by Eugène Sue
“My God! Sophie, what is the matter, pray? Why these painful words? Why these tears? Yesterday I left you calm and happy, except, as you told me, the concern occasioned by your husband’s business. Is there anything new to-day?”
“No, I — think — not,” replied Sophie Dutertre, with hesitation. “But since yesterday — my husband’s business concerns me less than—”
“Go on.”
“No, no; I am foolish,” replied Madame Dutertre, restraining herself, and seeming to hold back some words ready to escape; “but let us not talk of me, let us talk of Antonine; I am so touched by the despair of this poor child that one might say her suffering is mine.”
“Sophie, you are not telling me the truth.”
“I assure you.”
“I see you are pale and changed. Yes, since yesterday you have suffered, and suffered much, I am sure.”
“No,” replied the young woman, putting her handkerchief to her eyes, “you are mistaken.”
“Sophie,” said Madeleine, quickly taking her friend’s hands in her own, “you do not know how much your lack of confidence distresses me; you will make me think you have some complaint against me.”
“What are you saying?” cried Sophie, pained by this suspicion, “you are and you will always be my best friend, and I am only afraid of fatiguing you with my grievances.”
“Ah, again?” replied the marquise, in a tone of affectionate reproach.
“Forgive me, forgive me, Madeleine; but really, is it not enough to confide to your friends your real sorrows, without saddening them by the confession of vague apprehensions, which are, nevertheless, very distressing?”
“My dear Sophie, tell me these apprehensions.”
“Since yesterday, — but, again, I say no, no, I shall appear too foolish to you.”
“You appear foolish to me, well, what of it? Speak, I beseech you.”
“Ah, well, it seems to me that since yesterday my husband is under the influence of some idea which completely absorbs him.”
“Business matters, perhaps?”
“No, oh, no; it is something else, and that is what confounds and alarms me.”
“What have you observed?”
“Yesterday, after your departure, it had been agreed that he would undertake two measures of great importance to us. Seeing the hour slip away I went into our chamber, where he had gone to dress himself. I found him with his working apparel on, seated before a table, his head leaning on his hand; he had not heard me enter. ‘Charles,’ said I to him, ‘you forget the hour. You are to go out, you know.’ ‘Why am I to go out?’ he asked. ‘My God! why, on urgent business,’ and I recalled to his mind the two matters requiring his immediate attention. ‘You are right,’ said he, ‘I had not thought of them again.’ ‘But what are you thinking of, Charles,’ I asked. He blushed, appeared embarrassed, and did not answer a word.”
“Perhaps he has some project, some plan he is meditating, that he thinks he ought not to confide to you yet.”
“That is possible; yet he has never hidden anything from me, even his most undeveloped plans. No, no, it is not business affairs which absorb him, because yesterday, instead of talking with his father and me of the state of things, which I confess to you, Madeleine, is graver than I thought, or than I told you, Charles talked of things altogether irrelevant to the subject which concerned us so deeply. And then I did not have the courage to blame him, because he talked to us especially of you.”
“Of me? And what did he say?”
“That you had been so full of kindness to him yesterday morning. Then he asked me a thousand little details about you, about your infancy and your life. I replied to him with pleasure, as you can well believe, Madeleine. Then suddenly he relapsed into a gloomy silence, — into a sort of meditation so deep that nothing could draw him out of it, not even the caresses of our children.”
At this moment the old servant of M. Hubert entered, with a surprised and busy air, and said to Sophie:
“Madame, Mlle. Antonine is with her uncle, no doubt!”
“Yes, Peter; what is the matter?”
“My God, madame! it has astonished me so that I do not know what to answer.”
“What is it, Peter? Explain yourself.”
“Well, madame, it is this. There is a strange officer there; probably one belonging to the prince who now occupies the Élysée.”
“Well?”
“This officer has a letter which he wishes to deliver himself, he says, into the hands of President Hubert, who must give an answer. I tried in vain to make this officer understand that monsieur was very sick. He assured me that it concerned a very important and very urgent matter, and that he came from his Highness who occupies the Élysée. Then, madame, in my embarrassment I have come to you to ask what I must do.”
Madame Dutertre, forgetting her grievance, turned to Madeleine and said, quickly, with the greatest joy:
“Your hope has not been mistaken. This letter from the prince is, perhaps, his consent to this marriage. Poor Antonine, how happy she will be!”
“We must not rejoice too soon, dear Sophie. Let us wait. But do you go and see this officer, who is no doubt an aid of the prince. Tell him that M. Hubert, although a little better, is not able to receive him. Ask the officer to give you the letter, assuring him that you will deliver it at once to M. Hubert, who will send an answer.”
“You are right, Madeleine. Come, Peter,” said Sophie, going out of the room, accompanied by the old servant.
“I was not mistaken,” said the marquise, when she was alone. “Those glances of M. Dutertre. Really it seems a fatality. But I hope,” added she, smiling, “in Sophie’s interest, and in her husband’s, I shall be able to draw some good from this slight infidelity.”
Then, reflecting a moment, Madeleine added:
“The prince is remarkably punctual. Is it possible that he has given such immediate attention to the advice contained in my note!”
Antonine came out of her uncle’s chamber. At the sight of the marquise the poor child did not dare take another step. She remained motionless, mute and trembling, waiting her fate with mortal agony, for Madeleine had promised that morning to intercede with the prince.
Sophie then entered, holding in her hand the letter which the aide-de-camp had just delivered. She gave it to Antonine, and said:
“Here, my child, carry this letter to your uncle immediately. It is very urgent, very important. He will give you an answer, and I will take it to the man who is waiting.”
Antonine took the letter from the hand of Madame Dutertre, throwing a look of anxious curiosity upon her two friends, who exchanged a hopeful, intelligent glance. Their expressions of countenance so impressed Antonine that, addressing the two young women in turn, she said to them:
“Sophie, Madeleine, what is the matter? You look at each other in silence, and what is this letter? Pray, what has happened? My God!”
“Go quick, my child,” said Madeleine. “You will find us here when you return.”
Antonine, more and more perplexed, ran precipitately to her uncle’s room. Madame Dutertre, seeing the marquise bend her head in silent thought, said to her:
“Madeleine, now what is the matter with you?”
“Nothing, my friend. I am thinking of the happiness of poor Antonine, — that is, if my hopes do not deceive me.”
“Ah, her happiness she will owe to you! With what enthusiastic delight she and Count Frantz will thank you! Will you not have been their special providence?”
At the name of Frantz, Madeleine started, blushed slightly, and a cloud passed over her brow. Sophie had not time to perceive the emotion of her friend, as Antonine rushed suddenly out of the adjoining chamber, her charming face radiant with an expression of joy and surprise impossible to describe. Then, without uttering a word, she threw herself on Madeleine’s neck; but her emotion was excessive; she suddenly turned pale, and the two friends were obliged to support her.
“God
be praised!” said Sophie, “for, in spite of your pallor and agitation, my poor Antonine, I am certain you have good news.”
“Do not tremble so, dear child,” said Madeleine, in her turn. “Recover yourself! Calm yourself!”
“Oh, if you only knew!” murmured the young girl. “No, no, I cannot believe it yet.”
The Marquise de Miranda, taking Antonine’s hands affectionately in her own, said to her:
“You must always believe in happiness, my child. But come now, explain what you mean.”
“Just now,” the young girl went on to say, with a voice broken by tears of joy, “I carried the letter to my uncle. He said to me: ‘Antonine, my sight is very weak; read this letter to me, please.’ Then I broke the seal of the envelope; I did not know why my heart beat with such violence, but it palpitated so I felt sick. Wait, it is beating now,” added the young girl, putting her hand on her side, as if she would restrain the rapid pulsations which interrupted her narrative. Then she continued:
“I then read the letter; there was — Oh, I have not forgotten a single word of it.
“‘Monsieur President Hubert: — I pray you, notwithstanding your condition of illness, to grant me at once, if it is possible, a moment of conversation upon a most urgent and important subject.
“‘Your affectionate,
“‘Leopold Maximilian.’
“‘But,’ said my uncle, sitting up in bed,’this is the name of the prince who now occupies the Élysée, is it not?’ ‘I — I — think — it is, uncle,’ I replied. ‘What can he wish with me?’ asked my uncle. ‘I do not know,’ said I, trembling and blushing, because I was telling a falsehood, and I reproached myself for not daring to confess my love for Frantz. Then my uncle said, ‘It is impossible for me, although I am suffering, to refuse to receive the prince, but I cannot reply to his letter, I am too feeble. Take my place, Antonine, and write this, — recollect it well:
“‘Monseigneur: — My weak condition does not permit me to have the honour of replying to your Highness with my own hand, and I ask another to say to you, monseigneur, that I am at your service.’
“I am going to write this letter now for my uncle,” said Antonine, approaching a desk in the parlour. “But, say, Sophie,” added the young girl, impulsively, “ought I not to bless Madeleine and thank her on both knees? For if the prince intended to oppose my marriage with Frantz, he would not come to see my uncle, — do you think he would, Sophie? And but for Madeleine, the prince would never have consented to come, would he?”
“Like you, my child, I say that we ought to bless our dear Madeleine,” replied Madame Dutertre, pressing the hand of the marquise. “But really, I repeat it again and again, Madeleine, you have a talisman for getting all you want.”
“Alas, dear Sophie!” replied the marquise, smiling, “this talisman, if indeed I have one, only serves others; not myself.”
While the two friends conversed Antonine had seated herself at the desk, but, at the end of a few moments’ vain effort, she was obliged to give up writing; her little hand trembled so violently that she could not hold her pen.
“Let me take your place, my dear child,” said Madeleine, who had not taken her eyes off the young girl. “I will write for you.”
“Excuse me, Madeleine,” said Antonine, yielding her place to the marquise. “It is not my fault, this excitement is too much for me.”
“It is the fault of your heart, poor little thing. I understand your emotion,” writing President Hubert’s reply with a firm hand. “Now,” added she, “ring for some one, Antonine, so that this letter can be delivered to the officer of the prince without delay.”
The old servant entered, and was instructed to deliver the letter to the officer.
“Now, my little Antonine,” said the marquise to the young girl, “there remains one duty to be fulfilled, and I am certain that Sophie will be of my opinion; before the arrival of the prince, you must confess all to your uncle.”
“What Madeleine says is very right,” replied Sophie. “It would have a bad effect if your uncle should not be prepared for the probable intention of the visit of the prince.”
“Your uncle is very kind and considerate, my dear Antonine,” added Madeleine, “and he will forgive a lack of confidence, caused principally, I do not doubt, by your timidity.”
“You are right, both of you, I know it,” said Antonine, “and, besides, I ought not to blush at this confession, for, my God, I loved Frantz without thinking of it, and in spite of myself.”
“That is why you should hasten to confide in your uncle, my child, for the prince will not delay his visit. But tell me,” added the marquise, “because, for reasons of my own, I do not wish to be found here when the prince arrives, can I not enter your chamber from this parlour?”
“The corridor into which this door opens,” replied Antonine, “leads to my chamber; Sophie knows the way.”
“Certainly, I will conduct you, Madeleine,” replied Sophie, rising with the marquise, who, kissing Antonine tenderly on the forehead, said to her as she pointed to the door of her uncle’s chamber, “Go quick, my dear little one, the moments are precious.”
The young girl threw a glance of affectionate gratitude on the two friends, who, leaving the parlour, followed the corridor on their way to Antonine’s chamber, when they saw the old servant coming.
He approached and said to Sophie:
“Madame, M. Dutertre wishes to speak to you this moment.”
“My husband! where is he?”
“Below, madame, in a carriage at the door; he told the porter to order me to ask you to come down without delay.”
“That is strange! Why did he not come up?” said Sophie, looking at her friend.
“M. Dutertre has something to say to you, madame,” said Peter.
Madame Dutertre, not a little disquieted, followed him, as she said to the marquise, —
“I shall return immediately, my friend, for I am eager to know the result of the prince’s visit to M. Hubert.”
Madeleine was left alone.
“I did well to hurry,” thought she, with a sort of bitterness. “I did well to yield to my first instinct of generosity; to-morrow it would have been too late. I would not, perhaps, have had the courage to sacrifice myself to Antonine. How strange it is! An hour ago, in thinking of Frantz and her, I had not a feeling of jealousy or pain, and only a sweet melancholy, but now by degrees my heart is contracted and filled with sorrow, and this moment I suffer — oh, yes, how I suffer!”
The abrupt entrance of Sophie interrupted the reflections of the marquise, and she guessed that some great misfortune had happened by the frightened, almost wild, expression of Madame Dutertre, who said to her, in a short, panting voice:
“Madeleine, you have offered me aid, and now I accept it!”
“Great God! Sophie, what is the matter?”
“Our condition is desperate.”
“Do explain.”
“To-morrow, this evening, perhaps, Charles will be arrested.”
“Your husband?”
“Arrested, I say; oh, my God!”
“But what for? What is it?”
“That monster of wickedness, whom we thought our benefactor, M. Pascal, has—”
“M. Pascal!”
“Yes, yesterday — I did not dare — I have not told you all, but—”
“M. Pascal!” interrupted Madeleine.
“Our fate is in the hands of that pitiless man; he can, and he wishes to reduce us to the last degree of misery. My God! what will become of us? What will become of our children and the father of my husband? What will become of us all? Oh, it is horrible! It is horrible!”
“M. Pascal!” said the marquise, with restrained indignation, “the wretch! Oh, yes, I read it in his face; I have seen his insolence and meanness — such a man would be without pity.”
“You are acquainted with him?”
“This morning I met him at the palace with the prince. Ah, now I reg
ret having yielded to the anger, the contempt, which this man inspired in me. Why did you not tell me sooner? It is a great misfortune that you did not, Sophie, a great misfortune.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, no matter. There is no use in going back to the past. But let us see, Sophie, my friend, do not allow yourself to despond, exaggerate nothing and tell me all, and we will find some way of escaping the blow which threatens you.”
“It is impossible; all that I come to ask in the name of Charles, in the name of my children, is that—”
“Let me interrupt you. Why do you say it is impossible to prevent this disaster?”
“M. Pascal is relentless.”
“That may be, but what is your position toward him?”
“A year ago my husband found himself, like so many other manufacturers, in an embarrassed position. M. Pascal offered his services to us. Charles, deceived by fair appearances, accepted. It would be too long to explain to you by what a train of affairs Charles, trusting the promises of M. Pascal, soon discovered that he was absolutely dependent on this man, who could any day recall more than a hundred thousand crowns, — that is to say, could ruin our business and plunge us in misery. At last that day has come, and M. Pascal, strong in this terrible power, places my husband and myself in the alternative of submitting to this ruin or consenting to two unworthy deeds he imposes upon us.”
“The wretch! The infamous wretch!”
“Yesterday, when you arrived, he had just made known to us his intentions. We answered according to our hearts and our honour; he swore to revenge himself on us and to-day he has kept his word. We are lost, I tell you; he claims, too, that by reason of some authority, he will put Charles in prison temporarily. My idea, above everything else, is to save my husband from prison, but he refuses to escape, saying it is only a decoy, that he has nothing to fear, and that he—”
Madeleine, who had remained silent and thoughtful for some time, again interrupted her friend, and said to her:
