by Eugène Sue
CHAPTER II.
ANOTHER EBULLITION OF TEMPER.
WE WILL LEAVE M. Cloarek to make his way to the court-house after exploits which would have done honour to one of the gladiators of old, and say a few words in regard to the masquerade ball, to which the impetuous magistrate’s seconds had referred on their way back to town after the duel.
This ball, a bold innovation for a provincial town, was to take place that same evening at the house of M. Bonneval, a wealthy merchant, and the father-in-law of the presiding judge of the court to which Yvon Cloarek belonged, and all the members of the court having been invited to this entertainment, and some disguise being obligatory, it had been decided to wear either a black domino, or costumes of a sufficiently grave character not to compromise the dignity of the body.
Cloarek was one of the invited guests. The account of his duel of the morning as well as the chastisement he had inflicted upon the countryman, though noised about the town, had not reached Madame Cloarek’s ears at nightfall, so the magistrate’s household was calm, and occupied, like many others in the town, in preparations for the evening’s festivities, for in those days masquerade parties were rare in the provinces. The dining-room of the modest home, strewn with fabrics of divers colours as well as scraps of gold and silver embroidery and braid, looked very much like a dressmaker’s establishment. Three young sewing-women chattering like magpies were working there under the superintendence of an honest, pleasant-faced woman about thirty years of age, whom they called Dame Roberts. This worthy woman, after having served as a nurse for M. Cloarek’s daughter, now acted as maid, or rather confidential attendant to Madame Cloarek; for, in consequence of her devotion and faithful service, relations of affectionate familiarity had been established between her and her mistress.
“One scallop more, and this embroidered ribbon will be sewed on the hat,” remarked one of the young sewing-women.
“I have finished hemming the sash,” remarked the second girl.
“I have only two more silver buttons to sew on the waistcoat,” added the third.
“That is well, girls,” said Dame Roberts. “M. Cloarek’s costume will be one of the most effective there, I am sure.”
“It seems very odd to think of a judge in a masquerade costume, all the same.”
“Nonsense! don’t they disguise themselves every day when they put their robes on?”
“A judge’s robe is not a disguise, but a badge of office, you ought to understand,” said Dame Roberts, severely.
“Excuse me, Dame Roberts,” replied the offender, blushing to the roots of her hair, “I meant no harm, I am sure.”
“What a pity it is that Madame Cloarek is not going!” remarked one of the other girls, in the hope of giving a more agreeable turn to the conversation.
“Ah, if I were in Madame Cloarek’s place, I wouldn’t miss such an opportunity. A masquerade ball! why, it is a piece of good fortune that may present itself but once in a lifetime. But here comes M. Segoffin. Good day, M. Segoffin! And how does M. Segoffin find himself to-day?”
The newcomer was a tall, thin man about forty years of age, with an immensely long nose, slightly turned up at the end, which imparted a very peculiar expression to his face. His complexion was so white and his beardless face so impassible that he looked exactly like a clown, and the resemblance was heightened by a pair of piercing black eyes, which gave a mocking expression to his face, and by a small, round black wig. A long gray overcoat, brown knee-breeches, blue and white striped stockings, and low shoes with big silver buckles formed the every-day costume of M. Segoffin, who carried a red umbrella under his arm and an old cocked hat in his hand.
After having remained twenty years in the service of M. Cloarek’s father, at that gentleman’s death he transferred his allegiance to the son whom he had known as a child, and whom he served with unwearying devotion.
On his entrance, as we have just remarked, he was greeted with mocking laughs and exclamations of —
“Here comes M. Segoffin. Ah, good day, M. Segoffin!” But without losing his habitual sang-froid in the least, he laid his umbrella and hat down on a chair, and, seizing the prettiest of his tormentors in his long arms, kissed her loudly on both cheeks in spite of her shrieks and spirited resistance. Well satisfied with this beginning, he was preparing to repeat the offence when Madame Roberts, seizing him by one of his coat-tails, exclaimed, indignantly:
“Segoffin, Segoffin! such behaviour is outrageous!”
“That which is done is done,” said Segoffin, sententiously, passing his long, bony hand across his lips with an air of retrospective enjoyment, as the young sewing-woman quitted the room with her companions, all laughing like mad and exclaiming: “Good night, M. Segoffin, good night.”
Left alone with the delinquent, Dame Roberts exclaimed:
“Would any one on earth but you coolly commit such enormities in the respectable household of a magistrate?”
“What on earth do you mean, I should like to know?”
“Why, hugging and kissing that girl right under my very nose when you are persecuting me with your declarations of love all the time.”
“I do believe you’re jealous!”
“Jealous! Get that idea out of your head as soon as possible. If I ever do marry again, — which God forbid! — it certainly will not be you I choose for a husband.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Perfectly sure.”
“That which is to be, will be, my dear.”
“But—”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed her phlegmatic companion, interrupting her with the most positive air imaginable. “You are dying to marry me, and you will marry me, so it is not worth while to say any more about it.”
“You are right,” exclaimed the woman, exasperated by her interlocutor’s overweening conceit. “I think, with you, that we had better drop the subject. Monsieur’s costume is finished. Take it up to his room, for he will return from court very soon, I am sure.”
“From court,” sighed Segoffin, shaking his head sadly.
A sigh was such a rare thing for this impassive individual to indulge in, that Dame Roberta’s anxiety was aroused, and she asked, quickly:
“Why are you sighing like a furnace, you who display no emotion at all, ordinarily?”
“I expected it,” remarked Segoffin, shaking his head dubiously.
“What has happened? Tell me at once, for Heaven’s sake.”
“M. Cloarek has thrown the chief judge of the court out of the window,” responded Segoffin, with another sigh.
“Mon Dieu!”
“There is no undoing that which is done.”
“But what you say is absurd.”
“It was out of a window on the first floor, so he didn’t have far to fall,” said Segoffin, thoughtfully, “and the presiding judge is sure to have landed on his feet as usual. He’s a sharp fellow.”
“Look here, Segoffin, I don’t believe a single word you’re telling me. It is only one of those cock-and-bull stories you’re so fond of inventing, and it is really a shame for you to make merry at monsieur’s expense, when he has always been so kind to you.”
“Very well, you may think I am joking, if you want to,” replied Segoffin, coldly, “but you had better give me monsieur’s costume. He told me to take it up to his room, and he will be here before very long now.”
“It is really true that there has been a scene between monsieur and the chief judge, then?” exclaimed Suzanne.
“Of course, as monsieur threw him out of the window.”
“Oh, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! Monsieur will lose his place this time, then.”
“Why?”
“Why? Why, after such scandalous behaviour on the part of a magistrate he is sure to lose his office, I tell you, and poor madame! What a shock it will be to her in her condition. What a life she leads! obliged to be always on the watch, adoring her husband, but in mortal terror all the while as to what he may say or do. But tell m
e how you happened to hear of this calamity.”
“Well, I went to the palace an hour ago to take monsieur a letter. I found the whole place in a hubbub. The lawyers and all the rest of the people in the building were racing to and fro, and asking: ‘Have you heard about it?’ ‘Is it possible?’ It seems that after the court adjourned, the presiding judge summoned M. Cloarek into his office. He wanted to see him about his duel, some said.”
“His duel? What duel?”
“The duel he fought this morning,” answered Segoffin, phlegmatically.
And taking advantage of his companion’s speechless consternation, he continued:
“Others declared that the chief judge had sent for him to see about a fracas monsieur had had with a countryman whom he nearly killed.”
“What countryman?” asked Suzanne, with increasing alarm.
“The last one,” answered Segoffin, naïvely. “Well, it seems, or at least so they told me at the palace, that monsieur went into the presiding judge’s private office; they got to quarrelling, and one man finally threw the other man out of the window, and I know monsieur so well,” added Segoffin, with a satisfied smile, “that I said to myself, ‘If any one was thrown out of the window it must have been the other man, not monsieur,’ and I was right. There is no undoing that which has been done.”
“There is no undoing that which has been done? That tiresome old saying is for ever in your mouth, it seems to me. Is it possible you cannot see the consequences of all this?”
“What is to be, will be.”
“Fine consolation that, is it not? This is the third time monsieur has run a great risk of losing his place in consequence of giving way to his temper, and this time he will be put out, sure.”
“Well, if he loses his place, he will lose it.”
“Indeed! But he needs the office on account of his wife and little daughter, and as there will be still another mouth to feed before many months have passed, what is to become of him and his family if he loses his position?”
“Your question is too much for me. I had better be getting up-stairs with this toggery, I know that, though.”
“Have you lost your senses completely? Monsieur isn’t really thinking of going to this entertainment to-night, after what has occurred!”
“He isn’t? That shows how much you know about it.”
“But after what has occurred, he surely will not go to this ball, I say.”
“You see if he doesn’t.”
“What, go to a ball given by the presiding judge’s father-in-law?”
“He is all the more likely to on that very account.”
“But it is impossible, I tell you. Monsieur would not dare after all the scandalous occurrences of this unfortunate day. The whole town will be up in arms if he does.”
“He is ready for them.”
“He is ready for them?”
“Most assuredly. He is not the man to draw back, no matter how many persons league themselves together against him,” responded Segoffin, with a triumphant air. “I saw him after his row with the presiding judge, and I said to him, ‘Aren’t you afraid you will be arrested, M. Yvon?’ ‘No one has any business to meddle with what passed between me and the chief justice so long as he doesn’t complain, and he is not likely to do that, for if the cause of our quarrel should be made public he would be hopelessly disgraced.’ Those were monsieur’s very words, Suzanne. ‘Well, will you go to the ball just the same?’ I asked. ‘Certainly. I intend to be the first to go and the last to leave. Otherwise people might think I regretted what I had done, or that I was afraid. If my presence at this fête scandalises anybody, and they show it in any way, I shall know what to say and do, never fear; so go back home, and have my costume ready for me when I get there.’”
“What a man of iron he is!” sighed Suzanne. “Always the same, and poor madame suspects nothing.”
“I will take the costume up to monsieur’s room and wait for him there, for I am as certain that he will go to this entertainment as I am that you will marry me some day, remember that.”
“If such a misfortune is ever to befall me, I shall try to keep it out of my mind as much as possible,” retorted Dame Roberts, curtly, as she hastened off to her mistress.
CHAPTER III.
THE WARNING.
AT FIRST SUZANNE felt strongly inclined to inform Madame Cloarek of the momentous events which had occurred that day, but after reflecting on the effect this news might have upon the young wife, she abandoned that idea and resolved to confine herself to an effort to make her mistress devise some pretext for preventing M. Cloarek from attending the masquerade ball, realising that such an audacious act on his part might have the most disastrous consequences.
Suzanne’s position was extremely trying, for it was necessary for her to conceal the events of the day from her mistress, on the one hand, and yet implore her to use her influence over her husband to prevent him from going to this entertainment, on the other.
She was consequently in a very perplexed frame of mind when she entered the apartment of her mistress, who, without being really beautiful in the general acceptation of the word, had a remarkably sweet and attractive face, though the extreme pallor of her complexion and her frail appearance generally indicated very delicate health.
Jenny Cloarek, seated beside a swinging crib, the silken curtains of which were closely drawn, was occupied with some embroidery, while with her little foot she occasionally imparted a gentle oscillatory motion to the little bed in which her five-year-old daughter was reposing. It was night, and the soft light of a lamp illumined the peaceful picture.
When Suzanne entered the room, Madame Cloarek held up a finger warningly, and said to her, in a low tone:
“Don’t make a noise, Suzanne. My little Sabine is just going to sleep.”
And as the maid approached on tiptoe her mistress added: “Has my husband returned yet?”
“No, madame.”
“His going out so early this morning upset me for all day, for I was asleep when he came back, and so long a time seldom elapses without my seeing him. By the way, is his costume finished, and is it a success? You know I promised my husband I would make no attempt to see it until I could see it on him.”
“It is very handsome, madame.”
“And you think it will prove becoming?”
“Extremely, madame.”
“I am almost sorry now that I made up my mind not to go to this entertainment. I never attended a masquerade ball in my life, and I should have enjoyed it immensely; but I shall enjoy Yvon’s account of it almost as much, provided he does not stay too late, for I feel rather more tired and weak than usual to-day, it seems to me.”
“Madame does not feel as well as usual this evening?”
“No; still I do not complain, for it is one of those sufferings that promise me new joys,” she added, with a smile of ineffable sweetness.
As she spoke the young mother leaned forward and cautiously parted the curtains of the crib, then after a moment of blissful contemplation she added, as she again settled herself in her armchair:
“The dear little thing is sleeping very sweetly, now. Ah, my good Suzanne, with a husband and child like mine, what more could I ask for in this world, unless it be a little better health so I may be able to nurse my next child, for do you know, Suzanne, I used to be dreadfully jealous of you for acting as part mother to my little Sabine? But now my health is better, it seems to me I have nothing more to ask for. Even my dear Yvon’s impetuosity, which used to cause me so much uneasiness, seems to have subsided of late. Poor fellow, how often I witnessed his efforts to overcome, not a fault, but his very nature. Had it been a fault, with his energy and determination of character, he would have overcome it years and years ago; but at last, thank Heaven, his disposition seems to have become much more even.”
“Undoubtedly, madame,” replied Suzanne, “monsieur’s temper is much more even now.”
“And when I think how kind and
gentle he has always been to me,” continued the young wife, tenderly, “and how I have never been the object or the cause of any of the terrible ebullitions of temper which I have witnessed with so much terror, and which have often proved so disastrous in their consequences to him, I realise how devotedly he must love me!”
“He would indeed be a madman to fly in a passion with one as kind and gentle as you, my poor dear lady.”
“Hush, flatterer,” replied Jenny, smiling. “It is not my amiability of disposition, but his love for me that prevents it, and though I am almost ashamed to confess it, I cannot help feeling proud sometimes when I think that I have never excited any feeling but the tenderest consideration in such an impassioned and indomitable nature.”
“Monsieur is really one of the best-hearted men in the world, madame, and, as you say, it must be his temperament that carries him away in spite of himself, for unfortunately with characters like these the merest trifle may lead to a terrible explosion.”
“What you say is so true, Suzanne, that my poor husband, in order not to expose himself to dangers of that kind, spends nearly all his evenings at home with me instead of seeking amusement as so many persons do in public places where his quick temper might involve him in endless difficulties.”
