by Eugène Sue
“So,” added the prince, with increasing rapture, “I can hope—”
“Hope all at your ease, monseigneur, but, I tell you plainly, I bind myself to nothing. My faith! fan your flame, make it burn, let it melt my snow.”
“But, in a word, suppose that I grant all that you ask, what would you feel for me?”
“Perhaps this first proof of devotion to my wishes would make a deep impression upon me, but I cannot assert it, my power of divination does not extend so far as that, monseigneur.”
“Ah, you are pitiless!” cried the archduke, with a vexation that had a touch of sorrow in it, “you only know how to exact.”
“Would it be better to make false promises, monseigneur? That would be worthy neither of you nor of me, and then, in a word, let us speak as people who have hearts. Once more, what is it I ask of you? to show justice and mercy to the most honourable of men, and paternal affection for the orphan you have reared! If you only knew how these poor orphans love each other! What innocence! what tenderness! what despair! This morning, as she told me of the ruin of her hopes, Antonine was moved to tears.”
“Frantz is of illustrious birth. I have other plans and other views for him,” replied the prince, impatiently. “He ought not to make a misalliance.”
“The word is a pretty one. And then who am I, monseigneur? Magdalena Pérès, daughter of an honest Mexican merchant, ruined by failures in business, and a marquise by chance. You love me, nevertheless, without fear of misalliance.”
“Ah, madame! I! I!”
“You, you, it is another thing, is it not? as the comedy says.”
“At least, I am free in my actions.”
“And why should not Frantz be free in his, when his tastes restrain him to a modest and honourable life, adorned by a pure and noble love? Come, monseigneur, if you were, as you say, smitten with me, how tenderly you would compassionate the despairing love of those two poor children, who adore each other with all the ardour and innocence of their age! If passion does not render you better and more generous, this passion is not true, and if I am to share it I must begin by believing in it, which I cannot do when I see your relentless cruelty to Frantz.”
“Ah, my God, if I loved him less I would not be relentless!”
“A singular way to love people!”
“Have I not told you that I intended him for a high destiny?”
“And I tell you, monseigneur, that the high destiny you reserve for him would be odious to him. He is born for a happy, sweet, and modest life; his tastes are simple, the timidity of his character, his qualities even, separate him from all that is showy and pompous; is it not true?”
“Then,” said the prince, greatly surprised, “you are acquainted with him?”
“I have never seen him.”
“How, then, do you know?”
“Has not this dear Antonine given me all her confidence? Is it not true that, according to the way you love people, you are able to divine their true character? In a word, monseigneur, the character of Frantz is such as I have described, is it not, — yes or no?”
“It is true, such is his character.”
“And you would have the cruelty to impose upon him an existence which would be insupportable to him, when there under his hand he would find the happiness of his life?”
“But, know that I love Frantz as my own son, and I will never consent to be separated from him.”
“Great pleasure for you to have constantly under your eyes the sad face of a poor creature whose eternal misery you have caused! Besides, Antonine is an orphan; nothing forbids her accompanying Frantz; in the place of one child, you would have two. What a relief from your grandeur, from the adulations of a false and selfish and artificial society would the sight of this sweet and smiling happiness be to you; with what joy would you go to refresh your heart and soul in the home of these two children who would cherish you with all the happiness they would owe to you!”
“Stop, leave me,” cried the prince, more and more moved. “I do not know what inconceivable power your words have, but I feel my firmest resolutions give way, I feel the convictions of my whole life growing weak.”
“Do you complain of that, monseigneur! Hold! Between us, without detracting from princes, I think they would often do well to renounce the convictions of all their life, for God knows what these convictions may be. Come, believe me, yield to the impression which now dominates you, it is good and generous.”
“Ah, my God, in this moment do I know how to distinguish good from evil?”
“For that, monseigneur, interrogate the faces of those whose happiness you have assured; when you will say to one, ‘Go, poor exile, return to the country that you weep; your brothers wait for you with open arms,’ and to the other, ‘My beloved child, be happy, marry Antonine,’ then look well at both, monseigneur, and if tears moisten their eyes, as at this moment they moisten yours and mine, be tranquil, monseigneur, you have done good, and for this good, to encourage you because your emotion touches me, I promise you to accompany Antonine to Germany.”
“Truly,” cried the prince, “you promise me?”
“I must, monseigneur,” said Madeleine, smiling, “give you the opportunity to captivate me.”
“Ah, well, whatever may happen, whatever you may do, for perhaps you are making sport of me,” said the prince, throwing himself at Madeleine’s knees, “I give you my royal word that I will pardon the exile, that I—”
The archduke was suddenly interrupted by a violent noise outside the door of his study, a noise which revealed the sharp contention of several voices, above which rose distinctly the words:
“I tell you, sir, you shall not enter!”
The archduke got up from his position suddenly, turned pale with anger, and said to Madeleine, who was listening also to the noise with great surprise:
“I beseech you, go into the next chamber; something extraordinary is taking place. In an instant I will rejoin you.”
At that moment a violent blow resounded behind the door.
The prince added, as he went to open the adjacent room for Madeleine:
“Enter there, please.”
Then, closing the door, and wishing in his anger to know the cause of this insolent and unusual noise, he went out of his study quickly, and saw M. Pascal, whom two exasperated officers were trying to restrain.
CHAPTER XVII.
AT THE SIGHT of the archduke, the officers turned aside respectfully, and M. Pascal, who seemed to have lost control of himself, cried:
“Zounds! monseigneur, you receive people here singularly!”
The prince, remembering the appointment that he had made with M. Pascal, and fearing for his own dignity some new insult from this brutal person, said, making a sign to him:
“Come, monsieur, come.”
And before the eyes of the silent officers the door closed on the prince and the capitalist.
“Now, monsieur,” said the archduke, pale with anger and hardly able to restrain himself, “will you tell me the cause of this scandal?”
“What! you make an appointment for me at three o’clock; I am punctual; a quarter of an hour passes, — nobody; a half-hour, — nobody; my faith! I lose patience, and I ask one of your officers to inform you that I am waiting. They answer that you have an audience. I begin to champ my bit, and at last, at the end of another half-hour, I tell your gentlemen, positively, that if they do not inform you I will go in myself.”
“That, monsieur, is an insolence—”
“What, an insolence! Ah, well, monseigneur, is it I who have need of you, or you who have need of me?”
“M. Pascal!”
“Is it I who come to you, monseigneur? Is it I who have asked for the loan of money?”
“But, monsieur—”
“But, monseigneur, when I consent to interrupt my own business to come here and wait in your antechamber, — what I do for nobody, — it seems to me that you ought not to let me go to the devil for one hou
r, and the most important hour, too, on the Exchange, which, thanks to you, monseigneur, I have missed to-day; and in addition to that vexation, I think it very strange that your officers repulse me, when, on their refusal to announce me, I take the liberty of announcing myself.”
“Discretion and the simplest propriety command you to wait the end of the audience I was giving, monsieur.”
“That is possible, monseigneur, but, unfortunately, my just impatience contradicts discretion, and, frankly, I think I deserve a different reception, especially when I come to talk with you of a service that you have implored me to do for you.”
In the first moment of his anger, increased by the persistent coarseness of M. Pascal, the prince had forgotten that the Marquise de Miranda could hear his conversation with his rude visitor from the adjoining room; so, overwhelmed with shame and feeling the necessity of appeasing the angry humour of the man, he endeavoured with all his self-control to appear calm, and tried to lead M. Pascal, as he talked with him, over to the embrasure of one of the windows, where Madeleine would not be able to hear the interview.
“You know, M. Pascal,” said he, “that I have always been very tolerant of your bluntness, and I will continue to be so.”
“Really, you are very good, monseigneur,” replied Pascal, sarcastically, “but you see each one of us has his little contrarieties, and at the present moment I have very large ones, which make it impossible for me to possess the gentleness of a lamb.”
“That excuse, or, rather, that explanation suffices for me, M. Pascal,” replied the prince, dominated by his need of the financier’s services. “Opposition often exasperates the gentlest characters, but let us talk no longer of the past. You asked me to anticipate by two days the appointment we had made to terminate our business. I hope that you bring me a satisfactory reply.”
“I bring you a thoroughly complete yes, monseigneur,” replied our hero, growing gentle. And he drew a pocketbook from his pocket. “And more, to corroborate this yes, here is a draft on the Bank of France for the tenth of the amount, and this contract of mine for the remainder of the loan.”
“Ah, my dear M. Pascal!” cried the prince, radiant, “you are a man — a man of gold.”
“‘A man of gold!’ that is the word, monseigneur. That is no doubt the cause of your liking for me.”
The prince did not observe this sarcasm. Delighted with the whole day, which seemed to fulfil his various desires, and impatient to dismiss the financier so as to return to Madeleine, he said:
“Since all is settled, my dear M. Pascal, we need only exchange our signatures, and to-morrow or after, at your hour, we will regulate the matter completely.”
“I understand, monseigneur; once the money and the signature in your pocket, the keenest desire of your heart is to rid yourself as soon as possible of your very humble servant, Pascal, and to-morrow you will turn him over to some subaltern charged with the power of arranging the affair.”
“Monsieur!”
“Good! monseigneur, is not that the natural course of things? Before the loan, one is a good genius, a half or three-quarters of God; once the money is loaned, one is a Jew or an Arab. I know this, it is the other side of the medallion. Do not hasten, monseigneur, to turn over the said medallion.”
“Really, monsieur, you must explain yourself.”
“Immediately, monseigneur, for I am in a hurry. The money is there, my signature is there,” added he, striking the pocketbook. “The affair is concluded on one condition.”
“Still conditions?”
“Each, monseigneur, manages his little affairs as he understands them. My condition, however, is very simple.”
“Let us hear it, monsieur, let us come to an end.”
“Yesterday I told you that I observed a handsome blond young man in the garden, where he was promenading, who lives here, you inform me.”
“Without doubt, it is Count Frantz, my godson.”
“Certainly, one could not see a prettier boy, I told you. Now then, as you are the godfather of this pretty boy, you ought to have some influence over him, ought you not?”
“What are you aiming at, monsieur?”
“Monseigneur, in the interest of your dear godson, I will tell you in confidence that I think the air of Paris is bad for him.”
“What!”
“Yes, and you would do wisely to send him back to Germany; his health would improve very much, monseigneur, very much indeed.”
“Is this a pleasantry, monsieur?”
“It is serious, monseigneur, so serious that the only condition that I put to the conclusion of our affair is that you must make your godson depart for Germany in twenty-four hours at the latest.”
“Truly, monsieur, I cannot recover from my surprise. What interest have you in the departure of Frantz? It is inexplicable.”
“I am going to explain myself, monseigneur, and that you may better understand the interest I have in his departure, I must make you a confidence; that will enable me to point out exactly what I expect from you. Now then, monseigneur, such as you see me I am madly in love. Eh, my God! yes, madly in love; that seems queer to you and to me also. But the fact remains. I am in love with a young girl named Mlle. Antonine Hubert, your neighbour.”
“You, monsieur, you!” exclaimed the prince, dismayed.
“Certainly, me! Me! Pascal! And why not, monsieur? ‘Love is of every age,’ says the song. Only, as it is also of the age of your godson, Count Frantz, he has in the most innocent way in the world begun to love Mlle. Antonine; she, not less innocently, returns the love of this pretty boy, which places me, you see, in an exceedingly disobliging frame of mind; fortunately, you can assist me in getting out of this frame of mind, monseigneur.”
“I?”
“Yes, monseigneur; I will tell you how. Assure me that you will require Count Frantz to leave France this instant, — and that is easy, — and demand also that he is not to set foot in France for several years; the rest belongs to me.”
“But there is another thing you do not think of, monsieur. If this young person loves Frantz?”
“The rest belongs to me, I tell you, monseigneur. President Hubert has not two days to live; my batteries are ready, the little girl will be forced to go to live with an old relative who is horribly covetous and avaricious; a hundred thousand francs will answer to me for this old vixen, and once she gets the little girl in her clutches I swear to God that Antonine will become, willing or unwilling, Madame Pascal, and that, too, without resorting to violence. Come now, monseigneur, all the love affairs of fifteen years will not hold against the desire to become, I will not say madame the archduchess, but madame the archmillionaire. Now, monseigneur, you see it all, I have frankly played the cards on the table; having no interest in acting otherwise, it is of little or no moment to you that your godson should marry a little girl who has not a cent. The condition that I impose is the easiest possible one to fulfil. Again, is it yes, or is it no?”
The prince was overwhelmed, less by the plans of Pascal and his odious misanthropy, than by the cruel alternative in which the condition imposed by the capitalist placed him.
To order the departure of Frantz, and oppose his marriage with Antonine, was to lose Madeleine; to refuse the condition imposed by M. Pascal was to renounce the loan, which would enable him to accomplish his projects of ambitious aggrandisement.
In the midst of this conflict of two violent passions, the prince recollected that he had only given his word to Madeleine for the pardon of the exile, the tumult caused by the fury of M. Pascal having interrupted him at the very moment he was about to swear to Madeleine to consent to the marriage of Frantz.
Notwithstanding the facility which this evasion left to him, the archduke realised how powerful was the influence of Madeleine over him, as that morning even he had not hesitated to sacrifice Frantz to his ambition.
The hesitation and perplexity of the prince struck Pascal with increasing surprise; he could not believe that his
demand concerning Frantz was the only question; however, to influence the determination of the prince by placing before him the consequences of his refusal, he broke the silence, and said:
“‘It is no.’”
Original etching by Adrian Marcel.
“Really, monseigneur, your hesitation is incomprehensible! What! by a weak deference to the love affair of a schoolboy, you renounce the certainty of obtaining a crown? For, after all, the duchy whose transfer is offered to you is sovereign and independent. This transfer, my loan only can put it in your power to accept, which, I may say in passing, is not a little flattering to the good man Pascal. Because, in a word, through the might of his little savings, he can make or unmake sovereigns, he can permit or prevent that pretty commerce where these simpletons of people sell and sell again, transfer and reassign, no more nor less than if it were a park of cattle or sheep. But that does not concern me at all. I am not a politician, but you are, monseigneur, and I do not understand your hesitation. Once more, is it yes? is it no?”
“It is no!” said Madeleine, coming suddenly out of the adjoining room, where she had heard the preceding conversation, notwithstanding the precautions of the prince.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE ARCHDUKE, AT the unexpected appearance of the Marquise de Miranda, shared the surprise of M. Pascal, who looked at Madeleine with amazement, supposing her a guest of the palace, for she had taken off her hat, and her singular beauty shone in all its splendour. The shadow thrown by the rim of her hat, which hid a part of her forehead and cheeks, was no longer there, and the bright light of broad day, heightening the transparent purity of her dark, pale complexion, gilded the light curls of her magnificent blond hair, and gave to the azure of her large eyes, with long black eyebrows, that sparkling clearness that the rays of the sun give to the blue of a tranquil sea. Madeleine, her cheek slightly flushed by the indignation which this odious project of Pascal had aroused, her glance animated, her nostrils dilating, her head proudly thrown back on her slender, beautiful neck, advanced to the middle of the parlour, and, addressing the financier, repeated the words: