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“Dr. Baleinier wishes to know if her Highness the Princess can receive him,” asked the valet-de-chambre.
“Certainly. Beg him to walk in.”
“There is also a gentleman that M. l’Abbe appointed to be here at noon, by whose orders I have left him waiting in the oratory.”
“‘Tis the person in question,” said the marquis to the princess. “We must have him in first. ‘Twould be useless for Dr. Baleinier to see him at present.”
“Show this person in first,” said the princess; “next when I ring the bell, you will beg Dr. Baleinier to walk this way: and, if Baron Tripeaud should call, you will bring him here also. After that, I am at home to no one, except Mdlle. Adrienne.” The servant went out.
(9) With regard to this text, a commentary upon it will be found in the Constitutions of the Jesuits, as follows: “In order that the habit of language may come to the help of the sentiments, it is wise not to say, ‘I have parents, or I have brothers;’ but to say, ‘I had parents; I had brothers.’”—General Examination, p. 29; Constitutions.—Paulin; 1843. Paris.
CHAPTER XXXVIII. ADRIENNE’S ENEMIES.
The Princess de Saint-Dizier’s valet soon returned, showing in a little, pale man, dressed in black, and wearing spectacles. He carried under his left arm a long black morocco writing-case.
The princess said to this man: “M. l’Abbe, I suppose, has already informed you of what is to be done?”
“Yes, your highness,” said the man in a faint, shrill, piping voice, making at the same time a low bow.
“Shall you be conveniently placed in this room?” asked the princess, conducting him to the adjoining apartment, which was only separated from the other by a curtain hung before a doorway.
“I shall do nicely here, your highness,” answered the man in spectacles, with a second and still lower bow.
“In that case, sir, please to step in here; I will let you know when it is time.”
“I shall wait your highness’s order.”
“And pray remember my instructions,” added the marquis, as he unfastened the loops of the curtain.
“You may be perfectly tranquil, M. l’Abbe.” The heavy drapery, as it fell, completely concealed the man in spectacles.
The princess touched the bell; some moments after, the door opened, and the servant announced a very important personage in this work.
Dr. Baleinier was about fifty years of age, middling size, rather plump, with a full shining, ruddy countenance. His gray hair, very smooth and rather long, parted by a straight line in the middle, fell flat over his temples. He had retained the fashion of wearing short, black silk breeches, perhaps because he had a well-formed leg; his garters were fastened with small, golden buckles, as were his shoes of polished morocco leather; his coat, waistcoat, and cravat were black, which gave him rather a clerical appearance; his sleek, white hand was half hidden beneath a cambric ruffle, very closely plaited; on the whole, the gravity of his costume did not seem to exclude a shade of foppery.
His face was acute and smiling; his small gray eye announced rare penetration and sagacity. A man of the world and a man of pleasure, a delicate epicure, witty in conversation, polite to obsequiousness, supple, adroit, insinuating, Baleinier was one of the oldest favorites of the congregational set of the Princess de Saint-Dizier. Thanks to this powerful support, its cause unknown, the doctor, who had been long neglected, in spite of real skill and incontestable merit, found himself, under the Restoration, suddenly provided with two medical sinecures most valuable, and soon after with numerous patients. We must add, that, once under the patronage of the princess, the doctor began scrupulously to observe his religious duties; he communicated once a week, with great publicity, at the high mass in Saint Thomas Aquinas Church.
At the year’s end, a certain class of patients, led by the example and enthusiasm of Madame de Saint-Dizier’s followers, would have no other physician than Doctor Baleinier, and his practice was now increased to an extraordinary degree. It may be conceived how important it was for the order, to have amongst its “plain clothes members” one of the most popular practitioners of Paris.
A doctor has in some sort a priesthood of his own. Admitted at all hours to the most secret intimacy of families, he knows, guesses, and is able to effect much. Like the priest, in short, he has the ear of the sick and the dying. Now, when he who cares for the health of the body, and he who takes charge of the health of the soul, understands each other, and render mutual aid for the advancement of a common interest, there is nothing (with certain exceptions), which they may not extract from the weakness and fears of a sick man at the last gasp—not for themselves (the laws forbid it)—but for third parties belonging more or less to the very convenient class of men of straw. Doctor Baleinier was therefore one of the most active and valuable assistant members of the Paris Jesuits.
When he entered the room, he hastened to kiss the princess’s hand with the most finished gallantry.
“Always punctual, my dear M. Baleinier.”
“Always eager and happy to attend to your highness’s orders.” Then turning towards the marquis, whose hand he pressed cordially, he added: “Here we have you then at last. Do you know, that three months’ absence appears very long to your friends?”
“The time is as long to the absent as to those who remain, my dear doctor. Well! here is the great day, Mdlle. de Cardoville is coming.”
“I am not quite easy,” said the princess; “suppose she had any suspicion?”
“That’s impossible,” said M. Baleinier; “we are the best friends in the world. You know, that Mdlle. Adrienne has always had great confidence in me. The day before yesterday, we laughed a good deal, and as I made some observations to her, as usual, on her eccentric mode of life, and on the singular state of excitement in which I sometimes found her—”
“M. Baleinier never fails to insist on these circumstances, in appearance so insignificant,” said Madame de Saint-Dizier to the marquis with a meaning look.
“They are indeed very essential,” replied the other.
“Mdlle. Adrienne answered my observations,” resumed the doctor, “by laughing at me in the gayest and most witty manner; for I must confess, that this young lady has one of the aptest and most accomplished minds I know.”
“Doctor, doctor!” said Madame de Saint-Dizier, “no weakness!”
Instead of answering immediately, M. Baleinier drew his gold snuff-box from his waistcoat pocket, opened it, and took slowly a pinch of snuff, looking all the time at the princess with so significant an air, that she appeared quite reassured. “Weakness, madame?” observed he at last, brushing some grains of snuff from his shirt-front with his plump white hand; “did I not have the honor of volunteering to extricate you from this embarrassment?”
“And you are the only person in the world that could render us this important service,” said D’Aigrigny.
“Your highness sees, therefore,” resumed the doctor, “that I am not likely to show any weakness. I perfectly understand the responsibility of what I undertake; but such immense interests, you told me, were at stake—”
“Yes,” said D’Aigrigny, “interests of the first consequence.”
“Therefore I did not hesitate,” proceeded M. Baleinier; “and you need not be at all uneasy. As a man of taste, accustomed to good society, allow me to render homage to the charming qualities of Mdlle. Adrienne; when the time for action comes, you will find me quite as willing to do my work.”
“Perhaps, that moment may be nearer than we thought,” said Madame de Saint-Dizier, exchanging a glance with D’Aigrigny.
“I am, and will be, always ready,” said the doctor. “I answer for everything that concerns myself. I wish I could be as tranquil on every other point.”
“Is not your asylum still as fashionable—as an asylum can well be?” asked Madame de Saint-Dizier, with a half smile.
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“On the contrary. I might almost complain of having too many boarders. It is not that. But, whilst we are waiting for Mdlle. Adrienne, I will mention another subject, which only relates to her indirectly, for it concerns the person who, bought Cardoville Manor, one Madame de la Sainte-Colombe, who has taken me for a doctor, thanks to Rodin’s able management.”
“True,” said D’Aigrigny; “Rodin wrote to me on the subject—but without entering into details.”
“These are the facts,” resumed the doctor. “This Madame de la Sainte Colombe, who was at first considered easy enough to lead, has shown herself very refractory on the head of her conversion. Two spiritual directors have already renounced the task of saving her soul. In despair, Rodin unslipped little Philippon on her. He is adroit, tenacious, and above all patient in the extreme—the very man that was wanted. When I got Madame de la Sainte-Colombe for a patient, Philippon asked my aid, which he was naturally entitled to. We agreed upon our plan. I was not to appear to know him the least in the world; and he was to keep me informed of the variations in the moral state of his penitent, so that I might be able, by the use of very inoffensive medicines—for there was nothing dangerous in the illness—to keep my patient in alternate states of improvement or the reverse, according as her director had reason to be satisfied or displeased—so that he might say to her: ‘You see, madame, you are in the good way! Spiritual grace acts upon your bodily health, and you are already better. If, on the contrary, you fall back into evil courses, you feel immediately some physical ail, which is a certain proof of the powerful influence of faith, not only on the soul, but on the body also?’”
“It is doubtless painful,” said D’Aigrigny, with perfect coolness, “to be obliged to have recourse to such means, to rescue perverse souls from perdition—but we must needs proportion our modes of action to the intelligence and the character of the individual.”
“By-the-bye, the princess knows,” resumed the doctor, “that I have often pursued this plan at St. Mary’s Convent, to the great advantage of the soul’s peace and health of some of our patients, being extremely innocent. These alternations never exceed the difference between ‘pretty well,’ and ‘not quite so well.’ Yet small as are the variations, they act most efficaciously on certain minds. It was thus with Madame de la Sainte-Colombe. She was in such a fair way of recovery, both moral and physical, that Rodin thought he might get Philippon to advise the country for his penitent, fearing that Paris air might occasion a relapse. This advice, added to the desire the woman had to play ‘lady of the parish,’ induced her to buy Cardoville Manor, a good investment in any respect. But yesterday, unfortunate Philippon came to tell me, that Madame de la Sainte-Colombe was about to have an awful relapse—moral, of course—for her physical health is now desperately good. The said relapse appears to have been occasioned by an interview she has had with one Jacques Dumoulin, whom they tell me you know, my dear abbe; he has introduced himself to her, nobody can guess how.”
“This Jacques Dumoulin,” said the marquis, with disgust, “is one of those men, that we employ while we despise. He is a writer full of gall, envy, and hate, qualities that give him a certain unmercifully cutting eloquence. We pay him largely to attack our enemies, though it is often painful to see principles we respect defended by such a pen. For this wretch lives like a vagabond—is constantly in taverns—almost always intoxicated—but, I must own, his power of abuse is inexhaustible, and he is well versed in the most abstruse theological controversies, so that he is sometimes very useful to us.”
“Well! though Madame de la Sainte-Colombe is hard upon sixty, it appears that Dumoulin has matrimonial views on her large fortune. You will do well to inform Rodin, so that he may be on his guard against the dark designs of this rascal. I really beg a thousand pardons for having so long occupied you with such a paltry affair—but, talking of St. Mary’s Convent,” added the doctor, addressing the princess, “may I take the liberty of asking if your highness has been there lately?”
The princess exchanged a rapid glance with D’Aigrigny, and answered: “Oh, let me see! Yes, I was there about a week ago.”
“You will find great changes then. The wall that was next to my asylum has been taken down, for they are going to build anew wing and a chapel, the old one being too small. I must say in praise of Mdlle. Adrienne” continued the doctor with a singular smile aside, “that she promised me a copy of one of Raphael’s Madonnas for this chapel.”
“Really? very appropriate!” said the princess. “But here it is almost noon, and M. Tripeaud has not come.”
“He is the deputy-guardian of Mdlle. de Cardoville, whose property he has managed, as former agent of the count-duke,” said the marquis, with evident anxiety, “and his presence here is absolutely indispensable. It is greatly to be desired that his coming should precede that of Mdlle. de Cardoville, who may be here at any moment.”
“It is unlucky that his portrait will not do as well,” said the doctor, smiling maliciously, and drawing a small pamphlet from his pocket.
“What is that, doctor?” asked the princess.
“One of those anonymous sheets, which are published from time to time. It is called the ‘Scourge,’ and Baron Tripeaud’s portrait is drawn with such faithfulness, that it ceases to be satire. It is really quite life like; you have only to listen. The sketch is entitled: ‘TYPE OF THE LYNX SPECIES.’
“‘The Baron Tripeaud.—This man, who is as basely humble towards his social superiors, as he is insolent and coarse to those who depend upon him—is the living, frightful incarnation of the worst pardon of the moneyed and commercial aristocracy—one of the rich and cynical speculators, without heart, faith or conscience, who would speculate for a rise or fall on the death of his mother, if the death of his mother could influence the price of stocks.
“‘Such persons have all the odious vices of men suddenly elevated, not like those whom honest and patient labor has nobly enriched, but like those who owe their wealth to some blind caprice of fortune, or some lucky cast of the net in the miry waters of stock-jobbing.
“‘Once up in the world, they hate the people—because the people remind them of a mushroom origin of which they are ashamed. Without pity for the dreadful misery of the masses, they ascribe it wholly to idleness or debauchery because this calumny forms an excuse for their barbarous selfishness.
“‘And this is not all. On the strength of his well-filled safe, mounted on his right of the candidate, Baron Tripeaud insults the poverty and political disfranchisement—of the officer, who, after forty years of wars and hard service, is just able to live on a scanty pension—Of the magistrate, who has consumed his strength in the discharge of stern and sad duties, and who is not better remunerated in his litter days—Of the learned man who has made his country illustrious by useful labors; or the professor who has initiated entire generations in the various branches of human knowledge—Of the modest and virtuous country curate, the pure representative of the gospel, in its charitable, fraternal, and democratic tendencies, etc.
“‘In such a state of things, how should our shoddy baron of in-dust-ry not feel the most sovereign contempt for all that stupid mob of honest folk, who, having given to their country their youth, their mature age, their blood, their intelligence, their learning, see themselves deprived of the rights which he enjoys, because he has gained a million by unfair and illegal transactions?
“‘It is true, that your optimists say to these pariahs of civilization, whose proud and noble poverty cannot be too much revered and honored: “Buy an estate and you too may be electors and candidates!”’
“‘But to come to the biography of our worthy baron—Andrew Tripeaud, the son of an ostler, at a roadside inn.’”
At this instant the folding-doors were thrown open, and the valet announced: “The Baron Tripeaud!”
Dr. Baleinier put his pamphlet into his pocket, made the most cordial bow to the financier, and even rose to give him his hand. The baron entered the room, overwhelming every one with salutations. “I have the honor to attend the orders of your highness the princess. She knows that she may always count upon me.”
“I do indeed rely upon you, M. Tripeaud, and particularly under present circumstances.”
“If the intentions of your highness the princess are still the same with regard to Mdlle. de Cardoville—”
“They are still the same, M. Tripeaud, and we meet to-day on that subject.”
“Your highness may be assured of my concurrence, as, indeed, I have already promised. I think that the greatest severity must at length be employed, and that even if it were necessary.”
“That is also our opinion,” said the marquis, hastily making a sign to the princess, and glancing at the place where the man in spectacles was hidden; “we are all perfectly in harmony. Still, we must not leave any point doubtful, for the sake of the young lady herself, whose interests alone guides us in this affair. We must draw out her sincerity by every possible means.”
“Mademoiselle has just arrived from the summer-house and wishes to see your highness,” said the valet, again entering, after having knocked at the door.
“Say that I wait for her,” answered the princess; “and now I am at home to no one—without exception. You understand me; absolutely to no one.”
Thereupon, approaching the curtain behind which the man was concealed, Mme. de Saint-Dizier gave him the cue—after which she returned to her seat.
It is singular, but during the short space which preceded Adrienne’s arrival, the different actors in this scene appeared uneasy and embarrassed, as if they had a vague fear of her coming. In about a minute, Mdlle. de Cardoville entered the presence of her aunt.
CHAPTER XXXIX. THE SKIRMISH.
On entering, Mdlle. de Cardoville threw down upon a chair the gray beaver hat she had worn to cross the garden, and displayed her fine golden hair, falling on either side of her face in long, light ringlets, and twisted in a broad knot behind her head. She presented herself without boldness, but with perfect ease: her countenance was gay and smiling; her large black eyes appeared even more brilliant than usual. When she perceived Abbe d’Aigrigny, she started in surprise, and her rosy lips were just touched with a mocking smile.
After nodding graciously to the doctor, she passed Baron Tripeaud by without looking at him, and saluted the princess with stately obeisance, in the most fashionable style.
Though the walk and bearing of Mdlle. de Cardoville were extremely elegant, and full of propriety and truly feminine grace, there was about her an air of resolution and independence by no means common in women, and particularly in girls of her age. Her movements, without being abrupt, bore no traces of restraint, stiffness, or formality. They were frank and free as her character, full of life, youth, and freshness; and one could easily divine that so buoyant, straightforward, and decided a nature had never been able to conform itself to the rules of an affected rigor.
Strangely enough, though he was a man of the world, a man of great talent, a churchman distinguished for his eloquence, and, above all, a person of influence and authority. Marquis d’Aigrigny experienced an involuntary, incredible, almost painful uneasiness, in presence of Adrienne de Cardoville. He—generally so much the master of himself, so accustomed to exercise great power—who (in the name of his Order) had often treated with crowned heads on the footing of an equal, felt himself abashed and lowered in the presence of this girl, as remarkable for her frankness as for her biting irony. Now, as men who are accustomed to impose their will upon others generally hate those who, far from submitting to their influence, hamper it and make sport of them, it was no great degree of affection that the marquis bore towards the Princess de Saint-Dizier’s niece.
For a long time past, contrary to his usual habit, he had ceased to try upon Adrienne that fascinating address to which he had often owed an irresistible charm; towards her he had become dry, curt, serious, taking refuge in that icy sphere of haughty dignity and rigid austerity which completely hid all those amiable qualities with which he was endowed and of which, in general, he made such efficient use. Adrienne was much amused at all this, and thereby showed her imprudence—for the most vulgar motives often engender the most implacable hatreds.
From these preliminary observations, the reader will understand the divers sentiments and interests which animated the different actors in the following scene.
Madame de Saint-Dizier was seated in a large arm-chair by one side of the hearth. Marquis d’Aigrigny was standing before the fire. Dr. Baleinier seated near a bureau, was again turning over the leaves of Baron Tripeaud’s biography, whilst the baron appeared to be very attentively examining one of the pictures of sacred subjects suspended from the wall.
“You sent for me, aunt, to talk upon matters of importance?” said Adrienne, breaking the silence which had reigned in the reception-room since her entrance.
“Yes, madame,” answered the princess, with a cold and severe mien; “upon matters of the gravest importance.”
“I am at your service, aunt. Perhaps we had better walk into your library?”
“It is not necessary. We can talk here.” Then, addressing the marquis, the doctor, and the baron, she said to them, “Pray, be seated, gentlemen,” and they all took their places round the table.
“How can the subject of our interview interest these gentlemen, aunt?” asked Mdlle. de Cardoville, with surprise.
“These gentlemen are old family friends; all that concerns you must interest them, and their advice ought to be heard and accepted by you with respect.”
“I have no doubt, aunt, of the bosom friendship of M. d’Aigrigny for our family: I have still less of the profound and disinterested devotion of M. Tripeaud; M. Baleinier is one of my old friends; still, before accepting these gentlemen as spectators, or, if you will, as confidants of our interview, I wish to know what we are going to talk of before them.”
“I thought that, among your many singular pretensions, you had at least those of frankness and courage.”
“Really, aunt,” said Adrienne, smiling with mock humility, “I have no more pretensions to frankness and courage than you have to sincerity and goodness. Let us admit, once for all, that we are what we are—without pretension.”
“Be it so,” said Madame de Saint-Dizier, in a dry tone; “I have long been accustomed to the freaks of your independent spirit. I suppose, then, that, courageous and frank as you say you are, you will not be afraid to speak before such grave and respectable persons as these gentlemen what you would speak to me alone?”
“Is it a formal examination that I am to submit to? if so, upon what subject?”
“It is not an examination: but, as I have a right to watch over you, and as you take advantage of my weak compliance with your caprices, I mean to put an end to what has lasted too long, and tell you my irrevocable resolutions for the future, in presence of friends of the family. And, first, you have hitherto had a very false and imperfect notion of my power over you.”
“I assure you, aunt, that I have never had any notion, true or false, on the subject—for I have never even dreamt about it.”
“That is my own fault; for, instead of yielding to your fancies, I should have made you sooner feel my authority; but the moment has come to submit yourself; the severe censures of my friends have enlightened me in time. Your character is self-willed, independent, stubborn; it must change—either by fair means or by force, understand me, it shall change.”
At these words, pronounced harshly before strangers, with a severity which did not seem at all justified by circumstances, Adrienne tossed her head proudly; but, restraining herself, she answered with a smile: “You say, aunt, that I shall change. I should not be astonished at it. We hear of such odd conversions.”
The princess bit her lips.
“A sincere conversion can never be called odd, as you term it, madame,” said Abbe d’Aigrigny, coldly. “It is, on the contrary, meritorious, and forms an excellent example.”
“Excellent?” answered Adrienne: “that depends! For instance, what if one converts defects into vices?”
“What do you mean, madame?” cried the princess.
“I am speaking of myself, aunt; you reproach me of being independent and resolute—suppose I were to become hypocritical and wicked? In truth, I prefer keeping my dear little faults, which I love like spoiled children. I know what I am; I do not know what I might be.”
“But you must acknowledge, Mdlle. Adrienne,” said Baron Tripeaud, with a self-conceited and sententious air, “that a conversion—”
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“I believe,” said Adrienne, disdainfully, “that M. Tripeaud is well versed in the conversion of all sorts of property into all sorts of profit, by all sorts of means—but he knows nothing of this matter.”
“But, madame,” resumed the financier, gathering courage from a glance of the princess, “you forget that I have the honor to be your deputy guardian, and that—”
“It is true that M. Tripeaud has that honor,” said Adrienne, with still more haughtiness, and not even looking at the baron; “I could never tell exactly why. But as it is not now the time to guess enigmas, I wish to know, aunt, the object and the end of this meeting?”
“You shall be satisfied, madame. I will explain myself in a very clear and precise manner. You shall know the plan of conduct that you will have henceforth to pursue; and if you refuse to submit thereto, with the obedience and respect that is due to my orders, I shall at once see what course to take.”
It is impossible to give an idea of the imperious tone and stern look of the princess, as she pronounced these words which were calculated to startle a girl, until now accustomed to live in a great measure as she pleased: yet, contrary perhaps to the expectation of Madame de Saint Dizier, instead of answering impetuously, Adrienne looked her full in the face, and said, laughing: “This is a perfect declaration of war. It’s becoming very amusing.”
“We are not talking of declarations of war,” said the Abbe d’Aigrigny, harshly, as if offended by the expressions of Mdlle. de Cardoville.
“Now, M. l’Abbe!” returned Adrienne, “for an old colonel, you are really too severe upon a jest!—you are so much indebted to ‘war,’ which gave you a French regiment after fighting so long against France—in order to learn, of course, the strength and the weakness of her enemies.”
On these words, which recalled painful remembrances, the marquis colored; he was going to answer, but the princess exclaimed: “Really, madame, your behavior is quite intolerable!”
“Well, aunt, I acknowledge I was wrong. I ought not to have said this is very amusing—for it is not so, at all; but it is at least very curious—and perhaps,” added the young girl, after a moment’s silence, “perhaps very audacious and audacity pleases me. As we are upon this subject, and you talk of a plan of conduct to which I must conform myself, under pain of (interrupting herself)—under pain of what, I should like to know, aunt?”
“You shall know. Proceed.”
“I will, in the presence of these gentlemen, also declare, in a very plain and precise manner, the determination that I have come to. As it required some time to prepare for its execution, I have not spoken of it sooner, for you know I am not in the habit of saying, ‘I will do so and so!’ but I do it.”
“Certainly; and it is just this habit of culpable independence of which you must break yourself.”
“Well, I had intended only to inform you of my determination at a later period; but I cannot resist the pleasure of doing so to-day, you seem so well disposed to hear and receive it. Still, I would beg of you to speak first: it may just so happen, that our views are precisely the same.”
“I like better to see you thus,” said the princess. “I acknowledge at least the courage of your pride, and your defiance of all authority. You speak of audacity—yours is indeed great.”
“I am at least decided to do that which others in their weakness dare not—but which I dare. This, I hope, is clear and precise.”
“Very clear, very precise,” said the princess, exchanging a glance of satisfaction with the other actors in this scene. “The positions being thus established, matters will be much simplified. I have only to give you notice, in your own interest, that this is a very serious affair—much more so than you imagine—and that the only way to dispose me to indulgence, is to substitute, for the habitual arrogance and irony of your language, the modesty and respect becoming a young lady.”
Adrienne smiled, but made no reply. Some moments of silence, and some rapid glances exchanged between the princess and her three friends, showed that these encounters, more or less brilliant in themselves, were to be followed by a serious combat.
Mdlle. de Cardoville had too much penetration and sagacity, not to remark, that the Princess de Saint-Dizier attached the greatest importance to this decisive interview. But she could not understand how her aunt could hope to impose her absolute will upon her: the threat of coercive measures appearing with reason a mere ridiculous menace. Yet, knowing the vindictive character of her aunt, the secret power at her disposal, and the terrible vengeance she had sometimes exacted—reflecting, moreover, that men in the position of the marquis and the doctor would not have come to attend this interview without some weighty motive—the young lady paused for a moment before she plunged into the strife.
But soon, the very presentiment of some vague danger, far from weakening her, gave her new courage to brave the worst, to exaggerate, if that were possible, the independence of her ideas, and uphold, come what might, the determination that she was about to signify to the Princess de Saint Dizier.
CHAPTER XL. THE REVOLT
“Madame,” said the princess to Adrienne de Cardoville, in a cold, severe tone, “I owe it to myself, as well as to these gentlemen, to recapitulate, in a few words, the events that have taken place for some time past. Six months ago, at the end of the mourning for your father, you, being eighteen years old, asked for the management of your fortune, and for emancipation from control. Unfortunately, I had the weakness to consent. You quitted the house, and established yourself in the extension, far from all superintendence. Then began a train of expenditures, each one more extravagant than the last. Instead of being satisfied with one or two waiting-women, taken from that class from which they are generally selected, you chose governesses for lady-companions, whom you dressed in the most ridiculous and costly fashion. It is true, that, in the solitude of your pavilion, you yourself chose to wear, one after another, costumes of different ages. Your foolish fancies and unreasonable whims have been without end and without limit: not only have you never fulfilled your religious duties, but you have actually had the audacity to profane one of your rooms, by rearing in the centre of it a species of pagan altar, on which is a group in marble representing a youth and a girl”—the princess uttered these words as if they would burn her lips—“a work of art, if you will, but a work in the highest degree unsuitable to a person of your age. You pass whole days entirely secluded in your pavilion, refusing to see any one; and Dr. Baleinier, the only one of my friends in whom you seem to have retained some confidence, having succeeded by much persuasion in gaining admittance, has frequently found you in so very excited a state, that he has felt seriously uneasy with regard to your health. You have always insisted on going out alone, without rendering any account of your actions to any one. You have taken delight in opposing, in every possible way, your will to my authority. Is all this true?”
“The picture of my past is not much flattered,” said Adrienne; smiling, “but it is not altogether unlike.”
“So you admit, madame,” said Abbe d’Aigrigny, laying stress on his words, “that all the facts stated by your aunt are scrupulously true?”
Every eye was turned towards Adrienne, as if her answer would be of extreme importance.
“Yes, M. l’Abbe,” said she; “I live openly enough to render this question superfluous.”
“These facts are therefore admitted,” said Abbe d’Aigrigny, turning towards the doctor and the baron.
“These facts are completely established,” said M. Tripeaud, in a pompous voice.
“Will you tell me, aunt,” asked Adrienne, “what is the good of this long preamble?”
“This long preamble, madame,” resumed the princess with dignity, “exposes the past in order to justify the future.”
“Really, aunt, such mysterious proceedings are a little in the style of the answers of the Cumaean Sybil. They must be intended to cover something formidable.”
“Perhaps, mademoiselle—for to certain characters nothing is so formidable as duty and obedience. Your character is one of those inclined to revolt—”
“I freely acknowledge it, aunt—and it will always be so, until duty and obedience come to me in a shape that I can respect and love.”
“Whether you respect and love my orders or not, madame,” said the princess, in a curt, harsh voice, “you will, from to-day, from this moment, learn to submit blindly and absolutely to my will. In one word, you will do nothing without my permission: it is necessary, I insist upon it, and so I am determined it shall be.”
Adrienne looked at her aunt for a second, and then burst into so free and sonorous a laugh, that it rang for quite a time through the vast apartment. D’Aigrigny and Baron Tripeaud started in indignation. The princess looked angrily at her niece. The doctor raised his eyes to heaven, and clasped his hands over his waistcoat with a sanctimonious sigh.
“Madame,” said Abbe d’Aigrigny, “such fits of laughter are highly unbecoming. Your aunt’s words are serious, and deserve a different reception.”
“Oh, sir!” said Adrienne, recovering herself, “it is not my fault if I laugh. How can I maintain my gravity, when I hear my aunt talking of blind submission to her orders? Is the swallow, accustomed to fly upwards and enjoy the sunshine, fledged to live with the mole in darkness?”
At this answer, D’Aigrigny affected to stare at the other members of this kind of family council with blank astonishment.
“A swallow? what does she mean?” asked the abbe of the baron making a sign, which the latter understood.
“I do not know,” answered Tripeaud, staring in his turn at the doctor. “She spoke too of a mole. It ‘is quite unheard-of—incomprehensible.”
“And so, madame,” said the princess, appearing to share in the surprise of the others, “this is the reply that you make to me?”
“Certainly,” answered Adrienne, astonished herself that they should pretend not to understand the simile of which she had made use, accustomed as she was to speak in figurative language.
“Come, come, madame,” said Dr. Baleinier, smiling good-humoredly, “we must be indulgent. My dear Mdlle. Adrienne has naturally so uncommon and excitable a nature! She is really the most charming mad woman I know; I have told her so a hundred times, in my position of an old friend, which allows such freedom.”
“I can conceive that your attachment makes you indulgent—but it is not the less true, doctor,” said D’Aigrigny, as if reproaching him for taking the part of Mdlle. de Cardoville, “that such answers to serious questions are most extravagant.”
“The evil is, that mademoiselle does not seem to comprehend the serious nature of this conference,” said the princess, harshly. “She will perhaps understand it better when I have given her my orders.”
“Let us hear these orders, aunt,” replied Adrienne as, seated on the other side of the table, opposite to the princess, she leaned her small, dimpled chin in the hollow of her pretty hand, with an air of graceful mockery, charming to behold.
“From to-morrow forward,” resumed the princess, “you will quit the summer-house which you at present inhabit, you will discharge your women, and come and occupy two rooms in this house, to which there will be no access except through my apartment. You will never go out alone. You will accompany me to the services of the church. Your emancipation terminates, in consequence of your prodigality duly proven. I will take charge of all your expenses, even to the ordering of your clothes, so that you may be properly and modestly dressed. Until your majority (which will be indefinitely postponed, by means of the intervention of a family-council), you will have no money at your own disposal. Such is my resolution.”
“And certainly your resolution can only be applauded, madame,” said Baron Tripeaud; “we can but encourage you to show the greatest firmness, for such disorders must have an end.”
“It is more than time to put a stop to such scandal,” added the abbe.
“Eccentricity and exaltation of temperament—may excuse many things,” ventured to observe the smooth-tongued doctor.
“No doubt,” replied the princess dryly to Baleinier, who played his part to perfection; “but then, doctor, the requisite measures must be taken with such characters.”
Madame de Saint-Dizier had expressed herself in a firm and precise manner; she appeared convinced of the possibility of putting her threats into execution. M. Tripeaud and D’Aigrigny had just now given their full consent to the words of the princess. Adrienne began to perceive that something very serious was in contemplation, and her gayety was at once replaced by an air of bitter irony and offended independence.
She rose abruptly, and colored a little; her rosy nostrils dilated, her eyes flashed fire, and, as she raised her head, she gently shook the fine, wavy golden hair, with a movement of pride that was natural to her. After a moment’s silence, she said to her aunt in a cutting tone: “You have spoken of the past, madame; I also will speak a few words concerning it, since you force me to do so, though I may regret the necessity. I quitted your dwelling, because it was impossible for me to live longer in this atmosphere of dark hypocrisy and black treachery.”
“Madame,” said D’Aigrigny, “such words are as violent as they are unreasonable.”
“Since you interrupt me, sir,” said Adrienne, hastily, as she fixed her eyes on the abbe, “tell me what examples did I meet with in my aunt’s house?”
“Excellent, examples, madame.”
“Excellent, sir? Was it because I saw there, every day, her conversion keep pace with your own?”
“Madame, you forget yourself!” cried the princess, becoming pale with rage.
“Madame, I do not forget—I remember, like other people; that is all. I had no relation of whom I could ask an asylum. I wished to live alone. I wished to enjoy my revenues—because I chose rather to spend them myself, than to see them wasted by M. Tripeaud.”
“Madame,” cried the baron, “I cannot imagine how you can presume—”
“Sir!” said Adrienne, reducing him to silence by a gesture of overwhelming lordliness, “I speak of you—not to you. I wished to spend my income,” she continued, “according to my own tastes. I embellished the retreat that I had chosen. Instead of ugly, ill-taught servants, I selected girls, pretty and well brought up, though poor. Their education forbade their being subjected to any humiliating servitude, though I have endeavored to make their situation easy and agreeable. They do not serve me, but render me service—I pay them, but I am obliged to them—nice distinctions that your highness will not understand, I know. Instead of seeing them badly or ungracefully dressed, I have given them clothes that suit their charming faces well, because I like whatever is young and fair. Whether I dress myself one way or the other, concerns only my looking-glass. I go out alone, because I like to follow my fancy. I do not go to mass—but, if I had still a mother, I would explain to her my devotions, and she would kiss me none the less tenderly. It is true, that I have raised a pagan altar to youth and beauty, because I adore God in all that He has made fair and good, noble and grand—because, morn and evening, my heart repeats the fervent and sincere prayer: ‘Thanks, my Creator! thanks!’—Your highness says that M. Baleinier has often found me in my solitude, a prey to a strange excitement: yes, it is true; for it is then that, escaping in thought from all that renders the present odious and painful to me, I find refuge in the future—it is then that magical horizons spread far before me—it is then that such splendid visions appear to me, as make me feel myself rapt in a sublime and heavenly ecstasy, as if I no longer appertained to earth!”
As Adrienne pronounced these last words with enthusiasm, her countenance appeared transfigured, so resplendent did it become. In that moment, she had lost sight of all that surrounded her.
“It is then,” she resumed, with spirit soaring higher and higher, “that I breathe a pure air, reviving and free—yes, free—above all, free—and so salubrious, so grateful to the soul!—Yes, instead of seeing my sisters painfully submit to a selfish, humiliating, brutal dominion, which entails upon them the seductive vices of slavery, the graceful fraud, the enchanting perfidy, the caressing falsehood, the contemptuous resignation, the hateful obedience—I behold them, my noble sisters! worthy and sincere because they are free, faithful and devoted because they have liberty to choose—neither imperious not base, because they have no master to govern or to flatter—cherished and respected, because they can withdraw from a disloyal hand their hand, loyally bestowed. Oh, my sisters! my sisters! I feel it. These are not merely consoling visions—they are sacred hopes.”
Carried away, in spite of herself, by the excitement of her feelings, Adrienne paused for a moment, in order to return to earth; she did not perceive that the other actors in this scene were looking at each other with an air of delight.
“What she says there is excellent,” murmured the doctor in the princess’s ear, next to whom he was seated; “were she in league with us, she would not speak differently.”
“It is only by excessive harshness,” added D’Aigrigny, “that we shall bring her to the desired point.”
But it seemed as if the vexed emotion of Adrienne had been dissipated by the contact of the generous sentiments she had just uttered. Addressing Baleinier with a smile, she said: “I must own, doctor, that there is nothing more ridiculous, than to yield to the current of certain thoughts, in the presence of persons incapable of understanding them. This would give you a fine opportunity to make game of that exaltation of mind for which you sometimes reproach me. To let myself be carried away by transports at so serious a moment!—for, verily, the matter in hand seems to be serious. But you see, good M. Baleinier, when an idea comes into my head, I can no more help following it out, than I could refrain from running after butterflies when I was a little girl.”
“And heaven only knows whither these brilliant butterflies of all colors,” said M. Baleinier, smiling with an air of paternal indulgence, “that are passing through your brain, are likely to lead you. Oh, madcap, when will she be as reasonable as she is charming?”
“This very instant, my good doctor,” replied Adrienne. “I am about to cast off my reveries for realities, and speak plain and positive language, as you shall hear.”
Upon which, addressing her aunt, she continued: “You have imparted to me your resolution, madame; I will now tell you mine. Within a week, I shall quit the pavilion that I inhabit, for a house which I have arranged to my taste, where I shall live after my own fashion. I have neither father nor mother, and I owe no account of my actions to any but myself.”
“Upon my word, mademoiselle,” said the princess, shrugging her shoulders, “you talk nonsense. You forget that society has inalienable moral rights, which we are bound to enforce. And we shall not neglect them, depend upon it.”
“So madame, it is you, and M. d’Aigrigny, and M. Tripeaud, that represent the morality of society! This appears to me very fine. Is it because M. Tripeaud has considered (I must acknowledge it) my fortune as his own? Is it because—”
“Now, really, madame,” began Tripeaud.
“In good time, madame,” said Adrienne to her aunt, without noticing the baron, “as the occasion offers, I shall have to ask you for explanations with regard to certain interests, which have hitherto, I think, been concealed from me.”
These words of Adrienne made D’Aigrigny and the princess start, and then rapidly exchange a glance of uneasiness and anxiety. Adrienne did not seem to perceive it, but thus continued: “To have done with your demands, madame, here is my final resolve. I shall live where and how I please. I think that, if I were a man, no one would impose on me, at my age, the harsh and humiliating guardianship you have in view, for living as I have lived till now—honestly, freely, and generously, in the sight of all.”
“This idea is absurd! is madness!” cried the princess. “To wish to live thus alone, is to carry immorality and immodesty to their utmost limits.”
“If so, madame,” said Adrienne, “what opinion must you entertain of so many poor girls, orphans like myself, who live alone and free, as I wish to live? They have not received, as I have, a refined education, calculated to raise the soul, and purify the heart. They have not wealth, as I have, to protect them from the evil temptations of misery; and yet they live honestly and proudly in their distress.”
“Vice and virtue do not exist for such tag-rag vermin!” cried Baron Tripeaud, with an expression of anger and hideous disdain.
“Madame, you would turn away a lackey, that would venture to speak thus before you,” said Adrienne to her aunt, unable to conceal her disgust, “and yet you oblige me to listen to such speeches!”
The Marquis d’Aigrigny touched M. Tripeaud with his knee under the table, to remind him that he must not express himself in the princess’s parlors in the same manner as he would in the lobbies of the Exchange. To repair the baron’s coarseness, the abbe thus continued: “There is no comparison, mademoiselle, between people of the class you name, and a young lady of your rank.”
“For a Catholic priest, M. l’Abbe, that distinction is not very Christian,” replied Adrienne.
“I know the purport of my words, madame,” answered the abbe, dryly; “besides the independent life that you wish to lead, in opposition to all reason, may tend to very serious consequences for you. Your family may one day wish to see you married—”
“I will spare my family that trouble, sir, if I marry at all, I will choose for myself, which also appears to me reasonable enough. But, in truth, I am very little tempted by that heavy chain, which selfishness and brutality rivet for ever about our necks.”
“It is indecent, madame,” said the princess, “to speak so lightly of such an institution.”
“Before you, especially, madame, I beg pardon for having shocked your highness! You fear that my independent planner of living will frighten away all wooers; but that is another reason for persisting in my independence, for I detest wooers. I only hope that they may have the very worst opinion of me, and there is no better means of effecting that object, than to appear to live as they live themselves. I rely upon my whims, my follies, my sweet faults, to preserve me from the annoyance of any matrimonial hunting.”
“You will be quite satisfied on that head,” resumed Madame de Saint Dizier, “if unfortunately the report should gain credit, that you have carried the forgetfulness of all duty and decency, to such a height, as to return home at eight o’clock in the morning. So I am told is the case but I cannot bring myself to believe such an enormity.”
“You are wrong, madame, for it is quite true.”
“So you confess it?” cried the princess.
“I confess all that I do, madame. I came home this morning at eight o’clock.”
“You hear Gentlemen?” ejaculated the princess.
“Oh!” said M. d’Aigrigny, in a bass voice.
“Ah!” said the baron, in a treble key.
“Oh!” muttered the doctor, with a deep sigh.
On hearing these lamentable exclamations, Adrienne seemed about to speak, perhaps to justify herself; but her lip speedily assumed a curl of contempt, which showed that she disdained to stoop to any explanation.
“So it is true,” said the princess. “Oh, wretched girl, you had accustomed me to be astonished at nothing; but, nevertheless, I doubted the possibility of such conduct. It required your impudent and audacious reply to convince the of the fact.”
“Madame, lying has always appeared to be more impudent than to speak the truth.”
“And where had you been, madame? and for what?”
“Madame,” said Adrienne, interrupting her aunt, “I never speak false—but neither do I speak more than I choose; and then again, it were cowardice to defend myself from a revolting accusation. Let us say no more about it: your importunities on this head will be altogether vain. To resume: you wish to impose upon me a harsh and humiliating restraint; I wish to quit the house I inhabit, to go and live where I please, at my own fancy. Which of us two will yield, remains to be seen. Now for another matter: this mansion belongs to me! As I am about to leave it, I am indifferent whether you continue to live here or not; but the ground floor is uninhabited. It contains, besides the reception-rooms, two complete sets of apartments; I have let them for some time.”
“Indeed!” said the princess, looking at D’Aigrigny with intense surprise. “And to whom,” she added ironically, “have you disposed of them?”
“To three members of my family.”
“What does all this mean?” said Mme. de Saint-Dizier, more and more astonished.
“It means, madame, that I wish to offer a generous hospitality to a young Indian prince, my kinsman on my mother’s side. He will arrive in two or three days, and I wish to have the rooms ready to receive him.”
“You hear, gentlemen?” said D’Aigrigny to the doctor and Tripeaud, with an affectation of profound stupor.
“It surpasses all one could imagine!” exclaimed the baron.
“Alas!” observed the doctor, benignantly, “the impulse is generous in itself—but the mad little head crops out?”
“Excellent!” said the princes. “I cannot prevent you madame, from announcing the most extravagant designs but it is presumable that you will not stop short in so fair a path. Is that all?”
“Not quite, your highness. I learned this morning, that two of my female relations, also on my mother’s side—poor children of fifteen—orphan daughters of Marshal Simon arrived yesterday from a long journey, and are now with the wife of the brave soldier who brought them to France from the depths of Siberia.”
At these words from Adrienne, D’Aigrigny and the princess could not help starting suddenly, and staring at each other with affright, so far were they from expecting that Mdlle. de Cardoville was informed of the coming of Marshal Simon’s daughters. This discovery was like a thunder-clap to them.
“You are no doubt astonished at seeing me so well informed,” said Adrienne; “fortunately, before I have done, I hope to astonish you still more. But to return to these daughters of Marshal Simon: your highness will understand, that it is impossible for me to leave them in charge of the good people who have afforded them a temporary asylum. Though this family is honest, and hard-working, it is not the place for them. I shall go and fetch them hither, and lodge them in apartments on the ground-floor, along with the soldier’s wife, who will do very well to take care of them.”
Upon these words, D’Aigrigny and the baron looked at each other, and the baron exclaimed: “Decidedly, she’s out of her head.”
Without a word to Tripeaud, Adrienne continued: “Marshal Simon cannot fail to arrive at Paris shortly. Your highness perceives how pleasant it will he, to be able to present his daughters to him, and prove that they have been treated as they deserve. To-morrow morning I shall send for milliners and mantua makers, so that they may want for nothing. I desire their surprised father, on his return, to find them every way beautiful. They are pretty, I am told, as angels—but I will endeavor to make little Cupids of them.”