Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “Very well, then, I insist that Olivier shall take me to Madame Herbaut’s,” said the persistent Gerald.

  “See the result of satiety. You go in the most fashionable and aristocratic society, and yet envy us our poor little Batignollais entertainments.”

  “Fashionable society is not at all amusing,” said Gerald. “I frequent it merely to please my mother. To-morrow, for example, will be a particularly trying day to me, for my mother gives an afternoon dance. By the way, why can’t you come, Olivier?”

  “Come where?”

  “Why, to this dance my mother gives.”

  “I?”

  “Yes, you! Why not?”

  “I, Olivier Raymond, a private in the hussars, attend a dance given in the Faubourg St. Germain!”

  “It would be very strange if I could not take my dearest friend to my mother’s house merely because he has the honour to be one of the bravest soldiers in the French army. Olivier, you must come. I insist upon it.”

  “In jacket and kepi, I suppose,” said Olivier, smilingly, referring to his poverty, which did not permit him to indulge in citizen’s clothing.

  Knowing how this worthy fellow spent the proceeds of his arduous toil, and knowing, too, his extreme sensitiveness in money matters, Gerald could only say in reply:

  “True, I did not think of that. It is a pity, for we might have had a very pleasant time together. I could have shown you some of our fashionable beauties, though I feel sure that, so far as young and pretty faces are concerned, Madame Herbaut’s entertainments have the advantage.”

  “Do you see, uncle, how cleverly he returns to the charge?”

  The clock in the neighbouring steeple struck eight.

  “Eight o’clock!” cried Olivier. “The deuce! My master mason has been waiting for me for an hour. I’ve got to go, Gerald. I promised to be punctual, — an hour late is a good deal. Good night, uncle.”

  “You’re going to work half the night, again,” remarked the veteran, casting a meaning look at Gerald. “I shall wait up for you, though.”

  “No, no, uncle, go to bed. Tell Madame Barbançon to leave the key with the porter, and some matches in the kitchen. I won’t wake you, I’ll come in quietly.”

  “Good-bye, M. Gerald,” said the veteran, taking the young duke’s hand, and pressing it in a very significant manner, as if to remind him of his promise in regard to Olivier’s promotion.

  “Good-bye, commander,” said Gerald, returning the pressure, and indicating by a gesture that he read the veteran’s thought. “You will permit me to come and see you again, will you not?”

  “It would give me great pleasure, you may be sure of that, M. Gerald.”

  “Yes, commander, for I judge you by myself. Good-bye. Come, Olivier, I will accompany you to the door of your master mason.”

  “I shall have the pleasure of your company a quarter of an hour longer, then. Good night, uncle.”

  “Good night, my dear boy.”

  And Olivier, taking up his bundle of papers and pens, left the house arm in arm with Gerald. At the master mason’s door they separated, promising to see each other again at an early day.

  About an hour after Olivier left his uncle, Madame Barbançon was brought back to the Batignolles in Madame de Beaumesnil’s carriage.

  The veteran, amazed at the silence of his housekeeper, and at the gloomy expression of her face, addressed her several times in vain, and finally begged her to help herself to the small portion of Cyprian wine that remained. Madame Barbançon took the bottle and started towards the door, then stopped short and crossed her arms with a meditative air, a movement that caused the wine-bottle to fall with a crash upon the floor.

  “The deuce take you!” cried the veteran. “Look at the Cyprian wine you’ve wasted.”

  “True, I’ve broken the bottle,” replied the housekeeper, with the air of a person just waking from a dream. “It is not surprising. Since I saw and heard Madame la Comtesse de Beaumesnil, — for I have just seen her, and in such a pitiable state, poor woman! — I have been racking my brain to remember something I can not remember, and I know very well that I shall be absolutely good for nothing for a long time.”

  “It is a good thing to know this in advance,” replied the veteran, with his usual placidity of manner on seeing Madame Barbançon again relapse into a deeply preoccupied frame of mind.

  CHAPTER V.

  THE LION OF THE BALL.

  ON THE DAY following Olivier Raymond’s chance meeting with Gerald, the mother of the latter gave a dancing party.

  The Duchesse de Senneterre, both by birth and by marriage, was connected with the oldest and most illustrious families of France, and though her fortune was insignificant and her house small, she gave every year four or five small but extremely elegant and exclusive dancing receptions, of which she and her two young daughters did the honours with perfect grace. The Duc de Senneterre, dead for two years, had held a high office under the Restoration.

  The three windows of the salon where the guests danced opened into a very pretty garden, and the day being superb, many ladies and gentlemen stepped out for a chat or a stroll through the paths bordered with flowering shrubs during the intervals between the dances.

  Four or five men, chancing to meet near a big clump of lilacs, had paused to exchange the airy nothings that generally compose the conversation at such a gathering.

  Among this group were two men that merit attention. One, a man about thirty-five years of age, but already obese, with an extremely pompous, indolent, and supercilious manner and a lack-lustre eye, was the Comte de Mornand, the same man who had been mentioned at Commander Bernard’s the evening before, when Olivier and Gerald were comparing their reminiscences of college life.

  M. de Mornand occupied a hereditary seat in the Chamber of Peers.

  The other, an intimate friend of the count, was a man of about the same age, — tall, slim, angular, a trifle round-shouldered, and also a little bald, — whose flat head, prominent and rather bloodshot eyes imparted an essentially reptilian character to his visage. This was the Baron de Ravil. Though his means of support were problematical in the extreme when compared with his luxurious style of living, the baron was still received in the aristocratic society in which his birth entitled him to a place, but never did any intriguer — we use the word in its lowest, most audacious sense — display more brazen effrontry or daring impudence.

  “Have you seen the lion of the ball?” inquired one of the men of the party, addressing M. de Mornand.

  “I have but just arrived, and have no idea to whom you refer,” replied the count.

  “Why, the Marquis de Maillefort.”

  “That cursed hunchback!” exclaimed M. de Ravil; “it is all his fault that this affair seems so unconscionably dull. His hideous presence is enough to cast a damper over any festivity.”

  “How strange it is that the marquis appears in society for a few weeks, now and then, and then suddenly disappears again,” remarked another member of the group.

  “I believe he is a manufacturer of counterfeit money and emerges from his seclusion, now and then, to put his spurious coin in circulation,” remarked M. de Ravil. “This much is certain — incomprehensible as it appears — he actually loaned me a thousand franc note, which I shall never return, the other night, at the card-table. And what do you suppose the impertinent creature said as he handed it to me? ‘It will afford me so much amusement to dun you for it, baron.’ He need have no fears. He will amuse himself in that way a long time.”

  “But all jesting aside, this marquis is a very peculiar man,” remarked another member of the party. “His mother, the old Marquise de Maillefort, left him a very handsome fortune, but no one can imagine what he does with his money, for he lives very modestly.”

  “I used to meet him quite frequently at poor Madame de Beaumesnil’s.”

  “By the way, do you know they say she is said to be lying at the point of death?”

  “Madame de
Beaumesnil?”

  “Yes; she is about to receive the last sacrament. At least that is what they told Madame de Mirecourt, who stopped to inquire for her on her way here.”

  “Her case must, indeed, have been incurable, then, for her physician is that famous Doctor Gasterini, who is as great a savant as he is a gourmand, which is certainly saying a good deal.”

  “Poor woman! she is young to die.”

  “And what an immense fortune her daughter will have,” exclaimed M. de Mornand. “She will be the richest heiress in France, and an orphan besides. What a rare titbit for a fortune-hunter!”

  As he uttered these words, M. de Mornand’s eyes encountered those of his friend Ravil.

  Both started slightly, as if the same idea had suddenly occurred to both of them. With a single look they must have read each other’s thoughts.

  “The richest heiress in France!”

  “And an orphan!”

  “And an immense landed property besides!” exclaimed the three other men in accents of undisguised covetousness.

  After which, one of them, without noticing the interchange of glances between M. de Mornand and his friend, continued:

  “And how old is this Mlle. de Beaumesnil?”

  “Not over fifteen,” replied M. de Ravil, “and exceedingly unprepossessing in appearance, sickly and positively insignificant looking, in fact.”

  “Sickly, — that is not objectionable, by any means, quite the contrary,” said one of the party, reflectively.

  “And homely?” remarked another, turning to Ravil. “You have seen her, then?”

  “Not I, but one of my aunts saw the girl at the Convent of the Sacred Heart before Beaumesnil took her to Italy by the physician’s order.”

  “Poor Beaumesnil, to die in Naples from a fall from his horse!”

  “And you say that Mlle. de Beaumesnil is very homely?” he continued, while M. de Mornand seemed to grow more and more thoughtful.

  “Hideous! I think it more than likely that she’s going into a decline, too, from what I hear,” responded Ravil, disparagingly; “for, after Beaumesnil’s death, the physician who had accompanied them to Naples declared that he would not be responsible for the result if Mlle. de Beaumesnil returned to France. She is a consumptive, I tell you, a hopeless consumptive.”

  “A consumptive heiress!” exclaimed another man ecstatically. “Can any one conceive of a more delightful combination!”

  “Ah, yes, I understand,” laughed Ravil, “but it is absolutely necessary that the girl should live long enough for a man to marry her, which Mlle. de Beaumesnil is not likely to do. She is doomed. I heard this through M. de la Rochaiguë, her nearest relative. And he ought to know, as the property comes to him at her death, if she doesn’t marry. Perhaps that accounts for his being so sanguine.”

  “What a lucky thing it would be for Madame de la Rochaiguë, who is so fond of luxury and society!”

  “Yes, in other people’s houses.”

  “It is very strange, but it seems to me I have heard that Mlle. de Beaumesnil strongly resembles her mother, who used to be one of the prettiest women in Paris,” remarked another gentleman.

  “This girl is atrociously ugly, I tell you,” said M. de Ravil. “In fact, I’m not sure that she isn’t deformed as well.”

  “Yes,” remarked M. de Mornand, awakening from his reverie, “several other persons have said the very same thing about the girl that Ravil does.”

  “But why didn’t her mother accompany her to Italy?”

  “Because the poor woman had already been attacked by the strange malady to which she is about to succumb, it seems. People say that it was a terrible disappointment to her because she could not follow her daughter to Naples, and that this disappointment has contributed not a little to her present hopeless state.”

  “It would seem, then, that Doctor Dupont’s musical cure has proved a failure.”

  “What musical cure?”

  “Knowing Madame de Beaumesnil’s passionate love of music, the doctor, to mitigate his patient’s sufferings and arouse her from her langour, ordered that soft and soothing music should be played or sung to her.”

  “Not a bad idea, though revived from the times of Saul and David,” commented Ravil.

  “Well, what was the result?”

  “Madame de Beaumesnil seemed benefited at first, they say, but her malady soon regained the ascendency.”

  “I have heard that poor Beaumesnil’s sudden death was a terrible shock to her.”

  “Bah!” exclaimed M. de Mornand, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders, “she never cared a straw for Beaumesnil. She only married him for his millions of millions. Besides, as a young girl she had any number of lovers. In short,” continued M. de Mornand, puffing out his cheeks with an air of supercilious dignity, “Madame de Beaumesnil is really a woman of no reputation whatever, and, in spite of the enormous fortune she will leave, no honourable man would ever be willing to marry the daughter of such a mother.”

  “Scoundrel!” exclaimed a voice which seemed to respond indignantly to M. de Mornand’s last words from behind the clump of lilacs.

  There was a moment of amazed silence; then M. de Mornand, purple with anger, made a hasty circuit of the clump of shrubbery. He found no one there, however. The path at this place making an abrupt turn, the person who uttered the opprobrious epithet could make his escape with comparative ease.

  “There are no more infamous scoundrels than the persons who insult others without daring to show themselves,” cried M. de Mornand, in a loud voice.

  This strange incident had scarcely taken place before the sound of the orchestra drew the promenaders back to the salon.

  M. de Mornand being left alone with Ravil, the latter said to him:

  “Somebody who dared not show himself called you a scoundrel. We had better say no more about it. But did you understand me?”

  “Perfectly. The same idea suddenly, I might almost say simultaneously, occurred to me, and for an instant I was dazzled — even dazed by it.”

  “An income of over three millions! What an incorruptible minister you will be, eh?”

  “Hush! It is enough to turn one’s brain.”

  The conversation was suddenly interrupted by the arrival of a third party, who, addressing M. de Mornand, said, with the most scrupulous politeness:

  “Monsieur, will you do me the favour to act as my vis-à-vis?”

  M. de Mornand’s surprise was so great that he started back without uttering a word on hearing this request, for the person who had just made it was no other than the Marquis de Maillefort, the singular hunchback, of whom frequent mention has already been made in these pages.

  There was also another feeling that prevented M. de Mornand from immediately replying to this strange proposition, for, in the full, vibrating voice of the speaker, M. de Mornand fancied, for an instant, that he recognised the voice of the unseen person who had called him a scoundrel when he spoke in such disparaging terms of Madame de Beaumesnil.

  The Marquis de Maillefort, pretending not to notice the air of displeased surprise with which M. de Mornand had greeted the proposal, repeated in the same tone of scrupulous politeness:

  “Monsieur, will you do me the favour to act as my vis-à-vis in the next quadrille?”

  On hearing this request on the part of the deformed man thus reiterated, M. de Mornand, without concealing his desire to laugh, exclaimed:

  “Act as your vis-à-vis, — yours, monsieur?”

  “Yes, monsieur,” replied the marquis, with the most innocent air imaginable.

  “But, — but what you ask is — is — permit me to say — very remarkable.”

  “And very dangerous, my dear marquis,” added the Baron de Ravil, with his usual sneer.

  “As for you, baron, I might put a no less offensive and, perhaps, even more dangerous question to you,” retorted the marquis, smiling. “When will you return the thousand francs I had the pleasure of loaning to you the ot
her evening?”

  “You are too inquisitive, marquis.”

  “Come, come, baron, don’t treat M. de Talleyrand’s bon mots as you treat thousand franc notes.”

  “What do you mean by that, marquis?”

  “I mean that it costs you no more to put one in circulation than the other.”

  M. de Ravil bit his lip.

  “This explanation is not altogether satisfactory, M. le marquis,” he said, coldly.

  “You have an unquestionable right to be very exacting in the matter of explanations, baron,” retorted the marquis, in the same tone of contemptuous persiflage; “but you have no right to be indiscreet, as you certainly are at this moment. I had the honour to address M. de Mornand, and you intrude yourself into our conversation, which is exceedingly annoying to me.”

  Then, turning to M. de Mornand, the hunchback continued:

  “You did me the honour, just now, to say that my request that you would act as my vis-à-vis was very remarkable, I believe.”

  “Yes, monsieur,” replied M. de Mornand, quite gravely this time, for he began to suspect that this singular proposal was only a pretext, and the longer he listened to the voice, the more certain he became that it was the same which had styled him a scoundrel. “Yes, monsieur,” he continued, with mingled hauteur and assurance, “I did say, and I repeat it, that this request to act as your vis-à-vis was very remarkable on your part.”

  “And why, may I ask, if you do not think me too inquisitive?”

  “Because — why — because it is — it is, I think, very singular that—”

  Then as M. de Mornand did not finish the sentence:

  “I have a rather peculiar habit, monsieur,” the marquis said, lightly.

  “What is it, monsieur?”

  “Having the misfortune to be a hunchback and consequently an object of ridicule, I have reserved for myself the exclusive right to ridicule my deformity, and as I flatter myself I do that to the satisfaction of people in general — excuse my conceit, monsieur, I beg — I do not permit any one to do badly what I do so well myself.”