by Eugène Sue
“Come, come! I see how it is,” said the doctor, shaking his head sorrowfully; “you are very much displeased with me — is it not so? Well! I expected it, my dear child.”
These words, pronounced with the most hypocritical effrontery, made Adrienne start up. Her pale cheek flushed, her large eyes sparkled, she lifted proudly her beautiful head, whilst her upper lip curled slightly with a smile of disdainful bitterness; then, passing in angry silence before M. Baleinier, who retained his seat, she directed her swift and firm steps towards the door. This door, in which was a little wicket, was fastened on the outside. Adrienne turned towards the doctor, and said to him, with an imperious gesture; “Open that door for me!”
“Come, my dear Mdlle. Adrienne,” said the physician, “be calm. Let us talk like good friends — for you know I am your friend.” And he inhaled slowly a pinch of snuff.
“It appears, sir,” said Adrienne, in a voice trembling with indignation, “I am not to leave this place to-day?”
“Alas! no. In such a state of excitement — if you knew how inflamed your face is, and your eyes so feverish, your pulse must be at least eighty to the minute — I conjure you, my dear child, not to aggravate your symptoms by this fatal agitation.”
After looking fixedly at the doctor, Adrienne returned with a slow step, and again took her seat on the edge of the bed. “That is right,” resumed M. Baleinier: “only be reasonable; and, as I said before, let us talk together like good friends.”
“You say well, sir,” replied Adrienne, in a collected and perfectly calm voice; “let us talk like friends. You wish to make me pass for mad — is it not so?”
“I wish, my dear child, that one day you may feel towards me as much gratitude as you now do aversion. The latter I had fully foreseen — but, however painful may be the performance of certain duties, we must resign ourselves to it.”
M. Baleinier sighed, as he said this, with such a natural air of conviction, that for a moment Adrienne could not repress a movement of surprise; then, while her lip curled with a bitter laugh, she answered: “Oh, it’s very clear, you have done all this for my good?”
“Really, my dear young lady — have I ever had any other design than to be useful to you?”
“I do not know, sir, if your impudence be not still more odious than your cowardly treachery!”
“Treachery!” said M. Baleinier, shrugging his shoulders with a grieved air; “treachery, indeed! Only reflect, my poor child — do you think, if I were not acting with good faith, conscientiously, in your interest, I should return this morning to meet your indignation, for which I was fully prepared? I am the head physician of this asylum, which belongs to me — but I have two of my pupils here, doctors, like myself — and might have left them to take care of you but, no — I could not consent to it — I knew your character, your nature, your previous history, and (leaving out of the question the interest I feel for you) I can treat your case better than any one.”
Adrienne had heard M. Baleinier without interrupting him; she now looked at him fixedly, and said: “Pray, sir, how much do they pay you to make me pass for mad?”
“Madame!” cried M. Baleinier, who felt stung in spite of, himself.
“You know I am rich,” continued Adrienne, with overwhelming disdain; “I will double the sum that they give you. Come, sir — in the name of friendship, as you call it, let me have the pleasure of outbidding them.”
“Your keepers,” said M. Baleinier, recovering all his coolness, “have informed me, in their report of the night’s proceedings, that you made similar propositions to them.”
“Pardon me, sir; I offered them what might be acceptable to poor women, without education, whom misfortune has forced to undertake a painful employment — but to you, sir a man of the world, a man of science, a man of great abilities — that is quite different — the pay must be a great deal higher. There is treachery at all prices; so do not found your refusal on the smallness of my offer to those wretched women. Tell me — how much do you want?”
“Your keepers, in their report of the night, have also spoken of threats,” resumed M. Baleinier, with the same coolness; “have you any of those likewise to address me? Believe me, my poor child, you will do well to exhaust at once your attempts at corruption, and your vain threats of vengeance. We shall then come to the true state of the case.”
“So you deem my threats vain!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, at length giving way to the full tide of her indignation, till then restrained. “Do you think, sir, that when I leave this place — for this outrage must have an end — that I will not proclaim aloud your infamous treachery? Do you think chat I will not denounce to the contempt and horror of all, your base conspiracy with Madame de Saint-Dizier? Oh! do you think that I will conceal the frightful treatment I have received! But, mad as I may be, I know that there are laws in this country, by which I will demand a full reparation for myself, and shame, disgrace, and punishment, for you, and for those who have employed you! Henceforth, between you and me will be hate and war to the death; and all my strength, all my intelligence—”
“Permit me to interrupt you, my dear Mdlle. Adrienne,” said the doctor, still perfectly calm and affectionate: “nothing can be more unfavorable to your cure, than to cherish idle hopes: they will only tend to keep up a state of deplorable excitement: it is best to put the facts fairly before you, that you may understand clearly your position.
“1. It is impossible for you to leave this house. 2. You can have no communication with any one beyond its walls. 3. No one enters here that I cannot perfectly depend upon. 4. I am completely indifferent to your threats of vengeance because law and reason are both in my favor.”
“What! have you the right to shut me up here?”
“We should never have come to that determination, without a number of reasons of the most serious kind.”
“Oh! there are reasons for it, it seems.”
“Unfortunately, too many.”
“You will perhaps inform me of them?”
“Alas! they are only too conclusive; and if you should ever apply to the protection of the laws, as you threatened me just now, we should be obliged to state them. The fantastical eccentricity of your manner of living, your whimsical mode of dressing up your maids, your extravagant expenditure, the story of the Indian prince, to whom you offered a royal hospitality, your unprecedented resolution of going to live by yourself, like a young bachelor, the adventure of the man found concealed in your bed-chamber; finally, the report of your yesterday’s conversation, which was faithfully taken down in shorthand, by a person employed for that purpose.”
“Yesterday?” cried Adrienne, with as much indignation as surprise.
“Oh, yes! to be prepared for every event, in case you should misinterpret the interest we take in you, we had all your answers reported by a man who was concealed behind a curtain in the next room; and really, one day, in a calmer state of mind, when you come to read over quietly the particulars of what took place, you will no longer be astonished at the resolution we have been forced to adopt.”
“Go on, sir,” said Adrienne, with contempt.
“The facts I have cited being thus confirmed and acknowledged, you will understand, my dear Mdlle. Adrienne, that your friends are perfectly free from responsibility. It was their duty to endeavor to cure this derangement of mind, which at present only shows itself in idle whims, but which, were it to increase, might seriously compromise the happiness of your future life. Now, in my opinion, we may hope to see a radical cure, by means of a treatment at once physical and moral; but the first condition of this attempt was to remove you from the scenes which so dangerously excited your imagination; whilst a calm retreat, the repose of a simple and solitary life combined with my anxious, I may say, paternal care, will gradually bring about a complete recovery—”
“So, sir,” said Adrienne, with a bitter laugh, “the love of a noble independence, generosity, the worship of the beautiful, detestation of what is
base and odious, such are the maladies of which you wish to cure me; I fear that my case is desperate, for my aunt has long ago tried to effect that benevolent purpose.”
“Well, we may perhaps not succeed; but at least we will attempt it. You see, then, there is a mass of serious facts, quite enough to justify the determination come to by the family-council, which puts me completely at my ease with regard to your menaces. It is to that I wish to return; a man of my age and condition never acts lightly — in such circumstances, and you can readily understand what I was saying to you just now. In a word, do not hope to leave this place before your complete recovery, and rest assured, that I am and shall ever be safe from your resentment. This being once admitted, let us talk of your actual state with all the interest that you naturally inspire.”
“I think, sir, that, considering I am mad, you speak to me very reasonably.”
“Mad! no, thank heaven, my poor child, you are not mad yet — and I hope that, by my care, you will never be so. It is to prevent your becoming mad, that one must take it in time; and believe me, it is full time. You look at me with such an air of surprise — now tell me, what interest can I have in talking to you thus? Is it the hatred of your aunt that I wish to favor? To what end, I would ask? What can she do for me or against me? I think of her at this moment neither more nor less than I thought yesterday. Is it a new language that I hold to yourself? Did I not speak to you yesterday many times, of the dangerous excitement of mind in which you were, and of your singular whims and fancies? It is true, I made use of stratagem to bring you hither. No doubt, I did so. I hastened to avail myself of the opportunity, which you yourself offered, my poor, dear child; for you would never have come hither with your own good will. One day or the other, we must have found some pretext to get you here: and I said to myself; ‘Her interest before all! Do your duty, let whatever will betide!’—”
Whilst M. Baleinier was speaking, Adrienne’s countenance, which had hitherto expressed alternately indignation and disdain, assumed an indefinable look of anguish and horror. On hearing this man talk in such a natural manner, and with such an appearance of sincerity, justice and reason, she felt herself more alarmed than ever. An atrocious deception, clothed in such forms, frightened her a hundred times more than the avowed hatred of Madame de Saint-Dizier. This audacious hypocrisy seemed to her so monstrous, that she believed it almost impossible.
Adrienne had so little the art of hiding her emotions, that the doctor, a skillful and profound physiognomist, instantly perceived the impression he had produced. “Come,” said he to himself, “that is a great step. Fright has succeeded to disdain and anger. Doubt will come next. I shall not leave this place, till she has said to me: ‘Return soon, my good M. Baleinier!’” With a voice of sorrowful emotion, which seemed to come from the very depths of his heart, the doctor thus continued: “I see, you are still suspicious of me. All I can say to you is falsehood, fraud, hypocrisy, hate — is it not so? — Hate you? why, in heaven’s name, should I hate you? What have you done to me? or rather — you will perhaps attach more value to this reason from a man of my sort,” added M. Baleinier, bitterly, “or rather, what interest have I to hate you? — You, that have only been reduced to the state in which you are by an over abundance of the most generous instincts — you, that are suffering, as it were, from an excess of good qualities — you can bring yourself coolly and deliberately to accuse an honest man, who has never given you any but marks of affection, of the basest, the blackest, the most abominable crime, of which a human being could be guilty. Yes, I call it a crime; because the audacious deception of which you accuse me would not deserve any other name. Really, my poor child, it is hard — very hard — and I now see, that an independent spirit may sometimes exhibit as much injustice and intolerance as the most narrow mind. It does not incense me — no — it only pains me: yes, I assure you — it pains me cruelly.” And the doctor drew his hand across his moist eyes.
It is impossible to give the accent, the look, the gesture of M. Baleinier, as he thus expressed himself. The most able and practiced lawyer, or the greatest actor in the world, could not have played this scene with more effect than the doctor — or rather, no one could have played it so well — M. Baleinier, carried away by the influence of the situations, was himself half convinced of what he said.
In few words, he felt all the horror of his own perfidy but he felt also that Adrienne could not believe it; for there are combinations of such nefarious character, that pure and upright minds are unable to comprehend them as possible. If a lofty spirit looks down into the abyss of evil, beyond a certain depth it is seized with giddiness, and no longer able to distinguish one object from the other.
And then the most perverse of men have a day, an hour, a moment, in which the good instincts, planted in the heart of every creature, appear in spite of themselves. Adrienne was too interesting, was in too cruel a position, for the doctor mot to feel some pity for her in his heart; the tone of sympathy, which for some time past he had been obliged to assume towards her, and the sweet confidence of the young girl in return, had become for this man habitual and necessary ratifications. But sympathy and habit were now to yield to implacable necessity.
Thus the Marquis d’Aigrigny had idolized his mother; dying, she called him to her — and he turned away from the last prayer of a parent in the agony of death. After such an example, how could M. Baleinier hesitate to sacrifice Adrienne? The members of the Order, of which he formed a part, were bound to him — but he was perhaps still more strongly bound to them, for a long partnership in evil creates terrible and indissoluble ties.
The moment M. Baleinier finished his fervid address to Mdlle. de Cardoville, the slide of the wicket in the door was softly pushed back, and a pair of eyes peered attentively into the chamber, unperceived by the doctor.
Adrienne could not withdraw her gaze from the physician’s, which seemed to fascinate her. Mute, overpowered, seized with a vague terror, unable to penetrate the dark depths of this man’s soul, moved in spite of herself by the accent of sorrow, half feigned and half real — the young lady had a momentary feeling of doubt. For the first time, it came into her mind, that M. Baleinier might perhaps be committing a frightful error — committing it in good faith.
Besides, the anguish of the past night, the dangers of her position, her feverish agitation, all concurred to fill her mind with trouble and indecision. She looked at the physician with ever increasing surprise, and making a violent effort not to yield to a weakness, of which she partly foresaw the dreadful consequences, she exclaimed: “No, no, sir; I will not, I cannot believe it. You have too much skill, too much experience, to commit such an error.”
“An error!” said M. Baleinier, in a grave and sorrowful tone. “Let me speak to you in the name of that skill and experience, which you are pleased to ascribe to me. Hear me but for a moment, my dear child; and then I will appeal to yourself.”
“To me!” replied the young girl, in a kind of stupor; “you wish to persuade me, that—” Then, interrupting herself, she added, with a convulsive laugh: “This only is wanting to your triumph — to bring me to confess that I am mad — that my proper place is here — that I owe you—”
“Gratitude. Yes, you do owe it me, even as I told you at the commencement of this conversation. Listen to me then; my words may be cruel, but there are wounds which can only be cured with steel and fire. I conjure you, my dear child — reflect — throw back one impartial glance at your past life — weigh your own thoughts — and you will be afraid of yourself. Remember those moments of strange excitement, during which, as you have told me, you seemed to soar above the earth — and, above all, while it is yet time — while you preserve enough clearness of mind to compare and judge — compare, I entreat, your manner of living with that of other ladies of your age? Is there a single one who acts as you act? who thinks as you think? unless, indeed, you imagine yourself so superior to other women, that, in virtue of that supremacy, you can justify a life an
d habits that have no parallel in the world.”
“I have never had such stupid pride, you know it well,” said Adrienne, looking at the doctor with growing terror.
“Then, my dear child, to what are we to attribute your strange and inexplicable mode of life? Can you even persuade yourself that it is founded on reason? Oh, my child! take care? — As yet, you only indulge in charming originalities of conduct, poetical eccentricities, sweet and vague reveries — but the tendency is fatal, the downward course irresistible. Take care, take care! — the healthful, graceful, spiritual portion of your intelligence has yet the upper hand, and imprints its stamp upon all your extravagances; but you do not know, believe me, with what frightful force the insane portion of the mind, at a given moment, develops itself and strangles up the rest. Then we have no longer graceful eccentricities, like yours, but ridiculous, sordid, hideous delusions.”
“Oh! you frighten me,” said the unfortunate girl, as she passed her trembling hands across her burning brow.
“Then,” continued M. Baleinier, in an agitated voice, “then the last rays of intelligence are extinguished; then madness — for we must pronounce the dreaded word — gets the upper hand, and displays itself in furious and savage transports.”
“Like the woman upstairs,” murmured Adrienne, as, with fixed and eager look, she raised her finger towards the ceiling.
“Sometimes,” continued the doctor, alarmed himself at the terrible consequences of his own words, but yielding to the inexorable fatality of his situation, “sometimes madness takes a stupid and brutal form; the unfortunate creature, who is attacked by it, preserves nothing human but the shape — has only the instincts of the lower animals — eats with voracity, and moves ever backwards and forwards in the cell, in which such a being is obliged to be confined. That is all its life — all.”