by Eugène Sue
“I dare do more than that if you do not be off quickly. I tell you the vicomte is not within; so now go away, will you?”
At this moment Boyer, attracted by the sound of contending voices, appeared on the steps which led to the house.
“What is the meaning of this noise?” he inquired.
“M. Boyer, it is this man, who will go into the house, although I have told him that M. le Vicomte is not within.”
“Hold your tongue!” said the comte. And then addressing Boyer, who had come towards them, “I wish to see my son. He is out, and therefore I will wait for him.”
We have already said that Boyer was neither ignorant of the existence nor the misanthropy of his master’s father; and being, moreover, a physiognomist, he did not for a moment doubt the comte’s identity, but, bowing respectfully, replied:
“If M. le Comte will follow me, I will conduct him—”
“Very well!” said M. de Saint-Remy, who followed Boyer, to the extreme amazement of the porter.
Preceded by the valet de chambre, the comte reached the first story, and followed his guide across the small sitting-room of Florestan de Saint-Remy (we shall in future call the viscount by his baptismal name to distinguish him more easily from his father) until they reached a small antechamber communicating with the sitting-room, and sitting immediately over the boudoir on the ground floor.
“M. le Vicomte was obliged to go out this morning,” said Boyer. “If M. le Comte will be so kind as to wait a little for him, he will not be long before he comes in.” And the valet de chambre quitted the apartment.
Left alone, the count looked about him with entire indifference; but suddenly he started, his face became animated, his cheeks grew purple, and anger agitated his features. His eyes had lighted on the portrait of his wife, the mother of Florestan de Saint-Remy! He folded his arms across his breast, bowed his head, as if to escape this sight, and strode rapidly up and down the room.
“This is strange!” he said. “That woman is dead — I killed her lover — and yet my wound is as deep, as sensitive, as the first day I received it; my thirst of vengeance is not yet quenched; my savage misanthropy, which has all but entirely isolated me from the world, has left me alone, and in constant contemplation of the thought of my injury. Yes; for the death of the accomplice of this infamy has avenged the outrage, but not effaced its memory from my remembrance. Oh, yes! I feel that what renders my hatred inextinguishable is the thought that, for fifteen years, I was a dupe; that for fifteen years I treated with respect and esteem a wretched woman who had infamously betrayed me; that I have loved her son — the son of crime — as if he had indeed been my own child; for the aversion with which Florestan now inspires me proves but too clearly that he is the offspring of adultery! And yet I have not the absolute conviction of his illegitimacy: it is just possible that he is still my child! And sometimes that thought is agony to me! If he were indeed my son! Then my abandonment of him, the coldness I have always testified towards him, my constant refusals to see him, are unpardonable. But, after all, he is rich, young, happy; and of what use should I be to him? Yes; but then, perchance, his tenderness might have soothed the bitter anguish which his mother has caused me!”
After a moment of deep reflection the comte shrugged his shoulders and continued:
“Still these foolish suppositions, weak as useless, which revive all my suffering! Let me be a man, and overcome the absurd and painful emotion which I experience when I think that I am again about to see him whom, for ten years, I have loved with the most mad idolatry, — whom I have loved as my son; he — he — the son of the man whose blood I saw flow with such intense joy! And they would not let me be present at his last agony, — at his death! Ah, they know not what it was to have been stricken as deeply as I was! Then, too, to think that my name — always honoured and respected — should have been so often mentioned with scoff and derision, as is always mentioned that of a wronged husband! To think that my name — a name of which I had always been so proud — should now belong to a man whose father’s heart I could have plucked out! Ah, I only wonder I do not go mad when I think of it!”
M. de Saint-Remy continued walking up and down in great agitation, and mechanically lifted up the curtain which separated the apartment in which he was from Florestan’s private sitting-room, and advanced several strides into that chamber.
He had disappeared for the moment, when a small door hidden in the hangings of the wall opened softly, and Madame de Lucenay, wrapped in a large green cashmere shawl, having a very plain black velvet bonnet on, entered the salon, which the comte had but that instant quitted.
It is necessary to offer some explanation of this unexpected visit.
Florestan de Saint-Remy on the previous evening made an appointment with the duchess for the next morning. She having, as we have said, a key of the little gate in the narrow lane, had, as usual, entered by the conservatory, relying on finding Florestan on the ground floor boudoir; but, not finding him there, she believed (as had before occurred) that the vicomte was engaged in his cabinet.
A secret staircase led from the boudoir to the story above. Madame de Lucenay went up without hesitation, supposing that M. de Saint-Remy had given orders, as usual, to be denied to everybody. Unluckily, a threatening call from M. Badinot had compelled Florestan to go out hastily, and he had forgotten his rendezvous with Madame de Lucenay. She, not seeing any person, was about to enter the cabinet, when the curtain was thrown on one side, and the duchess found herself confronted with Florestan’s father.
She could not repress a shriek.
“Clotilde!” exclaimed the comte, greatly astonished.
Intimately acquainted with the Prince de Noirmont, father of Madame de Lucenay, M. de Saint-Remy had known her from her childhood, and, during her girlhood, calling her, as he now did, by her baptismal name. The duchess, motionless with surprise, continued gazing on the old man with his white beard and mean attire, whose features she could not recall to mind.
“You, Clotilde!” repeated the comte, in an accent of painful reproach; “you here, in my son’s house!”
These last words confirmed the vague reminiscence of Madame de Lucenay, who then recognised Florestan’s father, and said:
“M. de Saint-Remy?”
The position was so plain and declaratory that the duchess, whose peculiar and resolute character is known to the reader, disdained to have recourse to falsehood, in order to account for her appearance there; and, relying on the really paternal affection which the comte had always testified for her, she said to him, with that air at once graceful, cordial, and decided, which was so peculiarly her own:
“Come, now, do not scold; you are my old, very old friend. Recollect you called me your dear little Clotilde at least twenty years ago.”
“Yes, I called you so then; but—”
“I know beforehand all you would say: you know my motto, ‘What is, is what will be.’”
“Oh, Clotilde!”
“Spare your reproaches, and let me rather express my extreme delight at seeing you again: your presence reminds me of so many things, — my poor dear father, in the first place, and then — heigho! my ‘sweet fifteen!’ Oh, how delightful it is to be fifteen!”
“It is because your father was my friend that—”
“Oh, yes,” said the duchess, interrupting M. de Saint-Remy, “he was so very fond of you! You remember he always called you the man with the green ribands, and you always told him, ‘You spoil Clotilde; mind, I tell you so;’ and he replied, whilst he kissed me, ‘I really do believe I spoil her, and I must make all haste and double my spoiling, for very soon the world will deprive me of her to spoil her in their turn.’ Dear father! What a friend I lost!” and a tear started to the lovely eyes of Madame de Lucenay; then, extending her hand to M. de Saint-Remy, she said, in a faltering voice, “But indeed, in truth, I am happy, very happy, to see you again, you call up such precious remembrances, — memories so dear to my heart!”
The comte, although he had long been acquainted with her original and decisive disposition, was really amazed at the ease with which Clotilde reconciled herself to her exceedingly delicate position, which was no other than to meet her lover’s father in her lover’s house.
“If you have been in Paris for any time,” continued Madame de Lucenay, “it is very naughty of you not to have come and seen me before this; for we should have had such long talks over the past; for you must know that I have reached an age when there is an excessive pleasure in saying to old friends, ‘Don’t you remember!’”
Assuredly the duchess could not have discoursed with more confirmed tranquillity if she were receiving a morning visit at the Hôtel de Lucenay. M. de Saint-Remy could not prevent himself from saying with severity:
“Instead of talking of the past, it would be more fitting to discourse of the present. My son is expected every instant, and—”
“No,” said Clotilde, interrupting him, “I have the key of the little door of the conservatory, and his arrival is always announced by a ring of the bell when he returns by the principal entrance; and at that sound I shall disappear as mysteriously as I arrived, and will leave you to all your pleasure, at again seeing Florestan. What a delightful surprise you will give him! For it is so long since you forsook him. Really, now I think of it, it is I who have to reproach you.”
“Me? Reproach me?”
“Assuredly. What guide, what aid had he, when he entered on the world? whilst there are a thousand things for which a father’s counsels are indispensable. So, really and truly, it is very wrong of you—”
Here Madame de Lucenay, yielding to the whimsicality of her character, could not help laughing most heartily, and saying to the comte:
“It must be owned that our position is at least an odd one, and that it is very funny that it should be I who am sermonising you.”
“Why, it does seem very strange to me, I assure you; but I deserve neither your sermons nor your praises. I have come to my son’s house, but not for my son’s sake. At his age, he has not, or has no longer, any need of my advice.”
“What do you mean?”
“You ought to know the reason for which I hold the world, and Paris, especially, in such horror,” said the comte, with a painful and distressing expression; “and you may therefore believe that nothing but circumstances of the utmost importance could have induced me to leave Angers and have come hither — to this house. But I have been forced to overcome my repugnance, and have recourse to everybody who could aid or help me in a search which is most interesting to me.”
“Oh, then,” said Madame de Lucenay, with affectionate eagerness, “I beg you will make use of me; dispose of me in any way in which I can be useful to you. Do you want any interest? Because De Lucenay must have some degree of influence; for, the days when I go to dine with my great-aunt, De Montbrison, he entertains the deputies; and men don’t do that without some motives; and the trouble ought to be recompensed by some contingent advantages, such as a certain amount of influence over persons, who, in their turn, have a great deal of interest. So, I repeat, if we can assist you, rely on us. Then there is my cousin, the young Duke de Montbrison, who, being a peer himself, is connected with all the young peers. If he can do anything, why, I am sure you have but to command him. In a word, dispose of me and mine. You know whether or not I deserve the title of a warm and devoted friend!”
“I know it well, and do not refuse your aid, although—”
“Come, my dear Alcestis, we know how the world wags, and let us act as if we did. Whether we are here or elsewhere, it is of little consequence, I imagine, as to the affair which interests you, and which now interests me very much because it is yours. Let us then talk of it, and tell me all I request of you.”
So saying, the duchess approached the fireplace, leaned on the mantelpiece, and placed on the fender one of the prettiest feet in the world, which were, at the moment, somewhat chilled. With perfect tact Madame de Lucenay seized the opportunity of saying no more about the vicomte, and of engaging M. de Saint-Remy to talk of a subject to which he attached such great importance. Clotilde’s conduct would have been very different in the presence of his mother, and to her she would have avowed with pleasure and pride how long he had been so dear to, so beloved by, her.
In spite of his strictness and surliness, M. de Saint-Remy yielded to the influence of the cavalier and cordial demeanour of this lady, whom he had seen and loved when a child, and he almost forgot that he was talking to the mistress of his son. Besides, how could he resist the contagion of example, while the subject of a position which was inexpressibly embarrassing did not seem disturbed, or even think she ought to be disturbed, by the difficulty of the situation in which she unexpectedly found herself?
“Perhaps you do not know, Clotilde,” said the comte, “that I have been living at Angers for a very long time?”
“Yes, I know it.”
“In spite of the solitude I sought, I had selected that city because one of my relations lived there, — M. de Fermont, — who, after the heavy blow that had smitten me, behaved to me like a brother. After having accompanied me to almost every city in Europe, where I hoped to meet with the man I desired to slay, he served me for second in the duel—”
“Yes, that terrible duel; my father told me all concerning it!” answered the duchess, in a sad tone of voice. “But, fortunately, Florestan is ignorant of that duel, as well as the cause that led to it.”
“I wished to let him still respect his mother,” replied the comte, stifling a sigh. He then continued: “Some years afterwards, M. de Fermont died at Angers in my arms, leaving a daughter and a wife, whom, in spite of my misanthropy, I was obliged to love, because nothing in the world could be more pure, more noble, than these two excellent creatures. I lived alone in a remote quarter of the city; but when my fits of black melancholy gave me some respite, I went to Madame de Fermont to talk with her and her daughter of him we had both lost. As whilst he was alive, so still I came to soothe and calm myself in that gentle friendship in whose bosom I had henceforth concentrated all my affections. The brother of Madame de Fermont dwelt in Paris, and managed all his sister’s affairs after her husband’s decease. He had placed about a hundred thousand crowns (12,000l.), which was all the widow’s fortune, with a notary.
“After some time another and fearful shock affected Madame de Fermont. Her brother, M. de Renneville, killed himself about eight months ago. I did all in my power to comfort her. Her first sorrow somewhat abated, she went to Paris to arrange her affairs. After some time I learned that, by her orders, they were selling off the furniture she had in her small abode at Angers, and that the money was applied to the payment of a few little debts she had left there. This disturbed me, and, on inquiry, I learned that this unhappy lady and her daughter were in dire distress, — the victims, no doubt, of a bankruptcy. If Madame de Fermont could, in such straits, rely on any one, it was on me, and yet I never received any information or application from her. It was when I lost this acquaintance that was so delightful to me that I felt all its value. You cannot imagine my suffering and my uneasiness after the departure of Madame de Fermont and her daughter. Their father — husband — had been a brother to me, and I was resolved, therefore, to find them again, to learn how it was they had not addressed me in their ruin, poor as I was; and therefore I set out, leaving at Angers a person who, if anything was learned, would inform me instantly of the news.”
“Well?”
“Yesterday a letter from Angers reached me, — they know nothing. When I reached Paris I began my researches. I went first to the old servant of Madame de Fermont’s brother; then they told me she lived on the Quai of the Canal St. Martin.”
“Well, that address—”
“Had been theirs; but they had moved, and where to was not known. Unfortunately, up to the present time, my researches have been useless. After a thousand vain attempts before I utterly despaired, I resolved to come her
e. Perhaps Madame de Fermont, who, from some inexplicable motive, has not asked from me aid or assistance, may have had recourse to my son as to the son of her husband’s best friend. No doubt this hope has but very slight foundation; but I will not neglect any chance that may enable me to discover the poor woman and her child.”
The Duchess de Lucenay, who had been listening to the comte with the utmost attention, said, suddenly:
“Really it would be very singular if these should be the same persons in whom Madame d’Harville takes so much interest.”
“What persons?” inquired the comte.
“The widow of whom you speak is still young, is she not? — her face very striking?”
“Yes, but how do you know?”
“Her daughter, as lovely as an angel, and about sixteen at most?”
“Yes, yes.”
“And her name is Claire?”
“Oh, for mercy’s sake, say, where are they?”
“Alas! I know not.”
“You know not?”
“I will tell you all I know. A lady of my acquaintance, Madame d’Harville, came to me to inquire whether or not I knew a widow lady whose daughter was named Claire, and whose brother had committed suicide. Madame d’Harville inquired of me because she had seen these words, ‘Write to Madame de Lucenay,’ written at the bottom of a rough sketch of a letter which this unfortunate lady was writing to some stranger of whom she was asking assistance.”
“She wished to write to you; and wherefore to you?”
“I cannot solve your question.”
“But she knew you, it would seem,” said M. de Saint-Remy, struck with a sudden idea.
“What mean you?”
“She had heard me speak of your father a hundred times, as well as of you and your generous and excellent heart. In her misfortune, it occurred to her to address you.”
“That really does explain this.”
“And Madame d’Harville — tell me, how did she get this sketch of a letter into her possession?”
