by Eugène Sue
“That woman will be fatal to you,” were my words to the young general on our way from the battle field. Alas! My foresight was destined to prove true. By the way of these creatures, keep in mind, my son, a circumstance with which I later became acquainted; you will presently appreciate its importance — those Bohemian girls came to Mayence two days after the arrival of Tetrik in the same town, and they arrived from Gascony, the department that he governed.
This discovery, together with many others, imparted to me such accurate information on certain facts that I am enabled to describe them the same as if I had been present.
As I said, Victorin left his house at night to keep his assignation with Kidda, the Bohemian girl. He had met her only the previous evening for the first time. She made a deep impression upon him. He was young, handsome, bright and generous. That very day he had won a glorious battle. He was well aware of the easy morals of those strolling singers, who, in effect, were nothing but courtesans. He felt certain that he would possess the object of this latest whim. How great must his surprise have been when Kidda said to him with well simulated firmness, sadness and repressed passion:
“Victorin, I shall not speak to you of my virtue; you will laugh at the virtue of a strolling Bohemian singer. But you may believe me when I say that long before I saw you, your glorious name had reached me. Your renown for valor and goodness made my heart beat, unworthy of you as that heart is, seeing that I am a poor, degraded creature. Believe me, Victorin,” she added with tears in her eyes, “if I were pure, you would have my love and my life; but I am soiled; I do not deserve your attention. I love you too passionately, I honor you too much ever to offer to you the remains of an existence debased by men, who are not worthy of being compared with you.”
So far from cooling, the hypocritical language fired the ardor of Victorin; it exalted him beyond measure. His sensual whim for the woman was speedily transformed into a consuming and mad passion. Despite his protestations of devotion, despite his entreaties, despite his tears — he actually wept at the feet of the execrable woman — the Bohemian remained inexorable. Victorin’s nature underwent thereupon a marked change. From mirthful, pleasant and open, it became retired and morose. He grew somber and taciturn. Both his mother and I were ignorant at the time of the cause of the change. To our pressing questions the young general would answer that, being struck by the manifestations of displeasure that the army had shown towards him, he did not wish to expose himself to a recurrence of their anger; thenceforth his life was to be austere and retired. With the exception of a few hours that he consecrated every day to his mother, Victorin now rarely left his house, and he avoided the company of his former boon companions. Struck, on their part, by his sudden change of deportment, the soldiers saw in it only the salutary effect of the remonstrances made to their young general in their name by Douarnek. They cherished him more than ever before. I later learned that, in his self-imposed solitude, the unhappy man habitually drank himself into utter stupor in order to forget his fatal passion, and that every evening he repaired to the Bohemian dancer’s, only, however, to find her pitiless as ever.
About a month passed in this manner. Tetrik remained in Mayence in order to overcome Victoria’s repugnance to the idea of having her grandson acclaimed the heir of his father’s office. But Victoria ever answered the Governor of Gascony, saying:
“Ritha-Gaur, who made himself a blouse of the beard of the kings whom he shaved, overthrew royalty in Gaul about ten centuries ago. He held that, under royalty, it is the people and their descendants who are transmitted by hereditary right, to kings, and that these are rarely good, and generally bad. More and more enlightened by our venerable druids, the Gauls have wisely preferred to elect the chief whom they consider worthiest to govern them. They thus constituted themselves into a Republic. My grandson is still a child in his cradle; no one can know whether he will later have the qualities that are necessary for the government of a great people like ours. To acknowledge this child to-day as the heir of his father’s office is tantamount to restoring the royalty that we have wisely overthrown. I hate royalty as much as did Ritha-Gaur.”
Still hoping to overcome the resolution of the Mother of the Camps by his persistence, Tetrik prolonged his stay in Mayence — at least I was long under the impression that such was the only reason for his postponing his departure. Nor did Tetrik seem to be less surprised at the unaccountable change that came over Victorin. The latter, although plunged in brooding sadness, still preserved his affection for me. I even thought that more than once he was on the point of opening his heart to me and of confiding to me what he there kept hidden. Later, however, he ceased calling at my house as he formerly used to, and seemed even to avoid meeting me. His features, once so handsome and open, were no longer the same. Pale with suffering, worn by excessive and solitary indulgence in wine, their expression gradually assumed a sinister aspect. At times a sort of dementia seemed to speak out of his alternately fixed and wandering gaze.
About five weeks after the great battle of the Rhine, Victorin resumed his visits to my house. The turn was marked, both in point of suddenness and assiduity. Noticeable was the circumstance that the hours which he chose for his visits were those during which Sampso and my wife were home alone, I being at Victoria’s writing the letters which she dictated. Ellen received the son of my foster-sister with her wonted affability. At first I imagined that, sorry at having kept himself away from me without cause and by a mere whim, he sought to bring about a reconciliation by means of my wife. I believed this all the more seeing that, despite his persistence in seeking to avoid me, he never spoke of me to Ellen except in terms of deep affection. Sampso was usually present at the conversations between her sister and Victorin. Only once did she leave them alone, and then, when she returned she was struck by the painful expression on my wife’s face and the visible embarrassment shown by Victorin, who speedily took his departure.
“What is the matter, Ellen?” asked Sampso.
“Sister, I conjure you, never again leave me alone with Victoria’s son. May it please the gods that I am mistaken! But to judge from some broken words that Victorin let drop, to judge by the expression of his face, I imagine that he is moved by a guilty love for me — and yet he is aware of my devotion to Schanvoch!”
“Sister!” exclaimed Sampso, “Victorin’s excesses have ever shocked me, but latterly he seems to have changed. The sacrifice of his unregulated pleasures doubtlessly costs him much; notwithstanding the young general’s changed conduct is praised by everyone, they all comment on his profound sadness. I can not believe him capable of thinking of dishonoring your husband, who loves Victorin as if he were his own child, and who even saved his life in battle. You must be mistaken, Ellen! No! Such baseness is not possible!”
“I only hope you are right, Sampso; nevertheless, I must conjure you not to leave me alone with Victorin if he comes again. At any rate, I mean to tell all to Schanvoch.”
“Be careful, Ellen. If, as I believe, you are mistaken, you would but raise a frightful and unjustified suspicion in your husband’s breast. You know how attached he is to Victoria and her son. Only imagine Schanvoch’s despair at such a revelation! Ellen, follow my advice, receive Victorin once more alone. Should your suspicions grow into certainty, then, hesitate no longer — reveal Victorin’s treachery to Schanvoch. It would otherwise be imprudent on your part to awaken in him suspicions that may be wholly baseless. An infamous hypocrite, however, should be unmasked, when there is no longer any doubt as to his purpose.”
Ellen promised her sister to follow her advice. But Victorin never returned. I learned all these details only later. This happened in the course of the fifth or sixth week after the great battle of the Rhine, and exactly eight days before the catastrophe that it is my duty, my son, to relate to you.
On that fateful day I spent the early part of the evening near Victoria conferring with her upon an urgent mission on which I was to depart on that very evening, and which
might keep me several days from home. Although Victorin promised his mother to be present at the conference, the purpose of which was known to him, he remained away. I did not wonder at his absence. For some time, and without it being possible for me to fathom his whimsical conduct, he had avoided all opportunity of encountering me. Victoria said to me pathetically when I left her at the usual hour:
“Private feelings must be hushed before interests of state. I have spoken to you fully on the subject of the mission that I have charged you with, Schanvoch. And now the mother will unbosom her private grief. I had this morning a sad conversation with my son. I vainly implored him to confide to me the cause of the secret sorrow that is consuming him. He answered me with a distressful smile:
“‘Mother, one time you reproached me with my levity and my too strong taste for pleasures — those days are now far behind — I now live in solitude and meditation. My lodging, where formerly the joyful din of song and revelry by torch light used to keep the night astir, is now lonely, silent and somber — like myself. Our scrupulous soldiers feel edified at my conversion, and now no longer reproach me with too much love for joy, wine and women! What more do you want, mother?’
“‘I want much more,’ I replied to him, unable to restrain my tears. ‘I want to see you happy as in the past. You suffer, my son; you suffer a pain that you conceal from me. The consciousness of a wise and thoughtful life, as becomes the chief of a great people, imparts to his face a grave yet serene expression. Your face, however, is haggard, sinister, pale, like that of a man distracted and in despair—’”
“And what did Victorin say to that?”
“Nothing. He relapsed into the gloomy brooding in which I find him so often plunged, and from which he emerges only to cast wandering looks about. I then showed him his child, whom I held in my arms. He took it, kissed it several times with great tenderness, put it back into its cradle, and left abruptly without saying a word. I believe he wished to hide his tears from me. I saw that he wept. Oh! Schanvoch, my heart breaks when I think of the future that seemed to me so rosy for Gaul, for my son and for me!”
I sought to console Victoria by joining her in conjecturing the cause of her son’s mysterious grief. The hour grew late. I was to travel all that night in order to fulfil my mission as promptly as possible. I left my foster-sister’s and proceeded home in order to embrace your mother and you, my son, before starting on my journey.
CHAPTER II.
THE CATASTROPHE.
WHEN I REACHED home, my son, I found your mother Ellen and her sister Sampso seated near your cradle. The moment Sampso saw me she cried:
“You arrive in time, Schanvoch, to help me convince Ellen that her fears are groundless — she is weeping—”
“What ails you, Ellen? What afflicts you?”
She dropped her head, made no answer, and continued weeping.
“She does not dare to admit to you the cause of her affliction, Schanvoch; my sister weeps because you are about to depart.”
“What?” I asked Ellen in a tone of tender reproach, “you who are always so brave even when I leave for battle, are now timorous and tearful when I am only going on a peaceful journey that will not keep me away more than a few days — a journey into Gaul, where peace reigns! Ellen, your apprehensions are groundless.”
“That is exactly what I have been repeating to my sister. Your journey does not expose you to any danger; and if you depart to-night it is because the matter is urgent.”
“Yes, indeed! Why, it must be a positive pleasure to journey in the manner that I am about to do — on a mild summer’s night, across the smiling fields of our own beautiful country that is to-day so calm and peaceful!”
“I know all that,” said Ellen in a tremulous voice. “My alarm is senseless; and yet this journey fills me with dread.”
And stretching her arms towards me imploringly:
“Schanvoch, my beloved husband, do not depart; I conjure you — do not depart—”
“Ellen,” I replied sadly, “for the first time in my life I am compelled to answer you with a refusal—”
“I beg you, stay near me!”
“I would sacrifice everything to you, my duty excepted. The mission with which I am charged by Victoria is important — I promised to fulfil it. I must keep my word.”
“Well, then, go,” answered my wife amid a paroxysm of sobs, “and let my fate come upon me; it is your will!”
“Sampso, what fate does she mean?”
“Alas! Since this morning my sister has been a prey to gloomy presentiments. She admitted them to be as unaccountable as I considered them myself, and yet she is unable to overcome them. She says she feels certain that she will never see you again — or that some grave peril threatens you during your journey.”
“Ellen, my beloved wife,” I said, clasping her to my heart, “need I tell you that, short as our separation may be, it is always hard for me to be away from you? Would you add to that sorrow, the even greater one of having to leave you in such a desolate state?”
“Pardon me,” answered Ellen making a strong effort over herself. “You are right; such weakness is unworthy of the wife of a soldier. See; I have stopped weeping. I am calm; your words have reassured me; I am ashamed of my timorous terrors; but in the name of our child who is now asleep in his cradle, do not go away annoyed at me. Let your good-bye caresses be tender as ever; I shall need that; yes, I shall need that in order to recover the courage that I am deficient in to-day.”
Despite her apparent resignation, my wife seemed to suffer so much under the restraint that she imposed upon herself, that for a moment I thought of requesting Victoria to transfer the commission to Captain Marion, to the end that I might remain at home. One consideration held me back from putting the thought into execution; the time was too short. Seeing that the journey had to be undertaken that same night, Captain Marion could not possibly start on the spot. It would take hours in order to post the captain upon a matter of which he knew absolutely nothing, and which demanded promptness for success. Yielding to my duty, and, I must also say, convinced of the idleness of Ellen’s fears, I decided to depart. I clasped her in my arms, and recommending her to the tender care of Sampso, I mounted my horse and rode off.
It was ten o’clock at night. A rider was to serve as my escort and messenger in case I had occasion to write to Victoria on the road. The rider was chosen for me by Captain Marion, to whom I applied for a reliable man; I found him ready, waiting for me at one of the gates of Mayence, and we trotted forth together. Although the moon was not to rise until late, the night was luminous by the light of the stars. I noticed, although without attaching at the time any importance to the circumstance, that, despite the mildness of the season, my traveling companion had on a heavy coat the hood of which fell down deep over his casque, so that even in full daylight it would have been difficult for me to see the man’s face. Although a simple soldier like myself, instead of riding beside me, he allowed me to ride ahead of him without exchanging a word. On any other occasion, and being like all Gauls of a chatty disposition, I would not have accepted this mark of exaggerated deference; it would have deprived me of the conversation of a companion during a long ride. But I was saddened by the condition in which I had left my wife, and as despite myself, my mind insisted upon turning upon the sad forebodings that alarmed her, the sense of sadness grew upon me in the measure that the distance separating us increased; consequently I did not regret being left to my reflections during a part of the night. Thus, the rider following me, we traveled away from the town.
We had ridden about two hours without exchanging a word; the moon due in the sky towards midnight began to show her disk behind a hill that bounded the horizon. We had arrived at a crossing where four highways, built by the Romans, met. I slackened Tom-Bras’s pace in order to ascertain the road I was to take, when suddenly my traveling companion raised his voice behind me and cried:
“Schanvoch, ride back home at full tilt — a horri
ble crime is being committed at this hour in your house!”
At these words I quickly turned in my saddle. By the glamour of the rising moon I could see the rider give a stupendous bound with his horse, clear the hedge that lined the road, and vanish in the shadow of the forest that we had been skirting for some time. Struck dumb with terror, I remained motionless for a moment; when, yielding to an impulse of curiosity and anguish, I thought of dashing after the rider and compelling an explanation of his words, it was too late. The moon was not yet far up enough to justify my pursuing the fugitive through the wood, which, moreover, was unknown to me. Besides, the rider had too much the lead of me. I listened intently for a moment, and I could hear in the profound stillness of the night the rapid gallop of the man’s horse. He was far away. It seemed to me that he resumed the road to Mayence through the forest, consequently by a shorter route. For a moment I hesitated what to do. But recalling my wife’s unaccountable forebodings and comparing them with the rider’s words, I turned my horse’s head and dashed back to the city.
“If,” I thought to myself, “by some unconceivable accident the announcement to which I hearkened was as ill founded as Ellen’s forebodings, with which, however, it strangely coincided; if my alarm turns out to be vain, I shall take a fresh horse at the camp and immediately resume my journey, which will have been delayed by three hours.”
With voice and heels I urged on the rapid course of my horse Tom-Bras, and I rode headlong towards Mayence. In the measure that I approached the place where I left my wife and child, the gloomiest thoughts crowded upon me. What crime could it be that was being committed in my house? Was it to a friend, or was it to an enemy that I owed the revelation? At times I imagined the rider’s voice was not unknown to me, yet I could not remember where I had heard it before. That which, above all, added fuel to my anxiety was the mysterious accord between the announcement just made to me and the presentiments that alarmed Ellen. The rising moon aided the swiftness of my course as it lighted the road. Trees, fields, houses vanished behind me with giddy swiftness. I consumed less than an hour in covering the same route that I had just spent two hours over. At last I reached the gates of Mayence. I felt Tom-Bras trembling under me, not for want of ardor or courage, but because his strength was spent. Seeing a soldier mounting guard, I said: