Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  All this time I was talking to Lord Falmouth, and I remember that our conversation was principally about a remark he had made me, and to which I assented, on the subject of the rococo style of luxury, almost feminine indeed, that many young men had begun to use in the interior decoration of their apartments. He laughed very heartily to think that all these mirrors, framed in gold and surrounded by cupids, doves, and garlands of flowers, would nevermore reflect any but masculine faces, looking innocently out from clouds of cigar smoke. While, by way of contrast, instead of making use of all this magnificence, instead of doubling the charm by surrounding it with mysterious luxury, instead of exposing all these beautiful creations of art to the vulgar gaze, if one of these young beaux had to wait, with amorous impatience, for one of those sweet and secret apparitions that deserve to be surrounded with all that is beautiful and luxurious, it is generally way off in some dirty part of the city, in some mean and out-of-the-way hole, that are passed those rare and enchanting hours, which stand out in glowing colours among the other pale souvenirs of our lives.

  We concluded, then, with this aphorism, that for a man of tact, of taste, and of experience, the known and visible dwelling should be ail that is comfortable and severely simple; but the unknown and invisible abode, the hidden diamond of our lives, should be a triumph of luxury, and all that was dazzlingly beautiful and rare.

  After breakfast we went into the smoking-room (the universal use of tobacco makes this sort of subdivision of an apartment necessary), which was furnished with large armchairs and broad divans. It was ornamented with an admirable collection of pipes and tobacco of all kinds, from the East Indian hookah, glittering with gold and precious stones, to the vulgar clay pipe, the brûlegueule of the Parisian workman; from the brown and perfumed leaf of the l’Atakia or Havana, with its pale amber shade, to the strong and black tobacco, called Régia, whose pungent and corrosive savour some palates are depraved enough to like.

  There was to be that day a race of gentleman-riders in the Bois de Boulogne; M. de Cernay was one of the judges, and invited me to go. He was to take his lion, Ismaël, in his phaëton.

  M. du Pluvier made me shudder by offering me a seat in his mountebank’s chariot, but I escaped this mantrap, for I had fortunately ordered my cabriolet to wait for me. Then M. du Pluvier fell upon Lord Falmouth, who replied with his usual sang-froid, “I am sorry not to be able to accept, my dear M. du Pluvier, but I have to start immediately for the House of Parliament.”

  “To the House of Peers? Very well, I can take you there. What difference does it make? My horses are made for that.”

  “And they would do it beautifully,” replied Lord Falmouth. “But unfortunately I am going to London; I wish to speak on the East Indian question, and as the discussion will open to-morrow night, I want to get there on time. I have found out at what hour the packet-boat leaves, and I expect to be in London to-morrow afternoon.”

  I was still smiling at such a singular excuse, when we heard the jingling bells of post-horses, and very soon Lord Falmouth’s travelling coupé entered the courtyard. I looked at M. de Cernay with surprise, and, while Lord Falmouth was out of the room giving some directions to his man, I asked the count if it was true that Lord Falmouth was going to London.

  “He is really going there,” said M. de Cernay. “He often takes the notion of speaking on some political question which pleases him, and which he always treats with unquestionable authority; but he so detests both London and England that he leaves his carriage at Westminster, takes his seat, makes his speech, gets into his carriage, and returns to Paris.”

  Lord Falmouth just then returned. He was gracious enough to ask me to call on him at some future time. His courier started off, and he got up into his carriage.

  “The race is to come off at two o’clock,” said M. de Cernay. “The weather is superb. I have sent my horses around to the Porte Dauphine; if you would like to take a turn in the Bois, I have a horse that is at your service.”

  “Many thanks,” said I, “I have sent my horses there, too. But will this race be an interesting one?”

  “It is, unfortunately, only too interesting: two miles to run, three hedges four and a half feet high, and, to finish, a barrier fixed at five feet to leap over.”

  “That is impossible!” I cried out. “For finish a barrier five feet high! But there are not two horses out of a hundred that could take such a leap, with any degree of certainty, after such a race; and if the horse should fail to take the bar, the rider would be instantly killed.”

  “That is just it,” said the count, with a sigh. “I am in despair at having been chosen judge, or rather witness, of this deadly challenge which may cost the life of one or both of these brave gentlemen, perhaps both, but it was absolutely impossible to refuse.”

  “What do you mean by that?” said I to M. de Cernay.

  “Oh,” replied he, “it is quite a romance and a secret as sad as it is incredible; but I can tell you about it now, for if for certain reasons no one has yet been told of it, in an hour from now, on beholding the last terrible obstacle in this race, which is undertaken through a pretext, every one will see what is really a duel between the two young riders, and will easily guess the cause and the object.”

  I tried to read in M. de Cernay’s face whether or not he was speaking seriously; but if he were joking my penetration was at fault, so much in earnest did he seem to be.

  “I will tell you,” said he, “the real story about this race, which is quite extraordinary. a One of the prettiest women in Paris, Madame la Marquise de Pënâfiel, has among the number of her adorers two who are rivals, and whose devotion to her is well known, or, rather, guessed at. Having one day exchanged some hasty words in regard to a mutual rival, who was each one’s enemy without helping the cause of either, and being too well bred to fight about a woman they both loved, and who would be seriously compromised by the scandal of a duel, — to avoid this inconvenience and gain the same object, they chose this deadly way of settling their quarrel.

  “Their chances are equal, as they are both splendid riders and have magnificent horses, but the result is not to be doubted; because if there is any horse capable of running a race of two miles, and leaping over three hedges, and yet being equal to taking a jump over a fixed barrier five feet high, it is almost impossible that there should be two horses who would be so tremendously lucky. Thus, you see, there is no possible chance that this race can end in any other way than by a terrible accident. If they escape this time, they will try it again at some future day, as a duel is begun over again after the principals have vainly exchanged shots.”

  All this seemed to be so strange, so unusual, — though there was no reason why it should therefore be absolutely impossible, — that I was quite stupefied.

  “And Madame de Pënâfiel,” I asked M. de Cernay, “does she know anything of this fatal contest of which she is the cause?”

  “Certainly she does; and to give you an idea of her character, it is not at all impossible that she may come to look on.”

  “If she should come,” said I, this time with a very marked smile of incredulity, “Madame de Pënâfiel will find it quite as natural as to assist at the bloody fights of the toreadors of her own country; for, from her name and her ferocious disregard of our customs, I judge that this savage marquise is some Spanish amazon of the very bluest blood, — one of those black-eyed daughters of Xérès, or of Vejer, who to this day carry a knife in their garter!”

  M. de Cernay could not refrain from a laugh, and said to me:

  “You are not anywhere near the truth. Madame de Pënâfiel is a Frenchwoman, born in Paris, and a Parisienne in every sense of the word. Furthermore, she is a very distinguished person, and allied to some of the best families in France. She is a widow, and her late husband, the Marquis de Pënâfiel, was a Spaniard.”

  “Come, now,” said I to the count, laughing in my turn, “I see how it is; you are trying to awaken an interest, a romantic and fantast
ic interest, about a race of which you are to be the judge. I wonder all Paris does not go to look on.”

  “I assure you I am speaking in all seriousness,” said he, and he really looked solemn.

  “But seriously, then, I might be made to believe that a woman could not help it if two crazy men wanted to break each other’s necks, but I never will believe that any well-bred woman would go to look on at such a contest, when she knew that she was the cause. She would lay herself open to the greatest blame, and to universal contempt.”

  “In the first place, Madame de Pënâfiel cares very little about what people say; and, secondly, she is the only person who knows the real cause of this species of duel.”

  “But, even admitting that she has no fear of her secret being betrayed by this event, she shows herself to be abominably heartless and cruel.”

  “Oh, she has the hardest and coldest heart imaginable; think of it, when she is only twenty-five, and as beautiful as an angel!”

  “And how comes it that you have not dissuaded these two intrepid young men from this foolish danger? For if, as you say, every one knows why they run this race, all their generous desire to shield the lady amounts to nothing.”

  “To tell you the truth,” said the count, “they did not tell me their secret. I found it out by a strange accident, therefore could not allow myself to make the smallest observation on what I was presumed to know nothing about. I spoke seriously to them, but as to putting too much stress on the dangers of the race, it was almost as much as to doubt their courage, and thus it was impossible. If they had consulted me, I should have told them that they were behaving like two crazy men, because no one would ever be got to believe that for two hundred louis, which was announced as the stake, two men of their fortune and position would almost risk losing their lives; consequently, every one would be wild to discover the real motive of their duel, and that would cause a great scandal, and bring discredit on Madame de Pënâfiel.”

  “How do you know, then, that this race has anything to do with her?” I asked the count.

  “How do I know it? Every one says so; and as for me, I have been acquainted with Madame de Pënâfiel for a long time, and my certainty on the subject is based on the pretended indifference with which she behaves to both of these young men, for on some occasions I have known her to show the deepest dissimulation.”

  There was, in all this story of M. de Cernay’s, such a strange mixture of likelihood and improbability, that I found it hard to decide whether I believed it or not.

  “I can scarcely believe,” said I, “from what you have told me, that Madame de Pënâfiel can really be in good. standing. Who goes to see her?”

  “She entertains the most distinguished men and women in society, for she has one of the handsomest houses in Paris, an enormous fortune, and receives in an almost royal style; besides this, her salon has great weight in intellectual circles, but all this does not prevent Madame de Pënâfiel from being detested according to her deserts.”

  “And what kind of a woman is she outside of all this? Is she clever?”

  “Enormously clever, but she can say very sharp, very biting things; and then she is scornful, capricious, excessively overbearing, for she is used to having everything give way to her, because certain positions are so elevated that, whether or no, you are expected to be obsequious. It is needless to tell you that her coquetry passes all limits, and as to describing her, she has the most ridiculous pretensions. She undertakes to know all about — guess what! The abstract sciences, art, everything you can imagine! Oh, I assure you, she is a strange, charming, and ridiculous woman. As I am one of her very good friends, I would propose to you to call and be presented to her, warning you, however, that she is as dangerous as she is peculiar; but she is so capricious and changeable that I cannot promise that you will be well received, for what she refuses to-day she cries for to-morrow.

  “But,” said the count, as he looked at the clock, “it is getting to be late, it is two o’clock; let us send for the carriages.” And he rang the bell.

  We all went out. The miraculous turnout of M. de Pluvier went ahead, and the little man threw himself triumphantly into it, missing the step as he did so.

  I had fancied that for the last few minutes M. de Cernay showed signs of uneasiness. I imagined that he was somewhat curious to find out if I was worthy (by my horses at least) to gravitate around such a brilliant planet as he.

  As my cabriolet drew up, M. de Cernay looked it over with a connoisseur’s glance. It was very simple, very plain, the harness was all black; but the bay horse was very large and of perfect form, and his action was almost equal to the celebrated “Coventry’s.” (A famous carriage horse of Lord Chesterfield’s.)

  “Diable! but that is a beautiful turnout, and you certainly have there the finest cabriolet horse in Paris!” said M. de Cerval, in a tone of approbation, in which there seemed to be just the smallest possible shade of envy.

  From that moment I felt that the count had placed me high in his estimation. His phaeton drove up; he got into it beside Ismael.

  It is impossible to describe the elegance and lightness of this charming light green carriage. Neither could anything do justice to the ensemble of the turnout, which consisted of one gray and one sorrel horse of medium size. All was perfect, even to the two little grooms of exactly the same build and size, who mounted lightly to the back seat. It was the first time I had seen horses with their manes docked, and this especially suited M. de Cernay’s horses, so arched and full of race were their necks. We set off for the Bois de Boulogne.

  CHAPTER XII.

  THE GENTLEMAN-RIDERS.

  TRUE OR FALSE, M. de Cernay’s story had awakened my curiosity to such a point that I was in the greatest hurry to arrive on the race-course.

  We started off for the Bois de Boulogne. It was a beautiful day in February; the sun was shining brightly; the pure fresh air, not too cold to be pleasant, gave a healthy colour to the ladies who were riding in open carriages on their way to the races.

  We stopped at the Porte Dauphine to mount our saddle-horses. Mine had to submit to another examination from M. de Cernay, who was apparently confirmed in the good opinion he had formed of me. This you may be sure flattered my vanity.

  As for his own horses, they were, like everything else he owned, perfect in every respect.

  M. du Pluvier proved himself to be the demonstration of a theory of mine, namely, that there are some men so constituted that they inevitably make themselves ridiculous; he was hardly on his horse’s back before he allowed himself to be run away with. We supposed him to be some distance behind us, when he suddenly shot by us like an arrow. We watched him for some time, but his horse, turning into a cross-road, gave him such a shock that he lost his hat, and then he disappeared.

  We arrived tranquilly on the ground with Ismaël, laughing at this mishap. I should mention the fact that De Cernay, being the owner of a beautiful black Arab horse, and wishing to be as gracious as possible to his “lion,” had offered it to Ismael as a mount. The renegade had accepted, and his characteristic, dark face, and strange, brilliant costume contrasted violently with, and served, as no doubt M. de Cernay had foreseen, to accentuate the Parisian elegance of the latter.

  Once on the ground, I got off my horse and mingled with the habitués of the races, among whom I found several of my acquaintances. It was then that I saw the frightful obstacle which was to be leaped over, after the two miles had been run and the hedges crossed.

  Fancy a beam raised five feet above the ground, and nailed across two perpendicular posts like a gate across a road.

  It was then that the story M. de Cernay had told me, strange as it was, and contrary to all our usual customs, began to seem credible, and to explain why these two young men were about to run such a terrible risk.

  There was quite a crowd of people around the barrier, who were quite as incredulous as I. They asked each other why two young men, who were rich and in the best society, s
hould risk their lives in such a way as this. They wondered if the race was for an enormous sum of money, as that might in a certain way justify such foolish bravery; but the purse was but two hundred louis.

  At last, after many foolish conjectures, several of the spectators, who were conversant with the happenings in high life, arrived, either from their own convictions or from being prompted by M. de Cernay’s story, — arrived, I say, at the same conclusion as he did, and gave the same interpretation to this deadly duel.

  The hypothesis was very generally admitted; because, in the first place, it had the irresistible attraction of maliciousness; and, secondly, because any explication of the silliest as well as the most serious question, which appears to solve the long and vainly sought answer to the enigma, is hailed with delight.

  So that very soon I heard here and there such exclamations as the following: “Is it possible?”

  “Ah, really! now that explains it all.”

  “What utter folly!”

  “What thoughtful tact!”

  “How foolhardy to run such risks for a scornful coquette!”

  “It is just like her to permit such behaviour!”

  “The devilish little marquise! It is disgusting!”

  “Incredible!” etc.

  I had not the time to question M. de Cernay as to any details about the performers in this extraordinary entertainment, so while the public was venting its indignation on Madame de Pënâfiel, I happened to notice Sir Henry — , a great sportsman of my acquaintance, and thought that perhaps he could give me some interesting information.

  “Well,” said I, “this race will be exciting enough, I hope! Can you tell me which is the favourite?”

  “Opinions are very equally divided,” said he, “so that there does not seem to be any favourite. As for the horses, they both come of good stock; one, Beverley, is by Augustus out of Cybele, and the other, Captain Morave, is by Camel out of Vengeress; both of them have spent two hunting seasons in England. As for the gentleman-riders, they are the Baron de Merteuil and the Marquis de Senneterre, and have each acquired a tremendous reputation among the upper crust of the habitués of Melton. They are said to equal our intrepid Captain Beacher, who broke his last sound limb (the left forearm) in last year’s steeplechase, at St. Albans. One must be brave to face such danger. I have seen many races, I have been to hunts and steeplechases in Ireland, where they have stone walls instead of hedges, but the walls are never more than three or four feet high’. To tell the truth, I have never seen anything worse than that bar,” said Sir Henry — , turning again towards the terrible barrier.