Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “Ah, your guardian warned me! Why did I not believe him? I had no idea that such a person as you could exist. I said to myself, ‘This indolence on the part of a girl of seventeen is nothing but the ennui caused by the monotony of convent life. When she marries, the duties and pleasures of society, the care of her house, and improving travel will cure her of her indolence, and—’”

  “Then that is the reason, I suppose, that you had the barbarity to propose a long journey to me only a day or two after our marriage,” interrupted Madame de Luceval, in reproachful tones.

  “But, madame, travelling—”

  “Don’t! The slightest allusion to it positively makes me shudder. A journey is the most fatiguing and disagreeable thing in the world. Think of nights spent in diligences or in horrid inns, and long walks and drives to see the pretended beauties or wonders of a country. I have asked you before, monsieur, not to even mention the subject of travelling to me. I have perfect horror of it.”

  “Ah, madame, had I foreseen this—”

  “I understand; I should not have had the happiness of being Madame de Luceval.”

  “Say, rather, that I should not have had the misfortune to be your husband.”

  “A gallant speech after six months of married life, truly.”

  “But you exasperate me beyond endurance, madame. I am the most unhappy man alive. I can stand it no longer. I must say what I have to say.”

  “Do, by all means. But pray don’t make such a fuss about it. I abhor a noise.”

  “Very well, then, madame. I tell you very plainly, though very quietly, that it is a woman’s duty to attend to the affairs of her household, and you do not pay the slightest attention to yours. If it were not for me, I don’t know what would become of the house.”

  “That is the steward’s business, it seems to me. But you have energy enough for two, and you’ve got to expend it upon something.”

  “I tell you, again, madame, very quietly, understand, that I anticipated a very different and very delightful life. I had deferred exploring several of the most interesting countries until after my marriage, saying to myself, ‘Instead of exploring them alone, I shall then have a charming and congenial companion; fatigue, adventures, even dangers, — we will share them all courageously together.’”

  “Great Heavens!” murmured Florence, lifting her beautiful eyes heavenward, “he admits such an atrocious thing as that.”

  “‘What happiness it will be,’ I said to myself,” continued M. de Luceval, quite carried away by the bitterness of his regret,—”’what happiness it will be to visit such extremely interesting countries as Egypt—’”

  “Egypt!”

  “Turkey—”

  “Mon Dieu! Turkey!”

  “And if you had been the woman I so fondly dreamed, we might even have pushed on to the Caucasus.”

  “The Caucasus!” exclaimed Florence, straightening herself up in her chair this time. “Is it possible you thought of such a thing as visiting the Caucasus?” she added, clasping her pretty hands in undisguised horror.

  “But, madame, Lady Stanhope, and the Duchesse de Plaisance, and many others, have made similar journeys.”

  “The Caucasus! So that was what you reserved for me! That was what you were infamously plotting, when I so trustingly gave you my hand in the Chapel of the Assumption. Ah, I understand the cruel selfishness of your character now.”

  And sinking back in her armchair again, she repeated, in the same horrified tones:

  “The Caucasus! Think of it, the Caucasus!”

  “Oh, I know very well now that you are one of those women who are incapable of making the slightest concession to their husband’s wishes,” retorted M. de Luceval, bitterly.

  “The slightest concession! Why don’t you propose a voyage of discovery to Timbuctoo, or the North Pole, and be done with it?”

  “Madame Biard, the brave-hearted wife of an eminent painter, had the courage to accompany her husband to the polar seas without a murmur; yes, even gladly, madame,” answered M. de Luceval,— “to polar seas, do you hear, madame?”

  “I hear only too well, monsieur. You are either the most wicked or the most insane of men!”

  “Really, madame—”

  “And what and who, in Heaven’s name, is keeping you, monsieur? If you have a passion — a mania, I call it — for travelling, if repose is so irksome to you, why don’t you travel? Go to the Caucasus! Go to the North Pole, if you like, start at once, make haste about it. We shall both be the gainers by it. I shall no longer distress you by the sight of my atrocious indolence, and you will cease to irritate my nerves by the restlessness that prevents you from remaining for a moment in one place or allowing others to do so. Twenty times a day you rush into my room merely for the sake of coming and going; or, even worse, marvellous as it may appear, you come and wake me at five o’clock in the morning to propose a horseback ride, or to take me to the natatorium. You have even gone so far as to insist upon my practising gymnastics a little. Gymnastics! Who but you would ever think of such a thing? So, monsieur, I repeat that your absurd ideas, your constant coming and going, the sort of perpetual motion you keep up, the spirit of unrest that seems to possess you, causes me quite as much annoyance as my indolence can possibly cause you. Consequently you need not suppose for one moment that you alone have cause to complain, and as we have both made up our minds to say our say to each other, I declare in my turn, monsieur, that such a life as this is intolerable to me, and, unless there is a change for the better, I do not intend to put up with it much longer.”

  “What do you mean by that, madame?”

  “I mean that it would be very foolish for us to go on interfering with and annoying each other. You have your tastes, I have mine; you have your fortune, I have mine; then let us live as seems good to us, and, for Heaven’s sake, let us, above all, live in quiet.”

  “I admire your assurance, really, madame. It is something marvellous! Do you suppose I married to lead a life that was not to my liking?”

  “Oh, mon Dieu! live as you please, monsieur, but let me live as I please, as well.”

  “It pleases me, madame, to live with you. It was for that I married you, I think; so it is for you to accept my sort of life. Yes, madame, I have the right to expect it, ay, to demand it; and you may rest assured that I shall have the energy to enforce my demands.”

  “What you say is perfectly ridiculous, M. de Luceval.”

  “Ah, you think so, do you?” retorted the husband, with a sardonic smile.

  “Yes, ridiculous in the highest degree.”

  “Then the Civil Code is ridiculous in the highest degree, I suppose?”

  “Very possibly, monsieur, as you bring it into this discussion. I don’t know enough about it to judge, however.”

  “Then understand, once for all, madame, that the Civil Code expressly states that a woman is expected, obliged, compelled to follow her husband.”

  “To the Caucasus?”

  “Wherever he may see fit to take her.”

  “I am in no mood for jesting, monsieur. But for that, your interpretation of the Civil Code would amuse me immensely.”

  “I, too, am in earnest, madame, — very much in earnest.”

  “That is what makes the whole affair so irresistibly comical.”

  “Take care, madame, do not drive me to desperation.”

  “Oh, threaten me with the North Pole at once, and let that be the end of it.”

  “I have no intention of resorting to threats, madame. I merely wish to impress upon your mind the fact that the time for weakness is past, so when it suits me to start on a journey, — and that moment is, perhaps, nearer than you think, — I shall notify you one week in advance, so you may have time to make all needful preparations; then, willing or not, when the post-horses come, you will enter the carriage.”

  “If not, the magistrate, and a ‘In the name of the law, follow your husband,’ I s
uppose, monsieur.”

  “Yes, madame. You may sneer as much as you please, but you will follow me at the law’s bidding, for you must realise that some guaranties in relation to such a serious and sacred thing as marriage must and do exist. After all, a man’s happiness and peace of mind must not be at the mercy of the slightest caprice of a spoiled child.”

  “Caprice! that is ridiculous. I have a horror of travelling, the slightest fatigue is intolerable to me, and because you take it into your head to rival the Wandering Jew, I am to be compelled to follow you?”

  “Yes, madame; and I will prove to you that—”

  “M. de Luceval, I hate controversy. It is entirely too much trouble. So, to put an end to this discussion, I will merely say that I shall not accompany you on a single one of your journeys, even if it be merely from here to St. Cloud. You shall see if I do not keep my word.”

  And Florence threw herself back in her armchair again, crossed her little feet, and closed her eyes, as if completely exhausted.

  “Madame,” exclaimed M. de Luceval, “this is not to be borne. I will not permit this disdainful silence!”

  All her husband’s efforts to extort a word from her proved futile, however, and despairing, at last, of overcoming his wife’s obstinacy, he departed, in high dudgeon.

  M. de Luceval was perfectly sincere in saying what he did, for, being passionately fond of travel himself, he could not believe that his wife really loathed it, and he was the more incredulous on this point as, when he married Florence, he had persuaded himself that a child of sixteen, an orphan, who had spent her life in a convent, could not have much will of her own, and would be delighted to travel. In fact, he had felt certain that such a proposal would prove a delightful surprise to her.

  His notary had told him of an orphan girl of sixteen, with a lovely face, an exquisite figure, and a fortune of more than a million francs, which, invested in the business of her guardian, a famous banker, yielded a yearly income of eighty thousand francs. M. de Luceval gave sincere thanks to Heaven and his notary. He saw the young girl, thought her ravishingly beautiful, fell in love with her, married her, and, when the awakening came, he had the simplicity to marvel at the loss of his illusions, and the credulity to believe that right, persistency, threats, force, and the law would have some effect upon the will of a woman who entrenches herself in a passive resistance.

  A few minutes after M. de Luceval had taken his departure, Lise, the maid, entered the room with a rather frightened air, and said to her mistress:

  “A lady, who says her name is Madame d’Infreville, is down at the door, in a carriage.”

  “Valentine!” exclaimed the young marquise, in accents of joyful surprise. “It is ages since I saw her. Ask her to come up at once.”

  “But that is impossible, madame.”

  “And why?”

  “The lady sent, through the concierge, for madame’s maid. Some one told me and I went down at once. When I got there, the lady, who was frightfully pale, said to me: ‘Mademoiselle, go to Madame de Luceval and ask her to have the goodness to come down here for a moment. I want to speak to her on a very important matter. Tell her that my name is Madame d’Infreville, — Valentine d’Infreville.’”

  Lise had scarcely uttered these words before a footman entered the room, after having knocked, and said to Florence:

  “Will madame la marquise see Madame d’Infreville?”

  “What!” exclaimed Florence, greatly surprised at this sudden change in her friend’s resolution, “is Madame d’Infreville here?”

  “Yes, madame.”

  “Then show her in at once,” said Madame de Luceval, rising to meet her friend, whom she embraced affectionately, and with whom she was a moment afterwards left alone.

  CHAPTER II.

  A FRIEND IN NEED.

  VALENTINE D’INFREVILLE WAS three years older than Madame de Luceval, and a striking contrast to her in every way, though equally beautiful and attractive.

  Tall, lithe, and slender, without being thin, and a decided brunette in colouring, — she had beautiful eyes, full of fire, and black as her long, luxuriant hair, and rich scarlet lips, shaded by the slightest suspicion of down, while her thin nostrils, which quivered and dilated with the slightest emotion, the excessive mobility of her features, her animated gestures, and even the rather virile timbre of her contralto voice, all indicated that she was the possessor of an ardent and impassioned nature. She had first met Florence at the Convent of the Sacred Heart, where they had become very intimate. Valentine had left the convent to be married a year before her friend, and though she afterwards came to see Florence several times at the convent, for several months prior to her marriage with M. de Luceval, Florence, to her great surprise, had seen nothing of her friend, and since that time their intercourse had been confined to a correspondence which had been very irregular on the part of Madame d’Infreville, who was, she declared, absorbed with household cares; so the two friends had not seen each other for more than six months.

  Madame de Luceval, after having tenderly embraced her friend, noticed her unusual pallor as well as her extreme agitation, and asked, anxiously:

  “Valentine, what is the matter? My maid told me first that you wished to see me, but that you did not want to come in.”

  “I seem to have lost my head completely, Florence. I am nearly mad, I believe.”

  “You frighten me. Explain, for pity’s sake!”

  “Florence, will you save me from a terrible misfortune?”

  “Speak, speak! Am I not your friend, though you have deserted me for the last six months?”

  “I did very wrong. I have been unkind and ungrateful, I know, and yet I appeal to you now.”

  “It is the only way to gain my forgiveness.”

  “Always the same generous Florence!”

  “But now tell me, quick, what can I do for you?”

  “Have you writing materials here?”

  “Over there on that table.”

  “Then write what I dictate, I beg of you. It may save me.”

  “This paper has my initials on it. Does that make any difference?”

  “On the contrary, it is all the better, as you are the person who is supposed to be writing to me.”

  “Go on, then, Valentine. I am ready.”

  So Madame d’Infreville dictated the following in a strangely altered voice, pausing now and then, so great was her emotion.

  “‘The recollection of the pleasant hours we spent together yesterday is so delightful, my dear Valentine, — though I really can not say that it was in any respect a more charming day than last Wednesday, — that at the risk of seeming both selfish and importunate, I am going to ask you to give me Sunday.’”

  “Give me Sunday,” repeated Florence, greatly surprised at this beginning.

  “‘Our programme shall be the same,’” continued

  Madame d’Infreville. “Underline programme,” she added, with a bitter smile, then resumed:

  “‘Our programme shall be the same: breakfast at eleven, a stroll in the garden, embroidery, music, and conversation until seven o’clock, then dinner and afterwards a drive in the Bois de Boulogne in an open carriage if the evening is fine, after which I shall take you home at ten o’clock as I did yesterday.

  “‘Answer me yes or no, but let it be a yes, and you will make very happy your devoted

  “‘FLORENCE.’”

  “Your devoted Florence,” repeated Madame de Luceval; then, with a half smile, she added: “It is certainly cruel in you, Valentine, to dictate such a programme to excite my envy and regret; but the time for reproaches or explanations will come presently. I will have my revenge then. Is that all, my dear Valentine?”

  “Put my address on the note, seal it, and have it sent to my house at once.”

  Madame de Luceval was about to ring when she paused as if a new thought had suddenly struck her, and she said to her friend, with some slight embarrassment:

  “Valentine
, I do hope you will not take offence at what I am about to say to you.”

  “Go on.”

  “If I am not mistaken, the object of this letter is to make some one suppose that we have spent several days together recently.”

  “Yes, yes, that is it exactly. Well, what of it?”

  “In that case, I think it advisable to tell you that my husband is unfortunately endowed with such a prodigious amount of energy and activity that, though he is almost always out of the house, he nevertheless finds a way to be almost always in my room; in fact, he rushes in and out about a dozen times a day, so if his testimony should be invoked, he would be sure to say that he had never seen you here.”

  “I foresaw this difficulty, but of two dangers, one must choose the least. Send this letter without delay, I beg of you, by one of your servants; but no, he might talk. You had better entrust it to the post. It will arrive in time, even then.”

  Madame de Luceval rang the bell.

  A footman answered the summons.

  His mistress was about to give him the letter, but she changed her mind and asked instead:

  “Is Baptiste here?”

  “Yes, madame la marquise.”

  “Send him to me at once.”

  “Why this servant instead of the other, Florence?” inquired Madame d’Infreville.

  “The other man knows how to read. He is rather inquisitive, too, and he might think it singular that I wrote to you while you were here. The man I sent for cannot read, and is very stupid besides, so there is very little danger to apprehend from him.”

  “You are right, a thousand times right, Florence. In my excitement, I did not think of all this.”

  “Did madame la marquise send for me?” inquired Baptiste, appearing in the doorway.

  “Do you know the flower girl that has a shop near the Chinese bath-house?” inquired Florence.

  “Yes, madame la marquise.”

  “Go there at once, and buy me two large bunches of Parma violets.”

  “Yes, madame.”

  The man turned to go.

  “Oh, I forgot,” exclaimed Madame de Luceval, calling him back. “I want you to post this letter on your way.”