Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “Do you know, my dear boy, there would not be so crowded or fashionable an audience to witness Racine’s Athalia?”

  “Undoubtedly. What is the beggarly howling of an actor, compared to the roaring of the lion?”

  “I cannot understand how the authorities permit this Morok to fasten his panther with a chain to an iron ring in the corner of the stage. If the chain were to break?”

  “Talking of broken chains — there’s little Mme. de Blinville, who is no tigress. Do you see her in the second tier, opposite?”

  “It becomes her very well to have broken, as you say, the marriage chain; she looks very well this season.”

  “Oh! there is the beautiful Duchess de Saint-Prix; all the world is here to-night — I don’t speak of ourselves.”

  “It is a regular opera night — what a festive scene!”

  “Well, after all, people do well to amuse themselves, perhaps it will not be for long.”

  “Why so?”

  “Suppose the cholera were to come to Paris?”

  “Oh! nonsense!”

  “Do you believe in the cholera?”

  “To be sure I do! He’s coming from the North, with his walking-stick under his arm.”

  “The devil take him on the road! don’t let us see his green visage here.”

  “They say he’s at London.”

  “A pleasant journey to him.”

  “Come, let us talk of something else; it may be a weakness, if you please, but I call this a dull subject.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Oh! gentlemen — I am not mistaken — no — it is she!”

  “Who, then?”

  “Mdlle. de Cardoville! She is coming into the stage-box with Morinval and his wife. It is a complete resuscitation: this morning on the Champs-Elysees; in the evening here.”

  “Faith, you are right! It is Mdlle. de Cardoville.”

  “Good heaven! how lovely she is!”

  “Lend me your eyeglass.”

  “Well, what do you think of her?”

  “Exquisite — dazzling.”

  “And in addition to her beauty, an inexhaustible flow of wit, three hundred thousand francs a year, high birth, eighteen years of age, and — free as air.”

  “Yes, that is to say, that, provided it pleased her, I might be to morrow — or even to-day — the happiest of men.”

  “It is enough to turn one’s brain.”

  “I am told that her mansion, Rue d’Anjou, is like an enchanted palace; a great deal is said about a bath-room and bedroom, worthy of the Arabian Nights.”

  “And free as air — I come back to that.”

  “Ah! if I were in her place!”

  “My levity would be quite shocking.”

  “Oh! gentlemen, what a happy man will he be who is loved first!”

  “You think, then, that she will have many lovers?”

  “Being as free as air—”

  “All the boxes are full, except the stage-box opposite to that in which Mdlle. de Cardoville is seated. Happy the occupiers of that box!”

  “Did you see the English ambassador’s lady in the dress circle?”

  “And the Princess d’Alvimar — what an enormous bouquet!”

  “I should like to know the name — of that nosegay.”

  “Oh! — it’s Germigny.”

  “How flattering for the lions and tigers, to attract so fashionable an audience.”

  “Do you notice, gentlemen, how all the women are eye-glassing Mdlle. de Cardoville?”

  “She makes a sensation.”

  “She is right to show herself; they gave her out as mad.”

  “Oh! gentlemen, what a capital phiz!”

  “Where — where?”

  “There — in the omnibus-box beneath Mdlle. de Cardoville’s.”

  “It’s a Nuremburg nutcracker.”

  “An ourang-outang!”

  “Did you ever see such round, staring eyes?”

  “And the nose!”

  “And the forehead!”

  “It’s a caricature.”

  “Order, order! the curtain rises.”

  And, in fact, the curtain rose. Some explanation is necessary for the clear understanding of what follows. In the lower stage-box, to the left of the audience, were several persons, who had been referred to by the young men in the stalls. The omnibus-box was occupied by the Englishman, the eccentric and portentous bettor, whose presence inspired Morok with so much dread.

  It would require Hoffman’s rare and fantastic genius to describe worthily that countenance, at once grotesque and frightful, as it stood out from the dark background of the box. This Englishman was about fifty years old; his forehead was quite bald, and of a conical shape; beneath this forehead, surmounted by eyebrows like parenthesis marks, glittered large, green eyes, remarkably round and staring, and set very close to a hooked nose, extremely sharp and prominent; a chin like that on the old fashioned nutcrackers was half-hidden in a broad and ample white cravat, as stiffly-starched as the round-cornered shirt-collar, which nearly touched his ears. The face was exceedingly thin and bony, and yet the complexion was high-colored, approaching to purple, which made the bright green of the pupils, and the white of the other part of the eyes, still more conspicuous. The mouth, which was very wide, sometimes whistled inaudibly the tune of a Scotch jig (always the same tune), sometimes was slightly curled with a sardonic smite. The Englishman was dressed with extreme care; his blue coat, with brass buttons, displayed his spotless waistcoat, snowy, white as his ample cravat; his shirt was fastened with two magnificent ruby studs, and his patrician hands were carefully kid gloved.

  To any one who knew the eccentric and cruel desire which attracted this man to every representation, his grotesque face became almost terrific, instead of exciting ridicule; and it was easy to understand the dread experience by Morok at sight of those great, staring round eyes, which appeared to watch for the death of the lion-tamer (what a horrible death!) with unshaken confidence. Above the dark box of the Englishman, affording a graceful contrast, were seated the Morinvals and Mdlle. de Cardoville. The latter was placed nearest the stage. Her head was uncovered, and she wore a dress of sky-blue China crepe, ornamented at the bosom with a brooch of the finest Oriental pearls — nothing more; yet Adrienne, thus attired, was charming. She held in her hand an enormous bouquet, composed of the rarest flowers of India: the stephanotis and the gardenia mingled the dead white of their blossoms with the purple hibiscus and Java amaryllis.

  Madame de Morinval, seated on the opposite side of the box, was dressed with equal taste and simplicity; Morinval, a fair and very handsome young man, of elegant appearance, was behind the two ladies. M. de Montbron was expected to arrive every moment. The reader will please to recollect that the stage-box to the right of the audience, opposite Adrienne’s, had remained till then quite empty. The stage represented one of the gigantic forests of India. In the background, tall exotic trees rose in spiral or spreading forms, among rugged masses of perpendicular rocks, with here and there glimpses of a tropical sky. The side-scenes formed tufts of trees, interspersed with rocks; and at the side which was immediately beneath Adrienne’s box appeared the irregular opening of a deep and gloomy cavern, round which were heaped huge blocks of granite, as if thrown together by some convulsion of nature. This scenery, full of a wild and savage grandeur, was wonderfully “built up,” so as to make the illusion as complete as possible; the footlights were lowered, and being covered with a purple shade, threw over this landscape a subdued reddish light, which increased the gloomy and startling effect of the whole. Adrienne, leaning forward from the box, with cheeks slightly flushed, sparkling eyes, and throbbing heart, sought to trace in this scene the solitary forest described by the traveller who had eulogized Djalma’s generosity and courage, when he threw himself upon a ferocious tigress to save the life of a poor black slave. Chance coincided wonderfully indeed with her recollections. Absorbed in the contemplation of the scenery and the th
oughts it awakened in her heart, she paid no attention to what was passing in the house. And yet something calculated to excite curiosity was taking place in the opposite stage-box.

  The door of this box opened. A man about forty years of age, of a yellow complexion, entered; he was clothed after the East Indian fashion, in a long robe of orange silk, bound round the waist with a green sash, and he wore a small white turban. He placed two chairs at the front of the box; and, having glanced round the house for a moment, he started, his black eyes sparkled, and he went out quickly. That man was Faringhea. His apparition caused surprise and curiosity in the theatre; the majority of the spectators not having, like Adrienne, a thousand reasons for being absorbed in the contemplation of a picturesque set scene. The public attention was still more excited when they saw the box which Faringhea had just left, entered by a youth of rare beauty, also dressed Oriental fashion, in a long robe of white Cashmere with flowing sleeves, with a scarlet turban striped with gold on his head, and a sash to correspond, in which was stuck a long dagger, glittering with precious stones. This young man was Prince Djalma. For an instant he remained standing at the door, and cast a look of indifference upon the immense theatre, crowded with people; then, stepping forward with a majestic and tranquil air, the prince seated himself negligently on one of the chairs, and, turning his head in a few moments towards the entrance, appeared surprised at not seeing some person whom he doubtless expected. This person appeared at length; the boxkeeper had been assisting her to take off her cloak. She was a charming, fair-haired girl, attired with more show than taste, in a dress of white silk, with broad cherry-colored stripes, made ultra fashionably low, and with short sleeves; a large bow of cherry-colored ribbon was placed on each side of her light hair, and set off the prettiest, sprightliest, most wilful little face in the world.

  It was Rose-Pompon. Her pretty arms were partly covered by long white gloves, and ridiculously loaded with bracelets: in her hand she carried an enormous bouquet of roses.

  Far from imitating the calm demeanor of Djalma, Rose-Pompon skipped into the box, moved the chairs about noisily, and fidgeted on her seat for some time, to display her fine dress; then, without being in the least intimidated by the presence of the brilliant assembly, she, with a little coquettish air, held her bouquet towards Djalma, that he might smell it, and appeared finally to establish herself on her seat. Faringhea came in, shut the door of the box, and seated himself behind the prince. Adrienne, still completely absorbed in the contemplation of the Indian forest, and in her own sweet thoughts, had not observed the newcomers. As she was turning her head completely towards the stage, and Djalma could not, for the moment, see even her profile, he, on his side, had not recognized Mdlle. de Cardoville.

  CHAPTER XIV. DEATH.

  THE PANTOMIME OPENING, by which was introduced the combat of Morok with the black panther, was so unmeaning, that the majority of the audience paid no attention to it, reserving all their interest for the scene in which the lion-tamer was to make his appearance.

  This indifference of the public explains the curiosity excited in the theatre by the arrival of Faringhea and Djalma — a curiosity which expressed itself (as at this day, when uncommon foreigners appear in public) by a slight murmur and general movement amongst the crowd. The sprightly, pretty face of Rose-Pompon, always charming, in spite of her singularly staring dress, in style so ridiculous for such a theatre, and her light and familiar manner towards the handsome Indian who accompanied her, increased and animated the general surprise; for, at this moment, Rose-Pompon, yielding without reserve to a movement of teasing coquetry, had held up, as we have already stated, her large bunch of roses to Djalma. But the prince, at sight of the landscape which reminded him of his country, instead of appearing sensible to this pretty, provocation, remained for some minutes as in a dream, with his eyes fixed upon the stage. Then Rose-Pompon began to beat time on the front of the box with her bouquet, whilst the somewhat too visible movement of her pretty shoulders showed that this devoted dancer was thinking of fast-life dances, as the orchestra struck up a more lively strain.

  Placed directly opposite the box in which Faringhea, Djalma, and Rose Pompon had just taken their seats, Lady Morinval soon perceived the arrival of these two personages, and particularly the eccentric coquetries of Rose-Pompon. Immediately, the young marchioness, leaning over towards Mdlle. de Cardoville, who was still absorbed in memories ineffable, said to her, laughing: “My dear, the most amusing part of the performance is not upon the stage. Look just opposite.”

  “Just opposite?” repeated Adrienne, mechanically: and, turning towards Lady Morinval with an air of surprise, she glanced in the direction pointed out.

  She looked — what did she see? — Djalma seated by the side of a young woman, who was familiarly offering to his sense of smell the perfume of her bouquet. Amazed, struck almost literally to the heart, as by an electric shock, swift, sharp, and painful, Adrienne became deadly pale. From instinct, she shut her eyes for a second, in order not to see — as men try to ward off the dagger, which, having once dealt the blow, threatens to strike again. Then suddenly, to this feeling of grief succeeded a reflection, terrible both to her love and to her wounded pride.

  “Djalma is present with this woman, though he must have received my letter,” she said to herself,— “wherein he was informed of the happiness that awaited him.”

  At the idea of so cruel an insult, a blush of shame and indignation displaced Adrienne’s paleness, who overwhelmed by this sad reality, said to herself: “Rodin did not deceive me.”

  We abandon all idea of picturing the lightning-like rapidity of certain emotions which in a moment may torture — may kill you in the space of a minute. Thus Adrienne was precipitated from the most radiant happiness to the lowest depths of an abyss of the most heart-rending grief, in less than a second; for a second had hardly elapsed before she replied to Lady Morinval: “What is there, then, so curious, opposite to us, my dear Julia?”

  This evasive question gave Adrienne time to recover her self-possession. Fortunately, thanks to the thick folds of hair which almost entirely concealed her cheeks, the rapid and sudden changes from pallor to blush escaped the notice of Lady Morinval, who gayly replied: “What, my dear, do you not perceive those East Indians, who have just entered the box immediately opposite to ours? There, just before us!”

  “Yes, I see them; but what then?” replied Adrienne, in a firm tone.

  “And don’t you observe anything remarkable?” said the marchioness.

  “Don’t be too hard, ladies,” laughingly interposed the marquis; “we ought to allow the poor foreigners some little indulgence. They are ignorant of our manners and customs; were it not for that, they would never appear in the face of all Paris in such dubious company.”

  “Indeed,” said Adrienne, with a bitter smile, “their simplicity is touching; we must pity them.”

  “And, unfortunately, the girl is charming, spite of her low dress and bare arms,” said the marchioness; “she cannot be more than sixteen or seventeen at most. Look at her, my dear Adrienne; what a pity!”

  “It is one of your charitable days, my dear Julia,” answered Adrienne; “we are to pity the Indians, to pity this creature, and — pray, whom else are we to pity?”

  “We will not pity that handsome Indian, in his red-and-gold turban,” said the marquis, laughing, “for, if this goes on, the girl with the cherry colored ribbons will be giving him a kiss. See how she leans towards her sultan.”

  “They are very amusing,” said the marchioness, sharing the hilarity of her husband, and looking at Rose-Pompom through her glass; then she resumed, in about a minute, addressing herself to Adrienne: “I am quite certain of one thing. Notwithstanding her giddy airs, that girl is very fond of her Indian. I just saw a look that expresses a great deal.”

  “Why so much penetration, my dear Julia?” said Adrienne, mildly; “what interest have we to read the heart of that girl?”

  “Why, if she lo
ves her sultan, she is quite in the right,” said the marquis, looking through his opera-glass in turn; “for, in my whole life, I never saw a more handsome fellow than that Indian. I can only catch his side-face, but the profile is pure and fine as an antique cameo. Do you not think so?” added the marquis, leaning towards Adrienne. “Of course, it is only as a matter of art, that I permit myself to ask you the question.”

  “As a work of art,” answered Adrienne, “it is certainly very fine.”

  “But see!” said the marchioness; “how impertinent the little creature is! — She is actually staring at us.”

  “Well!” said the marquis; “and she is actually laying her hand quite unceremoniously on her sultan’s shoulder, to make him share, no doubt, in her admiration of you ladies.”

  In fact, Djalma, until now occupied with the contemplation of the scene which reminded him of his country, had remained insensible to the enticements of Rose-Pompon, and had not yet perceived Adrienne.

  “Well, now!” said Rose-Pompon, bustling herself about in front of the box, and continuing to stare at Mdlle. de Cardoville, for it was she, and not the marchioness, who now drew her attention; “that is something quite out of the common way — a pretty woman, with red hair; but such sweet red, it must be owned. Look, Prince Charming!”

  And so saying, she tapped Djalma lightly on the shoulder; he started at these words, turned round, and for the first time perceived Mdlle. de Cardoville.

  Though he had been almost prepared for this meeting, the prince was so violently affected by it, that he was about involuntarily to rise, in a state of the utmost confusion; but he felt the iron hand of Faringhea laid heavily on his shoulder, and heard him whisper in Hindostanee: “Courage! and by to-morrow she will be at your feet.”