CHAPTER IV. THE RIVALS
On reaching Paris, Pierre Delarue experienced a strange feeling. In his feverish haste he longed for the swiftness of electricity to bring him near Micheline. As soon as he arrived in Paris, he regretted having travelled so fast. He longed to meet his betrothed, yet feared to know his fate.
He had a sort of presentiment that his reception would destroy his hopes. And the more he tried to banish these thoughts, the more forcibly they returned. The thought that Micheline had forgotten her promise made the blood rush to his face.
Madame Desvarennes’s short letter suggested it. That his betrothed was lost to him he understood, but he would not admit it. How was it possible that Micheline should forget him? All his childhood passed before his mind. He remembered the sweet and artless evidences of affection which the young girl had given him. And yet she no longer loved him! It was her own mother who said so. After that could he still hope?
A prey to this deep trouble, Pierre entered Paris. On finding himself face to face with Cayrol, the young man’s first idea was, as Cayrol had guessed, to cry out, “What’s going on? Is all lost to me?” A sort of anxious modesty kept back the words on his lips. He would not admit that he doubted. And, then, Cayrol would only have needed to answer that all was over, and that he could put on mourning for his love. He turned around, and went out.
The tumult of Paris surprised and stunned him. After spending a year in the peaceful solitudes of Africa, to find himself amid the cries of street-sellers, the rolling of carriages, and the incessant movement of the great city, was too great a contrast to him. Pierre was overcome by languor; his head seemed too heavy for his body to carry; he mechanically entered a cab which conveyed him to the Hotel du Louvre. Through the window, against the glass of which he tried to cool his heated forehead, he saw pass in procession before his eyes, the Column of July, the church of St. Paul, the Hotel de Ville in ruins, and the colonnade of the Louvre.
An absurd idea took possession of him. He remembered that during the Commune he was nearly killed in the Rue Saint-Antoine by the explosion of a shell, thrown by the insurgents from the heights of Pere-Lachaise. He thought that had he died then, Micheline would have wept for him. Then, as in a nightmare, it seemed to him that this hypothesis was realized. He saw the church hung with black, he heard the funeral chants. A catafalque contained his coffin, and slowly his betrothed came, with a trembling hand, to throw holy water on the cloth which covered the bier. And a voice said within him:
“You are dead, since Micheline is about to marry another.”
He made an effort to banish this importunate idea. He could not succeed. Thoughts flew through his brain with fearful rapidity. He thought he was beginning to be seized with brain fever. And this dismal ceremony kept coming before him with the same chants, the same words repeated, and the same faces appearing. The houses seemed to fly before his vacant eyes. To stop this nightmare he tried to count the gas-lamps: one, two, three, four, five—but the same thought interrupted his calculation:
“You are dead, since your betrothed is about to marry another.”
He was afraid he was going mad. A sharp pain shot across his forehead just above the right eyebrow. In the old days he had felt the same pain when he had overworked himself in preparing for his examinations at the Polytechnic School. With a bitter smile he asked himself if one of the aching vessels in his brain was about to burst?
The sudden stoppage of the cab freed him from this torture. The hotel porter opened the door. Pierre stepped out mechanically. Without speaking a word he followed a waiter, who showed him to a room on the second floor. Left alone, he sat down. This room, with its commonplace furniture, chilled him. He saw in it a type of his future life: lonely and desolate. Formerly, when he used to come to Paris, he stayed with Madame Desvarennes, where he had the comforts of home, and every one looked on him affectionately.
Here, at the hotel, orders were obeyed with politeness at so much a day. Would it always be thus in future?
This painful impression dissipated his weakness as by enchantment. He so bitterly regretted the sweets of the past, that he resolved to struggle to secure them for the future. He dressed himself quickly, and removed all the traces of his journey; then, his mind made up, he jumped into a cab, and drove to Madame Desvarennes’s. All indecision had left him. His fears now seemed contemptible. He must defend himself. It was a question of his happiness.
At the Place de la Concorde a carriage passed his cab. He recognized the livery of Madame Desvarennes’s coachman and leant forward. The mistress did not see him. He was about to stop the cab and tell his driver to follow her carriage when a sudden thought decided him to go on. It was Micheline he wanted to see. His future destiny depended on her. Madame Desvarennes had made him clearly understand that by calling for his help in her fatal letter. He went on his way, and in a few minutes arrived at the mansion in the Rue Saint-Dominique.
Micheline and Jeanne were still in the garden, seated in the same place on the lawn. Cayrol had joined Serge. Both, profiting by the lovely morning, were enjoying the society of their beloved ones. A quick step on the gravel walk attracted their attention. In the sunlight a young man, whom neither Jeanne nor Micheline recognized, was advancing. When about two yards distant from the group he slowly raised his hat.
Seeing the constrained and astonished manner of the young girls, a sad smile played on his lips, then he said, softly:
“Am I then so changed that I must tell you my name?”
At these words Micheline jumped up, she became as white as her collar, and trembling, with sobs rising to her lips, stood silent and petrified before Pierre. She could not speak, but her eyes were eagerly fixed on the young man. It was he, the companion of her youth, so changed that she had not recognized him; worn by hard work, perhaps by anxieties, bronzed—and with his face hidden by a black beard which gave him a manly and energetic appearance. It was certainly he, with a thin red ribbon at his button-hole, which he had not when he went away, and which showed the importance of the works he had executed and of great perils he had faced. Pierre, trembling and motionless, was silent; the sound of his voice choked with emotion had frightened him. He had expected a cold reception, but this scared look, which resembled terror, was beyond all he had pictured. Serge wondered and watched.
Jeanne broke the icy silence. She went up to Pierre, and presented her forehead.
“Well,” she said, “don’t you kiss your friends?”
She smiled affectionately on him. Two grateful tears sparkled in the young man’s eyes, and fell on Mademoiselle de Cernay’s hair. Micheline, led away by the example and without quite knowing what she was doing, found herself in Pierre’s arms. The situation was becoming singularly perplexing to Serge. Cayrol, who had not lost his presence of mind, understood it, and turning toward the Prince, said:
“Monsieur Pierre Delarue: an old friend and companion of Mademoiselle Desvarennes’s; almost a brother to her,” thus explaining in one word all that could appear unusual in such a scene of tenderness.
Then, addressing Pierre, he simply added—“Prince Panine.”
The two men looked at each other. Serge, with haughty curiosity; Pierre, with inexpressible rage. In a moment, he guessed that the tall, handsome man beside his betrothed was his rival. If looks could kill, the Prince would have fallen down dead. Panine did not deign to notice the hatred which glistened in the eyes of the newcomer. He turned toward Micheline with exquisite grace and said:
“Your mother receives her friends this evening, I think, Mademoiselle; I shall have the honor of paying my respects to her.”
And taking leave of Jeanne with a smile, and of Pierre with a courteous bow, he left, accompanied by Cayrol.
Serge’s departure was a relief to Micheline. Between these two men to whom she belonged, to the one by a promise, to the other by an avowal, she felt ashamed. Left alone with Pierre she recovered her self-possession, and felt full of pity for the poor fellow threatened with such cruel deception. She went tenderly to him, with her loving eyes of old, and pressed his hand:
“I am very glad to see you again, my dear Pierre; and my mother will be delighted. We were very anxious about you. You have not written to us for some months.”
Pierre tried to joke: “The post does not leave very often in the desert. I wrote whenever I had an opportunity.”
“Is it so very pleasant in Africa that you could not tear yourself away a whole year?”
“I had to take another journey on the coast of Tripoli to finish my labors. I was interested in my work, and anxious not to lose the result of so much effort, and I think I have succeeded—at least in—the opinion of my employers,” said the young man, with a ghastly smile.
“My dear Pierre, you come in time from the land of the sphinx,” interrupted Jeanne gravely, and glancing intently at Micheline. “There is here, I assure you, a difficult enigma to solve.”
“What is it?”
“That which is written in this heart,” she replied, lightly touching her companion’s breast.
“From childhood I have always read it as easily as a book,” said Pierre, with tremulous voice, turning toward the amazed Micheline.
Mademoiselle de Cernay tossed her head.
“Who knows? Perhaps her disposition has changed during your absence;” and nodding pleasantly, she went toward the house.
Pierre followed her for a moment with his eyes, then, turning toward his betrothed, said:
“Micheline, shall I tell you your secret? You no longer love me.”
The young girl started. The attack was direct. She must at once give an explanation. She had often thought of what she would say when Pierre came back to her. The day had arrived unexpectedly. And the answers she had prepared had fled. The truth appeared harsh and cold. She understood that the change in her was treachery, of which Pierre was the innocent victim; and feeling herself to blame, she waited tremblingly the explosion of this loyal heart so cruelly wounded. She stammered, in tremulous accents:
“Pierre, my friend, my brother.”
“Your brother!” cried the young man, bitterly. “Was that the name you were to give me on my return?”
At these words, which so completely summed up the situation, Micheline remained silent. Still she felt that at all hazards she must defend herself. Her mother might come in at any moment. Between Madame Desvarennes and her betrothed, what would become of her? The hour was decisive. Her strong love for Serge gave her fresh energy.
“Why did you go away?” she asked, with sadness.
Pierre raised with pride his head which had been bent with anguish.
“To be worthy of you,” he merely said.
“You did not need to be worthy of me; you, who were already above every one else. We were betrothed; you only had to guard me.”
“Could not your heart guard itself?”
“Without help, without the support of your presence and affection?”
“Without other help or support than I had myself: Hope and Remembrance.”
Micheline turned pale. Each word spoken by Pierre made her feel the unworthiness of her conduct more completely. She endeavored to find a new excuse:
“Pierre, you know I was only a child.”
“No,” said the young man, with choked voice, “I see that you were already a woman; a being weak, inconstant, and cruel; who cares not for the love she inspires, and sacrifices all to the love she feels.”
So long as Pierre had only complained, Micheline felt overwhelmed and without strength; but the young man began to accuse. In a moment the young girl regained her presence of mind and revolted.
“Those are hard words!” she exclaimed.
“Are they not deserved?” cried Pierre, no longer restraining himself. “You saw me arrive trembling, with eyes full of tears, and not only had you not an affectionate word to greet me with, but you almost accuse me of indifference. You reproach me with having gone away. Did you not know my motive for going? I was betrothed to you; you were rich and I was poor. To remove this inequality I resolved to make a name. I sought one of those perilous scientific missions which bring celebrity or death to those who undertake them. Ah! think not that I went away from you without heart-breaking! For a year I was almost alone, crushed with fatigue, always in danger; the thought that I was suffering for you supported me.
“When lost in the vast desert, I was sad and discouraged; I invoked you, and your sweet face gave me fresh hope and energy. I said to myself, ‘She is waiting for me. A day will come when I shall win the prize of all my trouble.’ Well, Micheline, the day has come; here I am, returned, and I ask for my reward. Is it what I had a right to expect? While I was running after glory, another, more practical and better advised, stole your heart. My happiness is destroyed. You did well to forget me. The fool who goes so far away from his betrothed does not deserve her faithfulness. He is cold, indifferent, he does not know how to love!”
These vehement utterances troubled Micheline deeply. For the first time she understood her betrothed, felt how much he loved her, and regretted not having known it before. If Pierre had spoken like that before going away, who knows? Micheline’s feelings might have been quickened. No doubt she would have loved him. It would have come naturally. But Pierre had kept the secret of his passion for the young girl to himself. It was only despair, and the thought of losing her, that made him give vent to his feelings now.
“I see that I have been cruel and unjust to you,” said Micheline. “I deserve your reproaches, but I am not the only one to blame. You, too, are at fault. What I have just heard has upset me. I am truly sorry to cause you so much pain; but it is too late. I no longer belong to myself.”
“And did you belong to yourself?”
“No! It is true, you had my word, but be generous. Do not abuse the authority which being my betrothed gives you. That promise I would now ask back from you.”
“And if I refuse to release you from your promise? If I tried to, regain your love?” cried Pierre, forcibly. “Have I not the right to defend myself? And what would you think of my love if I relinquished you so readily?”
There was a moment’s silence. The interview was at its highest pitch of excitement. Micheline knew that she must put an end to it. She replied with firmness:
“A girl such as I am will not break her word; mine belongs to you, but my heart is another’s. Say you insist, and I am ready to keep my promise to become your wife. It is for you to decide.”
Pierre gave the young girl a look which plunged into the depths of her heart. He read there her resolve that she would act loyally, but that at the same time she would never forget him who had so irresistibly gained her heart. He made a last effort.
“Listen,” he said, with ardent voice, “it is impossible that you can have forgotten me so soon: I love you so much! Remember our affection in the old days, Micheline. Remember!”
He no longer argued; he pleaded. Micheline felt victorious. She was moved with pity.
“Alas! my poor Pierre, my affection was only friendship, and my heart has not changed toward you. The love which I now feel is quite different. If it had not come to me, I might have been your wife. And I esteemed you so much, that I should have been happy. But now I understand the difference. You, whom I had accepted, would never have been more to me than a tender companion; he whom I have chosen will be my master.”
Pierre uttered a cry at this cruel and frank avowal.
“Ah! how you hurt me!”
And bitter tears rolled down his face to the relief of his overburdened heart. He sank on to a seat, and for a moment gave way to violent grief. Micheline, more touched by his despair than she had been by his reproaches, went to him and wiped his face with her lace handkerchief. Her white hand was close to the young man’s mouth,—and he kissed it eagerly. Then, as if roused by the action, he rose with a changed look in his eyes, and seized the young girl in his arms. Micheline did not utter a word. She looked coldly and resolutely at Pierre, and threw back her head to avoid the contact of his eager lips. That look was enough. The arms which held her were unloosed, and Pierre moved away, murmuring:
“I beg your pardon. You see I am not in my right mind.”
Then passing his hand across his forehead as if to chase away a wicked thought, he added:
“So it is irrevocable? You love him?”
“Enough to give you so much pain; enough to be nobody’s unless I belong to him.”
Pierre reflected a moment, then, coming to a decision:
“Go, you are free,” said he; “I give you back your promise.”
Micheline uttered a cry of triumph, which made him who had been her betrothed turn pale. She regretted not having hidden her joy better. She approached Pierre and said:
“Tell me that you forgive me!”
“I forgive you.”
“You still weep?”
“Yes; I am weeping over my lost happiness. I thought the best means of being loved were to deserve it. I was mistaken. I will courageously atone for my error. Excuse my weakness, and believe that you will never have a more faithful and devoted friend than I.”
Micheline gave him her hand, and, smiling, bowed her forehead to his lips. He slowly impressed a brotherly kiss, which effaced the burning trace of the one which he had stolen a moment before.
At the same time a deep voice was heard in the distance, calling Pierre. Micheline trembled.
“‘Tis my mother,” she said. “She is seeking you. I will leave you. Adieu, and a thousand thanks from my very heart.”
And nimbly springing behind a clump of lilac-trees in flower, Micheline disappeared.
Pierre mechanically went toward the house. He ascended the marble steps and entered the drawing-room. As he shut the door, Madame Desvarennes appeared.
CHAPTER V. A CRITICAL INTERVIEW
Madame Desvarennes had been driven to the Hotel du Louvre without losing a minute. She most wanted to know in what state of mind her daughter’s betrothed had arrived in Paris. Had the letter, which brutally told him the truth, roused him and tightened the springs of his will? Was he ready for the struggle?
If she found him confident and bold, she had only to settle with him as to the common plan of action which must bring about the eviction of the audacious candidate who wished to marry Micheline. If she found him discouraged and doubtful of himself, she had decided to animate him with her ardor against Serge Panine.
She prepared these arguments on the way, and, boiling with impatience, outstripped in thought the fleet horse which was drawing her past the long railings of the Tuileries toward the Hotel du Louvre. Wrapped in her meditations she did not see Pierre. She was saying to herself:
“This fair-haired Polish dandy does not know with whom he has to deal. He will see what sort of a woman I am. He has not risen early enough in the morning to hoodwink me. If Pierre is only of the same opinion as I, we shall soon spoil this fortune-hunter’s work.”
The carriage stopped.
“Monsieur Pierre Delarue?” inquired the mistress.
“Madame, he went out a quarter of an hour ago.”
“To go where?”
“He did not say.”
“Do you know whether he will be absent long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Much obliged.”
Madame Desvarennes, quite discomfited by this mischance, reflected. Where could Pierre have gone? Probably to her house. Without losing a minute, she reentered the carriage, and gave orders to return to the Rue Saint-Dominique. If he had gone at once to her house, it was plain that he was ready to do anything to keep Micheline. The coachman who had received the order drove furiously. She said to herself:
“Pierre is in a cab. Allowing that he is driving moderately quick he will only have half-an-hour’s start of me. He will pass through the office, will see Marechal, and however eager he be, will lose a quarter of an hour in chatting to him. It would be most vexing if he did anything foolish in the remaining fifteen minutes! The fault is mine: I ought to have sent him a letter at Marseilles, to tell him what line of conduct to adopt on his arrival. So long as he does not meet Micheline on entering the house!”
At that idea Madame Desvarennes felt the blood rushing to her face. She put her head out of the carriage window, and called to the coachman:
“Drive faster!”
He drove more furiously still, and in a few minutes reached the Rue Saint-Dominique.
She tore into the house like a hurricane, questioned the hall-porter, and learned that Delarue had arrived. She hastened to Marechal, and asked him in such a strange manner, “Have you seen Pierre?” that he thought some accident had happened.
On seeing her secretary’s scared look, she understood that what she most dreaded had come to pass. She hurried to the drawing-room, calling Pierre in a loud voice. The French window opened, and she found herself face to face with the young man. A glance at her adopted son’s face increased her fears. She opened her arms and clasped Pierre to her heart.
After the first emotions were over, she longed to know what had happened during her absence, and inquired of Pierre:
“By whom were you received on arriving here?”
“By Micheline.”
“That is what I feared! What did she tell you?”
“Everything!”
In three sentences these two strong beings had summed up all that had taken place. Madame Desvarennes remained silent for a moment, then, with sudden tenderness, and as if to make up for her daughter’s treachery, said:
“Come, let me kiss you again, my poor boy. You suffer, eh? and I too! I am quite overcome. For ten years I have cherished the idea of your marrying Micheline. You are a man of merit, and you have no relatives. You would not take my daughter away from me; on the contrary I think you like me, and would willingly live with me. In arranging this marriage I realized the dream of my life. I was not taking a son-in-law-I was gaining a new child.”
“Believe me,” said Pierre, sadly, “it is not my fault that your wish is not carried out.”
“That, my boy, is another question!” cried Madame Desvarennes, whose voice was at once raised two tones. “And that is where we do not agree. You are responsible for what has occurred. I know what you are going, to tell me. You wished to bring laurels to Micheline as a dower. That is all nonsense! When one leaves the Polytechnic School with honors, and with a future open to you like yours, it is not necessary to scour the deserts to dazzle a young girl. One begins by marrying her, and celebrity comes afterward, at the same time as the children. And then there was no need to risk all at such a cost. What, are we then so grand? Ex-bakers! Millionaires, certainly, which does not alter the fact that poor Desvarennes carried out the bread, and that I gave change across the counter when folks came to buy sou-cakes! But you wanted to be a knight-errant, and, during that time, a handsome fellow. Did Micheline tell you the gentleman’s name?”
“I met him when I came here; he was with her in the garden. We were introduced to each other.”
“That was good taste,” said Madame Desvarennes with irony. “Oh, he is a youth who is not easily disturbed, and in his most passionate transports will not disarrange a fold of his cravat. You know he is a Prince? That is most flattering to the Desvarennes! We shall use his coat-of-arms as our trade-mark. The fortune hunter, ugh! No doubt he said to himself, ‘The baker has money—and her daughter is agreeable.’ And he is making a business of it.”
“He is only following the example of many of his equals. Marriage is to-day the sole pursuit of the nobility.”
“The nobility! That of our country might be tolerated, but foreign noblemen are mere adventurers.”
“It is well known that the Panines come from Posen—the papers have mentioned them more than twenty times.”
“Why is he not in his own country?”
“He is exiled.”
“He has done something wrong, then!”
“He has, like all his family, fought for independence.”
“Then he is a revolutionist!”
“A patriot.”
“You are very kind to tell me all that.”
“I may hate Prince Panine,” said Pierre, simply, “but that is no reason why I should not be just to him.”
“So be it; he is an exceptional being, a great citizen, a hero, if you like. But that does not prove that he will make my daughter happy. And if you take my advice, we shall send him about his business in a very short time.”
Madame Desvarennes was excited and paced hurriedly up and down the room. The idea of resuming the offensive after she had been forced to act on the defensive for months past pleased her. She thought Pierre argued too much. A woman of action, she did not understand why Pierre had not yet come to a resolution. She felt that she must gain his confidence.
“You are master of the situation,” she said. “The Prince does not suit me—”
“Micheline loves him,” interrupted Pierre.
“She fancies so,” replied Madame Desvarennes. “She has got it into her head, but it will wear off. You thoroughly understand that I did not bid you to come from Africa to be present at my daughter’s wedding. If you are a man, we shall see some fun. Micheline is your betrothed. You have our word, and the word of a Desvarennes is as good as the signature.—It has never been dishonored. Well, refuse to give us back our promise. Gain time, make love, and take my daughter away from that dandy.”
Pierre remained silent for a few minutes. In a moment he measured the extent of the mischief done, by seeing Micheline before consulting Madame Desvarennes. With the help of this energetic woman he might have struggled, whereas left to his own strength, he had at the outset been vanquished and forced to lay down his arms. Not only had he yielded, but he had drawn his ally into his defeat.
“Your encouragements come too late,” said he. “Micheline asked me to give her back her promise, and I gave it to her.”
“You were so weak as that!” cried Madame Desvarennes. “And she had so much boldness? Does she dote on him so? I suspected her plans, and I hastened to warn you. But all is not lost. You have given Micheline back her promise. So be it. But I have not given you back yours. You are pledged to me. I will not countenance the marriage which my daughter has arranged without my consent! Help me to break it off. And, faith, you could easily find another woman worth Micheline, but where shall I find a son-in-law worth you? Come, the happiness of us all is in peril; save it!”
“Why continue the struggle? I am beaten beforehand.”
“But if you forsake me, what can I do single-handed with Micheline?”
“Do what she wishes, as usual. You are surprised at my giving you this advice? It is no merit on my part. Until now you have refused your daughter’s request; but if she comes again beseeching and crying, you who are so strong and can say so well ‘I will,’ will be weak and will not be able to refuse her her Prince. Believe me; consent willingly. Who knows? Your son’-in-law may be grateful to you for it by-and-by.”
Madame Desvarennes had listened to Pierre with amazement.
“Really, you are incredible,” she said; “you discuss all this so calmly. Have you no grief?”
“Yes,” replied Pierre, solemnly, “it is almost killing me.”
“Nonsense! You are boasting!” cried Madame Desvarennes, vehemently. “Ah, scholar! figures have dried up your heart!”
“No,” replied the young man, with melancholy, “but work has destroyed in me the seductions of youth. It has made me thoughtful, and a little sad. I frightened Micheline, instead of attracting her. The worst is that we live in such a state of high pressure, it is quite impossible to grasp all that is offered to us in this life-work and pleasure. It is necessary to make a choice, to economize one’s time and strength, and to work with either the heart or the brain alone. The result is that the neglected organ wastes away, and that men of pleasure remain all their lives mediocre workers, while hard workers are pitiful lovers. The former sacrifice the dignity of existence, the latter that which is the charm of existence. So that, in decisive moments, when the man of pleasure appeals to his intelligence, he finds he is unfit for duty, and when the man of toil appeals to his heart, he finds that he is unqualified for happiness.”
“Well, my boy, so much the worse for the women who cannot appreciate men of work, and who allow themselves to be wheedled by men of pleasure. I never was one of those; and serious as you are, thirty years ago I would have jumped at you. But as you know your ailment so well, why don’t you cure yourself? The remedy is at hand.”
“What is it?”
“Strong will. Marry Micheline. I’ll answer for everything.”
“She does not love me.”
“A woman always ends by loving her husband.”
“I love Micheline too much to accept her hand without her heart.”
Madame Desvarennes saw that she would gain nothing, and that the game was irrevocably lost. A great sorrow stole over her. She foresaw a dark future, and had a presentiment that trouble had entered the house with Serge Panine. What could she do? Combat the infatuation of her daughter! She knew that life would be odious for her if Micheline ceased to laugh and to sing. Her daughter’s tears would conquer her will. Pierre had told her truly. Where was the use of fighting when defeat was certain? She, too, felt that she was powerless, and with heartfelt sorrow came to a decision.
“Come, I see that I must make up my mind to be grandmother to little princes. It pleases me but little on the father’s account. My daughter will have a sad lot with a fellow of that kind. Well, he had better keep in the right path; for I shall be there to call him to order. Micheline must be happy. When my husband was alive, I was already more of a mother than a wife; now my whole life is wrapped up in my daughter.”
Then raising her vigorous arms with grim energy, she added:
“Do you know, if my daughter were made miserable through her husband, I should be capable of killing him.”
These were the last words of the interview which decided the destiny of Micheline, of the Prince, of Madame Desvarennes, and of Pierre. The mistress stretched out her hand and rang the bell. A servant appeared, to whom she gave instructions to tell Marechal to come down. She thought it would be pleasant for Pierre to pour out his griefs into the heart of his friend. A man weeps with difficulty before a woman, and she guessed that the young man’s heart was swollen with tears. Marechal was not far off. He arrived in a moment, and springing toward Pierre put his arms round his neck. When Madame Desvarennes saw the two friends fully engrossed with each other, she said to Marechal:
“I give you leave until this evening. Then bring Pierre back with you; I wish to see him after dinner.”
And with a firm step she went toward Micheline’s room, where the latter was waiting in fear to know the result of the interview.
CHAPTER VI. A SIGNIFICANT MEETING
The mansion in the Rue Saint-Dominique is certainly one of the finest to be seen. Sovereigns alone have more sumptuous palaces. The wide staircase, of carved oak, is bordered by a bronze balustrade, made by Ghirlandajo, and brought from Florence by Sommervieux, the great dealer in curiosities. Baron Rothschild would consent to give only a hundred thousand francs for it. Madame Desvarennes bought it. The large panels of the staircase are hung with splendid tapestry, from designs by Boucher, representing the different metamorphoses of Jupiter. At each landing-place stands a massive Japanese vase of ‘claisonne’ enamel, supported by a tripod of Chinese bronze, representing chimeras. On the first floor, tall columns of red granite, crowned by gilt capitals, divide the staircase from a gallery, serving as a conservatory. Plaited blinds of crimson silk hang before the Gothic windows, filled with marvellous stained glass.
In the vestibule-the hangings of which are of Cordova-leather, with gold ground-seemingly awaiting the good pleasure of some grand lady, is a sedan-chair, decorated with paintings by Fragonard. Farther on, there is one of those superb carved mother-of-pearl coffers, in which Oriental women lay by their finery and jewellery. A splendid Venetian mirror, its frame embellished with tiny figure subjects, and measuring two metres in width and three in height, fills a whole panel of the vestibule. Portieres of Chinese satin, ornamented with striking embroidery, such as figures on a priest’s chasuble, fall in sumptuous folds at the drawing-room and dining-room doors.
The drawing-room contains a splendid set of Louis Quatorze furniture, of gilt wood, upholstered in fine tapestry, in an extraordinary state of preservation. Three crystal lustres, hanging at intervals along the room, sparkle like diamonds. The hangings, of woven silk and gold, are those which were sent as a present by Louis Quatorze to Monsieur de Pimentel, the Spanish Ambassador, to reward him for the part he had taken in the conclusion of the Treaty of the Pyrenees. These hangings are unique, and were brought back from Spain in 1814, in the baggage-train of Soult’s army, and sold to an inhabitant of Toulouse for ten thousand francs. It was there that Madame Desvarennes discovered them in a garret in 1864, neglected by the grandchildren of the buyer, who were ignorant of the immense value of such unrivalled work. Cleverly mended, they are to-day the pride of the great trader’s drawing-room. On the mantelpiece there is a large clock in Chinese lacquer, ornamented with gilt bronze, made on a model sent out from Paris in the reign of Louis Quatorze, and representing the Flight of the Hours pursued by Time.
Adjoining the great drawing-room is a boudoir upholstered in light gray silk damask, with bouquets of flowers. This is Madame Desvarennes’s favorite room. A splendid Erard piano occupies one side of the apartment. Facing it is a sideboard in sculptured ebony, enriched with bronze, by Gouthieres. There are only two pictures on the walls: “The Departure of the Newly Married Couple,” exquisitely painted by Lancret; and “The Prediction,” an adorable work by Watteau, bought at an incredible price at the Pourtales sale. Over the chimney-piece is a miniature by Pommayrac, representing Micheline as a little child—a treasure which Madame Desvarennes cannot behold without tears coming to her eyes. A door, hidden by curtains, opens on to a staircase leading directly to the courtyard.
The dining-room is in the purest Renaissance style austere woodwork; immense chests of caned pearwood, on which stand precious ewers in Urbino ware, and dishes by Bernard Palissy. The high stone fireplace is surmounted by a portrait of Diana of Poitiers, with a crescent on her brow, and is furnished with firedogs of elaborately worked iron. The centre panel bears the arms of Admiral Bonnivet. Stained-glass windows admit a softly-tinted light. From the magnificently painted ceiling, a chandelier of brass repousse work hangs from the claws of a hovering eagle.
The billiard-room is in the Indian style. Magnificent panoplies unite Rajpoot shields, Mahratta scimitars, helmets with curtains of steel, rings belonging to Afghan chiefs, and long lances ornamented with white mares’ tails, wielded by the horsemen of Cabul. The walls are painted from designs brought from Lahore. The panels of the doors were decorated by Gerome. The great artist has painted Nautch girls twisting their floating scarves, and jugglers throwing poignards into the air. Around the room are low divans, covered with soft and brilliant Oriental cloth. The chandelier is quite original in form, being the exact representation of the god Vishnu. From the centre of the body hangs a lotus leaf of emeralds, and from each of the four arms is suspended a lamp shaped like a Hindu pagoda, which throws out a mellow light.
Madame Desvarennes was entertaining her visitors in these celebrated apartments that evening. Marechal and Pierre had just come in, and were talking together near the fireplace. A few steps from them was a group, consisting of Cayrol, Madame Desvarennes, and a third person, who had never until then put his foot in the house, in spite of intercessions in his favor made by the banker to Madame Desvarennes. He was a tall, pale, thin man, whose skin seemed stretched on his bones, with a strongly developed under-jaw, like that of a ravenous animal, and eyes of indefinable color, always changing, and veiled behind golden-rimmed spectacles. His hands were soft and smooth, with moist palms and closely cut nails—vicious hands, made to take cunningly what they coveted. He had scanty hair, of a pale yellow, parted just above the ear, so as to enable him to brush it over the top of his head. This personage, clad in a double-breasted surtout, over a white waistcoat, and wearing a many-colored rosette, was called Hermann Herzog.
A daring financier, he had come from Luxembourg, preceded by a great reputation; and, in a few months, he had launched in Paris such a series of important affairs that the big-wigs on the Exchange felt bound to treat with him. There were many rumors current about him. Some said he was the most intelligent, most active, and most scrupulous of men that it was possible to meet. Others said that no greater scoundrel had ever dared the vengeance of the law, after plundering honest people. Of German nationality, those who cried him down said he was born at Mayence. Those who treated the rumors as legends said he was born at Frankfort, the most Gallic town beyond the river Rhine.
He had just completed an important line of railway from Morocco to the centre of our colony in Algeria, and now he was promoting a company for exporting grain and flour from America. Several times Cayrol had tried to bring Herzog and Madame Desvarennes together. The banker had an interest in the grain and flour speculation, but he asserted that it would not succeed unless the mistress had a hand in it. Cayrol had a blind faith in the mistress’s luck.
Madame Desvarennes, suspicious of everything foreign, and perfectly acquainted with the rumors circulated respecting Herzog, had always refused to receive him. But Cayrol had been so importunate that, being quite tired of refusing, and, besides, being willing to favor Cayrol for having so discreetly managed the negotiations of Micheline’s marriage, she had consented.
Herzog had just arrived. He was expressing to Madame Desvarennes his delight at being admitted to her house. He had so often heard her highly spoken of that he had formed a high idea of her, but one which was, however, far below the reality; he understood now that it was an honor to be acquainted with her. He wheedled her with German grace, and with a German-Jewish accent, which reminds one of the itinerant merchants, who offer you with persistence “a goot pargain.”
The mistress had been rather cold at first, but Herzog’s amiability had thawed her. This man, with his slow speech and queer eyes, produced a fascinating effect on one like a serpent. He was repugnant, and yet, in spite of one’s self one was led on. He, had at once introduced the grain question, but in this he found himself face to face with the real Madame Desvarennes; and no politeness held good on her part when it was a question of business. From his first words, she had found a weak point in the plan, and had attacked him with such plainness that the financier, seeing his enterprise collapse at the sound of the mistress’s voice-like the walls of Jericho at the sound of the Jewish trumpets—had beaten a retreat, and had changed the subject.
He was about to float a credit and discount company superior to any in the world. He would come back and talk with Madame Desvarennes about it, because she ought to participate in the large profits which the matter promised. There was no risk. The novelty of the undertaking consisted in the concurrence of the largest banking-houses of France and abroad, which would hinder all competition, and prevent hostility on the part of the great money-handlers. It was very curious, and Madame Desvarennes would feel great satisfaction in knowing the mechanism of this company, destined to become, from the first, the most important in the world, and yet most easy to understand.
Madame Desvarennes neither said “Yes” nor “No.” Moved by the soft and insinuating talkativeness of Herzog, she felt herself treading on dangerous ground. It seemed to her that her foot was sinking, as in those dangerous peat-mosses of which the surface is covered with green grass, tempting one to run on it. Cayrol was under the charm. He drank in the German’s words. This clever man, who had never till then been duped, had found his master in Herzog.
Pierre and Marechal had come nearer, and Madame Desvarennes, profiting by this mingling of groups, introduced the men to each other. On hearing the name of Pierre Delarue, Herzog looked thoughtful, and asked if the young man was the renowned engineer whose works on the coast of Africa had caused so much talk in Europe? On Madame Desvarennes replying in the affirmative, he showered well-chosen compliments on Pierre. He had had the pleasure of meeting Delarue in Algeria, when he had gone over to finish the railroad in Morocco.
But Pierre had stepped back on learning that the constructor of that important line was before him.
“Ah! is it you, sir, who carried out that job?” said he. “Faith! you treated those poor Moors rather hardly!”
He remembered the misery of the poor natives employed by Europeans who superintended the work. Old men, women, and children were placed at the disposal of the contractors by the native authorities, to dig up and remove the soil; and these poor wretches, crushed with hard work, and driven with the lash by drunken overseers—who commanded them with a pistol in hand—under a burning sun, inhaled the noxious vapors arising from the upturned soil, and died like flies. It was a terrible sight, and one that Pierre could not forget.
But Herzog, with his cajoling sweetness, protested against this exaggerated picture. Delarue had arrived during the dog-days—a bad time. And then, it was necessary for the work to be carried on without delay. Besides, a few Moors, more or less—what did it matter? Negroes, all but monkeys!
Marechal, who had listened silently until then, interrupted the conversation, to defend the monkeys in the name of Littre. He had framed a theory, founded on Darwin, and tending to prove that men who despised monkeys despised themselves. Herzog, a little taken aback by this unexpected reply, had looked at Marechal slyly, asking himself if it was a joke. But, seeing Madame Desvarennes laugh, he recovered his self-possession. Business could not be carried on in the East as in Europe. And then, had it not always been thus? Had not all the great discoverers worked the countries which they discovered? Christopher Columbus, Cortez—had they not taken riches from the Indians, in exchange for the civilization which they brought them? He (Herzog) had, in making a railway in Morocco, given the natives the means of civilizing themselves. It was only fair that it should cost them something.
Herzog uttered his tirade with all the charm of which he was capable; he looked to the right and to the left to notice the effect. He saw nothing but constrained faces. It seemed as if they were expecting some one or something. Time was passing; ten o’clock had just struck. From the little boudoir sounds of music were occasionally heard, when Micheline’s nervous hand struck a louder chord on her piano. She was there, anxiously awaiting some one or something. Jeanne de Cernay, stretched in an easy-chair, her head leaning on her hand, was dreaming.
During the past three weeks the young girl had changed. Her bright wit no longer enlivened Micheline’s indolent calmness; her brilliant eyes were surrounded by blue rings, which denoted nights passed without sleep. The change coincided strangely with Prince Panine’s departure for England, and the sending of the letter which recalled Pierre to Paris. Had the inhabitants of the mansion been less occupied with their own troubles, they would no doubt have noticed this sudden change, and have sought to know the reason. But the attention of all was concentrated on the events which had already troubled them, and which would no doubt be yet more serious to the house, until lately so quiet.
The visitors’ bell sounded, and caused Micheline to rise. The blood rushed to her cheeks. She whispered, “It is he!” and, hesitating, she remained a moment leaning on the piano, listening vaguely to the sounds in the drawing-room. The footman’s voice announcing the visitor reached the young girls:
“Prince Panine.”
Jeanne also rose then, and if Micheline had turned round she would have been frightened at the pallor of her companion. But Mademoiselle Desvarennes was not thinking of Mademoiselle de Cernay; she had just raised the heavy door curtain, and calling to Jeanne, “Are you coming?” passed into the drawing-room:
It was indeed Prince Serge, who was expected by Cayrol with impatience, by Madame Desvarennes with silent irritation, by Pierre with deep anguish. The handsome prince, calm and smiling, with white cravat and elegantly fitting dress-coat which showed off his fine figure, advanced toward Madame Desvarennes before whom he bowed. He seemed only to have seen Micheline’s mother. Not a look for the two young girls or the men who were around him. The rest of the universe did not seem to count. He bent as if before a queen, with a dash of respectful adoration. He seemed to be saying:
“Here I am at your feet; my life depends on you; make a sign and I shall be the happiest of men or the most miserable.”
Micheline followed him with eyes full of pride; she admired his haughty grace and his caressing humility. It was by these contrasts that Serge had attracted the young girl’s notice. She felt herself face to face with a strange nature, different from men around her, and had become interested in him. Then he had spoken to her, and his sweet penetrating voice had touched her heart.
What he had achieved with Micheline he longed to achieve with her mother. After placing himself at the feet of the mother of her whom he loved, he sought the road to her heart. He took his place beside the mistress and spoke. He hoped that Madame Desvarennes would excuse the haste of his visit. The obedience which he had shown in going away must be a proof to her of his submission to her wishes. He was her most devoted and respectful servant. He resigned himself to anything she might exact of him.
Madame Desvarennes listened to that sweet voice; she had never heard it so full of charm. She understood what influence this sweetness had exercised over Micheline; she repented not having watched over her more carefully, and cursed the hour that had brought all this evil upon them. She was obliged, however, to answer him. The mistress went straight to the point. She was not one to beat about the bush when once her mind was made up.
“You come, no doubt, sir, to receive an answer to the request you addressed to me before your departure for England!”
The Prince turned slightly pale. The words which Madame Desvarennes was about to pronounce were of such importance to him that he could not help feeling moved. He answered, in a suppressed tone:
“I would not have dared to speak to you on the subject, Madame, especially in public; but since you anticipate my desire, I admit I am waiting with deep anxiety for one word from you which will decide my fate.”
He continued bent before Madame Desvarennes like a culprit before his judge. The mistress was silent for a moment, as if hesitating before answering, and then said, gravely:
“That word I hesitated to pronounce, but some one in whom I have great confidence has advised me to receive you favorably.”
“He, Madame, whoever he may be, has gained my everlasting gratitude.”
“Show it to him,” said Madame Desvarennes; “he is the companion of Micheline’s young days, almost a son to me.”
And turning toward Pierre, she pointed him out to Panine.
Serge took three rapid strides toward Pierre, but quick as he had been Micheline was before him. Each of the lovers seized a hand of Pierre, and pressed it with tender effusion. Panine, with his Polish impetuosity, was making the most ardent protestations to Pierre—he would be indebted to him for life.
Micheline’s late betrothed, with despair in his heart, allowed his hands to be pressed and wrung in silence. The voice of her whom he loved brought tears to his eyes.
“How generous and good you are!” said the young girl, “how nobly you have sacrificed yourself!”
“Don’t thank me,” replied Pierre; “I have no merit in accomplishing what you admire. I am weak, you see, and I could not bear to see you suffer.”
There was a great commotion in the drawing-room. Cayrol was explaining to Herzog, who was listening with great attention, what was taking place. Serge Panine was to be Madame Desvarennes’s son-in-law. It was a great event.
“Certainly,” said the German; “Madame Desvarennes’s son-in-law will become a financial power. And a Prince, too. What a fine name for a board of directors!”
The two financiers looked at each other for a moment; the same thought had struck them.
“Yes, but,” replied Cayrol, “Madame Desvarennes will never allow Panine to take part in business.”
“Who knows?” said Herzog. “We shall see how the marriage settlements are drawn up.”
“But,” cried Cayrol, “I would not have it said that I was leading Madame Desvarennes’s son-in-law into speculations.”
“Who is speaking of that?” replied Herzog, coldly. “Am I seeking shareholders? I have more money than I want; I refuse millions every day.”
“Oh, I know capitalists run after you,” said Cayrol, laughingly; “and to welcome them you affect the scruples of a pretty woman. But let us go and congratulate the Prince.”
While Cayrol and Herzog were exchanging those few words which had such a considerable influence on the future of Serge Panine—a scene, terrible in its simplicity, was going on without being noticed. Micheline had thrown herself with a burst of tenderness into her mother’s arms. Serge was deeply affected by the young girl’s affection for him, when a trembling hand touched his arm. He turned round. Jeanne de Cernay was before him, pale and wan; her eyes sunken into her head like two black nails, and her lips tightened by a violent contraction. The Prince stood thunderstruck at the sight of her. He looked around him. Nobody was observing him. Pierre was beside Marechal, who was whispering those words which only true friends can find in the sad hours of life. Madame Desvarennes was holding Micheline in her arms. Serge approached Mademoiselle de Cernay. Jeanne still fixed on him the same menacing look. He was afraid.
“Take care!” he said.
“Of what?” asked the young girl, with a troubled voice. “What have I to fear now?”
“What do you wish?” resumed Panine, with old firmness, and with a gesture of impatience.
“I wish to speak with you immediately.”
“You see that is impossible.”
“I must.”
Cayrol and Herzog approached. Serge smiled at Jeanne with a sign of the head which meant “Yes.” The young girl turned away in silence, awaiting the fulfilment of the promise made.
Cayrol took her by the hand with tender familiarity.
“What were you saying to the happy man who has gained the object of his dreams, Mademoiselle? It is not to him you must speak, but to me, to give me hope. The moment is propitious; it is the day for betrothals. You know how much I love you; do me the favor of no longer repulsing me as you have done hitherto! If you would be kind, how charming it would be to celebrate the two weddings on the same day. One church, one ceremony, one splendid feast would unite two happy couples. Is there nothing in this picture to entice you?”
“I am not easily enticed, as you know,” said Jeanne, in a firm voice, trying to smile.
Micheline and Madame Desvarennes had drawn near.
“Come, Cayrol,” said Serge, in a tone of command; “I am happy to-day; perhaps I may succeed in your behalf as I have done in my own. Let me plead your cause with Mademoiselle de Cernay?”
“With all my heart. I need an eloquent pleader,” sighed the banker, shaking his head sadly.
“And you, Mademoiselle, will you submit to the trial?” asked the Prince, turning toward Jeanne. “We have always been good friends, and I shall be almost a brother to you. This gives me some right over your mind and heart, it seems to me. Do you authorize me to exercise it?”
“As you like, sir,” answered Jeanne, coldly. “The attempt is novel. Who knows? Perhaps it will succeed!”
“May Heaven grant it,” said Cayrol. Then, approaching Panine:
“Ah! dear Prince, what gratitude I shall owe you! You know,” added he in a whisper, “if you need a few thousand louis for wedding presents—”
“Go, go, corrupter!” replied Serge, with the same forced gayety; “you are flashing your money in front of us. You see it is not invincible, as you are obliged to have recourse to my feeble talents. But know that I am working for glory.”
And turning toward Madame Desvarennes he added: “I only ask a quarter of an hour.”
“Don’t defend yourself too much,” said Micheline in her companion’s ear, and giving her a tender kiss which the latter did not return.
“Come with me,” said Micheline to Pierre, offering him her arm; “I want to belong to you alone while Serge is pleading with Jeanne. I will be your sister as formerly. If you only knew how I love you!”
The large French window which led to the garden had just been opened by Marechal, and the mild odors of a lovely spring night perfumed the drawing-room. They all went out on the lawn. Thousands of stars were twinkling in the sky, and the eyes of Micheline and Pierre were lifted toward the dark blue heavens seeking vaguely for the star which presided over their destiny. She, to know whether her life would be the long poem of love of which she dreamed; he, to ask whether glory, that exacting mistress for whom he had made so many sacrifices, would at least comfort him for his lost love.