by Eugène Sue
“Why? Because I generally do like every one else; and, excepting diplomats and a few strangers, nobody in society sets a foot inside the princess’s door.”
“And why is this?” I inquired, almost mechanically, of M. de Pommerive.
“Forsooth! It is no secret, everybody knows it. The beautiful Muscovite is just simply a spy in high life.”
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE LAST EVENING.
ONE MORE EFFORT, and this cruel task will be at an end.
In vain I call upon my memory; I cannot remember what I said to Pommerive, and believe I made no reply.
I only remember that I felt neither indignant nor angry, as I would have been had this man uttered a calumny or an insult; on the contrary, I was utterly overwhelmed in the presence of this terrible accusation! It suddenly illumined the past with a sinister light, it abruptly aroused those implacable suspicions, of which I at once felt the sharp sting.
My grief was such that my brain was frenzied.
Mechanically I returned home, finding my way by instinct.
By degrees, I regained the thread of my ideas.
I had already suffered so much from similar causes that I endeavoured to struggle with all my might against this new suspicion.
I hoped to sift truth from falsehood, by submitting the past to the horrible interpretation given to Madame de Fersen’s life.
Armed with this infamous accusation, cold and calm, like a man about to stake his life and honour on a chance, I set myself to this work of hateful analysis.
This time, also, I cleared my thoughts, by writing them down, and I find these notes. They contrast cruelly with the preceding radiant pages, with those days of sunlight written formerly at the Grove.
PARIS, 13th December, 18 — .
Let us examine the facts.
Madame de Fersen is accused of being a spy.
What credit does her conduct give to these infamous suspicions?
I meet Catherine at Khios. After several days of intercourse, I attempt a declaration, which she severely repulses; then I surround her with the most respectful attentions, I give her counsels the most delicate and disinterested. If I do not utter the word love, everything in my tender and eager attentions reveals this sentiment.
She remains cold, and offers me her friendship.
I again meet Catherine in Paris. In spite of my blind submission to Irene’s painful whims, in spite of the numberless proofs of the deepest and most noble passion, one day, without cause, without hesitation, under the most frivolous pretext, Catherine cruelly breaks with me.
Later, it is true, she tells me that jealousy alone was responsible for her conduct.
She said that; but I remember the harshness of her accent, her steely glance, which struck me to the heart She was doubtless feigning; she can, therefore, dissimulate; she is false. I did not believe it.
The mysterious affection of which Irene was the bond is now broken. Catherine loves me no more! She shows herself even ungrateful, as a friend. I see her no more.
In despair, I seek distraction in work. I accept a position of apparent importance with the minister; public opinion attributes to me an exaggerated share in state affairs. From this time, Madame de Fersen, until now so inflexible towards me, by degrees becomes less cold when she meets me in society; her looks, the tone of her voice, do not harmonise with the conventional trifling of her conversation; and, at last, at a ball at the château, she comes resolutely towards me, with the view of renewing our interrupted relations. I meet coldly these advances, and the next morning she writes to me.
This she has confessed to me. This sudden change in her affections she attributes to her joy at my breaking with Madame de V —— and to the alarming condition in which her child had once more fallen.
I wish to believe her, for it would be odious to think that the abrupt change from disdain to tenderness should have been brought about by the hope of securing to herself a tool in the very heart of the French cabinet.
I leave for Havre. Irene is at death’s door; her mother recalls me. I hasten, I save her.
During a whole month that I am by the child’s bedside, does Catherine utter one word of gratitude, one word of tenderness?
No. —
We go to the Grove; she shows the same calm, cold feeling towards me.
But one day an official publication announces that I am to be called to a high post, where state secrets culminate.
The evening of that very day, this woman, until then so austere, so reserved, so chaste, throws herself suddenly into my arms.
It is true, she says she was drawn by her grateful admiration for a sacrifice unknown to her until then.
If she is to be believed, what is her heart made of?
I have saved her child’s life, and Catherine remains insensible.
I sustain a financial loss, and Catherine forgets all for my sake.
And yet I prefer to believe Catherine more sensitive to material sacrifices, and almost indifferent to the soul’s devotion, than to believe she unblushingly gave herself to the future confidant of the Minister of Foreign Affairs.
Those four months passed at the Grove were radiant, oh, very radiant for me, whose happiness was pure, and not tinged with shame.
Only, at this moment, circumstances strike me which I had not previously observed.
At the Grove, Catherine plied me with questions as to my labours with M. de Sérigny; she interrogated me minutely as to the impressions or memories which I retained. When I confessed frankly their insignificance, and chose rather to speak of our love, she was annoyed and pouted, she reproached me with being either too discreet or too frivolous.
When I wished to abandon the ungrateful career which I had adopted in idleness, Catherine employed all the resources of her mind, all her influence, all her power over me to deter me from resigning my position.
It is true that these questions and this persuasion were alike used in the name of the profound interest which she felt for me.
I believe it, for it would be outrageous to suppose that her reluctance to see me abandon my career was prompted by her reluctance to forfeit the price of her long premeditated error.
Since her return to Paris, what has her life been? Did she sacrifice at my request her accustomed social relations? On the contrary, she increased them, and her drawing-room has become a centre of diplomatic intrigue.
Our long days of tender affection have given place to occupations which are not those of a woman dominated by love.
If I sadly reproach her for this unhappy change, her answer is that she must obey her husband’s expressed wishes, — wishes that are all the more sacred to her since she has been guilty of so censurable an error.
I believe her in this case, without hesitation. I believe her very anxious to please the prince.
But I also have some rights.
I saved her child’s life.
And what did she give me in return?
Herself, yes, she gave me herself.
This sacrifice of her honour, of her duties, has been either terrible and intoxicating, or it has only been an infamous, an odious calculation!
If this proof of love has been for her what it ever is for a virtuous, passionate woman, a most agonising sacrifice, why did she then refuse to abandon interests that were of the utmost insignificance in comparison with the irreparable fault she had committed?
Are these interests dearer to her than her love? Is her love only secondary to them?
It is, then, only a means, a pretext?
So be it; I have been the puppet of an intriguing woman, but she is very beautiful, and I am only half her dupe.
Such was the abominable theme I developed with the diabolical power of paradoxes.
I was so incensed that I firmly believed I had wrestled against these frightful suspicions; and I became convinced of these horrors with the same bitter satisfaction of the man who discovers the vile snare into which he has fallen.
As
an executioner I struck pitilessly, as a victim I moaned bitterly.
The remembrance of Hélène, of Marguerite, of Falmouth, — nothing could bring me to my senses.
From the confirmation of so much infamy to the hate and scorn it inspired, there was but one step for my fierce monomania.
From this point of view, all that was noble and generous in my conduct seemed to me shamefully ridiculous.
I was oppressed by these reflections when this letter from Catherine was handed to me: —
“A sad, unhappy petitioner asks you to be kind and indulgent towards her; she wants you to pardon all that she has suffered to-day; she hopes to be alone this evening, and will expect you. Come; she is, moreover, resolved that Europe shall no longer be your rival.”
In my state of mind, this letter so tenderly imploring, this simple allusion to my reproaches, seemed to me so humbly offensive, so coldly insulting, that I was on the point of writing to Madame de Fersen that I would never again see her.
But I changed my mind.
I wrote to her that I would call on her that evening.
I waited for the hour with frightful anxiety.
I had laid my plan.
At ten o’clock I went to Madame de Fersen’s, expecting to find her alone.
A thousand confused thoughts were rushing through my mind. Anger, hate, love, a remorseful anticipation of the wrong I was about to commit, a vague instinct of the injustice of my suspicions, all combined to put me in a feverish exasperated condition, the consequences of which I could not foresee.
Contrary to my expectations, Catherine had several persons with her.
This new proof of what I called her falsehood incensed me; for a moment I was on the point of turning back and abandoning my purpose, but an irresistible force drove me, and I entered.
The sight of people, and the control which I had always possessed over myself, at once changed my violent anger into a polished, cold, and biting irony.
This scene is still present to me. Catherine, seated near the fireplace, was chatting with a friend.
My first look was doubtless very terrible, for Madame de Fersen, bewildered, suddenly turned pale.
The conversation continued; I shared in it with the greatest calmness, even asserting my superiority, for I was gay, almost brilliant.
For those who were unacquainted with the circumstances, there was nothing extraordinary; it was a pleasant evening of friendly conversation, like a thousand other evenings; but between Catherine and me, a mute, mysterious, tragic scene was being enacted.
Our way of understanding each other by half words, of seeking and divining the value of an inflection of the voice, of a gesture, or a smile, enabled me now to make Catherine undergo the reaction of my odious thoughts.
At my entrance, Catherine was amazed.
She endeavoured, however, to recover herself, and, to show me that she had received people against her will, she graciously thanked M. de —— for having forced an entrance to acquaint her with the result of the vote which had been taken at a very late hour. “Without that,” continued Catherine, “I would have been deprived of the pleasure of seeing several of my friends, who took advantage of the breach you made to invade my solitude.”
An imploring glance at me accompanied these words.
While continuing my conversation with M. de my neighbour, I replied by so scornful a smile that Catherine all but betrayed herself.
What shall I say? All these attempts which she indirectly made to calm me, or to grasp at the cause of so deep a resentment, were thus cruelly repulsed.
She knew too well the various expressions of my countenance, her heart was too much in unison with mine, she was of too sensitive a nature, not to divine that it was not a question of a lover’s quarrel, but that a great danger menaced her love.
She had a presentiment of this danger; in despair she sought its cause, and was obliged to smile, and to follow an indifferent conversation.
This torture lasted one hour.
By degrees, her strength and self-control abandoned her; two or three times her absent-mindedness had been noticed; and, at last, there was such a change in her features that M. de —— inquired if she were not well.
This question confused her; she answered she was well, and rang the bell for tea.
It was eleven o’clock.
She took advantage of the momentary disturbance caused by the preparations for tea to come near me, saying:
“Will you come and see a picture which is offered me for sale? It is there in the small parlour.”
“I am not much of a connoisseur,” I replied, “but if I cannot venture on advising you, madame, I promise to give you truthfully my impressions.”
I followed her into the next room.
At the risk of being seen, she took my hand, and in a voice almost extinct she said: “Arthur, have pity on me! What I am suffering is beyond my strength, beyond my courage!”
At this moment, M. de —— also entered the parlour to see the picture.
Madame de Fersen had so completely lost her head, that I had abruptly to withdraw my hand from hers.
I believe M. de —— noticed the movement, for he appeared confused.
“This picture is very good,” I said to Catherine, “the expression is charming. Art has never more closely approached to nature.”
Madame de Fersen was so weak that she leaned upon an easy chair.
M. de —— — admired the picture complacently. The servant announced to the princess that tea was ready.
We returned to the drawing-room. Catherine could scarcely stand.
According to her custom, she stood near the table pouring out the tea; she offered me a cup, and was gazing at me almost wildly, when the cracking of a whip and the jingling of bells were heard in the courtyard.
Struck by a terrible presentiment, Catherine allowed the cup to slip from her fingers just as I was about to take hold of it, and cried, in a strangled voice: “What is that?”
“A thousand pardons for my awkwardness, madame, and for the noise those wretches are making. As I take my departure to-night, I have taken the liberty to order my travelling carriage to come for me here, not wishing to lose one moment of the precious time I might enjoy your society.”
Catherine could not resist this last shock; she forgot herself completely, and, in a smothered voice, resting her trembling hands upon my arm, she cried: “It is impossible, you are not leaving, you shall not leave! I will not allow you to leave!”
At the movement of general consternation, at the confused, embarrassed expression of the spectators of this scene, I could see that Madame de Fersen’s reputation, hitherto unassailed, was now for ever lost.
I remained inflexible.
Gently disengaging my arm from her hands, I said:
“I feel so happy and proud, madame, at the regret my departure seems to give you, that I would already be thinking of my return, were it not unfortunately impossible to predict it.” Then in saluting her I added: “Here, madame, are the particulars you asked of me.”
And I handed her a duplicate of the commentary I had written on her love.
Catherine no longer heard me; she had fallen prostrated into an armchair, mechanically holding in her hands the notes I had left her.
I took my departure.
The next evening I was here, — at Serval.
Three months ago I heard that Irene was dead, — dead, doubtless, of grief at seeing me no more.
Madame de Fersen has returned to Russia with her husband.—’
To put the crowning stroke to my remorse and despair, I also learned that the Prince de Fersen had been on the point of obtaining the post of Russian ambassador to France, but that suddenly he had withdrawn.
This explained Catherine’s persistence in her diplomatic relations.
She wanted to assist her husband in obtaining an important post, in order that they might remain in France, and be with me.
Since the day followin
g that terrible evening I reside at Serval, this old and gloomy ancestral château.
When I heard of Irene’s death, I became almost insane.
I loathe myself as her murderer.
My life here is isolated and desolate.
For the last six months I have seen no one, not a soul.
Each day I meditate for hours before my father’s portrait.
I had charged myself with the task of writing this journal.
My task is now accomplished.
I have been the cause of suffering to some innocent creatures, but I, also, have suffered much. Ah, man Dieu! am I not still suffering?
What is my future?
Before me life is dark and gloomy; I am pursued by remorse for the past.
What is my fate?
Am I to perish by suicide? Am I to die the violent death Irene predicted for me?
What thoughts!
And this very day I am twenty-eight.
MARIE BELMONT
CHAPTER XXVIII.
MARIE BELMONT.
SERVAL, JANUARY 20,18 — .
WHO would have said six months ago that I would ever take up this journal again, or, rather, that I would ever recover from the apathy of heart and mind into which I had been thrown by my rupture with Madame de Fersen, by the death of Irene?
Such, though, is the case.
And yet my despair was frightful!
To-day, though the remembrance of that time gives me sore pain, a distant hope, new sensations mitigate that soreness.
I smile sadly when I read in my journal, which I have just been looking over, these words repeated so often:
“Never was there greater sorrow—”
“Never was there more happiness—”
“Never can I forget—”
And now new joys have obliterated those sorrows; new troubles have faded those joys. Thus day after day, forgetfulness, that dark, cold tide, creeps up higher, higher, and swallows up in the black abyss of the past the souvenirs that time has discoloured.
My mother! my father! Hélène! Marguerite! Catherine! you to whom I owe so much sorrow and so much felicity! Space or the tomb now separates you all from me; and I scarcely think of you at all!
