Читать книгу Paula Monti; or, The Hôtel Lambert - Эжен Сю - Страница 9

"Each day I dropped at the foot of the set a memento," &c.

"Ah, madame, I repeat, I had suffered too much myself not to recognise the same sufferings in you by indescribable, yet manifest symptoms. With what eager curiosity did I strive to read your thoughts in your countenance! The part of the garden that you frequented most was separated from the rest by a gate which you opened or shut at pleasure. You alone could enter into this secluded alley. I ventured on a folly; each day I dropped at the foot of the seat where you were accustomed to repose, a sort of memento of the reflections which, as I believed, had agitated you on the previous evening. How shall I describe my suspense, my anguish, when I saw you first open my letter. Never shall I forget the expression of surprise you manifested after you had read it. Forgive these foolish recollections of the past; but I did not think you were offended, for, instead of destroying the letter, you retained it. One day your agitation was so great, that you did not perceive the letter—you seemed a prey to the most violent anger and grief. My own experience told me that your sorrow was not occasioned by any fresh event. It seemed to me rather some unhappy occurrence had been recalled to you. It was under this belief that I again wrote to you, and on the morrow, whilst you perused my letter, you wept."

Madame de Hansfeld made an impatient gesture.

"Oh, madame, do not blame me for dwelling on these recollections, they are my sole consolation. Thus encouraged by the anxiety with which you seemed to look for my letters, I wrote daily. Unhappily, my mother's illness assumed a threatening form; I never quitted her bedside for two nights—I thought but of her. The crisis was passed, she was out of danger. My first thought was then to hasten to my window. Soon after you entered the walk. I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw you go quickly to the marble seat: there was no letter there. An exclamation of impatience escaped you. I dared to interpret it favourably."

M. de Morville glanced anxiously at Madame de Hansfeld. Her eyes were cast down, her arms folded, her face was devoid of expression. In thus speaking, in thus informing Madame de Hansfeld of the facts that he had discovered, De Morville cut off all hope of retreat; but he never expected to see the princess more, else he would not have been guilty of such a display of bad generalship.

"What can I say, madame?" replied he; "for two whole months I had the happiness of seeing you: every day when I learned you were on the point of quitting the house adjoining ours to inhabit the Hôtel Lambert, in the Isle St. Louis, oh, how sincere, how terrible was my emotion! Perchance it was only then that I really felt how much I loved you."

At these last words, uttered by M. de Morville in a tone of deep emotion, Madame de Hansfeld raised her head suddenly; her cheeks became deeply tinged, as she replied, with a satirical smile, "This strange confession, sir, is doubtless connected with the secret you are about to reveal to me."

"Yes, madame."

"I am all attention.

"Up to the period of your quitting the adjoining house to ours, I had often met you at the houses of my friends, and I had never made any effort to be presented to you. I found an indefinable charm in the mystery that enshrouded my love. I was utterly unknown to you—I who knew you so well—I who had been the unseen spectator of all the emotion and the sorrow you had suffered; and then to talk to you on those trivial and commonplace subjects that form every-day conversation, what pleasure would that have afforded me, after the hours, the days I have passed in silent and deep admiration! But, when your departure deprived me of this pleasure, then I acknowledged the value of those meetings that I had previously disdained, I determined to be introduced to you. You were on intimate terms with Madame de Lormoy, my aunt, who has the highest regard for you. As, in common with the rest of the world, she was ignorant of the strange chance that had linked me to you, I prayed her to present me to you. Unfortunately, the day after she had agreed to comply with my wishes, a revelation was made to me, that instead of seeking, I felt it my duty to avoid your society. Had it not been on account of my mother's health, I should have left Paris, in order to avoid you, and thus furnishing fresh fuel to my unhappy passion; for, know, madame, that if your indifference grieves me, your love would drive me to despair. You seem surprised—you do not understand me. Suppose then—and pardon the folly of the supposition—that you loved me as passionately as I love you, I should be the most miserable of men, for I could not return your affection without inflicting a death-blow on my mother, without trampling under foot the most sacred duty, the most solemn oath, without becoming forsworn and criminal."

"Criminal!" exclaimed Madame de Hansfeld, rising from her seat, her features convulsed by fear and grief. This involuntary cry of the princess was, in fact, an avowal that betrayed her affection for De Morville, hitherto so carefully concealed.

Had he been really indifferent to Madame de Hansfeld, would she have manifested this despair, this emotion?—No! but she saw an impassable barrier arise between herself and M. de Morville. Had he not said, "Did you love me, I should be the most miserable of men, for I could not return your affection without becoming perjured, without inflicting a death-blow on my mother?"

De Morville was proverbial for his love of truth and his affection for his mother.

Madame de Hansfeld understood his meaning perfectly. A look of joy irradiated De Morville's face; he fancied he was loved in return, but that first transport past, he shuddered as he thought of the abyss of misery and sorrow which the involuntary exclamation of Madame de Hansfeld opened before him.

The princess was too much mistress of herself not to subdue instantly all traces of her transient emotion. Hoping to deceive De Morville, she said with an air of gaiety that quite confused him,—

"You must allow, sir, that my surprise, I may say, my terror, was tolerably natural on hearing you declare that my love would plunge you into crime and perjury. Good heavens! I shudder; yet what happiness must it be, then, for you to hear that I am utterly indifferent to your mad passion? On my word, sir, you are really too fortunate, henceforth you have every thing to preserve you from the temptation of being in love with me; for you have not only the knowledge of my indifference, but also the strongest motives that can decide a man. Only permit me to observe that among the obstacles that seemed to cross your love for me so insurmountably, you might have reckoned my marriage with the Prince de Hansfeld; allow me to remind you of that obstacle, and to say that in my eyes that is the most serious impediment of all. And now let me speak of your letters which I have received, because I could not help it; and which I read, and sometimes preserved, because a series of thoughts admirably worded, and supposed to be those of some ideal creature, could not be called a correspondence. You have too much real merit, sir," continued the princess, "to be vain; I have, therefore, no dread of wounding your pride as an author, by telling you, that if I read these your productions with curiosity and sometimes with a strong emotion, it was partly because of the mystery that enshrouded you, and partly because chance sometimes sent you thoughts so poetical and touching as to call forth my tears; for I am so unfortunate, or rather fortunate, as to shed tears during the perusal of any romance in the least degree impassioned and affecting."

"Ah, madame, this satire is too cruel."

"I could wish, sir, that this interview, began under such gloomy auspices, should at least end gaily; for, after all, are we not at a masked ball at the Opera? Besides, why should we part in sadness? I believed that you were acquainted with an annoying secret; it is not the case, my fears were futile and are forgotten. I have the recollection of my duty, to defend me from your declarations, as well as my utter indifference as to the revelation that has been made to you. Our position is perfectly clear, what more could any one desire? Farewell, this interview convinces me, that your high reputation is well merited, I know that I need not recommend you to secrecy on the subject of a step that would painfully compromise me. For precaution's sake, I will leave the box first; you will have the kindness to wait here a short time."

As she spoke, Madame de Hansfeld rose, replaced her mask, and opened the door of the box.

"Ah, madame," exclaimed De Morville, "for Heaven's sake one word more."

Madame de Hansfeld made a gesture so proud, so dignified, that De Morville no longer endeavoured to prolong the interview.

The princess opened the door and disappeared; in a few minutes De Morville followed her example.

As he passed before the chest we have previously spoken of, he found a crowd, so great, that whilst waiting to pass it he had time to overhear these words:—

"My stars! Brévannes," said the malicious domino, who had been sitting all the evening on the chest, "what a sensation you produce! what a scream the domino with a knot of blue and yellow ribands gave when she passed you!"

"I don't claim the merit," replied M. de Brévannes, gaily; "I am no more responsible for the domino's scream than Fierval or Heronville."

"The domino could not have been more alarmed if she had seen the devil himself," said M. de Fierval.

M. de Morville listened with the greatest attention when he found that the princess formed the subject of their conversation (she wore, as our readers will recollect, a knot of blue and yellow ribands, which she had not removed; De Morville had had the precaution to take off his).

"It was one of your victims, perhaps," said Fierval, jestingly, to M. de Brévannes.

"The unhappy creature has suddenly recognised him," said another.

"Faithless man!"

"Perfidious monster!"

"Who knows?" said the domino, "perhaps it was your wife, Brévannes!"

A shout of laughter followed this pleasantry.

"That would be a capital joke. You have, no doubt, concealed from her that you were coming here, she has believed you in her candour, and in the same spirit come here herself."

Brévannes bore admirably all the jests levelled at him, with the exception of those relating to his wife. He could not conceal his vexation, and endeavoured to change the conversation by saying to M. de Fierval,—

"It's getting late, Fierval, let us go to supper."

"O the wretch!" said the domino; "it is more than probable, that he will get up a terrible scene with his wife on his return home, and all in consequence of the silly remark of a domino,—poor Bertha!"

"The best proof that I am not jealous, and that I bear no malice," said M. de Brévannes, with an air of forced gaiety, "is that I shall be delighted if you will come and sup with us."

"No, I am too amiable to do that; I could not refrain from telling you some unpalatable truths, and they would be unpleasant for the rest of the company. I might, perhaps, make amends to them by shewing you in a new and very disagreeable light, but it does not suit me yet to execute you publicly. If you are not discreet—if you come here again—I shall find you some of these Saturdays, and then mind, for this chest shall serve for the tribunal, and you shall hear some strange things if you dare come, but you will not venture."

"He? Brévannes, not dare?" said Fierval, laughing.

"You evidently don't know him, charming mask."

"You don't know that he can do all he chooses," said another.

"Don't back out of it, Brévannes, and mind you come next Saturday," said Fierval, "discreet or not."

"I have nothing better to say to you, engaging mask," replied Brévannes, "these gentlemen are my witnesses. On Saturday, if you defy me, I accept the challenge."

"'Saturday be it, then,' said the domino; 'but I warn you, you occasioned the scream the domino with the blue and yellow ribands uttered.'"

"Saturday, be it then," said the domino, "but I warn you again, that you occasioned the scream of surprise, almost of horror, that the domino with the blue and yellow ribands uttered."

"Nonsense! you are mad. If you won't come with us, I must leave you."

"Very well; but mind, Saturday."

"Saturday," repeated Brévannes as he walked away. M. de Morville had attentively listened to this conversation, and had not the smallest doubt in his mind but that the sight of Brévannes had occasioned the princess's alarm.

He recollected that during the interview he had just had with Madame de Hansfeld she had alluded to M. de Brévannes as one of the two persons who possessed the secret, whose disclosure she so much dreaded.

What circumstances could have brought M. de Brévannes and Madame de Hansfeld together?

Where had he known her? What was the secret which he possessed?

Was the cool raillery of Madame de Hansfeld at the termination of their conversation real or assumed?

These were the questions which passed through De Morville's mind as he returned sorrowfully home.