by Eugène Sue
Yet, that she might not weary and utterly repulse the notary’s passion, the creole seemed sometimes touched by his assiduities, and flattered by the control which she exercised over him. And, perceiving that he hoped, by dint of proofs of devotion and self-denial, he should contrive to make her overlook his age and ugliness, she amused herself with telling him that, if she ever could love him, how excessive that love would be. With this Jacques Ferrand’s reason wandered, and he would frequently walk in his garden at night absorbed in his own reflections. Sometimes he gazed for hours into the bedroom of the creole; for she had allowed a small window to be made in the door, which she frequently and intentionally left open. Absorbed, lost, wandering, indifferent to his most important interests, or the preservation of his reputation as an austere, serious, and pious man, — a reputation usurped, it is true, but, at the same time, acquired after long years of dissimulation and chicanery, — he amazed his clerks by his aberration of mind, offended his clients by his refusals to receive them, and abruptly refused the visits of the priests, who, deceived by his hypocrisy, had been until then his warmest champions.
We have said that Cecily was dressing her head before her glass. At a slight noise in the corridor she turned her head towards the door. In spite of the noise she had heard, Cecily continued her night toilet tranquilly. She drew from her corsage, where it was placed almost like a busk, a stiletto five or six inches long, enclosed in a case of black shagreen, having a small ebony handle, with silver threads, — a plain handle, but very fit for use; it was not a mere weapon for show. Cecily took the dagger from its scabbard with excessive precaution, and laid it on the marble mantelpiece. The blade, of finest temper and Damascus steel, was triangular, with keen edges; and the point, as sharp as a needle, would have pierced a shilling without turning the edge. Impregnated with a subtle and rapid poison, the slightest puncture of this poniard was mortal. Jacques Ferrand having one day alluded to the danger of this weapon, the creole made in his presence an experiment, in animâ vita, — that is to say, on the unfortunate house-dog, which, slightly pricked on the nose, fell and died in horrible convulsions. The stiletto placed on the mantelpiece, Cecily took off her black bodice, and was then, with her shoulders, neck, and arms denuded, like a lady in her ball-dress. Like most of the creole women, she wore, instead of stays, another bodice of stout linen, which fitted her figure very closely; her orange-coloured petticoat, remaining attached to this sort of white spencer, with short sleeves, and cut very low, formed a costume less precise than the other, and harmonised wonderfully with the scarlet stocking, and the coloured handkerchief, so coquettishly arranged around the creole’s head. Nothing could be more perfect, more beautifully defined, than the graceful contour of her arms and shoulders. A heavy sigh aroused Cecily’s attention. She smiled, as she twisted around her finger one of her curling tresses, which had escaped from beneath her head-dress.
“Cecily! Cecily!” murmured a voice, which was plaintive though coarse. And through the wicket was visible the pale and flat face of Jacques Ferrand.
Cecily, silent until then, began to hum a creole air; the words of this melody were sweet and expressive. Although repressed, the full contra-alto of Cecily was heard above the noise of the torrents of the rain and gusts of wind, which seemed to shake the old house to its very foundation.
“Cecily! Cecily!” repeated Jacques Ferrand, in a tone of supplication.
The creole paused suddenly and turned her head around quickly, as if, for the first time, she then heard the notary’s voice; and going towards the door, —
“What, dear master (she called him so in derision), you there?” she said, with a slight foreign accent, which gave additional charm to her full and sarcastic voice.
“Oh, how beautiful you are!” murmured the notary.
“You think so?” said Cecily. “Doesn’t my head-dress become me?”
“I think you handsomer every day.”
“Only see how white my arm is.”
“Monster, begone! Begone!” shouted Jacques Ferrand, furious.
Cecily burst into a loud fit of laughter.
“No, no, it is too much to suffer! Oh, if I were not afraid of death!” said the notary, gloomily. “But to die is to renounce you altogether, and you are so beautiful! I would rather, then, suffer — and look at you.”
“Look at me? Why, that’s what the wicket was made for; and so we can thus chat, like two friends in our solitude, which really is not irksome to me, you are such a good master! What a dangerous confession I make through the door!”
“Will you never open this door? You see how submissive I am; this evening I might have tried to enter into your chamber with you, but I did not do so.”
“You are submissive for two reasons: in the first place, because you know that, having, from the necessity of my wandering life, always had the precaution to carry a stiletto, I can manage with a strong hand this inestimable jewel, whose tooth is sharper than a viper’s; and you know, too, that, from the day in which I have to complain of you, I will quit this roof for ever, leaving you a thousand times more enamoured than ever, — since you have so greatly honoured your unworthy servant as to say that you are enamoured of her.”
“My servant? It is I who am your slave, — your mocked, derided, despised slave!”
“That’s true enough.”
“And yet it does not move you?”
“It amuses me; the days, and especially the nights, are so long!”
“Accursed creature!”
“But, seriously, you look so perfectly wretched, your features have so sensibly altered, that I am quite flattered at it. It is a poor triumph, but you are the only one here.”
“To hear that, and me consume in impotent rage!”
“Have you really any understanding? Why, I never said anything more tender.”
“Jeer at me, — jeer at me!”
“I do not jeer. I never before saw a man of your age in love after your fashion; and, I must confess, a young and handsome man would be incapable of these outrageous passions. An Adonis admires himself as much as he admires us; he likes us, and we choose to notice him, — nothing more simple. He has a claim to our love, but is hardly grateful; but to show favour to a man like you, my master dear, would be to take him from earth to heaven, to fulfil his wildest dreams, his most insensate hopes. For if some being were to say to you, ‘You love Cecily to distraction, if I chose she should be yours next minute,’ you would suppose such a being endued with supernatural power, shouldn’t you, master dear?”
“Yes! Ah, yes!”
“Well, if you could convince me more satisfactorily of your passion, I might, perchance, have the whimsical fancy to enact this supernatural part myself in your favour. Do you comprehend?”
“I comprehend that you are still fooling me, — that you are still pitiless.”
“Perhaps, — for solitude creates so many singular fancies.”
Until this moment Cecily’s accent had been sarcastic, but she pronounced these last words with a serious, reflecting tone, and accompanied them with a look which made the notary start.
“Silence! Do not look at me thus, — you will drive me mad! I would rather you denied me, — at least, I could then hate you, — drive you from my house!” cried Jacques Ferrand, who again gave himself up to a vain hope. “Yes, for I should then hope nothing from you. But, misery! Misery! I know you well enough now to hope, in spite of myself, that one day I might, from your very hate or proud caprice, obtain what I shall never owe to your love. You bid me convince you of my passion, — do you not see how unhappy I am? I will do all I can to please you. You desire to, be concealed from all eyes, and from all eyes I conceal you, perchance at the risk of compromising myself most seriously; for, indeed, I know not who you are. I respect your secret, — I never speak to you of it. I have interrogated you as to your past life, and you have given me no answer.”
“Well, then, I was very wrong. I’ll give you a mark of blind confidence,
oh, master, dear! And so, listen.”
“Another bitter jest, no doubt.”
“No, a serious tale. You ought, at least, to know the life of her to whom you afford such generous hospitality.” Then Cecily continued, in a tone of hypocritical and lachrymose earnestness, “Daughter of a brave soldier, brother of my Aunt Pipelet, I received an education, beyond my condition. I was seduced, and then abandoned, by a rich young gentleman; then, to escape the anger of my father, whose notions of honour were most strict, I fled my native country.” Then bursting into a loud fit of laughter, Cecily added, “Now I hope that’s what you call a very pretty and particularly probable tale, for it has been very often told. Amuse your curiosity with that until you get hold of some other story more interesting.”
“I was certain it was some cruel jest,” said the notary, with concentrated rage; “nothing touches you, — nothing. What must I do? Tell me. I serve you like the lowest footboy, for you I neglect my dearest interests, — I no longer know what I do. I am a subject of astonishment and derision to my own clerks; my clients hesitate any longer to entrust me with their affairs; I have severed my connection with some religious persons whom I knew intimately. I dare not think of what the world will say of my change of demeanour and habits. But you do not know, — no, you do not know the fatal consequences my mad passion for you may entail on me. Yet I give you ample proof of my devotion. Will you have more? Speak! Is it gold you would have? They think me richer than I am, but I—”
“What could I do with your gold?” asked Cecily, interrupting the notary, and shrugging her shoulders; “living in this chamber, what is the use of gold? Your invention is at fault.”
“It is no fault of mine if you are a prisoner. Is this chamber displeasing to you? Will you have one more splendid? Speak! Order!”
“Once more, what is the use? What is the use? Oh, if I might here expect a beloved one, full of the love he inspires and participates, I would have gold, silks, flowers, perfumes, all the wonders of luxury; nothing could be too sumptuous, too enchanting to enshrine my love,” said Cecily, with an impassioned voice.
“Well, these wonders of luxury, say but a word, and—”
“What’s the use? What’s the use? Why make a frame for which there is no picture? And the adored one! Where is he, — where is he, master, dear?”
“True,” exclaimed the notary, with bitterness, “I am old, I am ugly, I can only inspire disgust and aversion. She overwhelms me with contempt, jests at me, — and yet I have not the resolution, the power to send her away. I have only the resolution to suffer!”
“Oh, silly old mourner! And what an absurd elderly gentleman, with his sufferings!” cried Cecily, in a contemptuous and sarcastic tone; “he only knows how to groan, to despair, — and yet he has been for ten days shut up alone with a young woman in a lone house.”
“But this woman scorns me, — this woman is armed, — this woman is shut up!” groaned the notary, furiously.
“Well, conquer her scorn, make the dagger fall from her hands, compel her to open the door which separates her from yourself! But not by brute force, that would be useless.”
“How, then?”
“By the strength of your passion.”
“Passion! And can I inspire it?”
“Why, you are nothing but a lawyer, affecting piety, — I really pity you. Is it for me to teach you your part? You are ugly, — be terrible, and one may forget your ugliness. You are old, — be energetic, and one may forget your age. You are repulsive, — become menacing. Since you cannot be the noble steed that neighs proudly in the midst of his harem, do not become the stupid camel that bends the knee and offers his back; be the tiger! The old tiger, that roars in the midst of carnage, still excites admiration; his tigress responds to him from the deepest recesses of the desert.”
At this language, which was not deficient in a sort of natural and hardy eloquence, Jacques Ferrand shuddered; struck by the expression, wild and almost fierce, which Cecily’s features displayed, as, with her bosom palpitating, her nostrils open, her mouth defying, she fastened on him her large and brilliant black eyes. Never had she seemed to him more fascinating, or more resplendently beautiful than at this moment.
“Speak, — speak again!” he exclaimed, with excitement. “For now you speak in earnest. Oh, if I could—”
“One can do what one wishes,” replied Cecily, sternly.
“But—”
“But I tell you, old as you are, if I were in your place I would undertake to engage the affections of a young and handsome woman, and once having achieved this result, what had been against me would turn to my advantage. What pride, what triumph to say to oneself, I have made my age and ugliness forgotten! The love that is shown me I do not owe to pity, but to my spirit, my courage, and my skill. Yes, and now if there were here some handsome young fellows, brilliant with grace and attractions, the lovely woman, whom I have subdued by proofs of a resistless and unbounded devotion, would not deign to cast a look at them. No; for she would know that these elegant effeminates would fear to compromise the tie of their cravat, or a curl of their hair, in obedience to her caprices; whilst if she cast her handkerchief in the midst of flames, on a signal from her her old tiger would rush into the furnace with a roar of ecstasy.”
“Yes, I would do it! Try! Try!” exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, more and more excited.
Cecily continued drawing nearer to the aperture, and fixing on Jacques Ferrand a steadfast and penetrating look.
“For this woman would well know,” continued the creole, “that she would have some exorbitant caprice to satisfy, — that these dandies would look at their money, if they had any, or, if they had not, at some other low consideration, whilst her old tiger—”
“Would consider nothing, — nothing, I tell you. Fortune, — honour, — he — he — would sacrifice all!”
“Really?” said Cecily, putting her lovely fingers on the bony fingers of Jacques Ferrand, whose clutched hands, passed through the small glass door, were clasping the top of the ledge. “Would not this woman be ardently loved?” added Cecily. “If she had an enemy, and with a gesture pointed him out to her old tiger, and said to him, Strike—”
“And he would strike!” exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, attempting to press Cecily’s fingers with his parched lips.
“Really, the old tiger would strike?” said the creole, placing her hand gently on the hand of Jacques Ferrand.
“To possess you,” cried the wretch, “I could commit a crime—”
“Ah, master,” said Cecily, suddenly, and withdrawing her hand, “go — go, — in my turn I scarcely know you, — you do not seem to me so ugly as you did just now. But go — go!” and she left the aperture abruptly.
The artful creature gave to her gestures and these last words an appearance of truth so perfect, and a look of such surprise, as if angry and disappointed with herself for having for an instant only appeared to forget the ugliness of Jacques Ferrand, that he, transported by frenzied hope, cried, as he clung convulsively to the ledge of the aperture:
“Cecily, come back, — come back! Bid me do what you will, I will be your tiger.”
“No, no, master!” said Cecily, still retreating. “And in order to forget you, I will sing a song of my country.”
“Cecily, return!” exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, in a supplicating tone.
“No, no! Later, when I can without danger. But the light of this lamp hurts my eyes, — a soft languor overcomes my senses!” and Cecily extinguished the lamp, took down a guitar, and made up the fire, whose increased blaze then lighted up the whole apartment.
From the narrow window, where he stood motionless, such was the picture that Jacques Ferrand perceived. In the midst of the luminous circle formed by the flickering blaze on the fire Cecily, in a position full of softness and abandonnement, half reclining on a large sofa of garnet damask, held a guitar, on which she ran over several harmonious preludes. The fire-light threw its red tints on the creole, who
appeared thus in strong relief. To complete the tableau, the reader must call to mind the mysterious and singular appearance of a room in which the fire from the grate struggles with the deep and large black shadows, which tremble on the ceiling and the walls. The storm without increased, and roared loudly.
Whilst she preludised on her guitar, Cecily fixed her eyes immovably on Jacques Ferrand, who, fascinated, could not take his look from her.
“Now, master mine,” said the creole, “listen to a song of my country. We do not understand how to make verses, but have a simple recitative, without rhyme, and between each rest we improvise, as well as we can, a symphony appropriate to the idea of the couplet; it is very simple and pastoral, and I am sure, master, it will please you.”
And Cecily began a kind of recitative, much more accentuated by the expression of the voice than the modulation of the music. Some soft and vibrating chords served as accompaniment. This was Cecily’s song:
“Flowers — still flowers, everywhere. My lover is coming — my hope of happiness unnerves me. Let us subdue the glare of daylight, pleasure seeks the softer shade. My lover prefers my breath to the perfume of the sweetest flowers. The brightness of day will not affect his eyelids, for my kisses will keep them closed. Come — come — come — come, love! Come — come — come!”