by Eugène Sue
At the end of this winter garden were placed immense divans beneath canopies of leaves and flowers; the subdued light of the hothouse forming a powerful contrast with the gallery, the distance seemed filled with a species of gold-coloured, shining fog, in the midst of which glittered and flickered, like a living embroidery, the dazzling and varied robes of the ladies, combined with the prismatic scintillations of the congregated mass of diamonds and precious stones. Rodolph’s first sensation upon arriving at this enchanting triumph of art over nature was that of most unfeigned surprise.
“This is, indeed, a wonderfully beautiful carrying out of a poetical idea,” said he, almost involuntarily; then, turning to the ambassadress, he exclaimed, “Madame, till now, I had not deemed such wonders practicable. We have not in the scene before us a mere union of unbounded expense with the most exquisite taste, but you give us poetry in action. Instead of writing as a master poet, or painting as a first-rate artist, you create that which they would scarcely venture to dream of.”
“Your royal highness is too indulgent.”
“Nay, but candidly, all must agree that the mind which could so faithfully depict this ravishing scene, with its charm of colours and contrasts, — beyond us, the loud notes of joy and mirthful revelry, here the soft silence and sweet, gentle murmurs of distant voices, that lull the spirit into a fancied flight beyond this fitful existence, — surely, surely, without suspicion of flattery, it may be said of the planner and contriver of all this, such a one was born a poet and a painter combined.”
“The praises of your royal highness are so much the more dangerous from the skill and cleverness with which they are uttered, and which makes us listen to them with delight, even in defiance of our sternest resolutions. But allow me to call your royal highness’s attention to the very lovely person who is approaching us. I must have you admit that the Marquise d’Harville must shine preeminently beautiful any and every where. Is she not graceful? And does not the gentle elegance of her whole appearance acquire a fresh charm, from the contrast with the severe yet classic beauty by whom she is accompanied?”
The individuals thus alluded to were the Countess Sarah Macgregor and the Marquise d’Harville, who were at this moment descending the steps which led from the gallery to the winter garden. Neither was the panegyric bestowed by the ambassadress on Madame d’Harville at all exaggerated. No words can accurately describe the loveliness of her person, and the Marquise d’Harville was then in the first bloom of youthful charms; but her beauty, delicate and fragile as it was, appeared less to belong to the strict regularity of her features than to the irresistible expression of sweetness and universal kindness, which imparted a charm to her countenance impossible to resist or to describe; and this peculiar charm served invariably to distinguish Madame d’Harville from all other fashionable beauties; for goodness of heart and kindliness of disposition are but rarely seen as the prevailing passions revealed in a face as fair, as young, high-born, and ardently worshipped by all, as was the Marquise d’Harville, who shone forth in all her lustre as the brightest star in the galaxy of fashion. Too wise, virtuous, and right-minded to listen to the host of flatterers by whom she was surrounded, Madame d’Harville smiled as gratefully on all as though she could have given them credit for speaking the truth, had not her own modest opinion of her just claims to such homage have forbidden her accepting of praise she never could have deserved. Wholly indifferent to flattery, yet sensibly alive to kindness, she perfectly distinguished between sympathy and insincerity. Her acute penetration, correct judgment, and lively wit, unmixed by the slightest ill-nature, made her wage an early, though good-tempered war with those vain and egotistical beings who crowd and oppress society with the view of monopolising general attention, and, blinded by their own self-love, expect one universal deference and submission.
“Those kind of persons,” said Madame d’Harville one day, laughingly, “appear to me as if their whole lives were passed in dancing ‘Le Cavalier Seul’ before an invisible mirror.”
An unassuming and unpretending person, however reserved and consequently unpopular he might be with others, was sure to find a steady friend and partial observer in Madame d’Harville.
This trifling digression is absolutely essential to the right understanding of facts of which we shall speak hereafter.
The complexion of Madame d’Harville was of the purest white, tinged with the most delicate carnation; her long tresses of bright chestnut hair floated over her beautifully formed shoulders, white and polished as marble. It would be an impossible task to describe her large dark gray eyes, fringed with their thick lashes, and beaming with angelic sweetness; her coral lips, with their gentle smile, gave to her eyes the indefinable charm that her affable and winning mode of expressing herself derived from their mild and angelic expression of approving goodness. We will not farther delay the reader by describing the perfection of her figure, nor dwell upon the distinguished air which marked her whole appearance. She wore a white crape dress, trimmed with the natural flowers of the camellia, intermixed with its own rich green leaves. Here and there a diamond sparkled among the waxy petals, as if a dewdrop fresh from its native skies had fallen there. A garland of the same flowers, equally ornamented with precious stones, was placed with infinite grace upon her fair and open brow.
The peculiar style of the Countess Sarah Macgregor’s beauty served to set off the fair feminine loveliness of her companion. Though turned thirty-five years of age, Sarah looked much younger. Nothing appears to preserve the body more effectually from all the attacks of sickness or decay than a cold-hearted, egotistical disregard of every one but ourselves; it encrusts the body with a cold, icy covering, which alike resists the inroads of bodily or mental wear and tear. To this cause may be ascribed the wonderful preservation of Countess Sarah’s appearance.
The lady whose name we last mentioned wore a dress of pale amber watered silk, beneath a crape tunic of the same colour. A simple wreath of the dark leaves of the Pyrus Japonicus encircled her head, and harmonised admirably with the bandeaux of raven hair it confined. This classically severe mode of head-dress gave to the profile of this imperious woman the character and resemblance of an antique statue. Many persons, mistaking their real cast of countenance, imagine some peculiar vocation delineated in their traits. Thus one man, who fancies he possesses a warlike air, assumes the warrior; another imagines
“His eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,”
marks him out as a poet; instantly he turns down his shirt-collar, adopts poetical language, and writes himself poet. So the self-imagined conspirator wastes days and hours in pondering over mighty deeds he feels called upon to do. The politician, upon the same terms, bores the world and his friends with his perpetual outpourings upon political economy; and the man whose saintly turn of countenance persuades its owner into the belief of a corresponding character within, forthwith abjures the pomps and vanities of the world, and aims at reforming his brethren by his pulpit eloquence. Now, ambition being Sarah’s ruling passion, and her noble and aristocratical features well assisting the delusion, she smiled as the word “diadem” crossed her thoughts, and lent a willing ear to the predictions of her Highland nurse, and firmly believed herself predestined to a sovereign destiny. Spite of the trifling embonpoint that gave to her figure (which, though fatter than Madame d’Harville’s, was not less slender and nymph-like) a voluptuous gracefulness, Sarah boasted of all the freshness of early youth, and few could long sustain the fire of her black and piercing eyes; her nose was aquiline; her finely formed mouth and rich ruby lips were expressive of the highest determination, haughtiness, and pride.
The marquise and Sarah had recognised Rodolph in the winter garden at the moment they were descending into it from the gallery; but the prince feigned not to observe their presence.
“The prince is so absorbed with the ambassadress,” said Madame d’Harville to Sarah, “that he pays not the slightest attention to us.”
“You are quite mistak
en, my dear Clémence,” rejoined the countess; “the prince saw us as quickly and as plainly as we saw him, but I frightened him away; you see he still bears malice with me.”
“I am more than ever at a loss to understand the singular obstinacy with which he persists in shunning you, — you, formerly an old friend. ‘Countess Sarah and myself are sworn enemies,’ replied he to me once in a joking manner; ‘I have made a vow never to speak to her; and you may judge how sacred must be the vow that hinders me from conversing with so charming a lady.’ And, strange and unaccountable as was this reply, I had no alternative but to submit to it.”
“And yet I can assure you that the cause of this deadly feud, half in jest, and half in earnest as it is, originates in the most simple circumstance. Were it not that a third party is implicated in it, I should have explained the whole to you long ago. But what is the matter, my dear child? You seem as though your thoughts were far from the present scene.”
“Nothing, nothing, I assure you,” replied the marquise, faintly; “but the gallery is so very hot, it gave me a violent headache. Let us sit down here for a minute or two. I hope and believe it will soon be better.”
“You are right; see, here is a nice quiet corner, where you will be in perfect safety from the researches of those who are lamenting your absence,” added Sarah, pronouncing the last words with marked emphasis.
The two ladies then seated themselves on a divan, almost concealed beneath the clustering shrubs and overhanging plants.
“I said those who would be lamenting your absence, my dear Clémence, — come, own that I deserve praise for so discreetly forming my speech.”
The marquise blushed slightly, cast down her eyes, but spoke not.
“How unreasonable you are!” exclaimed Sarah, in a tone of friendly reproach. “Can you not trust me, my dear child? — yes, child; for am I not old enough to be your mother?”
“Not trust you?” uttered the marquise, sadly; “alas! have I not on the contrary confessed that to you which I should hardly have dared to own to myself?”
“Well, then, come, rouse yourself; now, let us have a little talk about him: and so you have really sworn to drive him to despair?”
“For the love of heaven,” exclaimed Madame d’Harville, “think what you are saying!”
“I tell you I know him better than you do, my poor child; he is a man of cool and decided energy, who sets but little value on his life; he has had misfortunes enough to make him quite weary of it; and it really seems as if you daily found greater pleasure in tormenting him, and playing with his feelings.”
“Is it possible you can really think so?”
“Indeed, in spite of myself, I cannot refrain from entertaining that opinion. Oh, if you but knew how over-susceptible some minds are rendered by a continuance of sorrows and afflictions, — just now I saw two large tears fall from his eyes, as he gazed on you.”
“Are you quite sure of what you say?”
“Indeed, I am quite certain; and that, too, in a ballroom, at the risk of becoming an object of general derision, if this uncontrollable misery were perceived! Ah! let me tell you, a person must truly love to bear all this, and even to be careless about concealing his sufferings from the world.”
“For the love of heaven, do not speak thus!” replied Madame d’Harville, in a voice trembling with emotion. “Alas! you have touched me nearly; I know too well what it is to struggle with a hidden grief, yet wear an outward expression of calmness and resignation. Alas! alas! ’tis the deep pity and commiseration I feel for him has been my ruin,” added she, almost unconsciously.
“Nonsense! What an over-nice person you are, to talk of a little innocent flirtation being ruinous, and that, too, with a man so scrupulously guarded as to abstain from ever appearing in your husband’s presence, for fear of compromising you. You must admit that M. Charles Robert is a man of surprising honour, delicacy, and real feeling. I feel the more inclined to espouse his cause from the recollection that you have never met him elsewhere but at my house, and because I can answer for his principles, and that his devoted attachment to you can only be equalled by the deep respect he bears you.”
“I have never doubted the many noble qualities you have so repeatedly assured me he possesses, but you know well that it is his long succession of bitter afflictions which have so warmly interested me in his favour.”
“And well does he merit this interest, and most fully do his excellent qualities absolve you of all blame in thus bestowing it. Surely so fine and noble a countenance bespeaks a mind equally superior to all mankind. How completely are you reminded, while gazing on his tall and finely proportioned figure, of the preux chevaliers of bygone days,’sans peur et sans reproche.’ I once saw him dressed in his uniform as commandant of the national guard, and, handsome as he is, I really think he looked surpassingly well, and I could but say to myself, that, if nobility were the award of inward merit and external beauty, M. Charles Robert, instead of being so called, would take precedence of nearly all our dukes and peers. Would he not be a fitting representative of any of the most distinguished families in France?”
“You know, my dear countess, how very little importance I attach to mere birth, and you yourself have frequently reproached me with being strongly inclined to republicanism,” said Madame d’Harville, smiling gently.
“For my own part, I always thought, with you, that M. Charles Robert required not the aid of rank or titles to render him worthy of universal admiration. Then, what extreme talent he possesses! What a fine voice he has! And what delightful morning concerts we three have been able to achieve, owing to his all-powerful assistance! Ah, my dear Clémence, do you remember the first time you ever sang with him: what passionate expression did he not throw into the words of that beautiful duet, so descriptive of his love, and his fear of offending her who was the object of it, by revealing it?”
“Let me entreat of you,” said Madame d’Harville, after a long silence, “to speak of something else; indeed I dare not listen further: what you but just now intimated of his depressed and unhappy appearance has caused me much pain.”
“Nay, my dear friend, I meant not to grieve you, but merely to point out the probability that a man, rendered doubly sensitive by the succession of past misfortunes, might feel his courage insufficient to encounter the fresh trial of your rejection of his suit, and thus be induced to end his hopeless love and his life together.”
“Oh, no more! no more!” almost shrieked Madame d’Harville, interrupting Sarah; “this fearful idea has glanced across my mind already.” Then, after a second silence of some minutes, the marquise resumed, “Let us, as I said before, talk of somebody else, — of your mortal enemy, for instance,” added she, with assumed gaiety of manner; “come, we will take the prince for a fresh theme of conversation; I had not seen him, previously to this evening, for a very long time. Do you know that I think he looks handsomer than ever? Though all but king, he has lost none of the winning sweetness and affability of his manner, and, spite of my republicanism, I must confess I have seldom, if ever, known so irresistible a person.”
Sarah threw a side glance of deep and scrutinising hatred upon her unconscious rival, but, quickly recovering herself, she said, gaily:
“Now, my dear Clémence, you must confess to being a most capricious little lady; you have regular alternating paroxysms of admiration and violent dislike for the prince; why, a few months ago, I mean about his first arrival here, you were so captivated by him, that, between ourselves, I was half afraid you had lost your heart past all hope of recall.”
“Thanks to you,” replied Madame d’Harville, smiling, “my admiration was very short-lived; for so well did you act up to your character of the prince’s sworn foe, and such fearful tales did you tell me of his profligacy and misconduct, that you succeeded in inspiring me with an aversion as powerful as had been the infatuation which led you to fear for the safety of my heart; which, by the way, I cannot think would ever have been placed in
any danger from the attempts of your enemy to disturb its repose, since, shortly before you gave me those frightful particulars of the prince’s character, he had quite ceased to honour me with his visits, although on the most intimate and friendly terms with my husband.”
“Talking of your husband, pray is he here to-night?” inquired Sarah.
“No,” replied Madame d’Harville, in a tone of embarrassment; “he preferred remaining at home.”
“He seems to me to mix less and less in the world.”
“He never liked what is called fashionable gaiety.”
The marquise’s agitation visibly increased; and Sarah, whose quick eye easily perceived it, continued:
“The last time I saw him he looked even paler than usual.”
“He has been very much out of health lately.”
“My dearest Clémence, will you permit me to speak to you without reserve?”
“Oh, yes, pray do!”
“How comes it that the least allusion to your husband always throws you into such a state of extraordinary alarm and uneasiness?”
“What an idea! Is it possible you can mean it seriously?” asked poor Madame d’Harville, trying to smile.
“Indeed, I am quite in earnest,” rejoined her companion; “whenever you are speaking of him, your countenance assumes, even in spite of yourself, — but how shall I make myself understood?” and Sarah, with the tone and fixed gaze of one who wished to read the most secret thoughts of the person she addressed, slowly and emphatically added, “a look of mingled aversion and fear!”
