Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “I lived there with my mother: she was poor, she was old, she was blind.

  “I loved my mother, as the unhappy love those who love them.

  “My mother was sad, sad, very sad, after she had lost her sight.

  “I went into the valley to look for flowers.

  “She tried to console herself for not seeing their smiling faces by inhaling their perfume.

  “The voice of a son is always sweet to the ear of a mother.

  “I spoke to her; sometimes she smiled.

  “But never to see! never to see! that filled her with sorrow.

  “She sank by degrees into a mute despair.

  “Before sinking into this despair, leaning on my arm, she went out; she loved to go at set of sun and sit under the orange-trees in the garden of the young and brave emir of our tribe.

  “The gentle warmth of the sun revived my mother.

  “She loved to listen to the murmur of the cascades, which seemed to sing as they fell into the basin of marble.

  “One day, when she lamented more bitterly than ever the loss of her sight, she refused to go out.

  “I prayed her; I wept; she was inflexible.

  “Seated in the most solitary corner of our dwelling, her venerable head wrapped in her black mantle, she remained motionless.

  “She no longer desired to eat; she wished to die.

  “For one long, for one long night, she refused everything.

  “In vain I said: ‘My mother, my mother, like you also I shall die.’

  “She remained silent and gloomy.

  “I took her hand, her hand already frozen. I tried to warm it with my breath: she wished to withdraw her hand.”

  In saying these words, the voice of the Bohemian had such an expression of sadness, and the sounds that he drew from his guzla were so melancholy, that Reine and Stephanette silently exchanged glances suffused with tears. The Bohemian continued without perceiving the emotion he had excited:

  “It was night.

  “And yet a beautiful night Through the open window of our house one saw the starlit sky; the moon covered the plain with silver; one heard no noise.

  “Yes, oh, yes! one heard the fevered breathing of my poor mother.

  “Suddenly in the distance, far, very far, a light noise sounded.

  “It was like the soft and gentle echo of a voice singing in the sky.

  “Soon a gentle breeze, burdened with the perfume of the citron-tree, wafted sounds more distinct.

  “I was still holding the icy hand of my mother. I felt her tremble.

  “This celestial voice approached — approached.

  “The chords of a melodious instrument accompanied it, and gave it an inexpressible charm.

  “My mother started again; she raised her head; she listened. For the first time in many hours she gave signs of life.

  “As the enchanting sounds approached my mother seemed bom again.

  “I felt her hand grow warm again; I felt her hand press mine.

  “I heard her voice at last; her voice till then so mute.

  “‘My child, these songs sink in my soul; they calm me! Tears, oh, tears! Yes, tears at last! I had so much need to weep.’

  “And I felt two burning tears fall on my brow.

  “‘Oh, my mother, my mother!’ ‘Silence, my child, be silent!’ said she, putting one of her hands upon my mouth, and pointing to the window with the other. ‘Listen to the voice! listen! there it is! there it is!’”

  Reine, deeply moved, pressed the hand of Stephanette as she shook her head with a touching expression of pity.

  The Bohemian continued:

  “The moon of my country shines as the sun of this country.

  “In its light slowly passed the young emir, mounted on Azib, his beautiful white horse.

  “Azib, gentle as a lamb, courageous as a lion, white as a swan.

  “The emir let his reins fall on the neck of Azib. Happy, he sang of a happy love, and accompanied himself on his guzla.

  “His songs were not joyous: they were tender; they were melancholy.

  “He passed, singing.

  “‘Silence, child, silence!’ whispered my mother, pressing my hand convulsively. ‘That voice divine does me so much good!’

  “Hélas! by degrees the voice died away; the emir had passed; the voice was gone; then one heard nothing more, — nothing more; not a sound.

  “‘Ah, I fall back in the dreadful horror of my night,’ said my mother. ‘This celestial music seemed to dissipate the darkness. Alas! alas!’ and she wrung her hands in despair.

  “Alas! all night she wept.

  “The morrow her despair increased; her reason grew feeble. In her delirium she called me a wicked son. She accused me of silencing this voice. If she heard this voice no more, she must die.

  “She was, indeed, going to die. For many hours she refused all nourishment. What could I do? What could I do?

  “The emir of our tribe was the most powerful of emirs.

  “If he raised his djerid ten thousand cavaliers mounted horse.

  “His palace was worthy of the sultan, his treasures immense. Alas! how could I dare conceive the thought of saying to him, ‘Come, and by your songs snatch an old and despairing woman from death?’

  “And yet that I dared. My mother had perhaps but a few more hours to live. I went to the palace.”

  “And the emir?” cried Reine, deeply moved and interested, while Stephanette, not less excited than her mistress, clasped her hands in admiration.

  The Bohemian gave the two young girls a glance of indescribable sadness, and said, interrupting this kind of improvising, and laying his instrument on his knees: “‘My mother was a woman,’ said the emir to me, and he came.”

  “He came!” exclaimed Reine, with enthusiasm. “Ah, the noble heart!”

  “Oh, yes, the most noble of noble hearts,” repeated the Bohemian, with transport; “he deigned, he so grand, he so powerful, to come, for five days, every evening into our poor dwelling. How shall I tell you of his touching, almost filial kindness? Alas, if my mother had not been stricken with a mortal disease, the songs of the emir would have saved her, for the effect they produced on her was wonderful. But she died at last without suffering, in a profound ecstasy. This guzla, it once belonged to the emir; he gave it to me. Thanks to it the last moments of my mother were peaceful, — poor mother!”

  A tear glittered a moment in the black eye of the Bohemian; then, as if he wished to drive away these painful memories, he took up his guzla quickly and recited these other stanzas in a proud and excited voice, as he made his sonorous instrument resound:

  “The name of the emir is sacred in his tribe; let him but speak and we will die.

  “Not one is more brave; not one is more beautiful; not one is more noble.

  “He is hardly twenty years old, and his name is already the terror of other tribes.

  “His arm is delicate like that of a woman, but it is strong like that of a warrior.

  “His face is smiling, is beautiful like that of the spirit who appears in the dreams of young girls; but it is sometimes terrible like that of the god of battles.

  “His voice charms and seduces like a magic philter, but sometimes it bursts forth like a clarion.”

  In his enthusiasm, the Bohemian approached Reine and said to her, as he opened the medallion set into the neck of the guzla: “See! see if he is not the most beautiful of mortals!”

  The young girl looked at the portrait, and uttered a cry of surprise, almost of terror. The portrait was that of the stranger in the rocks of Ollioules, who had saved the life of her father!

  At that moment the door of Reine’s drawing-room was opened, and she saw before her Honorât de Berrol, followed by Captain Luquin Trinquetaille, who had just arrived from Nice on the tartan, The Holy Terror of the Moors, by the Grace of God.

  CHAPTER XIV. JEALOUSY

  WHEN HONORT DE Berrol entered Reine’s apartment, Stephanette wished to retire so
as to leave the two lovers alone.

  She took one step toward the door, but Reine said to her, quickly, in a voice full of emotion, “Remain.”

  Then, scarcely able to control her feelings, she bowed her head and hid her face in her hands.

  Honorât, astonished beyond expression, did not know what to think.

  The Bohemian had closed the medallion containing the portrait of Erebus, and had placed it on the table.

  The captain of the Holy Terror to the Moors vainly tried to catch Stephanette’s eye, but she seemed as anxious to avoid his glance.

  Luquin Trinquetaille was the more sensible of her conduct inasmuch as he recognised on the Bohemian’s collar the flame-coloured ribbon, which was the exact counterpart of what Stephanette wore on her waist.

  This observation on his part, together with several perfidious insinuations made by Master Laramée, who had just been taking a glass with Luquin, suddenly aroused the lover’s jealousy.

  He looked at the Singer angrily, then, meeting Ste-phanette’s eyes by chance, he executed a most complicated pantomime with his left hand, which was meant to ask the young girl why the Singer had a ribbon like the one hanging from her ruff.

  As this pantomimic performance made it necessary for the worthy captain to put his hand to his collar quite often, Stephanette whispered to him, with the most innocent tone in the world, “Are you suffering from a sore throat, M. Luquin?”

  These words of the mischievous girl, while they excited the captain’s anger, seemed also to arouse Honorât from the astonishment produced by the strange reception of his betrothed.

  He approached her, and said: “I am just from Marseilles, Reine, and I must speak to you on some very serious things concerning your father. Trinquetaille comes from La Ciotat and tells me that the affair of the fishery is threatening; the citizens seem to be irritated. In order to talk of all this we must be alone.”

  At these words Reine raised her face bathed with tears, and with a sign ordered Stephanette to go out The girl obeyed, casting a sad look at her mistress.

  Trinquetaille followed his betrothed with a very ungracious air, and the Bohemian accompanied them.

  “Reine, in the name of Heaven, what is the matter with you?” cried Honorât, as soon as he was alone with Mlle, des Anbiez.

  “Nothing, — nothing is the matter with me, my friend.”

  “But you are weeping, your face is all tear-stained. What has happened, pray?”

  “Nothing, I tell you, — mere childishness. The Bohemian sang a romance of his country for us; it was pathetic, and I allowed myself to be affected by it. But do not let us talk of this nonsense; let us talk of father. Is there any danger? Has his angry treatment of the recorder irritated the marshal? And what does Luquin say about the fishery? Honorât! Honorât! do answer me!”

  “Listen to me, Reine; although those matters have assumed a grave, if not a dangerous aspect, let me first speak of what is above everything else, — my love for you.”

  “Oh, Honorât! Honorât! what of my father?”

  “Be calm, there is no immediate danger threatening the baron. The marshal has despatched two of his men to make inquiries about the facts.”

  “But what does Luquin say about the fishery?”

  “He comes to tell you that the consuls have returned the question with your father on the right of fishery to the overseers; so you see, Reine, that this news, although serious, has nothing threatening or alarming in it, and—”

  “How do you think the marshal will consider my father’s conduct?” said Reine, hurriedly, again interrupting Honorât.

  Her lover looked at her with as much surprise as sorrow.

  “My God, Reine, what does that signify? Are we not to be united in a few days? at Christmas? Is it tiresome to you to hear me speak of my love for you?”

  Reine uttered a sigh, and looked down without replying.

  “Listen, Reine,” cried Honorât, with bitterness; “for a month now, there is something in you which is inexplicable; you are no longer the same, you are distracted, preoccupied, taciturn; when I speak to you of our approaching marriage, of our plans, of our future, you answer me with constraint. Again I say, this is not natural. What have you to reproach me for?”

  “Nothing — oh, nothing, nothing, Honorât, you are the best, the noblest of men!”

  “But, indeed, only eight days ago, you yourself formally announced to your father your desire that our marriage should take place at Christmas, even if circumstances should prevent the attendance of your uncles, the commander and Father Elzear!”

  “That is true.”

  “Well, then, have you changed your mind? Do you wish to postpone it? You do not answer me. My God! what does that mean? Reine, Reine! Ah, I am unhappy indeed!”

  “My friend, do not despond so; have pity on me. Wait, I am foolish. I am unworthy of your affection. I annoy you, — you are so good, so noble!”

  “But tell me what is the matter with you? What do you wish?”

  “I do not know. I suffer — I — Wait, I tell you. I am foolish and weak and very miserable, believe me.” She hid her face in her hands. Honorât, at the height of astonishment, looked at her with an expression of distress.

  “Ah,” cried he, “if I were less acquainted with the purity of your heart, if evidence even did not prevent the least suspicion, I would believe that a rival had supplanted me in your affection. But no, no, if that were true, I know your sincerity, — you would confess it to me without a blush, because you are incapable of making an unworthy choice. But then, what is it? A month ago, you loved me so much, so you said, — what have I done in one month to deserve such punishment from you? Ah, it is enough to make one insane!”

  And Honorât de Berrol, a prey to violent grief, plunged almost into despair, walked up and down the room in silence.

  Reine, overwhelmed, did not dare utter a word. She was almost on the point of confessing all to Honorât, but shame restrained her, and besides, she could not distinctly understand her own impressions.

  The recital by the Bohemian, the wonderful accident which had just placed the portrait of the unknown before her eyes, increased the curiosity and romantic interest that she felt concerning the stranger, in spite of herself.

  But was this sentiment love? Again, who was this man? The Bohemian called him the emir of his tribe, but at Marseilles, he and his two companions had passed for Muscovites; how could the truth be unveiled among so many mysteries? And then, would she ever see him again? Was it not idolatry? Was the pathetic incident related by the Bohemian true?

  Lost in this chaos of confused thoughts, Reine could not find one word to reply to Honorât.

  What good could be accomplished by confessing this inexplicable secret? If she had felt her affection for her betrothed diminish or change, with her usual fidelity she would not have hesitated to have told him, but she felt for him the same calm, gentle tenderness, the same confidence, the same timid veneration.

  If sometimes when he was leaving Maison-Forte, Honorât, encouraged by Raimond V., would press his lips upon the young girl’s brow, she would smile without giving the slightest evidence of annoyance.

  Nothing in her manner betrayed a change in her attachment to Honorât, and yet she saw the day of her marriage approach with distrust and even distress.

  Doubtless this want of confidence in Honorât was censurable, but she divined with true feminine instinct the danger and uselessness of telling her betrothed the strange restlessness of her heart.

  Honorât appeared to be deeply grieved. Reine reproached herself for not being able to utter a word to cheer him. Once she was about to obey the inspiration of her compassion for him and tell him all in perfect confidence, but his irritated manner arrested the words on her lips.

  In his vain effort to discover the cause of the coldness and capricious conduct of Reine, and suddenly struck by some vague memories, as he recalled that, for a month past, the Seigneur de Signerol had been visiting Maison-F
orte more frequently than was his habit, Honorât foolishly suspected this man to be the object of Reine’s preference.

  This idea was all the more absurd, as the young girl, in talking with her betrothed the day of the recorder’s adventure, had blamed the Seigneur de Signerol in almost contemptuous terms, accusing him of exciting the impetuous temper of her father. As for Seigneur de Signerol, he had never had a conversation with Mile, des Anbiez.

  Honorât, however, in his state of irritation and distress, welcomed any suspicion which seemed to explain the strange attitude of Reine.

  Once admitting this suspicion into his heart, he then became indignant at the contemptuous manner in which she had spoken of this man, seeing in her language nothing but the most perfidious dissimulation.

  Then, Reine was doubly culpable in his eyes. Why did she not frankly reject his hand, instead of keeping him in doubtful hope? Accepting this false theory, Honorât de Berrol found only too many reasons to induce him to ponder the caprices which he had observed in the conduct of Reine for some time. He even went so far as to imagine that the Bohemian was an emissary of M. de Signerol.

  The recent agitation of his betrothed at the time he entered her drawing-room confirmed him in this absurd opinion. Not being able to hide this impression, he said to her, suddenly:

  “Confess, mademoiselle, that it is at least rather strange that you should receive a vagabond Bohemian in your apartment; it seems to me that if he had only come to sing, you would not have been so embarrassed, so excited when I entered here.”

  Honorât, in his anger, made this remark at random, and as soon as the words were uttered, felt ashamed of them. But what was his astonishment, his vexation, his distress, to see Reine blush and cast down her eyes without saying a word.

  She was thinking of the portrait of the unknown hero, and the adventure connected with him; she was ignorant of Honorât’s allusion.

  The embarrassment of the young girl confirmed the chevalier in his suspicions, and he exclaimed, with bitterness:

  “Ah, Reine, never could I have believed you capable of forgetting yourself so far as to compromise your dearest interests by trusting them to such a contemptible creature!”