Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “And I, too, intend to live with my children, Herminie and Gerald, and as our two daughters love each other like sisters, we shall be almost like one happy family.”

  “Do you know, monsieur, if I were a religious man, the devil take me if I shouldn’t say that it was indeed the good God who had assured me such a paradise in my old age. But I forget that these poor children are dying of impatience to sign in their turn.

  “So come, mademoiselle,” he continued, turning to Ernestine, “and write at once, at the bottom of this page, the name that gives me the right to call you daughter. I really owe my life to you, though,” added the old officer, gaily, “so, in our case, the usual order of things is reversed, and it is the daughter who gives life to the father.”

  Ernestine took the pen from the notary’s hand, with a poignant anxiety, which, for divers reasons, was shared by all the other actors in the scene except Olivier and Commander Bernard, and affixed the name of Ernestine Vert-Puis de Beaumesnil to the document. Then, with a trembling hand, she offered the pen to Olivier. With a look of inexpressible happiness, the young man stooped to append his signature to the contract; but he had scarcely written the name of Olivier, when the pen dropped from his fingers, and he remained for a moment leaning over the table, silent and motionless, believing himself, in fact, the victim of an optical delusion, as he saw, above the name he had just begun to write, the signature of Ernestine Vert-Puis de Beaumesnil.

  Those around him understood the cause of this astonishment so well, and were so fully prepared for it, that they all maintained a profound silence — all save the commander, who gazed at his nephew for a moment with great surprise, and then exclaimed, excitedly:

  “What the devil is the matter with you, my boy? Have you forgotten how to write your name?”

  But suddenly the strange silence of the other spectators seemed to strike him, and he turned inquiringly to them; but upon every face, and particularly upon the faces of Ernestine and Herminie, he noticed such a grave, deeply troubled expression, that the veteran, not knowing what to think, but apprehending some serious difficulty, again exclaimed:

  “Olivier, my boy, what is the matter? What prevents you from signing?”

  “Read that name, uncle,” replied the young man, pointing with a trembling finger to Ernestine’s signature.

  “Ernestine Vert-Puis de Beaumesnil!” exclaimed the old man, bringing the contract closer to his eyes, as if he could not believe what he saw. Then, turning to Ernestine, he cried:

  “You — mademoiselle — you, Mlle. de Beaumesnil?”

  “Yes, monsieur,” said M. de la Rochaiguë; “I, Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s guardian, do declare, certify, and affirm that this young lady is my ward. It was for this reason that my presence at her marriage was indispensable.”

  Olivier had turned frightfully pale, and it was in a strangely altered voice that he said, “Pardon my — my bewilderment, — every one here will understand it. You — Mlle. de Beaumesnil! You, whom I thought poor and alone in the world, — because you told me so. What object could you have had in this deception?”

  Seeing how deeply Olivier was wounded, Ernestine felt as if her heart would break. Tears gushed from her eyes, and, clasping her hands beseechingly, she faltered:

  “Forgive me, M. Olivier! Oh, forgive me!”

  There was such a touching simplicity in the words in which the young girl thus implored forgiveness for being the richest heiress in France, that everybody, even to the baron and Madame de Senneterre, was deeply affected, and even Olivier felt the tears rise to his eyes.

  M. de Maillefort felt that it was quite time to make a clear statement of the facts of the case, and effectually silence Olivier’s scruples, for the hunchback perceived that the young man was not only amazed and bewildered by the deception Mlle. de Beaumesnil had practised, but that he was also suffering cruelly from the conflict between devoted love and extreme sensitiveness that was raging in his breast.

  “Will you have the goodness, M. Olivier, and you, too, commander, to give me your attention for a few moments,” said the marquis, “and this mystery, which must both astonish and annoy you, shall be explained. Mlle. de Beaumesnil, an orphan immensely wealthy, very young, and too ingenuous herself to suspect the avaricious motives of those around her, believed the exaggerated praise and the protestations of affection lavished upon her, until, one day, an old friend of her mother’s, who was unfortunately powerless to protect her from them, felt that he must at least warn her against the flattery, baseness, deceit, and cupidity of those around her, and assured her that whatever might be the pretext for the devotion manifested towards her, her enormous fortune was the sole cause of it. This revelation was a terrible blow to Mlle. de Beaumesnil. Afterwards, tormented by the fear that she would never be loved except for her wealth, she began to find this distrust of everybody and everything intolerable. So, there being no one to whom she could turn for counsel and encouragement, Mlle. de Beaumesnil courageously resolved to ascertain her real value, inasmuch as this knowledge would enable her to judge of the sincerity of the adulations and attentions that beset her on every side. But how was she to discover the truth? There seemed to be only one way, viz., to divest herself of the prestige that enveloped the rich heiress, and to present herself to entire strangers as a poor and obscure orphan who was obliged to labour hard for her daily bread.”

  “Enough, monsieur, enough!” cried Olivier, in tones of the deepest admiration. “I understand it all now. What courage she displayed!”

  “And she did that?” exclaimed Commander Bernard, clasping his hands ecstatically. “What a brave girl to subject herself to such a test! But I might have known it! A girl who would throw herself under a wagon wheel to prevent me from being crushed by it — !”

  “You hear what your uncle says, M. Olivier,” said the marquis, “and, whatever Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s position may be now, have you not still a heavy debt of gratitude to pay?”

  “Ah, monsieur,” exclaimed Olivier, “this debt of gratitude, the sacred cause of the deepest affection, I hoped to repay by imploring Mlle. de Beaumesnil to share my lot, — a lot much more fortunate than hers, as I supposed, for I believed her to be both poor and friendless. But now, I — I—”

  “One word more, M. Olivier,” hastily interrupted the marquis; “Mlle. de Beaumesnil and I both knew and respected your extreme sensitiveness and pride, so, to spare you the slightest feeling of self-reproach, we arranged with M. de la Rochaiguë here to offer to you the alternative of breaking a sacred promise made to a young girl you believed poor and friendless, or of refusing Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s hand. You stood this severe test nobly, unhesitatingly sacrificing the certainty of a fabulously rich marriage to your affection for a poor little embroideress. What greater proof of disinterestedness could you or any one give?”

  “That is true,” said Commander Bernard. “I am as jealous of Olivier’s honour as any person could possibly be, but I want to remind him that, though it is undoubtedly wrong to marry a woman for her money, it is equally wrong, when one loves the noblest of creatures, to refuse to keep a solemn promise and to repay a sacred obligation merely because the dear child has a lot of money. Just suppose, Olivier, that Mlle. Ernestine, who was so poor yesterday, has inherited nobody knows how many millions from a relative this morning, and let that be the end of it. This miserable money ought not to be allowed to ruin everybody’s happiness, surely.”

  “Oh, thank you, M. Bernard,” exclaimed Ernestine, throwing her arms around the old officer’s neck, in a transport of filial affection, “thank you for those kind, wise words which M. Olivier cannot, I am sure, contradict.”

  “I defy him to do it,” said Gerald, taking his friend’s hand. “Remember, too, my dear Olivier, what you said to me a few months ago, when there was some talk of my marrying Mlle. de Beaumesnil.”

  “Besides, is it not Ernestine, the little embroideress that you and I have always loved so much, M. Olivier?” said Herminie, in her turn.
>
  “And you must permit me to say, monsieur,” added Madame de Senneterre, “that the disinterestedness you showed in refusing M. de la Rochaiguë’s offer has made such a deep impression upon me, that in my eyes you will always be the young man who refused the richest heiress in France to marry a friendless and penniless young girl.”

  Olivier, though influenced in spite of himself by these proofs of esteem and sympathy, nevertheless experienced a feeling of deep humiliation at the idea of sharing Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s immense fortune, so he said:

  “I know that I have no right to show myself more fastidious and exacting than the persons around me in matters where honour and delicacy are involved; I know, too, that what I have just heard in relation to Mlle. de Beaumesnil has only increased — if that were possible — my respect and devoted love for her, and yet—” But the marquis, who read Olivier’s thoughts, again interrupted him by saying:

  “One word more, M. Olivier. You experience a sort of humiliation at the thought of sharing Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s large fortune. I could understand this feeling on your part, if you saw in the immense wealth Ernestine brings you merely the means of leading an idle and luxurious life at your wife’s expense. Shame and ignominy should, indeed, attach to any man who contracts such a marriage as that. But this will not be your future, M. Olivier, — nor yours, Gerald; for though you and Herminie, my daughter, — my beloved daughter, — are both ignorant of the fact, and though her fortune is not to be compared with Ernestine’s, of course, I have settled upon my adopted daughter an income of about one hundred and fifty thousand francs a year from property I have just inherited in Hungary.”

  “Such a fortune as that for me!” exclaimed Herminie. “Oh, never, never, I beseech you—”

  “Listen to me, my child,” said the hunchback, interrupting her, “and you, too, listen, M. Olivier. Ernestine, in some touching pages that you will read some day, — pages dedicated to her mother’s memory, — in the candour of her noble soul, wrote these words which I shall never forget:

  “‘I have a yearly income of three million francs!

  “‘All this wealth for my own use! Why should this be? Why should I have so much and others nothing?

  “‘This immense fortune, how did I acquire it?

  “‘Alas! by your death, my father; and yours, my mother.

  “‘So, to make me rich, I had to lose the two whom I loved best in the world.

  “‘And in order that I may be so rich, there must, perhaps, be thousands of young girls like Herminie always in danger of want, however irreproachable and laborious their lives may be.’

  “Ah,” added the marquis, with increasing warmth, “this generous cry of an ingenuous heart, these words, artless as the truth that comes from the mouth of a child, are a revelation. Yes, Ernestine, the inheritance of wealth is a curse when it perpetuates the vices and degradation of an idle and luxurious life; yes, the inheritance of wealth is a curse when it arouses and excites the execrable passions of which you so narrowly escaped becoming the victim, my poor, dear child! Yes, the inheritance of wealth is a sacrilege when it concentrates in selfish hands the millions which should furnish employment and the means of subsistence to thousands of families; but the inheritance of wealth is also ennobling in the highest degree when the inheritor zealously and faithfully performs the sacred, indefinable, imprescriptible duties towards the less favoured of fortune which the possession of great wealth imposes upon him, and when he devotes his life to ameliorating the moral and physical condition of those whom society disinherits in favour of a privileged few. And now,” said the hunchback, in conclusion, taking the hands of Herminie and of Olivier, “tell me, my children, do you, who were poor yesterday, see any disgrace or humiliation in becoming rich in accordance with these principles of human fraternity? Do you shrink from the sacred and often difficult duties which must be fulfilled each day with wise discrimination and unwearying devotion — if one would secure forgiveness for that gross inequality against which Ernestine in her noble candour protests, when she says, ‘Why should I have so much, and others nothing?’”

  “Ah, monsieur,” cried Olivier, with enthusiasm, “Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s fortune is all too small for a work like that.”

  And picking up the pen with a hand trembling with joy and happiness, the young man affixed his name to the contract.

  “At last!” exclaimed Herminie and Ernestine, in the same breath, throwing themselves into each other’s arms.

  As M. de Maillefort was entering his carriage in company with Herminie, for the latter was to live in the house of her adopted father henceforth, M. Bouffard, who was still a prey to the most intense curiosity, suddenly presented himself to the hunchback’s astonished gaze.

  “Ah, M. Bouffard, I am delighted to see you,” remarked the marquis. “It is truly said that Providence sometimes employs strange agents to attain its ends, for you are one of these strange agents, my dear M. Bouffard.”

  “M. le marquis is too kind,” responded M. Bouffard, not understanding in the least what the marquis meant.

  “Do you know one thing, my dear M. Bouffard? But for your pitiless greed as a landlord, Mlle. Herminie, my adopted daughter, would not be the Duchesse de Senneterre now.”

  “What, mademoiselle, my pianist, the daughter of a marquis, and the Duchesse de Senneterre!” faltered M. Bouffard, as the hunchback and the young girl stepped into the handsome coupé, which bore them swiftly away.

  A short time after the signing of these contracts, the fashionable world was electrified by the following announcement cards:

  “M. de la Rochaiguë has the honour to announce the marriage of Mlle. Ernestine de Beaumesnil, his ward, with M. Olivier Raymond.”

  “M. le Marquis de Maillefort, Prince Duc de Haut-Martel, has the honour to announce the marriage of Mlle. Herminie de Maillefort, his adopted daughter, with M. le Duc Gerald de Senneterre.”

  THE END

  Luxury

  Anonymous 1899 translation, published by Francis A. Niccolls

  The second novel in the series The Seven Cardinal Sins, concerns the vice of Luxury. Housed in the Elysee-Bourbon in Paris, the Archduke Leopold Maximilian shares his opulent home with his self-effacing godson, Count Frantz de Neuberg and it is rumoured by courtiers that the Archduke worries about how the bashful youth will cope in Parisian high society. The Archduke is a man of ‘severe and disdainful glance, united to an imperious manner…a remarkable character of arrogant, icy authority.’ However, a man of equal strength of character arrives at the palace. M Pascal is in his mid thirties, well built and with an ‘expression of sarcastic sternness’ to his face; he is completely at ease with his demeanour of natural authority, an ease not impeded by his rather casual clothing. He brushes aside all attempts to prevent his entering the palace, determined as he is to see the Archduke immediately. The doorman is surprised to see this unkempt man received courteously by the Archduke’s staff and after a brief interval Pascal finds himself seated in front of the Archduke.

  Pascal is not here out of goodwill, however. He is secretly triumphant that he, a man born to the labouring classes, holds the aristocrat in his power and seems determined to make the Archduke suffer, ‘for my heart is steeped in gall.’ One of the reasons for his bitterness is the difficult path he has had to take in life, an able man who still had to endure humiliation at the hands of affluent employers in order to attain any success and status in life. Eventually, Pascal achieves the position of money lender to the top echelons of society and it is at this point that he can wreak his revenge and he ‘was able to destroy as many and more souls than Satan.’

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  CHAPTER IX.

  CHAPTER X.

  CHAPTER XI.

  CHAPTER XII.

 
CHAPTER XIII.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  CHAPTER XV.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  CHAPTER XX.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  CHAPTER XXII.

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  CHAPTER I.

  The palace of the Élysée-Bourbon, — the old hôtel of the Marquise de Pompadour, — situated in the middle of the Faubourg St. Honoré, was, previous to the last revolution, furnished, as every one knows, for the occupancy of foreign royal highnesses, — Roman Catholic, Protestant, or Mussulman, from the princes of the German confederation to Ibrahim Pacha.

  ABOUT THE END of the month of July, in a year long past, at eleven o’clock in the morning, several young secretaries and gentlemen belonging to the retinue of his Royal Highness, the Archduke Leopold Maximilian, who had occupied the Élysée for six weeks, met in one of the official parlours of the palace.

  “The review on the Field of Mars in honour of his Royal Highness is prolonged,” remarked one of the company. “The audience of the prince will be crowded this morning.”

  “The fact is,” replied another, “five or six persons have already been waiting a half-hour, and monseigneur, in his rigorous military punctuality, will regret this enforced delay.”

  Then one of the doors opened; a young man not more than twenty years old at most, a guest of the house, crossed the parlour, and entered an adjoining chamber, after having saluted, with mingled kindness and embarrassment, the speakers, who rose upon seeing him, thus testifying a deference which seemed unwarranted by his age and position.

  When he had disappeared, one of the gentlemen, alluding to him, said:

  “Poor Count Frantz, always so timid! A young girl of fifteen, just out of the convent, would have more assurance! To look at him, who would believe him capable of such rare bravery, and that, too, for three years in the Caucasus war? And that he came so valiantly and brilliantly out of that duel forced on him in Vienna? I, gentlemen, picture to myself Count Frantz modestly dropping his eyes as he gave the Circassians a thrust of his sword.”