by Eugène Sue
The Marquise de Miranda would hardly, at first sight, seem capable of making so sudden and so deep an impression. Quite tall in stature, her form and waist were completely hidden under a large mantle of spring material which matched that of her dress, whose long, trailing folds scarcely permitted a view of the extremity of her little boot. It was the same with her hands, which were almost entirely concealed by the sleeves of her dress, which she wore, as was her custom, long and floating. A little hood made of crape, as white as snow, formed a framework for her distinctly oval face, and set off the tint of her complexion, for Madeleine had that dull, pale flesh-colour so often found in brunettes of a pronounced type, with large, expressive blue eyes fringed with lashes as black as her eyebrows of jet, while, by a bewitching contrast, her hair, arranged in a mass of little curls, à la Sevigné, was of that charming and delicate ash-blonde which Rubens makes flow like waves upon the shoulders of his fair naiads.
This pallid complexion, these blue eyes, these black eyebrows and blonde hair, gave to Madeleine’s physiognomy a very fetching attraction; her ebony lashes were so thick, so closely set, that one might have said — like the women of the East, who by this means impart a passionate and at the same time an enervated expression to their faces — she painted with black the under part of her eyelids, almost always partially closed over their large azure-coloured pupils; her pink nostrils, changing and nervous, dilated on each side of a Greek nose exquisite in its contour; while her lips, of so warm a red that one might almost see the blood circulate under their delicate epidermis, were full but clear cut, and a little prominent, like those of an antique Erigone, and sometimes under their bright coloured edges one could see the beautiful enamel of her teeth.
But why continue this portrait? Will there not be always, however faithful our description, however highly coloured it may be, as immeasurable a distance between that and the reality as exists between a painting and a living being? It would be impossible to make perceptible that atmosphere of irresistible attraction, that magnetism, we might say, which emanated from this singular creature. That which in others would have produced a neutralising effect, seemed in her to increase her fascinations a hundredfold. The very length and amplitude of her garments, which, without revealing the contour of her figure, allowed only a sight of the end of her fingers and the extremity of her boot, added a charm to her. In a word, if the chaste drapery which falls at the feet of an antique muse, of severe and thoughtful face, enhances the dignity of her aspect, a veil thrown over the beautiful form of the Venus Aphrodite only serves to excite and inflame the imagination.
Such was the impression which Madeleine had produced on Charles Dutertre, who, speechless and troubled, stood for some moments gazing at her.
Sophie, not suspecting the cause of her husband’s silence and emotion, supposed him to be absorbed in thought of the imminent danger which threatened him, and this idea bringing her back to the position she had for a moment forgotten, she said to the marquise, trying to force a smile:
“My dear Madeleine, you must excuse the preoccupation of Charles. At the moment you entered we were talking of business, and business of a very serious nature indeed.”
“Yes, really, madame, you must excuse me,” said Dutertre, starting, and reproaching himself for the strange impression his wife’s friend had made upon him. “Fortunately, all that Sophie has told me of your kindness encourages me to presume upon your indulgence.”
“My indulgence? It is I who have need of yours, monsieur,” replied the marquise, smiling, “for in my overmastering desire to see my dear Sophie again, running here unawares, I threw myself on her neck, without dreaming of your presence or that of your father. But he will, I know, pardon me for treating Sophie like a sister, since he treats her as a daughter.”
With these words, Madeleine turned to the old man.
“Alas! madame,” exclaimed he, involuntarily, “never did my poor children have greater need of the fidelity of their friends. Perhaps it is Heaven that sends you—”
“Take care, father,” said Dutertre, in a low voice to the old man, as if he would reproach him tenderly for making a stranger acquainted with their domestic troubles, for Madeleine had suddenly directed a surprised and interrogative glance toward Sophie.
The old man comprehended his son’s thought, and whispered:
“You are right. I ought to keep silent, but grief is so indiscreet! Come now, Charles, take me back to my room. I feel very much overcome.”
And he took his son’s arm. As Dutertre was about to leave the parlour the marquise approached him, and said:
“I shall see you soon, M. Dutertre, I warn you, for I am resolved during my sojourn in Paris to come often, oh! very often, to see my dear Sophie. Besides, I wish to make a request of you, and, in order to be certain of your consent, I shall charge Sophie to ask it. You see, I act without ceremony, as a friend, an old friend, for my friendship for you, M. Dutertre, dates from the happiness Sophie owes you. I shall see you, then, soon!” added the marquise, extending her hand to Dutertre with gracious cordiality.
For the first time in his life Sophie’s husband felt ashamed of the hands blackened by toil; he hardly dared touch the rosy little fingers of Madeleine; he trembled slightly at the contact; a burning blush mounted to his forehead, and, to dissimulate his mortification and embarrassment, he bowed profoundly before the marquise, and went out with his father.
From the commencement of this scene Sophie’s two little children, holding each other’s hands, and hiding now and then behind their mother, near whom they were standing, opened their eyes wide in silent and curious contemplation of the great lady.
The marquise, perceiving them, exclaimed, as she looked at her friend:
“Your children? My God, how pretty they are! How proud you must be!” And she dropped on her knees before them, putting herself, so to speak, on a level with them; then, dispersing with one hand the blond curls which hid the brow and eyes of the little girl, she lifted the chin of the child’s half-bent head with the other hand, looked a moment at the charming little face so rosy and fresh, and kissed the cheeks and eyes and brow and hair and neck of the little one with maternal tenderness.
“And you, little cherub, you must not be jealous,” added she, and, holding the brown head of the little boy and the blond curls of the little girl together, she divided her caresses between them.
Sophie Dutertre, moved to tears, smiled sadly at this picture, when the marquise, still on her knees, looked up at her and said, holding both children in her embrace:
“You would not believe, Sophie, that, in embracing these little angels, I comprehend, I feel almost the happiness that you experience when you devour them with kisses and caresses, and it seems to me that I love you even more to know that you are so happy, so perfectly happy.”
As she heard her happiness thus extolled, Sophie, brought back to the painful present a moment forgotten, dropped her head, turned pale, and showed in her countenance such intense agony, that Madeleine rose immediately, and exclaimed:
“My God, Sophie, how pale you are! What is the matter?”
Madame Dutertre stifled a sigh, lifted her head sadly, and replied:
“Nothing is the matter, Madeleine; the excitement, the joy of seeing you again after such a long separation, — that is all.”
“Excitement, joy?” answered the marquise, with an air of painful doubt. “No, no! A few moments ago it was excitement and joy, but now you seem to be heart-broken, Sophie.”
Madame Dutertre said nothing, hid her tears, embraced her children, and then whispered to them:
“Go find your nurse, my darlings.”
Madeleine and Augustus obeyed and left the parlour, not, however, without turning many times to look at the great lady whom they thought so charming.
CHAPTER XI.
SCARCELY WERE THE two children out of the parlour, when Madeleine said to her friend, quickly:
“Now we are alone, Sophie, I pray you, ans
wer me; what is the matter with you? What is the cause of this sudden oppression? Have absence and distance destroyed your confidence in me?”
Sophie had courage enough to overcome her feelings, and hide without falsehood the painful secret which was not hers. Not daring to confess, even to her best friend, the probable and approaching ruin of Dutertre, she said to Madeleine, with apparent calmness:
“If I must tell you my weakness, my friend, I share sometimes, and doubtless exaggerate, the financial troubles of my husband in this crisis, — temporary they may be, but at the same time very dangerous to our industry,” said Sophie, trying to smile.
“But this crisis, my dear Sophie, is, as you say, only temporary, is it not? It is not yet grave and should it become so, what can be done to render it less painful to you and your husband? Without being very rich I live in perfect ease, — is there anything I would not do?”
“Good, dear, excellent friend!” said Sophie, interrupting Madeleine, with emotion, “always the same heart! Reassure yourself, — this time of crisis will, I hope, be only a passing evil, — let us talk no more about it, let me have all the joy of seeing you again.”
“But, Sophie, if these troubles—”
“Madeleine,” replied Sophie, sweetly, interrupting her friend again, “first, let us talk of yourself.”
“Egoist!”
“That is true, when it touches you; but tell me, you are happy, are you not? because, marquise as you are, you have made a marriage of love, have you not? And what about your husband?”
“I am a widow.”
“Oh, my God, already!”
“I was a widow the evening of my wedding, my dear Sophie.”
“What do you mean?”
“As extraordinary as it may seem, it is nevertheless quite simple. Listen to me: when I left boarding-school and returned to Mexico, where I was ordered, as you know, by my father, I found but one relative of my mother, the Marquis de Miranda, mortally attacked by one of those epidemics which so often ravage Lima. He had no children and had seen me when I was a small child. He knew that my father’s fortune had been entirely destroyed by disastrous lawsuits. He had a paternal sentiment for me, and almost on his death-bed offered me his hand. ‘Accept, my dear Magdelena, my poor orphan,’ said he to me, ‘my name will give you a social position, my fortune will assure your independence, and I shall die content in knowing that you are happy.’”
“Noble heart!” said Sophie.
“Yes,” replied Madeleine, with emotion, “he was the best of men. My isolated position and earnest entreaties made me accept his generous offer. The priest came to his bedside to consecrate our union, and the ceremony was hardly over when the hand of the Marquis de Miranda was like ice in my own.”
“Madeleine, forgive me,” said Madame Dutertre, involuntarily, “I have made you sad by recalling such painful memories.”
“Painful? no, it is with a sweet melancholy that I think of Marquis de Miranda. It is only ingratitude that is bitter to the heart.”
“And so young still, does not your liberty incommode you? Alone, without family, are you accustomed to this life of isolation?”
“I think I am the happiest of women, after you, let it be understood,” replied Madeleine, smiling.
“And do you never think of marrying again, or rather,” added Sophie, smiling in her turn, “of marrying? Because, really, notwithstanding your widowhood, you are a maiden.”
“I hide nothing from you, Sophie. Ah, well, yes. One time I had a desire to marry, — that was a grand passion, a romance,” replied Madeleine, gaily.
“Well, as you are free, who prevented this marriage?”
“Alas! I saw my hero for five minutes only, and from my balcony.”
“Only five minutes?”
“Not more.”
“And you loved him at once?”
“Passionately.”
“And you have never seen him since?”
“Never! No doubt he has been translated to heaven among his brothers, the archangels, whose ideal beauty he possessed.”
“Madeleine, are you speaking seriously?”
“Listen: six months ago I was in Vienna. I lived in the country situated near one of the suburbs of the city. One morning I was in a kiosk, the window of which looked out upon a field. Suddenly my attention was attracted by the noise of stamping and the clash of swords. I ran to my window; it was a duel.”
“Oh, my God!”
“A young man of nineteen or twenty at most, as gracious and beautiful as they paint the angels, was fighting with a sort of giant with a ferocious face. My first wish was that the blond archangel — for blond is my passion — might triumph over the horrible demon, and although the combat lasted in my presence not more than two minutes, I had time to admire the intrepidity, the calmness, and dexterity of my hero, — his white breast half naked, his long, blond hair floating to the wind, his brow serene, his eyes brilliant, and a smile upon his lips, he seemed to brave danger with a charming grace, and at that moment, I confess it, his beauty appeared to me more than human. Suddenly, in the midst of a kind of fascination that the flashing of the swords had for me, I saw the giant stagger and fall. Immediately my beautiful hero threw away his sword, clasped his hands, and, falling on his knees before his adversary, lifted to heaven his enchanting face, where shone an expression so touching, so ingenuous, that to see him thus bending in grief over his vanquished enemy, one would have thought of a young girl’s grief for her wounded dove, if we can compare this hideous giant to a dove. But his wound did not seem to be mortal, for he sat up, and, in a hoarse voice, which I could hear through my window-blind, said to his young enemy:
“‘On my knees, monsieur, I ask your pardon for my disloyal conduct and my rude provocation; if you had killed me it would have been justice.’
“Immediately a carriage arrived and carried the wounded man away, and a few minutes afterward all the witnesses of the duel had disappeared. It happened so rapidly that I would have thought I had dreamed it, but for the remembrance of my hero, who has been in my thought always since that day, the ideal of all that is most beautiful, most brave, and most generous.”
“Now, Madeleine, I conceive that under such circumstances one might, in five minutes, feel a profound impression, perhaps ineffaceable. But have you never seen your hero again?”
“Never, I tell you. I do not know his name even; yet, if I marry, I should marry no man except him.”
“Madeleine, you know that our old friendship gives me the privilege of being frank with you.”
“Could you be otherwise?”
“It seems to me that you bear this grand passion very cheerfully.”
“Why should I be sad?”
“But when one loves passionately, nothing is more cruel than absence and separation, and, above all, the fear of never seeing the beloved object again.”
“That is true; and notwithstanding the effects of this profound passion, I declare to you they have a very different result with me.”
“What must I say to you? When I began to love Charles, I should have died of distress if I had been separated from him.”
“That is singular. My passion, I repeat to you, manifests itself in an entirely different fashion. There is not a day in which I do not think of my hero, my ideal; not a day in which I do not recall with love, in the smallest details, the only circumstances under which I saw him; not a day in which I do not turn all my thought to him; not a day in which I do not triumph with pride in comparing him to others, for he is the most beautiful of the most beautiful, most generous of the most generous; in fact, thanks to him, not a day in which I do not lull myself in the most beautiful dreams. Yes, it seems to me that my soul is for ever attached to his by cords as mysterious as they are indissoluble. I do not know if I shall ever behold him again, and yet I feel in my heart only delight and cheerfulness.”
“I must say, as you do, my dear Madeleine, that it is very singular.”
“Come,
Sophie, let us talk sincerely; we are alone and, among women, although I am still a young lady to be married or a marriageable girl, we can say the truth. You find my love, do you not, a little platonic? You are astonished to see me so careless or ignorant of the thrill you felt, when for the first time the hand of Charles pressed your hand in love?”
“Come, Madeleine, you are getting silly.”
“Be frank, I have guessed your feeling.”
“A little, but less than you think.”
“That little suffices to penetrate your inmost thought, Madame Materialist.”
“I say again, Madeleine, you are growing silly.”
“Oh, oh, not so silly!”
Then, after a moment’s silence, the marquise resumed, with a smile:
“If you only knew, Sophie, the strange, extraordinary, I might say incomprehensible things that have come in my life! What extravagant adventures have happened to me since our separation! My physician and my friend, the celebrated Doctor Gasterini, a great philosopher as well, has told me a hundred times there is not a creature in the world as singularly endowed as myself.”
“Explain your meaning.”
“Later, perhaps.”
“Why not now?”
“If I had a sorrow to reveal, do you think I would hesitate? But, notwithstanding all that has been extraordinary in my life, or perhaps for that particular reason, I have been the happiest of women. Oh, my God! wait, for this moment I have almost a sorrow for my want of heart and memory.”
“A want of memory?”
“Yes, of Antonine; have I not forgotten her since I have been here, talking to you only of myself? Is it wicked? Is it ingratitude enough?”
“I would be at least as culpable as you, but we need not reproach ourselves. This morning she came to bring me your letter and announce your arrival to me. Think of her joy, for she has, you can believe me, the strongest and most tender attachment to you.”
“Poor child, how natural and charming she was! But tell me, has she fulfilled the promise of her childhood? She ought to be as pretty as an angel, with her fifteen years just in flower.”