CHAPTER XLIV. THE MINISTER’S CABINET.
The carriage had stopped before some steps covered with snow, which led to a vestibule lighted by a lamp. The better to ascend the steps, which were somewhat slippery, Adrienne leaned upon the doctor’s arm.
“Dear me! how you tremble,” said he.
“Yes,” replied she, shuddering, “I feel deadly cold. In my haste, I came out without a shawl. But how gloomy this house appears,” she added, pointing to the entrance.
“It is what you call the minister’s private house, the sanctum sanctorum, whither our statesman retires far from the sound of the profane,” said Dr. Baleinier, with a smile. “Pray come in!” and he pushed open the door of a large hall, completely empty.
“They are right in saying,” resumed Dr. Baleinier, who covered his secret agitation with an appearance of gayety, “that a minister’s house is like nobody else’s. Not a footman—not a page, I should say—to be found in the antechamber. Luckily,” added he, opening the door of a room which communicated with the vestibule,
“‘In this seraglio reared, I know the secret ways.’”
Mdlle. de Cardoville was now introduced into an apartment hung with green embossed paper, and very simply furnished with mahogany chairs, covered with yellow velvet; the floor was carefully polished, and a globe lamp, which gave at most a third of its proper light, was suspended (at a much greater height than usual) from the ceiling. Finding the appearance of this habitation singularly plain for the dwelling of a minister, Adrienne, though she had no suspicion, could not suppress a movement of surprise and paused a moment on the threshold of the door. M. Baleinier, by whose arm she held, guessed the cause of her astonishment, and said to her with a smile:
“This place appears to you very paltry for ‘his excellency,’ does it not? If you knew what a thing constitutional economy is!—Moreover, you will see a ‘my lord,’ who has almost as little pretension as his furniture. But please to wait for me an instant. I will go and inform the minister you are here, and return immediately.”
Gently disengaging himself from the grasp of Adrienne, who had involuntarily pressed close to him, the physician opened a small side door, by which he instantly disappeared. Adrienne de Cardoville was left alone.
Though she could not have explained the cause of her impression, there was something awe-inspiring to the young lady in this large, cold, naked, curtainless room; and as, by degrees, she noticed certain peculiarities in the furniture, which she had not at first perceived, she was seized with an indefinable feeling of uneasiness.
Approaching the cheerless hearth, she perceived with surprise that an iron grating completely enclosed the opening of the chimney, and that the tongs and shovel were fastened with iron chains. Already astonished by this singularity, she was about mechanically to draw towards her an armchair placed against the wall, when she found that it remained motionless. She then discovered that the back of this piece of furniture, as well as that of all the other chairs, was fastened to the wainscoting by iron clamps. Unable to repress a smile, she exclaimed: “Have they so little confidence in the statesman in whose house I am, that they are obliged to fasten the furniture to the walls?”
Adrienne had recourse to this somewhat forced pleasantry as a kind of effort to resist the painful feeling of apprehension that was gradually creeping over her; for the most profound and mournful silence reigned in this habitation, where nothing indicated the life, the movement and the activity, which usually surround a great centre of business. Only, from time to time, the young lady heard the violent gusts of wind from without.
More than a quarter of an hour had elapsed, and M. Baleinier did not return. In her impatient anxiety, Adrienne wished to call some one to inquire about the doctor and the minister. She raised her eyes to look for a bell-rope by the side of the chimney-glass; she found none, but she perceived, that what she had hitherto taken for a glass, thanks to the half obscurity of the room, was in reality a large sheet of shining tin. Drawing nearer to it, she accidentally touched a bronzed candlestick; and this, as well as a clock, was fixed to the marble of the chimney-piece.
In certain dispositions of mind, the most insignificant circumstances often assume terrific proportions. This immovable candlestick, this furniture fastened to the wainscot, this glass replaced by a tin sheet, this profound silence, and the prolonged absence of M. Baleinier, had such an effect upon Adrienne, that she was struck with a vague terror. Yet such was her implicit confidence in the doctor, that she reproached herself with her own fears, persuading herself that the causes of them were after all of no real importance, and that it was unreasonable to feel uneasy at such trifles.
Still, though she thus strove to regain courage, her anxiety induced her to do what otherwise she would never have attempted. She approached the little door by which the doctor had disappeared, and applied her ear to it. She held her breath, and listened, but heard nothing.
Suddenly, a dull, heavy sound, like that of a falling body, was audible just above her head; she thought she could even distinguish a stifled moaning. Raising her eyes, hastily, she saw some particles of the plaster fall from the ceiling, loosened, no doubt, by the shaking of the floor above.
No longer able to resist the feeling of terror, Adrienne ran to the door by which she had entered with the doctor, in order to call some one. To her great surprise, she found it was fastened on the outside. Yet, since her arrival, she had heard no sound of a key turning in the lock.
More and more alarmed, the young girl flew to the little door by which the physician had disappeared, and at which she had just been listening. This door also was fastened on the outside.
Still, wishing to struggle with the terror which was gaining invincibly upon her, Adrienne called to her aid all the firmness of her character, and tried to argue away her fears.
“I must have been deceived.” she said; “it was only a fall that I heard. The moaning had no existence, except in my imagination. There are a thousand reasons for believing that it was not a person who fell down. But, then, these locked doors? They, perhaps, do not know that I am here; they may have thought that there was nobody in this room.”
As she uttered these words, Adrienne looked round with anxiety; then she added, in a firm voice: “No weakness! it is useless to try to blind myself to my real situation. On the contrary, I must look it well in the face. It is evident that I am not here at a minister’s house; no end of reasons prove it beyond a doubt; M. Baleinier has therefore deceived me. But for what end? Why has he brought me hither? Where am I?”
The last two questions appeared to Adrienne both equally insoluble. It only remained clear, that she was the victim of M. Baleinier’s perfidy. But this certainly seemed so horrible to the young girl’s truthful and generous soul, that she still tried to combat the idea by the recollection of the confiding friendship which she had always shown this man. She said to herself with bitterness: “See how weakness and fear may lead one to unjust and odious suspicions! Yes; for until the last extremity, it is not justifiable to believe in so infernal a deception—and then only upon the clearest evidence. I will call some one: it is the only way of completely satisfying these doubts.” Then, remembering that there was no bell, she added: “No matter; I will knock, and some one will doubtless answer.” With her little, delicate hand, Adrienne struck the door several times.
The dull, heavy sound which came from the door showed that it was very thick. No answer was returned to the young girl. She ran to the other door. There was the same appeal on her part, the same profound silence without—only interrupted from time to time by the howling of the wind.
“I am not more timid than other people,” said Adrienne, shuddering; “I do not know if it is the excessive cold, but I tremble in spite of myself. I endeavor to guard against all weakness; yet I think that any one in my position would find all this very strange and frightful.”
At this instant, loud cries, or rather savage and dreadful howls, burst furiously from the room just above, and soon after a sort of stamping of feet, like the noise of a violent struggle, shook the ceiling of the apartment. Struck with consternation, Adrienne uttered a loud cry of terror became deadly pale, stood for a moment motionless with affright, and then rushed to one of the windows, and abruptly threw it open.
A violent gust of wind, mixed with melted snow, beat against Adrienne’s face, swept roughly into the room, and soon extinguished the flickering and smoky light of the lamp. Thus, plunged in profound darkness, with her hands clinging to the bars that were placed across the window, Mdlle. de Cardoville yielded at length to the full influence of her fears, so long restrained, and was about to call aloud for help, when an unexpected apparition rendered her for some minutes absolutely mute with terror.
Another wing of the building, opposite to that in which she was, stood at no great distance. Through the midst of the black darkness, which filled the space between, one large, lighted window was distinctly visible. Through the curtainless panes, Adrienne perceived a white figure, gaunt and ghastly, dragging after it a sort of shroud, and passing and repassing continually before the window, with an abrupt and restless motion. Her eyes fixed upon this window, shining through the darkness, Adrienne remained as if fascinated by that fatal vision: and, as the spectacle filled up the measure of her fears, she called for help with all her might, without quitting the bars of the window to which she clung. After a few seconds, whilst she was thus crying out, two tall women entered the room in silence, unperceived by Mdlle. de Cardoville, who was still clinging to the window.
These women, of about forty to fifty years of age, robust and masculine, were negligently and shabbily dressed, like chambermaids of the lower sort; over their clothes they wore large aprons of blue cotton, cut sloping from their necks, and reaching down to their feet. One of them, who held a lamp in her hand, had a broad, red, shining face, a large pimpled nose, small green eyes, and tow hair, which straggled rough and shaggy from beneath her dirty white cap. The other, sallow, withered, and bony, wore a mourning-cap over a parchment visage, pitted with the small-pox, and rendered still more repulsive by the thick black eyebrows, and some long gray hairs that overshadowed the upper lip. This woman carried, half unfolded in her hand, a garment of strange form, made of thick gray stuff.
They both entered silently by the little door, at the moment when Adrienne, in the excess of her terror, was grasping the bars of the window, and crying out: “Help! help!”
Pointing out the young lady to each other, one of them went to place the lamp on the chimney-piece, whilst the other (she who wore the mourning cap) approached the window, and laid her great bony hand upon Mdlle. de Cardoville’s shoulder.
Turning round, Adrienne uttered a new cry of terror at the sight of this grim figure. Then, the first moment of stupor over, she began to feel less afraid; hideous as was this woman, it was at least some one to speak to; she exclaimed, therefore, in an agitated voice: “Where is M. Baleinier?”
The two women looked at each other, exchanged a leer of mutual intelligence, but did not answer.
“I ask you, madame,” resumed Adrienne, “where is M. Baleinier, who brought me hither? I wish to see him instantly.”
“He is gone,” said the big woman.
“Gone!” cried Adrienne; “gone without me!—Gracious heaven! what can be the meaning of all this?” Then, after a moment’s reflection, she resumed, “Please to fetch me a coach.”
The two women looked at each other, and shrugged their shoulders. “I entreat you, madame,” continued Adrienne, with forced calmness in her voice, “to fetch me a coach since M. Baleinier is gone without me. I wish to leave this place.”
“Come, come, madame,” said the tall woman, who was called “Tomboy,” without appearing to listen to what Adrienne asked, “it is time for you to go to bed.”
“To go to bed!” cried Mdlle. Cardoville, in alarm. “This is really enough to drive one mad.” Then, addressing the two women, she added: “What is this house? where am I? answer!”
“You are in a house,” said Tomboy, in a rough voice, “where you must not make a row from the window, as you did just now.”
“And where you must not put out the lamp as you have done,” added the other woman, who was called Gervaise, “or else we shall have a crow to pick with you.”
Adrienne, unable to utter a word, and trembling with fear, looked in a kind of stupor from one to the other of these horrible women; her reason strove in vain to comprehend what was passing around her. Suddenly she thought she had guessed it, and exclaimed: “I see there is a mistake here. I do not understand how, but there is a mistake. You take me for some one else. Do you know who I am? My name is Adrienne de Cardoville You see, therefore, that I am at liberty to leave this house; no one in the world has the right to detain me. I command you, then, to fetch me a coach immediately. If there are none in this quarter, let me have some one to accompany me home to the Rue de Babylone, Saint-Dizier House. I will reward such a person liberally, and you also.”
“Well, have you finished?” said Tomboy. “What is the use of telling us all this rubbish?”
“Take care,” resumed Adrienne, who wished to try every means; “if you detain me here by force, it will be very serious. You do not know to what you expose yourselves.”
“Will you come to bed; yes or no?” said Gervaise, in a tone of harsh impatience.
“Listen to me, madame,” resumed Adrienne, precipitately, “let me out this place, and I will give each of you two thousand francs. It is not enough? I will give you ten—twenty—whatever you ask. I am rich—only let me out for heaven’s sake, let me out!—I cannot remain here—I am afraid.” As she said this, the tone of the poor girl’s voice was heartrending.
“Twenty thousand francs!—that’s the usual figure, ain’t it, Tomboy?”
“Let be, Gervaise! they all sing the same song.”
“Well, then? since reasons, prayers, and menaces are all in vain,” said Adrienne gathering energy from her desperate position, “I declare to you that I will go out and that instantly. We will see if you are bold enough to employ force against me.”
So saying, Adrienne advanced resolutely towards the door. But, at this moment, the wild hoarse cries, which had preceded the noise of the struggle that had so frightened her, again resounded; only, this time they were not accompanied by the movement of feet.
“Oh! what screams!” said Adrienne, stopping short, and in her terror drawing nigh to the two women. “Do you not hear those cries? What, then, is this house, in which one hears such things? And over there, too,” added she almost beside herself, as she pointed to the other wing where the lighted windows shone through the darkness, and the white figure continued to pass and repass before it; “over there! do you see? What is it?”
“Oh! that ‘un,” said Tomboy; “one of the folks who, like you, have not behaved well.”
“What do you say?” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, clasping her hands in terror. “Heavens! what is this house? What do they do to them?”
“What will be done to you, if you are naughty, and refuse to come to bed,” answered Gervaise.
“They put this on them,” said Tomboy, showing the garment that she had held under her arm, “they clap ‘em into the strait-waistcoast.”
“Oh!” cried Adrienne, hiding her face in her hands with horror. A terrible discovery had flashed suddenly upon her. She understood it all.
Capping the violent emotions of the day, the effect of this last blow was dreadful. The young girl felt her strength give way. Her hands fell powerless, her face became fearfully pale, all her limbs trembled, and sinking upon her knees, and casting a terrified glance at the strait waistcoat she was just able to falter in a feeble voice, “Oh, no:—not that—for pity’s sake, madame. I will do—whatever you wish.” And, her strength quite failing, she would have fallen upon the ground if the two women had not run towards her, and received her fainting into their arms.
“A fainting fit,” said Tomboy; “that’s not dangerous. Let us carry her to bed. We can undress her, and this will be all nothing.”
“Carry her, then,” said Gervaise. “I will take the lamp.”
The tall and robust Tomboy took up Mdlle. de Cardoville as if she had been a sleeping child, carried her in her arms, and followed her companion into the chamber through which M. Baleinier had made his exit.
This chamber, though perfectly clean, was cold and bare. A greenish paper covered the walls, and a low, little iron bedstead, the head of which formed a kind of shelf, stood in one corner; a stove, fixed in the chimney-place, was surrounded by an iron grating, which forbade a near approach; a table fastened to the wall, a chair placed before this table, and also clamped to the floor, a mahogany chest of drawers, and a rush bottomed armchair completed the scanty furniture. The curtainless window was furnished on the inside with an iron grating, which served to protect the panes from being broken.
It was into this gloomy retreat, which formed so painful a contrast with the charming little summer-house in the Rue de Babylone, that Adrienne was carried by Tomboy, who, with the assistance of Gervaise, placed the inanimate form on the bed. The lamp was deposited on the shelf at the head of the couch. Whilst one of the nurses held her up, the other unfastened and took off the cloth dress of the young girl, whose head drooped languidly on her bosom. Though in a swoon, large tears trickled slowly from her closed eyes, whose long black lashes threw their shadows on the transparent whiteness of her cheeks. Over her neck and breast of ivory flowed the golden waves of her magnificent hair, which had come down at the time of her fall. When, as they unlaced her satin corset, less soft, less fresh, less white than the virgin form beneath, which lay like a statue of alabaster in its covering of lace and lawn, one of the horrible hags felt the arms and shoulders of the young girl with her large, red, horny, and chapped hands. Though she did not completely recover the use of her senses, she started involuntarily from the rude and brutal touch.
“Hasn’t she little feet?” said the nurse, who, kneeling down, was employed in drawing off Adrienne’s stockings. “I could hold them both in the hollow of my hand.” In fact, a small, rosy foot, smooth as a child’s, here and there veined with azure, was soon exposed to view, as was also a leg with pink knee and ankle, of as pure and exquisite a form as that of Diana Huntress.
“And what hair!” said Tomboy; “so long and soft!—She might almost walk upon it. ‘Twould be a pity to cut it off, to put ice upon her skull!” As she spoke, she gathered up Adrienne’s magnificent hair, and twisted it as well as she could behind her head. Alas! it was no longer the fair, light hand of Georgette, Florine, or Hebe that arranged the beauteous locks of their mistress with so much love and pride!
And as she again felt the rude touch of the nurse’s hand, the young girl was once more seized with the same nervous trembling, only more frequently and strongly than before. And soon, whether by a sort of instinctive repulsion, magnetically excited during her swoon, or from the effect of the cold night air, Adrienne again started and slowly came to herself.
It is impossible to describe her alarm, horror, and chaste indignation, as, thrusting aside with both her hands the numerous curls that covered her face, bathed in tears, she saw herself half-naked between these filthy hags. At first, she uttered a cry of shame and terror; then to escape from the looks of the women, by a movement, rapid as thought, she drew down the lamp placed on the shelf at the head of her bed, so that it was extinguished and broken to pieces on the floor. After which, in the midst of the darkness, the unfortunate girl, covering herself with the bed-clothes, burst into passionate sobs.
The nurses attributed Adrienne’s cry and violent actions to a fit of furious madness. “Oh! you begin again to break the lamps—that’s your partickler fancy, is it?” cried Tomboy, angrily, as she felt her way in the dark. “Well! I gave you fair warning. You shall have the strait waistcoat on this very night, like the mad gal upstairs.”
“That’s it,” said the other; “hold her fast, Tommy, while I go and fetch a light. Between us, we’ll soon master her.”
“Make haste, for, in spite of her soft look, she must be a regular fury. We shall have to sit up all night with her, I suppose.”
Sad and painful contrast! That morning, Adrienne had risen free, smiling, happy, in the midst of all the wonders of luxury and art, and surrounded by the delicate attentions of the three charming girls whom she had chosen to serve her. In her generous and fantastic mood, she had prepared a magnificent and fairy-like surprise for the young Indian prince, her relation; she had also taken a noble resolution with regard to the two orphans brought home by Dagobert; in her interview with Mme. de Saint-Dizier, she had shown herself by turns proud and sensitive, melancholy and gay, ironical and serious, loyal and courageous; finally, she had come to this accursed house to plead in favor of an honest and laborious artisan.
And now, in the evening delivered over by an atrocious piece of treachery to the ignoble hands of two coarse-minded muses in a madhouse—Mdlle. de Cardoville felt her delicate limbs imprisoned in that abominable garment, which is called a strait-waistcoat.
Mdlle. de Cardoville passed a horrible night in company with the two hags. The next morning, at nine o’clock, what was the young lady’s stupor to see Dr. Baleinier enter the room, still smiling with an air at once benevolent and paternal.
“Well, my dear child?” said he, in a bland, affectionate voice; “how have we spent the night?”
CHAPTER XLV. THE VISIT.
Original
The keepers, yielding to Mdlle. de Cardoville’s prayers, and, above all, to her promises of good behavior, had only left on the canvas jacket a portion of the time. Towards morning, they had allowed her to rise and dress herself, without interfering.
Adrienne was seated on the edge of her bed. The alteration in her features, her dreadful paleness, the lurid fire of fever shining in her eyes, the convulsive trembling which ever and anon shook her frame, showed already the fatal effects of this terrible night upon a susceptible and high-strung organization. At sight of Dr. Baleinier, who, with a sign, made Gervaise and her mate leave the room, Adrienne remained petrified.
She felt a kind of giddiness at the thought of the audacity of the man, who dared to present himself to her! But when the physician repeated, in the softest tone of affectionate interest: “Well, my poor child! how have we spent the night?” she pressed her hands to her burning forehead, as if in doubt whether she was awake or sleeping. Then, staring at the doctor, she half opened her lips; but they trembled so much that it was impossible for her to utter a word. Anger, indignation, contempt, and, above all, the bitter and acutely painful feeling of a generous heart, whose confidence has been basely betrayed, so overpowered Adrienne that she was unable to break the silence.
“Come, come! I see how it is,” said the doctor, shaking his head sorrowfully; “you are very much displeased with me—is it not so? Well! I expected it, my dear child.”
These words, pronounced with the most hypocritical effrontery, made Adrienne start up. Her pale cheek flushed, her large eyes sparkled, she lifted proudly her beautiful head, whilst her upper lip curled slightly with a smile of disdainful bitterness; then, passing in angry silence before M. Baleinier, who retained his seat, she directed her swift and firm steps towards the door. This door, in which was a little wicket, was fastened on the outside. Adrienne turned towards the doctor, and said to him, with an imperious gesture; “Open that door for me!”
“Come, my dear Mdlle. Adrienne,” said the physician, “be calm. Let us talk like good friends—for you know I am your friend.” And he inhaled slowly a pinch of snuff.
“It appears, sir,” said Adrienne, in a voice trembling with indignation, “I am not to leave this place to-day?”
“Alas! no. In such a state of excitement—if you knew how inflamed your face is, and your eyes so feverish, your pulse must be at least eighty to the minute—I conjure you, my dear child, not to aggravate your symptoms by this fatal agitation.”
After looking fixedly at the doctor, Adrienne returned with a slow step, and again took her seat on the edge of the bed. “That is right,” resumed M. Baleinier: “only be reasonable; and, as I said before, let us talk together like good friends.”
“You say well, sir,” replied Adrienne, in a collected and perfectly calm voice; “let us talk like friends. You wish to make me pass for mad—is it not so?”
“I wish, my dear child, that one day you may feel towards me as much gratitude as you now do aversion. The latter I had fully foreseen—but, however painful may be the performance of certain duties, we must resign ourselves to it.”
M. Baleinier sighed, as he said this, with such a natural air of conviction, that for a moment Adrienne could not repress a movement of surprise; then, while her lip curled with a bitter laugh, she answered: “Oh, it’s very clear, you have done all this for my good?”
“Really, my dear young lady—have I ever had any other design than to be useful to you?”
“I do not know, sir, if your impudence be not still more odious than your cowardly treachery!”
“Treachery!” said M. Baleinier, shrugging his shoulders with a grieved air; “treachery, indeed! Only reflect, my poor child—do you think, if I were not acting with good faith, conscientiously, in your interest, I should return this morning to meet your indignation, for which I was fully prepared? I am the head physician of this asylum, which belongs to me—but I have two of my pupils here, doctors, like myself—and might have left them to take care of you but, no—I could not consent to it—I knew your character, your nature, your previous history, and (leaving out of the question the interest I feel for you) I can treat your case better than any one.”
Adrienne had heard M. Baleinier without interrupting him; she now looked at him fixedly, and said: “Pray, sir, how much do they pay you to make me pass for mad?”
“Madame!” cried M. Baleinier, who felt stung in spite of, himself.
“You know I am rich,” continued Adrienne, with overwhelming disdain; “I will double the sum that they give you. Come, sir—in the name of friendship, as you call it, let me have the pleasure of outbidding them.”
“Your keepers,” said M. Baleinier, recovering all his coolness, “have informed me, in their report of the night’s proceedings, that you made similar propositions to them.”
“Pardon me, sir; I offered them what might be acceptable to poor women, without education, whom misfortune has forced to undertake a painful employment—but to you, sir a man of the world, a man of science, a man of great abilities—that is quite different—the pay must be a great deal higher. There is treachery at all prices; so do not found your refusal on the smallness of my offer to those wretched women. Tell me—how much do you want?”
“Your keepers, in their report of the night, have also spoken of threats,” resumed M. Baleinier, with the same coolness; “have you any of those likewise to address me? Believe me, my poor child, you will do well to exhaust at once your attempts at corruption, and your vain threats of vengeance. We shall then come to the true state of the case.”
“So you deem my threats vain!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, at length giving way to the full tide of her indignation, till then restrained. “Do you think, sir, that when I leave this place—for this outrage must have an end—that I will not proclaim aloud your infamous treachery? Do you think chat I will not denounce to the contempt and horror of all, your base conspiracy with Madame de Saint-Dizier? Oh! do you think that I will conceal the frightful treatment I have received! But, mad as I may be, I know that there are laws in this country, by which I will demand a full reparation for myself, and shame, disgrace, and punishment, for you, and for those who have employed you! Henceforth, between you and me will be hate and war to the death; and all my strength, all my intelligence—”
“Permit me to interrupt you, my dear Mdlle. Adrienne,” said the doctor, still perfectly calm and affectionate: “nothing can be more unfavorable to your cure, than to cherish idle hopes: they will only tend to keep up a state of deplorable excitement: it is best to put the facts fairly before you, that you may understand clearly your position.
“1. It is impossible for you to leave this house. 2. You can have no communication with any one beyond its walls. 3. No one enters here that I cannot perfectly depend upon. 4. I am completely indifferent to your threats of vengeance because law and reason are both in my favor.”
“What! have you the right to shut me up here?”
“We should never have come to that determination, without a number of reasons of the most serious kind.”
“Oh! there are reasons for it, it seems.”
“Unfortunately, too many.”
“You will perhaps inform me of them?”
“Alas! they are only too conclusive; and if you should ever apply to the protection of the laws, as you threatened me just now, we should be obliged to state them. The fantastical eccentricity of your manner of living, your whimsical mode of dressing up your maids, your extravagant expenditure, the story of the Indian prince, to whom you offered a royal hospitality, your unprecedented resolution of going to live by yourself, like a young bachelor, the adventure of the man found concealed in your bed-chamber; finally, the report of your yesterday’s conversation, which was faithfully taken down in shorthand, by a person employed for that purpose.”
Original
“Yesterday?” cried Adrienne, with as much indignation as surprise.
“Oh, yes! to be prepared for every event, in case you should misinterpret the interest we take in you, we had all your answers reported by a man who was concealed behind a curtain in the next room; and really, one day, in a calmer state of mind, when you come to read over quietly the particulars of what took place, you will no longer be astonished at the resolution we have been forced to adopt.”
“Go on, sir,” said Adrienne, with contempt.
“The facts I have cited being thus confirmed and acknowledged, you will understand, my dear Mdlle. Adrienne, that your friends are perfectly free from responsibility. It was their duty to endeavor to cure this derangement of mind, which at present only shows itself in idle whims, but which, were it to increase, might seriously compromise the happiness of your future life. Now, in my opinion, we may hope to see a radical cure, by means of a treatment at once physical and moral; but the first condition of this attempt was to remove you from the scenes which so dangerously excited your imagination; whilst a calm retreat, the repose of a simple and solitary life combined with my anxious, I may say, paternal care, will gradually bring about a complete recovery—”
“So, sir,” said Adrienne, with a bitter laugh, “the love of a noble independence, generosity, the worship of the beautiful, detestation of what is base and odious, such are the maladies of which you wish to cure me; I fear that my case is desperate, for my aunt has long ago tried to effect that benevolent purpose.”
“Well, we may perhaps not succeed; but at least we will attempt it. You see, then, there is a mass of serious facts, quite enough to justify the determination come to by the family-council, which puts me completely at my ease with regard to your menaces. It is to that I wish to return; a man of my age and condition never acts lightly—in such circumstances, and you can readily understand what I was saying to you just now. In a word, do not hope to leave this place before your complete recovery, and rest assured, that I am and shall ever be safe from your resentment. This being once admitted, let us talk of your actual state with all the interest that you naturally inspire.”
“I think, sir, that, considering I am mad, you speak to me very reasonably.”
“Mad! no, thank heaven, my poor child, you are not mad yet—and I hope that, by my care, you will never be so. It is to prevent your becoming mad, that one must take it in time; and believe me, it is full time. You look at me with such an air of surprise—now tell me, what interest can I have in talking to you thus? Is it the hatred of your aunt that I wish to favor? To what end, I would ask? What can she do for me or against me? I think of her at this moment neither more nor less than I thought yesterday. Is it a new language that I hold to yourself? Did I not speak to you yesterday many times, of the dangerous excitement of mind in which you were, and of your singular whims and fancies? It is true, I made use of stratagem to bring you hither. No doubt, I did so. I hastened to avail myself of the opportunity, which you yourself offered, my poor, dear child; for you would never have come hither with your own good will. One day or the other, we must have found some pretext to get you here: and I said to myself; ‘Her interest before all! Do your duty, let whatever will betide!’—”
Whilst M. Baleinier was speaking, Adrienne’s countenance, which had hitherto expressed alternately indignation and disdain, assumed an indefinable look of anguish and horror. On hearing this man talk in such a natural manner, and with such an appearance of sincerity, justice and reason, she felt herself more alarmed than ever. An atrocious deception, clothed in such forms, frightened her a hundred times more than the avowed hatred of Madame de Saint-Dizier. This audacious hypocrisy seemed to her so monstrous, that she believed it almost impossible.
Original
Adrienne had so little the art of hiding her emotions, that the doctor, a skillful and profound physiognomist, instantly perceived the impression he had produced. “Come,” said he to himself, “that is a great step. Fright has succeeded to disdain and anger. Doubt will come next. I shall not leave this place, till she has said to me: ‘Return soon, my good M. Baleinier!’” With a voice of sorrowful emotion, which seemed to come from the very depths of his heart, the doctor thus continued: “I see, you are still suspicious of me. All I can say to you is falsehood, fraud, hypocrisy, hate—is it not so?—Hate you? why, in heaven’s name, should I hate you? What have you done to me? or rather—you will perhaps attach more value to this reason from a man of my sort,” added M. Baleinier, bitterly, “or rather, what interest have I to hate you?—You, that have only been reduced to the state in which you are by an over abundance of the most generous instincts—you, that are suffering, as it were, from an excess of good qualities—you can bring yourself coolly and deliberately to accuse an honest man, who has never given you any but marks of affection, of the basest, the blackest, the most abominable crime, of which a human being could be guilty. Yes, I call it a crime; because the audacious deception of which you accuse me would not deserve any other name. Really, my poor child, it is hard—very hard—and I now see, that an independent spirit may sometimes exhibit as much injustice and intolerance as the most narrow mind. It does not incense me—no—it only pains me: yes, I assure you—it pains me cruelly.” And the doctor drew his hand across his moist eyes.
It is impossible to give the accent, the look, the gesture of M. Baleinier, as he thus expressed himself. The most able and practiced lawyer, or the greatest actor in the world, could not have played this scene with more effect than the doctor—or rather, no one could have played it so well—M. Baleinier, carried away by the influence of the situations, was himself half convinced of what he said.
In few words, he felt all the horror of his own perfidy but he felt also that Adrienne could not believe it; for there are combinations of such nefarious character, that pure and upright minds are unable to comprehend them as possible. If a lofty spirit looks down into the abyss of evil, beyond a certain depth it is seized with giddiness, and no longer able to distinguish one object from the other.
And then the most perverse of men have a day, an hour, a moment, in which the good instincts, planted in the heart of every creature, appear in spite of themselves. Adrienne was too interesting, was in too cruel a position, for the doctor mot to feel some pity for her in his heart; the tone of sympathy, which for some time past he had been obliged to assume towards her, and the sweet confidence of the young girl in return, had become for this man habitual and necessary ratifications. But sympathy and habit were now to yield to implacable necessity.
Thus the Marquis d’Aigrigny had idolized his mother; dying, she called him to her—and he turned away from the last prayer of a parent in the agony of death. After such an example, how could M. Baleinier hesitate to sacrifice Adrienne? The members of the Order, of which he formed a part, were bound to him—but he was perhaps still more strongly bound to them, for a long partnership in evil creates terrible and indissoluble ties.
The moment M. Baleinier finished his fervid address to Mdlle. de Cardoville, the slide of the wicket in the door was softly pushed back, and a pair of eyes peered attentively into the chamber, unperceived by the doctor.
Adrienne could not withdraw her gaze from the physician’s, which seemed to fascinate her. Mute, overpowered, seized with a vague terror, unable to penetrate the dark depths of this man’s soul, moved in spite of herself by the accent of sorrow, half feigned and half real—the young lady had a momentary feeling of doubt. For the first time, it came into her mind, that M. Baleinier might perhaps be committing a frightful error—committing it in good faith.
Besides, the anguish of the past night, the dangers of her position, her feverish agitation, all concurred to fill her mind with trouble and indecision. She looked at the physician with ever increasing surprise, and making a violent effort not to yield to a weakness, of which she partly foresaw the dreadful consequences, she exclaimed: “No, no, sir; I will not, I cannot believe it. You have too much skill, too much experience, to commit such an error.”
“An error!” said M. Baleinier, in a grave and sorrowful tone. “Let me speak to you in the name of that skill and experience, which you are pleased to ascribe to me. Hear me but for a moment, my dear child; and then I will appeal to yourself.”
“To me!” replied the young girl, in a kind of stupor; “you wish to persuade me, that—” Then, interrupting herself, she added, with a convulsive laugh: “This only is wanting to your triumph—to bring me to confess that I am mad—that my proper place is here—that I owe you—”
“Gratitude. Yes, you do owe it me, even as I told you at the commencement of this conversation. Listen to me then; my words may be cruel, but there are wounds which can only be cured with steel and fire. I conjure you, my dear child—reflect—throw back one impartial glance at your past life—weigh your own thoughts—and you will be afraid of yourself. Remember those moments of strange excitement, during which, as you have told me, you seemed to soar above the earth—and, above all, while it is yet time—while you preserve enough clearness of mind to compare and judge—compare, I entreat, your manner of living with that of other ladies of your age? Is there a single one who acts as you act? who thinks as you think? unless, indeed, you imagine yourself so superior to other women, that, in virtue of that supremacy, you can justify a life and habits that have no parallel in the world.”
“I have never had such stupid pride, you know it well,” said Adrienne, looking at the doctor with growing terror.
“Then, my dear child, to what are we to attribute your strange and inexplicable mode of life? Can you even persuade yourself that it is founded on reason? Oh, my child! take care?—As yet, you only indulge in charming originalities of conduct, poetical eccentricities, sweet and vague reveries—but the tendency is fatal, the downward course irresistible. Take care, take care!—the healthful, graceful, spiritual portion of your intelligence has yet the upper hand, and imprints its stamp upon all your extravagances; but you do not know, believe me, with what frightful force the insane portion of the mind, at a given moment, develops itself and strangles up the rest. Then we have no longer graceful eccentricities, like yours, but ridiculous, sordid, hideous delusions.”
“Oh! you frighten me,” said the unfortunate girl, as she passed her trembling hands across her burning brow.
“Then,” continued M. Baleinier, in an agitated voice, “then the last rays of intelligence are extinguished; then madness—for we must pronounce the dreaded word—gets the upper hand, and displays itself in furious and savage transports.”
“Like the woman upstairs,” murmured Adrienne, as, with fixed and eager look, she raised her finger towards the ceiling.
“Sometimes,” continued the doctor, alarmed himself at the terrible consequences of his own words, but yielding to the inexorable fatality of his situation, “sometimes madness takes a stupid and brutal form; the unfortunate creature, who is attacked by it, preserves nothing human but the shape—has only the instincts of the lower animals—eats with voracity, and moves ever backwards and forwards in the cell, in which such a being is obliged to be confined. That is all its life—all.”
“Like the woman yonder.” cried Adrienne, with a still wilder look, as she slowly raised her arm towards the window that was visible on the other side of the building.
“Why—yes,” said M. Baleinier. “Like you, unhappy child, those women were young, fair, and sensible, but like you, alas! they had in them the fatal germ of insanity, which, not having been destroyed in time, grew, and grew, larger and ever larger, until it overspread and destroyed their reason.”
“Oh, mercy!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, whose head was getting confused with terror; “mercy! do not tell me such things!—I am afraid. Take me from this place—oh! take me from this place!” she added, with a heartrending accent; “for, if I remain here, I shall end by going mad! No,” added she, struggling with the terrible agony which assailed her, “no, do not hope it! I shall not become mad. I have all my reason. I am not blind enough to believe what you tell me. Doubtless, I live differently from others; think differently from others; am shocked by things that do not offend others; but what does all this prove? Only that I am different from others. Have I a bad heart? Am I envious or selfish? My ideas are singular, I knew—yes, I confess it—but then, M. Baleinier, is not their tendency good, generous, noble!—Oh!” cried Adrienne’s supplicating voice, while her tears flowed abundantly, “I have never in my life done one malicious action; my worst errors have arisen from excess of generosity. Is it madness to wish to see everybody about one too happy? And again, if you are mad, you must feel it yourself—and I do not feel it—and yet—I scarcely know—you tell me such terrible things of those two women! You ought to know these things better than I. But then,” added Mdlle, de Cardoville, with an accent of the deepest despair, “something ought to have been done. Why, if you felt an interest for me, did you wait so long? Why did you not take pity on me sooner? But the most frightful fact is, that I do not know whether I ought to believe you—for all this may be a snare—but no, no! you weep—it is true, then!—you weep!” She looked anxiously at M. Baleinier, who, notwithstanding his cynical philosophy, could not restrain his tears at the sight of these nameless tortures.
“You weep over me,” she continued; “so it is true! But (good heaven!) must there not be something done? I will do all that you wish—all—so that I may not be like those women. But if it should be too late? no, it is not too late—say it is not too late, my good M. Baleinier! Oh, now I ask your pardon for what I said when you came in—but then I did not know, you see—I did not know!”
To these few broken words, interrupted by sobs, and rushing forth in a sort of feverish excitement, succeeded a silence of some minutes, during which the deeply affected physician dried his tears. His resolution had almost failed him. Adrienne hid her face in her hands. Suddenly she again lifted her head; her countenance was calmer than before, though agitated by a nervous trembling.
“M. Baleinier,” she resumed, with touching dignity, “I hardly know what I said to you just now. Terror, I think, made me wander; I have again collected myself. Hear me! I know that I am in your power; I know that nothing can deliver me from it. Are you an implacable enemy? or are you a friend? I am not able to determine. Do you really apprehend, as you assure me, that what is now eccentricity will hereafter become madness—or are you rather the accomplice in some infernal machination? You alone can answer. In spite of my boasted courage, I confess myself conquered. Whatever is required of me—you understand, whatever it may be, I will subscribe to, I give you my word and you know that I hold it sacred—you have therefore no longer any interest to keep me here. If, on the contrary, you really think my reason in danger—and I own that you have awakened in my mind vague, but frightful doubts—tell it me, and I will believe you. I am alone, at your mercy, without friends, without counsel. I trust myself blindly to you. I know not whether I address myself to a deliverer or a destroyer—but I say to you—here is my happiness—here is my life—take it—I have no strength to dispute it with you!”
These touching words, full of mournful resignation and almost hopeless reliance, gave the finishing stroke to the indecision of M. Baleinier. Already deeply moved by this scene, and without reflecting on the consequences of what he was about to do, he determined at all events to dissipate the terrible and unjust fears with which he had inspired Adrienne. Sentiments of remorse and pity, which now animated the physician, were visible in his countenance.
Alas! they were too visible. The moment he approached to take the hand of Mdlle. de Cardoville, a low but sharp voice exclaimed from behind the wicket: “M. Baleinier!”
“Rodin!” muttered the startled doctor to himself; “he’s been spying on me!”
“Who calls you?” asked the lady of the physician.
“A person that I promised to meet here this morning.” replied he, with the utmost depression, “to go with him to St. Mary’s Convent, which is close at hand.”
“And what answer have you to give me?” said Adrienne with mortal anguish.
After a moment’s solemn silence, during which he turned his face towards the wicket, the doctor replied, in a voice of deep emotion: “I am—what I have always been—a friend incapable of deceiving you.”
Adrienne became deadly pale. Then, extending her hand to M. Baleinier, she said to him in a voice that she endeavored to render calm: “Thank you—I will have courage—but will it be very long?”
“Perhaps a month. Solitude, reflection, a proper regimen, my attentive care, may do much. You will be allowed everything that is compatible with your situation. Every attention will be paid you. If this room displeases you, I will see you have another.”
“No—this or another—it is of little consequence,” answered Adrienne, with an air of the deepest dejection.
“Come, come! be of good courage. There is no reason to despair.”
“Perhaps you flatter me,” said Adrienne with the shadow of a smile. “Return soon,” she added, “my dear M. Baleinier! my only hope rests in you now.”
Her head fell upon her bosom, her hands upon her knees and she remained sitting on the edge of the bed, pale, motionless, overwhelmed with woe.
“Mad!” she said when M. Baleinier had disappeared. “Perhaps mad!”
We have enlarged upon this episode much less romantic than it may appear. Many times have motives of interest or vengeance or perfidious machination led to the abuse of the imprudent facility with which inmates are received in certain private lunatic asylums from the hands of their families or friends.
We shall subsequently explain our views, as to the establishment of a system of inspection, by the crown or the civil magistrates, for the periodical survey of these institutions, and others of no less importance, at present placed beyond the reach of all superintendence. These latter are the nunneries of which we will presently have an example.