by Eugène Sue
My wife’s death; the affection and profound esteem that Sampso inspired in me; her virtues; the kindnesses that she heaped upon you; the love with which you reciprocated her tenderness towards you — you loved her as a mother, whose place she worthily filled; the requirements of your education; finally also the urgent requests of Victoria, who valuing the qualities of Sampso, warmly urged the union; — all these circumstances combined to induce me to propose marriage to your aunt. She accepted. But for the distressing recollections of the death of Victorin and Ellen, of whom not a day passed but we spoke with tears in our eyes; but for the incurable grief of Victoria, whose mind ever turned upon her son and grandson; — but for these circumstances I would, after so many misfortunes, have re-embraced happiness when I embraced Sampso as my wife.
Accordingly, I shared Victoria’s house in the city of Treves. The sun had just risen; I was engaged with some writing for the Mother of the Camps, seeing that I continued my offices near her. Her confidential servant, called Mora, stepped into the room. The girl claimed to have been born in Mauritania, whence her name of Mora. Like the inhabitants of that region, her complexion was bronzed, almost black, like a Negro’s. Nevertheless, despite the somber hue of her face, she was handsome and young. Since the four years (remember the date, my son), since the four years that Mora served my foster-sister, she gained her mistress’s affection by her zeal, her reserve and her devotion that seemed proof against all temptation to change her quarters. Occasionally, seeking some diversion from her sorrows, Victoria would ask Mora to sing, because the girl’s voice was of remarkable sweetness and sadness. One of the officers of the army who had been as far as the Danube, said to us one day as he heard Mora sing, that he had heard those peculiar songs in the mountains of Bohemia. Mora seemed startled, and said that she learned the songs she was singing as a little child in the country of Mauritania.
“Schanvoch,” said Mora to me, “my mistress wishes to speak to you.”
“I shall follow you, Mora.”
“But before you go, one word, I beg you.”
“Speak — what is it?”
“You are the friend, the foster-brother of my mistress — what affects her affects you—”
“Undoubtedly — what are you driving at?”
“You left my mistress last night after having spent the evening with her, your wife and son—”
“Yes — and Victoria withdrew to her room, as usual.”
“Now listen — a short time after your departure, I took to her room a man wrapped in a cloak. After a conversation with the unknown man, that lasted deep into the night, instead of going to bed, my mistress was so agitated that she walked up and down the room until morning.”
“Who can that man be?” I asked myself aloud, yielding to my astonishment. Victoria was not in the habit of keeping any secrets from me. “What mystery is this?”
Mora believed that I questioned her, an act of indiscretion on my part that I would have carefully guarded against, out of respect for Victoria. The girl answered:
“After your departure, Schanvoch, my mistress said to me: ‘Go out by the garden gate. Wait at the little door. You will soon hear a rap. A man in a cloak will present himself — bring him to me — and not a word upon this to anyone whatever—’”
“You should, then, have abstained from making the confidence to me.”
“Perhaps I am wrong in not keeping the secret, even from you, Schanvoch, the devoted friend and brother of my mistress. But she seemed to me so agitated after the departure of the mysterious personage, that I thought it my duty to tell you all. There is another reason why I decided to speak to you. I led the man back to the garden gate — I walked a few steps ahead of him — he seemed to be in a towering rage, and he dropped terrible threats against my mistress. It was this that determined me to reveal to you the secret of the interview.”
“Did you notify Victoria of the threats made against her?”
“No — I was hardly back to her when she brusquely — she who is otherwise so gentle towards me — ordered me to leave the room. I withdrew to a contiguous apartment, and from there I could hear my mistress walk the room all night in great agitation until dawn when she finally threw herself upon her couch. A minute ago she called me in and ordered me to bring you to her. Oh! If you had seen her! She looked so pale and somber! I thought it best to reveal to you all that had happened—”
I hastened to Victoria in a state of great alarm. The sight of her struck me painfully. Mora had not exaggerated.
Before proceeding with the thread of this narrative, and to the end of helping you to understand it, my son, I must give you some details upon the special arrangement of Victoria’s chamber. In the rear of the spacious apartment was a species of niche covered with heavy curtains. In that niche, whither my foster-sister frequently retired in order to think of those whom she had loved so much, hung the casques and swords of her father, her husband and her son Victorin, over the symbols of our druid faith. In the niche also stood — a dear and precious relic — the cradle of the grandson of this woman, whom misfortune had so sorely tried.
Victoria stepped towards me, reached out her hand, and said in a faltering voice:
“Brother, for the first time in my life I have kept a secret from you; brother, for the first time in my life I am about to resort to ruse and dissimulation.”
She then took me by the hand, led me to the niche, drew back the heavy curtain that closed it from sight, and added:
“Every minute is precious; step into that niche; remain there silent, motionless, and lose not a word of all that you shall hear. I hide you in time in order to remove suspicion.”
The curtains of the niche closed upon me; I remained in the dark; for a while I heard only Victoria’s steps over the floor as she walked the room in evident agitation. I was in my hiding place for over half an hour when I heard the door of Victoria’s room open and close. Someone stepped in and said:
“Greeting to Victoria the Great!”
It was Tetrik’s voice, the same mellifluous and insinuating voice. The following conversation took place between him and Victoria. As she recommended to me, I engraved every word in my memory, and that same day I transcribed them, realizing the gravity of the dialogue. Another circumstance which I shall presently inform you of dictated the precaution to me.
“Greeting to Victoria the Great,” said the former Governor of Gascony.
“Greeting to you, Tetrik.”
“Did the night bring counsel, Victoria?”
“Tetrik,” answered Victoria in a perfectly calm voice that was in strong contrast with the agitation under which I had just seen her laboring, “Tetrik, you are a poet?”
“It is true — I sometimes seek in the cultivation of letters a little recreation from the cares of state — especially from my undying sorrow over the untimely departure of our glorious Victorin, whom, contrary to my expectations, I have survived. I must repeat it to you, Victoria, let us not speak of that young hero, whom I loved with the deep love of a father. I had two sons; I have only one left to me. — I am a poet, say you? Alas! Fain would I be one of those geniuses who render immortal the heroes of their songs — Victorin would then live in all posterity as he lives in the hearts of those who knew and mourn for him! But why do you broach the subject of verses? Have they any connection with the subject that brings me back to you this morning?”
“Like all poets — you surely read your verses many times over in order to correct them — and then you forget them, if the term can be used, to the end that when you read them over anew, you may be struck all the more forcibly by anything that may hurt your eyes or ears.”
“Certes, after having written some ode under the inspiration of the moment, it has sometimes happened to me that, as the saying is, I let my verses sleep for several months, and then, reading them over again, was shocked at things that had at first escaped me. But poetry is not the question before us.”
“There is, indeed, a g
reat advantage in first letting thoughts sleep and then taking them up again,” answered my foster-sister with a phlegma that surprised me more and more. “Yes, the method is a good one. That which, under the heat of inspiration may not have at first wounded us — sometimes shocks our senses when the inspiration has cooled down. If the test is useful in the instance of frivolous matters like verses, should it not be all the more useful when grave matters affecting our lives are concerned?”
“Victoria, I do not grasp your meaning!”
“I yesterday received from you a letter that ran thus: ‘This evening I shall be in Treves unknown to anybody. I conjure you, in the name of the most vital interests of our beloved country, to receive me in secrecy, and not to mention the matter to anyone, not even to your friend Schanvoch. Towards midnight I shall await your answer. I shall be found wrapped in my cloak near your garden gate.’”
“And you granted me the interview, Victoria. Unfortunately for me it led to no decisive results, and so, instead of my returning to Mayence, as I should have done, I find myself compelled to remain at Treves, seeing you demanded time until this morning to arrive at a conclusion.”
“I shall be unable to arrive at any conclusion before submitting your proposition to the test that we just spoke of. Tetrik, I let your offers sleep, or rather I slept with them. Repeat to me, now, what you said to me last night. Mayhap what wounded me then may no longer seem so objectionable—”
“Victoria, can you joke at such a moment?”
“She who, even before having had to weep over her father and her husband, over her son and her grandson, rarely laughed — such a woman will assuredly not choose the hour of eternal mourning to indulge in jokes. Believe me, Tetrik, I repeat it, your last night’s propositions seemed so extraordinary to me, they have thrown my mind into such perplexity, they have raised such strange thoughts, that instead of uttering myself under the shock of my first impressions, I prefer to forget all that we said, and to listen to you once more, as if you broached those matters for the first time.”
“Victoria, your eminent intellect, your powerful mind that has always been prompt and unerring in taking a decision, did not, I must confess, prepare me for such caution and hesitation.”
“Simply because never before in my life, now a long one, have I been called upon to utter myself upon questions of such moment.”
“Pray, remember that yesterday—”
“I wish to remember nothing. To me our last night’s interview is as if it had not been. Consider that it is now midnight, Mora has just let you in by the garden gate, and has brought you to me. Speak — I listen.”
“Victoria — what is it that you have in mind?”
“Be careful — if you refuse to broach the matter in full, I might give you the answer that my first impressions dictated — and you know, Tetrik, that when I once utter myself, I do so irrevocably.”
“Your first impression is, accordingly, unfavorable,” cried Tetrik in an accent of anguish. “Oh! It would be a misfortune, a great misfortune!”
“Speak, then, if it is your desire to avert the misfortune.”
“Be it as you desire, Victoria, although such singular conduct on your part disturbs me. You desire it? I shall satisfy you — our last night’s interview did not take place — I see you now for the first time after a rather long absence, although a frequent exchange of correspondence kept us in close touch with each other, and I say to you: It is now five years ago since, struck at my very heart by the death of Victorin — a fatal event, that carried away the hopes I entertained for the glory of Gaul — I lay almost dying in Italy, at Rome, whither my son accompanied me. According to the opinion of the physicians, the trip was to restore my health. They erred. My ailments increased. It pleased God that a Christian priest, whom a recently converted friend secretly introduced into my house, succeeded in reaching my bedside. The faith enlightened me — and, while enlightening me, performed a miracle — it saved me from death. I returned, so to speak, to a new life with a new religion. My son abjured, as I did, only in secret, the false gods that we had until then adored. At that stage I received a letter from you, Victoria. You informed me of the assassination of Marion. Guided by you, and as I had expected, he had governed Gaul wisely. I remained overwhelmed by such tidings; they were as distressing as they were unexpected. You conjured me in the name of the most sacred interests of our country to return to Gaul. None, you said to me, was capable of replacing Marion except myself. You even went further. I alone, in the new and peaceful era that opened to our country, could promote her prosperity by taking the reins of government. You made a vehement appeal to my old friendship for you, to my devotion for our country. I left Rome with my son. A month later I was near you at Mayence. You pledged me your far-reaching influence with the army — you were what you still are, the Mother of the Camps. Presented by you to the army I was acclaimed by it. Yes, thanks to you alone, I, a civil governor, who in my life had never touched a sword, I was acclaimed the sole Chief of Gaul, and you boldly and proudly declared on that day to the Emperor that Gaul, strong and feared, and henceforth independent, would render obedience only to a Gallic chief, freely elected. Engaged at the time in his disastrous war in the Orient against Queen Zenobia, your heroic peer, the Emperor yielded. I alone governed our country. Ruper, an old and tried general in the wars of the Rhine, was placed in command of the troops. In its undying idolatry for you, the army wished to keep you in its midst. I was engaged in developing in Gaul the blessings of peace. Always faithful to the Christian faith, I did not consider it politic to make a public confession of my belief, and I concealed from even you, Victoria, my conversion to a religion whose Pope is in Rome. Since the last five years Gaul has been prospering at home, and is respected abroad. I established the seat of my government and of the senate at Bordeaux, while you remained with the army, which covers our frontier, and is ever ready to repel either new invasions attempted by the Franks, or any attack undertaken by the Romans, should the latter attempt to curtail the complete independence that we enjoy and conquered so dearly. As you know, Victoria, I always sought inspiration from your eminent wisdom, either by visiting you in Treves, after you left Mayence, or through correspondence with you upon the affairs of the country. But I indulge in no delusions, Victoria; I am proud to admit the truth; it was only your powerful hand that raised me to headship; it is only your hand that keeps me there. Yes, from the seclusion of her modest retreat in Treves, the Mother of the Camps is in fact the Empress of Gaul — despite the power that I enjoy, I am only your first subject. That rapid glance over the past was necessary in order to clearly formulate the present—”
“Proceed, Tetrik, I am listening attentively.”
“The deplorable death of Victorin and his son, the assassination of Marion, all these catastrophes tell you upon how slender a thread elective sovereignty hangs. Gaul is at peace; her brave army is more devoted to you than it has ever been to any of its generals; it overawes our enemies; all that our beautiful country now stands in need of, in order to reach the highest pinnacle of prosperity, is stability. The country needs an authority that will not be dependent upon the caprice of an election, which, however intelligent to-day, may be stupid to-morrow. We need a government that is not personified in a man, ever at the mercy of those who elected him, or of the dagger of an assassin. The monarchic institution, based as it is, not upon a man, but upon a principle, existed in Gaul centuries ago. It alone could to-day impart to the nation the vigor and prosperity that it lacks. Victoria, you dispose of the army, I govern the country. Let us join our strength for a common aim — the insurance of our glorious country’s future; let us join, not our bodies — I am old, while you are still handsome and young, Victoria — but our souls before a priest of the new religion. Embrace Christianity, become my wife before God — and proclaim us, yourself Empress, me Emperor of the Gauls. The army will have but one voice in favor of elevating you upon a throne — you will reign alone and without sharing yo
ur power with anyone. As to me, you know it, I have no ambition to subserve. Despite my idle title of Emperor, I shall continue to be your first vassal. As to my son, we shall adopt him for our successor to the throne. He is of marriageable age; we shall choose for him some sovereign alliance — and the monarchy of Gaul will be established for all time. That, Victoria, was the proposal that I made to you last night — I repeat it to-day. I have again laid my projects bare before you and in the interest of our country. Adopt the plan; it is the fruit of long years of meditation — and Gaul will march at the head of the nations of the world.”
A long silence on the part of my foster-sister followed these words of her relative. She then replied with the calmness that marked her words since the entrance of Tetrik into the room:
“It was a wise inspiration that caused me to wish to hear you a second time, Tetrik. You abjured in favor of the new religion the ancient religion of our fathers; but almost all Gaul is still loyal to the druid faith.”
“Hence it is that I considered it politic to keep my abjuration a secret, and in this I have acted in accord with the views of the Pope of Rome. But if you should accept my offer, and should yourself abjure your idolatry at our marriage, I shall then loudly proclaim my new belief, and, according to the opinion of the bishops, our conversion will draw in its wake the conversion of our people. Moreover I have the promise of the bishops that they will glorify you as a saint with all the magnificent pomp of the new Church. And, believe me, Victoria, a power that is consecrated in the name of God by the Gallic prelates and by the Pope of Rome, will be clothed in the eyes of the people with almost divine authority.”
“Tell me, Tetrik; you abjured the belief of our fathers in favor of the new, in favor of the gospel preached by the young man of Nazareth who was crucified two centuries ago. I have read that gospel. An ancestress of Schanvoch’s witnessed the last days of Jesus, the friend of the slave and the afflicted. Now, then, nowhere have I found in the gentle and divine words of the young master of Nazareth aught but exhortations to renounce wealth, to meekness, to equality among men — and here are you, a fervent and recent convert, dreaming of royalty! The young man of Nazareth, so sweet, so tender of the sufferers, the sinners and the oppressed as he was, nevertheless broke out at times into terrible threats against the rich, the powerful, the worldly happy — above all and always he thundered against the princes of the church whom he branded as infamous hypocrites — and, here are you, a fervent and recent convert, seeking to place the royalty that you are striving after under the consecration of just such princes of the church, the bishops! The young man of Nazareth said to his disciples: ‘When you pray, enter into your closet, and when you have shut your door, pray to your Father which is in secret, and your Father which sees in secret will reward you openly’ — and here are you, a fervent and recent convert, proposing to me to render our abjuration and prayers in public, pompously and solemnly, seeing that the bishops are to glorify my conversion in the face of the world. Truly, my feeble intellect, still closed to the light of the new faith, is unable to reconcile such shocking contradictions.”