by Eugène Sue
“Yes, go on.”
“I was promenading in this walk when I saw Mlle. Antonine for the first time.”
“In this garden?” replied the prince, advancing to the wall, and taking a view of it. Then he added:
“This young lady, then, lives in the next house?”
“Yes, monseigneur; her uncle occupies a part of the ground floor.”
“Very well.”
After a few minutes’ reflection, the prince added, severely:
“You have given me your confidence, Frantz. I accept it; but act with perfect candour, with the most thorough sincerity, if you do not—”
“Monseigneur!” interrupted Frantz, in painful surprise.
“Well, well, I was wrong to suspect your truthfulness, Frantz. You have never lied to me in your life. Speak, I will listen to you.”
“Your Royal Highness knows that, since our arrival in Paris, I have rarely gone out in the evening.”
“That is true; I am aware of your disinclination to society, and, too, of your excessive timidity, which increases your distaste for appearing at these dreaded French functions, where you are naturally a stranger. I have not insisted upon it, Frantz, and have allowed you to dispose of most of your evenings as you pleased.”
“In one of these evenings, monseigneur, six weeks ago, I saw Mlle. Antonine for the first time. She was watering flowers; I was leaning on my elbow there at the wall. She saw me; I saluted her. She returned my salutation, blushed, and continued to water her flowers; twice she looked up at me, and we bowed to each other again; then, as it grew dark entirely, Mlle. Antonine left the garden.”
It is impossible to reproduce the ingenuous grace with which poor Frantz made this artless recital of his first interview with the young girl. The emotion betrayed by his voice, the heightened colour of his face, all proved the honesty of this pure and innocent soul.
“One question, Frantz,” said the prince. “Has this young lady a mother?”
“No, monseigneur, Mlle. Antonine lost her mother when she was in the cradle, and her father died some years ago.”
“Is her uncle, President Hubert, married?”
“No, monseigneur.”
“How old is she?”
“Fifteen years and a half, monseigneur.”
“And is she pretty?”
“Antonine! monseigneur!”
In this exclamation of Frantz, there was almost a reproach, as if it were possible for him not to recognise the beauty of Mlle. Antonine.
“I ask you, Frantz,” repeated the archduke, “if this young girl is pretty?”
“Monseigneur, do you recollect the sleeping Hebe in the gallery of your palace of Offenbach?”
“One of my finest Correggios.”
“Monseigneur, Mlle. Antonine resembles this painting by Correggio, although she is far more beautiful.”
“It would be difficult to be that.”
“Monseigneur knows that I always speak the truth,” replied Frantz, ingenuously.
“Well, go on with your story.”
“I cannot tell you, monseigneur, what I felt when returning to my chamber. I thought of Mlle. Antonine. I was agitated, troubled, and happy at the same time. I did not sleep all night. The moon rose; I opened my window, and remained on my balcony until day, looking at the tops of the trees in Mlle. Antonine’s garden. Oh, monseigneur, how long the hours of the next day seemed to me! Before sunset, I was there again at the wall. At last mademoiselle came again to water her flowers. Every moment, thinking she had already seen me, I prepared to salute her, but I do not know how it happened, she did not see me. She came, however, to water flowers close to the wall where I was standing. I wanted to cough lightly to attract her attention, but I dared not. Night came on, my heart was broken, monseigneur, for still mademoiselle had not seen me. Finally, she returned to the house, after setting her little watering-pot near the fountain. Fortunately, thinking, no doubt, that it was out of place there, she returned, and set it on a bench near the wall. Then by chance, turning her eyes toward me, she discovered me at last. We saluted each other at the same time, monseigneur, and she went back into the house quickly. I then gathered some beautiful roses, and, trying to be very dexterous, although my heart was beating violently, I had the good luck to let the bouquet fall in the mouth of the watering-pot that mademoiselle had left there. When I returned to my room, I trembled to think what would be the thought of the young lady when she found these flowers. I was so uneasy, that I had a great mind to descend again and jump over the little wall and take the bouquet away. I do know what restrained me. Perhaps I hoped that Mlle. Antonine would not take offence at it. What a night I passed, monseigneur! The next day I ran to the wall; the watering-pot and the bouquet were there on the bench, but I waited in vain for Mlle. Antonine. She did not come that evening or the next day to look after her flowers. I cannot describe to you, monseigneur, the sadness and the anguish I endured those three days and nights, and you would have discovered my grief if you had not taken your departure just at that time.”
“For the journey to Fontainebleau, you mean?”
“Yes, monseigneur. But, pardon me; perhaps I am abusing the patience of your Royal Highness?”
“No, no, Frantz, continue; on the contrary, I insist upon knowing all. I pray you, continue your story with the same sincerity.”
CHAPTER XIII.
AT THE INVITATION of the archduke, Frantz de Neuberg continued his recital with charming frankness:
“For three days Mlle. Antonine did not appear, monseigneur. Overwhelmed with sadness, and hoping nothing, I went, nevertheless, at the accustomed hour to the garden. What was my surprise, my joy, monseigneur, when, arriving near the wall, I saw just below me Mlle. Antonine, seated on the bench! She held in her hand, lying on her lap, my bouquet of roses, faded a long time; her head was bent over; I could only see her neck and the edge of her hair; she did not suspect I was there; I remained motionless, hardly daring to breathe, for fear I might drive her away by revealing my presence. Finally I grew bolder, and I said, trembling, for it was the first time I had spoken to her, ‘Good evening, mademoiselle.’ She trembled so that the faded bouquet fell out of her lap. She did not notice it, and, without changing her attitude or lifting her head, she replied, in a low voice, as agitated as my own, ‘Good evening, monsieur.’ Seeing I was so well received, I added: ‘You have not come to water your flowers for three days, mademoiselle.’ ‘That is true, monsieur,’ answered she, in a broken voice, ‘I have been a little sick.’ ‘Oh, my God!’ I exclaimed, with such evident distress that mademoiselle raised her head a moment and looked at me. I saw, alas! that she was, monseigneur, really very pale, but she soon resumed her first attitude, and again I saw only her neck, which seemed to me to be slightly blushing: ‘And now, mademoiselle, you are better?’ ‘Yes, monsieur,’ said she. Then, after a short silence, I added: ‘You will then be able to water your flowers every evening as you have done in the past.’ ‘I do not know, monsieur, I hope so.’ ‘And do you not feel afraid the fresh evening air will be injurious to you, after having been sick, mademoiselle?’ ‘You are right, monsieur,’ replied she, ‘I thank you, I am going back into the house.’ And really, monseigneur, it had rained all the morning and it was growing very cold. The moment she left the bench I said to her: ‘Mademoiselle, will you give me this faded bouquet which has fallen at your feet?’ She picked it up and handed it to me in silence, without lifting her head or looking at me. I took it as a treasure, monseigneur, and soon Mlle. Antonine disappeared in a turn of the garden walk.”
The prince listened to his godson with profound attention. The frankness of this recital proved its sincerity. Until then, his only thought was that Frantz had been the sport of one of those Parisian coquettes, so dangerous to strangers, or the dupe of an adventurous and designing girl; but now a graver fear assailed him: a love like this, so chaste and pure, would, for reason of its purity, which banished all remorse from the minds of these two children, — on
e fifteen and a half and the other twenty, — become profoundly rooted in their hearts.
Frantz, seeing the countenance of the prince grow more and more gloomy, and meeting his glance, which had regained its usual haughty coldness, stopped, utterly confounded.
“So,” said the archduke, sarcastically, when his godson discontinued his story, “you wish to marry a young girl to whom you have addressed three or four words, and whose rare beauty, as you say, has turned your head.”
“I hope to obtain the consent of your Royal Highness to marry Mlle. Antonine, because I love her, monseigneur, and it is impossible for our marriage to be postponed.”
At these words, so resolutely uttered in spite of the timidity of Frantz, the prince trembled and reproached himself for having believed it to be one of those chaste loves of such proverbial purity.
“And why, sir,” said the prince, in a threatening voice, “why cannot this marriage be postponed?”
“Because I am a man of honour, monseigneur.”
“A man of honour! You are either a dishonest man, sir, or a dupe.”
“Monseigneur!”
“You have basely abused the innocence of a child of fifteen years, I tell you, or you are her dupe. Parisian girls are precocious in the art of cheating husbands.”
Frantz looked at the prince a moment in silence, but without anger or confusion, vainly trying to ascertain the meaning of these words which touched him neither in his love nor in his honour.
“Excuse me, monseigneur, I do not understand you.”
Frantz uttered these words with such an expression of sincerity, with such ingenuous assurance, that the prince, more and more astonished, added, after a moment’s silence, looking at the young man with a penetrating gaze:
“Did you not just tell me that your marriage with this young lady could not be deferred?”
“No, monseigneur; with the permission of your Royal Highness, it ought not to be and will not be!”
“Because without marriage you would be wanting in honour?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“And in what and why would you be wanting in honour, if you did not marry Mlle. Antonine?”
“Because we have sworn before Heaven to belong to each other, monseigneur,” replied Frantz, with restrained energy.
The prince, half reassured, added, however:
“And pray, under what circumstances have you exchanged this oath?”
“Fearing to displease you, monseigneur, or fatigue your attention, I discontinued my story.”
“Well, continue it.”
“Monseigneur, I fear—”
“Continue, — omit nothing. I wish to know all of this affair.”
“The uncle of mademoiselle went out in the evening, monseigneur, and she remained at home alone. The season was so beautiful that Mlle. Antonine spent all her evenings in the garden. We grew better acquainted with each other; we talked long together many times, — she, on the little bench, I, leaning on my elbow on the wall; she told me all about her life; I told her about mine, and, above all, monseigneur, my respectful affection for you, to whom I owe so much. Mlle. Antonine shares this moment my profound gratitude to your Royal Highness.”
At this point of the conversation, the sound of a gradually approaching step attracted the attention of the prince. He turned and saw one of his aids, who advanced, but stopped respectfully at a little distance. At a sign from the archduke, the officer came forward.
“What is it, sir?” asked the prince.
“His Excellence, the minister of war, has just arrived; he is at the order of your Royal Highness for the visit which is to be made to the Hôtel des Invalides.”
“Say to his Excellence that I will be with him in a moment.”
As the aide-de-camp departed, the prince turned coldly to Frantz, and said:
“Return to your apartments, monsieur; you are under arrest until the moment of your departure.”
“My departure, monseigneur?”
“Yes.”
“My departure?” repeated Frantz, amazed. “Oh, my God! And where are you going to send me, monseigneur?”
“You will see. I shall confide you to the care of Major Butler; he will answer for you to me. Before twenty-four hours you shall leave Paris.”
“Mercy, monseigneur!” cried Frantz, in a supplicating voice, not able to believe what he had heard. “Have pity on me, and do not compel me to depart.”
“Return to your apartments,” said the prince, with the severity of a military command, making a sign for Frantz to pass before him. “I never revoke an order once given. Obey!”
Frantz, overwhelmed, returned in sadness to his chamber, situated on the first floor of the palace, not far from the apartment of the archduke, and looking out upon the garden. At seven o’clock a dinner was served the young prisoner, which he did not touch. Night came, and Frantz, to his great astonishment, and to his deep and painful humiliation, heard his outside doors fastened with a double lock. Toward midnight, when the whole palace was asleep, he opened his window softly, went out on the balcony, and leaning outside, succeeded, with the aid of his cane, in removing a little of the wall plastered on one of the posts of a window-blind on the ground floor. It was on this tottering support that Frantz, with as much dexterity as temerity, having straddled the balcony railing, set the point of his foot; then, aiding himself by the rounds of the blind as a ladder, he reached the ground, ran into the shady walk, jumped the little wall, and soon found himself in the garden of the house occupied by Antonine.
Although the moon was veiled by thick clouds, a dim light shone under the great trees which had served as a place of meeting for Antonine and Frantz; at the end of a few moments, he perceived at a distance a figure in white, rapidly approaching; the young girl soon approached him and said, in a voice which betrayed her excitement:
“I came only for one minute, that you might not be disappointed, Frantz. I have taken advantage of my uncle’s sleep; he is very sick, and I cannot stay away from him a longer time. Good-bye, Frantz,” added Antonine, with a deep sigh; “it is very sad to part so soon, but it must be. Good-bye, again, — perhaps I can see you to-morrow.”
The young man was so crushed by the news he had to communicate to the young girl that he had not the strength to interrupt her. Then, in a voice broken by sobs, he exclaimed:
“Antonine, we are lost!”
“Lost!”
“I am going away.”
“You!”
“The prince compels me to go.”
“Oh, my God!” murmured Antonine, turning pale and leaning for support on the back of the rustic bench. “Oh, my God!”
And, unable to utter another word, she burst into tears. After a heartrending silence, she said:
“And you hoped for the consent of the prince, Frantz.”
“Alas! I hoped to obtain it by simply telling him how much I loved you, and how much you deserved that love. The prince is inflexible.”
“To go away, — to be separated from each other, Frantz,” murmured Antonine, in a broken voice; “but it is not possible, — it would kill us both with sorrow, and the prince would not do that.”
“His will is inflexible; but whatever may happen,” cried Frantz, falling at the young girl’s knees, “yes, although I am a foreigner here, without family, without knowing what may be the consequence, I will stay in spite of the prince. Have courage, Antonine—”
“‘Monseigneur, listen to me.’”
Original etching by Adrian Marcel.
Frantz could not continue; he saw a light shining in the distance, and a voice in great pain called:
“Mlle. Antonine!”
“My God! that is my uncle’s nurse, — she is looking for me!” cried the young girl; then, turning to Frantz, she said, “Frantz, if you go away, I shall die.”
And Antonine disappeared in the direction of the light.
The young man, overcome by grief, fell on the bench, hiding his face in his hands.
Presently he heard a voice, coming down the walk in the garden of the Élysée, calling him by name:
“Frantz!”
He started, thinking it was the voice of the prince; he was not mistaken. A second time his name was called.
Fear, the habit of passive obedience, and his respect for the archduke, as well as his gratitude, led Frantz back to the little wall which separated the two gardens; behind this wall he saw the prince standing in the light of the moon. The prince extended his hand with haughty reserve, and assisted him to regain the walk.
“Immediately upon my return, I entered your apartment,” said the archduke, severely. “I did not find you. Your open window told me all. Now, follow me.”
“Monseigneur,” cried Frantz, throwing himself at the feet of the prince, and clasping his hands, “monseigneur, listen to me.”
“Major Butler,” said the prince, in a loud voice, addressing a person who until then had been hidden by the shade, “accompany Count Frantz to his apartment, and do not leave him a moment. I hold you responsible for him.”
CHAPTER XIV.
THE DAY AFTER these events had transpired the archduke, dressed always in his uniform, for he carried military etiquette to its most extreme limit, was in his study about two o’clock in the afternoon. One of his aids, a man about forty years old, of calm and resolute countenance, was standing before the table on the side opposite the prince, who was seated, writing, with a haughtier, severer, and more care-worn manner than usual. As he wrote, without raising his eyes to the officer, he said to him:
“Is Captain Blum with Count Frantz?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“You have just seen the physician.”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“What does he think of the count’s condition?”
“He finds it more satisfactory, monseigneur.”
“Does he think Count Frantz can support the fatigues of the journey without danger?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
