Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “You are right; she is a rosebud of freshness; add to that the finest, most delicate features that you could ever see. After the death of her nearest relative, she came, as you know, to live with her uncle, President Hubert, who has always been kind to her. Unhappily, he is now seriously ill, and should she lose him she would be compelled to go and live with some distant relatives, and the thought makes her very sad. Besides, you will see her and she will give you her confidence. She has made one to me, in order to ask my advice, for the circumstances are very grave.”

  “What is this confidence?”

  “‘If you see Madeleine before I do,’ said Antonine to me, ‘tell her nothing, my dear Sophie. I wish to confide all to her myself; it is a right which her affection for me gives me. I have other reasons, too, for laying this injunction on you.’ So you see, my dear friend, I am obliged, perforce, to be discreet.”

  “I do not insist upon knowing more. To-day or to-morrow I will go to see this dear child,” said the marquise, rising to take leave of Madame Dutertre.

  “You leave me so soon, Madeleine?”

  “Unfortunately, I must. I have an appointment from three to four, at the house of the Mexican envoy, my compatriot. He is going to conduct me to-morrow to the palace of a foreign Royal Highness. You see, Sophie, I am among the grandees.”

  “A Highness?”

  “Such a Highness that, like all princes who belong to the reigning foreign families, he resides in the Élysée-Bourbon during his sojourn in Paris.”

  Madame Dutertre could not restrain a movement of surprise, and said, after a minute’s reflection:

  “That is singular.”

  “What, pray?”

  “Antonine lives in a house contiguous to the Élysée. There is nothing very surprising in that, but—”

  “But what?”

  “I cannot tell you more, Madeleine; when you have heard Antonine’s confidences you will comprehend why I have been struck with this coincidence.”

  “What is there in common with Antonine and the Élysée?”

  “I tell you again, my dear friend, wait for the confidences of Antonine.”

  “So be it, my mysterious friend. Besides, I did not know she lived near the palace. I addressed a letter to her at her old dwelling-house. That suits my plans marvellously; I will go to see her before or after my audience with the prince.”

  “Come, what a great lady you are!”

  “Pity me, rather, my dear Sophie, because it is a question of entreaty, not for myself, I am not in the habit of begging, but it concerns an important service to be done for a proscribed family, and one worthy of the highest interest. The mission is very difficult, very delicate; however, I consented to undertake it at the time of my departure from Venice, and I desire to try everything which can further my success.”

  “And surely you will succeed. Can any one refuse you anything? Do you remember when we were at school, as soon as a petition was to be addressed to our mistress you were always chosen as ambassadress; and they were right, for, really, you seem to possess a talisman for obtaining all you want.”

  “I assure you, my good Sophie,” replied Madeleine, smiling in spite of herself, “I assure you I am often a magician without trying to be one. My God!” added the marquise, laughing, “how many fine extravagances I have to tell you. But we will see, some other time. Come, dear Sophie, good-bye, — will see you soon.”

  “Oh, yes, come again soon, I implore you!”

  “My God! you can count on my coming almost every day, because I am a bird of passage, and I have decided to employ my time in Paris well, that is to say, I shall see you very often.”

  “What! you are not thinking of leaving Paris soon?”

  “I do not know; that will depend upon the inspiration that my hero, my passion, my ideal will give me, for I decide on nothing without consulting him in thought. But, as he always inspires me admirably, I doubt not he will induce me to stay near you as long a time as possible.”

  “Ah, my God, Madeleine; but, now I think of it, you told my husband that you had a favour to ask of him.”

  “That is true, I forgot it. It is a very simple thing. I understand nothing of money affairs. I learned that recently, to my cost, in Germany. I had a letter of credit on a certain Aloysius Schmidt, of Vienna; he cheated me shamefully, so I promised myself to be on my guard in the future. So I have taken another letter of credit on Paris. I wish to ask your husband to demand money for me when I have need of it. He will watch over my interests, and, thanks to him, I shall not be exposed to the possibility of falling into the clutches of a new Aloysius Schmidt.”

  “Nothing easier, my dear Madeleine. Charles will endorse your letter of credit and verify at hand all your accounts.”

  “That will be all the more necessary, since, between us, I am told that the person on whom they have given me this letter of credit is enormously rich, and as solvent as one could be, but crafty and sordid to the last degree.”

  “You do well to inform me beforehand. Charles will redouble his watchfulness.”

  “Besides, your husband, who is in business, ought to know the man of whom I speak, — they say he is one of the greatest capitalists in France.”

  “What is his name?”

  “M. Pascal.”

  “M. Pascal?” repeated Madame Dutertre.

  And she could not help trembling and turning pale.

  The marquise, seeing her friend’s emotion, said, quickly:

  “Sophie, pray, what is the matter?”

  “Nothing, nothing, I assure you.”

  “I see that something is the matter; answer me, I implore you.”

  “Ah, well, if I must tell you, my husband has had some business relations with M. Pascal. Unhappily, a great misunderstanding was the result, and—”

  “Why, Sophie, you are very unreasonable to give yourself so much concern, because, in consequence of this misunderstanding with M. Pascal, your husband cannot render me the good office I expected from him.”

  Madame Dutertre, willing to leave her friend in this error, tried to regain her calmness, and said to her:

  “Indeed, it disappoints me very much to think that Charles will not be able to do you the first service that you ask of us.”

  “Stop, Sophie, you will make me regret having appealed so cordially to you.”

  “Madeleine—”

  “Really, it is not such a great pity! And, besides, to prevent my being deceived, I will address myself directly to this M. Pascal, but I will demand my accounts every week. Your husband can examine them, and, if they are not correct, I will know perfectly well how to complain of them to monsieur, my banker, and to take another.”

  “You are right, Madeleine,” said Sophie, recovering by degrees her self-possession, “and the supervision of my husband will, in fact, be more necessary than you think.”

  “So this M. Pascal is a sordid fellow?”

  “Madeleine,” said Madame Dutertre, unable longer to conquer her emotion, “I beseech you, and let me speak to you as a friend, as a sister, whatever may be the reason, whatever may be the pretext, place no dependence in M. Pascal!”

  “What do you mean, Sophie?”

  “In a word, if he offers you his services, refuse them.”

  “His services? But I have no service to ask of him. I have a letter of credit on him. I will go and draw money from his bank when I have need of it — that is all.”

  “That may be, but you might, through mistake or ignorance of business, exceed your credit, and then—”

  “Well, what then?”

  “I know from a person who has told Charles and myself that, once M. Pascal has you in his debt, he will abuse his power cruelly, oh, so cruelly.”

  “Come, my good Sophie, I see that you take me for a giddy prodigal. Reassure yourself, and admire my economy. I have so much order that I lay by every year something from my income, and although these savings are small I place them at your disposal.”

  �
��Dear, tender friend, I thank you a thousand times! I repeat, the crisis which gives my husband and myself so much concern will soon end; but let me tell you again, do not trust M. Pascal. When you have seen Antonine, I will tell you more.”

  “Antonine again! You just spoke of her in connection with the Élysée.”

  “Yes, it all hangs together; you will see it yourself after to-morrow. I will explain myself entirely, which will be important to Antonine.”

  “After to-morrow, then, my dear Sophie. I must confess you excite my curiosity very much, and I try in vain to discover what there can be in common between Antonine and the Élysée, or between Antonine and that wicked man, for so at least he appears who is named M. Pascal.”

  Half-past three sounded from the factory clock.

  “My God! how late I am!” said Madeleine to her friend. “I shall barely have time, but I must embrace your angelic children before I go.”

  The two women left the parlour.

  We will return with the reader to the Élysée-Bourbon, where we left the archduke alone, after the departure of M. Pascal.

  CHAPTER XII.

  THE ARCHDUKE, ANXIOUS and preoccupied, was walking back and forth in his study, while his secretary of ordinance unsealed and examined the letters received during the day.

  “This despatch, monseigneur,” pursued the secretary, “relates to Colonel Pernetti, exiled with his family to England. We think it necessary to put your Highness on guard against the proceedings and petitions of the friends of Colonel Pernetti.”

  “I do not need that warning. The republican principles of this man are too dangerous for me to listen, under any consideration, to what may be urged in his favour. Go on.”

  “His Eminence, the envoy plenipotentiary from the Mexican Republic, asks the favour of presenting one of his compatriots to your Highness. It concerns a very urgent interest, and he requests your Highness to have the kindness to grant an audience to-morrow.”

  “Is the list of audiences complete for to-morrow?”

  “No, monseigneur.”

  “Write that at two o’clock, to-morrow, I will receive the envoy from Mexico, and his compatriot.”

  The secretary wrote.

  A moment passed, and the archduke said to him:

  “Does he mention in this letter the name of the person whom he wishes to present?”

  “No, monseigneur.”

  “That is contrary to all custom; I shall not grant the audience.”

  The secretary put the letter he had begun to write aside, and took another sheet of paper.

  In the meanwhile the prince changed his mind after reflection, and said:

  “I will grant the audience.”

  The secretary bowed his head in assent, and, taking another letter, he rose and presented it to the prince without breaking the seal, and said:

  “On this envelope is written ‘Confidential and Special,’ monseigneur.”

  The archduke took the letter and read it. It was from M. Pascal, and was expressed in these familiar words:

  “After mature reflection, monseigneur, instead of waiting upon you Thursday I will see you to-morrow at three o’clock; it will depend upon you absolutely whether our business is concluded and signed during that interview. Your devoted

  “Pascal.”

  One moment of lively hope, soon tempered by the recollection of the eccentricities of M. Pascal’s character, thrilled the prince, who, however, said, coldly:

  “Write M. Pascal on the list of audiences for to-morrow at three o’clock.”

  An aide-de-camp was then presented, who asked if the prince could receive Count Frantz de Neuberg.

  “Certainly,” said the archduke.

  After a few more moments’ work with his secretary of ordinance, he gave the order to introduce Frantz.

  Frantz presented himself, blushing, before the prince, his godfather, for the young count was excessively timid, and unsophisticated to a degree that would make our experienced lads of twenty laugh. Brought up by a Protestant pastor in the depth of a German village belonging to one of the numerous possessions of the archduke, the godson of the Royal Highness had left this austere solitude, only to enter at sixteen years a military school devoted to the nobility, and kept with puritanical strictness. From that school, he went, by order of the prince, to serve in the Russian army as a volunteer in the wars of the Caucasus. The rude discipline of the camp; the severity of manners which characterised the old general to whom he had been sent and especially recommended by his royal godfather; the chain of sad and serious thought peculiar to brave but tender and melancholy souls; the sight of the fields of battle during a bitter war which knew no mercy nor pity; the habitual gravity of mind imparted to these same souls by the possibility if not the expectation of death, coolly braved every day in the midst of the most frightful perils; the mystery of his birth, to which was joined the pain of never having known the caresses of a father or a mother, — all had conspired to accentuate the natural reserve and timidity of his character, and increase the ingenuousness of his sincere and loving heart. In Frantz, as in many others, heroic courage was united with extreme and unconquerable timidity in the ordinary relations of life.

  Besides, whether from prudence, or other reason, the prince, during the six months passed in Germany after the young man had returned from the war, had kept his godson far from the court. This determination agreed marvellously with the simple and studious habits of Frantz, who found the highest happiness in an obscure and tranquil life. As to the sentiments he felt for the prince, his godfather, he was full of gratitude, loyalty, and respectful affection, the expression of which was greatly restrained by the imposing prestige of his royal protector’s rank.

  The embarrassment of Frantz was so painful, when, after the departure of the secretary, he stood in the presence of his godfather, that for some time he remained silent, his eyes cast down.

  Fortunately, at the sight of the young man, the prince appeared to forget his laborious duties; his cold and haughty face relaxed, his brow grew clearer, a smile parted his lips, and he said, affectionately, to Frantz:

  “Good morning, my child.”

  And taking the young man’s blond head in his two hands, he kissed him tenderly on the forehead; then he added, as if he felt the need of opening his heart:

  “I am glad to see you, Frantz. I have been overwhelmed with business, sad business, this morning. Here, give me your arm and let us take a turn together in the garden.”

  Frantz opened one of the glass doors which led to the steps opposite the lawn, and the godfather and godson, arm in arm, took their way to the shady walk in which the young man had promenaded so long that morning.

  “Now, what is the matter, my child?” said the prince, observing at once the embarrassment of the young man.

  “Monseigneur,” replied Frantz, with increasing bashfulness, “I have a confidence to make to your Royal Highness.”

  “A confidence!” repeated the prince, smiling. “Let us hear, then, the confidence of Count Frantz.”

  “It is a very important confidence, monseigneur.”

  “Well, what is this important confidence?”

  “Monseigneur, I have no parents. Your Royal Highness has, up to this time, deigned to stand for me in the place of family.”

  “And you have bravely repaid my care, and fulfilled my hopes, my dear Frantz; you have even surpassed them. Modest, studious, and courageous, although a lad, three years ago, you fought with such intelligence and intrepidity in that terrible war to which I sent you for your first experience. You have received there your first wound, your baptism of fire. I will not speak of a duel, which I ought to ignore, but in which you have, I know, given proof of as much bravery as generosity.”

  “Monseigneur—”

  “I pray you, let me in this moment recall all your claims to my tenderness. It does me good, it makes me forget the bitter vexations of which you are the innocent and involuntary cause.”

 
“I, monseigneur?”

  “You, because, if you continue to fill me with satisfaction, you cannot foresee the future which my loving ambition prepares for you, — the unhoped-for position which perhaps awaits you.”

  “You know, monseigneur, the simplicity of my tastes, and—”

  “My dear Frantz,” interrupted the prince, “this simplicity, this modesty, are virtues under certain conditions, while under other circumstances these virtues become weakness and indolence. But we are getting far away from the confidence. Come, what is it you have to tell me?”

  “Monseigneur—”

  “Well, speak; are you afraid of me? Is there a single thought in your heart which you cannot confess with a bold face and steady eye?”

  “No, monseigneur; so, without any evasion, I will tell your Highness that I wish to get married.”

  If a thunderbolt had fallen at the feet of the prince he could not have been more astounded than he was at the words of Frantz; he rudely withdrew his arm from that of the young man, stepped back, and exclaimed:

  “You marry, Frantz?”

  “Yes, monseigneur.”

  “Why, you are a fool.”

  “Monseigneur!”

  “You marry, and hardly twenty years old! You marry! When I was planning for you to—”

  Then the prince, regaining his self-possession, said, calmly and coldly:

  “And whom do you wish to marry, Frantz?”

  “Mlle. Antonine Hubert, monseigneur.”

  “Who is this Mlle. Hubert? What did you say her name was?”

  “Hubert, monseigneur.”

  “And what is Mlle. Hubert?”

  “The niece of a French magistrate, monseigneur, President Hubert.”

  “And where have you made the acquaintance of this young lady?”

  “Here, monseigneur.”

  “Here? I have never received any person of that name.”

  “When I say here, monseigneur, I mean to say in this walk where we are.”

  “Speak more clearly.”

  “Your Royal Highness sees this wall of protection which separates the neighbouring garden?”