CHAPTER XXVII
FROM THE SUBLIME TO THE RIDICULOUS
Any one who wishes to understand the meaning of the proverb, "There is only one step from the sublime to the ridiculous," should gamble on the stock-exchange; there he will learn the full meaning of the words.
To-day you are a deity, to-morrow the meanest of street curs. To-day sixty agents shriek out the name of your speculation; you are a sort of king, and all the other kings on 'change study your countenance to see how the wind shifts. To-day, so soon as one o'clock strikes by the town clock, a swarm of buyers come round you. Your note-book is held up to the view of all the agents. It is handed from one to another; it is placed upon the back of an agent, and the competitors write the number of shares they want. To-day all hands point to the percentage, which is the proof of your high estate. To-day the crowd who are speculating on your credit fill all the passages; they scream out, "I sell!" "I buy!" Even outside the stock-exchange sweet creatures of the opposite sex, who like dabbling in stock quite as much as do the male creation, make their books. Women are prohibited from showing their faces on 'change; but they gamble all the same. Hundreds of ladies wait upon the stock-broker, with a copy of the exchange list in their hands; they have marked your shares. Still greater ladies sit outside the exchange in their grand carriages. In their eagerness they stretch their heads out of their carriage windows to know from the first-comer at what figure the shares—your shares—stand.
This is all to-day. To-morrow you are not to be found; your name is scratched out of the exchange list. Every one knows that your affair has "burst." You are nowhere. You are nobody. Your place is empty.
The firm of Kaulmann stood at the summit of its triumph. Felix and his bosom friend, the Abbé Samuel, were enjoying their afternoon siesta. The room was full of a cloud of smoke, and under its soothing influence the friends were building castles in the air.
"To-morrow," said Felix, "the pope's loan upon the Hungarian Church lands will be floated at the exchange."
"To-morrow I shall receive from Vienna my appointment as titular Bishop of the Siebenbürger."
"The silver kings are ready to plank down their millions on the loan."
"The pope gives it his blessing," murmured the abbé. "The cardinal's hat is ready for my head."
"The legitimist financiers have shown a decided objection to my wife appearing on the stage. This may injure the loan; therefore I intend to-morrow to explain to her that she is not legally my wife."
"Is it true that Prince Waldemar has arrived in Paris?"
"Yes, he has come after Eveline."
"But his presence here will be injurious to our speculation. He is our declared enemy."
"He cannot injure us now. Since he met such a total defeat in the matter of the Bondavara mine and the railway his teeth have been drawn. He and his bears have kept very quiet."
"Then it is Eveline who has brought him here?"
"He is mad about her; he follows her everywhere like a dog, and is only anxious to pick up any crumb she will give him."
"But she cannot endure him."
"That is the worse for her. It was greatly Prince Theobald's doing. That old fellow is mad."
"Is it not the case that the Countess Angela's husband wants to put the prince's affairs into the hands of trustees?"
"Before we left Vienna there was some talk of it."
"Will this affect in any way the Bondavara shares?"
"In no way. The only unmortgaged portion of his capital is absolutely made over to the company. I can assure you, the Bondavara speculation is built upon a rock of gold."
As he spoke three telegraphic despatches were brought in by the servant. One of these was addressed to the abbé, under cover to the firm of Kaulmann.
"Lupus in fabulâ," said Kaulmann, as he handed the first telegram to the abbé. The abbé read:
"The Prince Theobald has been declared incapable of managing his own affairs."
"Poor Eveline, she will have leisure to repent!" remarked Felix, with a cynical smile.
As he was speaking the abbé opened the telegram addressed to him. He handed it to Felix, saying:
"And I, too, shall have time to repent."
"The minister has resigned; the emperor has accepted his resignation; the whole system is to be changed."
"Good-bye to the bishop's mitre, to the cardinal's hat; good-bye to the velvet arm-chair in the House of Peers."
They read the third telegram together. It contained these words:
"Explosion in the Bondavara colliery. The whole mine is on fire."
"This is indeed a blow," said Felix, as he let the telegram fall from his hand. The three telegrams had come like three flashes of lightning. The last was the worst.
When the news reached Prince Waldemar he would let the bears loose with a vengeance. Something must be done to avert the imminent danger—but what?
If there was only time allowed to float the papal loan such small things as the Bondavara shares and the burning of mines would be of little consequence. But could the enemy be reduced to silence?
It was settled that the abbé should without delay repair to Eveline, and that Kaulmann should speak to Prince Waldemar.
The beaming faces of the two men now wore a sombre air. They had only one card to play—the smile of a woman was their only salvation.
CHAPTER XXVIII
TWO CHILDREN
Eveline had arrived in Paris at a very important moment. Two great changes had been made in the world of fashion: the Empress Eugenie had decreed that the crinoline should be laid aside, and Cardinal Chigi, the papal nuncio, had pronounced that dresses closed to the throat should be worn at receptions. Piety had become the rage. It was considered good taste to go to church and to wait for the sermon.
Piety being, therefore, the fashion, no better moment could have been chosen by Kaulmann for floating the papal loan. He was well pleased to find that Eveline was as eager in the pursuit of piety as any of her fair sisters, the truth being that it harmonized with the poor child's frame of mind. A few days after her arrival in Paris her cripple brother had died. A celebrated surgeon had performed an operation which had put him out of pain forever. Eveline grieved over her loss; now she felt alone in the world, she had no one to love, no one to live for. She kept the boy's useless crutches in her room, one on each side of her dressing-table, and twice a week she went to the church-yard and put fresh flowers on the little grave. The penitential fashion just suited her. She preferred to sing Mozart and Handel in the church than Verdi at the opera.
One day she conceived the idea that she would have a sacred concert in her own drawing-room; the price of the tickets should be high, and the proceeds would be for some good purpose—God knows what! perhaps to buy arms for the papal zouaves. She was busy making out her programme when the door opened, and Arpad Belenyi, unannounced, rushed in in his old unceremonious way.
Eveline was delighted to see her former friend. She threw down her pen, ran to meet him, holding out both her hands.
"Oh, you delightful person, what has brought you here?"
"My profession. I am looking for some place where I may strike the cymbals and give a concert."
"What a coincidence; you have come at the right moment. But how did you find me out?"
"Not much difficulty in that. If I didn't see your name in the list at the Opera, I couldn't avoid seeing it outside St. Eustache."
"Then you have heard me sing?"
"In both places—the theatre and the church. I must tell you I think the good fathers lay it on pretty strong. For twelve francs I heard you at the Opera, and had the play into the bargain; but I didn't get out of the church so cheap. A beautiful lady took twenty francs from me."
"You silly man! Well, I will pay it back to you. What are your terms?"
"May I ask your reason for the question?"
"How stupid you are! I am not going to engage you for a restaurant. What are your terms for playing the piano at an evening concert?"
"To you, merely thanks; to the public, five hundred francs."
"But if it is for a charitable purpose?"
"Then either not at all or for money."
"No, no. You are a cynical creature! Don't you feel sympathy for any one? Would you do nothing for the poor?"
"I know a poor woman to whom I owe everything; that is my mother. Every farthing which I give to another is taken from her. When the world has given back to her all that she has lost, then I shall give to the world all that I possess; but until then everything belongs to my mother."
"Very good; you shall pay your mother. You shall have the five hundred francs; but for this you must play something super-excellent—Liszt's Mass or one of Handel's oratorios."
"What is the concert got up for? Is it to help a religious object? or is it for the papal zouaves?"
"Yes. I am arranging it."
"Then I can do nothing."
"Why so?"
"Why, because I shall not play for Garibaldi's enemies!"
"Oh, what a goose you are, to be sure! Who asks you to play for Garibaldi's enemies? You play for my friends."
But the young man kept repeating no, no, he wouldn't, and in his excitement he got up from his seat, and, throwing back his waistcoat, showed her that he wore a red shirt.
Eveline laughed unrestrainedly. "A red shirt! So that means that you have enlisted as a Garibaldian?"
"I should have done so long ago only for my mother."
"And what would you do if your hand was shot off?"
"Then I should become a pensioner to some fine lady, who would, I know, support me."
Eveline burst into tears. His words had touched a chord in her tender heart. Arpad, however, could not imagine what he had said to grieve her; he tried to console her, and asked how he had offended her. Still sobbing, she said:
"My poor little brother is dead. There by my table I keep his crutches."
"I am sorry for you; with all my heart I sympathize in your grief. He and I were good friends; we had plenty of fun together."
"Yes; you liked him. The world is quite dead to me; everything is changed. I listen for the sound of his crutches scratching along the floor up the stairs. Ah, my little brother! I have no one now. I want some one to take care of. I should like to nurse some one—an artist who had lost his eyesight; a musician whose right hand had been shot off; or a political hero, who, being pursued, concealed himself in my room, and to whom I should be benefactress, protectress, bread-winner, everything."
"Why don't you go to Garibaldi?"
She was laughing now; her moods were as variable as an April day.
"You have heard me sing in public. What do you say of me?"
"I say you would be a great artist if you could sing for the devils as well as you do for the angels."
"I don't understand. What do you mean by the devils?"
"You surely have heard from the pulpit that the theatre is the devil's synagogue?"
"You rude man! Don't you know that I belong to the theatre?"
"I beg pardon a thousand times. I believed that in the daytime you were an abbess and at night you were an actress; that would be a fair bargain."
"You silly boy! Why do you think I am an abbess?"
"Because you are dressed as such."
"This is only a penitential dress. You godless creature, you are making fun of religion!"
"No, madame. I agree that it is a great mortification to wear gray silk, a great penance to play the coquette with downcast eyes, a real fast to eat crawfish at twenty francs the dish. I am also told that the reason the fashionable ladies of Paris have taken to wearing high dresses is that they discipline the flesh so severely that their shoulders and necks are one mass of scars, and therefore the effects of their flagellations must be concealed."
"That is not true. We don't do anything of the kind."
"The world says so. I don't want to inquire; it is your secret."
"It is not true," Eveline repeated. "We do not flagellate ourselves; look!" And kneeling down before Arpad she raised the lace collar which was round her neck and made him look at her fair skin.
They were a pair of children.
Arpad took his hat and his leave. He left a card with his address, but he would have no share in her concert.
Eveline, however, went on writing her programme.
CHAPTER XXIX
IMMACULATE
Eveline was still writing her programme when the Abbé Samuel was announced. In Paris it is not thought out of the way for an abbé to visit an actress, and, for the rest, the abbé was an old friend, well known to both husband and wife. He was naturally very much interested in the concert, and read the programme most attentively.
"It would have been all so nice," said Eveline, in a vexed tone, "only for that stupid Arpad. See, father, just there, between my song and the violoncello solo, he would have come in so well."
"Is Arpad in town?"
"Yes, he has only just gone. I begged of him to help my concert; and my song from the Stabat Mater would have gone so much better to the harmonium, and he accompanies beautifully; but he has grown quite silly; he has become a heretic."
The priest shook his sides with laughter, and then a sudden idea struck him. It was plain Eveline liked Arpad, which was only natural, for they were about the same age. He was twenty, she nineteen—a pair of children, and children like to amuse themselves. They don't care for serious things; that comes later. What if he made use of Arpad to introduce Waldemar?
"I should like to take a bet with you that Arpad Belenyi will play the piano at your concert, and that, moreover, he will accompany your Stabat Mater on the harmonium. If he does so, what will you give me?"
"Oh, he won't do it; you may be sure of that! I know him well; he is very obstinate once he takes anything into his cockatoo's head, and if I have not been able to persuade him—"
Eveline had immense faith in the magic power of her black eyes.
"Well, you shall see. What will you give me if I succeed?" repeated the abbé.
Eveline replied to this question by another:
"How do you mean to get round him?" She said nothing of what she would give in case he succeeded.
"Oh, there are many ways; for instance, I might say to him that if he played in your drawing-room it is very likely he may be engaged by the empress, and that then his fortune was made—at least, for this season. An artist would at once see what a chance this would be. Then I would offer him money."
"I have done that already—five hundred francs."
"Well, although a young man may turn up his nose at five hundred francs, an old woman will appreciate a hundred Napoleons at their true value. Arpad must obey his mother's wishes, and what she promises for him he must do. I know the circumstances."
"You are a very sensible man. I should have begun with the mother, but it never occurred to me. Well, manage it all for me. If you only accomplish it I shall do whatever you ask me."
She was in such good-humor that the abbé saw he could ask her anything; still, it was with a slight hesitation that he said:
"I want you to give me an invitation for your charity concert for a friend of mine."
"You shall have ten," cried Eveline, joyfully.
"I only require one, but this invitation must be written with your own hand."
"Give me the name of your friend and I will write the card this moment."
As she spoke she seated herself at her writing-table, took an invitation-card from her drawer, and made all ready to begin.
"Now the name."
"Prince Waldemar Sondersheim."
When she heard the name Eveline threw down her pen and sprang hastily to her feet.
"No," she said, decidedly, "never!"
The abbé burst into a shrill laugh. "Your excitement is very becoming," he said. "You are a fine actress."
"I shall not invite Prince Sondersheim to my concert," returned Eveline, seating herself on the sofa with a defiant air.
"Is the prince disagreeable to you?"
"I loathe him."
"Do you imagine that the world contains nothing but simpletons like Arpad Belenyi?"
Eveline got up from the sofa, went to the writing-table, and tore the programme she had been writing into a hundred pieces.
"Arpad may stay at home, tied to his mother's apron-strings. I don't want him nor any one. I'll give up the concert;" and she threw the torn fragments of her programme into the fireplace.
The abbé rose from his seat and took the excited girl by the hand.
"Compose yourself, my dear young lady," he said. "I have come to you on a most urgent matter—a matter which is of serious consequence to you and your husband, and I do not deny that it is of great moment to me. I may, in fact, call it of vital importance to each one of us. If it should turn out as badly as it threatens your husband shall have to go to America, I must return to my monastery, and what will become of you I do not know."
Eveline sat down again on the sofa. She listened to him attentively.
"At all events, you will have to go out of this," went on the abbé, "and that without loss of time. You must know that the old Prince Theobald, after you had returned to him the palace in the Maximilian Strasse, which he had made a present to you, took shares in your name in the Bondavara Company to the amount of a million."
"I never knew it," said Eveline.
"That proves that you never thought of asking your husband what the expense of this splendid hotel was, to say nothing of your magnificent carriage and horses, your numerous servants, your conservatory—"
"I thought that my salary, added to what Herr Kaulmann—" She stopped suddenly; the incredulous smile on the abbé's lips made her silent. He continued:
"All this splendor is at an end. A telegram which came a few hours ago brings the news that, at the suit of his son-in-law, Prince Theobald's affairs have been placed in the hands of trustees; the trustees will, without any doubt, seize the shares taken for you."
"They may do as they like," returned the girl, indifferently.
"Oh, there may be a lawsuit! But there is worse to come. Another telegram brings the news that last week there was a fearful explosion at the Bondavara colliery."
At this news Eveline gave a cry; then quickly asked:
"And Herr Behrend, has his mine also exploded?"
The abbé looked somewhat surprised, but continued, in his earnest manner:
"I believe not. The company's shares, however, have received a terrible blow. The more so, that one of the collieries is still burning, with no chance of being extinguished."
As he spoke he looked fixedly at her, and his penetration soon took in the truth: that her joy at the escape of Behrend's property outweighed her sorrow for her husband's loss.
"You can understand," continued the abbé, "in what danger we are of actual ruin; everything now depends upon one thing. Of course, you are aware that, in consequence of the Bondavara Company, Kaulmann's reputation is one of the highest in the financial world. Millions of money have actually been put into the affair, and ten times as much is floating in the air of the stock-exchange. Money is not a tangible quantity. This catastrophe—which, after all, may still be averted, for it is possible that the fire may be extinguished—will be a terrible engine in the hands of the enemies of the company, who want, above all things, to upset Kaulmann. The colliery explosion is a powder-mine in the hands of the bears. To-day he is a king, hands full of gold are stretched out to him, a hundred millions are eagerly offered to him; to-morrow these very people will surround him, clamoring to get back their money, which they have intrusted to him. Whether the cry is raised or not depends altogether on one man, and this man is Prince Waldemar Sondersheim. He is here; he arrived to-day. Probably he has had news of the explosion sooner than Kaulmann, whose director, Rauné, no doubt, hoped against hope to get the fire under. Kaulmann's fate lies in the hands of Prince Sondersheim, and so does my own. I do not conceal it. I was the pivot of an enormous, world-wide project. To-morrow Kaulmann's proposal for the Church loan was to be laid before the financial world of Paris and Brussels; it is an important crisis that may give to history a new page. If Prince Waldemar makes use of his knowledge of the collapse of the Bondavara Company to raise a cry against us, then the whole fabric upon which so much is built vanishes as a dream. If he or his bears call out on the exchange that the Bondavara shares are sixty per cent. below par we are lost. If he keeps silent the loan will float splendidly, and then the Bondavara misfortune will sink into a matter of small importance, such as constantly occurs in the money-market. Now you can understand what an effect a word from you may have, and what you can do if you speak this word."
Eveline shook her head, and laid her finger on her lips; she looked the very genius of silence.
"What!" cried the abbé, his anger getting the better of him, "you refuse? You think more of one word that can cost you nothing than of the consequences? The Holy See may be overthrown, the standard of infidelity may be unfurled, the saints torn from their shrines—and all for a woman's caprice."
Eveline spread out her arms as if she were engaged in a combat with a giant. She called out, in a resolute voice:
"No; I cannot speak to that man."
The abbé grew angry. He said to himself if he could not persuade this vexatious woman, at least he would give himself the pleasure of wounding her in a tender point. He took his hat in his hand, and, holding it behind his back, said, in a cold, cutting voice:
"I neither understand your dislike to the prince nor your extreme delicacy. Prince Sondersheim is no way inferior to the men you have admitted to your intimacy."
At this insult Eveline seized the hand of the abbé, and cried, with a sudden abandonment of her usual reserve:
"Oh, father, I have never been a wife; I am still as innocent as a child!"
The abbé looked at her in unfeigned astonishment. He saw by her burning blushes, her modest, downcast eyes, her childish sobs, that she was speaking the truth. He sighed deeply; he could not help it. It was his last stake, and he had lost. Good-bye to glory, to greatness. All had vanished into thin air at Eveline's words; they had scattered his dreams. He recognized that all the great deeds which have made men famous were as dust and ashes in comparison with the real nobility of soul possessed by this peasant girl, this woman who, in obedience to her husband's infamous commands, and because she had sworn to obey him, had worn the mask of a Phryne while she preserved the purity of a saint. By no act of his should she descend from her pedestal.
"Eveline," he said, in a voice of deep emotion, "the words you have spoken banish me to my cell. My dreams of power and splendor lie in the dust—their fitting place. You said,'I am still innocent'; my child, keep yourself so. The French law recognizes no marriage unless it has been contracted before the civil authorities. Your marriage with Felix Kaulmann is in this country null and void; you are here Mademoiselle Eva Dirkmal, nothing more. You can tell Kaulmann that I have told you this. I have given him the same information, as he wished to free himself from this nominal tie to you. And now, farewell; I return to my monastery, to reconcile myself with an offended God."
Eva Dirkmal threw herself at the feet of the priest, and covered his hands with tears and kisses.
"Put your hand upon my head," she sobbed, "and ask God to bless me."
"My daughter," said the abbé, "an invincible hand watches over you and protects you. May you ever be thus safely guarded."
With these words the priest left the room. He did as he said; he sought no further interview with Kaulmann, but went straight to the railway, and buried himself in his monastery. The world knew him no more.
CHAPTER XXX
MAN AND WIFE
Felix lost no time in seeking an interview with Prince Waldemar. He preferred to look for him in his own house than to meet him accidentally on 'change.
Waldemar did not keep him long waiting, neither did he treat him to any display of his superior rank. He received him in his study.
"Ah, your highness is occupied with business," said Felix, with the airy manner of an intimate friend; but he was secretly astonished to see that a man of the prince's high position was actually cutting the pages of the pamphlet before him, and underlining with red and blue pencil-marks the passages that pleased him most.
The prince laid down the pamphlet, and asked Felix to take a chair.
"I have only this moment heard," continued the banker, "that your excellency had arrived in Paris, and I hastened to be the first to pay my respects."
"Strange! At this very moment, I, too, was occupying myself with your affairs," returned the prince, with a peculiar smile, which Felix noted and thought he understood. He tried to put on a jaunty air as he made answer:
"I have come as an envoy under the protection of a flag of truce into the enemy's country."
The prince thought to himself, "The fellow's flag of truce is a handkerchief worked with the letter E."
"Even greater powers than we," went on Felix, twirling his hat in his fingers with some embarrassment, "have in sudden emergencies co-operated, and from being enemies have become fast friends, recognizing that to bury the hatchet was for their mutual advantage."
"And may I inquire what is for our mutual advantage?"
"My projected loan."
The prince said nothing, but the smile that played upon his thin lips was a sufficient and most irritating answer. Felix began to lose his calmness. He rose from his chair, and in his earnestness leaned over the table at which the prince was sitting.
"Prince," he said "this loan is for the benefit of the Holy See. You are, I know, a good Catholic."
"Who has betrayed my secret?"
"Besides, you are a thorough aristocrat. It must go against your highness's feelings to see that while in Hungary a bureaucratic minister pillages the Church and puts its revenues in his pocket, a band of freebooters throws the patrimony of St. Peter to the mob. All this can be prevented by our striking one blow. You will strike it, for you are a nobleman in the best sense of the word."
"What else am I?"
"Above all, you are a financier. It cannot escape your keen eye that this loan is one of the greatest, the soundest of speculations; for you are a prudent man, and you know how to add two and two."
"Have I any other qualifications?"
Waldemar's cold, sarcastic rejoinders did not put Felix out of countenance. His face assumed a still more amiable expression as he offered his hand to the prince, saying, in a cordial manner:
"I trust you will be the honored friend of the house of Kaulmann."
These words would be met either by a warm shake of the hand or by a box on the ear. He ran the risk, waiting breathlessly for the answer, which was different from, and yet worse than, that he expected. The prince took up the pamphlet which he had been busy underlining with red and blue pencil.
"Now, my excellent brother in the faith, my fellow aristocrat, my comrade in finance, and my best friend, just you throw your eye over this little brochure, for there you will find my answer. I beg that you will take your time."
He handed the pamphlet to Felix, and while that gentleman cast his eye over it the prince pared his nails carefully.
Felix laid down the pamphlet. "This purports to be my biography."
"As I think the title-page mentions."
"Your highness is, I presume, the writer?"
"I have given the heads."
"There are all manner of affairs mentioned here in which I have played a sorry part by throwing dust in the eyes of the public, principally, however, in the Bondavara speculation, in which, it seems, I have announced a false balance and a feigned bonus, drawn ten millions out of the capital, which capital is now irrecoverably lost by the late catastrophe in the mine. It is a terrible indictment against me."
"Perhaps it is not true?"
"It is true! Your highness is my faithful biographer; but allow me to fill up the details of the memoir. The unlooked-for misfortune of yesterday can be repaired to-morrow; the unlucky speculation may be glossed over if a better takes its place; a small defeat is compensated by a great victory. What use does your highness intend to make of this brochure?"
"Frankly, I intend, as soon as you declare your new loan, to circulate this pamphlet freely on 'change. I shall then set the bears to work, so that in no time your shares shall be driven out of the market."
"I guessed as much, and, to be frank, it was on this very account that I have come here, to prevent, if I can, such ruin to myself."
Felix tried by continuous winking of his eyes to express his despair. He put his right hand into his vest, and in a low voice added:
"Perhaps when you see me stretched dead before you your aim will then be accomplished."
Prince Waldemar broke into an irrepressible fit of laughter and clapped Kaulmann on the shoulder.
"I beg of you not to act a farce for my benefit. You did not come here to blow your brains out. Nothing of the sort; you came to sell me something. You are a ruined speculator, but you still possess one jewel of value, a wonderful black carbuncle which you found in the coal-mine and got smoothly cut, which you have already sold at a great profit, but which is now back on your hands. You are perfectly aware that I desire to get this jewel if I can, that I am willing to offer all I have for it; and this is why you have come here to-day. Let us understand one another. I will treat with you. What is your price?"
The prince threw himself back in his chair, but he let Kaulmann stand without again asking him to be seated.
The banker gave up his tragic manner, and resumed his customary cool, hard, matter-of-fact voice.
"First of all, this;" and he laid his hand upon the pamphlet.
"Good! You shall have it—a thousand copies and the manuscript. You can burn it, unless you care to keep it as a souvenir."
"Secondly," went on Felix, "you must abandon your conspiracy against me. During the three days of raising the loan your bears are to keep quiet; there are to be no manœuvres. Thirdly, your name must appear in the list of subscribers with a good sum after it."
"Good! We shall understand one another. Now listen to my modifications of your proposal. On the first day when the shares of the new loan are drawn I undertake to keep the bears quiet, but I shall take no shares. On the second day I shall also keep quiet, but I shall not give you a shove. On the third day I shall take one million shares, and from that time I undertake to push your speculation as if I were your best friend."
"And why not on the first two days?"
"I will tell you what is to happen on those days. This very day you must go to madame and tell her that Prince Theobald's fortune is sequestrated and that she can no longer occupy his hotel. Madame was once generous enough to return to the prince his palace in the Maximilian Strasse, together with all it contained. She will have to repeat this act of renunciation and return to her husband's roof. Her husband must celebrate this happy event by a splendid entertainment, to which he will, as a matter of course, invite his best friend." Here the prince laid, with a significant gesture, his little finger on his breast. "The friend will take this opportunity to show madame a photograph of his summer palace, which is situated on the Lake of Constance, and only waits for the presence of its mistress to be perfection, while she stands in great need of the lovely breezes of the lake to restore her."
"You are really very thoughtful."
"Do not praise me too soon. On the second day you must have an explanation with madame. You will tell her that in France a marriage, to be legal, must be contracted before the civil magistrate; therefore you will go with her before the registrar and have yourself legally married."
"But, prince," cried Felix, with a horrified expression upon his face, "why should I do that?"
"Why?" returned the prince, standing up in his turn, so as to be able the better to overwhelm his victim. "Because I wish to defeat your little game. You took to yourself a wife in another country, knowing you could repudiate her here. It is my wish that madame shall bear your name always; otherwise you would have it in your power on the fourth day to say to me, 'I gave you what was not mine to give.' I shall have the diamond in its proper setting. I shall not remove the centre-stone from your wedding-ring; but I shall wear it on my finger."
Kaulmann could not conceal his embarrassment. "This whim is incomprehensible," he said.
"On the contrary," returned the other, with a devilish sneer, "it is quite clear; it simply means that I know you au fond. And now to my own affairs. I am desperately in love with one woman, and she detests me. She will not even look at me. But she little thinks I know the reason of her abhorrence. Your wife is a virtuous woman. You look surprised—naturally. It is no merit of yours that she has remained so. Oh, you need not protest! Prince Theobald has told me the whole history. Among other things, he made her swear that she would never receive me. Poor old fool! He did not act with much knowledge of human nature. If he had not interfered it's very likely I should have tired of pursuing a woman who did not care for me; but the mystery that surrounded her has added to my interest. I adore her, not alone for her beauty, her charm, but for her innocence, her goodness. She requires nothing to raise her in my estimation; but before the world she must take her fitting place. She must have the shield of her husband's name, the right to his protection. Now you understand what I require of you."
"Prince, your ideas are demoniacal. You wish to bind me to my dishonor."
"To your dishonor!" and the prince laughed scornfully. "My good Kaulmann, who asked you to come here and sell your honor? Ah, you cannot answer that! Never mind, we shall keep our secret; the world shall know nothing. In society the head of the house of Kaulmann shall be considered an honorable gentleman, an excellent husband, a good family man. In the commercial world he will be looked upon as a sound financier. Honors will crowd upon him; he will go far. . . . His real position will be known to only three people. There, my good friend, don't feign so much virtuous indignation. You are overacting, which always spoils the effect. I will take it all for granted. Time is short; it will be better to make use of it."
This was true. Every moment was precious. Felix abandoned all attempts at outraged feelings of honor and the like, and, composing his agitated features, held out his hand to the prince. The latter, however, did not take it.
"There's no need to shake hands over our honorable compact. Take your note-book and write down the conditions, and be sure you put the dates correctly. To-morrow, if I receive by one o'clock the card of invitation to your entertainment, I shall remain away from the exchange. The next day I do the same; that is, if I receive before one o'clock the official notification that your civil marriage has taken place. On the fourth day, if before one o'clock your solicitor brings me the news that you have set off to Brussels to negotiate the papal loan, and that he hands me the key of your house, with the request that I will look after the business in your absence, then I shall go down to the exchange, and push your affair as if it were my own. Now you may go, sir, and indulge your outraged feelings in private."
CHAPTER XXXI
EVA DIRKMAL
Felix Kaulmann felt that he had made good use of his opportunity. All would now go well. The prince would no longer avail himself of the Bondavara catastrophe to ruin him; on the contrary, his influence would stem the panic which the news had, no doubt, already caused in the Vienna money-market, and when the papal loan was concluded all would be smooth. There was Eveline, of course; but a man such as Kaulmann, whose conscience had long since been as withered as was his heart, soon found excuses for any ill-doing. No one could blame him for the prince's infatuation; it would be only a fool who wouldn't take advantage of it, especially one in his situation. A drowning man catches at any plank; and as for Eveline, she owed him a debt of gratitude. Had he not raised her from the very dust of the coal-pit to her present situation, saved her from a brutal husband like the savage Saffran, educated her, made her a fit companion for a prince? Better women than she would be glad of the elevation that was awaiting her; and this reminded him that the Abbé Samuel's interview must have opened the matter, so he went in search of him. The priest, however, was not to be found at any of his usual haunts. Felix, therefore, repaired to Eveline's hotel; neither was she at home. She had gone to the theatre; it was one of her acting nights.
Felix drove to the Opera-house. He went first to his wife's box, where there was no one but her companion. He took a view of the house. In the pit there were numerous claqueurs. In one of the front boxes he saw Prince Waldemar. Then he went behind the scenes, for he was known as the husband of the prima donna and was allowed access to her dressing-room.
Eveline was dressed for her part and waiting to go on. When she saw Kaulmann she turned away angrily. Why did he disturb her when she was busy with her calling?
"I have only come to wish you good-evening," he said.
"You might have waited until to-morrow."
"To wish you good-evening? Ha! ha!"
"No; but you know I am always so nervous before I go on—"
"I only wished to tell you that the cream of Parisian society are fighting to get tickets for your concert. Have you reserved one for me?" Felix was full of amiability and admiration.
"I have reserved none."
"Ah! And why not?" He said this in a soft, complaining voice.
"Because I have given up the concert. It shall not take place."
The face of her husband suddenly lengthened. "Will you kindly tell me the reason of this change?"
"After I have come off. My scene has come. I must go." So saying, she left the room and went to the wings.
Felix followed to a point from which he could see his wife on the stage and have a general view of the house.
Eveline played badly and sang worse. Her voice trembled, she was out of tune, and her runs and roulades were imperfect. She was evidently nervous. Nevertheless, she was applauded to the echo, the claque worked hard; and Prince Waldemar, from his box, clapped as if he had been paid for it. When she had finished her last song a shower of bouquets and wreaths came from the prince's box and fell at her feet.
Eveline left them on the stage and hurried away to her dressing-room. Kaulmann followed her.
"Why didn't you pick up those lovely bouquets?" he asked, carelessly.
"I felt I didn't deserve any. I know I did badly to-night."
"But surely for the sake of the giver you should have taken one of the bouquets."
"Ah, you would like that."
"I?"
"Yes. All those flowers came from you—at least, so I have always understood."
"Pardon me, ma chère. Didn't you notice that they all came from the side box? Didn't you recognize who was in that box?"
"I never looked."
"It was Prince Waldemar."
"The man who is your enemy—who wants to ruin you?"
"Oh, that is not so! He has quite changed. He is now our best friend."
"Our friend? Whom do you include in 'our'?"
"You, as well as myself."
"Thanks; but I decline my share."
"I am afraid you will find it difficult to stand aloof, for I consider Prince Waldemar as my best friend, and henceforth my house is open to him as to a brother."
"As you please. My house shall be shut in his face."
"I am sorry, but your words oblige me to break a disagreeable piece of news to you. But I see you are busy; you don't take any interest—"
"Go on talking," returned Eveline, who was standing before the looking-glass washing the paint off her face. "I am listening."
"For the future, I regret to say, you will not have a house of your own. The affairs of your friend, Prince Theobald, have been sequestrated; his property is now in the hands of trustees. I need not tell you, for I am sure you have known all along, that the hotel you occupy, together with all your expenses, has been paid for by him. This, naturally, is at an end. In my circumstances I could not afford to give you a separate establishment; we will, therefore, be obliged to live together, and it follows naturally that I shall expect my wife to receive as her guests my friends, and to make them welcome."
Eveline had laid aside her queenly robes; she now took off her diadem, and as she slowly unfastened her bracelets she turned and faced Felix.
"And do you think," she said, "that when I leave my hotel I cannot get for myself a garret somewhere, where there will be a door with a strong bolt, with which I can bar the entrance of any unpleasant visitors?"
Felix looked at her in amazement; he constrained himself to take a more friendly tone.
"I must call your attention to one fact. We are in Paris, and the French marital law is strict. A wife must dwell under her husband's roof. She must go where he goes. She must obey him."
Eveline was now busy undoing the gold sandals which bound her feet. She looked steadily at Kaulmann, with her eyes glowing like lamps.
"I must call your attention," she said, "to one fact. We are in Paris, and according to the French law those persons who have been married before the altar, and not before the civil authorities, are not considered legally married, and that, therefore, our marriage is null and void."
Kaulmann sprang to his feet as if he had been bitten by a tarantula.
"What are you saying?" he cried, in a voice that was almost a shriek.
Eveline had loosened the golden sandals. She stood before Felix in her bare feet, and threw him the sandals.
"These belong to you. I am once more Eva Dirkmal. I belong to myself."
"Who has told you this?" stammered the banker, pale with rage.
"The Abbé Samuel, who advised you to treat me in the same manner."
Kaulmann felt the room going round.
"And now," continued Eveline, with a dignified motion of her hand, "I must remind you that this is the dressing-room of a young girl."
Felix did not wait to have his dismissal repeated; he took his hat and went without another word. He ran away, and he ran so fast that he took no heed where he was going till he stumbled and fell.
All was over; he had played his last card and lost. Everything was gone; there was no more help. He had two courses open to him: he might put a pistol to his head, and so end the drama, or he might take all the money in his counting-house and fly. He chose the last.
CHAPTER XXXII
CRUSHED
Eveline felt as if she had been given new life. She was no longer married, and yet she was not a widow. She had to shed no tears over happiness that had vanished, no regrets for domestic joys. Her heart was full of newly awakened desires, hopes she hardly dared to confess to herself, dreams that delighted while they embarrassed her—a delicious riddle that she feared to guess. Next day, however, when she heard that Kaulmann had absconded and would never return, she recognized fully that her chains had fallen off.
When the caged bird has escaped into the open air of heaven, does he ever regret his gilded cage and all its luxurious comforts or the tender endearments of his owner? The bird enjoys his freedom, and rejoices he is no longer a slave. It may be that wilder and stronger birds tear him in pieces; that the frost and rain may chill his body, unused to exposure. He cares not. He wings his flight still higher; he seeks for a branch; he cooes to his lady-love; he is happy.
Eveline never for one moment reflected that she was in any way implicated in the fall of Kaulmann and the shame that attended his ruin. She had no idea that her name was bandied about. She who had been as a queen, who had been so admired, had such a succès! What was to become of her now? She belongs to no one. No one knows anything of her past; but it is pretty safe to prophesy her future. She will have another protector. Of course; but who will he be? Which of her many admirers? She has a legion of adorers from which to choose.
This was the talk of the clubs and the gossip of society. While Eveline sat in her room, rejoicing at her new life of freedom, an idea suddenly came into her head. She looked for Arpad's visiting-card, ordered her carriage, and drove out to visit the Belenyis. They lived some little way from Paris, in the suburbs, where houses can still be had with rooms on the ground floor. Madame Belenyi liked to live on the ground floor. The house she had lost was of this sort, and it had the advantage that, having her own kitchen, she could cook for her son, and feel sure he was not dining at some tavern in bad company. Unless on special occasions Arpad invariably came home to dine with his mother; he would not have missed doing so for a splendid feast. He thought there was nothing to compare with her dishes of pig's ear and delicately cooked vegetables.
Eveline's coachman found it hard to make out the narrow little street in the neighborhood of Montmartre, where the Belenyis had established themselves. Eveline would not let the carriage go farther than the corner; there she got out, and, accompanied by her footman, walked up the street, looking for the right house. It was an old fashioned cottage, in which Madame Belenyi had hired two rooms divided by a kitchen. A girl who was working in the garden showed Eveline where the young gentleman lived. As Eveline pushed open the kitchen-door very gently she noticed that the door of the inner room opened suddenly and a woman looked out. This was undoubtedly Arpad's mother, who was curious to see who had come to visit her son.
Eveline went on her toes to the door of the opposite apartment, and noiselessly turned the handle; she wanted to surprise Arpad.
His room was the picture of comfort and order. It was easy to see how carefully it was kept by his mother. The table, the walls, were crowded with handsome pictures and ornaments, the gift of different persons—cups, wood-carvings, antique weapons, classical paintings; the windows were supplied with plants in bloom; there were bookcases full of books. Everything was well arranged; there was taste and comfort, and Arpad liked to be at home better than anywhere else. The hired piano was from Erard's manufactory, and was now open. Arpad was sitting with his back to it, brush in hand; he was painting. The pianoforte-player was also a painter. Artists, many of them, indulge in these freaks. One of our most distinguished portrait-painters loves to torture his neighbors by scratching like a cat upon the strings of a violin; so also a well-known musician spends his time writing feeble verses; and a third, who is a real poet, produces unsightly excrescences in marble and terra-cotta.
What was Arpad painting?
Eveline stepped softly behind his back, but the rustle of her silk dress betrayed her presence.
Arpad turned scarlet, shoved the picture into a drawer, and, getting up quickly, confronted his visitor, who had only time to see that it was a portrait he was painting.
"Ah, it is you," he stammered, in an embarrassed voice. "I thought it was my mother."
"Aha, you are doing something you should not! Your mother does not allow you to paint; isn't that it? Well, it is a silly thing, I must say, for a pianoforte-player to spend his time painting; and what is the subject?"
"Oh, nothing—a flower!"
("What a lie!" thought Eveline; "it was a portrait.")
"Then if it is a flower, give it to me."
"I should rather not."
"But if it is only a flower?"
"I am not going to give it to you."
"Don't be so cross. Won't you ask me to sit down?"
Arpad was really vexed. Why had she come to disturb him just at this moment? Any other time she would have been welcome. This beginning spoiled the happy hour; for the picture was not Eveline's portrait.
"Sit near me, else I shall think you are afraid of me. I expected that you would have come to see me, to find fault with me for my performance yesterday evening. Tell me frankly—didn't I sing badly?"
"Very badly," returned Arpad, discontentedly. "You are going back instead of forward; and you seem to forget all you learn. I was quite ashamed of you. And your acting! I thought I was looking at an automaton."
"To tell you the truth, I was in a miserable state of mind; I had several domestic troubles. I am separated from Kaulmann."
"That was no reason to sing false; he wasn't worth risking your engagement for, and playing in such a perfunctory manner—singing, too, all out of tune. You never troubled yourself much about him." (Arpad knew nothing of what had happened to Kaulmann; the news had not penetrated to Montmartre.) "And, at all events, you should have had the discretion not to order a shower of bouquets when you were doing so badly; it doesn't look well."
Eveline was very much wounded at this unjust accusation. She answered, almost crying:
"I beg to assure you I have never ordered bouquets to be thrown to me."
"Well, it was one of your adorers, that crazy prince. It is all the same thing. To be handsome, to sing badly, and to receive wreaths, those are three sins rolled into one. The world cannot distinguish between them."
"Very well; go on finding fault, go on scolding, my excellent old master. What else have I done that is displeasing to you?"
Arpad began to laugh, and held out his hand to Eveline.
"Forgive me," he said. "My roughness is only the grumble of the preceptor; it is over. Now we shall be young again and chat. Shall I fetch the draught-board? Shall we play for love or for nothing?"
This tone warmed Eveline's heart. She laughed, and slapped Arpad's hand, which he did not like.
"What are you going to do now you have got rid of Kaulmann?" he said. "Will you marry again? Is another man ready for the yoke? Men are as plentiful as blackberries. Or are you going to preserve the autonomy of the actress?"
Eveline cast down her eyes and grew suddenly grave.
"I have no one," she said, sorrowfully.
"Ah, that does not mean that there are not plenty you can have if you like."
"It means the same thing. I shall belong to no one. I shall never take a husband who is above me in station. Do you see, the girl who went barefoot in the coal-mine must stay in her own class. If I could give any one a place in my heart, it would be to one who was as free and independent as I am. He should owe nothing to great people; he should depend absolutely on his own genius; live absolutely by his own work. He should be esteemed not for his money nor his rank, but for his talent; he should glory in being an artist."
This was a frank confession for any one who understood. Arpad understood; he became more discontented.
"H'm! Then I am afraid you are walking in a path that leads you away from such a man as you describe."
"What do you mean?"
Arpad got up from his chair. "Artists have many strange ideas; these are inseparable from the artistic temperament. Do you see that antique goblet there in the centre of the table? It was a present to me from Count Demidoff on the occasion of a concert. It was an heirloom in his family. It is a wonderful relic; a classical work. Princes, generals, rulers have drunk out of it. I have a great respect for it, and I keep my visitors' cards in it. But I never drink out of it; I prefer a common glass, for which I have paid fifteen pence, but out of which no one has drunk but myself."
Eveline flushed deeply at this cruel speech.
Arpad had, however, resolved to make the matter still clearer.
"You say," he went on, "that you would like to find an artist, a genius, a proud, independent man; him you would choose for your husband! And you imagine that a man of this type would submit to sit by your side as you drove in the Champs Élysées, knowing that the people driving behind in other carriages or walking along the path were saying, 'There is the curled and scented Hyperion, but the steeds that draw him are not paid for by his muse, they are the blood-horses of Prince X——; and his wife is not content with the glory of his name, she wears the diamonds provided by Marquis G——.' Do you think you will easily find such a husband?"
Poor Eveline! She tried to defend herself against this cruel boy.
"But I am ready to throw away all splendor—everything that is not earned by my honest labor. I wish to live by my art, to be what I am—an actress. I would work night and day to perfect myself. I do not want any other distinction but that of an artist."
Arpad then told her what she had never heard until now. Children and fools speak the truth, and in Arpad there was a mixture of both; he was a child in years, and a fool as regarded the claims of art.
"My dear Eveline, you are not an artist; you will never be an actress; you are one of the step-daughters of the muses. There are many such, to whom have been given great capabilities; one only is wanting—courage. You sing wonderfully well, you act with feeling, with humor—at home, before three people; but so soon as the lights of the proscenium are lit your voice grows weak, you sing false, you see and hear nothing, and you act like a wooden doll. This is called stage-fright, and it is never cured; it has ruined more brilliant careers than the critics have. You shake your head and appeal to your former triumphs. Don't deceive yourself; I know the machinery of the stage well, and how artificial thunder and lightning are manufactured. At every performance you gain a triumph; you receive thunders of applause, mountains of flowers. The morning after your performance your breakfast-table is covered with newspapers teeming with laudatory criticisms. This is all gold-dust, and will only last as long as some rich admirer pays the piper. But try the experiment of closing your doors to your wealthy patrons, and step on the boards with no help but your own talents; ask to be applauded for your own sake. Then you will learn the price of the entertainment, and that the critic's praise is only to be bought."
Eveline's head sank. She knew that every word he said was true. Arpad viewed the matter not so much from the artistic side as from his youthful, ardent nature. He was indignant against the fashions of the world; he was indignant that Eveline should have lent herself to these low intrigues, and so taken the place of better artists, better musicians, better actresses; but in his heart he was sorry for her. She had been kind to him; she had never offended him. Why was he so cruel to her? It was due to the petulance of his boy's nature. Why had she disturbed him when he was happy at his painting? Why had she asked him questions? What was it to her whether it were a flower, and, if it were a flower, why should she want it? And when he put out his hand, why should she tap it in that intimate manner? The picture was not painted for her.
"What shall I do? What am I fit for?" asked Eveline, with a downcast air. Her beautiful eyes were full of tears; she was crushed to the earth.
The young man considered a few minutes what he should answer. As she had asked to drink the chalice she should do so to the dregs.
"You have two courses open to you, for I would not advise you to take a third and return to your husband. If I were a woman I would prefer to lie stretched out at the morgue than be the joint possessor of that man's ill-gotten wealth. We therefore have only the two courses to consider. Either you continue on the stage as before, take the bought applause and the flowers paid for by your noble patrons, or return from whence you came, and be content to shove wheelbarrows for the rest of your life."
Eveline rose from her seat, drew her wrap round her shoulders, and, with a low, constrained voice, murmured:
"Thank you." Then she silently left the room.
Tears came into Arpad's eyes. But why had she come here? Why had she disturbed him when he was happy painting? The moment she had closed the door he returned to the table and took from the drawer his flower, to see if it had sustained any injury. It was in one sense a flower—a fair child with blue eyes!
The door opened again; the picture was hastily concealed. No one, however, came in. Arpad's mother spoke through the half-opened door.
"Arpad, my son, who was that beautiful lady who was here just now? A princess, was she not?"
"She was a poor woman who came to beg from me."
"H'm! Surprising! What extraordinary beggars there are in this city—beggars dressed in silk, with a Persian shawl for a wrap. Did you give her anything, Arpad?"
"Mother, I had nothing to give her."
"You have done well, my boy." And she shut the door and went back to her own room to finish stitching at her son's shirt-collar.