by Eugène Sue
“I think, madame, with you, that for your own peace of mind, and monsieur’s as well, it is advisable to avoid all places where there is any danger of one’s anger being aroused, so, madame, if you will take my advice—”
“Well, Suzanne, why do you pause so suddenly? What is the matter?”
“I — I—”
“Go on, Suzanne.”
“Don’t you fear that the masquerade ball this evening—”
“Well?”
“Is a rather dangerous place for monsieur to go?”
“What an absurd idea!”
“There will be a great many people there.”
“True; but they will be the best people in town, as the ball is given by the father-in-law of the presiding judge.”
“Undoubtedly, madame, but I think I have heard that people chaff each other a good deal at these masquerade balls, and if monsieur, being quick-tempered, should take offence—”
“You are right, Suzanne. I had not thought of that.”
“I don’t like to worry you, madame, still—”
“On the other hand, my husband is too much of a gentleman, and too used to the ways of the world, to take offence at any of the liberties permissible at such an entertainment; besides, his intimate relations with the court over which M. Bonneval’s son-in-law presides make it almost obligatory upon him to attend this ball, for it having been agreed that all the members of the court should go, Yvon’s absence might be considered a mark of disrespect to the presiding judge, to whom my husband is really subordinate.”
“My poor lady! if she but knew how her husband evinces his subordination to the presiding judge,” thought Suzanne.
“No, you need have no fear, Suzanne,” continued the young wife, “the presiding judge’s very presence at this entertainment, the deference Yvon must feel for him, will necessitate the maintenance of the utmost decorum on his part; besides, my husband’s absence would be sure to excite remark.”
“Still, madame—”
“Oh, I shall urge Yvon to be very prudent,” added Jenny, smiling, “but I see no reason why he should not avail himself of an opportunity for enjoyment that our retired life will make doubly pleasant to him.”
So Suzanne, fearing the consequences of her mistress’s blindness, said, resolutely:
“Madame, monsieur must not be allowed to attend this fête.”
“I do not understand you, Suzanne.”
“Heed what I say, madame, and for your own sake and the sake of your child prevent monsieur from attending this entertainment,” exclaimed Suzanne, clasping her hands imploringly.
“What is the matter, Suzanne? You alarm me.”
“You know how entirely I am devoted to you, madame?”
“Yes; but explain.”
“You know perfectly well, too, that I would not run any risk of alarming you if it were not absolutely necessary. Believe me, some terrible misfortune is likely to happen if monsieur attends this fête.”
Dame Roberts could say no more, for just then the door opened, and Yvon Cloarek entered his wife’s room. Suzanne dared not remain any longer, so she departed, but not until after she had given her mistress one more imploring look.
CHAPTER IV.
“THOSE WHOM THE GODS DESTROY THEY FIRST MAKE MAD.”
YVON CLOAREK WAS only about thirty years of age, and the Breton costume in which he had just arrayed himself set off his robust and symmetrical figure to admirable advantage.
This severe but elegant costume consisted of a rather long black jacket elaborately embroidered with yellow on the collar and sleeves, and still further ornamented with rows of tiny silver buttons set very close together. The waistcoat, too, was black, and trimmed with embroidery and buttons to match the jacket. A broad sash of orange silk encircled the waist. Large trousers of white linen, almost as wide as the floating skirt of the Greek Palikares, extended to the knee. Below, his shapely limbs were encased in tight-fitting buckskin leggings. He wore a round, nearly flat hat, encircled with an orange ribbon embroidered with silver, the ends of which hung down upon his shoulders. Thanks to this costume and to his thick golden hair, his eyes blue as the sea itself, his strong features, and his admirable carriage, Cloarek was an admirable type of the valiant race of Breton Bretons, of the sturdy sons of Armorica, as the historians style them.
When he entered his wife’s room, Yvon’s face was still a trifle clouded, and though he made a powerful effort to conceal the feelings which the exciting events of the day had aroused, his wife, whose apprehensions had already been awakened by Dame Roberts’s warning, was struck by the expression of his face. He, entirely ignorant of these suspicions on her part, having done everything possible to conceal the disquieting occurrences of the day from her, approached very slowly and pausing a few steps from his wife, asked, smilingly:
“Well, how do you like my costume, Jenny? I hope I am faithful to the traditions of my native province, and that I shall represent Brittany creditably at the fête?”
“There isn’t the slightest doubt that the costume of your native province is wonderfully becoming,” replied the young mother, with some embarrassment.
“Really? Well, I am delighted,” said Yvon, kissing his wife fondly; “you know I set great store by your approval even in the most trifling matters, my dear.”
“Yes,” replied Madame Cloarek, with deep feeling, “yes, I know your tender love for me, your deference to my slightest wish.”
“Great credit I deserve for that! It is so easy and pleasant to defer to you, my Jenny, — to bow this hard, stiff Breton neck before you, and say: ‘I abdicate to you. Command; I will obey.’”
“Ah, my dear Yvon, if you only knew how happy it makes me to hear you say that, to-day especially.”
These last words failed to attract Yvon’s attention, however, and he continued:
“What are the little concessions I make, my dearest, in comparison with the blissful happiness I owe to you? Think,” he added, turning to the crib, “this little angel that is the joy of my life, who gave her to me?” And he was about to open the curtains, when his wife said to him, warningly:
“Take care, Yvon, she is asleep.”
“Let me just take one peep at her, only one. I have not seen her all day.”
“The light of the lamp might arouse her, my dear, and the poor little thing has just had such a trying time.”
“What! has she been ill?” inquired Cloarek, anxiously, leaving the cradle. “Do you really feel uneasy about her?”
“Not now, my dear, but you know how extremely nervous and excitable she is. She resembles me only too much in this respect,” added Jenny, with a melancholy smile.
“And I, far from regretting that the dear child is so impressionable, rejoice at it, on the contrary, for I hope she will be endowed with the same exquisite sensibility of feeling that you are.”
The young woman gently shook her head.
“This is what happened. Our big Newfoundland dog came into the room, and frightened the poor little thing so that I had great difficulty in quieting her afterward.”
“I am thankful it was nothing serious. But how have you passed the day? You were asleep this morning, and I would not wake you. You know how much solicitude I always feel about your health, but it is even more precious to me than ever now,” he added, smiling tenderly upon her.
Jenny slipped her little frail white hand into her husband’s.
“What courage your love gives me,” she murmured, softly. “Thanks to that, I can even bear suffering bravely.”
“Then you have not been feeling as well as usual to-day?” exclaimed Yvon, anxiously. “Tell me, Jenny, why didn’t you send for the doctor?”
“I did not need to, for have I not a great and learned physician in whom I have perfect confidence, and who I am sure will not refuse me any attention I ask?”
“Yes, I understand. I am that great and learned physician, I suppose.”
“And could I select a more caref
ul and devoted one?”
“No, certainly not; so go on and consult me, Jenny.”
“My dear Yvon, though I have not undergone any very severe suffering to-day, I have experienced and I still experience a sort of vague uneasiness, as well as an unusual depression of spirits. Oh, don’t be alarmed, it is nothing serious; besides, you can cure me completely if you will, my beloved doctor.”
“How? Tell me at once.”
“But will you do it?”
“Why, Jenny, — what a question!”
“I repeat that my cure depends absolutely and entirely upon you.”
“So much the better, then, for, in that case, you are cured. Go on; explain, my charming invalid.”
“Remain with me, then.”
“Have I any intention of leaving you?”
“But the entertainment this evening?” ventured the young wife, hesitatingly.
“I dressed early, you see, so as to be able to remain with you until the very last moment.”
“Don’t leave me this evening, Yvon.”
“What?”
“Give up this fête for my sake.”
“You cannot mean it, surely.”
“Stay at home with me.”
“But, Jenny, you yourself insisted that—”
“That you should accept the invitation. That is true. This very morning I was rejoicing that you were going to have this diversion, — you who lead such an extremely quiet life.”
“Then why have you changed your mind so suddenly?”
“How can I tell?” responded the young wife, much embarrassed. “It is only an absurd and senseless whim on my part, doubtless. All I know is that you would make me happy, oh, very happy, if you would do what I ask, absurd and ridiculous as it may appear to you.”
“My poor darling,” Yvon said, tenderly, after a moment’s reflection, “in your condition, and nervous as you are, I can easily understand why you should, in spite of your good sense, be beset with all sorts of contradictory notions, and that you should be averse in the evening to what you most wished for in the morning. Do you suppose I should think of such a thing as blaming you for that?”
“You are the best and most kind-hearted man in the world, Yvon!” exclaimed the young wife, her eyes filling with tears of joy, for she felt sure now that her husband was going to accede to her wishes. “There are not many men who would be so patient with the whims of a poor woman who knows neither what she wants nor why she wants it.”
“But in my character of physician I do, you see,” replied Yvon, kissing his wife’s brow tenderly. “Look,” he added, glancing at the clock, “it is now nine o’clock; ten minutes to go, ten to return, and a quarter of an hour to remain at the ball, — it is a matter of three-quarters of an hour at most. I will be back here by ten o’clock, I promise you.”
“What, Yvon, you persist in your determination to attend this entertainment?”
“Just to show myself there, that is all.”
“I beg you will not, Yvon.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t go.”
“What! not even for a few moments?”
“Do not leave me this evening, I entreat you.”
“But, be reasonable, Jenny.”
“Make this slight sacrifice for my sake, I implore you.”
“But, Jenny, this is childish.”
“Call it childishness, idiocy, what you will, but don’t leave me this evening.”
“Jenny, love, it breaks my heart to see you so unreasonable, for I am obliged to refuse you.”
“Yvon—”
“It is absolutely necessary for me to show myself at this entertainment, though I need remain only a few moments.”
“But, my dear Yvon—”
A flush of impatience mounted to Cloarek’s brow, nevertheless he controlled himself, and said to his wife in the same affectionate though slightly reproachful tone:
“Such persistency on your part surprises me, Jenny. You know I am not in the habit of having to be begged. On the contrary, I have always endeavoured to anticipate your wishes, so spare me the annoyance of being obliged to say ‘no’ to you for the first time in my life.”
“Great Heavens!” exclaimed the now thoroughly distressed woman, “to think of your attaching so much importance to a mere pleasure—”
“Pleasure!” exclaimed Yvon, bitterly, his eyes kindling. Then restraining himself, he added:
“If it were a question of pleasure, you would not have been obliged to ask me but once, Jenny.”
“But if you are not going for pleasure, why do you go at all?”
“I am going for appearance’s sake,” replied Yvon, promptly.
“In that case, can’t you let appearances go, just this once, for my sake?”
“I must attend this entertainment, Jenny,” said Yvon, whose face had become purple now; “I must and shall, so say no more about it.”
“And I say that you shall not,” exclaimed the young woman, unable to conceal her alarm any longer; “for there must be some grave reason that you are concealing from me to make you persist in refusing, when you are always so kind and affectionate to me.”
“Jenny!” exclaimed Cloarek, stamping his foot, angrily, for this opposition was intensely exasperating to a person of his irascible nature, “not another word! Do you hear me? Not another word!”
“Listen to me, Yvon,” said his wife, with dignity. “I shall resort to subterfuge no longer. It is unworthy of us both. I am afraid, yes, afraid for you to go to this fête, for I have been told that your presence there might cause trouble.”
“Who told you that? who said that? Answer me!” cried Cloarek, in a more and more angry tone, and so loudly that the child in the crib woke. “Why should you feel afraid? You have heard something, then, I suppose.”
“There is something, then, Yvon,” cried the poor woman, more and more alarmed. “There is some terrible thing that you are keeping from me!”
Yvon remained silent and motionless for a moment, for a violent struggle was going on in his breast, but calmness and reason finally conquered, and approaching his wife to kiss her before going out, he said:
“I shall return almost immediately, Jenny. You will not have to wait for me long.”
But the young woman hastily sprang up, and, before her husband could make a movement to prevent it, she had run to the door, locked it, and removed the key; then turning to Yvon, she said, with all the energy of despair:
“You shall not leave this room. We will see if you dare to come and take this key from me.”
Utterly stupefied at first, then exasperated beyond expression by Jenny’s determined action, he gave way to his anger to such an extent that his features became unrecognisable. The flush that had suffused his face was succeeded by a livid pallor, his eyes became bloodshot, and, advancing threateningly toward his wife, he exclaimed, in a terrible voice:
“The key! give me the key!”
“No, I will save you in spite of yourself,” replied Jenny, intrepidly.
“Wretch!” cried Cloarek, now completely beside himself.
The young woman had never been the object of her husband’s anger before in her life, so it is impossible to convey any idea of the horror she experienced on seeing him ready to rush upon her. Terrified by his ferocious, bloodthirsty look, in which there seemed to be not even the slightest gleam of recognition, she remained for a moment trembling and motionless, feeling as if she were about to swoon. Suddenly the little girl, who had been awakened several minutes before by the loud talking, parted the curtains of her crib and looked out. Not recognising her father, and mistaking him for a stranger, as she had never before seen him in such a costume, she uttered a shrill cry of terror, and exclaimed:
“Oh, mamma, the black man! the black man!”
“The key! give me the key!” repeated Cloarek, in thunder tones, taking another step toward his wife, who, slipping the key in her bosom, ran to the crib and caught her child in he
r arms, while the little girl, more and more terrified, hid her face on her mother’s breast, sobbing:
“Oh, that black man, that black man, he means to kill mamma!”
“To take this key from me, you will have to tear my child from my arms,” said the frail but courageous woman.
“You don’t know that I am capable of anything when I am angry,” exclaimed the unfortunate man, aroused to such a pitch of fury as to be blind and deaf to the most sacred sentiments. As he spoke, he rushed toward his wife in such a frenzied, menacing manner that the unfortunate woman, believing herself lost, strained her little daughter to her breast, and, bowing her head, cried:
“Spare, oh, spare my child!”
This cry of agony and of maternal despair penetrated to the innermost depths of Yvon’s soul. He stopped short, then quicker than thought he turned, and, with a strength that his fury rendered irresistible, dashed himself against the door with such impetuosity that it gave way.
On hearing the sound, Madame Cloarek raised her head in even greater terror, for her child was in convulsions, caused by fright, and seemed likely to die in her arms.
“Help!” faltered Jenny, faintly. “Help, Yvon, our child is dying!”
A despairing cry answered these panting words uttered by Jenny, who felt that she, too, was dying, for in this delicate woman’s critical condition such a shock was almost certain to prove fatal.
“Yvon, our child is dying!”
Cloarek, who was still only a few yards off, heard these lamentable words. The horror of the thought that his child was dying dispelled his anger as if by magic, and, rushing wildly back into his wife’s room, he saw her still standing by the crib, but already as livid as a spectre.
With a supreme effort Jenny extended her arms to place her child in her husband’s hands, faltering:
“Take her, I am dying,” and without another word fell heavily at the feet of Cloarek, who, with his child strained to his breast, stood as if dazed, hearing nothing, seeing nothing.
CHAPTER V.
DEADLY ENMITY.
TWELVE YEARS AFTER the events we have just related, late in the month of March, 1812, about two o’clock in the afternoon a traveller walked into the inn known as the Imperial Eagle, the only tavern in the town of Sorville, which was then the second station on the post-road between Dieppe and Paris.
