by Eugène Sue
“Pardieu! Boyer, you are right. As for me, I should prefer such an arrangement. I will see Montbrison, and speak to him. What are your terms?”
“Your lordship will easily understand that we are desirous of profiting as much as possible by your generosity.”
“And turn your bargain to the best advantage? Nothing can be plainer! Let us see, — what’s the price?”
“The whole, two hundred and sixty thousand francs (10,400l.), my lord.”
“And you and Edwards will thus clear—”
“About forty thousand francs (1,600l.), my lord.”
“A very nice sum! But so much the better, for, after all, I am very much satisfied with you, and, if I had to make my will, I should have bequeathed that sum to you and Edwards.”
And the vicomte went out, first to call on his creditor, then on Madame de Lucenay, whom he did not suspect of having been present at his conversation with Badinot.
CHAPTER XII.
THE SEARCH.
THE HÔTEL DE Lucenay was one of those royal residences of the Faubourg St. Germain, which the space employed, and, as it were, lost, make so vast. A modern house might, with ease, be contained in the limits devoted to the staircase of one of these palaces, and a whole quarter might be built in the extent they occupy.
About nine o’clock in the evening of this day the two vast folding-doors of this hôtel opened on the arrival of a magnificent chariot, which, after having taken a dashing turn in the spacious courtyard, stopped before the large covered flight of steps which led to the first antechamber. Whilst the hoofs of two powerful and high-couraged horses sounded on the echoing pavement, a gigantic footman opened the door, emblazoned with armorial bearings, and a young man alighted gracefully from this brilliant carriage, and no less gracefully walked up the five or six steps of the entrance. This young man was the Vicomte de Saint-Remy.
On leaving his creditor, who, satisfied with the undertaking of Florestan’s father, had granted the required delay, and was to come and receive his money at ten o’clock in the Rue de Chaillot, M. de Saint-Remy had gone to Madame de Lucenay’s, to thank her for the fresh service she had rendered him, and, not having seen the duchess during the morning, he came triumphant, certain of finding her in prima sera, the hour which she constantly reserved for him.
By the attention of the footmen in the antechamber, who hastened to open the glass door as soon as they saw Florestan’s carriage, by the profoundly respectful air with which the rest of the livery all rose as the vicomte passed by, and by certain, yet almost imperceptible touches, it was evident that here was the second, or, rather, the real master of the house.
When the Duc de Lucenay returned home, with his umbrella in his hand and his feet protected by clumsy goloshes (he hated going out in a carriage in the daytime), the same domestic evolutions were gone through with similar respect; still, in the eyes of a keen observer, there was a vast difference between the reception accorded to the husband and that reserved for the lover.
A corresponding attention displayed itself in the footman’s waiting-room when Florestan entered it, and one of the valets instantly arose to announce him to Madame de Lucenay.
The vicomte had never been more joyous, never felt himself more at his ease, more confident of himself, more assured of conquest. The victory he had obtained over his father in the morning, the fresh proof of attachment on the part of Madame de Lucenay, the joy at having escaped, as it were, by a miracle, from a terrible situation, his renewed confidence in his star, gave his handsome features an expression of boldness and good humour which rendered it still more captivating.
In fact, he had never felt himself more himself. And he was right. Never had his slender and graceful figure displayed a finer carriage, never had his look been more elevated, never had his pride been more deliciously tickled by the thought, “The great lady — the mistress of this palace is mine — is at my feet! This very morning she waited for me in my own house!”
Florestan had given way to these excessively vain-glorious reflections as he traversed three or four apartments, which led to a small room in which the duchess usually sat. A last look at himself in a glass which he passed completed the excellent opinion which Florestan had of himself. The valet de chambre opened the folding-doors of the salon, and announced, “Monsieur the Vicomte de Saint-Remy!”
It is impossible to paint the astonishment and indignation of the duchess. She believed the comte had not concealed from his son that she also had overheard all.
We have already said that, on discovering Florestan’s infamy, Madame de Lucenay’s love, suddenly quenched, had changed into the most frigid disdain. We have also said that, in the midst of her errors, her frailties, Madame de Lucenay had preserved pure and intact her feelings of rectitude, honour, and chivalric frankness, whose strength and requirements were excessively strong. She possessed the better qualities of her faults, the virtues of her vices.
Treating love as cavalierly as a man treats it, she pushed as far, nay, further, than a man, devotion, generosity, courage, and, above all, intense horror of all baseness. Madame de Lucenay, being about to go to a party in the evening, was, although without her diamonds, dressed with her accustomed taste and magnificence; and her splendid costume, the rouge she wore without attempt at concealment, like a court lady, up to her eyelids, her beauty, which was especially brilliant at candle-light, her figure of a goddess walking in the clouds, rendered still more striking that noble air which no one displayed to greater advantage than she did, and which she carried, if requisite, to a height of insolence that was overwhelming.
We know the haughty and resolute disposition of the duchess, and we may imagine her physiognomy, her look, when the vicomte, advancing towards her, conceited, smiling, confident, said, in a tone of love:
“Dearest Clotilde, how good you are! How you—”
The vicomte could not finish. The duchess was seated, and had not risen; but her gesture, her glance, betokened contempt, at once so calm and crushing that Florestan stopped short. He could not utter another word, nor advance another step. He had never before seen Madame de Lucenay under this aspect. He could not believe that it was the same woman, whom he had always found gentle, tender, and passionately submissive; for nothing is more humble, more timid, than a determined woman in the presence of the man whom she loves and who controls her.
His first surprise past, Florestan was ashamed of his weakness; his habitual audacity resumed its ascendency, and, making a step towards Madame de Lucenay in order to take her hand, he said, in his most insinuating tone:
“Clotilde, what ails you? I never saw you look so lovely, and yet—”
“Really, this is too impudent!” exclaimed the duchess, recoiling with such disgust and hauteur that Florestan was again overcome with surprise.
Resuming some assurance, he said to her:
“Will you, at least, Clotilde, tell me the cause of this change, sudden, singular as it is? What have I done? How have I offended?”
Without making any reply, Madame de Lucenay looked at him, as is vulgarly said, from head to foot, with so insulting an expression that Florestan felt red with the anger which displayed itself upon his brow, and exclaimed:
“I am aware, madame, that it is thus you habitually break off. Is it a rupture that you now desire?”
“The question is singular!” said Madame de Lucenay, with a sarcastic laugh. “Learn, sir, that when a lackey robs me, I do not break with him, I turn him away.”
“Madame!”
“Oh, a truce to this!” said the duchess, in a stern and peremptory tone. “Your presence disgusts me! Why are you here? Have you not had your money?”
“It is true, then, as I guessed, the twenty-five thousand francs—”
“Your last forgery is withdrawn, is it not? The honour of your family’s name is saved, — that is well, — go!”
“Ah! believe me—”
“I very much regret that money, for it might have succoured so
many honest families; but it was necessary to think of the shame to your father and to myself.”
“So then, Clotilde, you know all? Ah, then, now nothing is left me but to die!” exclaimed Florestan, in a most pathetic and despairing tone.
A burst of derisive laughter from the duchess hailed this tragic exclamation, and she added, between two fits of fresh hilarity:
“I could never have believed infamy could appear so ridiculous!”
“Madame!” cried Florestan, his features contracted with rage.
The two folding-doors opened with a loud noise, and M. le Duc de Montbrison was announced.
In spite of his self-command, Florestan could scarcely repress the violence of his resentment, which any man more observing than the duke must certainly have perceived.
M. de Montbrison was scarcely eighteen years of age. Let our readers imagine a most engaging countenance, like that of a young girl, white and red, whose vermilion lips and downy chin were slightly shaded by a nascent beard. Let them add to this large brown eyes, as yet timid, but which in time would gleam like a falcon’s, a figure as graceful as that of the duchess herself, and then, perhaps, they may have some idea of this young duke, the Cherubino as complete in idea as ever countess or waiting-maid decked in a woman’s cap, after having remarked the ivory whiteness of his neck.
The vicomte had the weakness or the audacity to remain.
“How kind of you, Conrad, to think of me this evening!” said Madame de Lucenay, in a most affectionate voice, and extending her hand to the young duke, who was about to shake hands with his cousin, but Clotilde raised her hand a little, and said to him gaily:
“Kiss it, cousin, — you have your gloves on.”
“Pardon me, my dear cousin,” said the young man, as he applied his lips to the naked and charming hand that was offered to him.
“What are you going to do this evening, Conrad?” inquired Madame de Lucenay, without seeming to take the slightest notice in the world of Florestan.
“Nothing, cousin; when I leave you, I shall go to the club.”
“Indeed you shall not; you shall accompany us, M. de Lucenay and me, to Madame de Senneval’s; she gives a party, and has frequently asked me to introduce you to her.”
“I shall be but too happy.”
“Then, too, I must tell you frankly that I don’t like to see you begin so early with your habits and tastes for clubs. You are possessed of everything necessary in order to be everywhere welcomed, and even sought after, in the world, and you ought, therefore, to mix with it as much as possible.”
“Yes, you are right, cousin.”
“And as I am on the footing of a grandmother with you, my dear Conrad, I am determined to exact a great deal from you. You are emancipated, it is true, but I believe you will want a guardian for a long time to come, and you must, therefore, consider me in that light.”
“Most joyfully, happily, cousin!” said the young duke, emphatically.
It is impossible to describe the mute rage of Florestan, who was standing up, and leaning with his elbow on the mantelpiece. Neither the duke nor Clotilde paid the slightest attention to him. Knowing the rapidity with which Madame de Lucenay decided, he imagined she was pushing her boldness and contempt so far as to commence at once, and in his presence, a regular flirtation with the Duc de Montbrison.
It was not so. The duchess felt for her cousin nothing beyond a truly maternal affection, having almost seen him born. But the young duke was so handsome, and seemed so happy at the agreeable reception of his cousin, that the jealousy, or, rather, pride of Florestan was aroused. His heart writhed beneath the cruel wounds of envy, excited by Conrad de Montbrison, who, rich and handsome, was beginning so splendidly that life of pleasures, enjoyments, and fêtes, from which he, ruined, undone, despised, dishonoured, was expelled.
M. de Saint-Remy was brave with that bravery of the head, if we may so call it, which will urge a man, by anger or by vanity, to face a duel. But, vitiated and corrupted, he had not the courage of the heart which triumphs over bad inclinations, or which, at least, gives the energy which enables a man to escape infamy by a voluntary death. Furious at the bitter contempt of the duchess, believing he saw a successor in the young duke, M. de Saint-Remy resolved to confront Madame de Lucenay with all insolence, and, if need were, to seek a quarrel with Conrad.
The duchess, irritated at Florestan’s audacity, did not look towards him, and M. de Montbrison, in his anxious attention to his cousin, forgetting something of his high breeding, had not saluted or spoken a word to the vicomte, with whom he was acquainted. The latter, advancing to Conrad, whose back was towards him, touched his arm lightly, and said, in a dry and ironical tone:
“Good evening, sir; a thousand pardons for not having observed you before.”
M. de Montbrison, perceiving that he had really failed in politeness, turned around instantly, and said cordially to the vicomte:
“Really, sir, I am ashamed; but I hope that my cousin, who caused my forgetfulness, will be my excuse, and—”
“Conrad,” interposed the duchess, immeasurably annoyed at Florestan’s impudence, persisting as he did in remaining, as it were, to brave her,— “Conrad, that will do; make no apologies; it is not worth while.”
M. de Montbrison, believing that his cousin was reproaching him in joke for being somewhat too formal, said, in a gay tone, to the vicomte, who was livid with rage:
“I will not say more, sir, since my cousin forbids me. You see her guardianship has begun.”
“And will not stop when it begins, my dear sir, be assured of that. Thus, with this notice (which Madame la Duchesse will hasten to fulfil, I have no doubt) — with this notice, I say, I have it in my mind to make you a proposal.”
“To me, sir?” said Conrad, beginning to take offence at the sardonic tone of Florestan.
“To you yourself. I leave in a few days for the legation to Gerolstein, to which I am attached. I wish, therefore, to get my house, completely furnished, and my stable, entirely arranged, off my hands; and you might find it a suitable arrangement;” and the vicomte insolently emphasised his last words, looking Madame de Lucenay full in the face. “It would be very piquant, would it not, Madame la Duchesse?”
“I do not understand you, sir,” said M. de Montbrison, more and more astonished.
“I will tell you, Conrad, why you cannot accept the offer that is made you,” said Clotilde.
“And why, Madame la Duchesse, cannot the duke accept my offer?”
“My dear Conrad, what is offered you for sale is already sold to others. So, you understand, you would have the inconvenience of being robbed just as if you were in a wood.”
Florestan bit his lips with rage.
“Take care, madame!” he cried.
“What, threats! and here, sir?” exclaimed Conrad.
“Pooh, pooh! Conrad, pay no attention,” said Madame de Lucenay, taking a lozenge from a sweetmeat box with the utmost composure; “a man of honour ought not and cannot have any future communication with that person. If he likes, I will tell you why.”
A tremendous explosion would no doubt have occurred, when the two folding-doors again opened, and the Duc de Lucenay entered, noisily, violently, hurriedly, as was “his usual custom in the afternoon,” as well as the forenoon.
“Ah, my dear! What, dressed already?” said he to his wife. “Why, how surprising! Quite astonishing! Good evening, Saint-Remy; good evening, Conrad. Ah, you see the most miserable of men; that is to say, I neither sleep nor eat, but am completely ‘done up.’ Can’t reconcile myself to it. Poor D’Harville, what an event!” And M. de Lucenay threw himself back in a sort of small sofa with two backs, and, crossing his left knee over his right, took his foot in his hand, whilst he continued to utter the most distressing exclamations.
The excitement of Conrad and Florestan had time to calm down, without being perceived by M. de Lucenay, who was the least clear-sighted man in the world.
Madame de Lucenay,
not from embarrassment, for she was never embarrassed, as we know, but because Florestan’s presence was as disgusting as it was insupportable, said to the duke:
“We are ready to go as soon as you please. I am going to introduce Conrad to Madame de Senneval.”
“No, no, no!” cried the duke, letting go his foot to seize one of the cushions, on which he struck violently with his two fists, to the great alarm of Clotilde, who, at the sudden cries of her husband, started from her chair.
“Monsieur, what ails you?” she inquired; “you frighten me exceedingly.”
“No,” replied the duke, thrusting the cushion from him, rising suddenly, and walking up and down with rapid strides and gesticulations, “I cannot get over the idea of the death of poor dear D’Harville; can you, Saint-Remy?”
“Indeed, it was a frightful event!” said the vicomte, who, with hatred and rage in his heart, kept his eye on M. de Montbrison; but this latter, after the last words of his cousin, turned away from a man so deeply degraded, not from want of feeling, but from pride.
“For goodness’ sake, my lord,” said the duchess to her husband, “do not regret the loss of M. d’Harville in so noisy and really so singular a manner. Ring, if you please for my carriage.”
“Yes, it is really true,” said M. de Lucenay, seizing the bell-rope, “really true that, three days ago, he was full of life and health, and, to-day, what remains of him? Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!”
These three last exclamations were accompanied by three such violent pulls that the bell-rope, which the duke held in his hand whilst he was gesticulating, broke away from the upper spring, fell on a candelabra filled with lighted wax candles, knocked two of them out of the sconces, one of which, falling on the mantelpiece, broke a lovely little cup of old Sèvres china; whilst the other, falling on the ground, rolled on a fur hearth rug, which took flame, but was soon extinguished under Conrad’s foot.
