by Eugène Sue
“What would be necessary to free you from all fear of M. Pascal?”
“To reimburse him.”
“And what does your husband owe him?”
“More than a hundred thousand crowns, our factory as security, but once deprived of our property we would possess nothing in the world. My husband would be declared a bankrupt, and our future would be hopeless.”
“And is there absolutely no other way of escaping M. Pascal than by immediate repayment?”
“There is one on which my husband had always relied, resting on the word of this wicked man.”
“And what is that way?”
“To give Charles ten years to pay off the debt.”
“And suppose you had that assurance?”
“Alas! we would be saved, but M. Pascal wishes to have his revenge, and he will never consent to give us any means of salvation.”
This sad conversation was interrupted by Antonine, who, beaming with joy, ran into the room, saying:
“Oh, Madeleine! come! come!”
“What is it, my child? Some happy news, I know it by your radiant countenance.”
“Ah, dear friends,” said the young girl, “all my fear is that I will not be able to bear so much happiness! My uncle and the prince consent to all, and the prince, — oh, he was so kind, so fatherly to me, for he wanted me to take part in his conversation with my uncle, and he even asked my pardon for the grief he had caused me in opposing our marriage. ‘My only excuse,’ said he, with the greatest tenderness, ’is, Mlle. Antonine, that I did not know you. Madame Marquise de Miranda began my conversion, and you have finished it, and since she is here, you say, have the goodness to let her know that I would like to thank her before you for having put me in the way of repairing the wrong I have done you.’ Were not those noble, touching words!” added the young girl. “Oh, come, Madeleine, come, my benefactress, my sister, my mother, you to whom Frantz and I will owe our happiness. And you come too, Sophie,” added Antonine, taking Madame Dutertre by the hand, “are you not also a sharer in my happiness as you have been in my confidence and my despair?”
“My dear child,” said Madame Dutertre, trying to disguise her trouble, “I need not tell you that I share your joy; but the presence of the prince would embarrass me, and besides, as I was telling Madeleine just now, I must return home. I cannot leave my children alone too long. Come, embrace me, Antonine, your happiness is assured; that thought will be sweet to me, and if I have some sorrow, believe me, it will help me to bear it. Good-bye. If you have anything new to tell me, come to see me to-morrow morning.”
“Sophie,” said the marquise, in a low but firm voice to her friend, “courage and hope! Do not let your husband go away; wait for me at your house to-morrow, all the morning.”
“What do you mean?”
“I cannot explain more, only let Antonine’s experience give you a little confidence. This morning she was in despair, now you see her radiant with happiness.”
“Yes, thanks to you.”
“Come, now, embrace me once more; courage and hope.”
Then, approaching Antonine, Madeleine said to her:
“Now, my child, go back to the prince.”
The young girl and the marquise left Madame Dutertre, who, yielding in spite of herself to the conviction which seemed to ring from Madeleine’s words, returned to her dwelling with a ray of hope. The prince waited for Madeleine in the parlour of President Hubert; he saluted her respectfully, and said to her, with that ceremonious formality which Antonine’s presence imposed:
“I had it in my heart, marquise, to thank you for the great service you have rendered me. You have put it in my power to appreciate Mlle. Hubert as she deserves to be; the happiness of my godson Frantz is for ever assured. I have agreed with M. President Hubert, who willingly consents to it, that to-morrow morning the betrothal of Frantz and Mlle. Hubert will take place according to the German custom, that is to say, that I and President Hubert will sign, under penalty of perjury and infidelity, the contract of marriage which Frantz and mademoiselle will sign under the same conditions.”
“Since you have said to Antonine, monseigneur, that I have put you in the way of truth, Antonine is under obligation to prove to you all the good that I have told you of her.”
“I have a favour to ask of you, marquise,” continued the prince, drawing from his pocket a letter and presenting it to Madeleine. “You are acquainted with the family of Colonel Pernetti?”
“Very well, monseigneur.”
“Then do me the kindness to have this letter delivered to the colonel, after you have taken knowledge of its contents. I am certain,” added the archduke, emphasising his last words, “that you will have as much pleasure in sending this letter as he to whom it is addressed will have pleasure in receiving it.”
“I do not doubt it, monseigneur, and I here renew my very sincere thanks,” said the marquise, making a ceremonious curtsey.
“To-morrow, Mlle. Antonine,” said the prince to the young girl, “I am going to break the good news very gently to my poor Frantz, for fear he may be overcome by his emotion; but I am certain when he knows all he, like you, will forgive me for the grief I have caused him.”
And, after having again formally saluted Antonine and the marquise, with whom he exchanged a look of intelligence, the prince returned to the Élysée-Bourbon.
The next day at ten o’clock Madeleine entered a carriage, and was conducted first to the office of a notary, and then to the house of M. Pascal.
CHAPTER XX.
M. PASCAL LIVED alone on the ground floor of a house situated in the new quarter St. Georges, and opening on the street. A private entrance was reserved for the counting-room of the financier, which was managed by a confidential clerk, assisted by a young deputy who attended to the writing. Here M. Pascal continued to make very valuable discounts.
The principal entrance of his dwelling, preceded by a vestibule, led to an antechamber and other rooms. This apartment, without any luxury, was, nevertheless, comfortable; a valet for the interior and a lad of fifteen years for errands sufficed for the service of M. Pascal, a man who never compensated for his immense wealth by abundant expenditure, or indulgence in those luxuries which support labour and art.
This morning, at half-past nine, M. Pascal, dressed in his morning gown, was walking up and down the floor of his office with great agitation; his night had been one of long and feverish sleeplessness. A well-paid spy, employed for two days to observe what was taking place in the home of Mlle. Antonine, had reported to M. Pascal the visit of the prince to President Hubert.
This prompt and significant step left no doubt in the mind of the financier concerning his own plans in connection with the young girl; this cruel disappointment was complicated with other resentments: first, rage at the recognition of the truth that, notwithstanding his millions, his will, obstinate as it was, was obliged to submit before impossibilities, all the more painful because he had believed himself at the very door of success. That was not all. If he had no love for Antonine, in the noblest acceptation of the word, he did feel for this child, so lovely and charming, an ardent passion, ephemeral, perhaps, but of extreme intensity as long as it lasted; and so, with a sort of ferocious egotism, he reasoned with himself:
“I would like to possess that little girl at any price. I will marry her if I must, and when I am tired of her an annuity of twelve or fifteen thousand francs will rid me of her. I am rich enough to gratify myself in that caprice.”
All this, however detestable, was, from the standpoint of society as it existed, perfectly possible and legal, and it was, we repeat, that possibility which rendered his want of success so bitter to M. Pascal. Another thing still: what he felt for Antonine being, after all, only a sensual desire, did not tolerate the exclusive preference of pure love; so that, in his passionate longing for this young girl of innocent and virginal beauty, he had not been less strongly impressed by the provoking charms of Madeleine, and, by a refine
ment of sensuality which aggravated his torture, M. Pascal had all night evoked, by his inflamed imagination, the contrasting loveliness of these two beautiful creatures.
And at this hour in which we see him M. Pascal was a prey to the same torment.
“Curses on me!” said he, promenading with a feverish and unequal step. “Why did I ever see that damned blonde woman with the black eyebrows, blue eyes, pale complexion, impudent face, and provoking figure? She seems to me more attractive even than that little girl hardly grown. Curses on me! will these two faces always pursue me? or, rather, will my disordered mind always evoke them? Misery! have I not been fool enough, brute enough? I do not know how, but the thing was so easy, so practical, that is what makes me furious. Surely, rich as I am, I ought to be able to marry this little girl and have the other for a mistress, because I do not doubt she is the mistress of that archduke, confound him! and I defy him to give her as much money as I would have given her. Yes, yes,” continued he, clenching his fists in excess of rage, “I am becoming a fool, a furious fool, but I did not ask to have the Empress of Russia for a mistress, or to marry the daughter of the Queen of England or any other queen. What did I wish? To marry a little citizen, niece of an old magistrate who has not a cent. Are there not thousands of such marriages? And I could not succeed! and I have thirty millions! Misery! my fortune is to fine purpose, not to take away a mistress from this automaton German prince! After all, she only loves him for his money. He is nearly forty; he is as proud as a peacock, stupid as a goose, and cold as an icicle. I am younger than he, not any uglier, and if he is an archduke, am I not a millionaire? And then I have the advantage of having put him at my feet, for this accursed and insolent woman heard me treat her imbecile prince as a poor creature; she reproached him before me for enduring the humiliations I heaped upon him. She ought to despise that man, and, like all women of her kind, have a weakness for a rough and energetic man who put this crowned, lanky fellow at his feet. She treated me cruelly before him, that is true, but it was to flatter him; we all understand those profligates. Oh, if I could only take this woman away from him, what a triumph! what a revenge! what a consolation for my lost marriage! Consolation? No; for one of these women could not make me forget the other. I do not know if it is my age, but I have never known such tenacity of desire as I feel for this little girl. But no matter, if I could only take his mistress away from this prince, half of my will would be accomplished; and who knows? This woman is acquainted with Antonine; she seems to have influence over her. Yes, who knows, if once mine, I would not be able by means of money to decide her to — Misery!” cried Pascal, with an explosion of ferocious joy, “what a triumph, to take a wife from this blond youth, and his beautiful mistress from the archduke! If my fortune can do it, it shall be done!”
And our hero, holding up his head, seemed to develop into an attitude of imperious will, while his features took on an expression of satanic joy.
“Come, come,” said he, holding his head high; “if I have talked like a fool and an ingrate, money is a beautiful thing.” Then stopping to reflect awhile he continued:
“Let us see now, — calmness by all means, — we will undertake the thing well and slowly. My spy will know this evening where the archduke’s mistress lives, at least if she lives in the palace, which is not probable. Let me find out where she lives,” added he, stroking his chin with a meditative air. “Zounds, I will send to her that old milliner, Madame Doucet. It is the old way and always the best with these actresses and such women, for, after all, the mistress of a prince is no better. She came, her head uncovered, to throw herself unceremoniously into our conversation; she had no discretion to protect. So I cannot have a better go-between, a more suitable one, than old Mother Doucet. I will write to her at once.”
M. Pascal was occupied in writing at his desk when his valet entered.
“What is it?” asked the financier, abruptly. “I did not ring.”
“Monsieur, it is a lady.”
“I have no time.”
“She has come for a letter of credit.”
“Let her go to the counting-room.”
“This lady wishes to speak to M. Pascal.”
“Impossible. Let her go to the counting-room.”
The valet went out.
Pascal continued to write, but at the end of a few moments the servant returned.
“When will you finish? What is it now?”
“Monsieur, this lady who—”
“Ah, so you are making a jest, are you? I told you to send her to the counting-room!”
“This lady has given me a card and asked me to tell monsieur to read what she has just written at the bottom.”
“Well, hand it here. It is insupportable!” said Pascal taking the card, where he read the following:
“The Marquise de Miranda.”
Below the name was written with a pencil:
“She had the honour of meeting M. Pascal yesterday at the Élysée-Bourbon, with his Highness, the Archduke Leopold.”
If a thunderbolt had fallen at the feet of M. Pascal he could not have been more astonished. He could not believe his eyes, and read the card a second time soliloquising:
“The Marquise de Miranda! She is a marquise, then? Bah! she is a marquise as Lola Montès is a countess — petticoat nobility; but at any rate it is she. She here! in my house at the very moment I was taxing my wits to contrive a meeting with her. Ah, Pascal, my friend Pascal, your star of gold, for a moment hidden, shines at last in all its brilliancy. And she comes here under the pretext of a letter of credit. Come, come, Pascal, my friend, keep calm; one does not find such an opportunity twice in his life. Think now, if you are sly, you can take the mistress of the prince and the wife of the blond youth in the same net. Ah, how my heart beats! I am sure I most look pale.”
“Monsieur, what shall I answer this lady?” asked the valet, astonished at the prolonged silence of his master.
“One minute, you rascal; wait my orders,” replied Pascal, abruptly. “Come, keep calm, keep calm,” thought he to himself. “Excitement now would lose all, would paralyse my plans. It is a terrible part to play, but having such a fine game at hand, I believe I would blow my brains out with rage if, through awkwardness now, I should lose it.”
After another silence, during which he succeeded in mastering his agitation, he said to himself:
“I am calm now. Let her come, I can play a sure game.” Then he said aloud to his valet:
“Show the lady in.”
The servant went out and soon returned to open the door and announce, “Madame the Marquise de Miranda.”
Madeleine, contrary to her custom, was dressed, as she had said to the prince, no longer like a grandmother, but with a dainty elegance which rendered her beauty still more irresistible. A Pamela hat of rice straw, ornamented with ears of corn mingled with corn-flowers, relieved and revealed her face and neck; a new gown of white muslin, also strewn with corn-flowers, delineated the outlines of her incomparable figure, the finished type of refined elegance, the voluptuous flexibility characteristic of Mexican Creoles, while her gauze scarf rose and fell in gentle undulations with the tranquil breathing of her marble bosom.
CHAPTER XXI.
PASCAL STOOD A moment dazzled, fascinated.
He beheld Madeleine a thousand times more beautiful, more attractive, more interesting than the day before. And, although a fine judge, as he had said to the prince, although he had enjoyed and abused all those treasures of beauty, grace, and youth which misery renders tributary to wealth, never in his life had he dreamed of such a creature as Madeleine; and strange, or rather natural to this brutalised man, deprived by satiety of all pleasures, he evoked the same moment the virginal figure of Antonine by the side of the marquise. For him, Venus Aphrodite was perfected by Hebe.
Madeleine, taking advantage of the involuntary silence of Pascal, said in a dry, haughty tone, and without making the slightest allusion to the scene of the day before, notwithstandi
ng the words added to her name on the card:
“Monsieur, I have a letter of credit on you: here it is. I wished to see you in order to arrange some business matters.”
This short and disdainful accent disconcerted Pascal; he expected some explanation of the scene of the day before, if not an excuse for it, so he said, stammering:
“What, madame, you come here — only — to learn about this letter of credit?”
“For this letter first, then for something else.”
“I suspected it,” said Pascal to himself, with a light sigh of relief, “this letter of credit was only a pretext. It is a good sign.”
Then he said aloud:
“The letter of credit, madame, is in the hands of my cashier; he has the order to attend to your demand. As to the other thing which brings you, is it, as I hope, personal?”
“Yes.”
“Before speaking, madame, permit me to ask you one question.”
“What is it?”
“On the card which you have just sent me, madame, you wrote that you had seen me yesterday at the Élysée.”
“Well?”
“But you do not seem to recollect our interview.”
“I do not comprehend.”
“Well,” said Pascal, regaining his assurance and thinking that the dryness of Madeleine’s tone was assumed for some purpose he did not clearly understand, “let us now, madame marquise, confess, at least, that you treated your humble servant very cruelly yesterday.”
“What next?”
“What! you feel no remorse for having been so wicked? You do not regret your unjust anger against me?”
“No.”
“Very well, I understand; it was done for effect on this fine man, the archduke,” Pascal presumed to say with a smile, hoping in some way to draw Madeleine out of this frozen reserve which had begun to make him uneasy. “It is always very adroit to pretend to feel an interest in the dignity of those we govern, because, between us, — beautiful, adorable, as you are, — you can make of this poor prince all that you wish, but I defy you ever to do so with a man of spirit or a brave man.”