by Eugène Sue
“Monsieur—”
“Pray do not think that I am actuated by any impertinent curiosity, madame. I am incapable of such rudeness; but as I passed you on the Rue de Vaugirard, a few minutes ago, it seemed to me that I had met you before, and under very peculiar circumstances.”
“And I must confess that I, too, thought—”
“You had met me before?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“In Chili, was it not?”
“About eight months ago?”
“A few miles from Valparaiso?”
“About nightfall?”
“On the borders of a lake. A party of bandits had attacked your carriage, madame.”
“The approach of a party of travellers mounted upon mules, whose bells could be heard a long distance off, frightened the scoundrels away. This party which had just left Valparaiso met us—”
“Precisely as I met you on the Rue de Vaugirard, a few minutes ago, madame,” said the man, smiling; “and to ensure your safety, one of the gentlemen of the party, with three of his escort, decided to accompany your carriage as far as the nearest village.”
“And this traveller was you, monsieur. I remember you perfectly now, though I had the pleasure of seeing you only for a few moments, and in the dusk, as night comes on so quickly in Chili.”
“And it was very dark by the time we reached the village of — of Balaméda, if my memory does not play me false, madame.”
“I do not remember the name of the village, monsieur, but what I do, and what I always shall remember, is your extreme kindness; for after you had escorted us to the village, you had to make great haste to overtake your party, which was travelling northward, it seems to me.”
“Yes, madame.”
“And you overtook your friends without any unpleasant accident, I trust? We felt very uneasy on that score, the roads along those precipices are so dangerous; besides, those same bandits might still be lurking behind the rocks.”
“My return was made in the most peaceful manner. My mule only had to quicken his pace a little, that is all.”
“You must admit, monsieur, that it is very singular that an acquaintance made in the wilds of Chili should be renewed in the garden of the Luxembourg.”
“It is, indeed, madame. But I see that it is beginning to snow. Will you permit me to offer you my arm and a shelter under my umbrella, until we can reach the nearest cab-stand?”
“I really fear that I am trespassing too much on your kindness,” replied the lady, accepting the proffered courtesy, nevertheless.
Arm in arm, they accordingly directed their steps towards the cab-stand near the Odéon. They found but one vehicle there. The young woman entered it, but her companion, from delicacy, seemed in doubt as to whether he should or should not follow her.
“What are you waiting for, monsieur?” the lady asked, affably. “There are no other carriages here; will you not make use of this one?”
“I scarcely dared to ask such a favour,” replied the gentleman, eagerly availing himself of the permission thus accorded. Then —
“What address shall I give the coachman?” he added.
“Ask him to take me where the Rue de Rivoli intersects the Place de la Concorde,” replied the lady, with some slight embarrassment. “I will wait under the arcade there until it stops snowing, as I have some business to attend to in that locality.”
This order given, the coachman turned his horses’ heads towards the right bank of the Seine.
“Do you know, I think our meeting more and more marvellous,” remarked the young woman.
“While I admit that the meeting is singular, it seems to me even more agreeable than singular.”
“No compliments, if you please, monsieur. They do very well for people who have nothing else to say to each other; and I confess that if you are inclined to gratify my curiosity, you will not have answered half the questions I want to put to you, when the time comes for us to separate.”
“You should not tell me that; I shall be sure to become very diffuse in my style of conversation, in the hope that your curiosity—”
“Will inspire me with the desire to meet you a second time, if you do not tell me all to-day. Is that what you mean?”
“Yes, madame.”
The lady smiled faintly, then she continued:
“But in order that we may take things in their natural course, tell me first what you were going to do in the northern part of Chili. I was returning from there myself, when I met you, eight months ago, and, as I know it is a region little frequented by travellers, you will understand and excuse a question which might otherwise sound too inquisitive, perhaps.”
“Before answering this question, madame, it is absolutely necessary that I should give you some insight into my character; otherwise, you might mistake me for a madman.”
“And why, monsieur?”
“Because I am possessed — devoured, perhaps, would be a better word — by such a continual desire to be moving, that for several years past, especially, I have not been able to remain a month in the same place. In short, I have a passion, perhaps I ought rather to say a positive mania, for travel.”
“Strange to say, I, too, experience the same unconquerable restlessness, the same longing to be continually on the go, the same intense aversion to repose, and, like you, I, myself, have found a most welcome diversion in travel, for several years past,” the young woman responded, smothering a sigh.
“So you, too, madame, have a horror of the dull, lethargic, monotonous life which reminds one of that of an oyster on his bank, or of a snail in his shell?”
“To me torpor and immobility are death itself, yes, worse than death, for, unfortunately, one must be conscious of this apathy of mind and body.”
“And yet, there are persons — one can scarcely call them living beings — who would gladly remain for months, and even years, in the same place, lost in a sort of dreamy ecstasy, and enjoying what they style the charm of dolce far niente.”
“Yes, monsieur, yes; there are such people, as I know only too well.”
“So you have had a like experience, madame? So you, too, have seen how hopelessly intractable such persons are, — how they will eventually triumph over the strongest wills?”
And the two gazed at each other in a sort of bewilderment, so astonished were they by this strange similarity in their experiences.
CHAPTER X.
CONTRADICTIONS.
THE YOUNG WOMAN was the first to break the silence.
“Let us drop the subject, monsieur,” she said, sighing heavily. “It arouses too many painful recollections.”
“Yes, let us drop it, madame, for I, too, am tortured by many painful recollections from which I am ever striving to escape, for it is cowardly and degrading to permit one’s mind to dwell continually upon persons one hates and despises. Ah, madame, I sincerely hope you may never know that mixture of regret, aversion, and love, which renders one’s life for ever miserable.”
The young woman listened to her companion with profound astonishment, for, when he spoke of himself, it seemed as if he must also be speaking of her, so identical had been their experience; but the reserve which she must necessarily display in her intercourse with a comparative stranger, prevented any such admission on her part; so, quite as much to conceal her real feelings as to gratify her growing curiosity, she remarked:
“You speak of mingled aversion and love, monsieur. How can one both love and hate the same person or thing? Is such a strange contradiction possible?”
“Ah, madame, is not the human heart the greatest of mysteries, — the strangest of enigmas? Ever since the world began, the inexplicable attraction which opposites have for each other has been admitted. How often we see a person who is weak admire one who is strong, and one who is violent and impetuous seek out one who is gentle and timid! What is the cause of this? Is it the desire for a contrast? Or, is it the charm of overcoming a certain difficulty? Nobody knows. The fact
remains that persons whose characters are diametrically opposed to our own exercise an inexplicable attraction over us, — inexplicable, yes; for we curse them, we pity them, we despise them, and we hate them; and yet, we can not do without them; or, if they escape us, we regret them as much as we hate them, and forthwith begin to dream of the impossible, that is to say, of acquiring sufficient influence over them to transform them, to imbue them with our own ideas and tastes. Dreams, idle dreams these are, of course, which only serve to make us forget the sad reality for a brief time.”
“I, too, have often heard of these strange contradictions. They are the more incomprehensible to me, as the only chance of happiness seems to me to consist in perfect congeniality of temperament.”
The young woman paused suddenly, and blushed, deeply regretting words which might be construed as an advance made to a comparative stranger (though this had really been furthest from her thoughts), especially after both she and he had commented on the remarkable similarity in their tastes. But this fear on her part was entirely unnecessary, as the turn the conversation had taken seemed to have plunged her companion into a profound reverie.
A few minutes afterwards, the carriage stopped at the corner of the Rue de Rivoli, and the driver got down from the box to open the door.
“What! are we here already?” exclaimed the stranger, arousing himself; then, motioning the coachman to close the door again, he said:
“I sincerely hope you will pardon me for having made such poor use of the last few minutes of the interview you have been kind enough to grant me, but I yielded almost unconsciously to the influence of certain memories. You will not refuse, I trust, to indemnify me by permitting me to see you again, and to have the honour of calling on you at your own home.”
“What you ask, monsieur, is impossible for quite a number of reasons.”
“Do not refuse my request, I beg of you. There seem to be so many points of similarity in our lot; besides, there are still many things I would like to tell you in relation to my South American journey, and the cause of it. Our meeting, too, has been so extraordinary, that I feel sure all these reasons will decide you to grant the favour I ask, though I should not dare to insist in the name of the very slight service which I was so fortunate as to be able to render you, and which you are extremely kind to even remember.”
“I am not ungrateful, believe me, monsieur. I admit, too, that it would give me great pleasure to see you again, and yet, I shall probably be obliged to renounce this hope.”
“Ah, madame—”
“Well, I will propose this, monsieur. To-day is Monday—”
“Yes, madame.”
“Be here under the arcade at noon on Thursday.”
“I will, madame, I will.”
“If I am not here at the end of an hour, — which is more than probable, — we shall never see each other again, monsieur.”
“But why do you say that, madame?”
“It is impossible for me to explain now, monsieur; but, whatever happens, you must rest assured that I have been very glad of an opportunity to thank you for a service I shall always remember with gratitude.”
“What, madame, I may never see you again, yet I am leaving you without even knowing your name.”
“If we are never to meet again, monsieur, what is the use of knowing my name? If, on the contrary, we do meet here again on Thursday I will tell you who I am, and, if you still desire it, we will continue the acquaintance begun in a different hemisphere, and renewed by an unexpected meeting.”
“I thank you for this hope, madame, uncertain though it be. I will not insist further, so farewell, — until Thursday, madame.”
“Until Thursday, monsieur.”
And the two separated.
CHAPTER XI.
NEAR NEIGHBOURS.
THE MORNING AFTER this interview between these two travellers who had met in Chili, the following scene occurred in the fourth story of house Number 57, on the Rue de Vaugirard.
It was quarter of four, but a remarkably handsome young man was already writing by the light of a shaded lamp.
Need we say that this young man was M. Michel Renaud, the model tenant who left home regularly every morning at four o’clock and never returned before midnight.
He was engaged in copying into one of those big leather-bound books, used in business houses, a long row of figures and entries from some carelessly kept day-books, and more than once this uninteresting, monotonous work seemed to benumb both brain and hands, but he bravely overcame the inclination to sleep, wrapped the blanket in which he had enveloped his legs and feet more closely around him, blew on his fingers to warm them, for there was not a spark of fire in the little room, and then resumed his work.
In spite of this uncongenial employment, pursued amid such uncomfortable surroundings, Michel’s face was serene, even happy; but when the clock in a neighbouring church rang out the third quarter of an hour, it was with the smiling, affectionate expression of a person who is about to bid a dear friend good morning that the young man rose from the table and, hastening towards the fireplace, rapped twice with the handle of his pocket-knife upon the party wall that separated the house in which he lived from the adjoining house.
Two similar raps answered him almost instantly, and Michel smiled with a satisfied air, as if the most agreeable remark conceivable had been addressed to him. He was preparing to reply, doubtless, in fact he had already lifted the handle of his knife for that purpose, when a faint, almost mysterious knock, followed by two louder ones, reached his ear.
Michel’s face flushed, and his eyes brightened. One would have supposed that he had received a favour as precious as it was unexpected, and it was with an expression of intense gratitude that he replied with a series of quick, irregular raps, as hurried and feverish as the violent throbbings of his own heart.
This rapping would doubtless have been prolonged several seconds with ever increasing ardour, if it had not been suddenly checked by a single incisive knock which resounded from the other side of the wall like an imperative command. Michel obeyed this order respectfully, and immediately suspended his rather too lively manifestation of delight.
A moment afterwards, four slow, distinct knocks, prolonged like the striking of a clock, coming from the other side of the wall, put an end to this singular conversation quite worthy of a lodge of freemasons.
“She is right,” murmured Michel. “It is almost four o’clock.”
And he immediately set to work to arrange his books and put his room in order before leaving it for the day.
While he is engaged in these preparations for departure we will conduct the reader up to the fourth floor of the adjoining house, — Number 59, — and into the apartment of Madame de Luceval, separated, as we have before remarked, from that of Michel Renaud by a party wall.
That young lady is now about twenty-one years of age, and as charming as ever, though not quite as stout. She, too, like her neighbour, was busily engaged in her preparations for departure.
A lamp, like that used by engravers who work at night, stood on a large table strewn with several partially coloured lithographs, boxes of water-colour paints, pieces of embroidery and tapestry work, and a number of those music-books into which orchestral scores are copied. Several of these last were already filled. The plainly furnished room was exquisitely neat, and Florence’s hat and cloak were already laid out on the carefully made bed.
More than once, as she deftly arranged her water-colours, music scores, and needlework in their respective boxes, the young woman blew upon her dainty rosy fingers, the cold in this room being quite as intense as in her neighbour’s, for in this room, too, there was no fire.
There was a great difference between this life and the life she had led in her husband’s luxurious home, where everything had combined to encourage the indolence in which she so delighted; and yet, she looked far more happy than when, half reclining in her comfortable armchair, with her feet resting upon a big velv
et cushion, she idly watched the sunbeams rioting in her beautiful garden, and dreamily listened to the soft murmur of the fountain. In short, this once indolent creature, who thought a drive in a luxurious carriage entirely too fatiguing, did not seem to regret her vanished splendour in the least, but blithely hummed a merry tune as she drew on her overshoes and took a small umbrella from the cupboard, ready to brave snow, wind, and cold without a murmur.
These preparations for departure concluded, Florence cast a hasty glance in the mirror, passed her hand over the waves of golden hair, — hair which was as smooth and glossy, in spite of her early toilet, as if a maid had spent an hour over the young woman’s coiffure; then, throwing her body slightly backward, she stretched out her arms and allowed her graceful head to sink languidly upon her left shoulder, giving at the same time a little yawn that said as plainly as any words:
“Ah, how pleasant it would be to stay in a nice, comfortable bed, instead of going out in the cold at four o’clock in the morning!”
But the next moment, as if reproaching herself for her weakness, Florence hastily donned her hat and cloak, picked up her umbrella, lighted her candle, extinguished the lamp, and went swiftly but lightly down-stairs.
The clock in the Luxembourg was just striking four.
“Dear me! it is four o’clock already,” she murmured, as she reached the foot of the last flight of stairs; then, in her clear, young voice, she called out:
“Pull the rope, please.”
And in another moment the door of the house had closed behind her, and she was in the street.
It was late in the month of December, and the night was very dark. A cold wind was whistling through the deserted street, which was but dimly lighted by an occasional street lamp.
As soon as she was out of the house, she gave a slight cough, apparently as a sort of a signal.
A louder hum! hum! answered it.
But it was so dark that Florence could scarcely see Michel, who had come out a few seconds before, and stationed himself on the other side of the street, for it was he who had thus responded to his fair neighbour’s signal.