Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  Marie has been basely deceived. Her family thought they were uniting her to a brave and honest sailor, and not to a vile murderer. This marriage is void, in the name of reason and honour.

  It should also be null in the sight of men! This very day I will tell everything to these unhappy women.

  But will they believe what I have to say? What proof can I give them of my truthfulness?

  And then there would be, in such a denunciation on my part, something low and mean, which is revolting.

  After all, Marie is the legitimate wife of Belmont. I am in love with Marie. Such a love almost puts that man on a level with me.

  Now it is to be, henceforth, open war between us. I have already the advantage, for he is absent; it would not be fair to augment my chances of success by turning informer. So, finally, if Marie loves me enough to vanquish her scruples to forget her duty towards a man whom she believes to be honest and good, shall I not take more pride in my conquest than if she believed herself only sacrificing a vile creature, who was unworthy of her and who had deceived her, a man that the law might claim as its prey?

  Decidedly, I shall say nothing at all.

  But suppose that man should return? My God, what a frightful thought!

  Marie is his wife after all, and it is only by a extraordinary hazard that she has been saved from being defiled by that infamous man.

  My scruples are crazy, are stupid. Why should I hesitate to tell Marie all?

  But what good would it do? Would such a disclosure hasten, or would it hinder this man’s return?

  He may come back at any time.

  What shall I do? What shall I do?

  SERVAL, 12th December, 18 — .

  My incognito has been discovered, Marie knows who I am.

  Yesterday I went to the farm.

  I was still irresolute as to what I ought to say in regard to the pirate.

  I was talking with Marie and her aunt when my overseer entered.

  I became very red, very much embarrassed; the man never noticed it; he made me a low and respectful bow.

  “Tiens, you know M. Arthur?” asked Madame Kerouët.

  “Have I the honour of knowing M. le comte?” repeated, the overseer, with surprise.

  “M. le comte!” cried out at the same time Marie and her aunt as they rose up with bewildered looks.

  Fearing the man would put a bad interpretation on my reasons for hiding my name, I said to him: “You are very stupid, Rivière. I wished to get some information about the state of cultivation of this farm, as I thought of raising the rent, now you have come and spoiled all. Please go and wait for me at Serval, for I want to talk about it with you.”

  The overseer went out.

  “You have deceived us, M. le comte!” said Madame Kerouët to me, with much dignity. “It was very wrong in you.” —

  Marie said not a word, but disappeared without even looking at me.

  “And why was it wrong?” said I to that excellent woman. “If I had told you who I was, your scruples would never have allowed you to treat me with such freedom and cordial affection as you have always manifested towards me. I should have remained towards you the master of this farm, and would never have become your friend.”

  “There can be no safe, no possible friendship except between equals, M. le comte,” said Madame Kerouët, with great coolness.

  “But in what way are our positions different at the present hour? If my friendship was pleasant to you until now, why should we change our relations? Why should we forget four or five months of charming intimacy?”

  “I shall not forget them, M. le comte, but they shall give place to sentiments more suitable to the modest position of Marie and myself.”

  One of the farm women came then to find Madame Kerouët, and begged her to go to Marie.

  She bowed to me respectfully and went out. I left the farm in a violent rage with my overseer.

  Then I reflected that, after all, this incognito could not be kept up for ever, and, though the discovery might have been a shock to Marie, it certainly would not alter her love for me.

  SERVAL, 15th December, 18 — .

  I have seen Marie once more.

  For some days she was sad and distressed at my dissimulation, which she could not understand. She asked why I had thus concealed my name. I told her that, knowing false and malignant stories had reached her ears, which showed me in the very worst colours, I had preferred being unknown.

  It was hard to convince her, but I finally succeeded in chasing all these unhappy impressions from her mind.

  Though Madame Kerouët frowns on me sometimes, our intimacy, which for a time was threatened, has resumed all former charm.

  SERVAL, 20th December, 18 — .

  Marie loves me, she loves me, I can no longer have any doubt. May this day remain ever engraved in my heart!

  SERVAL, 30th December, 18 — .

  What a terrible thing has happened! No, no, a thousand times no; she shall not leave me. Now that I have the right to watch over her, never will I abandon her.

  This morning a farm servant came over to the château. He brought me a letter from Marie.

  She besought me to come to her instantly.

  An hour after I was at the farm.

  I found Marie and her aunt both in tears.

  “What is the matter? What has happened?” I cried out.

  “We have had a letter,” said Madame Kerouët, “a letter from M. Duvallon; he says that he is coming here to-day to take away Marie, by order of M. Belmont.”

  “And you would allow her to go?” I exclaimed. “And you, Marie, would you consent to go?”

  Marie, pale as death, passed her hands over her eyes and cried out: “What an awakening! Mon Dieu! what shall I do? I am lost.”

  I made an expressive sign to Marie. Her aunt, preoccupied by her own distress, had not heard her.

  “Ah, mon Dieu!” said Madame Kerouët. “Give up my child! I never will have the strength to do it.”

  “You shall not give her up, you ought not, good mother! You must not give her up to such a man as Duvallon.”

  “Alas! monsieur, what objection can we make? Is not M. Duvallon the intimate friend of M. Belmont? Has he not received his orders?”

  “It is just because he is the intimate friend of a man like Belmont that you must be on your guard against him.”

  Marie and Madame Kerouët stared at me with astonishment, but I continued: “Listen to me, you, Madame Kerouët, and you, Marie. Allow me to receive M. Duvallon; I will take it upon myself to make him listen to reason. When do you expect him to arrive?”

  “If he comes when he says he will, it will be by the diligence from Bourges. He will get here at three o’clock,” said Madame Kerouët.

  “Make him no promises, but send him to me, and let us hope for the best.”

  And on a signal from Marie I went out.

  After awhile, at five o’clock, I heard the noise of a carriole in the courtyard of the château. I could not repress an exclamation of anger. I felt the blood rush to my face, and my temples throb violently.

  M. Duvallon was ushered in.

  I beheld a robust man of great height, apparently about sixty years of age. His complexion was high-coloured, his manner impertinent, vulgar, but self-satisfied. He was dressed like a Frenchman on a journey, that is to say, shabbily.

  I made him a sign to be seated, and he sat down.

  “Monsieur,” said I to him, “I beg your pardon for any trouble I may have given you, but I am charged by Madame Kerouët, who leases one of my farms, and who has some confidence in me—”

  “Parbleu! her niece has confidence in you, too, and a great deal too much of it!” cried out the man, rudely interrupting me.

  “It is true, monsieur,” said I, trying to keep my temper, “I have the honour of being one of Madame Belmont’s friends.”

  “And I am one of M. Belmont’s friends, monsieur, and as such am commissioned to bring his wife back to him at N
antes, where she will remain under the surveillance of my spouse until the return of her husband, my friend Belmont, which will not be very long.”

  “You call yourself the friend of Belmont?” said I to Duvallon, staring at him fixedly. “Do you know what that man is?”

  “That man, — that man is as good as any other man, morbleu!” cried out Duvallon, rising quickly from his seat.

  I remained seated.

  “That man is a brigand, monsieur! That man is an assassin, monsieur! a murderer!” and I accented with an imperious and resolute nod each one of these charges.

  “If you were not in your own house!” said Duvallon to me as he doubled up his fists.

  “I am not a child, monsieur, and your threats are ridiculous. Let us speak frankly and have it out. The proof that your friend is an assassin is that I was wounded by him on board of a yacht that he attacked in the Mediterranean; is that clear? The proof that your friend is a brigand is that I was on board of the same yacht, which he villainously wrecked off the coast of the island of Malta; is that clear? And to conclude, the proof that these accusations are true is that the English ambassador to France and the Foreign Office, informed by me of the presence of this wretch in Paris, have taken measures for his arrest, which would have been successful if you, on his wedding day, had not helped him to escape from justice.”

  Duvallon looked at me stupidly; he bit his lips with rage. I continued:

  “Neither Madame Belmont nor her aunt have heard, a word of all this, monsieur; but I solemnly declare to you that, if you insist upon carrying away Madame Belmont from her aunt, I will tell them the whole story, and at the same time advise them to seek legal advice, or put this affair in the hands of justice.”

  “Thousand thunders!” cried out Duvallon, stamping with his foot, “not a word of all that is true. I mean to carry off that wench from under your very nose, mort-Dieu! or you will see what will happen.”

  If you were not the intimate friend of Belmont, you would pay dearly for your lies and your threat Leave the room instantly, monsieur.”

  “I defy you, I dare you to order me out of here!” said the old corsair, as he stepped towards me with a threatening scowl.

  But on second thoughts, as he compared his age to my age and his strength to mine, he restrained himself, contenting himself with saying, in a very concentration of fury:

  “You mean, then, to raise up yourself in opposition to me, fearing that I will carry off your mistress? Any one can see that. But I have said that I would take her off, and I mean to take her, mort-Dieu! Don’t you suppose that I know all that has been going on here? Don’t I know all about the presents you have made her? And haven’t I been getting these letters of thanks from those two foolish women, letters that I could not understand, thanking me for all those fine presents? But it has all come to an end, it has got to stop; do you hear? Belmont is on his way home, and in the meantime I take the demoiselle, whether or no, by force if I must.”

  Not wishing to answer this man, I rang the bell.

  “Pierre,” said I to the servant-man, “I wish you to saddle two horses, one for myself and one for George, who must go with me. I also wish you to tell Lefort to mount his horse, and tell his son to do the same. They are to go to the ferme des Prés and wait for me.”

  The servant went out.

  “Now, monsieur,” said I to Duvallon, “reflect well on what you are about to do. If you do not instantly quit this part of the country I will tell all to Madame Belmont and her aunt, and shall advise them to put themselves under the protection of the law. I am going immediately to the Field Farm. I shall wait there for you, monsieur, and I shall see if you dare to come.”

  Then ringing again for Pierre, I said: “Show monsieur out.”

  Without waiting for a reply from Duvallon, I went out, mounted my horse, and set off for the farm.

  Lefort and his son had already started ahead of me.

  SERVAL, 31st December, 18 — .

  Yesterday Duvallon did not dare to come to the farm.

  He wrote to Marie telling her that he had gone back to Nantes. The letter was filled with the grossest insults. He threatened her with the return of Belmont.

  Marie is plunged in the darkest despair. To-day I was not able to see her.

  There is but one thing left for me to do: that is to persuade Marie to follow me.

  What can her life be from this time?

  If Belmont comes back he will sooner or later be arrested, whether I denounce him or no.

  If he is acquitted, he is Marie’s master: she is his wife; she will be obliged to go with him.

  If he is found guilty, if he is condemned, what a horrible fate for Marie! And what is to become of me? My life belongs to her, as hers does to me.

  If she refuses to come with me, what is to be done?

  The former crimes of this man will not annul the marriage, or if they do, what publicity, what disgusting revelations, will Marie have to submit to!

  She must do it, she must follow me, it is the only thing she can do.

  What has she to keep her here, poor orphan girl?

  Her aunt, that excellent woman.

  Rut perhaps she would come with us, — no, no. If she suspected the truth; if she knew that there was between us a sweeter bond than that of friendship, that we belonged to each other for ever and always; if she knew —

  No, no! it is not to be thought of.

  But will Marie ever consent to leave her?

  However, it must be done!

  If Marie will follow me, what a future! We would retire to some solitary place, where I would spend the rest of my life at her side.

  Though I am young, I have seen so much of life, I have suffered so much, I have learned so much about men and things, and have been so weary of them, that it would be rapture to me, this solitary and peaceful life of trusting love.

  And besides she has in herself so many resources that fit her for such a life of isolation: heart, soul, mind, artistic talents, an angelic disposition, adorable simplicity, the imagination of a young girl who can please, occupy, or amuse herself with the veriest trifle.

  She must follow me, she will follow me.

  CHAPTER XXX.

  THE FLIGHT.

  SERVAL, 10TH MARCH, 18 — .

  I OPEN again this journal which I have not written a line in for three months.

  I wish to write one more date, one last page here at Serval, in this poor old paternal château that I am about to leave, perhaps, for ever.

  Strange coincidence! It was here that my mundane life began with my love for Hélène.

  It is here my mundane life is to end with my love for Marie.

  Henceforth she and I mean to live in the greatest seclusion. Oh, if we are only able to realise our dreams, our life will be one of enchantment.

  But by how many cruel trials it will have been purchased.

  For three months Marie has been weeping in secret! but little by little I have been able to overcome her resistance.

  At last she has consented to fly with me.

  Besides, she dare not, she cannot, remain here; she is about to become a mother!

  And now, my faithful George, who has been living in Nantes to keep a watch on Duvallon, wrote me this morning that a man I cannot fail to recognise as Belmont arrived last night at the house of the old corsair.

  I told Marie of his return, and then she decided.

  How would she dare to appear before her husband?

  And how could she bear the reproaches of her aunt?

  To-morrow night, then, we are to depart secretly.

  So as to be sure of no mistakes, let me set down what I have arranged to do.

  Send relays of horses before me as far as — , across the country, so as to leave no traces; it is twenty-five leagues shorter.

  Take the mail coach at — , and in thirty hours we will be at the frontier.

  Once outside of France, and the first noise of our elopement calmed, we will wait
to see what happens. Perhaps we will return, perhaps Belmont will be arrested.

  Doux REPOS, September, 18 — .

  Ton have asked me, Marie, to tell you the story of my whole life.

  We have broken off all connection with the world.

  Retired from society, here in this peaceful and charming abode, we have been living for two years with our dear child, and ineffably happy.

  You have been my angel, my saviour, my god, my love, my only treasure, because you possess all the riches of heart, mind, and soul.

  In the midst of our solitude, each day brings a new joy that makes you dearer to my heart.

  Thus the pearls of the sea owe their imperishable lustre to the shadows of each succeeding wave.

  You often tell me, Marie, that my nature is noble, generous, and, above all, good.

  When you will have read this journal of my whole life, Marie, my beautiful and gentle Marie, you will find out that I have often been hard-hearted and wicked.

  That goodness for which you praise me, it is to you that I owe it!

  Under your holy influence, my beautiful guardian angel, all my bad instincts have disappeared, all my highest sentiments have been exalted; in a word I have loved you, I love you now as you deserve to be loved.

  To love you thus, and to be loved by you, Marie, is to believe oneself the first and noblest of men, to despise glory, ambition, fortune, to feel above them all.

  It is to have gone beyond the limits of all possible happiness.

  This superhuman happiness would alarm me, had we not purchased it by your sorrow and remorse, poor Marie!

  This remorse has been, and still is, your only grief; the time has come to deliver you from it.

  You shall be told the truth about the man you married, whom you have believed to be in prison as a political criminal, for these last two years.

  Later you will know why I hid this secret from you until now. —

  These lines which I now write in this journal retrace almost all the events of my life, up to the moment when we quitted Serval together. They will be the last I shall write in it Why should I henceforth need such a cold confidant?

  It is in your angelic heart, Marie, that I will trace all my thoughts; or, rather, it is there that I will leave the imprint of the perfect bliss that intoxicates me.