by Eugène Sue
Madame de Fersen took to Fontainebleau only the same people who had been in attendance on her during her little girl’s illness, the nurse and two maids. The rest of the household remained in Paris.
She asked me to follow her to the Grove in two days.
She took her departure.
The next morning I received from her most detailed instructions about finding my way to the small park gate at the Grove.
At the appointed hour I was at that gate; I knocked, and it was opened.
The sun was about setting, but it still threw some warm rays across the green lacework and violet clusters of an arbour of glycynia, under which Catherine was waiting for me with Irene, whose hand she was holding.
Was it intentional, or was it mere chance? I know not, but like the day when for the first time I saw her on board the Russian frigate, Catherine wore a gauzy white gown and a lace head-dress ornamented with a spray of red geranium.
The trials through which she had passed had made her fall away, but she was still beautiful, and even more lovely than beautiful. Her figure, as heretofore, was elegant and stately; her countenance noble, gracious, and pensive; her large, soft eyes of a perfect blue were fringed with long, dark lashes; the heavy tresses of her jet black hair framed her brow, lofty and sad, and her face paled by sorrow.
Irene, like her mother, was dressed in white; her long dark hair was tied with ribbons and fell to her waist, and her lovely face, though still pensive and sad, showed scarcely any traces of her recent sufferings.
Catherine’s first impulse was to take her child in her arms, and, placing her in mine, she said, with great emotion, “Is she not now your Irene also?”
And amid her tears her eyes shone with joy and gratitude.
There are emotions which one cannot attempt to describe, for they are as vast as the infinite.
This first outburst of happiness passed, Madame de Fersen said to me, “Now I must show you to your apartment.
I offered Catherine my arm, Irene took my hand, and allowed them to lead me.
For some time we kept silent.
After following a long avenue, rapidly becoming dark as the sun sank below the horizon, we came to a clearing on the outskirts of the wood.
“Here is your cottage,” said Madame de Fersen.
My cottage was a sort of Swiss chalet, half hidden in a mass of pink acacias, of linden-trees and lilacs. It was built on the edge of a small lake, on a foundation of great boulders of that flinty rock found in the neighbourhood of Fontainebleau. This structure having been erected as a point of observation, every advantage had been taken to make the most of its charming position. —
A thick carpet of periwinkles, of ivy, of moss, and wild strawberry covered almost entirely the whitish rocks, and from each cranny sprouted a tuft of iris, of rhododendron, or heather.
On the other side of the lake a beautiful lawn, surrounded by the woods, rose in a gentle incline up to the front of the house occupied by Madame de Fersen, and which might be seen from a distance.
The sight was limited on all sides by a ring of verdure, formed by the thick woods surrounding the high walls of the park, and hiding them completely.
One might have wished more variety in the prospect; but as our life at the Grove was to be surrounded by the most profound mystery, this extensive and impenetrable barrier of leafage was very precious.
After a few minutes we reached the foot of the steps leading to the cottage. Madame de Fersen drew a small key from her belt and opened the front door.
At a glance I saw that she had been the presiding genius in the arrangement of the two rooms. Everything was of excessive but elegant simplicity. I found flowers on every side; also a piano, a painter’s easel, and some books which she had heard me mention as my favourites.
Pointing out to me an ebony cabinet frame with doors richly inlaid with mother-of-pearl, Madame de Fersen asked me to open it. On one side I found the exquisite sketch which Frank had made of the dying Irene, and on the other side a recent portrait of Irene also painted by Frank.
I took Catherine’s hand and carried it to my lips, with a feeling of inexpressible gratitude.
She herself pressed her hand to my lip with an impulse full of tenderness. She then turned and passionately embraced her child.
I closed the panel, still more touched by this mark of Catherine’s remembrance, for I had expressed to her my views regarding portraits exposed to the gaze of all.
When we left the cottage, the purple and gold of the dying sun was mirrored in the bosom of the lake. The acacias were dropping their roseate and fragrant petals. No sound was heard; on all sides the horizon was bounded by dark masses of verdure; we found ourselves in the midst of the most profound solitude, the most peaceful, the most mysterious.
Impressed by the sight of this sad and touching picture, Catherine leaned on the balcony of the chalet, and remained a few minutes plunged in reverie.
Irene sat at her feet, and began to gather roses and honeysuckle to make a bouquet.
I leaned against the door, and could not help feeling a pang of anguish as I looked upon Madame de Fersen.
I was going to pass long days near this woman, so passionately loved, and delicacy forbade my speaking one word of this deep and ardent love, which circumstances recently had combined to increase.
I knew not if I was beloved, or, rather, I despaired of being loved; it seemed to me that fate, which had brought Madame de Fersen and me together, by the death-bed of her child, during a month of terrible anguish, had been too tragic to end in so tender a sentiment.
I was absorbed in these sad thoughts, when Madame de Fersen made a quick movement, as if she were aroused from a dream, and said to me, “Pardon me, but it is so long since I breathed air so fragrant and invigorating that I selfishly enjoy this lovely nature.
Irene divided her bouquet in two, gave one half to her mother, the other to me, and we then started towards the house.
We reached it after a long walk, for the park was very extensive.
CHAPTER XXIV.
DAYS OF SUNSHINE.
THE GROVE, 10TH May, 18 — .
IT is eleven o’clock; I have just left Madame de Fersen. Here am I in the chalet, which, henceforward, I am to occupy near her!
I experience a strange emotion.
Events have succeeded each other with such rapidity, my heart has been torn by such conflicting passions, that I feel the necessity of reviewing my memories, my desires, and my hopes.
I therefore resume my journal, interrupted after my departure from Khios.
My thoughts press so confusedly upon my brain that I hope to clear them by writing. I act like those who, unable to make a mental calculation, are obliged to have recourse to pencil and paper.
What for me will be the end of this love? Doctor Ralph has formally declared to Madame de Fersen that, for a long time yet, my presence is indispensable to Irene’s perfect recovery, and that, for two or three months longer, it was absolutely necessary to soothe the child’s imagination, and not give her the slightest shock or the least sorrow, these emotions being the more dangerous for her in that they were so profoundly concentrated.
Doctor Ralph attributes the attraction which I have for Irene to magnetic and mysterious affinities and he cites many examples, both among human beings and animals. He is unable, however, to offer any explanation of this. As I said, this attraction places me in a singular position.
The effect of my presence or absence upon this child is a proven and undeniable fact. For the past year Irene has had three or four attacks, sometimes slight, others serious and almost fatal, whose sole origin was her grief at not seeing me, and, above all, at not seeing me near her mother; for the nurse has since told me that even our meetings at the Tuileries did not quite satisfy Irene, who pined for the time spent on board the frigate.
My presence, therefore, is, one may say, the tie that binds Irene to life.
Were it not for my love, my passion for Cathe
rine, were it not for the deep interest her child inspires in me, this imperious obligation to remain ever at Irene’s side would be both painful and embarrassing.
But I worship her mother! When I compare other passions which I have experienced to that which she inspires, I find this the truest of all; and, seeing her daily, brought near her by the most startling and mysterious circumstances, most apt to bring the most passive love to a point of exaltation, I still must be silent; Catherine for me must be sacred as a sister, as a friend!
Can I, in the name of my past devotedness, in the name of the fatal influence I exercise over Irene, approach Catherine, professing my love, and expressing my hopes?
It would be base, it would be despicable.
And if the unhappy mother were to think — oh, Heaven! — that I demanded her love as the price for my presence near her child!
Ah, this thought is horrible!
My resolution is taken, irrevocably taken.
Never shall a word of love pass my lips.
THE GROVE, 11th May, 18 — .
My best deeds bring me bad luck, — one reason the more for keeping silent. —
This morning the newspapers were brought in.
Madame de Fersen opened one, and began to read.
All at once she ceased to read, I saw her shiver and blush deeply; then, with an expression of dumb surprise, lowering her hands to her knees, she shook her head, as if she were saying, “Is this really possible!”
Looking at me with eyes filled with tears, she quickly rose, and left the room.
Not knowing what might have caused this keen emotion, I picked up the newspaper, and the following lines soon explained to me Madame de Fersen’s dismay.
“It is well known that a month ago the firm —
& Co failed for a sum amounting to several millions. The head of the firm secretly embarked for the United States. A few creditors, warned by alarming rumours as to the solvency of the firm, were in time to withdraw a portion of their funds. M. Dumont, business agent of M. le Comte de — , involved in this bankruptcy to the amount of one hundred and fifty thousand francs, has not been equally fortunate; although he had come to Havre to ward off this disaster, he was not provided with the necessary papers, and as the bankruptcy was considered fraudulent, he laid his complaint before the district attorney, but in view of the assets amounting to scarcely eighty thousand francs, the numerous creditors of the firm — must look upon their funds as lost.”
Madame de Fersen knew of my hurried departure for Havre, for her courier had overtaken me before I reached that town. I had returned immediately, and the date of my return coincided with that of the bankruptcy. It was therefore evident to Catherine that my eagerness to return to the dying Irene was the sole cause of the severe loss I had sustained. Thus now, more than ever, should I appear to demand a reward for my sacrifices.
While mechanically skimming the newspaper, beneath the article which I have quoted, I came upon the following paragraph, which also concerned me.
The paper which I was reading was a semi-official journal, and might be considered well-informed.
“Many changes are imminent in our corps diplomatique. Among those mentioned as likely to be called to a prominent position in foreign affairs is M. le Comte Arthur de — , who, though still young, has strong claims to this favour on account of his travels, his researches, and the conscientious work to which he has devoted himself for some time past, as chief secretary of his Excellency the Minister of Foreign Affairs. These particulars, for whose accuracy we can vouch, prove clearly that when high birth and the advantages of fortune accompany an eminent and recognised capacity, everything may be expected from the favours of the king’s ministry.”
This article evidently emanated from the office of M. de Sérigny, who thought, perhaps, that it would give me pleasure if, during my absence, he asked the king some favour for me.
I must confess, this piece of news left me indifferent, and I went in search of Catherine.
I found her in an avenue of the park.
“I know all,” she said, holding out her hand. “Another sacrifice,” she continued, raising her eyes to heaven. “And I, what have I done for him?”
These words went to my heart, and produced so great, so sweet an emotion, that, in spite of myself, my hopes once more were aroused, but, controlling my thoughts, and wishing to change the subject, I said:
“Do you not congratulate me on my future successes?”
She looked at me in amazement.
“What successes?”
“Have you not read to-day’s paper?”
“Yes, I have. But of what success are you speaking?”
“They say in this paper that very soon I shall be called to a very important position at the Foreign Office.” —
Catherine, without appearing to have heard me, replied:
“Will you make me a promise?”
“What is it?”
“I shall send Irene to you to the chalet, but I do not wish to see you to-day. You will not be vexed with me?” she said, sadly, to me, holding out her hand.
“No, certainly not,” I said, much surprised, however, at this sudden determination.
THE GROVE, 13th May, 18 — .
How long is it since this journal was interrupted? I know not. I cannot remember.
Besides, what do I know now? What do I remember?
All that has happened, is it not a dream, a dream so dazzling that I ask myself where is the limit of reality? Where ends the dream? Where commences the awakening?
Dream, memory, awakening! These are vain words, and faded, which I used before this day.
I wish now for new words to describe what I had never before felt.
Not only does it seem to me impossible to use the — words of other days to describe my feelings of to-day, it seems to me a blasphemy, a profanation.
Am I not the dupe of a delusion? Is it I, my own self, who is writing this at the Grove, in the chalet?
Yes, yes, it is my own self. I am looking at the clock which points to the hour of five. I see the lake reflecting the rays of the sun. I hear the trees rustling in the breeze. I scent the fragrance of the flowers, and in the distance I see her dwelling, — hers.
It is not, then, a dream?
Let me see, let me gather my thoughts, let me go back step by step to the source of that torrent of happiness which intoxicates me.
What day is this? I know not. Ah, yes, it is Sunday. She went to mass this morning, and there she wept, she wept abundantly.
Blessed be those precious tears!
But when did we receive those papers? Ah, here they are, — it was the day before yesterday.
The day before yesterday! ’Tis strange! If years had passed since that day it would not seem to me further away!
Between the past of yesterday, which was almost indifferent to us, and the present to-day, which is all in all to us, is there not the distance of centuries?
Yes, it was the day before yesterday that Catherine begged me to leave her to herself.
I obeyed her wishes, but felt very sad.
Irene came to play on the steps of the chalet.
The dinner bell sounded.
Instead of appearing at table, as usual, Catherine sent word begging me to dine by myself, for she was suffering.
In the evening the air was sultry. Catherine came down to the parlours. I found her looking very pale.
“I am stifling,” she said, “I am restless, nervous, agitated, the weather is so stormy.”
She then asked me to give her my arm, as she was going to walk in the park. Contrary to her custom, she requested Madame Paul, Irene’s nurse, to follow us with the little girl.
We followed the winding avenue of the woods, and soon came upon the arbour, covered with glycynia, where she had waited for me with Irene the first day of my arrival at the Grove.
I know not whether it was emotion, or fatigue, or indisposition, but Catherine complained of feeling tired
, and seated herself on a bench.
The sun had just set; the sky was covered with clouds, gilded by the last rays of the sun. Almost continuously the entire hemisphere was illumined with vivid flashes of summer lightning, which Irene watched with a curious and tranquil air.
Catherine did not speak, and seemed deeply absorbed.
Twilight had begun to darken the woods, when Irene, who was resting on her nurse’s lap, fell asleep.
“Madame,” said Madame Paul, “Mlle. Irene is falling asleep, and the doctor was very particular that she should not be exposed to the damp evening air.”
“Let us go home,” said Catherine, as she rose.
She felt so weak that she leaned on my arm with her whole weight.
We walked a few steps, but very slowly; Madame Paul as in front with Irene.
Suddenly I felt Catherine giving way, and she said, in a broken voice, “I cannot take another step, I am prostrated.”
“Just make an effort,” I said to her, “to reach the chalet, which is close at hand, and you can rest on the bench at the door.”
“But, Irene!” she exclaimed, anxiously.
A turn in the road hid the nurse, who was already some way in advance.
I supported Catherine, and a few seconds later she was seated at the entrance of the chalet.
The threatening clouds had dispersed; at our feet we saw the lake reflecting the stars as they made their appearance; the perfume of flowers, rendered more acute by the warm and sultry weather, permeated the atmosphere; there was not a breath of air, not a sound.
The night was so soft, so balmy and clear, that in the uncertain light I could perfectly distinguish Catherine’s features. My whole being seemed concentrated in my heart, which was beating violently.
Like Catherine, I felt overpowered, unnerved, by the warm, perfumed air which surrounded us.
Madame de Fersen was seated, resting on cushions, her head leaning on her hands.
The calm was so intense that I could hear Catherine’s panting breath. I fell into a deep reverie, at once sad and blissful.
Never, perhaps, would I have a more favourable opportunity to unbosom myself to Catherine; but my scruples, and the dread of seeming to ask reward for a service rendered, kept me silent.