Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “Really, mademoiselle, I do not know that I ought—”

  “My father, is he here?” repeated the girl breathlessly.

  “He is not very far off, perhaps,” replied Segoffin, nearly wild with joy; “but if he returns, it must be never to leave you again.”

  “Oh, can he ever forgive me for having doubted his love and his nobility of soul for one moment? If he will, all the rest of my life shall be devoted to him. My God! you are silent, you are all weeping — you are all looking toward that room as if my father were there. Thank Heaven! my father is there!” cried Sabine, her face radiant with inexpressible joy as she ran toward the door leading into the next room.

  The door suddenly opened, and in another instant father and daughter were locked in each other’s arms.

  One month afterward, a double marriage united Suzanne and Segoffin, Sabine and Onésime.

  The famous Doctor Gasterini, equally celebrated as a gourmand and as a physician, had restored Onésime’s sight.

  On returning from the church, Segoffin remarked to Suzanne with a triumphant air:

  “Ah, well, my dear, was I not right in telling you that, ‘what is to be, will be?’ Haven’t I always predicted that you would be Madame Segoffin some day? Are you, or are you not?”

  “Oh, well, I suppose one must make the best of it,” responded Madame Segoffin, with a pretended sigh, though she really felt as proud of her husband as if he had been one of the heroes of the Grande Armée she was so fond of raving about. “There’s no help for it, I suppose, as ‘that which is done cannot be undone.’”

  THE END

  Other Novels

  Annecy-le-Vieux, Savoy — Sue eventually moved to a mansion that belonged to the Ruphy family, the Barattes in Annecy-le-Vieux where he lived from 1851 until his death in 1857.

  Arthur

  Anonymous 1899 translation, published by Francis A. Niccolls

  Sue returns to the South of France for this story where the ‘shore is bathed by the Mediterranean’ – he employs this setting often, perhaps due to his family connections, as his ancestors were reputed to have come from the area of Cannes, in Provence. The key characters in this tale are upper class or clerical, ironically, a world Sue knew well despite his habit of writing with realism and authority about the poor and disadvantaged of France. In his own life, Sue had known great privilege, coming as he did from an affluent family and as an adult he owned his own coach, a pack of beagles, wore the finest clothes (and indeed, had a reputation as a dandy) and was a very early member of the French Jockey club. The Tyrone Constitution of 26 April 1850 wrote in scathing terms of the contrast between the egalitarian protestations he made during his political career and the lavish lifestyle he created for himself at his Chateau des Bordes, with its opulent salons and well stocked library. He was thus equally well qualified to write about the foibles and weaknesses of the better-off.

  This story was published in the original French by Librarie de Charles Gosselin in 1838. Narrated in the first person, the tale concerns an affluent man looking for a property in the area in which he plans to stay for some time. However, the notary who recommended a viewing of the property mentions that the house is more than likely large, as it is expensive, but seems to have a mysterious story behind it as to how it came on the market – a sudden or unexpected death of some kind, but rumours abound as to the exact details.

  Taking with him a local guide-cum-bodyguard, who entertains him with tales of deception and robbery on that same road, the narrator makes a somewhat arduous journey to the charming and isolated village where the property is and calls on the local priest, who has the keys, to arrange a viewing. The presbytery is also charming in its simple elegance, kept immaculate by the sister of the priest. It soon becomes apparent that the house for sale does have a tragic story behind it and the narrator becomes anxious to hear more information about it. First he must see the house and the priest takes him through a plain door into a walled garden, part of which is a large lawn with a large, rambling ‘cottage’ placed in the centre of it.

  The house is surrounded by a vibrant array of flowers and climbing plants and the narrator is completely smitten by this ‘fresh and sweet smelling oasis… and most adorable retreat’. Inside, the house is fully furnished, with only a few family portraits to be withheld from the sale. Reluctantly, the priest allows the narrator to go into a locked room, which is clearly the private sitting room of a woman and prominently displayed are portraits of a beautiful child and a handsome young man – and from this room, there is a superb view of the Mediterranean. After three days of staying at the presbytery, he wins the priest’s confidence and the story is revealed.

  Arthur is a compelling story, well told, with lovely descriptions and engaging characterisations. As always, Sue’s leading female characters are often exquisitely lovely and impossibly sweet natured, but in this, Sue is no different to many other nineteenth-century authors.

  Chateau des Bordes, Lailly , north-central France — Sue’s decadent castle home in later years

  CONTENTS

  VOLUME I.

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  CHAPTER IX.

  CHAPTER X.

  MADAME LA MARQUISE DE PÊNFIEL

  CHAPTER XI.

  CHAPTER XII.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  CHAPTER XV.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  CHAPTER XX.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  CHAPTER XXII.

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  CHAPTER XXV.

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  LORD FALMOUTH

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  CHAPTER XXX.

  CHAPTER XXXI.

  CHAPTER XXXII.

  CHAPTER XXXIII.

  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  VOLUME II.

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  DAPHNÉ — NOÊMI — ANATHASIA

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  CHAPTER IX.

  CHAPTER X.

  CHAPTER XI.

  THE PRINCESSE DE FERSEN

  CHAPTER XII.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  CHAPTER XV.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  CHAPTER XX.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  CHAPTER XXII.

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  CHAPTER XXV.

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  MARIE BELMONT

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  CHAPTER XXX.

  The first edition’s title page

  VOLUME I.

  CHAPTER I.

  THE POST-ROAD.

  A STRANGE CHANCE put me in possession of this journal.

  I had established myself for several months in a central city in one of our southern departments, whose shore is bathed by the Mediterranean, and I was desirous of purchasing a country place in that marvellously picturesque land. I had already looked at several pieces of property when, one day, the notary, who had been giving me some necessary directions for one of my explorations, said to me: “I have just received notice that at about eight leagues from here, in one of the most beautiful situations in the world, neither too far nor too near to the sea, there is a country house for sale. I know nothing of it whatever; but if you would like to see it, monsieur, here are the precise directions how to find it. You will have to arrange the affair wi
th the cure of the village of—”

  “What!” said I, “with the cure? You don’t suppose that it is the presbytery that is for sale?”

  “I know nothing about it,” answered the lawyer; “but, judging from the high price that they ask, I hardly think it can be a parsonage. Besides,” added he, with a sly and convincing look, “it seems as though there would be a thousand ways of arranging an advantageous and private sale, because it is sold in consequence of sudden departure or a sudden death, I don’t know exactly which; the fact is, there have been told so many absurd and stupid stories on the subject, that I should make myself ridiculous in repeating them all to you. What is certain, however, monsieur, is that such an opportunity is always a good one, and my correspondent assures me that there has been no end of money spent on the properly.”

  “A swift departure! A sudden death! Who, then, lived on the place?” I asked.

  “I know nothing, absolutely nothing. My correspondent tells me nothing more, and ’tis by the greatest accident that he has even heard of this good opportunity; because out of a hundred people in this department, you will scarcely find ten who could tell you anything about the village of — .”

  I know not why, but for some reason this information, vague as it was, excited my curiosity; I decided to set forth immediately, and consequently ordered horses to be put to the carriage.

  “Oh,” said the notary, “I advise you not to think of venturing to travel in a carriage over those dreadful roads. ’Tis a post-road, to be sure, but the nearest relay to — is still five leagues off, and to get there they say one has to go through regular sand-pits, where one sinks so deep that ’tis a thousand chances to one if you ever get out again. If you take my advice you will go on horseback.”

  I took his word for it, and had a portemanteau fastened behind my saddle, and thus, preceded by a postilion, I started for the village of — , which was eight leagues from the city where I was staying.

  I got over the first three leagues in about an hour, changed horses at the relay, and then struck into the open country.

  It was towards the middle of the month of May, a delicious morning, cooled by a gentle northerly breeze. The roads, deep with a sand as yellow as ochre, though detestable for carriages, which would sink in to the hubs of the wheels, were not at all bad for horseback riding. The farther I advanced towards the interior of the uncultivated and wild country, the more nature became grand and majestic, though perhaps at the same time somewhat monotonous. Before me stretched out great plains of rose-coloured heather towards a horizon of bluish mountains; to the left were numerous wooded hills, while to the right was a continuous curtain of verdure, formed by the willows and poplars which bordered a shallow but very clear stream, always fordable but very swift, which we were continually crossing; for it wandered with many turnings across the road, which sometimes descended between high banks, covered with hawthorn, mulberry, and wild rose bushes, sometimes, emerging from these hollows, ascended to the plain that could be seen straight before us as smooth as a tennis-court.

  “Have you ever been to — ?” I asked my guide, whose strongly marked face, extreme neatness, and easy seat denoted a soldier whose term of service was over. I had heard his companions at the post call him “the hussar,” and everything about the man was such a contrast to the negligent appearance and noisy familiarity of the rest of these Southerners! “Have you ever been to — ?”

  “Yes, monsieur, twice in my life,” he replied, stopping his horse and placing himself a little behind me; “I went there once two years ago, and then I went there three months ago, but dame! title two goings were not much alike!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, the first time,” said he, in an excited way, still animated by the remembrance of such a glorious journey, “that was the fine ride! Cent for the guide! A courier! Six horses to the berlin!”

  And by way of illustration my guide began cracking his whip in a way that almost deafened me.

  Not being content with this manner of describing the rank of the travellers, I asked him:

  “But who was in that carriage? Who paid the courier?”

  “I don’t know, monsieur, the blinds of the berlin were pulled down. On the seat behind sat a man and a woman, both elderly folks who looked as though they might be confidential servants.”

  “And the courier, had he nothing to say?”

  “The courier? Not he, a ferocious looking fellow with never a word to say! The only time I heard him speak was when he ordered the horses, and that didn’t take long, allez, monsieur! He jumped from his horse, put two louis d’or in the hand of the maître de poste, and said: ‘Six horses for the carriage and one riding-horse, cent sous for the guide, forty sous paid in advance.’ And then off he went at a gallop.”

  “And he never gave his master’s name?”

  “Non, monsieur.”

  “What sort of livery did the courier wear?”

  “Stop a bit, monsieur, and I’ll try to remember. Yes — a green jacket, with gold braid on all the seams, a cap just like the jacket, red silk sash, coat-of-arms on his buttons, a hunting-knife — moustaches — oh, the whole business — grand style — but too fierce to suit me, parole d’honneur!”

  “And since then have you never found out who you led to — ?”

  “Non, monsieur.”

  “And the carriage, when did it come back?”

  “But, monsieur, it never did come back.”

  “What!” said I, much surprised, “but there must be a good many country houses at — ?”

  “Non, monsieur, there is only one in the place; all the rest are only little huts for the peasants.”

  “Then there is another road besides this one?”

  “Oh, wow, monsieur; this is the only possible way of getting back.”

  “And nobody ever came back this way?”

  “Non, monsieur.”

  “It is most extraordinary! And how long ago did all this happen?”

  “Very nearly two years, monsieur.”

  “Now tell me about your other journey,” said I to my guide, hoping to get at some explanation of the mystery.

  “Oh, that is a journey never to forget! I’ll remember that one for many a day! Ah, the old scoundrel! The old brigand! The sly old fox!”

  “Voyons, come, tell me about it, mon garçon; the thought of it seems to put you in an ill temper.”

  “Ill temper! You better believe it does, and a good reason. It is not so much for the trick he played on me as for the mean way he did it, — and then to think of his having called me his good friend, the old monster! Son bon ami!

  “You shall hear the whole story, monsieur.

  “That ride was about three months ago. It was my turn next to ride. I was warming myself in the stable between my horses, for it was very cold. About eleven o’clock in the morning I heard click-clack, click-clack, a cracking of the whip for all the world as if for another hundred sous for the guide, and the voice of Jean Pierre all out of breath calling out, ‘Two carriage horses!’

  “‘Bon,’ said I, ‘here is a good thing and it is my turn to go;’ so I went out to get a look at the traveller.

  “Well, there stood a sort of an old gig with a leather apron, a thing we used to call a berlingot; the whole affair so covered and spattered with mud that you couldn’t tell its colour.

  “I said to myself: ‘Good. ’Tis a doctor who is hurrying to see some one at the point of death.’ But, saprejeu! What do I hear but the voice of the dying man himself calling out from the depths of the berlingot, calling as loud as it could call — half a cough — half a sniffle:

  “‘Ah, beggar of a postilion! Ah, miserable wretch! Do you mean to kill me tearing over the roads like this?’

  “The fact is Jean Pierre had dragged the old thing along at such a pace that the hubs were smoking.

  “‘Hope you’ve got the worth of your money, not’- bourgeois,’ said Jean Pierre, in a furious voice to the old berlingot.<
br />
  “‘There’ll be four francs for the guide, won’t there?’ said I to Jean Pierre, who was unhitching his horses and swearing like a pagan.

  “‘Four francs! Not much! Ah, no, not much; the old beast only pays twenty-five sous.’

  “‘Twenty-five cents? The tariff? And you galloping him along as though he were a prince?’

  “‘Yes; and the only thing I’m sorry for is that I couldn’t jounce him any faster.’

  “‘You are a great stupid,’ said I to Jean Pierre.

  “‘You’ll do just as I did.’

  “‘Not much,’ said I to Jean Pierre.

  “Well, they finally brought me my mount. I had named him Devastator because he was continually committing injuries to others. It was a way he had, that beast; man or horse, ’twas all the same to him, so that he could get in a bite or a kick, in front or behind, anywhere in fact. Poor Devastator!” added my guide, with a sad sigh.

  Then he continued: “They brought me my horse, and before mounting him I saw a great, dried-up, bony hand as dark as walnut-wood stretched out of the leather apron of the berlingot to pay Jean Pierre his twenty-five sous “Seeing Jean Pierre get only his twenty-five sous, I shuddered — and I said to myself:

  “‘ All right, old consumptive, you’re going to get a famous promenade for your twenty-five sous. We’re going to take it at a walk.’

  “‘Where are we going, monsieur?’ I asked the berlingot, for I saw no one, even the big, dried-up, yellow fist had disappeared.

  “‘We are going to — ,’ answered a voice, but so feebly, so faintly, that it was as the voice of a dying man; and then the voice added, always half coughing, half sniffling, But I must tell you one thing, my good friend—’

  “His good friend!” repeated my guide, in a rage.

  “‘ I must warn you that the slightest jolt gives me frightful pain; I am almost dead from the horrible bumpings that your miserable comrade has inflicted on me. I wish to travel gently, very gently, at the least little trot, slowly, do you understand? because’ — and he coughed as though he were breathing his last—’ because the least little shock might kill me — and I mean to pay only the tariff that the law allows, twenty-five sous for the guide, my good friend.’ And thereupon he began a fit of coughing as though he were about to expire, the old wreck!