“No, senhora, I am in full possession of my faculties, and it’s you who have restored them to me. Do you remember in your walk yesterday the words which fell with so much delight from your lips, ‘Love is the supreme force in the world’?”
“But those were mere words.”
“Words! I know what words are. I sell them, for I am the grand master of words.... But I did not know what love was, Irene. You taught me, or rather you shall teach me.”
Irene had sat down facing this poor distracted man in love. She was no longer afraid of him. She pitied him. She would get rid of him within five minutes. She looked upon him as “crazy.”
“Monsieur,” she said in a tone of condescension, “I might have taken offence. I prefer to overlook remarks uttered without reflection, and behaviour that you will be the first to regret. But on one condition: You must go at once.”
“No,” he returned with an obstinacy that had something curiously childish in it, “I shall not go. I am, alas, too faint-hearted. I know myself. I should never be able to repeat what I have done to-night.”
“What you have done to-night is grossly improper, unworthy of you, and an insult to me.”
“It would be so,” he returned, regaining in part his self-assurance like a schoolboy pulling himself together after his first confusion at an examination, “if the sincerity and spontaneity of my love did not wipe out what may appear in your eyes as too sudden a declaration. The apparent impropriety of the act disappears before the greatness of the feelings which inspire it. Think of this, Irene: I was living an open and simple life until you appeared before me, like a goddess on earth, to make my heart thrill as it never thrilled before.... You took me by the hand...”
“I took you by the hand!”
“Do you wish to pain me by saying that you have already forgotten? If I live to be a hundred, if I live for ever, I shall always feel the touch of your soft and perfumed glove pressing my hand in the green shade of the Paseo Publico which you called ‘enchanting.’... Yes, it was an enchanting moment when, bending over me, you gave me a look as though you were drinking in my soul!”
“My look was drinking in your soul! Do you know what that is called in Paris? That is called: giving the glad eye! Be assured, dear monsieur, that I have never given anyone the glad eye!”
“Madame,” he replied, shaking his head, “I may be crazy, but I am sincere. It occurred before the bronze statue of our great poet, Goncalves Dias, while I was reciting some of his lines. Just think a moment, Irene he moved his chair nearer and Irene drew back hers — at that last line, ‘Love makes our hearts beat faster,’ you did not withdraw your hand but pressed mine, and I was almost fainting with joy. It seemed to me that the same emotion was flowing in our veins and our two hearts were beating as one. Had not that divine moment been disturbed by interlopers I should have fallen at your feet and cried, ‘Let us love and forget the world!’”
Mademoiselle Irene de Troie was flabbergasted. No single word can afford the least idea of the state of mind of this Queen of the Stage who, in ignorance of her oncoming fate, regarded that moment as the most extraordinary in her life. Let us say then that she was petrified.
“But, grand master, you are absurdly mistaken,” she exclaimed. “All this talk is Greek to me, and I don’t understand Greek, more’s the pity. I noticed nothing. If I listened to you with pleasure, if I pressed your hand in encouragement, which is perhaps imagination on your part — for I perceive that you are gifted with a great deal of imagination — believe me it was to your poet alone, the poet whose bronze statue stood before us that this purely literary manifestation was addressed.”
“You did not look at the statue. Your eyes were on me, and no one ever looked at me like that before.”
Thereupon Manoel sprang from his chair exultingly.
“Oh... don’t come near me or I shall call out,” cried Irene.
“I am not afraid of a scandal, but I do fear offending you,” he gasped. “Calm yourself, I am not a brute. I have too much confidence in you, in your heart and intelligence, not to feel certain that you will forgive the bungling of an honest man who has flung himself into love as one flings oneself into the sea.”
“But what do you expect? What do you want?”
“I want you to rescue me and join your life to mine for ever!”
“Oh, you don’t say so!... Is that all?”
“Yes, madame, that is all. I should have been the lowest of wretches had I forced your door impelled by a feeling that was not everlasting.”
“But this is madness. I am a married woman.”
“And I am a married man, but for exceptional persons like ourselves, the marriage law is but a feeble obstacle.... And, as to this, let me recall the dazzling words about love which fell from your lips two days ago when you presided with such incomparable grace at the prefect’s tea-table, from which the prefect and I came away overwhelmed. The prefect went for a cold bath, and I to indulge in dreams. Temperaments differ. ‘Real love,’ you said, ’is independent of truths, conventions, established customs. Worship and sacrifice — these are invincible!’ Oh, those glorious words on your lips! With what delight you dwelt on each syllable, O sweet charmer! Sacrifice me if you must, but let me worship you!”
So saying the permanent secretary, with outstretched arms and trembling hands, took a few steps towards Irene, who warily retreated to the door, for this fantastic scene had occurred in the small drawing-room which served her as a boudoir, and she fled into her bedroom slamming the door behind her.
Alas, she nearly flattened him without succeeding in getting away. He, too, had darted forward, and was caught between the door and the framework; but he allowed no cry to escape his lips though he dropped his spectacles. He closed the door behind him, turned the key, put it with the first in his pocket, and sat down calmly in a chair without waiting to be asked this time.
His obstinacy, instead of disarming her, ended by driving her to exasperation, and she gave vent to language which must have been terribly wounding to his self-esteem. But Manoel’s only reply was to take off his great coat, which he carefully placed on the back of his chair, resuming his seat with knitted brows and a face like a wooden doll. He seemed to take no heed of the turned-down bed and the delightful trifles of feminine intimacy spread out around him, but stared with an hypnotic ardour at his own shining pumps.
“If in five minutes you do not cease this horrible jesting, I will summon assistance in spite of the scandal, for it will fall entirely on you and yours, and your wife and daughters will be the first to suffer....”
The five minutes sped by. He had not stirred. He did not stir.
Beads of perspiration trickled down our national Celimene’s forehead, for whatever she may have said, she dreaded a scandal less on his than on her own account. She thought with horror of her compromised reputation, of the sensation which the incident would create among her enemies if it became known in Paris, of what her husband, Octave, might think of it, for she had not yet been able to fathom his real character, and his assumed attitude of scepticism might contain some disagreeable surprises for her.
Unable to make up her mind what to do, she pulled forward the small table on which Sylvia had, as usual, set a cold collation tastefully served in glass dishes. A small bottle of champagne lay in a bucket of ice. Irene began to eat though she had no appetite. She decided to effect some reconciliation which, she thought, might be the means of bringing the permanent secretary back to ordinary decorum.
“If the spirit moves you, you may join me in this frugal meal,” she said. “You see I bear you no ill-will, and after all this extravagant talk we may still part good friends. Come, grand master, no sulking....”
She imagined that she had succeeded. His immobility fell away as if by magic. And when he rose with as much calm as earlier he had shown agitation, Celimene might well believe that the danger was over. Nevertheless he made no answer. He took off his coat and quietly hung it on the window
latch.
Irene, Queen of the Stage, with flaming cheeks started up with a gesture of indignation which would have won the unanimous approbation of the critics had they been present.
“Oh, come, this is carrying it too far,” she cried. “Now I shall have you thrown out.”
Manoel divested himself of his waistcoat without a word.
“And know that I shall lodge a complaint with the police. Besides, I shall send for the prefect.”
Manoel undid his braces and went behind the curtains of the bed.
“Your behaviour, monsieur, which was hateful is now indecent. What next, I wonder!”
Manoel still remained silent, but a pair of trousers fell into the middle of the room.... A few seconds later Don Manoel was in bed — in the bed of our national Celimene!
Irene gave a cry, a hoarse cry this time, something like a moan of exasperation, and fell into a chair shedding tears of rage. Manoel was in no way moved by them. He had got into her bed as though it were his own, making himself comfortable, and, to all seeming, quite prepared to enjoy a refreshing sleep after the heavy strain of the night.
He turned round with his face to the wall. But Irene was no longer looking at him. She was staring at the trousers on the floor. She remembered the ringing sound that came from them.... The keys!... Her salvation lay in those keys.
With the cunning of a Red Indian she drew the grand master’s garment towards her without making the least sound, then mastering her repugnance, stooped and slipped a shaking hand into the pocket containing the keys. She managed to seize hold of them without attracting Manoel’s attention. She drew herself up and stood for a moment holding her breath. She was trembling with shame.
When she recovered her self-command she darted forward in a flash to the door. By good fortune the first key which she tried turned the lock. The door, opened with the greatest precaution, did not creak. Contenting herself with pushing it back, she passed through the boudoir, the thick pile carpet deadening her footsteps. A few seconds later she was in the corridor. She rushed to the staircase and sought sanctuary, breathlessly, in Sylvia’s bedroom on the topmost floor.
The maid had some difficulty in calming her mistress who, choking with rage, was longing for a swift and striking revenge. In the end the dictates of prudence which counselled silence prevailed.
They both stood at the window to witness Don Manoel’s departure, for he had no reason to remain in a room from which Irene had fled. Unfortunately the last hours of the night sped by without offering them a sight of the wretched man. The hotel door remained closed, and an ashen hue on the sky overhead heralded the dawn which comes in those parts with sudden and startling rapidity.
“He must go before daylight,” muttered Irene.
“That’s what I think, but we have no time to lose,” said Sylvia. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll go down and see what the hothead is doing.”
She left the room but returned almost at once.
“Oh, madame, he was sleeping like a little child.”
“It’s amazing. Didn’t you try to wake him up?”
“I shook him. He asked me what the time was, and when I told him, he said he never got up before seven o’clock. Then he turned his back on me.”
“It’s monstrous! Come down with me, Sylvia. Between us we may be able to manage him.”
Don Manoel had fallen asleep again; his mouth was agape and he was smiling, apparently, at all the saints in paradise. They roused him somewhat roughly from his dreams.
“It’s morning,” shouted Irene, with a tragic expression on her face. “A scandal may even yet be avoided. Go!”
He turned his face to the wall again, dragging the bedclothes with him and wrapping them round him with a gesture of impatience.
Then they seized hold of him like two furies, forced him into his trousers and coat and boots, put his hat on his head, and marched him off to the entrance lobby where they gave him in charge of the janitor who helped him on with his braces. Irene promised the man a princely tip if he would hold his tongue and take his Excellency home.
Manoel did not resist them, nor did he raise any protest, but he rendered them no assistance. He had to be carried out to a taxi like a puppet. When the taxi disappeared Irene, standing at her window, breathed the one word “Whew!” and fell fainting into the arms of Sylvia who had to bathe her forehead and rub her down with a washing glove for some time before she could restore her to consciousness.
CHAPTER II.
IN WHICH IRENE REALIZES THAT HER ADVENTURE WITH DON MANOEL DE CARANGOLA IS ONLY JUST BEGINNING
TWO DAYS WENT by during which Irene heard no word of the grand master. The previous evening she achieved a great success in “The Taming of the Shrew,” but Manoel was not in the theatre. No echo of her disagreeable adventure had reached her ears, and she was beginning to recover from the effects of so much excitement when Sylvia entered her room with a startled look on her face.
“What is it, Sylvia? Has that madman returned by any chance?”
“No, madame, but I fear it’s something even worse.”
Irene, who was dressing, dropped her powder puff.
“What could be worse than my encounter with that spectacled maniac I should like to know!”
“Seven ladies, madame, ask to see you.”
“Seven! Do you really mean seven? Have you counted them correctly, Sylvia? Well, my girl, even if there are a dozen or a couple of dozen, I should certainly receive them with greater pleasure than that crazy de Cararigola.”
“It seems to me, madame, that I recognize from what I have heard, Madame de Carangola and her six daughters.”
Irene grew pale, rose from her seat, wrapped herself more closely in a splendid dressing-gown beflowered with gold and silver leaves, and drew herself up with a dramatic gesture.
“Are you sure? Didn’t she give her name?”
“No, madame, she simply said, ‘Will you tell your mistress that seven ladies wish to see her at once on a matter of life or death.’”
“A matter of life or death!” repeated Irene, sinking her voice, and then added in a tone of great dignity, “Do they think they’re going to frighten me?”
Irene was accustomed to loud applause on the stage when she made these theatrical movements. She was conscious of the thousand eyes riveted on her in emotion as she declaimed the actual words of the play, and people cried: What an actress! What a wonderful piece of acting!
What would these people, who judged her by the distinction which she knew how to impart to the veriest literary tinsel, have said if they had seen her, in this hotel bedroom, confronting alone the danger which menaced her? It was not for Sylvia that she displayed this dramatic harmony which radiated from a beautiful mind in a beautiful body. Her dignity and magnanimity were all on her own account. And yet she realized how much was to be feared from the spirit of revenge seething in the veins of these Portuguese women influenced by their life in Brazil. Seven! Seven of them had come to call her to account for an offence for which she was scarcely to blame. Seven! Six of them meant to avenge a father, and one to avenge a husband held in honour by his family and country up to the fatal day of her coming. Seven tigresses thirsting for her blood!... And yet it was in vain that Sylvia begged and implored her mistress to have the formidable herd driven away.
“Show them in,” she ordered. And they were shown in.
Sylvia flattened her ear behind the door to no purpose, for she merely gathered a few words in a foreign tongue of a scene which greatly inflamed her curiosity.
Meanwhile Irene, whose face was as white as marble and not less hard, took stock of the strange procession with the dignity of a statue. First came Dona Maria, the mother, a portly creature attired in the manner of an earlier generation. Without condescending to any of the usual civilities, she explained who she was, and presented her six daughters all as dark as night, their glorious eyes gleaming with an ingenuous and mysterious fire. She named them in order beginning with the eldes
t who might have been eighteen: Leonora, Virginia, Angelina, Isabella, Flora and Rosalia. They were all clad in the most magnificent but antiquated style. In that intensely modern city, one of the greatest and handsomest in the world, where the love of luxury equalled that of any European capital, Irene might well be surprised to behold this gallery of family portraits bedecked with such abundant pretentiousness in the silks and prints and damasks of an almost forgotten age.
The permanent secretary’s house must have contained many a receptacle filled with this old lumber, the glory of our great-grandmothers, for the austere-looking Dona Maria religiously and regularly drew upon them, for she was renowned for her aggressive economy and the tyrannical austerity with which she ruled her household.... Her almsgiving was fearful to behold! It was said that when engaged in charitable work she carried a dagger in her reticule. Dona Maria’s character, such as we now know it, gives the key to her husband’s twenty years of enforced wisdom and discretion, his devotion to his birds, his madness of a moment.
“Mademoiselle, don’t be surprised to see me here with my six daughters. I have taken this step at the suggestion of my father confessor.”
“I had no need to consult mine before deciding to receive you, for I haven’t one,” returned Irene with equal loftiness of manner. “Won’t you sit down?”
“No, Mademoiselle, my daughters have come to ask you, on their knees, to give them back the father you have taken from them.... On your knees, my children. On your knees to Mademoiselle.”
Submissive, Leonora and her sisters dropped to their knees, bowing their heads to the ground as they bowed to the ground in church before the image of the Blessed Virgin.
“But, madame, I have not taken anything from them,” cried Irene bewildered by a scene which she was far from expecting. “Is not your husband at home? I had him sent there after getting rid of him.”
“Mademoiselle, his Excellency has begun a hunger strike. For the last three days he has refused to eat anything.”
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 435