Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  The fixed pallid features of Madame d’Harville at first defied even Sarah’s practised eye, but her keen gaze soon detected a slight convulsive working of the mouth, with a tremulous movement of the under lip of her victim; but feeling it unsafe to pursue the subject farther at this moment so as to awaken the marquise’s mistrust of her friendly intentions, by way, therefore, of concealing her real suspicions, she continued:

  “Yes, just that sort of dislike any woman would entertain for a peevish, jealous, ill-tempered—”

  At this explanation of the countess’s meaning, as regarded Madame d’Harville’s imagined dislike for her husband, a heavy load seemed taken from her; the working of her lip ceased, and she replied:

  “Let me assure you M. d’Harville is neither peevish nor jealous.” Then, as if searching for some means of breaking a conversation so painful to her feelings, she suddenly exclaimed, “Ah! here comes that tiresome friend of my husband’s, the Duke de Lucenay. I hope he has not seen us. Where can he have sprung from? I thought he was a thousand miles off!”

  “It was reported that he had gone somewhere in the East for a year or two, and behold, at the end of five months, here he is back again! His unexpected arrival must have sadly annoyed the Duchess de Lucenay, though poor De Lucenay is a very inoffensive creature,” said Sarah, with an ill-natured smile. “Nor will Madame de Lucenay be the only one to feel vexation at his thus changing his mind; her friend, M. de St. Remy, will duly and affectionately sympathise in all her regrets on the subject.”

  “Come, come, my dear Sarah, I cannot allow you to scandalise; say that this return of M. de Lucenay is a nuisance to everybody; the duke is sufficiently disagreeable for you to generalise the regret his unexpected presence occasions.”

  “I do not slander, I merely repeat. It is also said that M. de St. Remy, the model of our young élégantes, whose splendid doings have filled all Paris, is all but ruined! ’Tis true, he has by no means reduced either his establishment or his expenditure; however, there are several ways of accounting for that; in the first place, Madame de Lucenay is immensely rich.”

  “What a horrible idea!”

  “Still I only repeat what others say. There, the duke sees us; he is coming towards us; we must resign ourselves to our fate, — miserable, is it not? I know nothing so hard to bear as that man’s company; he makes himself so very disagreeable, and then laughs so disgustingly loud at the silly things he says. Indeed, he is so boisterous that the bare idea of him makes one think of pretending to faint, or any other pretext, to avoid him. Talking of fainting, pray let me beg of you, if you have the least regard for your fan or essence-bottle, to beware how you allow him to handle either, for he has the unfortunate habit of breaking whatever he touches, and all with the most facetious self-satisfied air imaginable.”

  VOLUME II.

  CHAPTER I.

  THE BALL.

  BELONGING TO ONE of the first families in France, still young, and with a face that would have been agreeable had it not been for the almost ridiculous and disproportionate length of his nose, M. de Lucenay joined to a restless love of constant motion the habit of talking and laughing fearfully loud upon subjects quite at variance with good taste or polished manners, and throwing himself into attitudes so abrupt and awkward that it was only by recalling who he was, that his being found in the midst of the most distinguished societies in Paris could be accounted for, or a reason assigned for tolerating his gestures and language; for both of which he had now, by dint of long practice and adherence, acquired a sort of free license or impunity. He was shunned like the plague, although not deficient in a certain description of wit, which told here and there amid the indescribable confusion of remarkable phraseology which he allowed himself the use of; in fact, he was one of those unintentional instruments of vengeance one would always like to employ in the wholesale chastisement of persons who have rendered themselves either ridiculous or abhorrent.

  The Duchess de Lucenay, one of the most agreeable, and, at the same time, most fashionable women in Paris (spite of her having numbered thirty summers), had more than once furnished matter of conversation among the scandal-dealers of Paris; but her errors, whatever they were supposed to be, were pardoned, in consideration of the heavy drawback of such a partner as M. de Lucenay.

  Another feature in the character of this latter-named individual was a singular affectation of the most absurd and unknown expressions, relative to imaginary complaints and ridiculous infirmities he amused himself in supposing you suffered from, and concerning which he would make earnest inquiries, in a loud voice, and in the immediate presence of a hundred persons. But possessed of first-rate courage, and always ready to take the consequences of his disagreeable jokes, M. de Lucenay had been concerned in various affairs of honour arising out of them, with varied success; coming off sometimes victor, sometimes vanquished, without being in any way cured of his unpleasant and annoying tricks.

  All this premised, we will ask the reader to imagine the loud, harsh voice of the personage we have been describing, shouting from the distance at which he first recognised Madame d’Harville and Sarah:

  “Holla! holla! who is that out there? Come, who is it? Let’s see. What! the prettiest woman at the ball sitting out here, away from everybody! I can’t have this; it is high time I returned from the other end of the world to put a stop to such doings as this. I tell you what, marquise, if you persist in thus concealing yourself from general view, and cheating people from looking at you, I will set up a cry of fire! fire! that shall bring every one out of the ballroom, around you.”

  And then, by way of terminating his discourse, M. de Lucenay threw himself almost on his back beside the two ladies, crossed his left leg over his right thigh, and held his foot in his hand.

  “You have soon returned from Constantinople, my lord,” observed Madame d’Harville, fancying it was necessary to say something, and, at the same time, drawing away from her unpleasant neighbour with ill-concealed impatience.

  “Ah, that is just what my wife said! ‘Already back, my lord?’ exclaimed she, when she saw me alight from my travelling-carriage; ‘Why, bless me, I did not expect you so soon!’ And, do you know, instead of flying to my arms, as if the surprise had delighted her, she turned quite sulky, and refused to appear with me at this, my first ball since my return! And, upon my soul, I declare her staying away has caused a far greater sensation than my presence, — droll, isn’t it? ‘Pon my life, I declare I can’t make it out. When she is with me, nobody pays the least attention to me; but when I entered the room alone to-night, such a crowd came humming and buzzing around me, all calling out at once, ‘Where is Madame de Lucenay? Is not she coming this evening? Oh, dear, what a disappointment! How vexatious! How disagreeable!’ etc., etc. And then, marquise, when I come where you are, and expect, after returning all the way from Constantinople, you will be overjoyed to see me, you look upon me as if I were a dog running amidst an interesting game of ninepins; and yet, for all I see, I am just as agreeable as other people.”

  “And it would have been so easy for you to have continued agreeable — in the East,” added Madame d’Harville, slightly smiling.

  “Stop abroad, you mean, I suppose; yes, I dare say. I tell you I could not, and I would not; and it is not quite what I like, to hear you say so!” exclaimed M. de Lucenay, uncrossing his legs, and beating the crown of his hat after the fashion of a tambourine.

  “Well, for heaven’s sake, my lord, be still, and do not call out so very loudly,” said Madame d’Harville, angrily, “or really you will compel me to change my place.”

  “Change your place! Ah, to be sure! You want to take my arm, and walk about the gallery a little; come along, then, I’m ready.”

  “Walk with you! Certainly not! And pray let me beg of you not to meddle with that bouquet — and have the goodness not to touch the fan either; you will only break it, as you always do.”

  “Oh, bless you! talking of breaking fans, I am unlucky. Did my wife e
ver show you a magnificent Chinese fan, given to her by Madame de Vaudémont? Well, I broke that!” And, having delivered himself of these comforting words, M. de Lucenay again threw himself back on the divan he had been lounging on, but, with his accustomed gaucherie, contrived to pitch himself over the back of it, on to the ground, grasping in his hand a quantity of the floating wreaths of climbing plants which depended from the boughs of the trees under which the party was sitting, and which he had been, for some time, amusing himself with essaying to catch, as, moved by the light breeze admitted into the place, they undulated gracefully over his head. The suddenness of his fall brought down, not only those he held, but the parent stems belonging to them; and poor De Lucenay was so covered by the mass of foliage thus unexpectedly obtained, that, ere he could thoroughly disengage himself from their circling tendrils, he presented the appearance of some monarch of May-day crowned with his leafy diadem. So whimsical an appearance as he presented drew down roars of deafening, stunning laughter; much to the annoyance of Madame d’Harville, who would quickly have got out of the vicinity of so awkward and unpleasant a person had she not perceived M. Charles Robert (the commandant of Madame Pipelet’s accounts) advancing from the other end of the gallery; and, unwilling to appear as though going to meet him, she once more resumed her seat beside M. de Lucenay.

  “I say, Lady Macgregor,” vociferated the incorrigible De Lucenay, “didn’t I look preciously like a wild man of the woods, or the god Pan, or a sylvan, or a naiad, or some of those savage creatures, with that green wreath round my head? Oh, but talking of savages,” added he, abruptly approaching Sarah, “Lady Macgregor, I must tell you a most outrageously indecent story. Just imagine that at Otaheite—”

  “My lord duke—” interrupted Sarah, in a tone of freezing rebuke.

  “Just as you like, — you are not obliged to hear my story if you don’t like it; you are the loser, that’s all. Ah! I see Madame de Fonbonne out there; I shall keep it for her; she is a dear, kind creature, and will be delighted to hear it; so I’ll save it for her.”

  Madame de Fonbonne was a fat little woman, of about fifty years of age, very pretending, and very ridiculous. Her fat double chin rested on her equally fat throat; and she was continually talking, with upturned eyes, of her tender, her sensitive soul; the languor of her soul; the craving of her soul; the aspirations of her soul. To these disadvantages, she added the additional one of being particularly ill-dressed, upon the present occasion, in a horrible-looking copper-coloured turban, with a sprinkling of green flowers over it.

  “Yes,” again asserted De Lucenay, in his loudest voice, “that charming anecdote shall be told to Madame de Fonbonne.”

  “May I be permitted, my lord duke, to inquire the subject of your conversation?” said the lady thus apostrophised, who, hearing her name mentioned, immediately commenced her usual mincing, bridling attempts to draw up her chubby self, but, failing in the effort, fell back upon the easier manœuvre of “rolling up the whites of her eyes,” as it is commonly called.

  “It refers, madame, to a most horribly indecent, revolting, and strange story.”

  “Heaven bless me! and who dares — oh, dear me, who would venture—”

  “I would, madame. I can answer for the truth of the anecdote, and that it would make a stick or a stone blush to hear it; but, as I am aware how dearly you love such stories, I will relate it to you. You must know, then, that in Otaheite—”

  “My lord,” exclaimed the indignant lady, turning up her eyes with indignant horror, “it really is surprising you can allow yourself to—”

  “Now for those unkind looks you shall not hear my pretty story either, though I had been reserving it for you. And, now I look at you, I can but wonder that you, so celebrated for the taste and good style of your dress, should have put that wretched thing on your head for a turban, but which looks more like an old copper baking-dish spotted all over with verdigris.” So saying, the duke, as if charmed with his own wit, burst into a loud and long peal of laughter.

  “If, my lord,” exclaimed the enraged lady, “you merely returned from the East to resume your offensive jokes, which are tolerated because you are supposed to be only half in your senses, all who know you are bound to hope you intend to return as quickly as you came;” saying which she arose, and majestically waddled away.

  “I tell you what, Lady Macgregor, if I don’t take devilish good care, I shall let fly at that stupid old prude and pull her old stew-pan off her head,” said M. de Lucenay, thrusting his hands deep down into his pockets as if to prevent their committing the retaliating mischief he contemplated. “But no,” said he, after a pause, “I won’t hurt the ‘sensitive soul,’ poor innocent thing! Ha! ha! ha! Besides, think of her being an orphan at her tender age!” And renewed peals of laughter announced that the imagination of the duke had again found a fresh fund of amusement in some reminiscence of Madame de Fonbonne; which, however, soon gave place to an expression of surprise, as the figure of the commandant, sauntering towards them, caught his eye.

  “Holla!” cried he, “there’s M. Charles Robert. I met him last summer at the German baths; he is a deuced fine fellow, — sings like a swan. Now, marquise, I’ll show you some fun, — just see how I’ll bother him. Would you like me to introduce him to you?”

  “Be quiet, if you can,” said Sarah, turning her back most unceremoniously upon M. de Lucenay, “and let us alone, I beg.”

  As M. Charles Robert, while affecting to be solely occupied in admiring the rare plants on either side of him, continued to advance, M. de Lucenay had cleverly contrived to get possession of Sarah’s flacon d’esprit, and was deeply and silently engaged in the interesting employment of demolishing the stopper of the trinket.

  Still M. Charles Robert kept on his gradual approach to the party he was, in reality, making the object of his visit. His figure was tall and finely proportioned; his features boasted the most faultless regularity; his dress was in the first style of modern elegance; yet his countenance, his whole person, were destitute of grace, or that distingué air which is more to be coveted than mere beauty, whether of face or figure; his movements were stiff and constrained, and his hands and feet large and coarse. As he approached Madame d’Harville his insipid and insignificant countenance assumed, all at once, an expression of the deepest melancholy, too sudden to be genuine; nevertheless he acted the part as closely to nature as might be. M. Robert had the air of a man so thoroughly wretched, so oppressed by a multitude of sorrows, that as he came up to Madame d’Harville she could not help recalling to mind the fearful mention made by Sarah touching the violence to which grief such as his might drive him.

  “How are you? How are you, my dear sir?” exclaimed the Duke de Lucenay, interrupting the further approach of the commandant. “I have not had the pleasure of seeing you since we met at the spas of —— . But what the devil ails you, — are you ill?”

  Hereupon M. Charles Robert assumed a languid and sentimental air, and, casting a melancholy look towards Madame d’Harville, replied, in a tone of deep depression:

  “Indeed, my lord, I am very far from being well.”

  “God bless me! Why, what is the matter with you? Ah! I suppose that confounded plaguy cough still sticks to you,” said M. de Lucenay, with an appearance of the most serious interest in the inquiry.

  At this ridiculous question, M. Charles Robert stood for a moment as though struck dumb with astonishment, but, quickly recovering himself, said, while his face crimsoned, and his voice trembled with rage, in a short, firm voice, to M. de Lucenay:

  “Since you express so much uneasiness respecting my health, my lord, I trust you will not fail calling to-morrow to know how I am.”

  “Upon my life and soul, my dear sir, I — but most certainly I will send,” said the duke, with a haughty bow to M. Charles Robert, who, coolly returning it, walked away.

  “The best of the joke is,” said M. de Lucenay, throwing himself again by the side of Sarah, “that our tall friend there
had no more of a spitting complaint than the great Turk himself, — unless, indeed, I stumbled upon the truth without knowing it. Well, he might have that complaint for anything I know or care. What do you think, Lady Macgregor, — did that great, tall fellow look, to you, as though he were suffering from la pituite?”

  A sort of viscous, phlegmy complaint.

  Sarah’s only reply was an indignant rising from her seat, and hasty removal from the vicinage of the annoying Duke de Lucenay.

  All this had passed with the rapidity of thought. Sarah had experienced considerable difficulty in restraining her inclination to indulge in a hearty fit of laughter at the absurd question put by the Duke de Lucenay to the commandant; but Madame d’Harville had painfully sympathised with the feelings of a man so ridiculously interrogated in the presence of the woman he loved. Then, horror-struck as the probable consequences of the duke’s jest rose to her mind, led away by her dread of the duel which might arise out of it, and still further instigated by a feeling of deep pity for one who seemed to her misled imagination as marked out for every venomed shaft of envy, malice, and revenge, Clémence rose abruptly from her seat, took the arm of Sarah, overtook M. Charles Robert, who was boiling over with rage, and whispered to him, as she passed:

  “To-morrow, at one o’clock, I will be there.”

  Then, regaining the gallery with the countess, she immediately quitted the ball.

  Rodolph, in appearing at this fête, besides fulfilling a duty imposed on him by his exalted rank and place in society, was further influenced by the earnest desire to ascertain how far his suspicions, as regarded Madame d’Harville, were well founded, and if she were, indeed, the heroine of Madame Pipelet’s account. After quitting the winter garden with the Countess de —— , he had, in vain, traversed the various salons in the hopes of meeting Madame d’Harville alone. He was returning to the hothouse when, being momentarily delayed at the top of the stairs, he was witness to the rapid scene between Madame d’Harville and M. Charles Robert after the joke played off by the Duke de Lucenay. The significant glances exchanged between Clémence and the commandant struck Rodolph powerfully, and impressed him with the firm conviction that this tall and prepossessing individual was the mysterious lodger of the Rue du Temple. Wishing for still further confirmation of the idea, he returned to the gallery. A waltz was about to commence, and in the course of a few minutes he saw M. Charles Robert standing in the doorway, evidently revelling in the satisfaction of his own ideas; enjoying, in the first place, the recollection of his own retort to M. de Lucenay (for M. Charles Robert, spite of his egregious folly and vanity, was by no means destitute of bravery), and, secondly, revelling in the triumph of thus obtaining a voluntary assignation with Madame d’Harville for the morrow; and something assured him that this time she would be punctual. Rodolph sought for Murphy.