by Eugène Sue
I did not think I had made any progress in the affections of Madame de Fersen, for her manner towards me had become more and more unconstrained and friendly. She had frankly confessed her pleasure at what she was pleased to call my witty discourse, and expressed a hope that during her stay in Paris we should renew as frequently as possible “our conversations of the saloon.”
It was evident Madame de Fersen considered me absolutely unimportant. However unpleasant this discovery was to my vanity, such was my love for Catherine, that I only thought of the happiness of seeing her as frequently as possible, and hoped in the sincerity of my affection for her.
At the end of OUT quarantine we landed at Toulon, and remained some days to visit that port. M. de Fersen proposed to me that we should not yet separate, and continue our journey together as far as Paris.
I accepted.
I sent for my carriage, which I had sent back to Marseilles when we started from Porquerolles, and we left for Paris towards the beginning of November.
M. de Fersen and his wife travelled in one coach; his daughter, with her nurse, in another. As my travelling carriage was of the same description, and could only accommodate two persons, every day, when about to start after breakfast, M. de Fersen would beg me to take his place in his wife’s carriage, while he took his customary siesta in mine.
Irene, who had shown much sorrow at the mere idea of separating from me, always joined us at these times, and our “conversations of the saloon” continued thus up to Paris.
Notwithstanding the promise I had made Madame de Fersen, I determined on the last day of our journey to renew my avowal of love.
Until then I had scrupulously kept my word, because I feared by not doing so I would forfeit the privilege of our tête-à-tête during the journey.
My hope had been to become, at least for Catherine, a daily thought, and to captivate and interest her mind so that little by little she should become keenly sensitive to my presence or my absence.
I believed that I had achieved this end. I loved Madame de Fersen ardently. I had an excessive longing to please her, and except the word “love,” which never passed my lips, I put in my attentions to her all the eagerness, all the tenderness, of the most passionate lover.
Without studying my conversation too deeply, I endeavoured to speak to Catherine only on subjects that were new to her.
She knew neither Paris, nor France, nor England, nor Spain, and I was thoroughly acquainted with them all. I tried, therefore, to amuse her with my accounts of these places, and my descriptions of the customs and habits of these nations.
I succeeded almost always, as I could perceive by the serious attention given to my words, and the interested questions they elicited; then, in spite of myself, I showed my happiness and delight in having interested her.
Madame de Fersen had too much tact not to notice the great impression she continued to make upon me, and she seemed grateful to me for my reserve.
Especially, every time that I found the way, without grieving Irene too deeply, to avoid the embarrassments which the child’s strange affection for me brought about at every moment, Madame de Fersen would thank me by an enchanting glance.
One of Irene’s chief delights was to take one of my hands, and, having placed it between her mother’s, she would silently gaze at us.
This slight favour would have been precious to me had it been granted spontaneously by a tender sentiment on the part of Madame de Fersen; but, not wishing to obtain it otherwise, each time that Irene had this caprice I would carry her little fingers up to my lips without giving her a chance to place my hand in her mother’s.
The day before reaching Paris, I was resolved to make another attempt at declaring my love, when a strange incident, which should perhaps have encouraged me to take this step, deterred me from it.
I had not yet been able to ascertain whether or no Madame de Fersen was jealous of her daughter’s affection for me; sometimes she had spoken of it in a gaily bantering manner, at other times, on the contrary, she had alluded to it with sadness, almost with bitterness.
That day Irene, who occupied a place in her mother’s carriage, asked her if I should have a handsome room in Paris.
I hastily answered the child that I would have a house of my own, and would not live with them.
At these words, Irene as usual silently wept.
Madame de Fersen, seeing her tears, exclaimed, with grieved impatience: “Mon Dieu! what is the matter with the child? Why does she love you thus? It is hateful!”
“She loves me, perhaps, for the same reason that she loved Ivan,” said I.
As Madame de Fersen did not seem to understand my words, I explained to her the meaning which I attached to them, and spoke of the Sanscrit tradition.
Madame de Fersen thought I was joking.
I have already said that this tradition was written by my father in a book full of notes relating to one of his journeys to England.
Fortunately, this manuscript was in my carriage, for quite recently I had sought in it some particulars in order to explain to Madame de Fersen certain customs which in Scotland are handed down from generation to generation.
At one of the relays, I went for the manuscript, and showed it to Madame de Fersen.
The date was so clear, the writing so faded, that Madame de Fersen could not doubt its authenticity.
I shall never forget the tearful look which Madame de Fersen fixed on me as she let the book fall on her lap.
Doubtless she experienced the same strange emotion I felt when I considered Irene’s affection for Ivan and his death, with the writing of this extraordinary tradition:
“Those predestined to an early and violent death have the gift of fascinating children and lunatics.”
Irene displayed for me the same fondness she had for Ivan. Might not my fate be the same?
To understand, moreover, all the interest felt by Madame de Fersen at this discovery, one should know that I had frequently frankly confessed to her my excessive superstition, and had so greatly impressed her by relating many singular incidents of this character, that the germs of the same weakness had been laid in her mind.
I must confess, I seemed to discover in Madame de Fersen’s look, in her emotion, in her agitation, more than friendship, more than the expression of a touching regret.
Wild with hope, a fresh declaration sprang to my lips; but fortunately I held back, for I would have committed an irreparable mistake.
If Madame de Fersen’s sentiments were really tender, would it not have been stupid in me to arouse her vigilance, which, under her imperious will and sense of duly, would have smothered the first vague instinct of love awakening in her heart?
On the contrary, if the interest which Madame de Fersen showed me was simply friendly, my presumption would have covered me with ridicule in her eyes.
The turn soon taken by our conversation led easily to a proposition which I wished to make to Madame de Fersen, as much as a safeguard to her reputation as in the interest of my affection.
We were speaking of Irene.
“Poor child!” said I to her mother, “how can she get accustomed not to see me?”
“But she will retain, I hope for her and for me, this charming intercourse,” replied Catherine, “for it has been agreed that once in Paris our ‘conversations of the saloon,’ as we call them, would continue. M. de Fersen’s position and mine, being most independent at the Court of France, I shall not be submitted to any duties but such as I am willing to assume, and I assure you that no pleasures, no diversions, will induce me to miss these pleasant, friendly chats of daily recurrence, if, however,” added Madame de Fersen, smiling, “if your old friends will allow you to think of your new friends. But I count very much on my claims as a stranger, and on your perfect French gallantry, to oblige you to be my cicerone, and to do the honours of Paris for me, for I wish to see nothing, to admire nothing, unless under your guidance.”
I will confess, I had need of
all my courage, all my love, and a great terror of the withering calumnies of the world, to enable me to thrust aside the delightful prospect which Madame de Fersen dreamt for us both.
After a few minutes of silence, “Madame,” said I, with deep and sad emotion, “you cannot doubt my respectful attachment for you?”
“What a question! On the contrary, I believe in it firmly; yes, I believe I would be wretched if I could not believe.”
“Well, then, madame, permit a true and devoted friend to tell you what he might say to a sister; and when you will have heard me, do not permit yourself to yield to your first impression, for it would be unfavourable to me; but second thoughts will prove to you that what I am going to say is dictated by the strongest and most sincere affection.”
“Speak then, I beg you — speak — you alarm me.”
“Until now, madame, you have never known calumny; it did not, it could not, attack you. It is that sublime confidence in your own high-mindedness that has saved you from the fear of evil speaking. Yet, believe me, madame, were I to avail myself of the delightful prospect you hold out to me, the irreproachable purity of your principles would not guarantee you from the most perfidious attacks.”
“Never shall I abandon my friends from fear, my conscience suffices me,” said Madame de Fersen, with the courageous indifference of a woman sure of herself.
“How can you tell, madame?” I exclaimed-”Have you struggled, to be so sure of victory? Never! Until now the dazzling purity of your life has sufficed to guard you. How could you have given rise to slander? But reflect now. I have come with you all the way from Khios, all the way from Toulon to Paris. I am aware that I am of not the slightest importance; you know me now well enough to believe that I do not exaggerate my importance for the sake of a miserable paltry vanity. But what is that to the world so long as it can malign? Does it not know, moreover, that slander is all the more odious when the object of the guilty love it supposes is least worthy of that love? We shall associate with the same people, I shall be seen every day at your house, escorting you in your walks, in society with you, and you believe, you insist, that jealousy, envy, and hatred will not seize upon the opportunity of revenging themselves for your wit, your beauty, and your exalted position; and above all for your shining virtue, the most precious jewel in your noble crown! But think of it, madame, the arch-type of our judge-executioners has said: ‘Give me four lines of writing of the most honest man in the world, and I will undertake to have him hung.’ The world, that judge-executioner, may say with equal assurance, ‘Give me four days of the life of the purest woman in the world, and I will undertake to have her disgraced.’”
For some time Madame de Fersen had been gazing at me with an astonishment she could not disguise. At first she seemed almost shocked at my refusal and my remarks.
It was not unexpected. Then her features assumed a more amiable expression, and she said, with a shade of coldness:
“I will not discuss with you as to your views of the world, especially of Parisian society, which I am aware is most brilliant and dangerous; but I believe you exaggerate the risk one would run, and above all the effect of slander upon me.”
“And why then, madame, should calumny have no effect on you? What am I to you that you should hereafter hesitate for one instant to sacrifice me to the imperious demands of your reputation? Would you put in the balance the guardianship of your honour, your responsibility for your child’s future, with the charm of our daily conversations? Most assuredly not, and you would be right; for if you persisted in your project, if I were base enough to encourage you in it, when slander reached you, you would have the right to turn upon me with scorn and say: ‘You pretended to be my friend! You were false! You took advantage of my indiscretion to draw me into an intimacy where appearances may be most damaging. Go; I shall never see you again!’ And once more you would be right, madame. Can you realise how much courage it takes to speak to you as I do, — to refuse what you offer? Think of what you are, of all that you are, and say if the pride and vanity of a less honest man than I would not be gratified and flattered by those very rumours from which I strive to save you. For, after all, what do I risk in aiding you to compromise yourself? What do I risk? To assist the world to misinterpret, to wither with its customary malice our intercourse, however innocent it may be? But, you reply, in that case you would drive me from your presence. What does that matter? Do you know how the world would interpret this deserved banishment? It would be said that a discord had arisen between us. If the world were well disposed towards you, it would say you had discarded me in favour of some other lover. If it was unfavourable to you it would say that I had abandoned you for another mistress.”
“Ah, monsieur, monsieur!” exclaimed Madame de Fersen, pressing her hands together almost in terror. “What a picture! May it never come true!”
“It is but too true, madame; if the world were wise and clear-sighted as it is supposed to be, it would be less dangerous, for it would keep to the truth; but it is wicked, coarsely credulous, and a gossip, which renders it most mischievous. The world clear-sighted! It is too willing to slander to be clear-sighted. Has it time and leisure to penetrate the sentiments it supposes? It loves too well to keep on the outside, and conjecture from appearances which frequently are displayed without mistrust because they are guiltless, — that is enough for the infernal activity of its envy. Ah, believe me, madame, had I not the sad experience I possess of men and things, the instinct of my attachment to you would enlighten me, for you never can know how precious to me is all that concerns you, how distressed I should be to see that radiant halo which now enhances your beauty tarnished. I repeat it, the honour of my mother, of my sister, are not more precious to me than yours. Think how dreadful it would be for me if I were the cause of slander which should attack that treasure in which I glory. I will confess another weakness. Yes, it would be hateful to me to think that the world should speak with its insolent and brutal scorn of that which was my happiness and my pride. Yes, my dream is that this charming intimacy, which will ever be one of the most delightful recollections of my life, shall remain unknown to this world, for its shameless word would destroy the purity of this intercourse, — and this dream, I shall realise it.”
“Then,” said Madame de Fersen, with an almost solemn air, “we must give up all thought of meeting in Paris?”
“Not so, madame, not so! We shall meet the evenings you receive, just like all the other people you receive. Later, perhaps, you will permit me occasionally to call on you of a morning.”
Madame de Fersen remained for some time in silent meditation, her head bent low; then suddenly she drew herself up; her face was slightly tinged with colour, and, with a voice betraying much agitation, she said:— “You have a generous heart. Your friendship is austere, but it is great, strong, and noble. I understand the duties which it imposes and I will be worthy of it. From this moment,” and she gave me her hand, “you have won a sincere and unalterable friendship.”
I kissed her hand respectfully.
At the same moment we reached one of the last poststations.
I left Madame de Fersen’s coach, and sought her husband, who was asleep in my chaise.
“My dear prince,” I said to him, “I wish to ask a service of you.”
“Speak, my dear count.”
“For a reason which I must keep secret, I wish that no one should know that I come from Khios, and consequently that I travelled from Toulon to Paris with you. I am a personage of so little importance that my name will not have been noticed on our journey. I shall stop at the next relay, make a long round to reach Fontainebleau, where I shall remain several days, and will thus arrive in Paris some time after you. All that I ask of your friendship is that you will receive favourably the request of one of my friends who will ask permission to present me to you. I should regret it keenly were I obliged to suspend an intercourse so delightful to me.”
M. de Fersen, with his usual tact, made no
objection, and promised all that I asked.
At the next relay, I informed Madame de Fersen that I was unfortunately obliged to take my leave of her, and delegated to the prince, who was present, the task of explaining to her why I was deprived of the pleasure of continuing the journey with her.
She gave me her hand, which I kissed.
Then I tenderly embraced Irene, throwing a sad farewell glance at her mother.
Fresh horses were put to the carriages of the prince, they started, and I remained alone.
My heart was broken.
Little by little the consciousness of having acted nobly towards Madame de Fersen soothed my mind.
I reflected that I should thus learn without in any way endangering her reputation whether Madame de Fersen felt for me a true friendship, perhaps even a more tender sentiment, or whether I owed to isolation, to idleness, and to the absence of all comparison, the interest which she had shown me.
If she loved me, the constraint, the necessity of no longer seeing me, would be irksome to her, would perhaps be painful, and this sorrow, this regret, would assuredly betray itself.
If, on the other hand, I had only been an agreeable acquaintance who had helped to while away the long hours of the journey, I should, without doubt, be sacrificed to the first more entertaining conversation, or the slightest worldly consideration.
I would never willingly expose myself to be superseded, and I thus avoided it.
I would doubtless suffer much, should I find that Madame de Fersen’s sentiments for me were so weak that they were easily effaced, but in acting otherwise I would have had the same sorrow and mortification besides.
I remained eight days at Fontainebleau and then left for Paris.
CHAPTER XVI.
A MINISTER IN LOVE.
I REENTERED PARIS, from which I had been absent eighteen months, with a certain heartache. I had a faint hope, or rather some dread, of meeting Hélène or Marguerite.
I fancied myself completely cured of my fatal monomania of distrust; my great love for Madame de Fersen had, in my eyes, performed this prodigy. I promised myself, in case I should meet my cousin, or Madame de Pënâfiel, frankly to ask their forgiveness, and to endeavour by the most affectionate and friendly attentions to make amends for the hateful follies of the lover of former days.