Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  Such was the age of Antonine, and she had the charm and all the charms of that age.

  To humanise our Hebe, we will make her descend from her pedestal, and, veiling her delicate and beautiful form, will clothe her in an elegant summer robe; a black silk mantle will hide the exquisite contour of her bust, and a straw hat, lined with silk as rosy as her cheeks, allowing us a view of her chestnut tresses, will serve as a frame for the oval face, as fresh, as fair, and as soft as that of the child she has just embraced.

  As she entered the parlour with Sophie, mademoiselle blushed slightly, for she had the timidity of her fifteen years; then, put at ease by the cordial reception of Dutertre and his wife, she said to the latter, with a sort of deference drawn from their old relations of child and mother, as they were called in the boarding-school where they had been brought up together:

  “You do not know the good fortune which brings me here, Sophie.”

  “A good fortune! — so much the better, my little Antonine!”

  “A letter from St. Madeleine,” replied the young girl, drawing an envelope from her pocket.

  “Really!” exclaimed Sophie, blushing with joy and surprise, as she reached her hand impatiently for the letter.

  “What, Mlle. Antonine,” said Charles Dutertre, laughing, “you are in correspondence with paradise? Though if it is true I ought not to be astonished, inasmuch—”

  “Be silent, M. Tease,” interrupted Sophie, “and do not make jokes about Antonine’s and my best friend.”

  “I will be careful, — but what is the meaning of this name, St. Madeleine?”

  “Why, Charles, have I not told you a thousand times about my school friend, Madeleine Silveyra, who is godmother by proxy of our little one? What are you thinking of?”

  “I have a very good memory, my dear Sophie,” replied Dutertre, “because I have not forgotten that this young Mexican had such a singular kind of beauty that she inspired as much surprise as admiration.”

  “The very same lady, my dear; after me, Madeleine acted as a mother to Antonine, as we said at school, where each large girl had the care of a child from ten to eleven years old; so, when I left school, I confided dear Antonine to the affection of St. Madeleine.”

  “It is just that surname which was the cause of my mistake,” replied Dutertre, “a surname which seems to me very ambitious or very humble for such a pretty person, for she must be near your age.”

  “They gave Madeleine the name of saint at school because she deserved it, M. Dutertre,” replied Antonine, with all the seriousness of fifteen years, “and while she was my little mother they continued to call her St. Madeleine, as they did in Sophie’s time.”

  “Was this Mlle. St. Madeleine a very austere devotee?” asked Dutertre.

  “Madeleine, like all people of her country, — we gave our French form to her name of Magdalena, — gave herself to a particular devotion. She had chosen the Christ, and her adoration for her Saviour became an ecstasy,” replied Sophie; “besides, she united to this enthusiastic devotion the warmest heart and the most interesting, enjoyable mind in the world. But I pray you, Charles, let me read her letter. I am impatient. Just imagine, the first letter after two years of separation! Antonine and I felt a little bitter at her silence, but you see the first remembrance we receive from her disarms us.”

  And taking the letter which Antonine had just given her, Sophie read, with an emotion which increased with every line.

  “Dear Madeleine, always tender and affectionate, always witty and bright, always so appreciative of any remembrance of the past. After a few days’ rest at Marseilles, where she has arrived from Venice, she comes to Paris, almost at the same time her letter arrives, and she thinks only of the happiness of seeing Sophie, her friend, and her little girl Antonine, and she writes in haste to both of us, and signs herself as of old, St. Madeleine.”

  “Then she is not married?” asked Charles Dutertre.

  “I do not know, my dear,” replied his wife, “she signs only her baptismal name.”

  “But why should I ask such an absurd question? — think of a married saint!”

  At that moment the servant entered, and, stopping on the threshold of the door, made a significant sign to her mistress, who replied:

  “You can speak, Julie, Mlle. Antonine is a part of the family.”

  “Madame,” said the servant, “Agatha wants to know if she must put the chicken on the spit if M. Pascal does not come?”

  “Certainly,” said Madame Dutertre, “M. Pascal is a little late, but we expect him every minute.”

  “You are expecting some one, then, Sophie?” asked Antonine, when the servant retired. “Well, good-bye, I will see you again,” added the young girl, with a sigh. “I did not come only to bring St. Madeleine’s letter, I wanted to have a long chat with you. I will see you again to-morrow, dear Sophie.”

  “Not at all, my little Antonine. I use my authority as mother to keep my dear little girl and have her breakfast with us. It is a sort of family feast. Is it because your place was not ready, my child?”

  “Come, Mlle. Antonine,” said Charles, “do us the kindness to stay.”

  “You are a thousand times too good, M. Dutertre, but, really, I cannot accept.”

  “Then,” replied he, “I am going to employ the greatest means of seducing you; in a word, if you will stay, you shall see the generous man who, of his own accord, came to our rescue this day a year ago, for this is the anniversary of that noble action that we are celebrating to-day.”

  Sophie, having forgotten the presentiment awakened in her mind by the words of her little girl, added:

  “Yes, my little Antonine, at the very moment, the critical moment, when ruin threatened our business, M. Pascal said to Charles: ‘Monsieur, I do not know you personally, but I know you are as just as you are laborious and intelligent; you need fifty thousand to put your business in a good condition. I offer it to you as a friend, accept it as a friend; as to interest, we will estimate that afterward, and still as a friend.’”

  “That was to act nobly, indeed!” said Antonine.

  “Yes,” said Charles Dutertre, with profound emotion, “for it is not only my industry which he has saved, but it was the labour of the numerous workmen I employ, it was the repose of my father’s old age, the happiness of my wife, the future of my children. Oh, stay with us, stay, Mlle. Antonine, the sight of such a good man is so rare, so sweet — But wait, there he is!” exclaimed M. Dutertre, as he saw M. Pascal pass the parlour window.

  “I am much impressed with all Sophie and you have told me, M. Dutertre, and I regret I cannot see this generous man to whom you owe so much, but breakfast would detain me too long. I must return early. My uncle expects me, and he has passed a very painful night; in these attacks of suffering he always wants me near him, and these attacks come at any time.”

  Then, taking Sophie by the hand, the young girl added:

  “Can I see you again soon?”

  “To-morrow or day after, my dear little Antonine, I am coming to see you, and we will talk as long as you like.”

  The door opened; M. Pascal entered.

  Antonine embraced her friend, and Sophie said to the financier, with affectionate cordiality:

  “Permit me, will you not, M. Pascal, to take leave of mademoiselle. I need not say that I will hasten to return.”

  “No need of ceremony, my dear Madame Dutertre,” stammered M. Pascal, in spite of his assurance astonished to see Antonine again, and he followed her with an intense, surly gaze until she had left the room.

  CHAPTER VII.

  M. PASCAL, AT the sight of Antonine, whom he saw for the second time that morning, was, as we have said, a moment bewildered with surprise and admiration before this fresh and innocent beauty.

  “At last, here you are!” said Charles Dutertre, effusively extending both hands to M. Pascal when he found himself alone with him. “Do you know we were beginning to question your promptness? All the week my wife and I h
ave looked forward with joy to this day, for, after the anniversary of the birth of our children, the day that we celebrate with the most pleasure is the one from which dates, thanks to you, the security of their future. It is so good, so sweet to feel, by the gratitude of our hearts, the lofty nobleness of those generous deeds which honour him who offers as much as him who accepts.”

  M. Pascal did not appear to have heard the words of M. Dutertre, and said to him:

  “Who is that young girl who just went out of here?”

  “Mlle. Antonine Hubert.”

  “Is she related to President Hubert, who has lately been so ill?”

  “She is his niece.”

  “Ah!” said Pascal, thoughtfully.

  “You know if my father were not with us,” replied M. Dutertre, smiling, “our little festivity would not be complete. I am going to inform him of your arrival, my dear M. Pascal.”

  And as he stepped to the door of the old man’s chamber, M. Pascal stopped him with a gesture, and said:

  “Does not President Hubert reside—”

  And as he hesitated, Dutertre added:

  “In Faubourg St. Honoré. The garden joins that of the Élysée-Bourbon.”

  “Has this young girl lived with her uncle long?”

  Dutertre, quite surprised at this persistent inquiry concerning Antonine, answered:

  “About three months ago M. Hubert went to Nice for Antonine, where she lived after the death of her parents.”

  “And is Madame Dutertre very intimate with this young person?”

  “They were together at boarding-school, where Sophie was a sort of mother to her, and ever since they have been upon the most affectionate terms.”

  “Ah!” said Pascal, again relapsing into deep thought.

  This man possessed a great and rare faculty which had contributed to the accumulation of his immense fortune, — he could with perfect ease detach himself from any line of thought, and enter upon a totally different set of ideas. Thus, after the interview of Frantz and Antonine which he had surprised, and which had excited him so profoundly, he was able to talk with the archduke upon business affairs, and to torture him with deliberate malice.

  In the same way, after this meeting with Antonine at the house of Dutertre, he postponed, so to speak, his violent resentment and his plans regarding the young girl, and said, with perfect good-nature, to Sophie’s husband:

  “While we wait for the return of your wife, I have a little favour to ask of you.”

  “At last!” exclaimed Dutertre, rubbing his hands with evident satisfaction; “better late than never.”

  “You had a cashier named Marcelange?”

  “Yes, unfortunately.”

  “Unfortunately?”

  “He committed, while in my employ, not an act of dishonesty, for I should not, at any price, have saved him from the punishment he merited; but he was guilty of an indelicacy under circumstances which proved to me that the man was a wretch, and I dismissed him.”

  “Marcelange told me, in fact, that you sent him away.”

  “You are acquainted with him?” replied Dutertre, in surprise, as he recalled his father’s words.

  “Some days ago he came to see me. He wished to get a position in the Durand house.”

  “He? Among such honourable people?”

  “Why not? He was employed by you.”

  “But, as I have told you, my dear M. Pascal, I sent him away as soon as his conduct was known to me.”

  “I understand perfectly. Only, as he is without a position, he must have, in order to enter the Durand house, a letter of recommendation from you, as the Durands are not willing to accept the poor fellow otherwise; now this letter, my dear Dutertre, I come honestly to ask of you.”

  After a moment of astonishment, Dutertre said, with a smile:

  “After all, I ought not to be astonished. You are so kind! This man is full of artifice and falsity, and knows how to take advantage of your confidence.”

  “I believe, really, that Marcelange is very false, very sly; but that need not prevent your giving me the letter I ask.”

  Dutertre could not believe that he had heard aright, or that he understood M. Pascal, and replied:

  “I beg your pardon, sir. I have just told you that—”

  “You have reason to complain of an act of indelicacy on the part of this fellow, but, bah! what does that matter?”

  “What! M. Pascal, you ask, what does it matter? Know then, that, in my eyes, this man’s act was even more blamable than fraud in money matters.”

  “I believe you, my dear Dutertre, I believe you; there is no better judge of honourable dealing than yourself. Marcelange seems to me truly a cunning rascal, and, if I must tell you, it is on that account that I insist — insist very much on his being recommended by you.”

  “Honestly, M. Pascal, I believe that I should be acting a dishonourable part in aiding the entrance of Marcelange into a thoroughly respectable house.”

  “Come, now, do this for me!”

  “You are not speaking seriously, M. Pascal?”

  “I am speaking very seriously.”

  “After what I have just confided to you?”

  “My God! yes, why not?”

  “You! you! honour and loyalty itself!”

  “I, the impersonation of honour and loyalty, ask you to give me this letter.”

  Dutertre looked at M. Pascal, bewildered; then, after a moment’s reflection, he replied, in a tone of affectionate reproach:

  “Ah, sir, after a year has elapsed, was this proof necessary?”

  “What proof?”

  “To propose an unworthy action to me, that you might feel assured that I deserved your confidence.”

  “My dear Dutertre, I repeat to you that I must have this letter. It concerns an affair which is very important to me.”

  M. Pascal was speaking seriously. Dutertre could no longer doubt it. He then remembered the words of his father, the antipathy of his little girl, and, seized with a vague dread, he replied, in a constrained voice:

  “So, monsieur, you forget the grave responsibility which would rest upon me if I did what you desire.”

  “Eh, my God! my brave Dutertre, if we only asked easy things of our friends!”

  “You ask of me an impossible thing, monsieur.”

  “So, then, you refuse to do it for me, do you?”

  “M. Pascal,” said Dutertre, with an accent at the same time firm and full of emotion, “I owe you everything. There is not a day that I, my wife, and my father do not recall the fact that, one year ago, without your unexpected succour, our own ruin, and the ruin of many other people, would have been inevitable. All that gratitude can inspire of respect and affection we feel for you. Every possible proof of devotion we are ready to give you with pleasure, with happiness, but—”

  “One word more, and you will understand me,” interrupted M. Pascal. “Since I must tell you, Dutertre, I have a special interest in having some one who belongs to me — entirely to me, you understand, entirely mine — in the business house of Durand. Now, you can comprehend that, holding Marcelange by this letter which you will give me for him, and by what I know of his antecedents, I can make him my creature, my blind instrument. This is entirely between us, my dear Dutertre, and, counting on your absolute discretion, I will go further even, and I will tell you that—”

  “Not a word more on this subject, sir, I beg,” exclaimed Dutertre, with increasing surprise and distress, for up to that time he had believed Pascal to be a man of incorruptible integrity. “Not a word more. There are secrets whose confidence one does not wish to accept.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they might become very embarrassing, sir.”

  “Really! The confidences of an old friend can become an annoyance! Very well, I will keep them. Then, give me this letter without any more explanations.”

  “I repeat to you, sir, that it is impossible for me to do so.”

  M. Pascal bit hi
s lips and unconsciously knit his eyebrows; as surprised as he was angry at the refusal of Dutertre, he could scarcely believe that a man who was dependent upon him could have the audacity to oppose his will, or the courage to sacrifice the present and the future to a scruple of honour.

  However, as he had a special interest in this letter, he replied, with a tone of affectionate reproach:

  “What! You refuse me that, my dear Dutertre, — refuse me, your friend?”

  “I refuse you above all, — you who have had faith enough in my incorruptible honesty to advance for me, without even knowing me, a considerable amount.”

  “Come, my dear Dutertre, do not make me more adventurous than I am. Are not your honesty, your intelligence, your interest even, and at any rate the material in your factory, sufficient security for my capital? Am I not always in a safe position, by the right I reserve to myself, to exact repayment at will? A right which I will not exercise in your case for a long time, as I know. I am too much interested in you to do that, Dutertre,” as he saw astonishment and anguish depicted in Dutertre’s face, “but, indeed, let us suppose, — oh, it will not come to that, thank God, — but let us suppose that, in the constrained condition and trying crisis in which business is at present, I should say to you to-day, M. Dutertre, I shall need my money in a month, and I withdraw my credit from you.”

  “Great God!” exclaimed Dutertre, terrified, staggered at the bare supposition of such a disaster, “I would go into bankruptcy! It would be my ruin, the loss of my business; I would be obliged, perhaps, to work with my own hands, if I could find employment, to support my infirm father, my wife, and my children.”

  “Will you be silent, you wicked man, and not put such painful things before my eyes! You are going to spoil my whole day!” exclaimed M. Pascal, with irresistible good-nature, taking Dutertre’s hands in his own. “Do you speak in this way, when I, like you, am making a festivity of this morning? Well, well, what is the matter? How pale you look, now!”