Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

I have no need to tell you what a night I passed, you can imagine; I knew the princess was very beautiful; I sought to picture to myself her features, her air, her manner, her figure, the sound of her voice; and thinking of my portrait which she had noticed I recollected that the artist had flattered me excessively, and I contrasted the picturesque dress of a page of the sixteenth century with the simple uniform of a captain of the Austrian guards.

  But amidst all these absurd ideas some generous thoughts crossed my mind, and I was overcome, — yes, overcome by the recollection of the tenderness of the princess for those poor girls whom she always terms “my sisters.”

  The next day the hour for the reception came. I tried on several uniforms one after another, found them all to fit me very ill, and departed very dissatisfied with myself.

  Although Gerolstein is only a quarter of a league from Ste. Hermangeld, during the short journey all the childish ideas that had so occupied me during the night had given place to one sad and grave thought.

  An invincible presentiment told me I was approaching one of the crises of my life. A magical inspiration revealed to me that I was about to love, to love as a man loves but once in his life; and, as if to complete my misfortunes, this love, as loftily as deservedly bestowed, was doomed to be unhappy.

  You do not know the grand ducal palace of Gerolstein. In the opinion of every one who has visited the capitals of Europe, there is, with the exception of Versailles, no royal residence that has a more regal and imposing appearance.

  If at this time I speak of this, it is because, thinking over them, I wonder how they did not recall me to myself; for the Princess Amelie was the daughter of the sovereign of this palace, these guards, and of these riches.

  You arrived at the palace by the marble court; so called, because, with the exception of a drive for the carriages, it is paved with variegated marble, forming the most magnificent mosaics, in the centre of which is a basin of breccia antique, into which a stream of water flows from a porphyry vase.

  This court of honour is surrounded by a row of beautiful marble statues, holding candelabras of gilt bronze, from which sprung brilliant jets of gas. Alternately with these statues are the Medicean vases, raised on richly sculptured pedestals, and filled with rose laurels, whose leaves shine in the lights with a metallic lustre.

  The carriages stopped at the foot of the double staircase leading to the peristyle of the palace. At the foot of this staircase were stationed on guard, mounted on their black horses, two soldiers of the regiment of the guards of the grand duke. You would have been struck with the stern and warlike appearance of these two giants, whose cuirasses and helmets, made like those of the ancients, without crest or plume, sparkled in the sun.

  These soldiers wore blue coats with yellow collars, buckskin breeches, and jack-boots. To please you who are so fond of military details, I add, that at the top landing of the staircase were stationed, as sentinels, two grenadiers of the foot-guards of the duke. Their uniform, with the exception of the colour of the coat and facings, resembles, I am told, that of Napoleon’s grenadiers.

  After traversing the vestibule, where the porters of the duke were stationed, halberd in hand, I ascended a splendid staircase of white marble, which opened upon a portico, ornamented with jasper columns, and surmounted by a painted and gilt cupola. There were two long files of domestics.

  I then entered the guard-room, at the door of which I found a chamberlain and an aide-de-camp, whose duty it was to present to his royal highness those persons who were entitled to this honour. My relationship, though distant, procured me a special presentation. An aide-de-camp preceded me into a long gallery, filled with gentlemen in full court dress or uniform, and splendidly attired ladies.

  Whilst I passed through this brilliant assembly, I heard here and there remarks that augmented my embarrassment. Every one admired the angelic beauty of the Princess Amelie, the charming appearance of the Marquise d’Harville, and the imperial air of the Archduchess Sophia, who, recently arrived from Munich with the Archduke Stanislaus, was about to depart for Warsaw; but whilst rendering their just tribute of admiration to the lofty bearing of the duchess and to the charms of the Marquise d’Harville, every one agreed that nothing could exceed the loveliness of the Princess Amelie.

  As I approached the spot where the grand duke and the princess were I felt my heart beat more and more violently. At the moment that I entered the salon (I forgot to tell you there was a concert and ball at court) the famous Liszt sat down to the piano, and instantly the most profound silence succeeded to the conversation that was going on. I waited in the embrasure of a door until Liszt had finished the piece he was playing with his accustomed taste.

  It was then that I saw the Princess Amelie for the first time.

  I must tell you all that passed, for I feel an indescribable pleasure in writing it.

  Picture to yourself a large salon furnished with regal splendour, brilliantly lighted up, and hung with crimson silk, embroidered with wreaths of flowers in gold. In the first row, on large gilt chairs, sat the Archduchess Sophia with Madame d’Harville on her left, and the Princess Amelie on her right. Behind them stood the duke in the uniform of colonel of the guards. He seemed scarcely thirty, and the military uniform set off his fine figure and noble features. Beside him was the Archduke Stanislaus in the uniform of a field-marshal; then came the princess’s maids of honour, the ladies of the grand dignitaries of the court, and then the dignitaries themselves.

  I need scarcely tell you that the Princess Amelie was less conspicuous by her rank than by her extraordinary beauty. Do not condemn me without reading this description of her. Although it falls far short of the reality, you will understand my adoration. You will understand that as soon as I saw her I loved her; and that the suddenness of my passion can only be equalled by its violence and its eternity.

  The Princess Amelie was dressed in a plain white watered silk dress, and wore, like the archduchess, the riband of the imperial order of St. Nepomucenus recently sent to her by the empress. A diadem of pearls surrounded her head, and harmonised admirably with two splendid braids of fair hair that shaded her delicate cheeks. Her arms, whiter than the lace that ornamented them, were half hidden in long gloves, reaching nearly to her elbow.

  Nothing could be more perfect than her figure, nothing more charming than her foot in its satin slipper. At the moment when I saw her her beaming blue eyes wore a pensive expression. I do not know whether some serious thought came over her, or whether she was impressed with the grave melody of the piece Liszt was playing; but the expression of her countenance seemed to me full of sweetness and melancholy.

  Never can I express my feelings at that moment. All that my aunt had related of her goodness crossed my mind.

  Smile if you will, but my eyes became full of tears when I saw this young girl, so beautiful and so idolised by such a father, seem so melancholy and pensive.

  You know how scrupulously etiquette and the privileges of rank are observed by us. Thanks to my title and my relationship to the grand duke, the crowd in the midst of which I stood gradually fell back, and I found myself left almost alone in the embrasure of the door. It was, no doubt, owing to this circumstance that the princess, awaking from her reverie, perceived, and no doubt recognised me, for she started and blushed.

  She had seen my portrait at my aunt’s, and recognised me; nothing could be more simple. The princess’s eyes did not rest upon me an instant, but that look threw me into the most violent confusion. I felt my cheeks glow, I cast down my eyes, and did not venture to raise them for some time. When I dared at last to steal a glance at the princess she was speaking in a low tone to the archduchess, who seemed to listen to her with the most affectionate interest.

  Liszt having paused for a few moments between the pieces he was playing, the grand duke took the opportunity of expressing his admiration. On returning to his place he perceived me, nodded kindly to me, and said something to the archduchess, fixing his eyes on me at the
same time. The duchess, after looking at me a moment, turned to the duke, who smiled and said something to his daughter that seemed to embarrass her, for she blushed again. I was on thorns; but, unfortunately, etiquette forbade my leaving my place until the concert was over.

  As soon as the concert was finished I followed the aide-de-camp; he conducted me to the grand duke, who deigned to advance a few steps towards me, took me by the arm, and said to the Archduchess Sophia:

  “Permit me to present to your royal highness my cousin, Prince Henry of Herkaüsen-Oldenzaal.”

  “I have seen the prince at Vienna, and meet him here with pleasure,” replied the duchess, before whom I inclined myself respectfully.

  “My dear Amelie,” continued the prince, addressing his daughter, “this is Prince Henry, your cousin, the son of one of my most valued friends, Prince Paul, whom I greatly lament not seeing here to-day.”

  “Pray, monseigneur, inform the prince that I equally regret his absence, for I am always delighted to know any of my father’s friends.”

  I had not until then heard the princess’s voice, and I was struck with its intense sweetness.

  “I hope, my dear Henry, you will stay some time with your aunt,” said the grand duke. “Come and see us often about three o’clock en famille; and if we ride out you must accompany us. You know how great an affection I have always felt for you, for your noble qualities.”

  “I cannot express my gratitude for your royal highness’s kindness.”

  “Well, to prove it,” said the grand duke, smiling, “engage your cousin for the second quadrille; the first belongs to the archduke.”

  “Will your royal highness do me the honour?” said I to my cousin.

  “Oh, call each other cousin, as in the good old times,” replied the duke, laughing. “There should be no ceremony between relations.”

  “Will you dance with me, cousin?”

  “Yes, cousin,” replied the princess.

  I cannot tell how much I felt the touching kindness of the grand duke, and how bitterly I reproached myself for yielding to an affection the prince would never authorise.

  I vowed inwardly that nothing should induce me to acquaint my cousin with my affection, but I feared my emotion would betray me.

  I had leisure for these reflections whilst my cousin danced the first quadrille with the Archduke Stanislaus. Nothing was more suited to display the graces of the princess’s person than the slow movements of the dance. I anxiously awaited my turn; and I succeeded in concealing my emotion when I led her to the quadrille.

  “Does your royal highness sanction my calling you cousin?” said I.

  “Oh, yes, cousin, I am always delighted to obey my father.”

  “I rejoice in this familiarity, since I have learnt from my aunt to know you.”

  “My father has often spoken of you, cousin; and what may, perhaps, astonish you,” added she, timidly, “I also knew you by sight; for one day the Abbess of Ste. Hermangeld, your aunt, for whom I have the greatest respect, showed me your picture.”

  “As a page of the sixteenth century?”

  “Yes, cousin; and my father was malicious enough to tell me that it was an ancestor of ours, and spoke so highly of his courage and his other qualities that our family ought to be proud of their descent from him.”

  “Alas, cousin, I fear my resemblance to my portrait is not great!”

  “You are mistaken, cousin,” said the princess. “For at the end of the concert I recognised you immediately, in spite of the difference of costume.” Then, wishing to change the conversation, she added, “How charmingly M. Liszt plays! — does he not?”

  “Yes. How attentively you listened to him!”

  “Because there is to me a double charm in music without words. Not only you hear the execution, but you can adapt your thoughts to the melody. Do you understand me?”

  “Perfectly; your own thoughts become words to the air.”

  “Yes, you quite comprehend me,” said she, with a gesture of satisfaction. “I feared I could not express what I felt just now.”

  “I thank God, cousin,” said I, smiling, “you can have no words to set to so sad an air.”

  I know not whether my question was indiscreet or whether she had not heard me, but suddenly she exclaimed, pointing out to me the grand duke, who crossed the room with the archduchess on his arm, “Cousin, look at my father, how handsome he is! how noble! how good! Every one looks at him as if they loved him more than they feared him.”

  “Ah,” cried I, “it is not only here he is beloved. If the blessing of his people be transmitted to their posterity, the name of Rodolph of Gerolstein will be immortal.”

  “To speak thus is to be, indeed, worthy of his attachment.”

  “I do but give utterance to the feelings of all present; see how they all hasten to pay their respects to Madame d’Harville!”

  “No one in the world is more worthy of my father’s affections than Madame d’Harville.”

  “You are more capable than any one of appreciating her, as you have been in France.”

  Scarcely had I pronounced these words than the princess cast down her eyes, and her features assumed an air of melancholy; and when I led her back to her seat the expression of them was still the same. I suppose that my allusion to her stay in France recalled the death of her mother.

  In the course of the evening a circumstance occurred which you may think too trivial to mention, perhaps, but which evinces the extraordinary influence this young girl universally inspires. Her bandeau of pearls having become disarranged, the Archduchess Sophia, who was leaning on her arm, kindly readjusted the ornament upon her brow. Knowing, as we do, the hauteur of the archduchess, such condescension is almost inconceivable.

  The next morning I was invited, together with a few other persons, to be present at the marriage of the grand duke with Madame la Marquise d’Harville. I had never seen the princess so radiant and happy.

  Some days after the duke’s marriage I had a long interview with him. He questioned me about my past life, my future career. He gave me the most admirable advice, the kindest encouragement. So much so that the idea crossed my mind that he had perceived my love and wished to bring me to confess it.

  But this idea was soon dispelled. The prince concluded by telling me that the great wars were over, that I ought to avail myself of my name, my connections, the education I had received, and my father’s friendship with the Prince de M —— , prime minister of the emperor, in order to follow a diplomatic instead of a military career. In a word, he offered me his sovereign protection to facilitate my entry in the career he proposed to me.

  I thanked him for his offers with gratitude, and added that I felt the weight of his advice and would follow it.

  I at first visited the palace very seldom; but, thanks to the duke’s reiterated invitations, I was soon there almost every day. We lived in the peaceful retirement resembling that of some English mansions. When the weather permitted we rode out with the duke, the duchess, and the grand personages of the court.

  When we were forced to remain at home we sang, and I accompanied the grand duchess and my cousin, who had the sweetest and most expressive voice I ever heard. At other times we inspected the magnificent picture galleries and museums, and the library of the prince, who is one of the most accomplished men in Europe. I often dined at the palace, and on the opera nights I accompanied the duke’s family to the theatre.

  Could this intimacy have lasted for ever I should have been happy, perhaps, but I reflected that I should be summoned to Vienna by my duties. I reflected, also, that the duke would soon think of finding a suitable alliance for his daughter.

  My cousin remarked this change in me. The evening before I quitted Gerolstein she told me she had for several days remarked my abstracted manner. I endeavoured to evade this question, saying that my approaching departure was the cause.

  “I can scarcely believe it,” replied she. “My father treats you like a son; every
one loves you. It would be ingratitude if you were unhappy.”

  “Alas!” said I, unable to restrain my emotion, “it is grief I am a prey to!”

  “Why, what has happened?”

  “Just now, cousin, you have told me your father treated me like a son, and that every one loved me; and yet, ere long, I must quit Gerolstein. It is this that grieves me.”

  “And are the recollections of those you have left as nothing?”

  “Doubtless; but time brings so many changes.”

  “There are affections, at least, that are unchangeable; such as that of my father for you, such as that I feel for you. When you are once brother and sister you never forget each other,” added she, looking up, her large blue eyes full of tears.

  I was on the point of betraying myself; however, I controlled my feelings in time.

  “Do you think then, cousin,” said I, “that when I return in a few years this affection will continue?”

  “Why should it not?”

  “Because you will be probably married; you will have other duties to perform, and you will forget your poor brother.”

  This was all that passed; I know not if she was offended at these words, or whether she was like myself grieved at the changes the future must bring; but, instead of answering me, she was silent for a moment, then, rising hastily from her seat, her face pale and altered, she left the room, after having looked for a few seconds at the embroidery of the young Countess d’Oppenheim, one of her maids of honour.

  The same evening I received a second letter from my father, urging me to return. The next morning I took leave of the grand duke. He told me my cousin was unwell, but that he would make my adieux; he then embraced me tenderly, renewed his promises of assistance, and added that, whenever I had leave of absence, nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see me at Gerolstein.

  Happily, on my arrival, I found my father better; still confined to his bed, and very weak, it is true, but out of danger. Now that you know all, Maximilian, tell me, what can I do?

  Just as I finished this letter, my door opened, and, to my great surprise, my father, whom I believed to be in bed, entered; he saw the letter on the table.