Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  Polidori gazed on his accomplice with profound astonishment. “I do not understand you,” said he, at last; “if such be the case, why have you obeyed the commands of him whose denunciation of you would bring you to a scaffold? Why, if life be so horrible to you, have you chosen to accept it at his hands, and pay the heavy price you are doing for it?”

  “Because,” answered the notary, in a voice that sunk so low as to be scarcely audible, “because death brings forgetfulness — annihilation — and then, too, Cecily—”

  “What!” said Polidori, “do you still hope?”

  “No,” said the notary, “I possess—”

  “What?”

  “The fond impassioned remembrance of her.”

  “But what folly is this when you are sure never to see her more, and when she has brought you to a scaffold!”

  “That matters not; I love her even more ardently, more frantically than ever!” exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, amid a torrent of sighs and sobs that contrasted strongly with the previous gloomy dejection of his last remark. “Yes,” continued he, with fearful wildness, “I love her too well to be willing to die, while I can feast my senses upon the recollection only of that night — that memorable night in which I saw her so lovely, so loving, so fascinating! Never is her image, as I then beheld her, absent from my brain; waking or sleeping, she is ever before me, decked in all the intoxicating beauty that was displayed to my impassioned gaze! Still do her large, lustrous eyes seem to dart forth their fiery glances, and I almost fancy I can feel her warm breath on my cheek, while her clear, melodious voice seems ringing its full sounds into my ear with promises of bliss, alas, never to be mine! Yet, though to live thus is torturing — horrible — yet would I prefer it to the apathy, the still nothingness of the grave. No, no, no; let me live, poor, wretched, despised, — a branded galley-slave, if you will, — but give me yet the means of doting in secret on the recollection of this wonderful being; whether she be fiend or angel, yet does she engross my every thought!”

  “Jacques,” said Polidori, in a voice and manner contrasting strongly with his habitual tone of cool, provoking sarcasm, “I have witnessed almost every description of bodily and mental suffering, but certainly nothing that equalled what you endure. He who holds us in his power could not have devised more cruel torture than that you are compelled to endure. You are condemned to live, to await death through a vista of long, wasting torments, for your description of your feelings fully explains to me the many alarming symptoms I have observed in you from day to day, and of which I have hitherto vainly sought to find the cause.”

  “But the symptoms you speak of as alarming are nothing but exhaustion, a sort of reaction of the bodily and mental powers; do you not think so? Tell me! I am not surely in any danger of dying?”

  “There is no immediate danger, but your situation is precarious; and there are some thoughts you must cease to dwell on — nay, banish from your memory — or your danger is imminent.”

  “I will do whatever you bid me, so that my life be preserved, — for I will not die. Oh, let priests talk of the sufferings of the damned, but what are their tortures compared to mine? Tormented alike by passion and avarice, I have two open wounds rankling in my heart, each occasioning mortal agony. The loss of my fortune is dreadful, but the fear of death is even still more so. I have desired to live; and though my existence may probably be but one protracted scene of endless wretchedness, it is preferable to death and annihilation; for it would be the termination of my fatal happiness, — the power of recalling each word and look of Cecily!”

  “You have at least one vast consolation,” said Polidori, resuming his accustomed sang-froid, “in the recollection of the good actions by which you have sought to expiate your crimes!”

  “Rail on! Mock my misery! Turn me on the hot coals on which my ill fortune has placed me! But you well know, mean and contemptible being that you are, how I hate, how I loathe all mankind, and that these forced expiations to which I am condemned only serve to increase my detestation of those who compel me to make them, and those who profit by them. By all that is sacred, it passes human malice to condemn me to live in endless misery, such as would dismay the stoutest nature, while my fellow creatures, as they are called, have all their griefs assuaged at the cost of my dearly prized treasures! Oh, that priest who but now quitted us, loading me with blessings while my heart seemed like one vast ocean of fiery gall and bitterness against himself and all mankind — oh, how I longed to plunge a dagger in his breast! ’Tis too much — too much for endurance!” cried he, pressing his clenched hands to his forehead; “my brain burns, my ideas become confused, I shall not be able much longer to resist these violent attacks of impotent, futile rage, — these unending tortures; and all through you, Cecily, — fatal, adored Cecily! Will you ever know all the agonies I have borne on your account, and will you still haunt me with that mocking smile? Cecily, Cecily! Back to the fiends from whom you sprung, and drive me not to destruction!”

  All at once a hasty knock was heard at the door of the apartment. Polidori immediately opened it, and perceived the principal clerk in the notary’s office, who, pale and much agitated, exclaimed, “I must speak with M. Ferrand directly!”

  “Hush!” answered Polidori, in a low tone, as he came forth from the room and shut the door after him; “he is very ill just now, and cannot be disturbed on any account.”

  “Then do you, sir, who are M. Ferrand’s best and most intimate friend, step forward to help and assist him; but come quickly, for there is not an instant to be lost!”

  “What has happened?”

  “By M. Ferrand’s orders, I went to-day to the house of the Countess Macgregor, to say that he was unable to wait on her to-day, according to her request. This lady, who seems quite out of danger at present, sent for me to her chamber; when I went in, she exclaimed, in an angry, threatening manner,’Go back to M. Ferrand, and say to him that if he is not here in half an hour, or at least before the close of the day, he shall be arrested for felony. The child he passed off as dead is still living; I know into whose hands he gave her up, and I also know where she is at this present minute.’”

  “This lady must be out of her senses,” cried Polidori, shrugging up his shoulders. “Poor thing!”

  “I should have thought so myself, but for the confident manner in which the countess spoke.”

  “I have no doubt but that her illness has affected her head; and persons labouring under any delusion are always impressed with the most perfect conviction of the truth of their fancies.”

  “I ought also to state that, just as I was leaving the room, one of the countess’s female attendants entered all in a hurry, and said, ‘His highness will be here in an hour’s time!’”

  “You are sure you heard those words?” asked Polidori.

  “Quite, quite sure, sir! And I remember it the more, because I immediately began wondering in my own mind what highness she could mean.”

  “It is quite clear,” said Polidori, mentally, “she expects the prince; but how comes that about? What strange course of events can have induced him to visit one he ought never again to meet? I know not why, but I greatly mistrust this renewal of intimacy. Our position, bad as it is, may even be rendered still worse by it.” Then, addressing himself to the clerk, he added, “Depend upon it there is nothing of any consequence in the message you have brought; ’tis merely the effects of a wandering imagination on the part of the countess; but, to prevent your feeling any uneasiness, I promise to acquaint M. Ferrand with it directly he is well enough to converse upon any matter of business.”

  We shall now conduct the reader to the house of the Countess Sarah Macgregor.

  CHAPTER II.

  RODOLPH AND SARAH.

  A SALUTARY CRISIS had occurred, which relieved the Countess Macgregor from the delirium and suffering under which, for several days, her life had been despaired of.

  The day had begun to break when Sarah, seated in a large easy chair, and
supported by her brother, Thomas Seyton, was looking at herself in a mirror which one of her woman on her knees held up before her. This was in the apartment where La Chouette had made the attempt to murder.

  The countess was as pale as marble, and her pallor made her dark eyes, hair, and eyebrows even more striking; and she was attired in a dressing-gown of white muslin. “Give me my bandeau of coral,” she said to one of her women, in a voice which, although weak, was imperious and abrupt.

  “Betty will fasten it on for you,” said Seyton; “you will exhaust yourself; you are already very imprudent.”

  “The bandeau, — the bandeau!” repeated Sarah, impatiently, who took this jewel and arranged it on her brow. “Now fasten it, and leave me!” she said to the women.

  The instant they were retiring, she said, “Let M. Ferrand be shown into the little blue salon.” Then she added, with ill-dissembled pride, “As soon as his royal highness the Grand Duke of Gerolstein comes, let him be introduced instantly to this apartment.”

  “Was Looking at Herself in a Mirror”

  Original Etching by Adrian Marcel

  “At length,” said Sarah, as soon as she was alone with her brother, “at length I trust this crown — the dream of my life: the prediction is on the eve of fulfilment!”

  “Sarah, calm your excitement!” said her brother to her; “yesterday your life was despaired of, and to be again disappointed would deal you a mortal blow!”

  “You are right, Thomas; the fall would be fearful, for my hopes were never nearer realisation! Of this I feel assured, for it was my constant thought of profiting by the overwhelming revelation which this woman made me at the moment of her assassination that prevented me from sinking under my sufferings.”

  “Again, Sarah, let me counsel you to beware of such insensate dreams, — the awaking would be terrible!”

  “Insensate dreams! What, when Rodolph learns that this young girl, who is now locked up in St. Lazare, and formerly confided to the notary, who has passed her off for dead, is our child! Do you suppose that—”

  Seyton interrupted his sister. “I believe,” he said, bitterly, “that princes place reasons of state, political conveniences, before natural duties.”

  “Do you then rely so little on my address?”

  “The prince is no longer the ingenuous and impassioned youth whom you attracted and swayed in other days; that time is long ago, both for him and for you, sister.”

  Sarah shrugged her shoulders, and said, “Do you know why I was desirous of placing this bandeau of coral in my hair, — why I put on this white dress? It is because the first time Rodolph saw me at the court of Gerolstein I was dressed in white, and wore this very bandeau of coral in my hair.”

  “What!” said Seyton, “you would awake those remembrances? Do you not rather fear their influence?”

  “I know Rodolph better than you do. No doubt my features, changed by time and sufferings, are no longer those of the young girl of sixteen, whom he so madly loved, — only loved, for I was his first love; and that love, unique in the life of man, always leaves ineffaceable traces in the heart. Thus, then, brother, trust me that the sight of this ornament will awaken in Rodolph not only the recollection of his love, but those of his youth also; and for men these souvenirs are always sweet and precious.”

  “But these sweet and precious souvenirs will be united with others so terrible: the sinister dénouement of your love, the detestable behaviour of the prince’s father to you, your obstinate silence to Rodolph. After your marriage with the Count Macgregor, he demanded his daughter, then an infant, — your child, — of whose death, ten years since, you informed him so coldly in your letter. Do you forget that from that period the prince has felt nothing but contempt and hatred for you?”

  “Pity has replaced his hatred. Since he has learned that I am dying, he has sent the Baron de Graün every day to inquire after me; and just now he has promised to come here; and that is an immense concession, brother.”

  “He believes you dying, — that you desire a last adieu, — and so he comes. You were wrong not to write to him of the discovery you are about to disclose to him.”

  “I know why I do so. This discovery will fill him with surprise, joy, and I shall be present to profit by his first burst of softened feeling. To-day or never he will say to me, ‘A marriage must legitimise the birth of our child!’ If he says so, his word is sacred, and then will the hope of my life be realised!”

  “Yes, if he makes you the promise.”

  “And that he may do so, nothing must be neglected under these decisive circumstances. I know Rodolph; and once having found his daughter, he will overcome his aversion for me, and will not retreat from any sacrifice to assure her the most enviable lot, to make her as entirely happy as she has been until now wretched.”

  “However brilliant the destiny he may assure to your daughter, there is, between the reparation to her and the resolution to marry you in order to legitimise the birth of this child, a very wide abyss.”

  “Her father will pass over this abyss.”

  “But this unfortunate child has, perhaps, been so vitiated by the misery in which she has lived that the prince, instead of feeling attracted towards her—”

  “What are you saying?” cried Sarah, interrupting her brother. “Is she not as handsome, as a young girl, as she was a lovely infant? Rodolph, without knowing her, was so deeply interested in her as to take charge of her future destiny, and sent her to his farm at Bouqueval, whence we carried her off.”

  “Yes, thanks to your obstinacy in desiring to break all the ties of the prince’s affection, in the foolish hope of one day leading him back to yourself!”

  “And yet, but for this foolish hope, I should not have discovered, at the price of my life, the secret of my daughter’s existence. Is it not through this woman, who had carried her off from the farm, that I have learned the infamous deceit of the notary, Ferrand?”

  “It would have been better to have awaited the young creature’s coming out of prison, before you sent to request the Grand Duke to come here.”

  “Awaited! And do I know that the salutary crisis in which I now am will last until to-morrow? Perhaps I am but momentarily sustained by my ambition only.”

  “What proofs have you for the prince, and will he believe you?”

  “He will believe me when he reads the commencement of, the disclosure which I wrote from the dictation of that woman who stabbed me, — a disclosure of which I have, fortunately, forgotten no circumstance. He will believe me when he reads your correspondence with Madame Séraphin and Jacques Ferrand, as to the supposed death of the child; he will believe me when he hears the confession of the notary, who, alarmed at my threats, will come here immediately; he will believe me when he sees the portrait of my daughter at six years of age, a portrait which the woman told me was still a striking resemblance. So many proofs will suffice to convince the prince that I speak the truth, and to decide him as to his first impulse, which will make me almost a queen. Oh, if it were but for a day, I could die content!”

  At this moment a carriage was heard to enter the courtyard.

  “It is he! It is Rodolph!” exclaimed Sarah.

  Thomas Seyton drew a curtain hastily aside, and replied, “Yes, it is the prince; he is just alighting from the carriage.”

  “Leave me! This is the decisive moment!” said Sarah, with unshaken coolness; for a monstrous ambition, a pitiless selfishness, had always been and still was the only moving spring of this woman. Even in the almost miraculous reappearance of her daughter, she only saw a means of at last arriving at the one end and aim of her whole existence.

  Seyton said to her, “I will tell the prince how your daughter, believed dead, was saved. This conversation would be too dangerous for you, — a too violent emotion would kill you; and after so long a separation, the sight of the prince, the recollection of bygone times—”

  “Your hand, brother!” replied Sarah. Then, placing on her impassive he
art Tom Seyton’s hand, she added, with an icy smile, “Am I excited?”

  “No, no; not even a hurried pulsation,” said Seyton, amazed. “I know not what control you have over yourself; but at such a moment, when it is for a crown or a coffin you play, your calmness amazes me!”

  “And wherefore, brother? Till now, you know, nothing has made my heart beat hastily; and it will only throb when I feel the sovereign crown upon my brow. I hear Rodolph — leave me!”

  When Rodolph entered the apartment, his look expressed pity; but, seeing Sarah seated in her armchair, and, as it were, full dressed, he recoiled in surprise, and his features became gloomy and mistrustful. The countess, guessing his thoughts, said to him, in a low and faint voice, “You thought to find me dying! You came to receive my last adieu!”

  “I have always considered the last wishes of the dead as sacred, but it appears now as if there were some sacrilegious deceit—”

  “Be assured,” said Sarah, interrupting Rodolph, “be assured that I have not deceived you! I believe that I have but very few hours to live. Pardon me a last display of coquetry! I wished to spare you the gloomy symptoms that usually attend the dying hour, and to die attired as I was the first time I saw you. Alas, after ten years of separation, I see you once again! Thanks, oh, thanks! But in your turn give thanks to God for having inspired you with the thought of hearing my last prayer! If you had refused me, I should have carried my secret with me to the grave, which will now cause the joy, the happiness of your life, — joy, mingled with some sadness, happiness, mingled with some tears, like all human felicity; but this felicity you would yet purchase at the price of half the remainder of your existence!”

  “What do you mean?” asked the prince, with great amazement.