by Eugène Sue
“Major Butler, go and give the order at once to prepare one of my travelling carriages.”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“This evening at six o’clock you will depart with Count Frantz. Here is the guide for your route,” added the prince, handing to his aid the note he had just written.
Then he remarked:
“Major Butler, you will not wait long for the proofs of my satisfaction if you accomplish, with your usual devotion and firmness, the mission I entrust to you.”
“Your Highness can rely upon me.”
“I know it, but I also know that, once recovering from his present dejection, and being no longer restrained by his respect for me, Count Frantz will certainly try to escape from your care along the route, and to get back to Paris at any risk. If this misfortune happens, sir, take care, for all my resentment will fall on you.”
“I am certain that I shall not be undeserving of the kindness of your Highness.”
“I hope so. Do not forget, too, to write to me twice a day until you reach the frontier.”
“I will not fail, monseigneur.”
“Upon your arrival on the territory of the Rhine provinces, send a despatch to the military authority.”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“The end of your journey reached, you will inform me, and you will receive new orders from me.”
At this moment the prince, hearing a light knock at the door, said to the major:
“See who that is.”
Another aide-de-camp handed the officer a letter, and said, in a low voice:
“The envoy from Mexico has just sent this letter for his Highness.”
And the aide-de-camp went out.
The major presented the letter to the prince, informing him whence it came.
“I recommend to you once more the strictest vigilance, Major Butler,” said the archduke, putting aside the letter from the Mexican envoy without opening it. “You will answer to me in conducting Count Frantz to the frontier.”
“I give you my word, monseigneur.”
“Go, major, I accept your word, I know its value. If you keep it, you will have only cause for congratulation. So, make your preparation to leave at six o’clock promptly. Diesbach will provide you with the money necessary for your journey.”
The major bowed respectfully.
“Say to Colonel Heidelberg that, after a few minutes, he can introduce the envoy of Mexico and the person who accompanies him.”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
The officer bowed profoundly, and went out.
The prince, left alone, said to himself as he slowly unsealed the letter which had been delivered to him:
“I must save this unhappy young man from his own folly. Such a marriage! It is insanity. Well, I must be mad myself to feel so disturbed about the consequences of this foolish passion of Frantz, as if I had not complete power over him. It is not anger, it is pity which his conduct ought to inspire in me.”
In the midst of these reflections the prince had broken the seal of the letter and glanced perfunctorily over its contents. Suddenly he jumped up from his armchair; his haughty features took on an expression of righteous indignation, as he said:
“The Marquise de Miranda, that infernal woman who recently created such a scandal in Bologna, — almost a revolution, — by exposing that unfortunate cardinal to the hisses and the fury of an entire populace already so much disaffected! Oh, on no pretext will I receive that shameless creature.”
And the prince sprang to the door to give the order not to admit the marquise.
He was too late.
The folding doors opened at that very moment, and she entered, accompanied by the envoy of Mexico.
Taking advantage of the surprise of the archduke, the cause of which he did not understand, the diplomatist bowed profoundly, and said:
“Monseigneur, I dare hope that your Highness will accept the excuses I have just had the honour of offering you by letter on the subject of my omission yesterday of an important formality. I ought to have mentioned the name of the person for whom I solicited the favour of an audience from your Highness. I have repaired this omission, and now it only remains for me to have the honour of presenting to your Highness the Marquise de Miranda, who bears a distinguished name in our country, and to commend her to the kindness of your Highness.”
The diplomatist, taking the prolonged silence of the prince for a dismissal, bowed respectfully, and went out, not a little disappointed at so cold a reception.
Madeleine and the archduke were left alone.
The marquise was, according to her custom, as simply and amply dressed as on the day before; only, by chance or intention, a little veil of English point adorned her hood of white crape, and almost entirely hid her face.
The prince, whose manners partook at the same time of military harshness and religious austerity, — his love for the mother of Frantz having been his first and only youthful error, — looked with a sort of aversion upon this woman, who, in his eyes, symbolised the most profound and most dangerous perversity, for popular rumour accused the marquise of attacking, by preference, with her seductions, persons of the most imposing and sacred character; and then, finally, the widely known adventure with the cardinal legate had, as the archduke believed, been followed by such deplorable consequences that a sentiment of political revenge was added to his hatred of Madeleine. So, notwithstanding his cold and polished dignity, he thought at first of dismissing his importunate visitor unceremoniously, or of disdainfully retiring into another chamber without uttering a word. But finally, the curiosity to see this woman about whom so many strange rumours were in circulation, and, above all, a keen desire to treat her with that contempt which in his opinion she deserved, modified his resolution. He remained; but instead of offering a seat to Madeleine, who studied his face attentively through her veil, he leaned his back squarely against the chimney, crossed his arms, and, with his head thrown back, his eyebrows imperiously elevated, he measured her with all the haughtiness of his sovereign pride, shut himself up in a chilling silence, and said to her not one word of encouragement or common civility.
The marquise, accustomed to produce a very different impression, and feeling, unconsciously perhaps, a kind of intimidation which many persons feel in the presence of high rank, particularly when it is identified with such insolent arrogance, was abashed by such a crushing reception, when she had hoped so much from the courtesy of the prince.
However, as she was acting for interests she believed to be sacred, and as she was brave, she conquered her emotion, and, as the Spanish proverb naturalised in Mexico says, she resolved bravely to “take the bull by the horns.” So, seating herself carelessly in an armchair, she said to the prince, with the easiest and most smiling manner in the world:
“I come, monseigneur, simply to ask two things of you, one almost impossible and the other altogether impossible.”
The archduke was confounded; his sovereign rank, his dignity, the severity of his character, his inflexible code of etiquette, always so powerful in the courts of the North, had accustomed him to see women, even, approach him with the most humble respect. Judge, then, of his dismay when Madeleine continued gaily, with familiar ease:
“You do not reply, monseigneur? How shall I interpret the silence of your Highness? Is it reflection? Is it timidity, or is it consent? Can it be impoliteness? Impoliteness? No, I cannot believe that. In touching the soil of France, slaves become free, and men with the least gallantry at once assume an exquisite courtesy.”
The prince, almost crazed by the amazement and anger produced by these audacious words, remained silent.
The marquise continued, smiling:
“Nothing? Not a word? Come, monseigneur, what is the real significance of the continued speechlessness of your Highness? Again I ask, is it reflection? Then reflect. Is it timidity? Then overcome it. Is it impoliteness? Remember that we are in France, and that I am a woman. But can I, on the contrar
y, regard your silence as a blind consent to what I am going to ask of you? Then say so at once, that I may at least inform you what are the favours that you grant me so graciously beforehand, and for which I desire to thank you cordially.”
Then Madeleine, taking off her gloves, extended her hand to the archduke. That perfect little hand, white, delicate, tapering, fluttering, veined with azure, whose finger-nails resembled rose-coloured shells, attracted the attention of the prince; in all his life he had never seen such a hand. But soon, ashamed, revolting at the thought of yielding to such a triviality at such an important moment, the blush of indignation mounted to his brow, and he sought some word superlatively scornful and wounding, that he might crush, with a single club-like blow, this presumptuous woman, whose insolence had already lasted too long for the dignity of an archduke.
Unfortunately, the prince was more accustomed to command his troops, or to receive the homage of courtiers, than to find crushing words on the spur of the moment, especially when they were wanted to crush a young and pretty woman; nevertheless, he persisted in seeking.
This serene cogitation gave Madeleine the time to hide her hand under her large sleeves, and to say to the prince, with a mischievous smile:
“There is no longer room for doubt, monseigneur, that the silence of your Highness is due to timidity, and, too, to German timidity. I am acquainted with that. After the timidity of the scholar, there is none more unconquerable, and, therefore, more venerable, but there are limitations to everything. So, I beg you, monseigneur, recover yourself. I do not think there is anything in me calculated to awe your Highness,” added the marquise, without lifting the veil which concealed her features.
The archduke was unfortunate; in spite of his desire, he could not find the crushing word, but, feeling how ridiculous his position was becoming, he said;
“I do not know, madame, how you dared to present yourself here.”
“But I present myself here in accordance with your consent, monseigneur.”
“When you requested an audience yesterday, I did not know your name, madame.”
“And what has my name done to you, monseigneur?”
“Your name, madame? Your name?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Your name has been the scandal of Germany; you have made the most spiritual of our poets a pagan, an idolater, a materialist.”
“Indeed, monseigneur,” replied Madeleine, with an accent of simplicity quite provincial, “that was not my fault.”
“It was not your fault?”
“And then, where is the great evil, monseigneur? Your religious poet made mediocre verses, but now he writes magnificent ones.”
“They are only the more dangerous, madame. And his soul, — his soul?”
“His soul has passed into his verses, monseigneur, so now it is twice immortal.”
“And the cardinal legate, madame?”
“At least, you cannot reproach me for having injured his soul, for he had none.”
“What, madame! have you not sufficiently vilified the sacred character of the prince of the Church, this priest who until then was so austere, this statesman who for twenty years was the terror of the impious and the seditious? Have you not delivered him to the contempt, the hatred, of wicked people? But for unexpected succour, they would have murdered him; in short, madame, were you not on the point of revolutionising Bologna?”
“Ah, monseigneur, you flatter me.”
“And you dare, madame, to present yourself in the palace of a prince who has so much interest in the peace and submission of Germany and Italy? You dare come to ask favours of me, — things that you yourself say are impossible or almost impossible? And in what tone do you make this inconceivable request? In a tone familiar and jesting, as if you were certain of obtaining anything from me. You have made a mistake, madame, a great mistake! I resemble, I give you fair warning, neither the poet, Moser-Hartmann, nor the cardinal legate, nor many others, they say you have bewitched; in truth, your impudence would seem to be more like a dream or nightmare than reality. But who are you then, madame, you who think yourself so far above respect and duty as to treat me as an equal, — me, whom the princesses of royal families approach only with deference?”
“Alas, monseigneur! I am only a poor woman,” replied Madeleine.
And she threw back the veil which had concealed her face from the eyes of the archduke.
CHAPTER XV.
THE PRINCE, CARRIED away by the vehemence of his furious indignation, had, as he talked, come nearer and nearer the marquise, who still sat at her ease in the armchair.
When she threw back her veil, at the same time throwing her head back lightly, so as to be able to fix her eyes upon the eyes of the prince, he stood motionless, and experienced that mingling of surprise, admiration, and involuntary pain which almost everybody felt at the sight of that charming face, to which a pallid complexion, large azure blue eyes, black eyebrows, and blonde hair gave a fascination so singular.
This profound impression made upon the prince, Charles Dutertre had also received, notwithstanding his love for his wife, notwithstanding the agonising fears of ruin and disaster by which he was besieged.
For a few seconds the archduke remained, so to speak, under the fascination of this fixed, penetrating gaze, in which the marquise endeavoured to concentrate all the attraction, all the magnetism which was in her, and to cast it into the eyes of the prince, for the projecting power of Madeleine’s glance was, so to speak, intermittent, subject, if we may use the expression, to pulsations; so at each of these pulsations, the rebound of which he seemed to feel physically, the archduke started involuntarily; his icy pride appeared to melt like snow in the sun; his haughty attitude seemed to bend; his arrogant countenance betrayed inexpressible uneasiness.
Suddenly Madeleine pulled her veil over her face, bowed her head, and tried to efface herself as much as possible under the ample folds of her mantle and trailing robe, which completely hid her small foot, as her wide sleeves hid the beautiful hand she had extended to the prince, who now saw before him only an undefined and chastely veiled form.
The most provoking coquetry, the boldest exposure of personal charms, would have been ingenuousness itself compared to this mysterious reserve, which, concealing from view the whole person from the point of the foot to the tips of the fingers, gave free rein to the imagination, which took fire at the recollection of the wonderful stories of the marquise current in Paris.
When Madeleine’s face again disappeared under her veil, the prince, delivered from the influence which had held him in spite of himself, regained his self-possession, roughly curbed his weakness, and, as a safeguard against all dangerous allurement, forced himself to ponder the deplorable adventures which proved how fatal was the power of this woman over men known to be strong and inexorable.
But alas! the fall or transformation of these men only brought back more forcibly the irresistible fascination of the marquise. He felt the grave and imminent peril, but every one knows the attraction of danger.
In vain the prince argued with himself, that, naturally phlegmatic, he had attained the maturity of age without ever having submitted to the empire of those gross passions which degrade men. In vain he said to himself that he was a prince of the royal blood, that he owed it to the sovereign dignity of his rank not to debase himself by yielding to shameful enticements. In a word, the unhappy archduke philosophised marvellously well, but as uselessly as a man who, seeing in terror that he is rolling down a steep declivity, gravely philosophises upon the delightful advantages of repose.
Words, phrases, and pages are necessary to portray impressions as instantaneous as thought, and all that we have described at such length, from the moment Madeleine lifted her veil to the moment she dropped it again, transpired in a few seconds, and the archduke, in the midst of his efforts at self-restraint, unconsciously, no doubt, — so much did his philosophy disengage his mind from matter, — tried, we say, yes, tried again to
see Madeleine’s features through the lace which concealed them.
“I told you, monseigneur,” said the marquise, holding her head down from the covetous and anxious gaze of the archduke, “I told you that I was a poor widow who values her reputation, and who really does not deserve your severity.”
“Madame—”
“Oh, I do not reproach you, monseigneur. You, no doubt, like many others, believe certain rumours—”
“Rumours, madame!” cried the archduke, delighted to feel his anger kindle again. “Rumours! The scandalous apostasy of the poet, Moser-Hartmann, was a rumour, was it?”
“What you call his apostasy is a fact, monseigneur; that may be, but—”
“Perhaps the degradation of the cardinal legate was also a vain rumour?” continued the archduke, impetuously interrupting Madeleine.
“That may be a fact, monseigneur, but—”
“So, madame, you confess yourself that—”
“Pardon me, monseigneur, listen to me. I am called Madeleine; it is the name of a great sinner, as you know.”
“She received pardon, madame.”
“Yes, because she loved much; nevertheless, believe me, monseigneur, I am not seeking an excuse in the example of the life of my patron saint. I have done nothing which requires pardon, no, nothing, absolutely nothing, monseigneur. That seems to astonish you very much. So, to make myself entirely understood, which is quite embarrassing, I shall be obliged, at the risk of appearing pedantic, to appeal to the classical knowledge of Your Highness.”
“What do you mean, madame?”
“Something very odd; but the acrimony of your reproaches, as well as other reasons, compels me to a confession, or rather to a very singular justification.”
“Madame, explain yourself.”
“You know, monseigneur, upon what condition the vestal virgins at Rome were chosen?”
“Certainly, madame,” replied the prince, with a modest blush, and, he added, ingenuously, “but I cannot see what relation—”
“Ah, well, monseigneur,” interrupted Madeleine, smiling at the Germanism of the prince, “if we were at Rome under the empire of the Cæsars, I would have every possible right to keep the sacred fire on the altar of the chaste goddess. In a word, I am a widow without ever having been married; because, upon my return from Europe the Marquis de Miranda, my relative and benefactor, died, and he married me on his death-bed that he might leave me his name and his fortune.”