile! It does honour to my dissimulation. By heaven, I did not think that I was so good an actor! But here is Lucenay.”

  CHAPTER VIII.

  THE BACHELORS’ BREAKFAST.

  M. DE LUCENAY came into the room.

  The duke’s wound had been so slight, that he did not even carry his arm in a sling. His
countenance was, as usual, mirthful, yet proud; his motion perpetual; and his restlessness, as usual, unconquerable. In spite of his awkwardness, his ill-timed pleasantries, and in spite of his immense nose, which gave his face a grotesque and odd character, M. de Lucenay was not, as we have already said, a vulgar person, thanks to a kind of natural dignity and bold impertinence, which never forsook him.

  “How indifferent you must think me to what concerns you, my dear Henry!” said M. d’Harville, extending his hand to M. de Lucenay; “but it was only this morning that I heard of your unfortunate adventure.”

  “Unfortunate! Pooh — pooh, marquis! I had my money’s worth, as they say. I really never laughed so in my life. The worthy M. Robert was so religiously determined to maintain that he never had a phlegmy cough, in all his life, — but you do not know! This was the cause of the duel. The other evening at the —— embassy, I asked him, before your wife and the Countess Macgregor, how his phlegmy cough was? Inde iræ! for, between ourselves, he had nothing of the kind; but it was all the same, and, you may suppose, to have such a thing alluded to before pretty women was very provoking.”

  “How foolish! Yet it is so like you! But who is this M. Robert?”

  “Ma foi! I have not the slightest idea in the world. He is a person whom I met at the Spas; he passed by us in the winter garden at the embassy, and I called to him to play off this foolish jest, to which he gallantly replied the next day by giving me a touch with his sword-point. This is the history of our acquaintance. But let us speak no more of such follies. I have come to ask you for a cup of tea.”

  So saying, M. de Lucenay flung himself down full length on the sofa; after which, poking the point of his cane between the wall and the frame of a picture hanging over his head, he began to move it about, and try and balance the frame.

  “I expected you, my dear Henry; and I have got up a surprise for you,” said M. d’Harville.

  “Ah, bah! and in what way?” exclaimed M. de Lucenay, giving to the picture a very doubtful kind of balance.

  “You will unquestionably unhook that picture, and let it down on your head.”