Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  In his fury he could only think of the painful ridiculousness of his attitude in the eyes of that man, as he spoke with so much freedom, so much love, and so much idolatry, of a child which was not his, and of this wife who had so basely deceived him.

  The deepest, the most agonising, the most incurable wounds are those which pain our heart and our self-love at the same time.

  The very excess of his wrath, his burning thirst for vengeance, brought Pog back, so to speak, to his religious sentiment. He saw the hand of God in the strange chance which had thrown Erebus, the fruit of this criminal love, in his pathway.

  He thrilled with a cruel joy at the thought that this unfortunate child, whose soul he had perverted, whom he had led in a way so fatal to all purity and happiness, would, perhaps, carry desolation and death into the Des Anbiez family.

  He saw in this startling coincidence a terrible providential retribution.

  His first thought was to go at once and assassinate Erebus, but, urged by a consuming curiosity, he desired to discover all the secrets of this guilty connection.

  So he continued to read the letters contained in the casket. The next letter, written by Madame de Montreuil, was also addressed to the Commander des Anbiez.

  Third Letter,

  “December 14th, one o’clock in the morning.

  “God has had pity on me.

  “The unfortunate child lives; if he continues to live, he will live only for you, — only for me.

  “My women are safe; this house is isolated, far from all help. To-morrow I shall send to the village for the venerable Abbé de Saint-Maurice, — another lie, — a sacrilegious lie!

  “I will tell him that this unfortunate child died in birth. Justine has already engaged a nurse; this nurse is waiting in the house occupied by the guard of the crossroads. This evening she will take the poor little being with her. This evening she will depart for Languedoc, as we have agreed upon.

  “Oh, to be separated from my child, who has cost me so many tears, so much sorrow, and such despair! To be separated from it for ever! Ah, I dare not, I cannot complain! It is the least expiation of my crime.

  “Poor little creature, I have covered it with my tears, with my kisses; it is innocent of all this sin. Ah, dreadful, how dreadful it is! I shall not survive these heartrending emotions. That is all my hope. God will take me from this earth, — yes, — but to damn me in eternity!

  “Ah, I do not wish to die; no, I do not wish to die! Oh, pity, pity, mercy!

  “I have just recovered from a long fainting-fit Peyrou will carry this letter to you; send him back without delay.”

  The next letter announced to the commander that the sacrifice had been completed.

  Fourth Letter.

  “December 15th, ten o’clock in the morning.

  “All is over. This morning the Abbé de Saint-Maurice came.

  “My women told him that the child was dead, and that I, in my despair, had wished, in pious resignation, to shroud it myself in its coffin.

  “You know that this poor priest is very old; and, besides, he has known me from my birth, and has a blind confidence in me, and not for a moment did he suspect this impious lie.

  “He prayed over an empty coffin!

  “Sacrilege, sacrilege!

  “Oh, God will be without pity! At last the coffin was carried and buried in our family chapel.

  “Yesterday, in the night, for the last time I embraced this unfortunate child, now abandoned, now without a name. Now the shame and remorse of those who have given it birth will ever —

  “I could not give him up — I could not. Alas! it was always a kiss, — just a last kiss. When Justine snatched it from my arms it uttered a pitiful cry.

  “Oh, that feeble wail of sorrow reëchoes in the depths of my soul; what a fatal omen!

  “Again I ask, what will become of it? Oh, what will become of it? That woman — that nurse, who is she? What interest will she take in this unfortunate orphan? She will be indifferent to its tears, to its sorrows; miserable woman, its poor weeping will never move her as I have been stirred by its one feeble wail!

  “Who is this woman? Who is this woman, I ask. Justine says she will answer for her, but has Justine the heart of a mother, which could answer for her, could judge her? I, yes, I would have known so quickly if she was worthy of confidence. Why did I not think of that? Why did I not see her myself? Ah, God is just! the guilty wife could be nothing but a bad mother!

  “Poor little one! He is going to suffer. Who will protect him? Who will defend him? If this woman is unfaithful, — if she is avaricious, she is going to let him want for everything, — he is going to be cold, — he is going to be hungry, — perhaps she will beat him! Oh, my child, my child!

  “Oh! I am an unnatural mother, — I am base, — I am infamous, — I am afraid, — I have not the courage of my crime. No, no, I will not! I will not! I will brave all, the return of my husband, the shame, ay, death itself, but I will not be separated for ever from my child; nothing but death shall separate us, — there is time enough yet Justine is coming. I am going to tell her to go for the nurse and instruct her to remain here.

  “Nothing, nothing! — oh, my God! to be at the mercy of these people like that! Justine refuses to tell me the route this woman has taken, — she has dared to speak to me of my duties, of what I owe to my husband. Oh, shame, shame! once I was so proud, to be reduced to this! Yet she weeps while she denies me; poor woman, she thinks I am insane.

  “What is so awful is, that I dare not invoke Heaven’s blessing on this unfortunate child, abandoned at its birth; it is devoted to grief. What will become of it?

  “Ah! you at least will not abandon it, but in his infancy, at that age when he will have so much need of care and tenderness, what can you do for him? Nothing, oh, my God, nothing! And besides, may you not die in battle? Oh, how dreadful would that be — fortunately I am so weak, that I shall not survive this agony, or rather I shall die under the first look of him whom I have so terribly offended.

  “Each one of his letters, so faithful, so noble, so tender, strikes me a mortal blow. Yesterday I announced to him the fatal news, another lie. How he will suffer! Already he loved the child so much!

  “Ah, how dreadful, how dreadful! but this struggle will soon end, yes, I feel it, the end is very near.

  “Pierre, I wish nevertheless to see you before I die. It is more than a presentiment — it is a certainty. I tell you that never shall I see him again.

  “I am sure of it, if I see him again, I feel it, his presence will kill me.

  “To-morrow you must leave France.

  “When this poor child is confided to you, if he survives his sad infancy, Pierre, love him, oh, love him! He will never have had a mother’s love. I wish, if he is worthy of the sacred vocation, and if it suits his mind and his character, I wish him to be a priest. Some day you will tell him the terrible secret of his birth.

  “He will pray for you and for me, and perhaps Heaven will hear his prayers. I feel very feeble, very feeble. Again, Pierre, I must see you. Ah, how cruelly we expiate a few days of madness!

  “Once more, that which most pains me is his confidence. Oh, I tell you that the sight of him will kill me. I feel that I must die.”

  The marks of the tears could still be seen upon this letter written with a feeble, fainting hand.

  Pog, after having read the pages which portrayed so faithfully the agony of Emilie’s soul, gazed thoughtfully upon the lines.

  He bowed his head on his breast. That man so cruelly outraged, that man hardened by hatred, could not refuse a feeling of pity for this unhappy woman.

  A tear, a burning tear, the only one he had shed in years, coursed his weather-beaten cheek.

  Then his resentment against the author of all these woes rose again in fury. He thanked Heaven for having at last made known to him the seducer of Emilie, but he did not now wish to concentrate his thought on the terrible vengeance that he meditated.

 
He continued to read.

  The next letter was in the handwriting of Emilie. She informed the commander of the consequence of the last venture.

  Fifth Letter.

  “December 16th, nine o’clock in the morning.

  “My husband knows the supposed death of the child; his despair borders on madness. His letter terrifies me with its wild and passionate grief. The quarantine ends in fifteen days. I shall not live until that time; my crime will be buried with me, and he will regret me, and he will weep my memory, perhaps. Oh, to deceive, to deceive, to deceive even to the coffin and the grave! God! will he ever forgive me? It is an abyss of terror into which I dare not cast my eyes. This evening, at eleven o’clock, Justine will open the little gate at the park. Pierre, these are solemn farewells, funereal, perhaps. To-morrow, then, to-morrow.”

  CHAPTER XXXV. THE MURDERER

  A PAPER, PART of which was torn, contained this written confession, in the handwriting of the commander, a few days after the bloody tragedy which he relates. The person to whom it was addressed is unknown. Some passages, tom intentionally, perhaps, seem to refer to a journey, made by the commander in Languedoc at the same period, for the purpose, no doubt, of learning the fate of his unfortunate child.

  “And my hands are stained with blood. I have just committed a murder.

  “I have assassinated the man against whom I have committed a deadly wrong.

  “At eleven o’clock I presented myself at the little gate of the park. I was conducted into the chamber of Emilie.

  “She was in bed, pale, almost dying.

  “She, formerly so beautiful, seemed the ghost of herself. The hand of God had already touched her.

  “I seated myself at her bedside. She extended to me her trembling, icy hand.

  “I pressed it to my lips, my cold lips.

  “We gave a last painful look at the past I accused myself of having destroyed her.

  “We spoke of our unfortunate child. We wept, oh, how bitterly! when suddenly —

  “Ah! I feel still the cold sweat deluge my brow. My hair stands on end, and a terrible voice cries to me, ‘Murderer! Murderer!’

  “Oh, I will not seek to fly from remorse; till my last day I shall keep before me the image of my victim.

  “By the judgment of God, which has already condemned me, I take oath to do it.

  “Let me recall the scene.

  “It was a terrible moment.

  “The chamber of Emilie was dimly lighted by a night-lamp placed near the door.

  “My back was toward this door. I was seated by her bed. She could not retain her sobs. My forehead was resting on my hand.

  “The most profound silence reigned around us.

  “I had just spoken to her of our child. I had just promised to fulfil her will in reference to him.

  “I had tried to console her, to induce her to hope for better days, to reanimate her courage, to give her strength to conceal all from her husband; to prove to her that, for his own peace and happiness, it was better to let him remain in confident security.

  “Suddenly the door behind me opened with violence.

  “Emilie cried in terror: ‘My husband! I am dead!’

  “Before I could turn around, an involuntary movement of her husband extinguished the lamp.

  “We were all three in the dark.

  “‘Do not kill me before forgiving me!’ cried Emilie.

  “‘Oh — you first — him afterwards,’ said Count de Montreuil, in a hollow voice.

  “The moment was horrible.

  “He advanced irresolutely. I advanced also.

  “I wished to meet him and hold him back.

  “We said nothing. The silence was profound.

  “Nothing was heard but the sound of our oppressed breathing, and the low, spasmodic voice of Emilie, who murmured: ‘Lord have pity on me! Lord have pity on me!’

  “Suddenly I felt a hand as cold as marble on my forehead.

  “It was the hand of her husband. In seeking her, he had touched me.

  “He started, and said, without concerning himself further about me: ‘Her bed ought to be on the left!’

  “His calmness terrified me. I threw myself on him.

  “At that moment, Emilie, whom he had doubtless already seized, cried, ‘Mercy! Mercy!’

  “I tried to take him by the middle of his body. I felt the point of a dagger graze my hand.

  “Emilie uttered a long sigh. She was killed or wounded, her blood spouted up on my forehead.

  “Then my brain became wild; I felt myself endowed with a supernatural strength. With my left hand I seized the right arm of the murderer; with my right hand I snatched his dagger from him, and plunged it twice in his breast.

  “I heard him fall without uttering a cry. From that moment I remember nothing.

  “I found myself at the rising of the sun lying by the side of a hedge. I was covered with blood.

  “For some moments I could remember nothing, then all returned to my memory. I returned home, avoiding the sight of every one.

  “I discovered, as I entered, that my Maltese cross was lost. Perhaps it had been taken away from me in the struggle.

  “I found Peyrou, who was waiting for me with my horses. I arrived here.”

  [Some pages are wanting in this place.]

  “... and she is no more.

  “He lies by her side in the same tomb. The idea of murder pursues me. I am doubly criminal.

  “My entire life will not suffice to expiate this murder, and...”

  The rest of this page was wanting.

  The last letter which the casket contained was a letter addressed to Peyrou by a bargemaster in the neighbourhood of Aiguemortes five years after the events which we have just recorded, and the same year, no doubt, of the abduction of Erebus by the pirates on the coast of Languedoc.

  Peyrou, who was then serving on board the galleys of religion with the commander, was in the secret of this strange and bloody tragedy.

  The following letter was addressed to Malta, to which place he had followed the commander, who, five years after these fatal events had transpired, was still unwilling to enter France.

  To M. Bernard Peyrou, Overseer-Patron of Our Lady of Seven Sorrows.

  “My dear Peyrou: — Three days ago a great calamity occurred. A pirate galley made a descent on the unguarded coast.

  “The pirates put all to fire and sword, and carried off into slavery all the inhabitants upon whom they could fasten their chains. I hardly know how to tell you the rest of this misfortune. The woman Agniel and the child that you confided to her care have disappeared, no doubt massacred, or carried away captives by these pirates. I went into her house, and everything there showed marks of violence. Alas! I must tell you, there remained no doubt that the woman and child had shared the fate of the other inhabitants of this unfortunate village. We can hardly hope that the child was able to endure the fatigues and hardships of the voyage. I send you the only thing that could be found in the house, the picture of the child, which, in obedience to your order, the woman Agniel had taken to Montpellier, where the portrait had been executed about a month before. I saw the child quite recently, and I can assure you that it is an excellent likeness. Alas! it is, perhaps, all that remains of him now. I send this letter directly to Malta by the tartan St. Cecile, so that it may reach you safely.

  “P. S. In case the child is recovered, I inform you that there is a Maltese cross tattooed on his arm.”

  To complete the explanation of the tragedy, it remains to be said that, although Pog — the Count de Montreuil — was dangerously wounded, he retained sufficient strength and presence of mind to keep the events of that fatal night a profound secret.

  After the death of Emilie, he commanded Justine, under the direst threats, to say that her mistress, overwhelmed with grief at the death of her child, had finally succumbed to the desperate illness which ensued.

  Nothing seemed more plausible than this account, hence it was g
enerally accepted.

  The Count de Montreuil remained concealed in his house until his wound was thoroughly healed. With every conceivable threat and promise, he tried to induce Justine to reveal the secret of the child’s hiding-place, but all his efforts were unavailing.

  It now becomes necessary to explain how the count surprised the interview between Emilie and the commander.

  Learning the supposed death of his child, while in the lazaretto or pest-house near Marseilles, he was plunged in desperate grief. He believed that his wife was no less inconsolable, and, notwithstanding the penalty of death incurred by deserters from the lazaretto, before the expiration of the established quarantine, he swam that night even from the island Ratonneau, where the sanitary buildings were situated.

  Reaching the coast, where a trusty servant awaited him with clothing, he assumed another name, and galloped in hot haste on the road to Lyons. Leaving his horses about two leagues from his house, he accomplished the rest of the journey on foot. Passing through the little gate which the commander had left open, he entered the park.

  Several days before, by way of precaution, Emilie had dismissed most of her servants, under various pretexts, retaining two women only of whom she felt sure. Her husband, finding the house almost deserted, entered unperceived, and stood at the door of Emilie’s chamber, while she believed that he would remain ten days longer in the lazaretto.

  Hearing the conversation which took place between his wife and Pierre des Anbiez, the Count de Montreuil could have no further doubt of her infidelity.

  When he had entirely recovered from his wounds, he abandoned his house, situated in the country near Lyons, for ever; and feeling sure of Justine’s silence, as the woman had no interest in betraying his secret, he left France, taking with him a considerable sum in gold.

  When his disappearance from the lazaretto was discovered, it was believed and currently reported that the Count de Montreuil, frenzied by grief over the loss of his child, had thrown himself into the sea. While this rumour was accepted in France, the commander believed that his victim had died from his wounds.