by Eugène Sue
I soon heard that the prince had been called back to Russia by his court, and was surprised, I must confess, that his wife did not accompany him.
As to Madame de V —— , I had implored her, for the sake of the friendship she professed for me, to cease tormenting so cruelly M. de Sérigny, declaring I would no longer lend myself to her coquettish manœuvres; that, moreover, she was compromising herself frightfully, and that sooner or later she would find herself ill-received in society.
She answered that I spoke like a Quaker, but for the joke of the thing she was going to live without a shade of coquetry.
One month after this glorious determination she came to express her gratitude to me, saying that, though this new life was deadly wearisome, it had made a tremendous sensation, and wagers were laid as to whether she would persist in her conversion or not As to the minister, she said, since he had passed from the stupidity of jealous irritation to the stupidity of blind adoration, she neither gained nor lost in no longer tormenting him.
Consequently, the rumours which had been current about Madame de V —— and myself soon ceased, and I was accused of having deserted her.
I could not avoid smiling sometimes when I observed the obsequiousness of those around me, for I continued, as I may say, in sheer idleness my work at M. de Sérigny’s.
Cernay, whom I sometimes met, concealed his envy under the semblance of the most exaggerated admiration. “You are a very able man,” he said; “you should have, and you will have, all kinds of success. You are now a statesman, intimate with ministers and ambassadors. The king even takes notice of you; you are considered, my good fellow, and you can have all you wish for, for you have such tact! if you will excuse the word, such cunning!”
“What do you mean?”
“Come, now, don’t play the innocent. At that ball at the Tuileries, where you had in turn two interviews at once so remarkable and so much remarked, the one with Lord Stuart and the other with the king, who remained in conversation some time with you, instead of taking his departure in accordance with his expressed desire, what did you do, you shrewd fellow? Instead of doing as so many others who would have foolishly remained to strut after receiving such distinction, you quickly disappeared. That was shrewdness, or rather genius, and your absence created a prodigious effect.”
“The cause of this disappearance was very simple, my dear De Cernay; I had a frightful headache, and wanted to get home.”
“Nonsense,” said Cernay, with charming naiveté; “you cannot make me believe that any one has the headache when the king has been talking with him for an hour.”
A fortnight had passed since I had last met Madame de Fersen at the Tuileries ball, when one of my business agents came to me one morning with an air of consternation.
It was a question of preventing a disastrous failure, by which I might lose about fifty thousand dollars, which had been invested in one of the most esteemed business houses at Havre.
The failure had not yet been declared, but it was imminent, and was already suspected.
My agent therefore proposed that I should at once start with him, and go to rescue my funds from this house.
The amount was so considerable, that I did not hesitate one moment about going to Havre.
A power of attorney, however wide its scope, could never provide for all the eventualities that might occur; under such circumstances, the presence of the interested party is often of the greatest consequence.
I wrote a few lines to M. de Sérigny, telling him that an affair of the greatest importance had called me to Havre, and I left orders with my people to forward my letters to that town.
Two hours later I was on the road.
We were approaching the last relay before reaching Havre, when I heard the hurried tramp of horses galloping behind us, the sharp cracking of a whip, and a voice not unknown to me crying out, “Stop! Stop!”
My postilions looked at me inquiringly. I made them a sign to stop, and, suddenly, I saw at the door of my carriage Madame de Fersen’s courier, whose horse was covered with foam and torn by spurs.
This man was so breathless from his rapid race that he could only utter these words in handing me a letter:
“M. le comte, this is a letter from the princess. I have gained four hours upon M. le comte. I could do no more.”
The letter just contained these words:
“My daughter is dying — is dying — and my sole hope is in you.”
“You must turn back,” I cried to the postilions, “return to the stage. And you,” I said to the courier, “can you gallop all the way back to Paris, and have horses ready for me at the stages?”
“Certainly, M. le comte.”
“Then mount, and be off.”
The good fellow turned back at full speed on the road to Paris.
“But, monsieur,” said my man of business, in dismay,
“you cannot go back to Paris; here we are just at Havre.”
I looked at him in astonishment.
“Why not?”
“But this failure, monsieur,” he exclaimed; “an hour may lose all, and fifty thousand dollars are at stake!”
I had entirely forgotten the purport of my journey.
“You are right,” said I. “You are not more than a mile from Havre; oblige me by walking that distance, and arrange matters as best you can.”
I had the carriage door opened.
“But, monsieur, once more, it is impossible,” resumed the astounded man; “without you I can do nothing. I do not even have your power of attorney. Without you my presence is utterly useless. Come at least as far as Havre; we shall go to a notary, you will give me a power of attorney, and then—”
I was boiling with impatience. “Monsieur,” said I, hastily, “you will go on to Havre without me, or you will return to Paris with me. The door is open; you can get down, or remain.”
“But, monsieur—”
“Close the door, and off for Paris!” I exclaimed.
The agent at once left the carriage, saying to me, with an air of despair, “As you please, monsieur. I shall have nothing to reproach myself with. You may as well look upon these fifty thousand dollars as lost. Send me, at least, your power of attorney, registered, etc.”
I did not hear the rest. The horses had started at full speed.
In my whole life, I had never travelled with such velocity.
At Versailles, I gave orders to stop in Paris a little way, before reaching Madame de Fersen’s door.
When I arrived, I saw the street was strewn with straw.
Reflecting that I might possibly have to remain at Madame de Fersen’s, and not wishing to have it known, I instructed my servant to take my carriage home, and tell my people that I had remained at Havre, and would return by the steamer.
I entered the mansion.
CHAPTER XXII.
IRENE.
THE SLIGHTEST DETAILS of this dreadful scene are still present to my mind.
Midnight struck as I entered the antechamber of Madame de Fersen’s apartment.
It was dark, and I found none of her people about. This seemed to me very strange. Led by a dim light, I crossed several rooms, only one of which was faintly lighted; my heart shrank with terror.
As I reached a half-open door, stifled sobs greeted my ear.
Noiselessly I pushed the door open.
Gracious heavens! what a picture!
Irene’s cot, placed next to her mother’s bed, occupied the end of the room facing the door.
Kneeling by the bedside, Catherine held one of the child’s hands in hers.
I could not see the face of the unfortunate mother, only from time to time a sudden, convulsive movement shook her frame.
At the left side was Frank, the great painter, Hélène’s husband.
Seated on a low chair, he sketched Irene’s dying countenance.
A harrowing remembrance, which, no doubt, Madame de Fersen wished to preserve.
Frank, by means of
a shade, had so arranged the lamp that the full light fell on Irene’s face.
The rest of the apartment was plunged into almost total darkness.
A tall man, in a fur-lined coat, stood at the foot of the cot. His hair was white; his prominent bald forehead shone like old ivory; a ray of bright light brought out his sharply marked profile.
This was Doctor Ralph, Madame de Fersen’s medical attendant.
He seemed watching with an anxious eye the slightest change in Irene’s face.
In a dark corner of the room the nurse was seated, leaning her head against the wall, and scarcely able to smother her sobs.
As I entered, her sobbing became so uncontrollable that, holding her handkerchief to her mouth, she left the room.
I, also, was weeping bitterly at the sight of that angelic, childish face, so tender, so resigned, which, in spite of approaching death, preserved a character of sublime serenity.
Brilliantly lighted, her pale face stood out vividly against the white pillows; her beautiful black locks fell in disorder, covering her forehead; her large eyes half closed, and encircled by dark rings, showed under the heavy lids her half-extinct pupils. From her pretty half-open mouth, from her lips, formerly so roseate, and now so discoloured, came forth a panting breath, and often a feeble plaintive murmur. This poor little face, formerly so plump, so fresh and childlike, was already becoming livid.
From time to time the unhappy child moved her hands restlessly into space, or turned her head heavily on her pillows, with a deep sigh. Then she again became frightfully still.
Frank’s face, which I had not seen for two years, wore an expression of heart-breaking sadness.
He, also, could not repress his tears every time he glanced at the face of the dying child.
The calmness, the silence of this scene, which I seized at one glance, made such an impression upon me that for an instant I stood rooted to the threshold.
Madame de Fersen turned towards the clock, then shook her head, with a gesture of despair.
I understood, she was beginning to lose faith in me.
I pushed the door open.
Catherine saw me; in an instant she was at my side, and drawing me to the cot, she said, in a heartrending tone, “Save her! have pity on me, and save her!”
Madame de Fersen’s voice was low and broken; her beautiful face was tear-stained and worn; yet under this appearance of weakness one felt the superhuman energy which always sustains a mother, so long as her child needs her.
“One moment,” said Doctor Ralph, in a low, solemn voice. “This is our last hope, let us not take too great a risk.”
The unhappy woman hid her face in her hands.
“I have told you, madame,” said the doctor, showing a vial containing a dark liquid, “this potion will restore this child to consciousness, will light up the faint spark of intelligence which still remains, perhaps. Then the sight of the person who exercises on her so strange an influence may work a miracle, for, alas! madame, nothing but a miracle can bring your child back to life.”
“I know it, I know it,” said Catherine, choking back her tears, “I am prepared for the worst But, tell me, the potion, — what effect will it have?”
“I can answer for its immediate effects; but not for the consequences that may follow.”
“What is to be done? Mon Dieu! what is to be done?” cried Catherine, in accents of anguish.
“Do not hesitate, madame,” I said; “since all hope is gone, accept the only chance that remains!”
“I am of the same opinion, do not hesitate, madame,” said Frank, who shared our emotion.
“Proceed, monsieur,” whispered Madame de Fersen, in an accent of desperate determination; and she knelt down by her child’s cot.
Her lips moved in prayer.
She, Frank, and I fixed upon the doctor sorrowing and apprehensive looks.
He alone was calm, as with slow and silent steps he approached Irene’s bedside.
At the sight of his tall figure, his austere countenance, his long white hair, his peculiar garb, one might have supposed him a man gifted with some occult power, ready to perform by a potion some mysterious charm.
He poured into a golden spoon a few drops of the liquid contained in the vial.
Madame de Fersen took it, and approached the spoon to the child’s lips.
But her hand trembled to such an extent that the liquid was spilled.
“I am afraid,” said she, with a frightened look.
She gave back the spoon to the doctor. He filled it once more, and with a firm hand put it to Irene’s lips.
The child swallowed it without reluctance.
It is impossible to express the intense alarm, the mortal anguish, with which we watched the effects of the potion.
The doctor himself, eagerly bending over the bed, watched Irene’s face with anxious eyes.
Soon the potion began to work.
By degrees, Irene began moving her arms and hands, and her cheeks assumed a faint tinge of colour. Several times she quickly turned her head on her pillow, moaned piteously, closed her eyes, and then opened them.
The lamp was in front of her, and the bright light seemed painful, for she covered her eyes with her hands.
“She sees! she sees!” cried the doctor, with an alacrity that seemed to us of good omen.
“She is saved!” exclaimed Catherine, clasping her hands, as if in thanks to Heaven.
“No rash expectation, madame!” said Doctor Ralph, austerely and almost harshly. “I have already told you this semblance of life is deceptive. It is like galvanism which gives motion to a dead body, and a breath may snap the invisible cord which binds this child to life.” Then, turning to me, he added: “It will be your turn, monsieur, presently to endeavour to strengthen that feeble thread. I solemnly declare, if that child lives, which, alas! I scarcely dare to hope, it is to you she will owe it, for known science does not work such miracles.”
“God alone can work them,” said Frank, in a solemn voice.
“Or certain mysterious and magnetic influences which one must concede without understanding them,” added the doctor.
The stimulus of the potion upon Irene became more and more apparent. Two or three times she sighed deeply, held forth her arms, and then murmured, in a feeble voice: “Mother! Arthur!”
“Now,” said the doctor, “take one of the child’s hands in yours, monsieur, and let the other be in her mother’s; come as close to her as possible, and call her, softly, slowly, so that the sound may have time to reach her feeble hearing.”
I took hold of one of Irene’s hands, her mother held the other.
Her hand was cold and moist.
I leaned over Irene. Her big eyes, looking still larger since her illness, wandered around as if in search of some one.
“Irene — Irene — I am here,” I said, in a low voice.
“Irene — my child — your mother is here also,” said Catherine, with an accent of passionate and fearful anxiety impossible to describe.
At first the child did not seem to hear us.
“Irene — it is your friend — it is Arthur and your mother. Do you not hear her?”
“Your mother — mon Dieu! your mother is near you!” repeated Catherine.
This time the child’s look no longer wandered. She moved her head suddenly, as if a sound from afar had reached her.
“How is her hand?” inquired the doctor, in a whisper.
“Still cold,” I answered.
“Still cold,” rejoined the mother.
“That is bad, you are not yet en rapport, — continue.”
“Irene — dear child — angel — do you hear me? It is I — Arthur,” I whispered.
Irene raised her eyes, and met mine fastened on her.
I had often heard magnetic attraction spoken of, and this time I experienced its action and reaction.
I fixed an eager and despairing glance upon Irene. By degrees, as if her eyes took life from mine, t
hey lost their dullness, they became clear, bright, beaming with intelligence.
On her countenance, returning to life, I could follow the progress of her thoughts, of her awakening mind.
She threw out her arms, and an angelic smile lighted on her lips.
Too weak to raise her head, she sought her mother with her glance.
Catherine bent over the bed, still holding, as I did, one of Irene’s hands.
After looking at us for a moment, the child gently brought together her mother’s hand and mine; her eyes suffused with tears, and she wept freely.
When my hand touched Catherine’s, my heart received an electric shock. For a moment I heard no more, I saw no more. I held Catherine’s and Irene’s hands in mine, and became unconscious of the contact.
It seemed to me that a flood of electricity surrounded us, and blended us in one.
This impression was deep, inexplicable, almost painful. When I regained consciousness, I heard the doctor exclaiming, “She has shed tears! she is saved!”
“You have given her back to me,” said Catherine, falling on her knees before me. —
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE GROVE.
THIS HEALING CRISIS saved Irene.
During the month of convalescence I left her neither by day nor by night.
In the early days of spring, Doctor Ralph urged Madame de Fersen to go to the country with her daughter, and recommended the vicinity of Fontainebleau.
Madame de Fersen having seen a very pretty cottage, called the Grove, had secured it, and the necessary repairs having been made, it was decided we should take up our residence there the first days of May.
If my continuous abode at Madame de Fersen’s house had been known, it would have provoked the most odious comments. Consequently, the morning after the crisis, which had proved so favourable to Irene, I told her mother that she must forbid access to her apartment to every one, with the exception of the doctor, the nurse, and one of her maids, on whose discretion she could rely.
I had occupied during Irene’s illness a vacant entresol, of which the windows opened on an uninhabited piece of ground, thus my return to Paris and my presence at Catherine’s house was unknown to every one.