"Madam, I insist upon knowing wherefore that light is burning in the opposite house."
"Madam, I insist upon knowing wherefore that light is burning in the opposite house?" then suddenly interrupting himself, to give way to a suggestion equally ridiculous with his jealousy, he abruptly drew back the curtain, opened the window, and went out upon the balcony, where he took up his station with an air of proud defiance.
At this unexpected apparition, the curtains of the opposite windows were hastily closed, the shadow disappeared, and almost immediately the light was extinguished.
Madame de Brévannes, wholly ignorant of her husband's fury, and still less able to comprehend his fancy for throwing open the windows in the month of January, was advancing towards the balcony, when M. de Brévannes turned sharply round, and, jerking the window-curtains back to their places, exclaimed,—
"So, madam, it is thus, then, you occupy your leisure hours while awaiting my return?"
"Indeed, Charles, I understand not what you mean."
"You do not? Ah, false woman, tell me why was the window of the first floor in the house facing this lighted up just now?"
"Just now?—the window?—in the opposite house?" repeated Bertha, with increasing surprise.
"Oh, you feign astonishment admirably, madam; but it will not do. Just this minute, some person opposite was attentively watching your window, but disappeared the instant I presented myself."
"Very probably, Charles. I know nothing about it: but why do you tell me of so trifling a circumstance?"
"Why?"
"Yes, I ask you again, why?"
"Because, doubtless there is a mutually good understanding between yourself and this person opposite, and that some disgraceful intrigue is carried on by means of signal-lights in your respective windows. I cease now to feel the smallest astonishment at your having kept watch to-night, instead of retiring to rest."
To an accusation so abrupt, so brutal, and so utterly incomprehensible, Bertha found it impossible to frame any reply: but, clasping her hands, she raised her eyes to heaven.
"All those tragedy airs are no answers to my question," cried M. de Brévannes, more and more excited; "and I ask you again, madam, why that light burned in the window directly facing yours; and wherefore that man gazed so attentively over here?"
"How is it possible I can know?" cried Bertha.
"Ah, madam, this is not replying, but meanly equivocating."
"But what other answer can I give?"
"Have a care! have a care!" exclaimed M. de Brévannes, almost foaming with rage, "do not imagine me fool enough to be duped by your hypocrisy. I have seen what I state with my own eyes. I am not blind, whatever you may think. I insist upon knowing who lives opposite to us?"
"For Heaven's sake, Charles, how should I know? We have only been here since yesterday morning——"
Interrupting his wife with increased fury, and violently striking his forehead, M. de Brévannes exclaimed,—
"I have it! Now, I remember, a post-chaise arrived almost at the same time we did, and stopped before the opposite house. We are followed—perhaps, even from Lorraine. Oh, I am sure—quite, quite sure, some disgraceful mystery is attached to all these circumstances; but depend upon it, wretched creature! that I will discover it, and drag the infamous participators to the shame and ignominy they deserve."
So much brutality and insult, expressed in a tone and manner so undeserved, stung Bertha to the quick. Spite of her quietness and habitual resignation, her self-pride, her delicacy, seemed outraged; and, with a firm and dignified manner, she said to her husband,—
"You are wrong, Charles, to speak to me thus. You may exhaust my patience, and force me to say things that, for the sake of your self-respect, I would fain be silent upon."
"Oh! oh! what! threats, too?"
"No, Charles, I utter no threats; but it is scarcely generous in you, who have given me so many just causes of complaint and sorrow, to accuse me, and treat me thus ignominiously, only from an absurd suspicion."
"Upon my word, madam, you are coming out quite a new character, as well as with language."
"Charles, I am weary of suffering your unjust reproaches in silence, when I might myself prefer against you causes of complaint, unfortunately too well founded."
"Better, and better, I protest!"
"You tell me, Charles, that I ought to shut my eyes to your conduct. I have always done so; but is it my fault if the account of your irregularities has reached my ears, even amid the solitude in which I live? Is it not the voice of public report, and the insolence of the wretched creature I drove from my house a week ago, that——"
"Not another word, madam!"
"Pardon me, Charles, but I must and will speak. I wish not to presume upon the position my devotion to my duties had obtained for me, I merely desire that you should respect it. I am willing to shut my eyes on errors so low, so degrading, that they are beneath my anger; but I will not suffer you thus unjustly to trample me in the dust."
"Upon my word, madam, your audacity confounds me. You, doubtless, wish me to understand, that four years of fidelity and respect for your duties have fully repaid all obligation to me, and that now you are free to act as you think proper. Is it possible that you can have effaced from your memory all I have done for you and yours; that I took you from absolute beggary; that your father exists upon my generosity; and that I have even carried my goodness so far as to have once offered to allow him to reside under my roof?"
"I have never forgotten, Charles, that you raised me from the poverty you speak of; and this recollection is the more meritorious on my part, as the poverty you allude to had no terrors for me: on the contrary, I neither felt nor heeded them, and ere I gave you, as a rich man, my heart, I had, perhaps, as many scruples to get over as you were obliged to vanquish, ere you could make up your mind to bestow your affections upon a poor girl like me."
"Really, what extreme condescension on your part to accept the hand, spite of my obnoxious 40,000 livres per annum!"
"As for your taunt of my father being maintained by your bounty! 'tis the first time you have uttered it—it shall be the last. For nearly the last twelvemonth, my poor father's sight has become so weakened, that he has been compelled to relinquish the labour by which he had hitherto supported himself; by dint of prayers and entreaties, I prevailed on him to accept a small annuity, he consented to receive it."
"In order not to be outdone by you in condescension, acting, no doubt, upon that principle, M. Raimond has also vouchsafed to honour me by accepting the means of living comfortably, instead of dying in an hospital."
"Say, rather, that my father was desirous of sparing your vanity by not going into an hospital. According to his notions, there would have been no dishonour in accepting such an asylum: old, infirm, unable to maintain himself, as he had hitherto done, by the work of his own hands, he would, without any feeling of degradation, have availed himself of the refuge public charity offers to the honest but unfortunate sufferer. However——"
"You would say that, since I so ill appreciate the great kindness of your respectable parent, he will no longer afford me the extreme happiness of maintaining him any longer, but will punish me by going and establishing himself in the hospital?"
"Most assuredly; for, certainly, I will not conceal from him the remarks you have made."
As she uttered these last words, the voice of Bertha, which, until then, had been firm and collected, began to falter; her powers of endurance were exhausted. She had for some time restrained the swelling tears which nearly choked her; but she could no longer retain her self-command,—she sank back into her chair, and, covering her face with her hands, wept bitterly.
M. de Brévannes was hard-hearted, selfish, and proud, yet he possessed considerable intelligence; and spite of the sarcasms on the singular principles of Bertha's father, with regard to the favours of the rich, he was perfectly well aware, that reasonable or otherwise, the conviction of his wife and Pierre Raimond on this subject was deep and sincere. His jokes had merely been a species of cruel sport.
The grief of Bertha touched him the more, as he remembered the recent wrongs he had done her, and all the humiliating things he had said to her rose in mental array; and he could not conceal from himself, that his conduct was by no means what it should he. The more she appeared dependent on him, the more incumbent was it on him to spare her delicacy, and not load her with coarse and cruel reproaches. And, if the whole truth must be told, we would endeavour to lay open one of the thousand hidden folds of the human heart, or rather of human organisation, and induce the reader to believe in one of those sudden brutal rekindlings of passion peculiar to man alone; and that, too, after the most bitter, degrading, and insulting recriminations.
Bertha, overwhelmed by the painful emotions produced by the late cruel scene, had fallen back into her chair. As she sat with drooping head, her beautifully formed shoulders, white and polished as ivory, yet tinged with the warm flush of her recently excited feelings, suddenly fixed the attention of M. de Brévannes.
As is frequently the case, he had a thousand times forgotten the lovely being he called his wife for creatures unworthy of a comparison with her, even as regarded the mere matter of beauty. Since the scene to which Bertha had alluded, when speaking of the femme-de-chambre she had been compelled to dismiss, the married pair had observed a mixture of coldness and restraint towards each other; but the love of Bertha for her husband had received its death-blow.
At the sight of his wife's deep distress, M. de Brévannes, by one of those gross ideas inherent in the minds of such men, imagined, that by complimenting the poor victim of his brutality, upon the power and brilliancy of her beauty, she would readily pardon him his late unfeeling conduct; he, therefore, silently approached his weeping wife, and, throwing his arm around her waist, exclaimed,—
"Come, my pretty Bertha, be a good girl—give me a kiss—and let's be friends."
It is impossible to depict the expression of mingled disgust, shame, and profound grief, exhibited in the countenance of the suffering wife; she, however, hastily freed herself from the hold of M. de Brévannes, and rising, exclaimed,—
"Surely I might have been spared this last insult! It is, however, one I neither can nor will endure." And with these words Bertha rushed into her chamber, doubly locking the door after her.
We shall not attempt to paint the rage of M. de Brévannes, or the mingled wrath and hatred with which he pursued his unfortunate wife.
The immense and ancient Hôtel Lambert, occupied by the Prince and Princess de Hansfield, was situated in the Rue Saint Louis en l'Ile; and its garden-walls formed the boundary of the Quai d'Anjou, which is separated from the arsenal by the divisions of the Seine surrounding the Isle Louviers.
As we have already observed, nothing can be more wild and neglected than the present exterior of this palace, although the curious are still admitted to view those vast apartments so appropriate to the princely grandeur of past ages.
Still it is not without a feeling of mournful regret that one of the present day can contemplate these magnificent remains of ancient splendour, whose halls were once peopled with a gay phalanx of pages, guards, squires, knights, and gentlemen, with the innumerable train of satellites for ever revolving round those illustrious houses, whose leaders reflected so much glory and splendour on that period of French history. And to the meditative mind there is a fund of painful reflection in thus witnessing the triumph of time over the impotent designs of men, who, firm in their own possessions, believed they bequeathed them with equal certainty to their descendants.
Happily (thanks to the solitude of the desert spot in which it stood), the edifice of which we are speaking still retained a portion of its romantic and poetical character, and, when half veiled by the clouds of night, it shone forth in solemn majesty,—seemed to frown an awful lesson of monumental wisdom.
Night, solitude, and silence, change not with time; contemporaries of all ages, they are immutable and fixed as eternity itself. Thus, when the ravages of time are hid by the mists of night, and the massive building stands out in bold relief, the spectator beholding it at midnight, in silence and solitude, might believe nought had changed within or without, and the long lapse of years between the past and present be effaced from his recollection.
We shall conduct the reader to the Hôtel Lambert, about the time when M. de Brévannes quitted the opera.
Thick grey clouds, driven hurriedly along by the sharp north wind, floated rapidly across the face of the heavens; and, as the moon sunk in the horizon, she covered the fantastic edges of the broken clouds with a bright silvery glow, whilst, above, numerous bright stars glittered and sparkled in the dark azure of the firmament. The irregular mass of the old palace with its gable ends, high chimneys with their whimsical supporters, and its immense façade, stood out in bold relief against the clear transparency of the midnight sky, while an alley of evergreen pines raised their pointed and sombre-looking heads above the garden-walls that bordered the Quai.
The waters of the Seine, swollen by the rains of winter, dashed heavily on the shore, and by their mournful murmurs seemed replying to the prolonged whistling of the northerly breeze.
Save the rush of troubled waters, and the loud swelling wind, all was silent in this part of Paris.
Half-past four o'clock had just sounded from the distant arsenal clock, when a carriage stopped before the garden-wall.
A person wearing a large slouched hat, and wrapped in a cloak, descended from the carriage, opened a small door, and immediately afterwards Madame de Hansfeld, still dressed in a domino, also quitted the vehicle, and entered the garden.
The princess, with a rapid step, traversed the long alley of pines which led to one of the wings of the palace.
From time to time the clear moonbeams, struggling through the thick branches of the trees, chequered the ground with patches of light, and displayed the singular effect produced by the figure of the princess as she flitted along in her dark floating drapery, beneath the alternations of light and darkness.
The princely dwellings of that period had all, in common with the Hôtel Lambert, their small secret staircase leading to the private apartments.
The extreme ceremony always kept up, the exactions of full dress and etiquette, with the immense number of servants of all ranks, perpetually hurrying to and fro on their respective duties, left the occupants of these mansions so little at liberty during the day, that they were generally reduced to the necessity of availing themselves of nocturnal expeditions to effect any important business.
Thus, then, there will not appear any thing inconsistent with the custom of the period we are treating of in Madame de Hansfeld's pausing as she reached the left wing of the palace, opening a small door concealed among a clump of trees, and lightly ascending a narrow winding staircase, which quickly brought her to a large anteroom leading to her sleeping-apartment.
Scarcely had the princess entered, than she threw herself into an easy chair, as though exhausted with fatigue.
During this time, the individual who had followed her carefully bolted and secured the door conducting to the secret staircase, then, throwing off the large hat and cloak, discovered a female form.
Stooping towards the hearth, this person rekindled the half-expiring embers, lit the wax-lights, and proceeded into the chamber of Madame de Hansfeld, to satisfy herself that nothing had occurred by which her absence could have been suspected.
The princess, meanwhile, after a momentary languor and apparent depression of spirits, tore off her mask, then, abruptly rising, unfastened the girdle of her domino, which she threw on the ground, and trampled upon with rage.
Beneath the outer garment so rudely treated, the princess wore a black robe, with short sleeves, thus revealing arms, shoulders, and bust, worthy of the classic beauty of a Diana. Her countenance, so proud, chill, and imperturbable, while conversing with M. de Morville, was now agitated by a whirlwind of the most stormy passions. Her somewhat hollow eyes glittered like dark diamonds. Standing erect before the large glass which surmounted the chimney-piece, she appeared as though desirous of crushing the marble mantel-piece with the convulsive pressure of her clenched hands. Wholly absorbed by the stormy passions which raged within her, she perceived not the return of her companion. And a more singular person could not be seen. A deep brown, resembling the hue of Florentine bronze, tinged her colourless cheek, and displayed more strikingly the pearly whiteness of the eyeball with the clear blue of the pupil; her thick chestnut hair was cut short, curled, and parted on the forehead, after the fashion of many of the male sex, who in the present day wear their hair of an almost feminine length. Her well-formed and regular features had an undaunted and almost masculine expression, and when she unclosed her red thin lips, she displayed a set of teeth, white enough, indeed, to have disarmed all criticism, but standing at wide distances from each other.
This singular female was nearly as tall as Madame de Hansfeld, but considerably thinner. She wore a high dress of black silk, with a small handkerchief of the same material tied around her throat, to confine her closely plaited collar.
Dressed in a large flapped hat, and wrapped in a cloak, the female we are describing might easily pass for one of the opposite sex, and as such accompany Madame de Hansfeld, who feared to return alone during the night, in so lonely a place, and almost entirely at the mercy of a coachman.
During the interview at the Opera-ball, the young girl had awaited the princess in a fiacre, and afterwards accompanied her home.
Perceiving the deep reverie into which Madame de Hansfeld had fallen, she said,—
"Godmother, it is very late, you must go to bed."
"I have seen him!" exclaimed the princess, impetuously. "He may be my ruin!" continued she, turning with flashing eyes towards her god-daughter (whom we shall style Iris, entreating the reader's pardon for this little mythological fancy).
"Whom have you seen, godmother?" inquired the girl, terrified at the wildness and desperation of Madame de Hansfeld's manner.
"Charles de Brévannes!"
"He here?"
"I tell you I saw him—just now—at the opera! oh, it was he too surely! and as surely does the presence of this man portend some fresh misfortune to me."
"I do not know this man, godmother, or why you hate him so inveterately; but I, too, hate him with my bitterest scorn, because you have already told me that he formerly occasioned you great sorrow."
As Iris pronounced the words, "I know not why you hate him so inveterately," she could not repress a slight shudder, which, however, passed unnoticed by Madame de Hansfeld.
"You ask me wherefore I hold him in such detestation?" cried the princess, almost wildly.
"I said so but from curiosity, godmother. But, if you hate, you would also be avenged."
"Avenged! oh, yes, I would have vengeance great and startling as the ill he has done me."
"If I can serve you, speak."
"You, my poor girl?"
"Command, and I obey. Iris is yours—yours in all things; her life depends on yours—her breath is as your breath—she sees but with your eyes—she has no will but yours."
Without replying, Madame de Hansfeld extended her beautiful hand to Iris, who raised it to her moist red lips with an expression of respect and devotion more than filial; then, suddenly springing up, she exclaimed,—
"Gracious Heaven, godmother! your hand is cold as death!—you shiver, too! You must go to bed—indeed you must."
"Not yet—listen to me. I know not what occasions within me the foreboding that the arrival of Charles de Brévannes here is the certain precursor of great perils and dangers to myself. Your services may, probably, be more needful to me than ever,—you must know all. Yes, you must be made acquainted with the crime of this man; and then you will be able to comprehend that vengeance now becomes a sort of expiation on my part."
Having thus spoken, the princess seated herself beside the fire, while Iris, taking a mantle of velvet lined with ermine, wrapped it carefully and tenderly around her godmother; for, spite of the glowing fire which now blazed on the hearth, the piercing cold of a winter's night made these large chambers dreary and chill.
Madame de Hansfeld remained for several minutes plunged in a deep reverie.
Iris loved Madame de Hansfeld with a sort of tenderness at once respectful, passionate, and savage. It was, indeed, one of those blindly absorbing attachments which appear to shut the heart against every tender feeling, and to infuse an almost ferocity against all human creatures but the one beloved object.
The princess believed she had for ever attached this young girl to her by the profoundest gratitude, having taken her from an early age and entirely brought her up, and in this she was not mistaken. But she was wholly ignorant of the violence of this sentiment, or how completely it had occupied the heart of her young protégée, to the exclusion of all others. And Iris had sedulously concealed from her protectress the fits of jealous fury she experienced at the smallest preference bestowed by her mistress on any other than herself.
Gloomy, taciturn, and imperious, towards the other servants in the princess's establishment, Iris was either feared or detested throughout the Hôtel Lambert. Her position as companion to Madame de Hansfeld enabled her to keep quite aloof, and to devote herself to one fixed and exclusive idea, that of living or dying for her godmother alone. Her incessant regret was the not finding herself sufficiently useful and necessary to Madame de Hansfeld, who, rich, noble, and entirely free to act as she pleased, could easily dispense with the assistance or devotion of her god-daughter.
And, frequently urged by the fatal excitement of her overweening attachment, Iris would even form the most violent and unbounded wishes. In the excess of her wild and ungovernable fondness for her mistress, she would desire to see her wretched and miserable, in order to obtain the unspeakable happiness of consoling and succouring her—of devoting to her each hour of the day and night, the better to prove the full power and extent of her ruling passion.
From this slight sketch of the disposition of Iris, who, of either Bohemian or Moorish origin, had been early deserted by her natural protectors, it will be easily seen that she pursued with implacable hatred not only the enemies of Madame de Hansfeld, but also every person on whom her mistress bestowed marks of favour; and her animosity invariably kept pace with the degree of partiality with which Madame de Hansfeld beheld any acquaintance. Thus aware of the princess's extreme admiration for M. de Morville, she detested him as much—nay, even more, than M. de Brévannes, towards whom she even felt a species of singular gratitude for having inspired her mistress with such deep abhorrence. Almost ere Iris had passed her childhood, she enveloped herself in the veil of impenetrable dissimulation. Never for an instant had Madame de Hansfeld supposed her capable of such wild and frantic impetuosity—such ill-restrained fervour in her affections; and yet the ardent, though misguided girl, pursuing her aim with inflexible energy, and bewildered by her savage jealousy, had already struck at the dearest affections of her protectress's heart.
After reflecting for a considerable time, Madame de Hansfeld, rousing herself from the deep reverie into which she had fallen, made a sign to Iris to draw near to her.
"Iris remained heart, soul, and body, absorbed in the close observation of the adored object before her."
Her ever-watchful attendant instantly obeyed the signal; and kneeling and bending forwards, after the custom of the Spaniards in their churches, she crossed her arms, and fixed her large clear eyes upon the countenance of Madame de Hansfeld with that mixture of intelligence, submission, and devotion, peculiar to the canine race; and thus, hardly daring to breathe, lest she should lose a word, a gesture, or the smallest change in the expression of her mistress's features, Iris remained heart, soul, and body, absorbed in the close observation of the adored object before her.
"You may remember when, two years since, before my marriage, I left you at Venice to go to Florence with my aunt Vasari, and Gianetta our waiting-maid. You had been an invalid for a long time, and were unable to accompany us."
"I remember it well. Gianetta wrote to me sometimes, by your desire, to tell me how you were."
"That Gianetta was very inquisitive, indiscreet, and faithless. I fear I kept her in my service too long."
"During your residence in Florence she wrote me but a few lines, just to say that you were well; and she seemed to do this very unwillingly," added Iris, with incredible assurance.
She lied, for Gianetta had, on the contrary, kept her constantly and fully informed of all that was going on at Florence during her godmother's absence.
"At the end of six months," resumed the princess, "I returned to Venice."
"It was then you had that long nervous attack which so nearly killed you."
"And during which you gave me so many proofs of your devotion and affection; and from that time, Iris, I loved you like a sisterlike a daughter."
Iris took her godmother's hand and silently placed it to her lips.
"My aunt Vasari," continued Paula, "went to Florence to attend to a lawsuit she had there. She went out every day, being able, as she thought, to influence her judges. In the evening we went out to walk, and there I frequently met a Frenchman named M. Charles de Brévannes. He was very soon my constant shadow; his pursuit of me became incessant and troublesome, and from that time my indifference was changed to aversion."
"Was he a man likely to cause such a sentiment?" "Why do you ask?" inquired the princess, scrutinising Iris's features; then adding, "You were so young then, you could not have remarked. Yes, at your age, that is natural. You recollect my cousin, Raphael Monti, the son of my father's brother?"
Iris imperceptibly contracted her eyebrows, and replied in a short manner,—
"Yes; each time he returned from sea he came to pass his leisure at Venice. Isn't he in the East? Have you had any news of him lately? When we left Italy his mother was becoming very anxious about his absence."
"He is dead," said Madame de Hansfeld, with desperate calmness.
"Raphael dead!" exclaimed Iris, with feigned astonishment.
"Charles de Brévannes killed him."
"And your aunt is ignorant of this?"
"Listen—the hour is come to disclose every thing to you. I had been, as you know, brought up with Raphael. When a child, I loved him as a brother; as a young girl, as my betrothed husband; or, rather, these two sentiments united themselves into one. You were then young and giddy, and our mutual affection, no doubt, escaped you."
"Why, to tell you the truth, godmother, now I remember some circumstances which ought to have enlightened me on that subject. But is it possible—is Raphael dead? And when and where did this happen?"
"Listen. I was to hare been married to him on my return to Florence. You may now comprehend why M. de Brévannes inspired me with so much aversion."
"I understand."
"His pursuit of me redoubled. Informed of our residence in Florence, he, by dint of perseverance and encouragement, contrived to form a connexion with those persons who would be of so much service to my aunt in her process, and obtained such influence with them, that he was very soon in a position to be of the greatest possible use to us.
"His way thus cleared, he one day boldly announced himself at my aunt's under the plea of lodging in the same hôtel. Our reception of him was very chilling, but the man soon proved himself so insinuating, such a flatterer, and so clearly shewed my aunt how greatly he could aid the progress of her suit, that she begged him to visit us as frequently as he pleased. As he left the room, he cast at me a very significant look. He had only done this in order to be able to approach me.
"I told my aunt all my suspicions, and her reply was that I was crazy; that it was requisite we should avail ourselves of M. de Brévannes' kind offices, since he could be so advantageous to us. You know my aunt had been very handsome, and at this time she was only forty years of age. M. de Brévannes saw one day that she took in earnest some little gallantries which he addressed to her in jest. He increased his attentions, so that, in a very short time, she could really not do without him. He accompanied us every where, walking, or to the theatre. I remarked to my aunt that he was young and rich, and that this intimacy might compromise me. She then told me, with as much joy as pride, that I was quite wrong to alarm myself. She was a widow and free; M. de Brévannes had avowed his love for her, adding that he only took so deep an interest in our lawsuit because it gave him an opportunity of being so constantly near her. I wished to make some observations to my aunt, but she would not even allow me to finish them, but broke out into a tirade as to the vanity of young girls, and reproached me with ever having believed for a moment that M. de Brévannes bestowed a thought on me. He saw us every day, often sent minstrels under our windows, and continually presented us with similar bouquets, in order (as he told my aunt) that my self-love might not be wounded.
"One day, finding me alone, he made me a declaration of love, considering as a merit in my eyes the ability with which he had deceived my aunt, and taken off from me the gaze of the world by appearing smitten with her, and for this enormous sacrifice he considered I should admire and feel kindly disposed towards him."
"And was your aunt informed of this avowal of Charles de Brévannes?"
"That very evening she was told all."
"Then he was unmasked?"
"Child, you do not comprehend the weakness and vanity of women!"
"What!—she would not believe you?"
"Yes, at first; and that same evening our door was closed against M. de Brévannes. He guessed the fact, and wrote a long letter to my aunt. The very next day he was received even more kindly than usual. When she left me, my aunt came and scolded me severely. Jealous, as she declared, of M. de Brévannes' love for her, I had calumniated him in order to have him excluded from the house."
"Unhappy woman! she was mad!"
"Matters resumed their usual course. Charles de Brévannes did not utter one other word of love to me, but he passed whole days with us. On the 13th of April—ah! I shall never forget that date—my aunt said to me after breakfast, that the noise of the court-yard of the hôtel disturbed her so much, that she would, from that evening, change apartments with me. My room looked into the street, and had a balcony. What I have to add is fearful. That day we had been out for a long drive in the carriage, accompanied by M. de Brévannes. On our return we sat together until very late in the evening, my aunt appearing very much preoccupied. At length he retired, and I went to bed."
The princess turned horribly pale, shuddered, and then continued in a broken voice:—
"The next morning I wished to go as usual to wish my aunt good morning, when Gianetta, with an embarrassed air, told me that Madame Vasari was much indisposed, and could not see me.
"At the moment I was returning towards my own apartment, a stranger inquired for me, and a dark, pale man handed me a letter without uttering a syllable. I knew not why, but a tremor ran through my veins. I opened the letter—it inclosed a ring which I had given to Raphael."
"And the letter, godmother,—the letter?"
"Was from Raphael, who was dying."
"From Raphael?"
"Yes, and contained these words, which seemed to me written in characters of blood:—"
"'I have been in Florence for two days. I know all. This very night I saw Brévannes descending from your balcony; after which you closed the window. I fought with him instantly, as we both agreed. I sought death, and he has given it to me. Be thou accursed! Osorio will tell you when you return to Venice. Conceal from my mother. My sight is——'
"And nothing more," added Madame de Hansfeld, with agonising expression, "nothing but some shapeless letters."
"What a mystery!" said Iris, clasping her hands. "Who then could have appeared at your chamber-window?"
"Have I not told you that my aunt had occupied the chamber that very evening which I had before slept in? No doubt, Charles de Brévannes had obtained a rendezvous from her in order to serve his wicked designs, you will see how. She is my height—dark as I am; and thus was Raphael fatally deceived."
"Oh! how horrible!"
"After I had read this letter I was almost mad. I believed I was in a dream. Osorio told me the rest. Raphael, on his return from a voyage to Constantinople, had reached Venice. He only passed a day in that city, but, misled by some abominable calumny which had reached thither from Florence, he left that city suddenly with Osorio, to whom he said,—
"'They tell me that Paula has betrayed me shamefully; if that be true, I will kill my rival or he shall kill me.'"
"But who could thus have slandered you in Venice?"
"How do I know? Raphael had not even seen his mother. Every body was in utter ignorance of his short stay in Venice. In vain did I question Osorio on this point: he was mute."
"That is very strange."
"Unfortunately he shared Raphael's suspicions. What I foresaw arrived. The attentions of M. de Brévannes, explained by shameful scandal, had compromised me most fatally. I passed in Florence as his mistress, and, when Raphael inquired of me, I was accused by one common voice. However, determined not to be misled by appearances, he had gone straight to M. de Brévannes, had told him of his love for me, and that we were betrothed, that young girls being frequently giddy and coquettish, without being culpable, and that the world was slanderous,—and then entreated M. de Brévannes, in the name of honour, not to conceal the truth, and, whatever it was, he would believe it."
"And Charles de Brévannes?"
"Far from being touched by this language, he treated Raphael with hauteur, and said to him,—
"'Since you have watched Paula Monti for two days, you must know which is her chamber.' 'I know it; for, without being perceived by her, this very morning I saw her in the balcony.' 'Well, be this night at three o'clock in front of that balcony, and you shall have my reply.' You know the rest. Brévannes then said insolently to Raphael, 'Are you satisfied?'
"In his rage, Raphael struck him in the face; a duel ensued at break of day, and he fell. His last wish was to conceal his death from his mother. He preferred leaving her, in that uncertainty in which people remain for many years with respect to sailors, to allowing her to learn that my treachery had killed him. Osorio told me all this; and, his sad mission fulfilled, he went away without listening to a word of my assurances and protestations. I have since heard that he died in the East; and Raphael's mother is continually expecting her son. He died cursing me—died in calling and believing me infamous and perjured—dead—killed by Charles de Brévannes, that calumniator and murderer!"
"Ah, it is horrible! and your aunt Vasari?"
After a moment's silence, during which the princess appeared borne down by the weight of a painful recollection, she thus resumed:—
"The laws of duelling were of excessive severity. Charles de Brévannes went away that same day. Raphael was unknown in Florence: neither Osorio nor the second of M. de Brévannes appeared again. No one, therefore, could betray this fatal secret. My aunt was the more inconsolable for the sudden departure of Charles de Brévannes, as for want of his support she lost her suit, and was completely ruined. We returned to Venice, when I became so very ill."
"And in a year afterwards you were the Princess de Hansfeld?"
"Yes, to save my family from dire misfortune, I resigned myself to this marriage, for which I could hardly have looked. Thanks to the kindness, the cares, and delicacy of the prince, I saw before me a prospect of happy days once more; and to gratitude there was gradually succeeding a sentiment more tender and delightful, when, suddenly, M. de Hansfeld, affected in some most extraordinary manner, forgot his kindness and his accustomed gentleness; and," added Madame de Hansfeld, with a deep sigh, "then began the life I now lead. Sometimes I ask myself, how my reason can have received such shocks and not have broken down beneath them? The fear and amazement caused in me by the singular and alarming behaviour of the prince follow me even into the world when I go sometimes to seek, not amusement, but forgetfulness. For nearly six months had I dragged on this wretched existence, in appearance so splendid and happy, when I accidentally met M. de Morville. I remarked him, because I had heard so much said of his fidelity, which he had, like myself, vowed to an adored remembrance. Every where they talked of his devotion, his delicacy, and above all, his tender constancy for a lady from whom he had been forcibly separated. Rendered sad by his love, entirely devoted to his invalid mother, he went out but very little. He resided near us in the Rue Guillaume. One day I found a letter on the bench in the most lonely part of our garden. Without at all comprehending the means by which that letter had reached there, my first impression, as you know, was to believe that it came from him.
"I was confirmed in this idea the next day, when I remained for some hours concealed in a clump, and towards evening saw another letter fall, dropped out of a window concealed by ivy.
"M. de Morville seemed to penetrate the causes of the thoughts which agitated me. Gay, if I were gay, sad, if I were sad, dull and despairing, if I were so, his letters seemed the echo of my most deep or light impressions."
"How could he guess them?"
"By observing me, he read in my countenance the situation of my mind."
"He loves you well," said Iris, with a voice deeply agitated.
"You see, as I do, that M. de Morville regretted a lost love; and, strange, fatal event! our common regrets served, as it were, as a link between the past love and the new love."
"You may love,—the prince has given you liberty."
"I know it,—I know it; but he has often recurred to those harsh words. How often has he passed from the most chilling, most disdainful, most overwhelming cruelty, to language of most affectionate tenderness. But what avails it now! his cruelties, and his tenderness, alike find me unmoved; my love gives me courage to brave them; my love! and still my conscience reproaches me for forgetting Raphael!
"Since I have seen M. de Brévannes again, it seems to me, that in redoubling my hatred against this murderer, I seek to expiate my inconstancy; it seems to me, indeed, that if I obtained a sweeping revenge against this man, my fresh love would be excused; and then, again—wretch that I am!—has this fresh love need of any excuse? An insurmountable barrier separates me for ever from M. de Morville."
"An insurmountable barrier?" said Iris.
"Yes, some fatality pursues me; my soul was being renewed; the most delightful future was opening to me; I believed myself assured of the love of M. de Morville. I had contrived to form an intimacy with Madame de Lormoy, one of his relatives; he had begged to be introduced to me, when, suddenly, he appeared to feel towards me the most intense hatred, and avoided a meeting with so offensive a pertinacity, that I resolved on the step which I have to-day put into execution."
"And what was the cause of his hatred, godmother?"
"Oh, it is not hatred,—he loves me, my girl—loves me as passionately as I love him, although I have concealed my infatuation from him. But, I repeat to you, an insurmountable obstacle separates us for ever. To tell you what I have suffered at this disclosure, and the energy it required to maintain my composure, would be impossible. Well! still I might have accepted this position almost with happiness, but for this infernal Brévannes."
"How?"
"Devoted entirely to this sad and pure love, I would never again have seen M. de Morville; but, at least, I should have known that he loved me as I love him. Human nature is so fantastical, that the reasons which opposed themselves to this love being happy would, perhaps, have assured its permanency; but if M. de Brévannes speaks, misery—misery for me! Then contempt would succeed to the adoration now in the heart of M. de Morville; and he, so frank, so noble, would not then find sufficient disdain to overwhelm me. Despised by him, ah! I know what I have suffered when I thought myself the sole possessor of this fatal secret; and to think that Brévannes could direct this heavy blow at me by again spreading the infamous calumny which caused Raphael's death,—it is enough to drive one mad!"
"From all this, godmother, two things result. You must learn the mystery which impels Morville to avoid you, and you must reduce Charles de Brévannes to silence."
"Yes, it must be done; but how?—alas!—how: I am indeed wretched!"
"Then Iris is nothing with you?" said the young girl, with great bitterness.
The princess was struck with it, and replied kindly,—
"Yes, my dear child, I can tell all to you, and that is consolation to me."
At this moment a solemn, sonorous, and powerful sound, full of sweetest harmony, but rendered faint by the distance, reached the ears of the two women. It was the notes of an organ, touched with an exquisite finger and saddened expression.
At these tones the princess shuddered, and then cried,—
"Ah, 'tis he! He is still watching. Ah! Now, my head is so weak that the sound of this organ appears to me fearful and supernatural; they are not the sounds of this instrument I hear, but the mysterious voices of an invisible world replying to the prince who questions them. Oh, mercy, mercy! it terrifies me!"
By a singular chance, and as if the entreaty of the princess were heard, the sound of the organ slowly died away in the silence of the night, like a complaint that gradually subsides.
"This conversation overpowers me. I tremble all over," said Paula.
"You must go to bed, godmother."
After having aided her in undressing with the utmost care, and respectfully kissed Madame de Hansfeld's hand, Iris closed the door of her godmother's chamber, drew a sofa across the sill, which, opening, formed a bed, and, having carefully bolted the entrance of the secret staircase, threw herself on the couch, and was soon in a deep slumber.
An immense chamber, occupying the whole of one wing in the Hôtel Lambert, formed the entire dwelling-place of Arnold de Glustein, Prince of Hansfeld, the mysterious personage, concerning whom so many strange conjectures and varied rumours were afloat.
And well might the aspect of the long gallery or chamber we are about to describe warrant the many charges of whimsical originality.
The moment chosen for introducing the reader to this strange abode is shortly after the sounds of the organ had ceased (to the extreme satisfaction of the princess), that is to say, about the hour when the pale light of a winter's day began to dissipate the mists of the morning.
Let the reader picture to himself a room nearly one hundred feet in length, with a ceiling crossed by large projecting beams, once painted and gilded, as well as the spaces between them. By a caprice of the prince all the windows had been closed up, except one high, long, and narrow Gothic casement, placed at the extremity of the gallery, and filled with panes of painted glass. The light thus admitted through this narrow opening produced a singular effect by struggling against the blaze of six wax-lights, burning in an ancient brazen candelabrum suspended from one of the joists by a silken cord, close to the window itself. Thanks to this method of lighting the place, that portion of that vast gallery was, day and night, supplied with a clear, soft light, while the remainder of the spacious chamber was lost in obscurity.
Nothing could be more singular than the gradual shading off of the light, which, at first entering all the more brilliantly as the rays were in a manner filtered through the high window with its variegated panes, decreased insensibly until it wholly disappeared in the distant recesses of the chamber, while the different objects it encountered on its passage, sharing in the effect of the diminishing brightness, assumed all manner of wild and fantastic forms; for instance, as the expiring light struggled towards the end of the gallery, its fading beams, striking against the designs wrought upon various suits of Damascus steel armour, seemed to send forth a shower of bright, scintillating sparks.
Almost beside the only small door which gave admittance into this gallery, and in one of its gloomiest corners, might be discerned a white mass resembling a human form. This was a skeleton attired in the most whimsical manner. On its head it wore a bishop's mitre; one hand leaned upon a beautifully ornamented sword, of the time of the Renaissance, while the other held a seven-stringed ivory lute, the base of which was supported on the knee; by a fanciful caprice, a wreath of roses (a great rarity at that time of year) of surpassing beauty and exquisite perfume, surmounted this lute. A mantle of white cloth, studded with the letters X and M, interwoven and embroidered in gold, hung in majestic folds over the hollow chest of the skeleton, and, falling in long-flowing drapery, allowed no part of its figure to be seen, with the exception of the lower part of the thigh and the whole of the right foot. This foot, remarkable for its smallness, was clad, as though in mockery, in a white satin shoe, whose silken sandals floated in long-streaming bows on the leg-bone, white and polished as ivory.
But if the eye of the spectator, becoming sufficiently accustomed to darkness, should thoroughly investigate the more minute parts of this singular object, he might be able to discern beneath the silken sandals and slipper of satin various dark-coloured spots, easily recognised as those formed by blood.
This strange and awful memento of mortality was placed upon a pedestal of ebony, exquisitely ornamented with bas-reliefs and inlayings of silver and ivory.
By one of those striking contrasts which abounded throughout the whole of this strange apartment, the ornamental part of the pedestal by no means assimilated with the osseous spectacle it supported. On the contrary, the perfection of Florentine art, as it was in the fifteenth century, seemed expended on this master-piece of carving and sculpture. Nevertheless, the pure and exquisite style of the ornaments, charming as they were, bore reference to the gloomy object whose base they decorated. The figure of the skeleton, leaning one hand on a naked sword, and with the other supporting a lute, its head bearing an episcopal crown, and its foot a woman's shoe, was to be seen amidst all the varied and artistical combinations of design.
Thus Cupids, supported by the fabulous birds so much in favour during the Renaissance, resembling the eagle in the head and wings, and the syren in the capacious folds of their tail, were introduced as bearing the hideous skeleton in their tiny arms.
In another part was represented a group of nymphs, whose chastely elegant attitudes would have reflected no discredit on the sculptors of Greece itself, sporting beneath the walls of the richest and most splendid salons, while busying themselves in preparing the toilette of the grisly phantom; one graceful creature holding the sword, another the lyre, and a third presenting the mitre.
In a corner of this exquisite specimen of Florentine skill, two nymphs, gracefully designed, were represented as holding between them the sandals of the shoe, while a little Cupid, nestled in this Cinderella's slipper, was employing it as a swing.
During these fanciful preparations the skeleton, reclining on a Grecian couch, and half hidden by its flowing draperies, looked on, smiling with a ghastly smile at the sportive dances of the nymphs, whilst with its bony fingers it grasped a bouquet of roses presented by a group of lovely children. A small tripod of silver gilt, most elaborately wrought, was placed at the base of this pedestal, for the double purpose of serving as a lamp, and, likewise, a burner of perfumes.
If the remainder of the furniture of this spacious gallery was less remarkable for its incongruous mixture of gloomy and sportive ideas, it was not less worthy of notice from its singular combination; some of the articles meriting close attention from their extreme rarity, the others claiming observation from the extraordinary mutilation they had undergone.
A painting, placed in one of the divisions of the gallery, where but a dim, religious light stole in, represented a female of exquisite beauty, and by the freshness of the colouring, the half-concealed light, the perfect grace of the design, and softness of touch, it was easy to recognise the masterly hand of Leonardo da Vinci; but, alas! instead of the liquid, clear, expressive eye, to which that unrivalled artist had doubtless almost communicated life, two sharp, fine stilettos, or sharp, glittering blades of steel, shot forth from the sockets whence the eyes had been ruthlessly, barbarously torn. Could this fearful mutilation have been a mournful, yet ferocious jest, upon the ancient maxim in mythology, that "the eyes of beauty dart forth mortal arrows?"
It was impossible to view this outrage to a work of art, in itself a master-piece, without considerable indignation; but this sentiment was quickly forgotten in the admiration excited by a small white monument close adjoining, the ornaments of which were borrowed equally from the pagan and Christian mythology.
In a scroll, supported by Loves and Angels, were traced in letters of gold the names of Phidias and Raphael, beneath a sort of Prie-Dieu, the worn state of whose velvet cushion sufficiently attested its constant use, as though some fervent admirer of those two great and immortal geniuses was in the frequent habit of invoking their mighty inspirations in humble, supplicating entreaty, or of pouring forth his gratitude for the ineffable enjoyments which a taste for the sublime and beautiful is calculated to bestow upon man. And, indeed, various copies or engravings of the most celebrated cartoons of Raphael, placed side by side with fragments from the Parthenon, selected with perfect taste and correctness of judgment, gave evident proofs of an intimate acquaintance with, and a passion for, the fine arts, wholly irreconcilable with the barbarous mutilation of which we have before made mention.
But, in proportion as the enlightened part of the gallery was approached, so did the objects in this so singularly selected abode of the Prince de Hansfeld change their character; the nearer they drew to the light, the greater was their splendour. For instance, near the window was to be seen a rare collection of Indian and Eastern arms, sabres of silver encrusted with coral, poniards, whose hilts were studded with precious stones, were sheathed in scabbards of crimson velvet, richly wrought in gold. The blue steel of Damascus bent beneath its golden case, glittering with emeralds and rubies; while Indian bucklers, bearing bas-reliefs of silver gilt, sparkled with the dazzling constellations of bright gems they presented, forming one bright, glowing, scintillating, luminous mass, to which the light admitted by the painted window added still more glowing and varied hues, while language would fail in describing the splendidly curious articles of gold, enamel, and carving, piled in gorgeous confusion upon the mother-of-pearl shelves placed immediately in the close vicinity of the window.
The flood of light let down by the many-coloured window, and reflected back by the dazzling objects on which it fell in rainbow hues, resembled a cascade of sparkling brilliancy to which the sun lends every prismatic shade.
This comparison seemed so much the more striking, as, immediately beneath the window, and occupying the arched space under it, stood a large organ. Two figures, three feet high, of angels, sculptured in ivory, supported the keyboard of the instrument, which was also of ivory. The rest of the body of the organ, whose summit reached the window itself, was composed of Gothic panels of finest ivory, carved with the fineness and delicacy of lace, without in any way detracting from the sonorous depth of the instrument. Four light and graceful Caryatides, adorned with golden crowns and ornamented with precious stones, separated the panels and supported a frieze of solid stones, represented a garland of flowers, fruit, and leaves, the cherries being formed of cornelian, the plums of amethyst, the apricots of topaz, blue-bells of lapis, with leaves of malachite and hyacinths of aqua marines,—shone with all the brilliancy and natural look of the fruits and flowers so skilfully imitated.
This organ, ten feet high and five wide, occupied the entire space beneath the long painted window, let into one end of the gallery.
The space which remained at each side of the window was filled up to the ceiling with the innumerable rich and gorgeous articles we have elsewhere described.
Seated before this ivory organ was the Prince de Hansfeld. He wore a long tunic of black woollen, loosely confined round the waist, a sort of black velvet cap but half concealed his hair, portions of which, escaping, fell in long, light locks upon his shoulders, which were somewhat bent. His long, loose sleeves were thrown back almost to the elbows during the rapid passage of his long thin fingers over the keys of the instruments, displaying hands and arms while and polished as marble, but unnaturally small and wasted. The finger-nails, even though well shaped, hard, and polished as agate, possessed not that roseate tint so sure a harbinger of good health, but were surrounded by a pale, blue circlet; while the head of the prince, slightly thrown back, proved that his eyes were cast upwards towards the ceiling.
After having paused for some time, the Prince de Hansfeld recommenced playing, but in an extremely low key.
Whether it were the superior excellence of the mighty organ or the skilful hand that touched it, it is certain that never did sounds so full, so soft, yet so sonorous, breathe forth in notes of melancholy sweetness, amounting almost to passionate expression.
It would be wholly impossible to trace the source of those feelings which found vent in passages at once so thrilling, yet soul-saddening, now plaintive as a sigh, yet sweet and touching as the smile bestowed by a mother on her infant, then breaking forth again in strains harmonious, vague, unfinished, capricious as the thought which, flitting through the mazes of a saddened imagination, suddenly glows with the pure, rapturous whispering of hope, whose finger points from troubled clouds to the clear, serene azure of summer skies. And the hardest heart must have owned the influence of those delicious sounds, descending in gentle melody like a flood of happy tears. In the solemn stillness of the night the rich, full sounds of the organ pealed forth in grander majesty, and ascended unto heaven itself, even as the incense of the heart.
There was one particular strain which occurred frequently and at regular intervals during these inspired performances. To convey a notion of the ideas which were called up by this enchanting passage, played on the highest and most glassy notes of the instrument, it will be requisite to evoke the most youthful, smiling, and joyous images, such as these.
Like each pearly drop as it hangs on the soft, green moss, or the roseate colours of an early spring morning.
All that is soft and gently soothing in the mild silver beams of the moon, as during a delicious summer's night she plays amid the dark shadows of the thick woods, whose wavy branches keep time to the delicious warbling of the nightingale.
All the happiness, pure joy, and innocent hope, poured forth by the innocent maiden of sixteen summers, as in the fulness of her youthful delight she warbles her pleasure at seeing, in company with her adored mother, the rising sun gild the summit of the tall trees at the moment when the flowers unfold their leaves and expand their perfumed blossoms.
All the pleasing, yet serious reveries, which possess our minds as we contemplate the countless scintillations of the starry worlds revolving in their course in unlimited space.
But no words can adequately describe the poetical images invoked by that sweet and gentle melody which, stealing in at intervals, appeared to cast a bright and serene charm over the gloomy style of the compositions performed by the prince.
The descriptions of pieces chosen by the prince savoured, indeed, of his own peculiar character; they breathed, indeed, the very ideality of German moodiness, the soft fancies of Mignon, not altogether that which conjured up so many graceful fantasies, but, rather, the gloomy whisperings which invoked the pale shade of Leonora.
The sadness of Arnold was so far peculiar to himself that, although perfectly resigned to his sorrow, he harboured neither anger nor bitterness of spirit.
His greatest delight seemed to be in modulating the exquisite passage we have alluded to; to it he clung with the fondness and tenacity we are apt to feel for some dear object of our early recollections.
The sharp, shrill, and prolonged sound of a bell made the prince start as though painfully aroused from his reverie.
At the harsh sound of the bell he suddenly discontinued his strain. And the last vibrations of the organ died away in the vast gallery like an expiring sigh.
Arnold bent his head with deep dejection on his bosom, while his thin, white hands, quitting the keys of the organ, fell listlessly on his lap. His slight, fragile form stooped languidly forward, the fictitious, feverish strength which had hitherto sustained him disappeared, and left him weak and powerless.
The first dawn of a winter's morning, mingling with the light of the wax-candles burning in the Gothic chandelier, formed a sort of artificial glare, gloomy as that of tapers burning in daytime around the bed of death. This unnatural light fell direct on the forehead and cheekbones of Arnold, who still sat with his head drooping on his breast; while through his long downcast eyelashes might be observed the fixed eyeball lose the clear lustre of its limpid blue, and become motionless and rigid. His fingers, too, were stiffened by the intensity of the frost, for the fire had long since been extinct in the vast chimney.
Again the bell rang forth its shrill summons, but this time the call was more imperative and repeated twice.
The prince seemed to start from a lethargic slumber. He rose as though by a powerful and painful effort, and proceeded to the other end of the gallery, the only entrance to which was by a low and thick door, heavily barred with iron.
With an air of mistrust and suspicion, Arnold half opened a small wicket formed in the door, then asked, in a feeble voice,—
"Is that you, Frank?"
"Yes, Arnold, 'tis I. This is the day. Here, my dear child," answered another and somewhat cracked voice,—"take the box, will you?"
"You are quite sure 'tis you, Frank?" repeated the prince.
"Why, in the name of all the saints, who should it be if not old Frank? Open the door—you shall see me from head to foot."
"Oh, no, no!—not to-day."
"Come, come, my dear boy, you are low-spirited—I know it. But take the box; I bought the bread at one place and the fruits at another."
The prince stretched forth his hand and eagerly took a small mahogany casket bound with steel, which was passed to him through the wicket.
"Good night, or, rather, good day, Arnold."
"Adieu, Frank."
And with these few, hasty words, the wicket was quickly closed.
Not far from the door was a bed composed of two thick and silky bear-skins, spread over a large divan. On this couch Arnold seated himself, placing the box on a small, curiously wrought ebony table, on which lay a pair of loaded pistols. Taking a key, which was also on this table, he opened the casket, which contained merely a small loaf just fresh from the oven, and some winter fruits.