DERBAC.
Most stimulating, is it not? How charming women are whenever tears appear and endow their features with the full disorder of sorrow. . . . You, my dear Count, are what may be termed a thoroughly corrupt man. . . .
OXTIERN.
What do you expect, my friend? ’twas from the ways of women that I learned all the vices wherewith I ravage them today.
DERBAC.
I assume you plan to marry her?
OXTIERN.
Can you suspect me for one moment of being so ridiculous?
DERBAC.
But once you are in your château, what excuse can you offer Ernestine to justify your conduct? She will never allow you to live with her as a lover with his mistress.
OXTIERN.
Oh! her intentions, her desires, her wishes are the things which concern me least of all. My happiness, my satisfaction: there is the goal, Derbac, and the goal is attained; in an adventure such as this, the moment I am happy, everyone must be happy.
DERBAC.
Ah! my friend . . . my dear Count, allow me to dispute for a moment principles as dangerous as these!
OXTIERN.
No, you would only displease me without convincing me. . . . Never forget that your fortune depends upon mine, and that what I expect you to be is an agent for furthering my plans, not a censor.
DERBAC.
I flattered myself that, considering me only as a friend, you would want my advice. . . . What you are contriving is frightful.
OXTIERN.
In your eyes, it may well be; because you are a lackey, full of Gothic prejudices . . . upon which the light of philosophy has not yet managed to direct its rays. . . . A few more years at my school, Derbac, and you will no longer pity a woman for such a peccadillo.
DERBAC.
The sweet, sensitive creature who, for our happiness even more than for her own, has been able to bestow, with such refinement, all her glory and all her felicity in her virtue, has very clear claims to our love and our protection, when scoundrels despoil it.
OXTIERN.
Ah! you’re moralizing, Derbac!
DERBAC.
And what if I am? Let us dwell solely upon the dangers to you; do you not see any dangers to yourself in this affair? . . . The Colonel, the Colonel’s son . . . or young Herman, whom this charming girl loves so tenderly: do you fear nothing from any of these people?
OXTIERN.
The Colonel is old, he will not put up much of a fight . . . in fact he won’t fight at all. . . . His son will never get to me; I’m having him followed; (In a low voice.) if he even ventures close to my estate, my friend, he’s as good as dead. (Aloud.) As for Herman, the chains in which I have him languishing are not of a sort to be broken. I had the foresight to implicate him in an important affair, from which he will not be able to disentangle himself without a considerable fortune, which he is far from possessing. It cost me a pretty penny . . . false witnesses . . . corrupt judges; I defy him to extricate himself from it. . . .
DERBAC.
And what of the law, my friend, what of the law?
OXTIERN.
I have never known the law to resist the power of gold.
DERBAC.
And what of the voice within, wherein virtue has always been able to claim its due? . . . I mean your conscience.
OXTIERN.
Clear . . . perfectly unperturbed.
DERBAC.
But the Court, my dear Count, that Court of which you are the proud adornment and delight. . . . What if the Court were to learn of your conduct?
OXTIERN.
That is the only thing I fear from this furious girl; she threatened me, which is why I must keep a close watch on her. Remember to give orders that everything be in readiness tomorrow at dawn; I wish to get away from Stockholm as soon as possible. Fabrice is turning virtuous, and we are still too close to the capital for me not to have some qualms about such a knave’s remorse; I know nothing more terrible or more humiliating than the necessity to treat such rascals with consideration whenever one has need of them. ’Tis the obligation of crime; but, Good God, my friend, ’tis the torment of pride; to convert Fabrice, I have dispatched my valet as an influence upon him. And would you believe it? Casimir himself is not as solid as I had thought; you have no idea, my friend, of the effect a girl’s tears can have upon all these weak and vacillating souls.
DERBAC.
Fortunately for humanity, there are only a few as perverted as yours!
OXTIERN.
Because I have worked at it, my friend; I have witnessed much, experienced much; if you had any idea whither a surfeit of experience can lead one!
DERBAC.
I hear some noise from Ernestine’s quarters. . . . Here comes Amélie. I’ll wager they want you. . . . Lucky creature!
OXTIERN.
I’ve already told you: the only way to a woman’s heart is along the path of torment. I know none other as sure.
SCENE II
THE ABOVE, AMÉLIE.
AMÉLIE, to the Count.
Mademoiselle Ernestine would like to join you in this room, Monsieur, to speak to you for a few minutes, if you have nothing more pressing.
OXTIERN.
Can there be anything more sacred . . . what am I saying, anything dearer to me than conversing with your lovely mistress? Amélie, tell her I await her with love . . . with a lover’s impatience.
AMÉLIE, surprise mingled with anger.
You, Monsieur?
OXTIERN.
Yes, I. Do my sentiments surprise you?
AMÉLIE.
Oh, no, Monsieur, assuredly not; nothing any longer surprises me about you. Mademoiselle will be here shortly, I shall tell her you’re expecting her.
SCENE III
OXTIERN, DERBAC.
DERBAC.
That girl knows you, my friend, and I can read on her face the expressions which reveal to me every movement of her mistress’ soul.
OXTIERN.
How can one tremble because of the movements of a woman’s soul? Poor Derbac, your fears make me laugh. . . . Off with you now, go see to the preparations for our journey; remember that we are still not in port, that we must reach it, and reach it safely.
DERBAC.
I dread the reefs more than you do, and I still suspect that this business is far from finished.
OXTIERN.
Fear not. (Touching his forehead.) There are, in here, more ruses than were needed to set all Europe aflame; given which, judge whether I should be concerned over one little intrigue.
DERBAC, vehemently.
Ah, my dear Count . . . adieu . . . since you want from me neither reproaches nor counsel, then perhaps you shall not have me long as a friend. (He exits.)
SCENE IV
OXTIERN, alone.
I pity all these people; a mere nothing upsets them and chills their ardor; I reveal my soul to none of them. . . . Let us keep up the pretense with Ernestine. . . . Angelic child . . . There are times when the sentiments you inspire in me threaten to weaken my resolution . . . moments when, instead of betraying you as I should, I can think only of adoring you. Ah! no faltering now; Ernestine has been used too ill not to be feared, and if I redeem her I am lost.
SCENE V
OXTIERN, ERNESTINE.
ERNESTINE.
However painful it is for me to appear before you, Monsieur, whatever humiliation I may feel in your presence, it is none the less necessary for me to ask you, following the horrible deed you have perpetrated, what satisfaction your probity can offer me.
OXTIERN.
Is it my probity that should be questioned, Ernestine, when ’tis my heart that you hold captive . . . a heart that is wholly yours?
ERNESTINE.
I trust you do not imagine that this gift can assure my happiness. . . . What reason can you have for proposing it to me? . . . How, after the baseness wherein you have wallowed, can you think that savage heart worthy of me?
OXTIERN.
I am grieved by your reproaches, all the more so since I confess I merit them. . . . Ah! do not punish so cruelly the failings of love!
ERNESTINE.
Of love! . . . You? O God! if this is what love inspires, let my heart be forever free from any feeling so capable of defiling man! . . . No, Monsieur, that is in no wise love; that is not the comforting sentiment, the basis for all good works . . .; would it counsel crimes?
OXTIERN.
My conduct was reprehensible, I must confess; but I adored you, and I had a rival.
ERNESTINE, firmly.
Monster, what have you done to this rival?
OXTIERN.
’Tis not I who determined his fate.
ERNESTINE.
You alone stole him from me; you alone must return him to me.
OXTIERN.
’Twas not my hand that deprived you of him, Ernestine. The laws were evoked and applied, and under them Herman has been sent to prison. All I can do is use my influence to render the harshness of his chains more bearable.
ERNESTINE.
What! ’Twas you who forged them! How can I so deceive myself that now I stoop to ask that you break them! . . . Begone, I want nothing from you. . . . I, offer you the chance to do something generous? . . . the means wherewith to blot your horrors from my mind? . . . You see, Oxtiern, I am losing my mind. . . . All right, what do you intend to do with your victim? . . . Tell me, where are you taking me? . . .
OXTIERN.
I offer you, Ernestine, both my hand and my heart.
ERNESTINE.
Enchain myself to my torturer? . . . Never, never!
OXTIERN.
’Tis not as though there were another choice; is there?
ERNESTINE.
Ah, indeed there is. . . . Have you failed to divine it, Monsieur? Have you forgotten that I still have a father? . . . And a brother? (With great pride.) Have you forgotten that I still live and breathe?
OXTIERN.
All these cruel courses would serve no end; they would only result in bloodshed and would in no wise restore your honor. Only he whom you accuse of having taken it from you can return it to you. Consent to be his wife, and all is forgotten.
ERNESTINE, as emphatically as possible.
Traitor, what match can you propose to me now that you have dishonored me? I would remain caught forever between opprobrium and humiliation, a constant prey to grief and tears, trying to captivate my husband in ties he shall have formed solely out of duty. Tell me, Oxtiern, what moments of peace or contentment can I look forward to upon this earth? hate and despair on the one hand, constraint and remorse on the other. For us, the marriage tapers would be lighted from the torches of the Furies, serpents would form the bonds between us, and death would be our only salvation.
OXTIERN, casting himself at Ernestine’s knees.
If this be so, then—since ’tis I alone who deserve it—strike, Ernestine, here is my heart; with your hands, spill this guilty blood, which is no longer worthy to sustain a creature barbarous enough to have misjudged you so cruelly.
ERNESTINE, repelling him even more forcefully.
Then let it be spilled without wetting the ground; otherwise, ’twould cause crimes to sprout up.
OXTIERN.
What is’t then you want, Ernestine, and what can I do to prove you my love and earn your forgiveness?
ERNESTINE, showing anger, scorn, and strength.
Your love, never! . . . As for your repentance, that I shall believe when you break the irons wherewith, thanks to your villainy, my lover is fettered: go and confess your plots to the judges; go and meet the death your crimes deserve; burden the earth no more with a weight which wearies it; the sun is less pure since for shedding light upon your days.
OXTIERN, with controlled pride.
Ernestine is forgetting—or am I mistaken?—the situation wherein she finds herself?
ERNESTINE, nobly and energetically.
You are right, Oxtiern; were I to dwell upon it, either I would cease to live or you would die.
OXTIERN.
When a woman believes herself to be unhappy, she should make some slight effort to deal tactfully with him upon whom her destiny depends.
ERNESTINE, proudly.
This woman depends only upon herself; she is responsible only to herself; she alone will determine her fate.
OXTIERN.
Let us pursue our route, Ernestine; tomorrow we shall reach one of my estates; there perhaps I shall succeed in mollifying and calming you.
ERNESTINE, as above.
No, I am going no farther; it was in spite of myself that you decoyed me here; here I must be avenged, or here I shall die.
OXTIERN.
These outbursts of a frenzied soul tire you and remedy nothing, Ernestine; I was hoping from you less hate . . . a more complete resignation.
SCENE VI
This scene must move at a very rapid pace.
THE ABOVE, AMÉLIE, CASIMIR.
Each takes his master aside in one corner of the stage.
CASIMIR, to Oxtiern.
Monsieur?
OXTIERN.
What is it, Casimir?
AMÉLIE, entering slightly after the others.
Mademoiselle?
ERNESTINE.
Have you come to apprise me of still further reverses?
CASIMIR, to Oxtiern.
An officer has just arrived at this inn.
AMÉLIE, to Ernestine.
A soldier, whom I haven’t yet seen, requests most earnestly to speak with you.
OXTIERN.
Try to discover who it might be.
ERNESTINE, to Amélie, with a show of joy.
’Tis my father! He must have received my note, and he’s arrived!
CASIMIR, to Oxtiern.
Monsieur, do not come out; ’tis essential you not see this man.
OXTIERN, to Ernestine.
Excuse me, urgent matters summon me. Is it too much to hope that when next we meet I may find you a trifle calmer?
ERNESTINE, nobly and steadfastly.
Yes, yes, you may count on me, Monsieur; never again will you see me in the character you must imagine mine to be. . . . You doubtless thought me beneath contempt, that much at least your conduct has proved to me; soon you will confess that I was worthy of your esteem.
OXTIERN, exiting.
You will always be worthy of my heart!
SCENE VII
ERNESTINE, AMÉLIE.
ERNESTINE, very rapidly.
Fly, Amélie, and learn who this stranger is. . . . Heavens! if ’twere my father!
AMÉLIE, leaving in great haste.
May he come and put an end to all our woes!
SCENE VIII
ERNESTINE, alone.
O height of misfortune and immodesty! Between Oxtiern and myself, we offer the picture of the one and the other! I dare defy the hand of fate to place upon earth both a creature more to be pitied than I and one more shameless than he. . . . He offers me his hand to compensate for the wrongs into which his villainy has plunged me . . . were I to accept it, I should but finish the work he has so basely begun. No, no, Oxtiern, ’tis not your hand I want, ’tis your head; only your death can assuage the state to which your savagery has reduced me.
SCENE IX
ERNESTINE, COLONEL FALKENHEIM.
ERNESTINE, rushing toward him, then immediately backing away fearfully.
Father . . . oh, Father! I am no longer worthy of you!
THE COLONEL.
What is this I hear?
ERNESTINE, painfully.
Why did you leave me, Father? baleful voyage . . . wretched event. . . The cruel man: he chose the time when you were gone . . . he deceived me; he led me to believe he could give me the happiness that you were hesitant to grant me; and, taking advantage of my weakness, he has rendered me unworthy both of you and of life itself.
THE COLONEL.
Unjust Heaven!
didst Thou prolong my days only to have me witness such an abomination? The traitor must die. . . . (He attempts to exit.)
ERNESTINE, stopping him.
No, no, vengeance must be mine and mine alone, I shall attend to it myself.
THE COLONEL.
Your plans alarm me!
ERNESTINE, rapidly.
Do not try to unravel them, they are just and right . . . proud as the soul you bequeathed me. . . . I shall discover them to you when the time is ripe. Have you seen him, Father? Did he dare present himself to you?
THE COLONEL.
He was careful not to; a single glance from me would have reduced him to nothing.
ERNESTINE.
You learned of my flight through my note?
THE COLONEL.
’Twas your note that hastened my steps hither.
ERNESTINE, rapidly.
Oh! Father, have you ever doubted me for a moment?
THE COLONEL.
Never; but you left no protectors behind.
ERNESTINE.
Do the poor and downtrodden ever have any defenders? Oxtiern is rich, he is influential; we were virtuous and poor. . . . Oh yes, Father, oh yes, he had to be right. . . . And poor Herman, have you any news of him?
THE COLONEL.
I heard tell of a bankruptcy in which he was implicated; this wretched affair, so I have been informed, will cost a small fortune to settle, and we have none.
ERNESTINE, aside.
Oxtiern, Oxtiern, so this is how you take revenge upon a rival!
THE COLONEL.
If only I had consented to your marriage! My cruel refusals are the cause of everything!
ERNESTINE.
You deemed them just; is that not all I require to make me erase from my mind the ill they have done me? Who better than the author of our days can judge what is best for us? . . . Forgive me, Father, I beg of you to withdraw for a moment, I haven’t a minute to lose. At dawn we’re leaving for the Count’s château, and tomorrow I shall perhaps be enchained forever unless I succeed in freeing myself today. . . . Keep away from Oxtiern, avoid seeing him. . . . Fabrice, the innkeeper, seems to me a worthy man. Ask him to conceal you, and leave the rest to me.
THE COLONEL, worried.
Fabrice was not here when I arrived; I was told he had gone to Stockholm on important business, but that he was expected back before tomorrow morning.
ERNESTINE, perturbed.
Fabrice gone! . . . Could I have been mistaken? Gone to Stockholm? What business can he have there? Could the Count have sent him? He’s known him for a long time! . . . With what new bond am I about to be shackled? Everything takes me unawares! Everything terrifies me!
The 120 Days of Sodom and Other Writings Page 75