Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  They were so adorable that they resembled Marguerite’s.

  She denied it; so I begged her to take off her glove and let us compare her hands with those of the portrait. They were strikingly alike. How could I see such beautiful hands without kissing them?

  We heard Don Luiz’s step, and we continued our examination of the library.

  After seeing the château we returned to Paris. As Marguerite felt tired, she asked me to come and spend a quiet evening with her. I promised to do so.

  When I arrived there I found her pale and sad; she was evidently quite overcome.

  “What is the matter?” said I to her.

  “You will laugh at me,” — she had tears in her eyes, “but I have lost a bracelet that belonged to my mother; I had it on this morning. You know how I prize it, and will understand how grieved I am. I have sought for it everywhere. It is nowhere — nowhere!”

  As she told me this, I remembered confusedly having seen, when Marguerite took off her glove, something that shone brilliantly, and which fell to the floor just as I was kissing her hand in the library, but, being so enchanted by the kiss, I paid no attention to anything else.

  “I am so foolishly superstitious about the possession of that bracelet,” said Marguerite, “that I will be dreadfully unhappy if it is really lost, but what hope can I have? Have I any? Ah, pardon, my friend, for my showing such sorrow for anything which does not concern you, but if you only knew how much that bracelet meant to me — Ah, what a sad night I shall spend, how unhappy I shall be!”

  There flashed through my mind one of those ideas that come to us when we are desperately in love. I had a very fast race-horse, — it was Candid; it was three leagues and a half from Paris to the Chateau of — ; the night was fine, the moon shone clear, the road was a splendid one. I wished to spare Marguerite not only a night, but an hour, even a few moments of grief, by finding out in the least time possible if the bracelet had been left in the library of — , even at the risk of killing my horse.

  “Pardon for my selfishness,” said I to Marguerite, “but your distress and the loss you have sustained have reminded me that I foolishly left the key in the lock of a little chest which contains important papers. I have every confidence in my valet de chambre, but others besides he might enter my room. Permit me, then, to write a note, that I will send back by the carriage, to tell him to get the key, and bring it to me.”

  I wrote the following words:

  “George is to saddle Candid instantly, he must go to the Château de — and ask the overseer if he has not found a bracelet in the library. When George gets this note it will be ten o’clock, by eleven o’clock you must either bring the bracelet or the answer to the Hôtel de Pënâfiel.”

  The letter was sent It was rather more than three leagues and a half to the Château de — from Paris. He would have to travel seven leagues in an hour. Such a thing was possible with a horse like Candid, but it was a hundred to one that it would ruin him. Until ten o’clock I had sufficient control over myself to amuse Marguerite and take her mind off her loss.

  Eleven o’clock struck, George had not returned. At five minutes past eleven a valet de chambre came in, bringing on a waiter a small package, which he presented to me.

  It was Marguerite’s bracelet.

  I cannot express the transports of joy with which I received it.

  “You will pardon me,” I said to Marguerite, “the tardiness of my servants. Not knowing the value you set on that bracelet, I stole it from you, but seeing your extreme annoyance, I pretended that I had forgotten my key, and wrote to my valet de chambre to send me a little package that he would find in my coffer.”

  “Oh, I have found it, I have found it! I forgive you!” cried Marguerite, in a transport of joy; then, holding out her hand, she added: “Ah, how kind you are to have taken pity on my weakness, and how I thank you for having sent to your house for the bracelet, in order to save me a few moments’ distress.”

  I admit that, in spite of Marguerite’s joy and gratitude, I was horribly anxious when, at half-past eleven, I quitted the Hôtel de Pënâfiel. At midnight, my anxiety was all over. Poor Candid! He had just expired, I told George, by way of explanation, that I had laid a wager for three hundred louis that Candid could go to — and back by night in an hour.

  II.

  APRIL, 18 — .

  I met Marguerite in the Champs Elysées. She spoke of horses, and said to me: “Why do you not make Candid run oftener? They say he is so fast, so handsome, and that you are so fond of him, — oh, so fond, that I am almost jealous,” she added, laughing.

  At this moment M. de Cernay, who, like myself, was on horseback, rode up to the side of Madame de Pënâfiel’s carriage. He bowed to her, and said to me:

  “Is this true that I hear? Is Candid dead?” Marguerite looked at me with amazement “He is dead,” said I to M. de Cernay.

  “That is what I was told, but it does not surprise me, — to travel more than seven leagues at night, in an hour and four minutes! No matter how full-blooded a horse was, it would be hard for him to stand such a trial as that, and when he was not in condition! And your wager was for three hundred louis, I believe?”

  “Yes, three hundred louis.”

  “Well, between us, you have done a foolish thing, for I have seen you refuse more than that for him, and very properly, too, for you would never get such a horse for five hundred louis. I tell you this because he is dead now,” he added, with great simplicity.

  “A horse’s reputation, then, seems to be like that of a great man,” I said, laughing, “jealousy prevents him from being appreciated while he is alive.”

  Marguerite’s expressive look almost repaid me for the loss of Candid.

  III.

  APRIL, 18 — .

  What a bewildering day! It has been so filled with happy hours that I fondly listen to their distant echoes in my heart.

  It has been a radiantly beautiful day. As we had agreed upon yesterday, I met Marguerite in the Bois; her face, which is still rather pale, seemed to bloom afresh in the sunlight. She was on foot, and before joining her I followed her at some distance in the Alley of the Acacias. Nothing could be more elegant than her walk, or than her figure, whose suppleness and grace was only half hidden by the shawl that was wrapped around her. I also watched for some time her little feet, as, at each step, they raised the flowing edge of her dress.

  I joined her, and she blushed deeply when she saw me. I am more than ever convinced of the value of this symptom. As soon as it ceases, as soon as the sight of the beloved one no longer causes the blood to rush from the heart to the face, real love, ardent and young, has disappeared; a weak and chilly affection has come in its place; indifference and forgetfulness are not far off.

  I gave her my arm. As she scarcely touched it, I begged her to lean on it more.

  The air was pure and mild, the turf was beginning to look green, the violets to blossom. We spoke very little at first. From time to time she turned her face up to mine, and looked smilingly at me, while her large eyes seemed to swim in clear crystal; then her nostrils would dilate, as she said, eagerly, “Oh, how good it is to breathe thus the springtime and happiness!”

  When we saw the Heights of Calvary we talked about the country, the great forests, the fields, and the beautiful and vast treasures of nature. Our conversation was often interrupted by long pauses. After one of these, she said to me: “I wish you could come to Brittany; we would take long, long walks together, and I would plant you in our woods, so that later, when I was all alone, I should gather in a rich harvest of tender recollections.”

  I replied that I had nothing to tell her in return for such charming flattery, and I was really glad it was so, for nothing is more tiresome than those persons who repay you instantly, by returning a pretty compliment or delicate attention, as though they wished to rid themselves at any price of an intolerable debt. We met several men and women of our acquaintance on foot as we were. After they had passed
us and we had exchanged bows, we laughingly declared that we would like to know what they were saying about us.

  While telling of our walk, I wish to say that Marguerite told me that Paris was becoming odious to her; that she had formed a fine project, but would not disclose it to me until the first of May. Impossible to make her tell any more.

  At four o’clock the old Chevalier Don Luiz rejoined us, and we all three continued our walk for awhile. Madame de Pënâfiel and I each had some visits to make and so I left her. That night she was to go to a ball, and we agreed that I should go to see her at ten o’clock to have the first glimpse of her toilet, of which she made a great mystery.

  On leaving Marguerite I called on Madame de — .

  Our happiness is already very well known. Formerly, people would speak very freely about Madame de Pënâfiel in my presence; now no one ever pronounces her name before me, or, if they do so, it is always accompanied with the most exaggerated praise. I noticed this for the first time at Madame de— ‘s.

  One of her friends who has just arrived from Italy, and is ignorant of the latest liaisons in society, said to her, after having received information about several ladies of his acquaintance: “And what about Madame de Pënâfiel? I hope you have got some good story to tell me about her. Come, tell us who is the fortunate or unfortunate man of the hour? Tell me all about it. You owe that much to a man who arrives from the antipodes and knows nothing of what is going on; besides, unless I have some information I shall make some terrible blunders.”

  “But you are crazy,” replied Madame de — , blushing deeply, and glancing towards me; “you know how I perfectly detest such gossip, especially when it is about one of my best friends; for my affection for Marguerite dates from our childhood.” She said this very meaningly.

  “One of your best friends! Ah, that is charming, ah, yes,” replied this stupid man, who understood nothing. “One of your best friends, ’tis very good! But then, you know they say, ‘Who loves well chastises well,’ and you used to tell me hundreds of entertaining tales about her, each one more spiteful than the other.”

  Madame de— ‘s embarrassment was so great that I took pity on her.

  “Then I am not the only one that you have attempted to draw into that trap,” I said to her, laughing.

  “A trap?” said the newcomer.

  “A trap, monsieur,” I answered, “a trap baited with malice, into which even I, who am one of Madame de Pënâfiel’s sincerest and most devoted friends, had almost fallen.”

  “Ah, do you believe me capable of such treachery?” replied Madame de — , smiling, but not understanding my meaning.

  “Certainly, madame, I think you are, for it is an excellent way of discovering our friends’ partisans; you pretend to have heard some dreadful scandal concerning an intimate friend, and, according to the way your acquaintances defend or attack the truth of your statement, you can judge of their kindly or inimical feelings; so that afterwards, when your friend hears their protestations of affection, she will be able to accept them at their true value.”

  “Ah, you are terribly indiscreet,” said Madame de — , with the pretence of a smile. The newcomer from Italy was quite astounded. Another visitor entering, I went out.

  At ten o’clock I went to Marguerite’s. I hoped I should have to wait for her, for I find it delightful to be for awhile alone, and dreamily enjoy the quiet of a salon in which the beloved one passes so much of her life, and then to see it suddenly illumined by her presence. But I had not this pleasure, for she was already there and waiting for me. This victory that I had won over the important and pleasing duties of the toilet, this delicate and unusual attention of being ready to receive me, gave me the greatest delight.

  Marguerite was adorable. She wore a dress of pale green moire, trimmed with lace and bows of rose-coloured ribbon, from the centre of which blossomed great pink roses. One of these flowers was in the corsage, and another one in her hair. She brought me one of her bracelets to fasten for her, which I did, but not without imprinting a kiss on that beautiful arm so white and round.

  I wished her to tell me her great secret of the first of May, but she said that this springtime of hope must still remain a mystery.

  I told her about my morning visit to Madame — , and we both laughed at it; but Marguerite said she was too happy now to care for the falsehoods that were said of her. Then we spoke of a very beautiful foreigner, who had made a great sensation in society, and she thanked me gaily for having shown so much attention to that charming person.

  “And why should you thank me for that?” I asked.

  “Because when a man flirts with other women, it is a sure sign that he is absolutely certain of the heart of the one woman he loves. Thus, you see, I am very proud to have inspired such confidence, and such security.”

  At eleven o’clock she ordered her carriage.

  As I was expressing my gratitude at this opportunity of being entirely alone, Marguerite answered: “This is nothing; wait until my first of May.”

  I went for a short visit to the Opéra. It was very brilliant. I found M. de Cernay in our box. What he calls my good fortune continues to annoy him; for he never forgets to tell me how pleased he is to see her so seriously attached to me; it was sure to happen one day or another. Besides, she must be tired of leading such a life of excitement. Her craze for Ismaël was but a piece of folly; her inclination for M. de Merteuil was only a caprice; her other mysterious but well-known adventures were simply to satisfy a wild imagination, while the affection she had for me was quite another thing.

  According to my custom, I obstinately denied my good fortune, whereupon M. de Cernay accused me of dissimulation, of trying to hide what all Paris was aware of. He finished by predicting that, if I persisted in remaining so secretive, I would never have a friend in the world. This prediction really caused me serious annoyance.

  I went to Madame de— ‘s ball to join Marguerite.

  On entering the salons I had not to go far to find her. Who can explain that instinct, that strange faculty, thanks to which an instant and a single look suffice for a man to discover in a crowded room, among hundreds of other men and women, the person of ail others he desires to meet?

  Marguerite was conversing with Madame de —— — , when I discovered her. She received me with a perfect graciousness and a marked preference, although she was surrounded by several others. I speak of this peculiarity, because most women who have special interest in some particular man think they show a great deal of tact in receiving the one they care for most with affected indifference or even positive rudeness.

  Madame de — is very lively, intelligent, and gay, of a frank and sensible disposition, indulgent, but not commonplace, and very fierce and disagreeable, when any of her absent friends are attacked. Marguerite and I are fortunate enough to be favourites of hers. They sat down on a small sofa, and I taking a chair behind them, we made a thousand amusing remarks about every one and everything. Finally we spoke of pictures, and Madame de — said to me:

  “I know that you have a charming collection of paintings. Why do you not give us a supper some evening and invite some of our friends, so that we can all admire your marvels?”

  “With the greatest pleasure,” I replied. “But it must be understood that I will not invite any of the husbands; they spoil everything, like a man in a ballet.”

  “Quite the contrary,” she said to me, “it will be very entertaining, for in many liaisons there is as much tiresome stupidity and jealousy as in conjugal life. Many husbands are very amiable, and the only thing against them is that they are husbands.” After having discussed the question for some time, we agreed to invite a reasonable proportion of both husbands and lovers.

  It was getting late. Marguerite begged her cousin, Don Luiz, to call the carriage. While she was waiting for it, I threw her cloak over her beautiful shoulders, and said, in a low voice, “At eleven o’clock, to-morrow?” She blushed deeply, and softly pressed my hand when I g
ave her the fan.

  I understood what it meant.

  Don Luiz offered his arm, and they went away. Returning home, I have just written the details of this day, which was apparently so devoid of interest and yet has been filled with charming episodes. Yes, a series of charming little episodes. Nothing in themselves, but the making of a memorable day when linked together. It is, then, a bouquet composed of a thousand happy souvenirs as intoxicating as the perfume of a thousand sweet-smelling flowers.

  IV.

  APRIL, 18 —— .

  I went to her house at three o’clock.

  I found her as tender and affectionate as ever, but serious, pensive, and almost sad.

  There was no regret or reproachfulness in this sadness; it was a calm, melancholy mood, a sweet reverie. All her thoughts were elevated and serious.

  I was amazed at this change in her.

  In the souls of certain women there are inexhaustible treasures of delicacy.

  With them everything is purified by sacrifice and idealised by the religious ardour of their love, by a sentiment of sacred duty that they find in loving, and a melancholy contemplation in which all thought of the future overwhelms them.

  With us the horizon is much more restricted. When once our passion and our vanity are satisfied by possession, nothing can be more positive, more decided, than our sensations. The best of us are sometimes tender and grateful, but most of us are sated and sulky. With some women, however, it is just the opposite; they are happy and sad by turns, generally more sad than happy, for melancholy predominates in their nature, and what they feel is inexpressible. It is both joy and despair, regret and hope, burning shame and purest love, terrible remorse, and the intense desire to surrender herself once more.

  I remained a long time with Marguerite. Our conversation was delightfully intimate. She asked me about my family, about my father. For awhile I was very much saddened by such unaccustomed thoughts. I confessed everything to her, my ingratitude and indifference to his memory.