At length he condescended to show her the full extent of her misery.
“You have your letters but I have photographs of all of them. So you understand that you will never be set free and you have to buy, not a few scraps of paper, but my silence. Come, Cecily, be reasonable... and ‘make yourself at home.’”
She lay in a huddled heap on the couch, more dead than alive, unable to see any way of eluding her tormentor. She might go mad.
Passively and without moving as if she were unconscious of his presence she allowed him to take out the pins from her hat, and to remove the hat and veil from her glorious hair.
It was then that her son’s name slipped out from her colourless lips: — Bernard. How dear he must have been to her! At that dreadful moment when the man’s arms were already about her, there rose a vision of her son Bernard: the fruit of her sin. How bitterly she was to pay for that sin. And her punishment was only about to begin. It would be renewed whenever that man liked, whenever he held up a beckoning finger. Would that she were dead! Her death, alas, would avail her nothing, nor save the boy from the fate with which de Pont-Marie threatened him. Moreover he had charitably warned her that if at a time when she hardly knew what she was doing she endeavoured to escape from him by such fatal means, he would at once furnish the Marquis with the proof that the boy was not his son.
Suddenly she gave a cry and slipped out of the arms that held her:
“No, no “she said in a stifled voice, “Not that, not that. Money, money. Any money that you want but not that... My entire private fortune... Anything you like but that.”
“Oh” cried de Pont-Marie grinding his teeth in rage, for he had believed a moment ago that she was about to yield. “Oh, we’re not going to have the whole thing over again. Money? You know that I don’t need it. If I want any” he grinned in ominous fashion “your husband will provide it! But as to you, I want you... yourself. What do you take me for Cecily? You know very well that I don’t mix up questions of money with questions of love... I love you Cecily.”
“Scoundrel!”
He drove her into a corner. His arms were about her. She struck him and slipped away once more. He rushed at her infuriated. She fell on her knees, raised her hands, and moaned:
“I’m not a bad woman.”
“You he” he threw at her, exasperated, his features inflamed. “You always have lied. You lied to your husband and everyone else... You pretended to be a good woman and you were not so. If you don’t stop this farce before the evening, all the world shall know the sort of woman you are. You have had one lover. You may as well have a second. The first step over, the rest is easy.”
Still on her knees she clutched the hands that threatened her, and succeeded in placating his rage and in making him listen to her as, shaken with sobs, she tried once more to arouse his compassion. She told him a pitiful story and de Pont-Marie bent over her for a while to hear it.
She told him how it was that she had become Marcel Garavan’s mistress, and of the frightful incident which preceded the one fault of her life. The Marquis until the famous night before his departure for Norway was her husband only in name. She had married him in obedience to her dead father’s wishes and not because she loved him. The Marquis adhered to the conditions of this strange marriage though he attempted on more than one occasion to induce her to change her mind.
The Marquis’s pride suffered a rude rebuff and he determined to take a mean revenge. The evening before he sailed for northern waters he administered a sleeping draught which placed her at his mercy... And then he left her. Some few days later Marcel Garavan arrived. She had always been in love with him... Thus the Marquis’s conduct had its sequel...
The cries, tears, entreaties by which the story of this disgraceful incident was accompanied did not move de Pont-Marie. He saw in the recital only another reason for carrying his passion to the bitter end.
“What you tell me” he said, “doesn’t surprise me in the least. Your husband would stick at nothing. You were quite right to revenue yourself on him with Marcel Garavan, and now that Garavan is dead, you have only to revenge yourself on him once more with me!...”
She sobbed as if her heart would break. He took her in his arms again, and she gave herself up for lost when suddenly it was de Pont-Marie’s turn to utter a cry of terror. His arms unclosed and Cecily sank to the floor. De Pont-Marie was being throttled by the grip of an iron hand. A man had jumped out of a cupboard like a jack-in-the-box and was quietly strangling the Vicomte. It was the terrible Chéri-Bibi. Cecily rose to her feet overwhelmed with horror, and Chéri-Bibi more from pity for her than mercy for the wretched de Pont-Marie spared his life but told him savagely not to cross his path again. He threw him out of the room with such violence that he fell sprawling down the stairs on his back making a considerable noise, so that Cadol, the chauffeur, who was waiting patiently in the courtyard until he was wanted, ran up to see what the trouble was. He pushed open the door — a sight witnessed by de Pont-Marie with consternation for he had himself locked it — and asked de Pont-Marie, who had picked himself up and was rubbing his sides, the cause of the disturbance.
Scorning to reply to the impertinent question M. de Pont-Marie ordered the chauffeur to set his engine going at once, but the man replied, with the greatest coolness, that his master had just returned to Dieppe, and, as it happened, was in the house so that he could not take any further orders from his temporary employer.
“I am the Marquis du Touchais’s chauffeur” he said.
That was enough for M. de Pont-Marie who slunk away on foot, with rage in his heart, threats on his lips, meditating schemes of revenge.
Chéri-Bibi and Cecily were left upstairs face to face and looked at each other in silence, the former with eyes filled with the tenderest love and the latter showing signs of profound dismay. The Marquis’s arrival, while it disposed of de Pont-Marie’s hateful purpose, had by no means saved her. Far from it; for his intervention had acquainted him with a secret of which he ought to have remained ignorant throughout his life and to guard which Cecily had been on the verge of making the greatest sacrifice. The Marquis, hiding in the cupboard, had doubtless heard everything. He knew that Bernard was not his son. At the terrible thought that henceforth her son would bear the whole brunt of her sin she gave a sigh and fell in a dead faint.
When she came to herself she was in her own room in the Villa at Puys with her maids, her husband and her son standing round. The child, rejoiced to see his mother come to life again, heaped kisses on her. She returned his caresses in an unspeakable state of alarm.
She submitted to the attentions that were lavished on her but all the same dared not lift her eyes to the Marquis who spoke to her with a gentleness which unnerved her. In her innermost conscience she dreaded his attitude more than his anger or contempt or an immediate act of revenge. She knew the Marquis’s immense pride, and did not question that he had already settled in his own mind the plan of the catastrophe which by inevitable necessity was about to burst over her. So much play-acting was only the forerunner of the greater display of cruelty. Apparently he had determined that she should completely recover her strength in order to bear the blow that he had in store for her. She gave a shudder.
“Are you cold?” asked Chéri-Bibi gently taking her hand.
She looked up at him this time.
Was it true that he knew nothing? Was it possible that he had heard nothing? She read in his face so much real kindness that she might well believe in his ignorance. She saw him kiss Bernard with such obvious affection that she was mistaken. But at the very moment when he kissed him he asked the boy to leave the room so that his mother might have rest, and he sent the maids away, and she was seized with a new terror. He remained behind. He wanted to be alone with her. What was about to happen?
He still held her hand which trembled in his while an unutterable anguish overspread her features.
“Cecily” said Chéri-Bibi in a deep voice, “I heard eve
rything that passed between you and that man in the Villa at Pourville, but I swear to you on the life of the boy whom I kissed just now, that I have decided to let bygones be bygones.”
At first she was at a loss. She did not understand him. She was dazed by the shock of the tremendous announcement. She had to repeat to herself his words before hope dawned in her. The immensity of his forgiveness staggered her. When Chéri-Bibi saw her agitation he thought that she still doubted him, and he did not hesitate to show her the full measure of his generosity.
“You need not be afraid for yourself or our son. I shall continue to love the child. He will still bear my name. Bernard is innocent of the fault which it would ill become me to reproach you with. The real sinner is myself. After the manner in which I treated you I deserve every misfortune, but misfortunes are as nothing compared with the delight of seeing you perfectly happy. You deserve to be happy.”
While he was speaking Chéri-Bibi was good to look upon. His eyes gleamed brightly; his expressive features were animated with the joy of sacrifice; the light of a good action shed a crown upon him. He was no ordinary man. It was as though he had really assumed the form of an ideal marquis who rose above the prejudices of name and family pride, and consented, in spite of the most deadly injury, to treat as a son a child who was not his child. Not for a moment during this scene did he entertain the unworthy or base thought that it was easy for him to be magnanimous inasmuch as he had everything to gain and nothing to lose, not even honour. Not for a moment did he say to himself: “Whether the boy is the son of the Marquis du Touchais or Marcel Garavan is a matter of indifference to me since he is not my son.” On the lofty pinnacle on which he stood he was, in very sooth, the outraged husband who accomplished the superbly Christian act not only of forgiving the sin but of taking under his protection the sinner and the fruit of the sin.
“You are splendid” cried Cecily, bursting into sobs. And she threw her arms round his neck and drew him to her heart which was at last his.
“True, I am splendid” thought Chéri-Bibi in the delirium of his wife’s first kiss; and he needed nothing less than the consciousness of his greatness of soul to prevent him from giving way to exaggerated demonstrations of gratitude for a love which had at length been won after so long a pursuit.
Chéri-Bibi knew how to retain his magnanimity in that supreme moment. He knew how to yield to love... The soft shadows of twilight fell over the happiness of that home...
CHAPTER VI
THE HONEYMOON
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Chéri-Bibi was walking in his garden with an air which betrayed his satisfaction.
The Dodger came up to him and heard him talking to himself.
“What’s the matter monsieur le Marquis? You’re talking to yourself now.”
“I’m in the mood to make it up with Providence. What splendid weather and how beautiful the world is under this azure sky, how sweet the flowers smell, how fresh and invigorating the morning air is, and how freely one can breathe facing this calm sea. I am a happy man my dear Dodger, and I ask forgiveness of the good God for having ignored until to-day the greatness of his blessings.”
“I love to hear you talk like that. I assure you that when I saw you start off for Pourville with that ominous look on your face, suggestive of the worst calamities, I thought it was all over with our safety and happiness. Fatality still pursues him, I said to myself, and will always pursue him. Chéri-Bibi is returning to a life of crime.”
“I was going forward to love” replied the Marquis while he lifted his arms above his head corbel-wise in a gesture of enthusiasm which greatly impressed the Dodger. He drew still nearer and gazed at him with a slightly impertinent curiosity and asked him with uncompromising frankness:
“What is it that has changed you so?”
“I have changed because Cecily loves me my dear old Dodger.”
In order to show his absolute and eternal friendship the Marquis shook his secretary by the hand with a warmth that crushed the poor fellow’s fingers and brought the tears to his eyes.
“You’re hurting me” he ventured to whisper, his face white with pain.
“That’s a punishment my dear Dodger for the unfortunate habit you have of listening behind doors. Apart from the fact that one doesn’t do such things in decent society, it leads you, as your hearing is bad, to misunderstand what is said, and that is why I believed for a moment that the Marchioness, who is goodness itself, was in love with de Pont-Marie when, in fact, she loathes him. Bear in mind once for all that the Marchioness loves no one but me.”
Chéri-Bibi’s features were lit up with so much pride and delight, and he was overflowing with such high spirits, that Hilaire felt confident that his victory was complete.
“I congratulate you” he said. “For that matter I never doubted that you would win the day. Your qualities...”
“I say, Dodger, you needn’t pile it on too thick you know...”
“I assure you that I say what I think and that I am far from expressing all the esteem and confidence and...”
“All right... All right. What about yourself Dodger? Are you satisfied? You mentioned a certain Virginie...”
“Monsieur I can tell you that it looks as if everything would turn out well...”
“That’s a good thing. I’m not selfish, and when I’m happy I like everyone around me to be happy too. And now be off old man, because I see the Marchioness coming in her charming early morning dress.”
The Dodger did not wait to be asked a second time but hurried away bowing from afar to Cecily who was coming down the front steps, a white and graceful vision on the threshold of that happy household.
Chéri-Bibi hastened to meet her, holding out both hands, a smile of welcome on his face.
Cecily flushing slightly bent her forehead towards him that he might kiss it, but Chéri-Bibi drew her to him and tried for a moment to hold her prisoner.
“Mind the servants Maxime” she said gently.
“You are quite right” acquiesced her husband submissively. “Our happiness has nothing to do with anything or anybody and we must keep it to ourselves. Therefore to avoid the crowd, I propose darling, after careful consideration, a little honeymoon. If we go among strangers and travel under another name, we shall be able to live for ourselves. No society duty will interfere with our enjoyment because for me, and I hope for you, we are like a young couple who were only married yesterday.”
“I will do as you please dear” returned Cecily with a sweet smile. “Wherever we may be, as long as I am with you I shall be the happiest of women.”
They determined to go to Paris.
Chéri-Bibi began to show off and pretend to know all about Paris. In his fear lest he might not be considered sufficiently the marquis, he exaggerated the pleasures of Paris, of those melancholy and fleeting joys to which he had submitted with indifference on his return from America, and of which he spoke, without suspecting it, like a provincial. The thing that saved him was that Cecily’s mind was even simpler and less informed than his own.
In the train on their way to Saint Lazare, the great Paris terminus, Chéri-Bibi thought it well to return with a certain forced enthusiasm and what he deemed to be good taste, to the enumeration of the attractions that were in store for them, but Cecily nestled coaxingly up to him and said lifting her beautiful eyes to his:
“If Paris is going to take you away from me again, I shall never get over it.”
“No more shall!” returned Chéri-Bibi “because I assure you that I am tired of the empty life of a great aristocrat. So you have no cause to fear my love. There’s no-one in the world for Maxime but his Cecily.”
Love delights in sweet nothings and in a form of speech which is all the more childish the further the lovers are from the days of the nursery.
The train arrived at its destination. First they went to the telegraph office and sent a message to the governess and the Dodger who had been entrusted, between them, with the care of youn
g Bernard; and then they started or foot to see Paris, at Cecily’s wish, for the idea of walking along the streets and stopping before the shop windows attracted her.
The first thing which Chéri-Bibi’s eyes encountered as he stood on the asphalt of that Paris in which he had led so astonishing a life, was the omnibus-shelter in which Detective Inspector Costaud had so roughly tackled him in consequence of some, he knew not what, crime. He turned his head away.
‘They went up the Rue Auber and reached the Opera House which Cecily greatly admired under Chéri-Bibi’s guidance, and he did not forget to mention that in the old days he had a box.
“We’ll go to Faust” she said, “Faust at the Opera and Œdipus the King at the Comédie Française are what I want to see first.”
“And then the Emperor’s tomb” added Chéri-Bibi.
“You’re making fun of me” said Cecily pouting, “ I know that I’m not a Parisian but I’ll become one if you wish it.”
“Not I, my Cecily. Keep as you are. You’re a dear, and the most beautiful, the cleverest and the best of women. Not for the world would I see you become like one of those dolls with whom I wasted the best years of my life. They’ve neither heart nor brains and spend their time changing their clothes and powdering their faces.”
“What a miserable life” said Cecily.
“Yes, what a life for them and their husbands and their children if they have any. When I think of the way you have brought up our Bernard...”
“Our Bernard... How good you are to me Maxime.”
“Well if I’m as good as all that, we’ll see if there’s a performance of Faust this evening, and if there is, you shall have your wish straight away.”
The Marchioness hummed the first two hues from the song in Margarita’s garden:
Gentle flow’rs in the dew Be message from me...
It seemed indeed as if she were like a young bride easily and artlessly delighted in the veriest trifles, such as in a hat in a shop window which took her fancy, and which Maxime bought for her without haggling though it cost one hundred and fifty francs.
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 171