Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “We consented to this, and they were married on the seventeenth of January; it was a Friday. In the morning we signed the contract. M. Belmont settled on Marie six thousand francs a year. For folks like us it was very fine, was it not, monsieur?

  “After signing the contract we went to the mairie, and then to the church, and we all came back to dinner to the country-house of M. Duvallon, who was M. Belmont’s best man.

  “We were all seated at the table and had got as far as dessert. M. Belmont had just begun to sing some verses he had composed on his marriage, the poor dear man, when all of a sudden there arrived from Nantes one of M. Duvallon’s servants. He hands a letter to his master. M. Duvallon turns pale, gets up from the table and cries out, ‘Belmont! listen!’ I remember that poor Belmont was singing at that moment a verse that began like this:— ‘Hymen waves his torch.’

  “M. Belmont gets up, but he has hardly read the letter which Duvallon shows him when he makes a face, — ah, monsieur, such a terrible face, that I have yet to understand how a man who had ordinarily such a kind look could ever take on such an expression of ferocity.

  “Then, controlling himself, he goes up to Marie, kisses her, and says: ‘Don’t worry about me, my petite femme, thou shalt have news of me very soon;’ then he disappeared with Duvallon, who said to us, as he went out: ‘Belmont is compromised in a political affair like — carbonaro.’ Yes, that is the word, carbonaro,” added Madame Kerouët, in recalling her souvenirs. “‘He must escape, his life depends on it. If they come here to arrest him, try and keep the commissaire here as long as possible.’

  “They had hardly been gone a quarter of an hour when an officer of the gendarmerie arrives in a carriage with a commissaire of police, as they had foreseen. They ask for M. Belmont, sea captain.

  “You know very well that we said never a word. They seek everywhere, but find no one, and they keep that up for at least two hours.

  “The commissaire was about to give it up when some one of the company, having by accident spoken of the three-master La Belle Alexandrine, which was to sail that day from Nantes, the brigadier of gendarmerie cried out: ‘And the tide is high at three o’clock! And now it is five! Before we can get back to Nantes it will be seven o’clock. If our man means to get away on that ship, he will be out of the mouth of the river by seven o’clock this evening, and beyond our reach.’

  “Thereupon they all get into the carriage with the commissaire, and start back for Nantes at a gallop; but they got there too late. That poor dear Belmont had been lucky enough to embark on La Belle Alexandrine, and was off to Havana. M. Duvallon came the next day to tell us all about it.

  “Alas! monsieur, misfortunes never come alone. Two months after all these events, my poor Kerouët died of lung fever.

  “M. Duvallon sold the farm he owned at Thouars, and I should have been without resources if the superintendent of the Château of Serval, who was acquainted with Kerouët, and knew that I was capable of managing a farm, had not proposed that I should rent this one, where I am very contented, but alas, I regret every day my poor Kerouët, and am still very uneasy as to the fate of M. Belmont, who has only written to us once by a vessel from Nantes which La Belle Alexandrine met at sea.

  “In his letter, Belmont told us not to worry, and that one of these days he would return and surprise us. As for Marie, I cannot say that she grieves very much for M. Belmont, the poor dear child, she knew him too little for that; but, monsieur, I am sorry for all this on her account, for should I die to-morrow what would become of her?

  “To complete all, she is so scrupulous that it is impossible to get her to decide to touch a cent of the six thousand francs which M. Belmont settled on her, and which M. Duvallon sends her every three months. We take the money to a notary at Nantes, and there it will stay until Belmont comes back again, and that will be the Lord knows when.”

  Such was the recital of Madame Kerouët.

  In fact, about the time of M. Belmont’s departure, the police had discovered several Liberal plots. It was a time when secret societies were organising on a formidable scale; therefore, it was quite possible that he had been seriously mixed up in a conspiracy against the government Since having this confidential conversation with her aunt, Marie appeared lovelier than ever to me, and more charming.

  So I continued my daily visits to the farm; sometimes even, when it was snowing or excessively cold, good Madame Kerouët invited me to stay there all night, and became quite provoked when I proposed starting off in the dark to go through the forest by the ill-kept road which led to Blémur, where I was supposed to live.

  If I decided to remain, Marie would innocently show how pleased she was; there would be almost a little fête at the farm. Madame Kerouët busied herself about the details of the dinner, and Marie, who slept in her aunt’s room, with attentive and gracious hospitality saw that nothing was wanting in the little room destined for me, which was up in one of the towers.

  That hospitality so kindly and thoughtful touched me deeply; but what proved to me the purity of sentiment of these two women, and their generous confidence in me, was the fact, that they never thought for a moment that the frequency of my visits might compromise them. My arrival always pleased them; I enlivened and brightened their solitude; and if I thanked them with effusion for all their kindness to me, Madame Kerouët would say, naively: “Should not we poor country women rather be grateful that you, monsieur, an artist (they supposed I was a painter), should help us to pass our long winter evenings so pleasantly, coming almost every day, three leagues to come and three leagues to go back again, — such horrid weather, too! Tenez, M. Arthur,” said the good-hearted woman. “I don’t know how it has come about, but now you are like one of our own family, and if you had to give up your visits we would be quite miserable and sad, is not that so, Marie?”

  “Oh, certainly we would, my aunt,” said Marie, with adorable candour.

  I knew that Marie had very few books. She spoke perfectly well both English and Italian. I therefore sent to Paris for a set of books, and ordered them to be sent by way of Nantes, and from Nantes to be forwarded to the farm.

  Just as I had hoped, the present of the books was attributed to M. Belmont, or to his friend, M. Duvallon.

  By such means, I succeeded in surrounding Marie and her aunt with a certain degree of comfort which was until then wanting. Little at a time furniture and carpets arrived at the farm, and were received joyfully as an attention from the exile or his friend.

  Filled with gratitude, Marie wrote a charming letter of thanks to M. Duvallon, who answered her saying that he did not understand a word of Madame Belmont’s gratitude.

  Fearing discovery, I begged Madame Kerouët not to speak any more of these presents, making her believe that M. Belmont had good reasons for wishing for secrecy.

  Marie’s birthday was soon to be celebrated. On that anniversary she was to permit me to enter the mysterious little room she called her study, and which I had not been allowed to see before.

  Knowing that the room was exactly like the one I inhabited in the opposite tower, such times as I slept all night at the farm, I had sent from Paris, still by the way of Nantes, all that was needed to furnish it with elegance. One of Marie’s greatest regrets was that she had neither piano nor harp. I sent then for these two instruments, which were to arrive at the farm in time for Marie’s birthday. All these details gave me infinite satisfaction.

  Every day, well wrapped up, I started from Serval on my pony, braving the rain and the snow. I arrived at the farm, where I found a bright fire crackling in my room. I dressed myself with some care in spite of the everlasting teasing of the worthy fermière, who reproached me for being too coquet, then I went down into the grande chambre.

  If the weather was not too bad, Marie took my arm and we sallied forth to affront the wind and cold, climb the mountainsides, where we gathered plants for Marie’s herbarium, or tramp through the forest, where we would amuse ourselves by startling the do
e with her faun, from her hiding-place in these solitary glades.

  During these long walks, Marie, who was always lively, laughed and joked like a schoolgirl, and treated me like a brother. In her chaste innocence she often made me undergo severe trials. Sometimes it was her fur collar to fasten, sometimes to push up her long hair under her hat, or to fasten the lace of her shoe, which had become undone.

  So, in those long tramps, as I would gaze on the lovely face of Marie, which under its curls, all powdered with sleet, looked like a rose covered with snow, — how many times an avowal came to my lips! How often was I on the point of declaring my love! But Marie, crossing both of her arms on mine, would lean on me with such confidence, would look at me with such candour and security, that each day I was fain to put off this declaration until the next.

  I was fearful that, if I risked a premature word, I might destroy all this tranquil happiness.

  I waited then patiently. I was not deceived as to the sentiments I had inspired in Marie’s breast; without being foolishly conceited or ridiculously vain, I could not withstand the evidence of my own eyes. For the last two months and more I had seen her almost every day. My attentions to her, to one so young, so unsophisticated, so little accustomed to the ways of the world, had made a deep impression on her; but I had recognised in her such high principles, such decided religious sentiment, and such a deep sense of duty, that I felt I would have to undergo a long struggle, perhaps a painful one, although a thousand trifles showed me that Marie cared for me with a measure of affection of which she herself was most likely ignorant.

  In the evening, after one of my dinners at the farm, Madame Kerouët, seated in her great armchair at the chimney-corner, would spin off a distaff of flax, while Marie and I, seated at the same table, arranged the plants we had collected for our herbariums in the course of our winter walks.

  When fixing the slight stalks on paper, our hands would often touch. Often when we were both leaning over the table my hair would be pressed against Marie’s forehead, or I would feel her warm breath caressing my cheek.

  At such times she would blush, her breast would heave rapidly, and sometimes her hand would tremble on the paper.

  Then, as if awakening from a dream, she would say to me, pretending to be reproachful: “See, now, how badly you have placed that plant.”

  “It is your fault,” I would answer, laughing. “You neither help me, nor hold the paper.”

  “Not at all. It is you who have not the least patience, you are always afraid of getting gum on your fingers when you are pasting the little bands.”

  “Ah, what terrible wranglers!” said Madame Kerouët, “one of you is no better than the other!”

  At other times, we took turns at reading aloud some of the works of Walter Scott, in which Madame Kerouët took great interest. Marie had a clear, sweet voice, and one of my greatest pleasures was to listen to her as she read.

  But it was a greater pleasure still to watch her. So, when the time came for me to read, if I found any allusion to my love, I would first read the phrases with my eyes, and then repeat them aloud from memory, fixing on Marie a passionate look. Sometimes Marie would lower her eyes, and put on a severe expression, but then, at others, she would blush, and with the end of her pretty forefinger make me an imperious sign to keep my eyes on my book.

  Another trick that I invented was this: I would improvise whole passages, and introduce them into the book I was reading, so that when the situation permitted me I could give Marie a more distinct insight as to my love for her.

  Thus, one evening, in that chaste and passionate scene where Ivanhoe declares his love for the beautiful Saxon, I substituted for the speech of the Crusader a long monologue, in which I made the most direct allusions to Marie and myself, by recalling a thousand souvenirs of our walks and talks.

  Marie seemed quite overcome, — troubled. She looked at me reprovingly.

  I stopped reading.

  “I don’t wish to interrupt you, M. Arthur,” said Madame Kerouët, “for I don’t think I ever heard you read so well as you have to-day.”

  Then putting down her distaff, she said, naively: “Ah, a woman would surely have a heart of stone not to have pity on a lover who talked like that. I know very little about it, but it seems to me that one could say no more than what Ivanhoe says, — it is all so true and natural.”

  “Oh, it is really all very beautiful,” said Marie, “but M. Arthur must be tired. I will read now in my turn.’

  As she took, in spite of my resistance, the book from my hand, she looked for the improvised passage, and not finding it said, saucily:

  “The pages that you have just been reading are so beautiful that I want to read them over again.”

  “Thou art right, Marie,” said her aunt; “I, too, would like to hear them once more.”

  “Ah, mon Dieu, ten o’clock, already!” said I, to change the subject “I must be going.”

  “So it is, already!” said Madame Kerouët, as she looked at the clock.

  Usually, when I started to go, Marie would go to the window to see what sort of weather it was. This evening she remained motionless.

  Her aunt said to her: “Why don’t you look to see if it is snowing, my child?”

  Marie rose up and came back, saying, “It is snowing hard.”

  “It snows hard. What a heartless way you say that! You don’t seem to remember that M. Arthur has three leagues to ride in the pitch-dark, and right through the forest.”

  I tried to meet Marie’s eyes. She turned away her head; so I said to her, sadly, “Bonsoir, madame.”

  “Bonsoir, M. Arthur,” she replied, without looking at me.

  I heard the impatient whinnying of Black; the farm boy was bringing him from the stable. I was just leaving the room, when Marie, seizing an opportunity when her aunt was not looking, came close to me, and, taking my hand, said, with deep emotion:

  “I am very angry with you. You do not know how much you have distressed me!”

  The words were not precisely an avowal; and yet, in spite of the dark, in spite of the storm, I rode back to Serval with a joyful heart.

  From that evening I began to take hope.

  That was a week ago.

  To-morrow is Marie’s birthday, a solemn festival, when we are going to inaugurate the mysterious room in the tower.

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  THE PORTRAIT.

  SERVAL, 10TH DECEMBER, 18 — .

  I CAN scarcely believe what I have seen to-day.

  What a strange fate is mine!

  This morning, as we had agreed, I went to the farm.

  It was the anniversary of Marie’s birth; she had promised to allow me to enter the mysterious chamber that she occupies in one of the towers. It is there that she has had placed the harp and piano which recently arrived from Nantes.

  “Come and see my retreat,” said Marie to me, after breakfast.

  We went up into the tower with Madame Kerouët.

  We enter the room; what do I behold?

  Facing me, in a large gold frame, there stands the portrait of the pirate of Porquerolles! the pilot of Malta!

  “How did you come by that picture? Do yon know who that man is?” I cried out, addressing the two women, who were staring at me in the greatest astonishment “Why, I painted that portrait myself, and that is M. Belmont,” said Marie, with surprise.

  “That is M. Belmont?”

  “Certainly; that is my husband. But what is the matter with you, M. Arthur? Why are you so astonished, so overcome?”

  “Have you ever seen M. Belmont anywhere?” asked Madame Kerouët.

  I thought I was dreaming, or the victim of some extraordinary resemblance.

  “The fact is,” said I to Madame Kerouët, “I have met M. Belmont somewhere in my travels, or it might have been some one who is remarkably like him; for, on account of the circumstances under which we met, I cannot believe that the person I speak of can be the M. Belmont of this portrait.”


  “There is a very easy way of finding out if your M. Belmont is ours. What are your M. Belmont’s teeth like?” said Marie’s aunt “There is no longer the slightest doubt. It is he!” thought I.

  “His teeth are like no one else’s,” I said, “they are sharp, and very wide apart.”

  That is just how they are,” said Madame Kerouët, laughing, “and so for fun we call him the ogre.”

  Then it was he!

  Everything was explained now.

  In the ballroom at the château, the English ambassador had told me that they were on the track of the pirate, and hoped to capture him. The ball had taken place about the middle of January, just the time that Belmont had returned to Nantes, to hasten his union with Marie.

  Our rencontre at the Variétiés, and the fear of discovery, had, doubtless, caused the anxiety Madame Kerouët noticed in his behaviour subsequent to that time.

  Thus, had it not been for the note of warning, the commissaire and the officer of gendarmerie would have arrested this miserable man on the day of his marriage. And I quite understood that M. Duvallon, the pirate’s best man, should have held him up to the eyes of Marie and her aunt in the light of a political victim, in order to deceive them as to the real cause of his arrest.

  Did Duvallon know the vile traffic of Belmont, or had he, too, been deceived by him?

  All these thoughts and questions rushed confusedly through my mind, and excited me so much that I left the farm much earlier than usual, under the pretext of a headache. Marie and her aunt were annoyed and worried by my sudden departure.

  Thus the day, which was to have been a little fête to us, ended very sadly.

  What ought I to do?

  I love Marie with all the strength of my soul. It would be no crime to carry her off from Belmont, that brigand, that assassin; it would be a noble and generous action.