Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “A cup full of wine!” demanded the sorceress.

  The Ethiopian went to one of the ivory buffets for a cup, and filled it up.

  Faustina grew more and more somber. She passed her hand twice over her forehead, and harshly addressing the two Greeks, who, their attention being drawn to the scene that was enacting before them, had neglected their duties as fanners, said:

  “Air Γ — more air! I am suffocating! No negligence — or I shall have your shoulders gashed with the whip!”

  The two manumitted slaves did not allow the threat to be repeated. They played their fans with renewed activity.

  The Ethiopian having brought from the buffet a cup full of wine, the sorceress drew a little flagon from her pouch, emptied its contents into the gold cup and presented it to the slave whom she had chosen.

  “Prink!”

  Undoubtedly struck by a gloomy suspicion, the unhappy girl hesitated.

  Irritated at her slave’s hesitation, Faustina cried to the slave in a threatening voice; “By Pluto! Will you drink?”

  The young girl became ghostly pale, resigned herself, raised her eyes heavenward, approached the cup to her lips with a hand that shook so violently that Sylvest heard the sound of the metal striking against the teeth of the ill-starred child. She drank, returned the cup to the Ethiopian, and dropped her head with the dejection of one who renounces life.

  “Now,” said the sorceress, “give me your two hands.”

  The young Gallic girl obeyed mechanically. The sorceress took from her pouch a bit of chalk and whitened with it the tips of the slave’s fingers.

  This operation was barely over when the young girl became livid; her lips grew bluish; her eyes seemed to sink within their orbits; a chill ran over her limbs; feeling them give way under her, she leaned against one of the tripods from which the smoke of incense was still rising; she carried her hands to her head and then to her heart as if in a dream.

  With her chin resting on her hand, the Roman dame followed attentively the witch’s movements.

  “Why did you whiten her fingers with chalk?”

  “For her to write upon the red carpet.”

  A sepulchral silence reigned in the temple.

  All eyes were fixed upon the young Gallic slave.

  After she staggered and supported herself against the tripod, the girl seemed at first seized with a vertigo, mumbled a few words, sank to the floor, rolled over the carpet and speedily writhed with horrible convulsions. In her agony her hands alternately relaxed and contracted in pain, they beat upon the heavy carpet that covered the floor, and thus left upon it a series of white marks made by her fingers.

  “Do you see? Do you see?” cried the magician to the Roman dame, who contemplated the contortions of her dying slave with curiosity. “Do you see the white lines that her convulsing fingers trace upon the carpet? Do you see what she writes? That is my conjuring book. It is there that I shall in a moment be able to read whether the charm that binds Mont-Liban to Syomara will soon be broken or not.”

  Little by little the convulsions of the young Gallic slave decreased in violence; presently she shook only feebly. After a few last shudders she expired, and her whole body stiffened with astonishing quickness.

  “Remove the corpse,” said the sorceress. “I must now read the decree of fate.”

  The gigantic Ethiopian raised the inanimate body of the Gallic girl, walked towards the door that opened on the canal, and disappeared.

  From his place of concealment Sylvest heard the splash of a body falling into deep water; a moment later he saw the Ethiopian step back into the temple.

  Faustina pushed her cushions aside, rose and stepped close to the sorceress, who, bent down over the carpet, seemed to be intently engaged in deciphering the lines traced by the dying girl.

  Faustina also bent down, and followed the movements of the Thessalian with somber looks. The witch had pierced with a gold needle the lump of wax that symbolized the heart of Syomara, the grand dame’s rival, and had then threaded the needle with Faustina’s hair; she then mumbled some confused words and pricked here and there the white lines traced by the dying slave.

  From time to time Faustina questioned the sorceress with anxiety: —

  “What do you read?”

  “Nothing good, so far—”

  “Chimera! Your magic is a fraud!” cried the Roman dame rising and looking disdainfully down at the witch. “It is all idle play!”

  “And yet here is a more favorable sign,” proceeded the old hag talking to herself, and without being in the least troubled by the words of Faustina. “Yes — yes — comparing this line with that other one that is almost blotted out — it is good — very good!”

  “Have you any hope?” asked Faustina, and she bent down again near the witch.

  “Nevertheless,” resumed the latter raising her head, “here is Syomara’s heart turning three times around. Bad — a bad omen!”

  “I am a fool to listen to you!” cried Faustina rising in anger. “Begone! Leave this place — osprey of hell! — bird of ill omen! Strong is my desire to make you pay dear for your impudence and imposition!”

  “By Venus!” the magician suddenly exclaimed without seeming to have heard Faustina’s imprecations. “I never have seen so plain a prediction, one that is so certain. These last three signs say so clearly. — Yes, the charm that binds the gladiator Mont-Liban and the Gallic girl Syomara will be broken — Mont-Liban will prefer the noble Faustina to all other women. Aye, and that is not yet all. The whole future unrolls itself before my eyes. Aye, I see ye, furies of hell — I see your hair of vipers. Brandish, brandish your torches! They throw light upon my eyes! I see — I see!” proceeded the Thessalian, who, now a prey to heightening delirium, threw her arms wildly about and whirled around on her toes.

  During this performance Sylvest observed something strange. As the long and wide sleeves of the witch parted for a moment, it looked to him as if the arms of the horrid old hag of coppery and shriveled face were round and white like a young girl’s.

  The witch continued in ever increasing agitation:

  “Furies! Brandish your torches! I see — I see the Gallic girl Syomara! She falls into the power of the noble Faustina! Aye, Faustina holds her! Is she about to burn the flesh of her rival? — crush her bones? — tear out her palpitating heart? — devour her? — Furies! Brandish your torches! Brandish them well! Let them light the future to me! The whole future! Furies! Furies! Assist me to see — assist me! But the lurid light is now extinguished,” proceeded the witch in a faint voice; “I see nothing more — nothing — nothing. The darkness — of the grave — only that — nothing more!”

  And the horrid old hag, livid, bathed in perspiration, panting for breath, exhausted and her eyes shut, leaned against one of the pillars while Faustina, unable to repress the savage joy that the prophecy filled her with, frantically seized the Thessalian by the hand in order to recall her to consciousness and cried:

  “Yours shall be ten thousand gold sous if your prediction is verified! Do you hear? Ten thousand gold sous for you!”

  “What prediction?” asked the hag, seeming to awake from a dream and pushing her grey hair back from her forehead. “What prediction are you speaking about? What have I predicted?”

  “You predicted that Mont-Liban would prefer me to all other women!” cried Faustina in a voice that joy seemed to choke. “You predicted that Syomara would fall into my hands — that I would have her in my power — absolutely!”

  “When the spirit withdraws from my body,” answered the witch now wholly herself again, “I know and remember nothing. If I made a prediction — my prediction will be verified.”

  “And then you will be rewarded with ten thousand sous! Oh! I feel it in my soul. The prediction will be verified. My heart, now burning with love and vengeance tells me so! The gladiator for lover! My rival for victim! Love and blood! — Evo’é — Furies! Evoë — Priapus! — Evo’è — Bacchus!

 
Wine, wine! Come ye all! Let one same round unite us: you, my African Hercules — you, my Greek Adonises — you, my nymphs of Lesbos! Wine for all — for all, wine! — flowers — perfumes — song — every intoxication — every one! And may the dawn find us exhausted but not yet satisfied!” Saying this, the noble Roman dame furiously tore the gold net-works from her head and her breast. Her black hair, that she now shook as a lioness does her mane, fell over her bare shoulders and bosom, and encircled her pale face, now radiant with a ghastly beauty. She emptied a large gold goblet at a gulp, and thereby gave the signal for the orgy. Immediately the cups flew from hand to hand, while the lyres, flutes and cymbals struck up their wild, weird notes.

  The manumitted Greeks and the slaves, carried away by the fumes of wine and by both the example of and the terror that their infamous mistress inspired them with, started jointly with her and the Ethiopian, and to the meter of lascivious songs accompanied by music, a giddy dance that is unnamable — monstrous.

  Sylvest was seized with horror and dizziness. At the risk of being discovered and killed, he quitted his place of concealment, glided down the nearest pillar, and, pursued by the deafening uproar of the infernal orgy, fled from the accursed temple into the garden.

  CHAPTER III.

  LOYSE AND SYLVEST.

  DISTRACTED, ALMOST BEREFT of his senses and neglectful of all prudence, Sylvest fled through the garden anxious only to leave the infernal temple far behind him. Thus running at random, a voice that was dear to his heart struck upon his ears and recalled him to himself.

  “Sylvest!” cried the voice in the dark. “Sylvest!”

  It was the voice of Loyse, his wife — his beloved wife — his wife by virtue of their secret vows, taken in the name of the gods of their fathers. The slave has no wife in his master’s eye. —

  Although dawn could not be far distant, the night was still sable. The slave groped his way in the direction whence Loyse’s voice had proceeded, and fell into her arms, unable, at first, to utter a word.

  Frightened at Sylvest’s prostration, Loyse supported her husband, and with no little difficulty guided his steps to an arbor of rose bushes and lemon trees in full bloom. The two slaves threw themselves upon a bench of moss raised at the foot of a marble statue.

  “Sylvest,” said his wife with increased uneasiness, “collect yourself. What ails you? Speak to me, I pray you!”

  The slave recovered slowly, and passionately pressing his wife to his heart answered:

  “Oh! I revive — I revive! Beside you I breathe a pure air. The air of that accursed temple is poisoned. It crazed me!”

  “What is that you say!” cried Loyse affrighted. “You surely were not inside of the temple?”

  “I was waiting for you near the canal, our ordinary trysting place. I saw people approaching from a distance with lanterns in their hands. In order that they might not discover me, I climbed up one of the pillars of the temple. Hidden behind the cornice I witnessed monstrous mysteries. My head swam — I ran away, and I still wonder whether I have not been the sport of some horrible dream!”

  “No, it was no dream,” replied the young woman with a shudder. “It is as you said. Monstrous mysteries are enacted in that temple where my mistress Faustina never goes but on the day that the pagans consecrate to Venus. That was day before yesterday. So I thought the neighborhood of the temple would be free to-night. Mindful of our appointment, I was surprised and frightened when, from the spinning-room where we work, I saw the light of torches in the boat rowed on the canal towards the temple.

  “Being delayed, myself, I looked to find you, my beloved, ahead of me.”

  “Yes, I came later than I meant to,” answered the young woman with marked embarrassment and an accent of sadness that struck Sylvest.

  “Loyse, what has happened?” he inquired. “Your voice is sad — you sigh — your hand trembles — you have some revelation to make to me.”

  “No — no — my Sylvest, I have no revelation to make. It is always difficult for me, as you know, to leave the spinning-room. This evening I had to wait a long time — longer than usual, for a favorable opportunity—”

  “Truly? Nothing went amiss?”

  “No, I assure you—”

  “Loyse, my love, it seems to me you are not answering me with your wonted frankness — something troubles you—”

  “Because I still shudder at the thought of the danger that you have been running. What a misfortune, had you been found hiding in the temple!”

  “Oh, Loyse — I tell you — it was like a frightful dream! The torture — the death — the witch — and then — my sister. Merciful gods! My own sister the rival of that monster! My sister a courtesan! Oh! I assure you, it is enough to make one crazy!”

  “Your sister the rival of Faustina! Your sister a courtesan? But for more than eighteen years you have not known whether she was dead or alive!”

  “She is alive; she lives in Orange since a short time ago. She is known by the name of the Beautiful Gaul. Not later than this morning did my master inform me that he was smitten with her.”

  “Your master? The seigneur Diavolus?”

  “Yes — you may judge of my feelings now that I know that the courtesan in question is my own sister. Should I bless the day when I shall meet again the companion of my childhood — that sister whom I have so often wept! You know, Loyse, that sister whom, as a presage of honor, my mother Henory named after our ancestress Syomara, the proud and chaste Gallic matron! Or shall I curse the day on which I learned of my sister’s infamy — a courtesan! Oh! shame and sorrow to me! Oh! shame and disgrace to her!”

  “Alack! torn as a child from her parents, sold, as you told me, to an infamous man — beautiful and a slave! In slavery, beauty is a badge of shame — it means subservience to a master’s debaucheries — death is the only gate of escape!”

  “Hold, Loyse! You know not what horrid thought came to me during this night of horrors! When I saw those unhappy girls, slaves like myself, beautiful, like you — young, like my Loyse—”

  “Beautiful as I!” broke in the young woman in a strange accent and suppressing a sigh. “Beautiful as I!” —

  “No,” proceeded Sylvest without at first noticing the expression in Loyse’s voice; “no, not as beautiful as you, Loyse! Theirs is not, like yours, that celestial beauty that is free from all soilure! So, then, to-night, seeing them so young and yet so thoroughly debased by slavery and the terror of punishment, I said to myself: ‘If, instead of, by the blessing of the gods, having been always far removed from the infamous eyes of her mistress and of Faustina’s enfranchised slaves, Loyse had ever come within their sight, then I might have beheld her also, this very night, in the midst of these orgies — and she—”

  But shuddering at the recollections of the night and at the fear that they conjured up in his mind, the slave suddenly held in. Moreover, the feeble approaches of dawn peeped through the arbor; he pressed his wife in his arms and proceeded:

  “Let us cast these frightful thoughts from us, my Loyse! Day is about to break — there are only a few moments left to us — no sad thoughts shall trouble them. Let us speak of yourself, and of that hope at once so bitter and so sweet — a mother! You a mother! Oh! Why should slavery force me to pronounce with sorrow and even apprehension a word that the gods have blessed — the word ‘mother’!”

  “My dearly beloved husband!” rejoined Loyse tearfully and as if impatient to shorten the conversation, “you said to yourself, day is about to break — it is a long distance from here to Orange. You must leave the park before you are seen. The field slaves will soon be led out to their work, and their keepers might run across you. Go, I beg you—’ adieu — adieu!”

  “Loyse, one minute more! Wait at least till the first light of morning permit me to behold your cherished face! Helas! It is so long since I have enjoyed that happiness! It is at night, only at night that it is possible for me to come to you!”

  Sylvest tenderly threw his arms
around his wife, seated next to him on the bench of verdure. In his devotion the slave dropped upon his knees, took his wife’s hands in his own and kissed them with an ecstasy that caused him for a moment to forget the trials and sorrows of slavery. The rising sun was tinting the trees with a ruddy hue. In the morning’s freshness the lemon trees emitted a sweeter and more aromatic odor. Thousands of birds began twittering amidst the foliage, saluting the orb of day. It soon was light enough for Sylvest to observe that his wife turned her head aside and hid her face in one of her hands, and by the convulsion of her bosom he perceived that she wept and sought to suppress her sobs.

  “You weep!” he cried; “you turn your face from me? Loyse, in the name of our mutual love, tell me, what ails my wife? Tell me!”

  “My friend, I conjure you!” she answered, seeking to withdraw her face from her husband, all the more now that it was growing rapidly light. “Return to your master — depart — depart instantly, if you love me!”

  “Depart before having seen your face? Depart without a kiss, a single farewell kiss?”

  “Yes,” she answered amid sobs. “Yes, depart — go away without looking at me — you must — I want you to — I beg you!”

  “Depart without looking at you?” Sylvest answered in wonderment.

  As his wife quickly drew her other hand from that of her husband and completely hid her face, and, unable any longer to control her feelings, gave a loose to her long repressed sobs, Sylvest rose to his feet alarmed, and despite the woman’s resistance removed her hands from her face. The sight that met Sylvest’s eyes made him start; he took several steps back, and emitted a loud cry that seemed to tear his heart to pieces — it was a cry of intense pain.

  The last time that Sylvest had seen Loyse her skin was white as a lily; her blue eyes of the color of the sky were veiled in long eye-lashes; the woman’s charming features were of exquisite purity, and when she smiled the sad and resigned smile of the slave, her cherry lips assumed an expression of celestial sweetness.