Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “What a singular thing it is,” said I to Lord Falmouth, “that duelling and suicide should descend so low, and how truly it is said that the passions only change their names!”

  “Ah, for my poor Hubert the cuisine was a real passion. To satisfy hunger was only a vile trade, he said, but to make people eat when they were not hungry, he considered a fine art, and one he placed higher than many another.”

  “And he was quite right,” said I to Lord Falmouth; “for if we all were virtuous enough only to care for sensual pleasures, how deadly stupid life would be! The most admirable thing about the cravings of physical appetite is that they can always be appeased, and being satisfied, bring us a torpor, a dullness, which has a certain charm, while the desires of the mind, its most splendid imaginings, only fill us with regret and bitterness.”

  “I think as you do,” said Lord Falmouth, “it is evident that every abstract thought pursued too long a time only leaves us in a state of lassitude and chagrin, because it is not given to the human species to comprehend the eternally true, nor to attain to the eternally perfect, while a physical appetite liberally satisfied leaves the organisation calm and contented, because in this man has fulfilled an exact want of nature.”

  “That is true; thought wears one out and destroys one.”

  “And besides,” said Lord Falmouth, as he slowly emptied his glass, “all this time life is passing, every day we exclaim, ‘What a bore!’ but that doesn’t prevent, Lord be praised! the hours from gliding along all the same.”

  “And so we arrive,” said I, “at the end of our term of life, day by day, — hour after hour.”

  Lord Falmouth made a gesture of resignation, filled his glass, and pushed the decanter over to me.

  We remained tins way some moments without speaking a word. Lord Falmouth was the first to break the silence. He said to me: “Is your travelling carriage in order?”

  “To be sure it is,” said I, very much surprised at such a sudden question.

  “Listen,” said he, as though he were speaking of the most ordinary topic. “At the present hour you are extremely unhappy. You have not told me why, consequently I am ignorant as to the cause of your grief. Paris is as hateful to you as it is a bore to me. I have sometimes dreamed of a wild project which I have always wished to carry out, so seductive has it seemed to me, but to do so I need a companion who feels in himself the energy and desire to attain to new and powerful emotions, perhaps at the risk of his life.” I looked steadily at Lord Falmouth. He continued to drain his glass in little sips. “I needed, in order to put this plan into execution, to find some one who, in order to become my associate, would be ready, as the country folks say, to go to the devil, — not through want, but from a superabundance of the joys and good things of this life.”

  I continued to watch Lord Falmouth, thinking that he was joking; he remained just as calm and serious as he always was.

  “Well,” said he at length, “are you willing to be that companion?”

  “But what is it that I am expected to undertake?” I asked him, with a smile.

  “I can not tell you yet; but if you accept my offer this is what you will have to do: First you must expect to travel a year or more, or even—”

  “Or even for all eternity. Yes, I understand. And afterwards, what else?”

  “You are only to take with you one man, but he must be trustworthy, healthy, and brave.”

  “I have such a one among my servants.”

  “Very well; then you must bring fifteen or twenty thousand francs, not more.”

  “What else?”

  “Provide yourself and your man with the best possible arms.”

  I continued to smile as I watched Lord Falmouth. “It is getting to be serious,” said I.

  “Allow me to finish, afterwards you can act as you see fit,” he continued. “You must provide yourself with excellent arms, get your passport, and send immediately for your horses.”

  “What! start off to-night?”

  “This very night, — this very hour; you must give me what I need to write to my valet de chambre, my waiting man will take it to him, and will return with all I shall want and my carriage, for it is important that you should have your carriage and I should have mine.”

  “Ah, come, now, are you speaking seriously?”

  “Give me a chance to write, and you shall soon find out.”

  And in a few moments Lord Falmouth had written his letter, and one of his men had started off with it.

  “But,” said I, “my clothes — my trunks?”

  “If you will take my advice you will only carry with you the necessary linen for your voyage.”

  “But how long is that journey to be? What road do we take?”

  “The road to Marseilles.”

  “Are we going to Marseilles?”

  “Not exactly, but to a little port which is near that city.”

  “And what to do there?”

  “We are to embark.”

  “And in what direction are we to sail?”

  “That is my secret; trust in me and you will not regret it. However, I should tell you, perhaps,” added he, in a tone which moved me deeply, “I ought to tell you without any silly trifling, that you will do as well to arrange any business you may have on your mind, in case of our not returning.”

  “You mean I am to make my will?” I cried out, laughing at such an idea.

  “Do as you please,” said Lord Falmouth, in the most uninterested way possible.

  Still continuing to believe this voyage in the light of a mystification in which I was willing to indulge him, I was so desirous of quitting Paris, where such cruel souvenirs continued to sadden my life, that I decided to write a few last words as a measure of prudence; however, I said to Lord Falmouth:

  “Oh, I see, it is a bet you have made, to get me to make my will.”

  “Then don’t make it,” said he, without changing his expression.

  I knew that on several occasions Lord Falmouth had started off in this impromptu way on very long voyages. I thought then, that, perhaps, after all, he felt the desire for a sudden change. Now his companionship was very agreeable to me, and the object of the voyage, which he tried to hide from me (doubtless to excite my curiosity) by an appearance of mystery, might suit me very well. Perhaps, though, it might have unforeseen consequences, and so I might as well write a few directions in case we should not return, as he said.

  This sudden determination looks as strange to me today as were the results it brought about; but I had been so forlorn lately, I was so perfectly free from any attachment, any affection, any duty, that the suddenness of the determination pleased me, as any strange new thing pleases us when we are but twenty-five years old.

  I sent for my old tutor, and left him my directions and full power to attend to my affairs.

  At the end of an hour’s time my preparations were all finished, and the carriage of Lord Falmouth was waiting for us. I got into it with him. Our men servants were to follow us in mine.

  Ten minutes afterwards we had left Paris.

  LORD FALMOUTH

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  PLANS.

  I LEFT PARIS with Lord Falmouth under the weight of an overwhelming sorrow. Although indifferent at leaving a worldly life for a peregrination, of whose mysterious end I was still in ignorance, the memory of affections so incompletely severed, which I was leaving behind me, would, I knew, pursue me and overtake me in the midst of the distractions of this journey.

  Hélène, Marguerite! sad names which fate cast at me every day as a cruel joke, a remorse, or as a challenge, — I could not forget you, and my conscience avenged you!

  Once cracked, let the cup be broken! It matters not. But what folly to cast it still full at their feet! To feel one’s lips parched and dry when one might still drink from a fresh, pure spring! It was frightful. In analysing my impressions, I recognised everywhere my instinct of habitual egotism. Never, never did I dream of the horrible wro
ng that I had done to Marguerite or to Hélène. I thought always of the great happiness, the loss of which I deplored.

  I was leaving Paris, but I was still held, so to speak, in spite of myself, to this centre of bitter regrets, by a thousand invisible ties. If I sometimes allowed myself to entertain the hope of again seeing, of one day finding, Marguerite again, suddenly the reality of the past came to check my heart’s throb, by one of those quick, heavy, SO to speak, electric blows, which go straight to the soul and make the whole being tremble painfully.

  I was also overcome when I contemplated with what indifference I thought of my father; and yet if I thought of him, it was to make a sacrilegious comparison between the trouble that his death had formerly caused me and the grief of love which I felt Must it be, alas! confessed to my shame? In considering with an experience so unfortunately hasty these different kinds of griefs, this last pain seemed to me less intense, but more bitter; less deep, but more violent; less oppressive, but more poignant than the first.

  There are, I believe, two orders of suffering: suffering of the heart, legitimate and hallowed; suffering of pride, shameful and miserable.

  The first, however desolating it may be, has no bitterness; it is immense, but one is proud of this immensity of grief, as one would be of the religious accomplishment of some great and sad duty!

  Then, also, the tears caused by this suffering flow abundantly, and without any trouble; the soul is disposed to the most touching emotions of pity, or is full of commiseration and of love; in a word, all misfortunes are the cherished and respected sisters of our misfortune.

  On the contrary, if you suffer for an unworthy cause, your heart is drowned in hatred: your concentrated grief resembles dumb fury which shame bridles with a sharp bit that vanity conceals; envy and hatred gnaw you, but your eyes are dry, and the unhappiness of others can alone draw from you a sad and mournful smile.

  Such, at least, were the two shades of grief, very defined, which I felt after the death of my father, and after my rupture with Hélène and Marguerite.

  That was not all. Scarcely had I left Paris with Lord Falmouth, than, by a miserable caprice, I regretted having undertaken this journey; not that I feared its results, but I should have preferred to be alone, in order to have looked my sorrow well in the face, to have struggled with it hand to hand, and, perhaps, to have triumphed over it.

  I have often found when one suffers, nothing is more fatal than to wish to be distracted from one’s grief.

  If during some moments you become stupefied by your misfortunes, the awakening is horrible.

  When you find yourself suddenly precipitated into an abyss of moral suffering, after the terrible shock which stuns, which bruises even the most delicate fibres of your heart, that which is, above all, most frightful, is this sudden night, black and profound, of the soul, which does not permit one to see even the thousand wounds by which it is torn.

  Frightfully bruised, you lie annihilated in the midst of a chaos of nameless pains; then, little by little, thought follows the vertigo. As sight becomes accustomed to distinguishing the objects in the gloom, you begin, so to speak, to recognise yourself in your despair.

  Then, sinister and fading as spectres, slowly one by one the harrowing regrets of the past spring up around you, and the charming visions of a future which will never be; then appear before you the phantoms of the happiest, the most radiant, the most brilliant hours of former times, — for your grief forgets nothing, — the most distant echo, the faintest perfume, the most mysterious murmur, all are mercilessly reproduced in your thoughts; but this mirage of a lost happiness is strange and sinister. You believe you see a magnificent landscape, bathed in azure, of light and sun, across the glassy pupil of a dying man, and all seems veiled in a gray and sepulchral mist.

  The suffering is then in its paroxysm, but it can only diminish; it is sharp and penetrating, but it can be analysed; your enemies are numerous, are threatening, are terrible, but you see them, you can fight them.

  You struggle so, or, like a wounded wolf, which, in the depths of its cave, awaits his recovery only in time, wrapped in your solitary suffering, you can, near or far, assign a term to your grief, and hope, at least, in forgetfulness. Forgetfulness, — this only inexorable reality of life! Forgetfulness, — this fathomless ocean, wherein come unceasingly to be lost all sorrow, all love, and all curses.

  And yet, strange impotency which is called human philosophy! You know that one day, — that soon, perhaps, — time must efface many griefs, and this certain conviction can in no way calm or alleviate your torment.

  It is for this reason, I repeat, that it has always seemed to me that to divert oneself from one’s sorrow, instead of confronting it resolutely, is to begin each day this cruel initiation of suffering, instead of exhausting it by its own excess.

  It will therefore be seen that, in the disposition of mind in which I found myself, this journey, adventurously undertaken, might sometimes seem to me painful.

  We had travelled the whole night. We were about forty leagues from Paris. Falmouth awakened soon, took me by the hand, and said: “Night induces counsel. Now that I reflect upon everything, my plan may seem very stupid to you. I also wish to tell you my secret while we are still quite near to Paris, in order that you may be able to return there to-night, if what I have to propose is not agreeable to you.”

  “Let us see, — tell me this mysterious plan.”

  “Here it is, then,” replied Falmouth. “Do you know the Yacht Club?”

  “Yes, — and you are, I believe, one of its members.”

  “Well, as such I own a charming schooner now moored off the Islands of Hyères, near Marseilles. This schooner is armed with eight carronades, and equipped with a crew of forty men.”

  “It is, then, a veritable cruise which you propose to me?”

  “Almost; but you should first know that the crew of my yacht, from the captain to the last sailor, is entirely devoted to me.”

  “I can readily believe it.”

  “You should know further that my yacht, which is named the Gazelle, is worthy of its name; it does not sail, it bounds over the water. It has three times beaten the brig of Lord Yarboroug, our president, in the races at the Isle of Wight, and has taken the prize of the Yacht Club; in a word, there is not a warship of the royal navy of France or of England, that my yacht cannot distance as easily as a race-horse outstrips a carthorse.”

  “I know that nearly all these pleasure-boats of your aristocracy swim like fishes; but what more?”

  “Life now seems to you weary and monotonous, does it not? Well, would you like to give it some savour?”

  “Without doubt.”

  “But first,” said Falmouth, with an air of grave sarcasm, “I must declare to you that I am not the least in the world friendly to the Greeks; on the contrary, I have a leaning, and a very marked inclination towards the Turks.”

  “What?” I said to him, in astonishment. “And what connection is there between our journey and the Turks or friendliness towards the Greeks?”

  “A very simple connection: I am going to propose to you to go to Greece.”

  “For what?”

  “Have you heard of Canaris?” said Falmouth.

  “Of that intrepid corsair, who has already burned all the Turkish vessels with his fireships? Certainly.”

  “Ah, well, and have you never been tempted to go to see that?”

  “But go to see what?”

  “Go to see Canaris set fire to a Turkish vessel?” replied Falmouth, with the most indifferent air in the world, and as if it had been a question of taking part in a race, or visiting a manufactory.

  “I confess,” I replied, unable to suppress a smile, “that until the present moment I have never had such a curiosity.”

  “It is surprising,” replied Falmouth; “for myself, for six months I have dreamed only of Canaris and his fireships; and I have had my yacht brought from the Isle of Wight to Marseilles with the only intent
ion of gratifying this fancy; so that if you consent to it we will set out from Marseilles for Malta, on board my schooner. Once arrived at Malta, I shall obtain authority from Lord Ponsonby to serve with my yacht, in aid of the Greeks, although, I repeat, I am not friendly to the Greeks, and go to increase the squadron of Lord Cochrane. Now if you wish, for a few months, we will lead a life on board ship, which will have a little of the life of wandering knights or of pirates. We shall find there dangers, combats, tempests, — who knows? Finally, all kinds of things new, and a little adventurous, which will take us out of this worldly life which weighs upon us, and we shall perhaps have the pleasure of seeing my fixed idea realised, that of seeing Canaris burn a Turkish vessel, for I shall not die satisfied until I shall have seen that. What do you say to it?”

  Although I thought Falmouth’s taste a singular one, experimenting with incendiaries, I saw no serious objection to his proposition. I was unacquainted with the Orient; my thoughts had often wandered with love towards its beautiful skies. This idle and sensual life had always charmed me; and then, although having travelled much already, I had no idea what a voyage somewhat serious might be, and I felt a sort of curiosity to know how I might face some great danger.

  Aside from the risks which one might run in associating with one of Canaris’s expeditions, I knew that, since the Grecian insurrection, the Archipelago was infested with pirates, either Turks, renegades, or Algerians, and that a boat as weak as Falmouth’s had every chance of being attacked. Upon the whole, this proposition did not displease me, and I replied, after a long silence, the result of which Falmouth appeared to await with impatience: