by Eugène Sue
“Yes, certainly ’tis I. You remember me, then? Porquerolles and Malta! that is the password.”
“Wretch!” I exclaimed.
“How, wretch?” he replied, with astounding effrontery. “We had a good free fight, I hope! If in boarding I stuck a knife in your shoulder, you answered me with a sharp axe on the head, my good friend! On the other hand, if your English dogs thrashed the crew of my mystic, I had the good luck to rip up your lord’s yacht on the reefs of La Wardi. Hence we are even. And now we both meet splitting our sides at ‘The Bear and the Pacha;’ and, instead of finding the encounter droll, you get mad. Do you know that is a pretty low trick, my good friend?”
I must acknowledge that his audacity paralysed me. “But if I were to have you arrested?” I cried, rising and seizing him by the collar.
The pirate answered imperturbably, without seeking to free himself:
“That would be a fine trick to play. You may reckon besides how easy it would be to prove to an idiot of a Parisian police commissioner how I boarded your yacht off Cape Spartel, and how I wrecked her on the rocks of La Wardi, sou’west by south of the southern coast of the island of Malta. He’d think you were talking Greek, and would say you were crazy, my friend. Now, crazy you are not. You are a lad with a good stout fist, and not afraid of anything. If my life did not belong for the moment to my bride, to my charming bride,” he added mockingly, and emphasising the word, “I should propose to take up our conversation where we left off on boarding the yacht. But, my word! my little wife is waiting for me, and I prefer her conversation to yours.”
“Here, now, gentlemen, we are going to shut up,” cried the watchman of the theatre.
“That’s so! and here we are chattering like two magpies. Adieu, young man, farewell,” said the pirate.
And in two strides he disappeared.
I was so dazed that I did not leave the theatre until a second call from the watchman recalled me to my senses.
When, on my return home, I thought over my stupid amazement at meeting the pirate of Porquerolles, I charged myself with vacillation, and reproached myself for not having the rascal arrested; but, as he very wisely remarked, it would have been most embarrassing to me to prove forthwith my accusations, and on second thoughts, considering the difficulties presenting themselves, I concluded that my course of action was more judicious than I had thought at first.
Nevertheless, I wished to inform M. de Sérigny of the presence of this wretch in Paris, and of his double crime, which especially interested England; M. de Sérigny, as Minister of Foreign Affairs, could alone countenance and favour such steps as might necessarily be taken by Lord Stuart, then ambassador to France, to gather proofs of the crime, and obtain the extradition of the culprit.
The next morning, therefore, I wrote a few words to the minister, requesting the favour of a few minutes’ interview.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE INTERVIEW.
I WAS PREPARING to go to the Luxembourg, where I expected to meet Irene, when I received a note from Madame de Fersen, asking me to call on her about two o’clock.
Since her arrival in Paris I had never met her alone.
To what should I attribute the wish she expressed? To her desire to see me? To her secret vexation at the rumours spread regarding my intimacy with Madame de V — ? Catherine might think these rumours well founded, since she had surprised me alone with Madame de V —— at the concert at Lord P— ‘s house.
I could not say, but I waited for our interview with restless happiness and irresistible agitation.
I was going to see Catherine once more, to see her alone! At this thought my heart beat with hope and ecstasy at last; a word from her would reward me for my self-denial, for the generous sacrifice I had made, for the assiduous cares to which her beloved child almost owed her return to health.
From this interview I would draw fresh strength to devote myself still further; and then, I had so much to say to her! I felt so proud of my love, so happy to feel my heart still young enough to appreciate the pure joys which enchanted me; to feel that confidence in the strength, in the sincerity, of my attachment which enabled me to hope that some day my love would be reciprocated.
At the appointed hour, I went to Madame de Fersen’s. She received me in a small parlour which she usually occupied, but which I had not yet seen.
“What a long time since I have seen you!” I cried with effusion as I held out my hand.
Madame de Fersen coldly gave me hers, and answered: “I believe I had the pleasure of seeing you last night at the Variétés, monsieur.”
“You call that seeing one another!” I replied, with sad astonishment. “Ah, I was right when I feared that the ‘conversations of the saloon’ would soon be forgotten by you!”
“I shall never forget our pleasant voyage,” answered Madame de Fersen, in the same cold tone. “I am greatly obliged to you for the trouble you have taken in coming to see me this morning. I wish to thank you a thousand times, monsieur, for your kindness in yielding to my daughter’s capricious fancies. She is now quite well, and I fear — I do not wish any longer to take advantage of your goodness towards her, monsieur.”
Madame de Fersen’s tone was icy, almost scornful. What she said seemed so true, so natural, so little influenced by resentment, that I was thunderstruck. I suffered horribly, and could find no word of reply.
My silence was so marked, that Madame de Fersen found herself obliged to add, very coldly:
“I doubtless appear to you very ungrateful, monsieur?”
“Madame,” I said, with deep emotion, “I do not know how I have deserved such a reception.”
“And what claim have you to a different reception from me?” proudly inquired Madame de Fersen.
My painful astonishment was at its height; for a moment I deluded myself, and endeavoured to attribute to jealousy this reception so different from what I had anticipated, but I repeat, Madame de Fersen’s countenance betrayed no sign of repressed or concealed emotion.
I resolutely took my stand. I could not answer Madame de Fersen’s question without reminding her of my noble and generous conduct towards her; and unwilling to lower myself by uttering reproaches, I was silent on that subject, and only said to her, endeavouring to conceal my emotion:
“The object of the interview you requested is doubtless attained. May I ask, madame, if you have any further orders to give me?”
“None, monsieur, but I again wish to express my grateful acknowledgments,” said Madame de Fersen, rising.
This harshness shocked me. I was about to answer with some bitterness, when I became aware of something which I had not yet remarked, and which renewed a faint hope.
During our short interview, Madame de Fersen had not once raised her eyes from the embroidery upon which she was working.
Wishing to assure myself of the correctness of my observation, I stayed on some moments without uttering a word.
Catherine remained with her eyes lowered, instead of inquiring by a look the meaning of my silent presence.
“Adieu, madame,” I said.
“Adieu, monsieur.”
And I left without her granting me one single look of compassion or sorrow.
Her hand alone seemed to tremble slightly on her embroidery as she said adieu.
I took my departure heartbroken.
I had too great and too conscious a distrust of myself and my deserts to have the slightest hope of any success with Catherine.
I could not yield to my customary suspicious impulse, for I had implicit faith in Madame de Fersen’s sincerity, and I doubted of ever having aroused any sentiment in her heart. “She feels no tender affection for me, and her friendship even has vanished in the glare of brilliant worldly diversions.”
I had been away from her almost always, and the effects and results of absence are unbounded and varied.
At times it strengthens a womans secret sympathy, by concentrating her thoughts on the man who has attracted her
, and whose charm is exaggerated by the distant mirage. A woman finds a proud, sad, and mysterious delight in the bitterness of her solitary regrets; she scorns the indifferent ones who occupy a place near her, which she so ardently wishes to see filled by one precious to her, and she detests those eager in their attentions because they are base enough to be there while the preferred one is far away.
Often, however, absence is forgetfulness, for some hearts are like mirrors, and only reflect objects that are present I therefore believed myself entirely forgotten by Madame de Fersen. I had anticipated the possibility of this cruel predicament, and, if it gave me deep sorrow, it did not occasion me great surprise.
In the climax of my despair, I made a thousand projects. I determined to shake off this grief, to give myself up to all life’s dissipations, to seek amorous distraction in some fresh entanglement; but it takes time and a strong will for a heart deeply smitten to transfer its worship.
When a man knows he is loved, and is in possession of the woman he loves, he never experiences the slightest remorse at committing an infidelity; but when he is passionately desirous, and still anxiously looking for an avowal, faithlessness is an impossibility. He has the resolution to maintain fidelity only so long as he has not the right to offer it.
CHAPTER XX.
A MISSION.
THE DAY AFTER my interview with Madame de Fersen I was sadly preoccupied, when my servant announced M. de Sérigny.
I was much astonished at his visit, for which, however, he accounted very graciously, saying that, passing by my door on his way to the Chambers, he had come in on the chance of saving me the trouble of going to the Foreign Office for the interview which I had requested.
This alacrity on his part did not at first seem natural to me; but, on reflection, I thought the rumours current about me and Madame de V —— had induced the minister to do something in excellent taste by showing himself so considerate.
In a few words I related to him the history of the pirate, and our singular encounter at the Variétés.
M. de Sérigny said that he was going immediately to confer with the British ambassador, and that he would consider the means to be used in order td seize so great a scoundrel.
Our conversation having fallen on travels, M. de Sérigny asked me with interest about those I had undertaken. He then became very flattering, insinuating, and amiable; told me he had known my father very well under the Empire; spoke of him as a man of fine attainments, great determination, and infinite tact, who had a remarkable knowledge of the world and of men. He said that the Emperor would assuredly have employed him outside the military service, by entrusting him with some important mission, if my fathers open and positive character could have submitted to Napoleon’s caprices.
I was endeavouring to fathom the meaning of these flattering remarks, when M. de Sérigny said to me, with an air of charming good nature:
“Will you permit an old friend of your family to ask you a question? If it seems to you indiscreet, pray attribute it solely to the interest I take in your father’s name.”
“I am listening to you, monsieur, and can only be grateful for the good-will you show me.”
“Well, how is it that, with your education, your name, your fortune and position, with the experience you have acquired in your numerous travels, in fact with all your excellent connections, you have never thought of taking up some serious occupation, — of entering, for instance, into public affairs?”
“In the first place,” I replied to the minister, “I am far from possessing all the advantages you attribute to me; moreover, I have not the slightest ambition, and my idle life pleases me hugely.”
“But your country?”
“What about my country?”
“Do you not owe it a few years, at least, of your existence?”
“And what would it do with such a gift?”
“Come, come, it is impossible that you deceive yourself to such an extent, be your modesty ever so great. You know full well that your success in the world would not be what it is, if you were not of special value. No man in society is less conspicuous, or more spoken of, than you. Unless you have a great historic French name, unless you are a great poet, a celebrated artist, or a great statesman, what is the hardest thing to acquire in society — you may rely on my extensive experience — is that indescribable something which causes people to turn and look at yon when your name is announced in a salon. Well, that is a privilege you enjoy; you are young, and yet you have influence, you have authority in the world, since people busy themselves very much about what you do and what you do not do.”
These exaggerated flatteries were so transparent that I clearly saw that M. de Sérigny wished, if I may be pardoned the expression, to work upon my feelings to induce me as a point of honour to renounce my flirtation with Madame de V —— . In spite of my sadness, this little comedy amused me, and I endeavoured to make it last as long as possible, by seeming to be caught by M. de Sérigny’s praises.
“But,” said I, with a modest smile, “admitting, monsieur, that which is merely, I believe, a delusion of your kind nature; admitting, I say, that I have had some success in the world, and that, relatively to my years, I am even considered of some account, I do not well see what use my country could derive from these advantages.”
“No one can inform you better than I,” replied the minister, with awkward alacrity, which proved to me that he had expected this question. “People talk a great deal, make a great fuss, over what is called diplomacy. Now do you know what the great art of diplomacy is?” he asked, with a good-natured smile.
I shook my head with an air of humility.
“Well, it is simply the art of pleasing. As diplomacy consists in asking and refusing, he who can please most will always gain his point; while if he is obliged to refuse, he will make his refusal sufficiently gracious, to avoid its wounding. Here lies the whole secret.”
I had some difficulty in suppressing a great inclination to laugh, for it struck me that the minister, jealous of my attentions to Madame de V —— , was going to propose to attach me to a foreign embassy, so as to get rid of me.
This was doubtless the solution of this scene; but I found the situation so amusing that I determined not to terminate it abruptly.
“I thought,” said I, “that the able negotiators of the most fertile epoch of great treaties and great diplomatic victories, I thought,” I continued, “that such men as D’Avaux, Courtin, Estrade, Ruvigny, and Lyonne were possessed of other attributes than the simple talent of pleasing.”
“If they did not possess the art of pleasing,” said, with some embarrassment, M. de Sérigny, who seemed ignorant of the historic traditions of his special department like the true constitutional minister that he was, “if they did not possess the art of pleasing, they made use of some other seduction.”
“You are right,” I rejoined, “they had gold without limit.”
“You see, then,” cried the minister, “it is always the same; only in modern society the art of pleasing has superseded the seduction by gold.”
“In the first place, it is more economical,” I said.
“And safer,” he rejoined; “for all thrones are not representative. There are, God be praised! kings in Europe who are absolute kings, and walk without leading-strings. Well, these kings are men, and, in a word, are subject like men to sympathies and antipathies. Frequently, the ambassador that is sent to them, even if he possesses the greatest genius, the loftiest character, can obtain nothing for his court, — and why? Simply because he is not pleasing; while, on the contrary, a man of moderate ability will often obtain by the simple power of his manners, because he can please, he will obtain, I say, what the man of genius was not able to obtain.”
“This is true, and your system facilitates matters, since men who please are much more plentiful than men of genius.”
“Certainly! Therefore, I am convinced, firmly convinced, that yon, for instance, supposing you wished to
enter the diplomatic career, could be of the greatest service to France; for you not only possess the art of pleasing, your success in society attests it, but you have also solid and eminent qualities.”
I was right in my surmises; the proposition which I had anticipated, without doubt, was about to follow the ringing of my praises. Wishing to lend myself with a good grace to the minister’s whim, I replied with a semblance of modest and confused astonishment:
“How can you think so, — I, monsieur, I, enter so difficult a career? My ambition has never been crazy enough to aspire to such a future.”
“Listen to me,” said M. de Sérigny, with a serious and paternal air.
And he made the following disclosure, which seemed to me an abominable falsehood.
“Your father rendered me a great service.” Here the diplomat paused and sighed heavily, then he raised his eyes to Heaven, repeating: “Yes, yes, a great service!
I could not tell you, my dear M. de —— , how happy I would consider myself in being able to demonstrate to you, his son, all my gratitude, since unfortunately I was not able to give proof of it to himself.”
“I was quite ignorant of this circumstance, which my father never mentioned to me.”
“I can well believe it,” exclaimed M. de Sérigny, “for I myself can give you no particulars on this subject. It concerns a third party, and honour demands my silence. I repeat it,” he continued, “I have just found an opportunity to acknowledge your father’s goodness, and to secure another worthy servant to my country, if, however, you are disposed to utilise the rare advantages with which you are gifted.”
“But I have told you, monsieur, however much I might desire to enter your honourable career under such happy auspices, I never could believe my merit equal to this ambition.”
“Once again, you do not know yourself, or you do not wish to know yourself,” resumed the minister with some degree of impatience, “and fortunately your opinion in this matter is not of consequence. As to me, it is quite evident that, if you wish it, you can fill an important mission; for you must feel that you are not one of those young beaux, who, having nothing but their name and their fortune, esteem themselves very happy when they are appointed attachés to foreign embassies. No, no, such proposals are not made to such as you. You must enter by the wide door; you must, above all, have the opportunity to show your full value. Unfortunately, with us,” he added, hesitatingly, “with us, the necessities, the traditions, of government are so imperative, that European missions are very much restricted, and at the present moment they are all filled.”
