by Eugène Sue
These ideas saddened and absorbed me for some time. Awakening from my reverie I looked at the curé; he seemed paler than ever, and quite lost in thought.
“Nothing could be more charming than this house, monsieur,” said I.
He trembled suddenly, and replied politely but still coldly, “In truth it is charming, monsieur.” And with a heart-breaking sigh, he added, “Would you like to see the interior of the house?”
“Is the house furnished, monsieur?”
“Yes, monsieur, it is to be sold just as it is, that is, all but some family portraits, which will be withdrawn.” And he sighed again.
We entered by the vine-covered porch of which I have spoken.
The first room was an entrance-hall, lighted from above, and filled with pictures which appeared to be excellent copies from the best Italian masters. Some has-reliefs and a few marble statues, antiques of a pure style, stood in the corners of the hall, and four admirable Greek vases were filled with flowers, now withered, alas! for there were flowers everywhere, and in this hall they must have marvellously suited the treasures of art.
“This is the antechamber, monsieur,” said the curé.
We passed through it, and entered a room furnished with the beautiful carvings of the Renaissance; four large paintings of the Spanish school hid the tapestries on the walls, and flowers had once filled the great jardinières which stood before the windows.
All of the rooms were comparatively small, but the accessories were of the greatest elegance and in the best taste.
“This is the dining-room,” said the curé, continuing his glacial nomenclature. Then we passed by an open door, only closed by portières, into a salon, whose three windows opened on to that part of the park that I had not yet seen.
The salon had a gilded frieze, and was hung with cherry-coloured satin damask. The furniture was of the best epoch of the reign of Louis XIV., and was also gilded, and several consoles of marquetry, covered with every kind of splendid porcelain, completed the ornamentation of the room.
But what pleased me above all was that this luxuriousness, which one might expect to find in a city residence, was in such a delightful contrast to the almost wild solitude of the place, especially contrasting with the grand, though pleasing, landscape which could be seen from the windows of the salon.
It was an immense prairie of the beautiful fresh green grass that I had already so much admired. Across this field meandered a clear and swiftly running river, doubtless the one I had crossed so many times before arriving at — . On each side of the meadow extended a great curtain of oaks and of lindens, leafy and green to the very ground, while two or three groups of silvery-barked birch-trees were studded here and there over the field, where several fine Swiss cattle were peacefully grazing; finally, on the horizon overlooking several ranges of hills, one could see the cloudy and bluish crests of the mountains which form the last of the chain of the Eastern Pyrenees. The view was truly magnificent, and, as I have said, this grandiose nature, framed as it was in the satin and gold of this pretty salon, had a most singular effect on me.
“This is the salon,” said the curé, and then we entered the greenhouse, which was built of rustic wood. There we saw a great number of exotic plants planted deeply in the ground, so that in winter this conservatory must have looked like a beautiful alley in a garden. There was a door at the far end of the alley, before which the curé stopped.
Instead of opening the door he retraced his steps. But I said to him, pointing to the door, which was beautifully carved in a Gothic design, — Flemish work no doubt, for it was as delicate as lace, “Where does that door lead to, monsieur? Can one not see that apartment?”
“You can see it, monsieur, if — you absolutely desire to do so,” said the curé, with a sort of grieved impatience.
“I certainly wish to see it, monsieur,” I replied; for the more closely I examined the house the more interested I was becoming. All that I had so far seen had revealed to me not only the greatest elegance and refinement, but noble habits of art and of poetry. I felt sure that no vulgar mind could have so selected and so ornamented his residence.
“Be so kind then, monsieur, as to enter without me,” said the abbé, as he handed me a key. “It was her—” Then with an effort controlling himself, he said, “It is the morning-room, the living-room.”
I entered.
The room, which had evidently been ordinarily used by a woman, had remained in absolutely the same condition in which its occupant had left it. On a tapestry frame was a half finished piece of embroidery; further on stood a harp before a music-stand still laden with music; on a table were a vinaigrette and an unfolded handkerchief; an open book was lying on the work-basket. I looked at it: it was the second volume of “Obermann.”
Profoundly touched by the thought that some frightful and sudden misfortune should have ended an existence which seemed to have been so poetic and so happily occupied, I continued to observe with the most minute attention everything that surrounded me. I saw a tolerably large bookcase filled with the works of the best poets of Prance, Germany, and Italy. Near by stood an easel, on which was the most delicious sketch of a child’s head that one could imagine, — the adorable little face of a child of about three or four years old, with blue eyes and long brown hair.
I know not why it should have occurred to me that only a mother could have made such a picture, and that she only could have thus painted her own child.
All these discoveries, while they saddened me exceedingly, only excited more and more my interest and my curiosity. I therefore determined to use every possible means of finding out the secret so obstinately kept by the curé.
This portrait of a child, of which I speak, was placed near one of the windows that lighted the room. Without thinking of what I was doing, I drew the curtain to one side. What did I behold? At about a league’s distance, certainly not more, there was the sea, the Mediterranean! which sparkled like a great azure mirror, and reflected the glowing sunshine, — the sea that one beheld between the slopes of the two hills.
The view was magnificent, and I thought how it must have revealed all its splendours to the poetic soul which had left in this home so many touching traces of its noble and elevated nature.
I turned away my head for a moment from this majestic spectacle to rest my eyes, in order to enjoy the more a second view of the scene. I then perceived an object that I had not at first noticed. It was the portrait of a man. It was placed on an easel, which was draped with blue velvet. In the sort of oval formed at the top of the easel, where the two branches met in a curve, I saw a monogram composed of an A and an R, surmounted by a count’s crown.
This portrait was drawn in pastel. As I have some knowledge of painting, I easily recognised the same hand that had sketched the child’s head.
The head, set on its long and slender neck, stood out pale and clearly from a background of a dark, reddish brown, while the costume was entirely black, fancifully cut after the manner of the Van Dyck portraits. This young and bold face had such a striking expression of great intelligence, resolution, and grace, that I shall never be able to forget it.
The face was of a long oval, the forehead high, prominent, and uncovered, smooth, except a very decided line which separated the eyebrows, whose arch was almost imperceptible, so straight were they.
The hair was light chestnut brown, fine and silky, thrown back, and slightly waving at the temples. The large, very beautiful velvety brown eyes, with their iris of orange, looked almost too round, but their proud, deep, meditative expression seemed to denote a mind of the highest order; finally, an aquiline nose, and a square, prominent, and dimpled chin, would have given to the physiognomy a haughty and almost hard look, if around the thin and scarlet lips a subtle and almost imperceptible smile, very charming to see, had not softened, lighted up, so to speak, those features which were too energetic and too decided.
For some moments I stood lost in contemplation before this exp
ressive and beautiful face, wondering if this could be the hero of the mysterious adventure that I was trying to discover. Then I noticed that, with the exception of the eyes, which in the child were blue and long, there were many traits of resemblance between this unknown man and the delicious sketch of the angelic child which stood near by. But very soon I heard the trembling voice of the abbé, who, still standing outside, wished to know if I had seen everything sufficiently. I rejoined him, he closed the door, and we once more traversed the gallery.
It was childish, no doubt; but as we passed the door of the salon, I noticed something which oppressed me cruelly. It was a gilded cage, in which I saw, lying dead, several poor little bengalis and love birds.
Sadly depressed, and more and more interested, I longed to take the priest into my confidence, by expressing to him how much I was touched by all I had seen, I, who knew not even the names of those who had lived here; but whether he could not control his emotion, or whether he thought it a profanation to speak of his grief before a stranger, he evaded all my efforts to open the subject, and said to me, with a great effort:
“All that remains to be seen now, monsieur, is the other gallery, which leads to the tower, where there is another study.”
We went back through the entrance-hall, then through a library, through the long Gothic-windowed gallery, which was filled with pictures, sculptures, and curiosities of every sort, and thus arrived at the tower, which communicated with the gallery by a short flight of steps.
I entered. This time the abbé accompanied me resolutely, though I could see that from time to time he wiped with his hand his eyes, which were moist with tears. In this vast circular hall, everything revealed studious and reflective tastes.
It was furnished in a severe style; there were many valuable arms, and four large family portraits, which seemed to include five centuries, with an interval of a hundred and fifty years; for the oldest portrait recalled the costume of a warrior of the end of the fourteenth century, whereas the costumes of the others belonged to the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries, the most recent representing a man who wore the dress of a general of the Empire, with the cordon rouge across his breast.
I noticed, also, many maps and topographical plans, all marked with abridged and hieroglyphical notes; but what I saw first of all was a woman’s portrait, placed on an easel, exactly like the one I had already seen, only it had no crown carved on its summit, there being simply the interlaced initials M and V. By a happy idea of the painter, this portrait, painted on a gold ground, recalled, by its naive expression, one of the adorable heads of the Virgin, which belong to the Italian school of the end of the sixteenth century. All that Raphaël had ever dreamed of candour and purity in the expression of his Madonnas, beamed from this divine face.
The smooth and shining brown hair was parted simply over a charming forehead, where it was encircled by a little golden chain; then following the line of the temples, which were so dazzlingly clear one could almost see the blue veins, it fell in soft masses below the delicately rosy cheeks.
Her large blue eyes, which were serenely pensive and almost melancholy, seemed to follow me with a gaze that was calm, noble, and good. Her rosy lips were not smiling, but they had an expression of serious graciousness impossible to describe, while their form, as well as that of the straight and thin nose, was exquisitely beautiful and of an antique purity of line.
A tunic of very pale blue, which barely showed the snowy whiteness of the shoulders, and was fastened around the well-shaped form by a circlet of dull gold, completed this portrait, which was a model of elevated simplicity, charm, and poesy.
After examining a long time this ideally perfect face, I found in the eyes an expression which reminded me of the child’s face, for the eyes of that angel were also of a deep and clear blue, but the lower part of its face and the broad forehead recalled the man’s portrait which had so much interested me.
I know not why I should have imagined that the child belonged to these parents. But where was he? Where were now the father and mother? The father with his proud and resolute beauty; the mother so sweet and pure? Had he, had she, had both, or all three, perhaps, been overtaken by a frightful misfortune?
“Ah,” said I, “if looks are not deceptive, in what an Eden these noble beings must have lived!” What could one desire more than to live thus with a beloved child in the midst of this delicious and profound solitude, embellished by all the treasures of nature and art?
To have enough appreciation of happiness and goodness, to be able to live alone among geniuses of every kind; to be able, when the heart longs for silence, to sit rapt in silent ecstasy, to pass from one delight to another; to speak to one another of love, through the sublime voices of the divine poets of all the ages, or through the celestial harmonies of the great masters whose melodies enchant us when called forth by a loving hand; to compare the exquisite beauty of the idolised being, the expression of her features, with all the wonders of art, and to be able to say with pride, “She is still more beautiful!” to be able to draw forth from this threefold source of inspiration, and to behold our love, fecundated by the divine dew, become each day more radiant and more expansive; to glorify the Creator in everything, in the felicity we enjoy, in the woman we love, in the magnificent nature which delights our eyes and charms our soul, — oh, what a glorious existence it must have been, that led by these two beings!
But the sad voice of the abbé recalled me from these imaginings.
I sighed and followed him, quite determined to penetrate his secret.
Very soon the sky became overcast. The morning, which had been beautiful, became sombre; great clouds swept over the sky and some drops of rain began to fall.
“There is no inn here,” said the curé, “you are on horseback, monsieur, there is a mountain storm gathering, and, if a hurricane comes on, the little river, which you found fordable, will become in a few hours a rapid torrent Allow me to offer you such poor hospitality as I can in the presbytery until the violence of the storm is over. Your guide and his horses will find a shelter in the barn.”
I accepted his offer, delighted by the hope that I might have an opportunity of satisfying my curiosity. We entered the house.
“Eh Hen, Joseph?” said Jeanne to the curé, overcome with emotion.
“Hélas! Jeanne, may God’s will be done! But it was a great trial to me, and I had not the courage to enter her room.”
Jeanne wiped away her tears, and began to busy herself about receiving me as well as possible in their modest home.
Very soon the storm broke with the greatest violence, and I finally decided to spend the night at the presbytery of — .
CHAPTER III.
THE CURE’S TALE.
AFTER A SOJOURN of three days at the presbytery of —
I had so far gained the curé’s confidence that he opened his heart to me, and related all that he knew as to the history of those persons in whom I had become so singularly interested.
I will try to tell the tale in his grave and simple words.
“I had been the curé of this parish for about four years, monsieur, when the house that we have been to look at was bought by an agent, for M. le Comte Arthur de — , whose portrait you have seen. I am still ignorant as to his family name, but I presume that the count was of a noble and ancient lineage. I judge so, at least, from his title, and from the almost religious respect he paid the old family portraits which hung in his study.
“Before the arrival of Count Arthur (for I never heard him called by any other name) in the village, there came a confidential servant, accompanied by an architect and several workmen from Paris, who changed the plain and unpretending country house that then stood here into the charming habitation you have so much admired. When this was finished the workmen all went away, and the confidential man alone remained to await his master.
“Although it was neither in accordance with my avocation nor my nature to seek information about t
he people who came to dwell in our little village, it was impossible to avoid hearing certain rumours, spread abroad, no doubt, by the foreign workmen. According to these tales, the count, who was very rich, was coming to live among us with a lady who was not his wife. Moreover, the life of this gentleman had been, they said, of such scandalous and shameless immorality that, though he had not positively been banished from good society, the sort of repulsion which he inspired, because of certain adventures, was so great that he felt it would be better for him to live henceforth in retirement.
“You can easily conceive, monsieur, that my first impression, if it was not hostile, was certainly very unfavourable to this stranger. It is true, I did not know him, but supposing that these rumours had some foundation, here he was coming, I say, to set a bad example to our poor mountaineers, in whose eyes the fortune and rank of the newcomers would seem to authorise their culpable behaviour.
“These thoughts gave me a great distrust of the count, and I promised myself, if by a scarcely probable chance he should make me any personal advances, to meet them with a severe and inexorable coldness, thus protesting against the immorality of the life he was leading.
“It was two years ago, then, that the count established himself here with a young woman and a child, whose portraits you have seen. A few days after his arrival I received a note from him, asking the favour of an interview. I could not very well refuse, and consequently the count presented himself at the presbytery. Although my resolution, my habits, my character, my principles, and the way I have of looking at certain things and certain men, all prejudiced me against him, I could not help being immediately prepossessed by his remarkable individuality. You have seen his portrait, monsieur. I was also captivated by his grave, polished, and dignified manners, and, above all, by the extent and nobility of mind which he revealed in the long conversation we had together, that very first day.