by Eugène Sue
“To act alone or secretly would be an act of infamous, shameless, and horrible treachery,” exclaimed the baron, as if shocked at the mere idea of such an atrocity.
“Mon Dieu!” murmured Helena, clasping her hands. “Who could ever think of acting such a treacherous part?”
“It would be an infamous act,” said the baroness, in her turn, “and worse, — it would be a fatal blunder. We shall be strong if we act in unison, but weak, if we act independently of one another.”
“In union there is strength!” said the baron, sententiously.
“So, unless we mutually agree upon a change of plan, we will defer all action on the subject of Ernestine’s marriage for six months, in order that we may have time to strengthen our influence over her.”
“This question decided, there is another important matter to be considered,” continued the baroness. “Is Ernestine to be allowed to retain her governess or not? This Madame Laîné, as nearly as I can ascertain, is only a little above the ordinary maid. She has been with Ernestine two years, though, and must, consequently, have some influence over her.”
“In that case, we had better oust the governess, or prejudice Ernestine against her,” volunteered the baron, with an air of profound wisdom. “That would be the thing to do.”
“A very silly thing,” retorted the baroness.
“But, my dear—”
“The only sensible thing to do in such a contingency is to win the governess over to our side, and then see that she acts according to our instructions. In that case, this woman’s influence, instead of being dangerous, would prove of the greatest possible service to us.”
“That is true,” said Helena.
“Yes, considered from this point of view, the governess might be very useful, very serviceable, and very advantageous,” said the baron, thoughtfully; “but if she should refuse to ally herself with our interests, — if our attempts to conciliate this woman should excite Ernestine’s suspicions, what then?”
“We must first see what can be done, and I’ll attend to that,” said the baroness. “If we find that the woman cannot be won over, then we will adopt M. de la Rochaiguë’s first suggestion, and get rid of the governess.”
The conference was here interrupted by a servant, who came to announce that the courier who preceded Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s carriage had just ridden into the courtyard, and said that he was but a half hour in advance of the others.
“Quick — quick — to our toilets,” said the baroness, as soon as the servant left the room. Then she added, as if the thought had just occurred to her:
“But, now I think of it, being cousins, we wore mourning six weeks for the countess. It would be a good idea, perhaps, to put it on again. All Ernestine’s servants are in black, and by our order her carriages will be draped in black. Don’t you think that if I should be dressed in colours the first time she sees me, the child would think hard of it?”
“You are right, my dear,” said the baron. “Resume your mourning, if only for a fortnight.”
“I hate the idea,” said the baroness, “for black is frightfully unbecoming to me. But this is one of the many sacrifices a person is obliged to make. Now, as to our compact,” added the baroness. “No secret or independent step is to be taken in regard to Ernestine. We will all make a solemn promise to that effect. I, for one, swear it.”
“And I,” said the baron.
“And I,” murmured Helena.
All three then hurried off to dress for the evening.
The baroness had no sooner locked herself in her own room, however, than she seated herself at her desk, and hastily penned the following note:
“My Dearest Julie: — The child arrives this evening. I shall be at your house to-morrow morning at ten o’clock. We haven’t a minute to lose. Notify a certain person at once. We must come to a full understanding without delay. Silence and prudence,
“L. DE L. R.”
The baroness addressed this note to —
Madame la Vicomtesse de Mirecourt.
Then, calling her maid, and handing her the missive, she said:
“While we are at table you must take this to Madame de Mirecourt. You will take a box with you when you go out, as if you were going on an errand.”
Almost at the same moment the baron was affixing his signature to the following note:
“M. de la Rochaiguë begs that M. le Baron de Ravil will see him to-morrow at his house between one and two o’clock in the afternoon. The matter is urgent.
“M. de la Rochaiguë counts upon seeing M. de Ravil at the time and place named, and assures him of his most distinguished consideration.”
The baron addressed this note to —
M. le Baron de Ravil,
No. 7 Rue Godot-de-Mauroy.
Then he said to his valet:
“Call some one to post this letter at once.”
And last, but not least, Mlle. Helena, after taking the same precautions as the baron and baroness, penned the following note:
“MY DEAR ABBÉ: — Do not fail to call to-morrow morning at ten o’clock.
“May God be with you. The hour has come.
“Pray for me as I pray for you.
“H. DE L. R.”
This note Helena addressed to —
M. l’ Abbé Ledoux,
Rue de la Plaushe.
CHAPTER XV.
A GLORIOUS DREAM.
ON THE DAY following this conference in the Rochaiguë family, three important scenes took place in the homes of as many different persons.
The first occurred in the house of Abbé Ledoux, the priest we saw administering the last sacrament to Madame de Beaumesnil.
The abbé was a small man, with an insinuating smile, a sharp, penetrating eye, ruddy complexion, and gray hair.
He was pacing his bedroom in a restless, agitated manner, glancing every now and then at the clock, and seemed to be waiting for some one.
Suddenly the sound of the door-bell was heard; the door opened, and a servant, who looked very much like a sacristan, announced:
“M. Célestin de Macreuse.”
This pious founder of the St. Polycarpe mission was a tall, rather stout young man with excellent manners, rather faded light hair, regular features, and fine complexion. In fact, he might easily have passed for a handsome man, had it not been for the expression of treacherous sweetness and extreme self-complacency that characterised his countenance.
When he entered the room M. de Macreuse kissed Abbé Ledoux in a Christianlike manner on both cheeks, and the abbé returned the salute in the same apostolic fashion.
“You have no idea how impatiently I have been waiting for you, my dear Célestin,” he said.
“There was a meeting at the mission to-day, M. l’abbé, and a very stormy meeting it was. You cannot conceive what a blind spirit of rebellion those miserable creatures display. Ah, how much suffering is needed to make these coarse natures understand how essential to their salvation is the poverty in which they are now living! But no, instead of being content with a chance of salvation, instead of living with their gaze directed heavenward, they persist in keeping their eyes on their earthly surroundings, in comparing their condition with that of more favoured mortals, and in prating of their right to employment and to happiness. To happiness! What heresy! It is truly disheartening!”
The abbé listened to Célestin’s tirade with a half smile, thinking the while of the pleasant surprise he had in store for his visitor.
“And what do you suppose has been going on while you were talking wisdom to those miserable wretches down there, my dear Célestin?” asked the abbé. “I have been talking to Mlle. de la Rochaiguë about you. Another subject of conversation, too, was the arrival of the little Beaumesnil.”
“What!” exclaimed M. de Macreuse, colouring with surprise and delight, “do you mean to say that Mlle. de Beaumesnil—”
“Returned to Paris last evening.”
“And Mlle. de la Rochaigu�
�?”
“Is still of the same mind in regard to you, — ready to do anything, in fact, to prevent this immense fortune from falling into evil hands. I saw the dear lady this morning; we have decided upon our course of action, and it will be no fault of ours if you do not marry Mlle. de Beaumesnil.”
“Ah, if that glorious dream is ever realised it will be to you that I shall owe this immense, this incalculable fortune!” exclaimed M. de Macreuse, seizing the abbé’s hands and pressing them fervently.
“It is thus that pious young men who are living examples of all the Christian virtues are rewarded in this day and generation,” answered the abbé, jovially.
“And such a fortune! Such a golden future! Is it not enough to dazzle any one?” cried Célestin, with an expression of intense cupidity on his face.
“How ardently the dear boy loves money,” said the abbé, with a paternal air, pinching Célestin’s plump cheek as he spoke. “Well, we must do our very best to secure it for him, then. Unfortunately, I could not persuade that hard-headed Madame de Beaumesnil to make a will designating you as her daughter’s future husband. If she had done that we should not have had the slightest trouble. Armed with this request of a dying mother, Mlle. de la Rochaiguë and I could have appealed to the girl, who would have consented to anything out of respect for her mother’s memory. It would have been a fine thing; besides, there could have been no opposition then, you see, but of course that is not to be thought of now.”
“And why is it not to be thought of?” asked M. de Macreuse, with some hesitation, but looking the abbé straight in the eye.
That gentleman returned the gaze with the same intentness.
Célestin averted his eyes, but it was with a faint smile that he replied:
“When I said that it might not be absolutely necessary for us to renounce the assistance of such a statement of Madame de Beaumesnil’s wishes—”
“In writing?” demanded the abbé, casting down his eyes in his turn, before the bold assent Célestin’s look conveyed.
There was a moment’s silence, after which the abbé said, as calmly as if no such incident had interrupted the conversation:
“Consequently, we must begin a new campaign, Circumstances favour us; besides, we are the first in the field, the baron and his wife having no one in view as yet; at least, Mlle. de Rochaiguë, who is entirely devoted to us, says so. As for her brother and his wife, they are extremely selfish and avaricious persons, so it is quite possible that, if we seem likely to succeed, they will side with us, that is, if they feel that it will be to their interest to do so. But we must first place ourselves in a position that will enable us to make our own terms.”
“And when, and in what way, am I to make Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s acquaintance, my dear abbé?”
“We have not yet decided that very important question. A formal introduction is evidently out of the question, as the baron and his wife would be sure to suspect our intentions. Besides, a slight air of mystery and secrecy would be much more likely to excite Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s curiosity and interest. It is necessary, too, if we wish to produce the best possible effect, that this introduction should be managed with an eye to the young girl’s character.”
Célestin cast a glance of mingled surprise and inquiry at his companion.
“So you had better allow us to attend to all that,” continued the abbé, in a tone of affectionate superiority. “We understand human nature thoroughly. From what I have been able to learn, the little Beaumesnil must be exceedingly religious and devout. It is also an excellent thing to know that Mlle. de Beaumesnil has a decided preference for the altar of Mary — a very natural predilection in a young girl.”
“Permit me to interrupt you an instant, my dear abbé,” said Célestin, hastily.
“What is it, my dear boy?”
“M. and Madame de la Rochaiguë are not very regular in the performance of their religious duties, but Mlle. Helena never misses a service.”
“That is true.”
“It will be only natural, then, that she should take Mlle. de Beaumesnil to the Church of St. Thomas d’Aquin, that being the church she always attends.”
“Evidently.”
“It would be well, then, for her to perform her devotions at the altar of the Virgin, where she will also conduct her young friend to-morrow morning at nine o’clock. I would also suggest that the ladies take their places to the left of the altar.”
“To the left of the altar! and why, Célestin?”
“Because I shall be performing my devotions at the same altar.”
“Excellent!” cried the abbé, “no better plan could be devised. Mlle. Helena shall call the girl’s attention to you, and you will make an admirable impression from the very first. A very clever idea, my dear Célestin, a very clever idea!”
“Don’t give me the credit of it, my dear abbé,” replied Célestin, with ironical modesty. “Render unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar’s.”
“And to what Cæsar am I to attribute this admirable idea for a first interview?”
“To the author of these lines, my dear abbé.” And in a sardonic tone, M. de Macreuse repeated:
“‘Ah, if you had but seen him as I first saw him,
You would feel for him the same fondness that I feel.
Each day to church he came with gentle air,
To kneel devoutly right before me,
And attracted the gaze of all assembled there,
By the sincerity and ardour of his prayer.’
“You see everything has been planned for me, even to offering the holy water on leaving the church,” added Macreuse. “And yet, people persist in declaring that the writings of this impious playwright are immoral and reprehensible.”
“That’s pretty good, upon my word!” cried the abbé, laughing heartily. “Well, Heaven speed the good cause, whatever may be the weapons used! You have everything to hope for, my dear Célestin. You are clever and persevering, and more likely to make a favourable impression on the orphan than any one I know. I would advise, however, that you be extremely careful about your dress. Let it be rich, but not gaudy, and characterised always by that elegant simplicity which is the perfection of good taste. Let me look at you a minute, Yes,” continued the abbé, after scrutinising the young man closely for a moment, “you had better give a slight wave to your hair instead of wearing it smooth. It takes something more than fine talk to captivate a young girl’s fancy.”
“Oh, you need feel no uneasiness, my dear abbé, I understand all those little matters. I know, too, that the greatest victories are often won by trivial means. And success in this instance means the most delightful and blissful future of which man ever dreamed,” exclaimed Célestin, his eyes sparkling joyously.
“And you will attain this success, for all the resources at our disposal — and they are immense — will be employed, if need be.”
“Ah, my indebtedness to you will be immeasurable.”
“And your success will not benefit you alone!”
“What do you mean by that, my dear abbé?”
“I mean that your success will have an enormous, an incalculable influence. Yes, all those fine young gentlemen who pose as freethinkers, all the lukewarm, all the indifferent, who uphold us but weakly, will see what one gains by being with us, for us, and of us. These advantages have also been demonstrated to some extent, I think, by the very enviable position — especially for one of your years and of — of your — obscure birth—” added the abbé, blushing a little, and Célestin somehow seemed to share this embarrassment.
“So, my dear Célestin,” the priest continued, “while envious and insolent aristocrats squander their wealth and their health in vile orgies and senseless dissipation, you, my dear child, — come from nobody knows where, aided and pushed forward by nobody knows whom, — will quietly make your way in the world, and soon every one will be petrified with amazement at your marvellous good fortune.”
“Ah, my dear a
bbé, you may rest assured that my gratitude—”
But the abbé again interrupted him by saying, with a peculiar smile:
“Do not persist in talking of your gratitude. No one has a chance to be ungrateful to us. We are not children; we take our precautions; besides, our best guarantee is the love and good-will of those who are indebted to us.”
And the abbé, again pinching the young man’s ear in a paternal way, continued:
“Now let me mention another no less important matter. You know the saying, ‘He who hears only one bell hears but one note.’ You may rest assured that Mlle. Helena will descant eloquently upon your many virtues to the little Beaumesnil. Your goodness, your piety, the angelic sweetness of your face, the dignified modesty of your demeanour, will be her constant theme. She will do everything she can to make the girl fall madly in love with you; but it would be an excellent thing if these praises were echoed by somebody else, and particularly if they were repeated by persons of such prominence that the words would exert a great influence upon the mind of the little Beaumesnil.”
“That would be a great help, I admit, my dear abbé.”
“Let us see, then, my dear Célestin. Among your fashionable friends is there no lady who could be entrusted with this delicate mission? How about Madame de Francville?”
“She is too silly.”
“Madame de Bonrepos, then?”
“She is too indiscreet and too garrulous.”
“Madame Lefébure?”
“She is too much of a plebeian. There is but one lady upon whose friendship and discretion I can rely sufficiently to make such a request,” continued Célestin, after quite a long pause. “That is Madame la Duchesse de Senneterre.”
“And you couldn’t possibly do better, for the duchess has an immense amount of influence in society,” said the abbé, thoughtfully. “I think, too, that you are not mistaken in your assertion, for I have heard her praise you very warmly on several occasions, and have even heard her express great regret that her son Gerald was not more like you.”
