by Eugène Sue
“Nay, the secret of my sincere commiseration with the woes of others consists in my having deeply suffered myself, — nay, in still sighing over heavy sorrows none can alleviate or cure.”
“You, my lord! Surely you cannot have tasted thus bitterly of grief and misfortune?”
“Yes, ’tis even so. I sometimes think that I have been made to taste of nearly every bitter which fills our cup of worldly sorrows, the better to fit me for sympathising with all descriptions of worldly trials. Wounded and sorely afflicted as a friend, a husband, and a parent, what grief can there be in which I am not qualified to participate?”
“I always understood, my lord, that your late wife, the grand duchess, left no child?”
“True; but, before I became her husband, I was the father of a daughter, who died quite young. And, however you may smile at the idea, I can with truth assert that the loss of that child has poisoned all my subsequent days. And this grief increases with my years. Each succeeding hour but redoubles the poignancy of my regrets, which, far from abating, appear to grow, — strengthen, even as my daughter would have done had she been spared me. She would now have been in her seventeenth year.”
“And her mother,” asked Clémence, after a trifling hesitation, “is she still living?”
“Oh, name her not, I beseech you!” exclaimed Rodolph, whose features became suddenly overcast at this reference to Sarah. “She to whom you allude is a vile, unworthy woman, whose feelings are completely buried beneath the cold selfishness and ambition of her nature. Sometimes I even ask myself whether it is not better that my child has been removed by death than for her to have been contaminated by the example of such a mother.”
Clémence could not restrain a feeling of satisfaction at hearing Rodolph thus express himself. “In that case,” said she, “I can imagine how doubly you must bewail the loss of your only object of affection!”
“Oh, how I should have doted on my child! For it seems to me that, among princes, there is always mixed up with the affection we bear a son, a sort of interested regard for the being destined to perpetuate our race, — a kind of political calculation. But a daughter! — oh, she is loved for herself alone! And when, alas! one is weary of witnessing the many fearful pictures of fallen humanity an intercourse with the world compels us to behold, what joy to turn from the dark pictures of guilt and crime to refresh ourselves by the contemplation of a young and innocent mind, and to delight in watching the unfolding of all those pure and tender feelings so guilelessly true to nature! The proudest, the happiest mother feels not half the exquisite joy of a father in observing the gradual development of a daughter’s character. A mother will dwell with far greater rapture on the bold and manly qualities of a son. For have you never remarked that the cause which still further cements the doting affection of a mother for her son, or a father for his daughter, is the feeling of either requiring or bestowing aid and protection? Thus, the mother looks upon her son in the light of a future support and protection; while the father beholds in his young and helpless daughter a weak and fragile creature, clinging to him for safety, counsel, and protection from all the storms of life.”
“True, my lord, — most true!”
“But what avails it thus to dwell on sources of delight for ever lost to me?” cried Rodolph, in a voice of the deepest dejection. His mournful tones sunk into the very heart of Clémence, who could not restrain a tear, which trickled slowly down her cheek. After a short pause, during which the prince, making a powerful effort to restrain himself, and feeling almost ashamed of allowing his feelings thus to get the better of him in the presence of Madame d’Harville, said, with a smile of infinite sadness, “Your pardon, madame, for thus allowing myself to be drawn away by the remembrance of my past griefs!”
“I beseech you, my lord, make no apology to me; but, on the contrary, believe that I most sincerely sympathise with your very natural regrets. Have I not a right to share your griefs, for have I not made you a participator in mine? My greatest pain is, that the only consolation I could offer you would be vain and useless to assuage your grief.”
“Not so; the very expression of your kind commiseration is grateful and beneficial to me; and I find it a relief to disburden my mind, and tell you all I suffer. But, courage!” added Rodolph, with a faint and melancholy smile; “the conversation of this evening entirely reassures me on your account. A safe and healthful path is opened to you, by following which you will escape the trials and dangers so fatal to many of your sex, and, still more so, for those as highly endowed as yourself. You will have much to endure, to struggle against, and contend with; but in proportion to the difficulties of your position will be your merit in overcoming them. You are too young and lovely to escape without a severe ordeal; but, should your courage ever fail you, the recollection, not only of the good you have done, but also that you propose to effect, will serve to strengthen your virtuous resolutions, and arm you with fresh courage.”
Madame d’Harville melted into tears.
“At least,” said she, “promise me your counsels and advice shall never fail me. May I depend on this, my lord?”
“Indeed, indeed, you may. Whether near or afar off, believe that I shall ever feel the most lively interest in your welfare and well-doing; and, so far as in me lies, will I devote my best services to promote your happiness, or that of the man whom I glory in calling my dearest friend.”
“Thanks, my lord,” said Clémence, drying her tears, “for this consoling promise. But for your generous aid, I feel too well that my own strength would fail me. Still I bind myself now, and in your presence, faithfully and courageously to perform my duty, however hard or painful that duty may be.”
As Clémence uttered these last words, a small door, concealed by the hangings, suddenly opened; and M. d’Harville, pale, agitated, and evidently labouring under considerable excitement, appeared before Madame d’Harville and Rodolph. The latter involuntarily started, while a faint cry escaped the lips of the astonished wife.
The first surprise over, the marquis handed to Rodolph the letter received from Sarah, saying:
“Here, my lord, is the letter I but just now received in your presence. Have the kindness to cast your eyes over it, and afterwards commit it to the flames.”
Clémence gazed on her husband with utter astonishment.
“Most infamous!” exclaimed Rodolph, indignantly, as he finished the perusal of the vile scrawl.
“Nay, my lord, there is an act more dastardly even than the sending an anonymous letter; and that act I have committed.”
“For the love of heaven, explain yourself!”
“Instead of at once fearlessly and candidly showing you this letter, I concealed its contents from you. I feigned calmness and tranquillity, while jealousy, rage, and despair filled my heart. Nor is this all. To what detestable meanness do you suppose, my lord, my ungoverned passions led me? Why, to enact the part of a spy, — to hide myself basely and contemptibly behind this door, to overhear your conversation and espy your actions. Yes, hate me, despise me as you will, I merit all for having insulted you by a suspicion. Oh, the writer of these fiendish letters knew well the culpable weakness of him to whom they were addressed. But, after all I have heard, — for not a word has escaped me, and I now know the nature of the interest which attracts you to frequent the Rue du Temple, — after having, by my mean and unworthy jealousy, given support to the base calumny by believing it even for an instant, how can I hope for pardon, though I sue for it upon my knees? Still, still, I venture to implore from you, so superior to myself in nobleness and generosity of soul, pity, and, if you can, forgiveness for the wrong I have done you!”
“No more of this, my dear Albert,” said Rodolph, extending his hands towards his friend with the most touching cordiality; “you have nothing to ask pardon for. Indeed, I feel quite delighted to find you have discovered the secrets of Madame d’Harville and myself. Now that all further restraint is at an end, I shall be able to lecture you
as much and as frequently as I choose. But, what is better still, you are now installed as the confidant of Madame d’Harville, — that is to say, you now know what to expect from a heart so pure, so generous, and so noble as hers.”
“And you, Clémence,” said M. d’Harville, sorrowfully, to his wife, “can you forgive me my last unworthy act, in addition to the just causes you already have to hate and despise me?”
“On one condition,” said she, extending her hand towards her husband, which he warmly and tenderly pressed, “that you promise to aid me in all my schemes for promoting and securing your happiness!”
“Upon my word, my dear marquis,” exclaimed Rodolph, “our enemies have shown themselves bunglers after all! They have afforded you an opportunity you might never otherwise have obtained, of rightly appreciating the tender devotion of your incomparable wife, whose affection for you, I venture to say, has shone out more brightly and steadily under the machinations of those who seek to render us miserable, than amidst all the former part of your wedded life; so that we are enabled to take a sweet revenge for the mischief intended to be effected: that is some consolation, while awaiting a fuller atonement for this diabolical attempt. I strongly suspect the quarter from which this scheme has emanated; and however patiently I may bear my own wrongs, I am not of a nature to suffer those offered to my friends to remain unpunished. This, however, is my affair. Adieu, madame, — our intrigue is discovered; and you will be no more at liberty to work alone in befriending your protégées. But, never mind! Before long we will get up some mysterious enterprise, impossible to be found out; and we will even defy the marquis, with all his penetration, to know more than we choose to tell him.”
After accompanying Rodolph to his carriage with reiterated thanks and praises, the marquis retired to his apartments without again seeing Clémence.
CHAPTER VII.
REFLECTIONS.
IT WOULD BE difficult to describe the tumultuous and opposing sentiments that agitated M. d’Harville when alone. He reflected with delight on the detection of the unworthy falsehood charged upon Rodolph and Clémence; but he was, at the same time, thoroughly convinced that he must for ever forego the hope of being loved by her. The more Clémence had proved herself, in her conversation with Rodolph, resigned, full of courage, and bent on acting rightly, the more bitterly did M. d’Harville reproach himself for having, in his culpable egotism, chained the lot of his unhappy young wife to his own. Far from being consoled by the conversation he had overheard, he fell into a train of sorrowful thought and indescribable anguish.
Riches, without occupation, bring with them this wretchedness. Nothing can divert it, nothing relieve it, from the deepest feelings of mental torture. Not being compulsorily preoccupied by cares for the future or daily toil, it is utterly exposed to heavy moral affliction. Able to acquire all that money can purchase, it desires or regrets with intense violence —
“What gold could never buy.”
The mental torture of M. d’Harville was intense, for, after all, what he desired was only what was just, and actually legal, — the society, if not the love, of his wife.
But, when placed beside the inexorable refusal of Clémence, he asked himself if there was not the bitterest derision in these words of the law: The wife belongs to her husband.
To what influence, to what means could he have recourse to subdue this coldness, this repugnance, which turned his whole existence into one long punishment, since he could not — ought not — would not love any woman but his wife?
He could not but see in this, as in many other positions of conjugal life, the simple will of the husband or the wife imperatively substituted, without appeal or possibility of prevention, for the sovereign will of the law.
To the paroxysms of vain anger there succeeded a melancholy depression. The future weighed him down, heavy, dull, and chill. He only saw before him the grief that would doubtless render more frequent the attacks of his fearful malady.
“Oh,” he exclaimed, at once in tears and despair, “it is my fault, — it is my fault! Poor, unhappy girl! I deceived her, — shamefully deceived her! She must, — she ought to hate me; and yet but now she displayed the deepest interest in me, and, instead of contenting myself with that, my mad passion led me away, and I became tender. I spoke of my love, and scarcely had my lips touched her hand than she became startled, and bounded with fright. If I could for a moment have doubted the invincible repugnance with which I inspire her, what she said to the prince must for ever destroy that illusion. Ah, it is frightful, — frightful! By what right has she confided to him this hideous secret? It is an unworthy betrayal! By what right? — alas, by the right the victim has to complain of its executioner! Poor girl! So young, — so loving! All she could find most cruel to say against the horrid existence I have entailed upon her was, that such was not the lot of which she had dreamed, and that she was very young to renounce all hopes of love! I know Clémence, and the word she gave me, — the word she gave to the prince, — she will abide by for ever. She will be to me the tenderest of sisters! Well, is not my position still most enviable? To the cold and constrained demeanour which existed between us will succeed affectionate and gentle intercourse, whilst she might have treated me always with icy disdain of which it was impossible that I could complain. So, then, I will console myself by the enjoyment of what she offers to me. Shall I not be too happy then? — too happy? Ah, how weak I am! How cowardly! Is she not my wife, after all? Is she not mine and mine only? Does not the law recognise my right over her? My wife refuses, but is not the right on my side?” he interrupted himself, with a burst of sardonic laughter.
“Oh, yes, — be violent, eh? What, another infamy? But what can I do? For I love her yet, — love her to madness! I love her and her only! I want but her, — her love, and not the lukewarm regard of a sister. Ah, at last she must have pity; she is so kind, and she will see how unhappy I am! But no, no! Never! Mine is a case of estrangement which a woman never can surmount. Disgust, — yes, disgust, — I cannot but see it, — disgust! I must convince myself that it is my horrid infirmity that frightens her, and always must, — always must!” exclaimed M. d’Harville, in his fearful excitement.
After a moment of gloomy silence, he continued:
“This anonymous attack, which accused the prince and my wife, comes from the hand of an enemy; and yet, but an hour ago, before I saw through it, I suspected him. Him! — to believe him capable of such base treachery! And my wife, too, I included in the same suspicion! Ah, jealousy is incurable! And yet I must not abuse myself. If the prince, who loves me as his best and dearest friend, has made Clémence promise to occupy her mind and heart in charitable works, if he promises her his advice, his support, it is because she requires advice, needs support. And, indeed, lovely and young, and surrounded as she is, and without that love in her heart which protects and even almost excuses her wrongs through mine, which are so atrocious, must she not fall? Another torturing thought! What I have suffered when I thought her guilty, — fallen, — Heaven knows what agony! But, no; the fear is vain! Clémence has sworn never to fail in her duties, and she will keep her promise, — strictly keep it! But at what a price! At what a price! But now, when she turned towards me with affectionate language, what agony did I feel at the sight of her gentle, sad, and resigned smile! How much this return to me must have cost! Poor love! how lovely and affecting she seemed at that moment! For the first time I felt a fierce remorse, for, up to that moment, her haughty coldness had sufficiently avenged her. Oh, wretch! — wretch that I am!”
After a long and sleepless night, spent in bitter reflections, the agitation of M. d’Harville ceased, as if by enchantment. He had come to an unalterable resolution. He awaited daybreak with excessive impatience.
Early in the morning he rang for his valet de chambre.
When old Joseph entered his master’s room, to his great surprise he heard him hum a hunting song, — a sign, as rare as certain, that M. d’Harville was in good humo
ur.
“Ah, M. le Marquis,” said the faithful old servant, quite affected, “what a charming voice you have! What a pity that you do not sing more frequently!”
“Really, Joseph, have I a charming voice?” said M. d’Harville, smiling.
“If M. le Marquis had a voice as hoarse as a night raven or as harsh as a rattle, I should still think he had a charming voice.”
“Be silent, you flatterer!”
“Why, when you sing, M. le Marquis, it is a sign you are happy, and then your voice sounds to me the most beautiful music in the world.”
“In that case, Joseph, my old friend, prepare to open your long ears.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“You may enjoy every day the music which you call charming, and of which you seem so fond.”
“What! You will be happy every day, M. le Marquis?” exclaimed Joseph, clasping his hands with extreme delight.
“Every day, my old Joseph, happy every day. Yes, no more sorrow, — no more sadness. I can tell you, the only and discreet confidant of my troubles, that I am at the height of happiness. My wife is an angel of goodness, and has asked my forgiveness for her past estrangement, attributing it (can you imagine?) to jealousy.”
“To jealousy?”
“Yes, absurd suspicions, excited by anonymous letters.”
