by Eugène Sue
“What!” exclaimed M. de Riancourt, “do you mean to say that you have the carvers, and gilders, and locksmiths, and carpenters, and paper-hangers, and even the masons, here? Why, this passes my comprehension.”
“Do you know anything about the habits of bees, my dear duke?”
“Not much, I must admit.”
“You might consider their habits exceedingly reprehensible, my dear duke, inasmuch as the insolent creatures insist upon occupying the cells they themselves have constructed; and, what is worse, they even assert their claim to the delicious honey they have accumulated with so much skill and labour for their winter’s need.”
“And what conclusion do you draw from all this?”
“That we drones should give the poor and industrious human bees the innocent satisfaction of enjoying, at least for a day, the gilded cells they have constructed for us, — for us who subsist upon the honey gathered by others.”
Madame Zomaloff had dropped Florestan’s arm a few moments before. She now took it again, and walking on a few steps, so as to leave her aunt and the duke a little way behind her, she said to Saint-Herem, with deep earnestness:
“Your idea is charming, monsieur, and I do not wonder at the expression of contentment I notice on the faces of your guests. Yes, the more I think of it, the more just and generous the idea seems to me. After all, as you say, this superb mansion represents the combined labour of artisans of every degree, high and low; hence, in your eyes, this house must be much more than a marvel of good taste and luxury, as the associations connected with its construction will always be unspeakably precious to you. That being the case—”
“Go on, madame.”
“I cannot understand how—”
“You hesitate, madame. Speak, I beg of you.”
“M. de Riancourt has informed you of our intended marriage, monsieur,” said Madame Zomaloff, with some embarrassment, after a moment’s silence. “A couple of days ago, while talking with him about the difficulty of securing as large and handsomely appointed house as I desired, M. de Riancourt happened to remember that some one had told him that you might be willing to dispose of the house you had just completed.”
“Yes, madame, M. de Riancourt wrote, asking to be allowed to go through the house, and I advised him to wait until this evening, as I intended to give an entertainment, and he would consequently be much better able to judge of the arrangement and appearance of the reception-rooms, but I did not expect to have the honour of receiving you, madame.”
“I have ventured to ask you several questions already, monsieur,” remarked the young woman, with marked hesitation, “and I am going to hazard one more. How, monsieur, can you have the courage or the ingratitude to think of abandoning this home which you have created with so much interest and love, this home with which so many kind and generous memories are already associated?”
“Good Heavens! madame,” replied Saint-Herem, with the most cheerful air imaginable, “I am going to sell the house because I am ruined, utterly ruined! This is my last day as a man of wealth, and you must admit, madame, that, thanks to your presence here, the day could not have a happier or more brilliant ending.”
CHAPTER XIX.
A CHANGE OF OWNERS.
FLORESTAN DE SAINT-HEREM had uttered the words, “I am ruined, utterly ruined,” with such unruffled good-humour and cheerfulness that Madame Zomaloff stared at him in amazement, unable to believe her ears; so after a moment, she exclaimed:
“What, monsieur, you are—”
“Ruined, madame, utterly ruined. Five years ago my sainted uncle left me a fortune of nearly or quite five millions. I have spent that and nearly eighteen hundred thousand francs more, but the sale of this house and its contents will pay what I owe and leave me about one hundred thousand francs, upon which I can live in comfort in some quiet retreat. I shall turn shepherd, perhaps. That existence would be such a charming contrast to my past life, when impossibilities and marvellous dreams were changed into realities for me and my friends by the vast wealth of which I had so unexpectedly become the possessor, and when all that was beautiful, elegant, sumptuous, and rare was blended in my dazzling career. Would you believe it, madame, I was famed for my liberality through all Europe? Europe? Why! did not a Chandernagor lapidary send me a sabre, the handle of which was encrusted with precious stones, with the following note: ‘This scimitar belonged to Tippoo-Sahib; it ought now to belong to M. de Saint-Herem. The price is twenty-five thousand francs, payable at the house of the Rothschilds in Paris.’ Yes, madame, the rarest and most costly objects of art were sent to me from every part of the world. The finest English horses were in my stables; the most costly wines filled my cellar; the finest cooks quarrelled for the honour of serving me, and the famous Doctor Gasterini — you know him, madame, do you not?”
“Who has not heard of the greatest gourmand in the known world?”
“Ah, well, madame, that famous man declared he dined quite as well at my table as at his own — and he did not speak in equally flattering terms of M. de Talleyrand’s cuisine, I assure you. Believe me, madame, I have the consoling consciousness of having spent my fortune generously, nobly, and discriminately. I have no cause to reproach myself for a single foolish outlay or unworthy act. It is with a mind filled with delightful memories and a heart full of serenity that I see my wealth take flight.”
Saint-Herem’s tone was so earnest, the sincerity of his sentiments and his words were so legibly imprinted upon his frank and handsome face, that Madame Zomaloff, convinced of the truth of what he said, replied:
“Really, monsieur, such a philosophical way of viewing the subject amazes me. To think of renouncing a life like that you have been leading without one word of bitterness!”
“Bitterness! when I have known so many joys. That would be ungrateful, indeed!”
“And you can leave this enchanted palace without one sigh of regret, and that, too, just as you were about to enjoy it?”
“I did not know that the hour of my ruin was so close at hand until my rascally steward showed me the state of my bank account hardly a week ago, so you see I have lost no time. Besides, in leaving this palace which I have taken so much pleasure in creating, I am like a poet who has written the last verse of his poem, like the artist who has just given the last touch to his picture, after which they have the imperishable glory of having achieved a masterpiece to console them. In my case, madame, — excuse my artistic vanity, — this temple of luxury, art, and pleasure will be a noble monument; so how ungrateful I should be to complain of my lot! And you, madame, will reign here as the divinity of this temple, for you will purchase the house, I am sure. It would suit you so well. Do not let the opportunity to secure it pass. M. de Riancourt may or may not have told you, but he knows that Lord Wilmot has made me a handsome offer for it. I should be so sorry to be obliged to sell to him, for he is so ugly, and so is his wife and his five daughters as well. Think what presiding spirits they would be for this splendid temple, which seems somehow to have been built expressly for you. I have one favour to ask, though, madame. That large painting of my uncle is a fine work of art, and though the name and face of Saint-Ramon appear several times in the medallions that adorn the facade, it would be a pleasure to me to think that this worthy uncle of mine would gaze down for ages to come upon the pleasures which he denied himself all his life!”
The conversation between the countess and Saint-Herem was here interrupted by M. de Riancourt. The party had been making a tour of the reception apartments as they talked, and the duke now said to Florestan:
“The house is superb, and everything is in perfect taste, but eighteen hundred thousand francs is entirely too much to ask for it, even including furniture and silver.”
“I have no personal interest in the matter, I assure you, my dear duke,” replied Florestan, smiling. “The eighteen hundred thousand francs will all go to my creditors, so I must needs be unpleasantly tenacious in regard to price; besides, Lord Wilmot offers me
that amount, and is urging me to accept it.”
“‘My star has not deserted me.’”
Original etching by Adrian Marcel.
“But you will certainly make concessions to me that you would not make to Lord Wilmot, my dear fellow. Come, Saint-Herem, don’t be obdurate. Make a reasonable reduction—”
“M. de Saint-Herem,” hastily interposed the countess, “the duke must permit me to interfere with his negotiations, for I will take the house at the price you have mentioned. I give you my word, and I ask yours in return.”
“Thank Heaven, madame, my star has not deserted me,” said Florestan, cordially offering his hand to Madame Zomaloff. “The matter is settled.”
“But, madame!” exclaimed M. de Riancourt, greatly surprised and not a little annoyed at this display of impulsiveness on the part of his future wife, — for he had hoped to secure a reduction in price from Saint-Herem,— “really, this is a very important matter, and you ought not to commit yourself in this way without consulting me.”
“You have my word, M. de Saint-Herem,” said Madame Zomaloff, again interrupting the duke. “This purchase of mine is a purely personal matter. If convenient to you, my agent will confer with yours to-morrow.”
“Very well, madame,” replied Saint-Herem. Then, turning to M. de Riancourt, he added, gaily, “You are not offended, I hope, monsieur. It is all your own fault, though. You should have played the grand seigneur, not haggled like a shopkeeper.”
Just at that moment the orchestra, which had not been playing for nearly a quarter of an hour, gave the signal for the dancing to begin.
“Pardon me for leaving you, countess,” remarked Saint-Herem, again turning to Madame Zomaloff, “but I have invited a young girl to dance this set with me, — a very pretty girl, the daughter of one of the head carpenters who built my house, or, rather, your house, madame. It is pleasant to take this thought, at least, away with me on leaving you.”
And bowing respectfully to Madame Zomaloff, their host went in search of the charming young girl he had engaged as a partner, and the ball began.
“My dear Fedora,” said the princess, who had watched her niece’s long conversation with Saint-Herem with no little annoyance, “it is getting late, and we promised our friend that we would be at her house early.”
“You must permit me to say that I think you have acted much too hastily in this matter,” said the duke to his fiancée. “Saint-Herem has got to sell this house to pay his debts, and, with a little perseverance, we could have induced him to take at least fifty thousand francs less, particularly if you had insisted upon it. It is always so hard to refuse a pretty woman anything,” added M. de Riancourt, with his most insinuating smile.
“What are you thinking of, my dear Fedora?” asked the princess, touching the young woman lightly on the arm, for her niece, who was standing with one elbow resting on a gilded console loaded with flowers, seemed to have relapsed into a profound reverie, and evidently had not heard a single word that her aunt and the duke had said to her. “Why don’t you answer? What is the matter with you?”
“I hardly know. I feel very strangely,” replied the countess, dreamily.
“You need air, probably, my dear countess,” said M. de Riancourt. “I am not at all surprised. Though the apartments are very large, this plebeian crowd renders the atmosphere suffocating, and—”
“Are you ill, Fedora?” asked the princess, with increasing uneasiness.
“Not in the least. On the contrary, the emotion I experience is full of sweetness and charm, so, my dear aunt, I scarcely know how to express—”
“Possibly it is the powerful odour of these flowers that affects you so peculiarly,” suggested M. de Riancourt.
“No, it is not that. I hesitate to tell you and my aunt; you will think it so strange and absurd.”
“Explain, Fedora, I beg of you.”
“I will, but you will be greatly surprised,” responded the young widow with a half-confidential, half-coquettish air. Then, turning to M. de Riancourt, she said, in an undertone:
“It seems to me—”
“Well, my dear countess?”
“That—”
“Go on. I beg of you.”
“That I am dying to marry M. de Saint-Herem.”
“Madame!” exclaimed the astonished duke, turning crimson with anger. “Madame!”
“What is the matter, my dear duke?” asked the princess quickly.
“Madame la comtesse,” said the duke, forcing a smile, “your jest is — is rather unseemly, to say the least, and—”
“Give me your arm, my dear duke,” said Madame Zomaloff, with the most natural air imaginable, “for it is late. We ought to have been at the embassy some time ago. It is all your fault, too. How is it that you, who are punctuality personified, did not strike the hour of eleven long ago.”
“Ah, madame, I am in no mood for laughing,” exclaimed the duke, in his most sentimental tones. “How your cruel jest pained me just now! It almost broke my heart.”
“I had no idea your heart was so vulnerable, my poor friend.”
“Ah, madame, you are very unjust, when I would gladly give my life for you.”
“Would you, really? Ah, well, I shall ask no such heroic sacrifice as that on your part, my dear duke.”
A few minutes afterward, Madame Zomaloff, her aunt, and the duke left the Hôtel Saint-Ramon.
Almost at the same instant the stranger who looked so much like an aged mulatto left the palatial dwelling, bewildered by what he had just seen and heard. The clock in a neighbouring church was striking the hour as he descended the steps.
“Half-past eleven!” the old man murmured. “I have plenty of time to reach Chaillot before midnight. Ah, what other strange things am I about to hear?”
CHAPTER XX.
THE RETURN.
THE OLD MAN climbed the hill leading to the Rue de Chaillot, and soon reached the church of that poor and densely populated faubourg.
Contrary to custom at that hour, the church was lighted. Through the open door the brilliantly illuminated nave and altar could be plainly seen. Though the edifice was still empty, some solemn ceremony was evidently about to take place, for though midnight was close at hand, there were lights in many of the neighbouring houses, and several groups had assembled on the pavement in front of the church. Approaching one of these groups, the old man listened attentively, and heard the following conversation:
“They will be here soon, now.”
“Yes, for it is almost midnight.”
“It is a strange hour to be married, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but when one gets a dowry, one needn’t be too particular about the hour.”
“Who is to be married at this hour, gentlemen?” inquired the old man.
“It is very evident that you don’t live in this neighbourhood, my friend.”
“No. I am a stranger here.”
“If you were not, you would know that it was the night for those six marriages that have taken place here on the night of the twelfth of May, for the last four years. On the night of the twelfth of May, every year, six poor young girls are married in this church, and each girl receives a dowry of ten thousand francs.”
“From whom?”
“From a worthy man who died five years ago. He left a handsome fund for this purpose, and his name is consequently wonderfully popular in Chaillot.”
“And what is the name of the worthy man who dowered these young girls so generously?” inquired the stranger, with a slight tremor in his voice.
“They call him Father Richard, monsieur. He has a son, a very fine young man, who carries out his father’s last wishes religiously. And a nobler man than M. Louis never lived. Everybody knows that he and his wife and child live on three or four thousand francs a year, and yet they must have inherited a big fortune from Father Richard, to be able to give six young girls a dowry of ten thousand francs apiece every year, to say nothing of the expenses of the school and
of Father Richard’s Home.”
“Pardon a stranger’s curiosity, monsieur, but you speak of a school.”
“Yes, Father Richard’s School. Madame Mariette has charge of it.”
“Madame Mariette, who is she?”
“M. Louis Richard’s wife. The school was founded for twenty-five little boys and as many little girls, who remain there until they are twelve years old, and are then apprenticed to carefully chosen persons. The children are well clothed and fed, and each child receives ten sous a day besides, to encourage them to save their money.”
“And you say it is M. Louis Richard’s wife who has charge of this school?”
“Yes, monsieur, and she says she takes so much interest in it because before her marriage she was a poor working girl who could neither read nor write, and that she herself suffered so cruelly from a lack of education, that she is glad to be able to prevent others from suffering what she suffered.”
“But the home — You also spoke of a home, I believe.”
“That was founded for working women who are ill, or no longer able to work. Madame Lacombe has charge of that.”
“And who is Madame Lacombe?”
“Madame Mariette’s godmother, a good woman who has lost one arm. She is kindness and patience personified to the poor women under her charge, and it is not at all to be wondered at, for she too knows what it is to be poor and infirm; for, as she tells everybody, before her goddaughter married M. Louis they often went hungry for days at a time. But here comes the bridal party. Step in here beside me so you can see them better.”
Louis Richard, with Madame Lacombe on his arm, walked at the head of the little procession; then came Mariette, holding a handsome little four-year-old boy by the hand.
No one would have recognised Madame Lacombe. Her once pallid and wrinkled face was plump and rosy, and characterised by an expression of perfect content. She wore a lace bonnet, and a handsome shawl partially concealed her silk gown.
