Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  Hardly had this name been pronounced, than Djalma started from his chair, looked the half-breed full in the face, and exclaimed, as if only just aware of his presence, “Faringhea! you here! — what is the matter?”

  “Your faithful servant shares in your joy, my lord.”

  “What joy?”

  “That which the letter of Mdlle. de Cardoville has occasioned, my lord.”

  Djalma returned no answer, but his eye shone with so much serene happiness, that the half-caste recovered from his apprehensions. No cloud of doubt or suspicion obscured the radiant features of the prince. After a few moments of silence, Djalma fixed upon the half-caste a look half-veiled with a tear of joy, and said to him, with the expression of one whose heart overflows with love and happiness: “Oh! such delight is good — great — like heaven! — for it is heaven which—”

  “You deserve this happiness, my lord, after so many sufferings.”

  “What sufferings? — Oh! yes. I formerly suffered at Java; but that was years ago.”

  “My lord, this great good fortune does not astonish me. What have I always told you? Do not despair; feign a violent passion for some other woman, and then this proud young lady—”

  At these words Djalma looked at the half-caste with so piercing a glance, that the latter stopped short; but the prince said to him with affectionate goodness, “Go on! I listen.”

  Then, leaning his chin upon his hand, and his elbow on his knee, he gazed so intently on Faringhea, and yet with such unutterable mildness, that even that iron soul was touched for a moment with a slight feeling of remorse.

  “I was saying, my lord,” he resumed, “that by following the counsels of your faithful slave, who persuaded you to feign a passionate love for another woman, you have brought the proud Mdlle. de Cardoville to come to you. Did I not tell you it would be so?”

  “Yes, you did tell me so,” answered Djalma, still maintaining the same position, and examining the half-caste with the same fixed and mild attention.

  The surprise of Faringhea increased; generally, the prince, without treating him with the least harshness, preserved the somewhat distant and imperious manners of their common country, and he had never before spoken to him with such extreme mildness. Knowing all the evil he had done the prince, and suspicious as the wicked must ever be, the half-caste thought for a moment, that his master’s apparent kindness might conceal a snare. He continued, therefore, with less assurance, “Believe me, my lord, this day, if you do but know how to profit by your advantages, will console you for all your troubles, which have indeed been great — for only yesterday, though you were generous enough to forget it, only yesterday you suffered cruelly — but you were not alone in your sufferings. This proud young lady suffered also!”

  “Do you think so?” said Djalma.

  “Oh! it is quite sure, my lord. What must she not have felt, when she saw you at the theatre with another woman! — If she loved you only a little, she must have been deeply wounded in her self-esteem; if she loved you with passion, she must have been struck to the heart. At length, you see, wearied out with suffering, she has come to you.”

  “So that, any way, she must have suffered — and that does not move your pity?” said Djalma, in a constrained, but still very mild voice.

  “Before thinking of others, my lord, I think of your distresses; and they touch me too nearly to leave me any pity for other woes,” added Faringhea hypocritically, so greatly had the influence of Rodin already modified the character of the Phansegar.

  “It is strange!” said Djalma, speaking to himself, as he viewed the half caste with a glance still kind but piercing.

  “What is strange, my lord?”

  “Nothing. But tell me, since your advice has hitherto prospered so well, what think you of the future?”

  “Of the future, my lord?”

  “Yes; in an hour I shall be with Mdlle. de Cardoville.”

  “That is a serious matter, my lord. The whole future will depend upon this interview.”

  “That is what I was just thinking.”

  “Believe me, my lord, women never love any so well, as the bold man who spares them the embarrassment of a refusal.”

  “Explain more fully.”

  “Well, my lord, they despise the timid and languishing lover, who asks humbly for what he might take by force.”

  “But to-day I shall meet Mdlle. de Cardoville for the first time.”

  “You have met her a thousand times in your dreams, my lord; and depend upon it, she has seen you also in her dreams, since she loves you. Every one of your amorous thoughts has found an echo in her heart. All your ardent adorations have been responded to by her. Love has not two languages, and, without meeting, you have said all that you had to say to each other. Now, it is for you to act as her master, and she will be yours entirely.”

  “It is strange — very strange!” said Djalma, a second time, without removing his eyes from Faringhea’s face.

  Mistaking the sense which the prince attached to these words, the half caste resumed: “Believe me, my lord, however strange it may appear, this is the wisest course. Remember the past. Was it by playing the part of a timid lover that you have brought to your feet this proud young lady, my lord? No, it was by pretending to despise her, in favor of another woman. Therefore, let us have no weakness. The lion does not woo like the poor turtle-dove. What cares the sultan of the desert for a few plaintive howls from the lioness, who is more pleased than angry at his rude and wild caresses? Soon submissive, fearful and happy, she follows in the track of her master. Believe me, my lord — try everything — dare everything — and to-day you will become the adored sultan of this young lady, whose beauty all Paris admires.”

  After some minutes’ silence, Djalma, shaking his head with an expression of tender pity, said to the half-caste, in his mild, sonorous voice: “Why betray me thus? Why advise me thus wickedly to use violence, terror, and surprise, towards an angel of purity, whom I respect as my mother? Is it not enough for you to have been so long devoted to my enemies, whose hatred has followed me from Java?”

  Had Djalma sprung upon the half-caste with bloodshot eye, menacing brow, and lifted poniard, the latter would have been less surprised, and perhaps less frightened, than when he heard the prince speak of his treachery in this tone of mild reproach.

  He drew back hastily, as if about to stand on his guard. But Djalma resumed, with the same gentleness, “Fear nothing. Yesterday I should have killed you! But to-day happy love renders me too just, too merciful for that. I pity you, without any feeling of bitterness — for you must have been very unhappy, or you could not have become so wicked.”

  “My lord!” said the half-caste, with growing amazement.

  “Yes, you must have suffered much, and met with little mercy, poor creature, to have become so merciless, in your hate, and proof against the sight of a happiness like mine. When I listened to you just now, and saw the sad perseverance of your hatred, I felt the deepest commiseration for you.”

  “I do not know, my lord — but—” stammered the half-caste, and was unable to find words to proceed.

  “Come, now — what harm have I ever done you?”

  “None, my lord,” answered Faringhea.

  “Then why do you hate me thus? why pursue me with so much animosity? Was it not enough to give me the perfidious counsel to feign a shameful love for the young girl that was brought hither, and who quitted the house disgusted at the miserable part she was to play?”

  “Your feigned love for that young girl, my lord,” replied Faringhea, gradually recovering his presence of mind, “conquered the coldness of—”

  “Do not say that,” resumed the prince, interrupting him with the same mildness. “If I enjoy this happiness, which makes me compassionate towards you, and raises me above myself, it is because Mdlle de Cardoville now knows that I have never for a moment ceased to love her as she ought to be loved, with adoration and reverence. It was your intention to have p
arted us forever, and you had nearly succeeded.”

  “If you think this of me, my lord, you must look upon me as your most mortal enemy.”

  “Fear nothing, I tell you. I have no right to blame you. In the madness of my grief, I listened to you and followed your advice. I was not only your dupe, but your accomplice. Only confess that, when you saw me at your mercy, dejected, crushed, despairing, it was cruel in you to advise the course that might have been most fatal to me.”

  “The ardor of my zeal may have deceived me, my lord.”

  “I am willing to believe it. And yet again to-day there were the same evil counsels. You had no more pity for my happiness than for my sorrow. The rapture of my heart inspires you with only one desire — that of changing this rapture into despair.”

  “I, my lord!”

  “Yes, you. It was your intention to ruin me — to dishonor me forever in the eyes of Mdlle. de Cardoville. Now, tell me — why this furious hate? what have I done to you?”

  “You misjudge me, my lord — and—”

  “Listen to me. I do not wish you to be any longer wicked and treacherous. I wish to make you good. In our country, they charm serpents, and tame the wildest tigers. You are a man, with a mind to reason, a heart to love, and I will tame you too by gentleness. This day has bestowed on me divine happiness; you shall have good cause to bless this day. What can I do for you? what would you have — gold? You shall have it. Do you desire more than gold? Do you desire a friend, to console you for the sorrows that made you wicked, and to teach you to be good? Though a king’s son, I will be that friend — in spite of the evil — ay, because of the evil you have done me. Yes; I will be your sincere friend, and it shall be my delight to say to myself: ‘The day on which I learned that my angel loved me, my happiness was great indeed — for, in the morning, I had an implacable enemy, and, ere night, his hatred was changed to friendship.’ Believe me, Faringhea, misery makes crime, but happiness produces virtue. Be happy!”

  At this moment the clock struck two. The prince started. It was time to go on his visit to Adrienne. The handsome countenance of Djalma, doubly embellished by the mild, ineffable expression with which it had been animated whilst he was talking to the half-caste, now seemed illumined with almost divine radiance.

  Approaching Faringhea, he extended his hand with the utmost, grace and courtesy, saying to him, “Your hand!”

  The half-caste, whose brow was bathed with a cold sweat, whose countenance was pale and agitated, seemed to hesitate for an instant; then, overawed, conquered, fascinated, he offered his trembling hand to the prince, who pressed it, and said to him, in their country’s fashion, “You have laid your hand honestly in a friend’s; this hand shall never be closed against you. Faringhea, farewell! I now feel myself more worthy to kneel before my angel.”

  And Djalma went out, on his way to the appointment with Adrienne. In spite of his ferocity, in spite of the pitiless hate he bore to the whole human race, the dark sectary of Bowanee was staggered by the noble and clement words of Djalma, and said to himself, with terror, “I have taken his hand. He is now sacred for me.”

  Then, after a moment’s silence, a thought occurred to him, and he exclaimed, “Yes — but he will not be sacred for him who, according to the answer of last night, waits for him at the door of the house.”

  So saying, the half-caste hastened into the next room, which looked upon the street, and, raising a corner of the curtain, muttered anxiously to himself, “The carriage moves off — the man approaches. Perdition! it is gone and I see no more.”

  CHAPTER XL. ANXIETY.

  BY A SINGULAR coincidence of ideas, Adrienne, like Djalma, had wished to be dressed exactly in the same costume as at their interview in the house in the Rue Blanche. For the site of this solemn meeting, so important to her future happiness, Adrienne had chosen, with habitual tact, the grand drawing-room of Cardoville House, in which hung many family portraits. The most apparent were those of her father and mother. The room was large and lofty, and furnished, like those which preceded it, with all the imposing splendor of the age of Louis XIV. The ceiling, painted by Lebrun, to represent the Triumph of Apollo, displayed his bold designing and vigorous coloring, in the centre of a wide cornice, magnificently carved and gilt, and supported at its angles by four large gilt figures, representing the Seasons. Huge panels, covered with crimson damask, and set in frames, served as the background to the family portraits which adorned this apartment. It is easier to conceive than describe the thousand conflicting emotions which agitated the bosom of Mdlle. de Cardoville as the moment approached for her interview with Djalma. Their meeting had been hitherto prevented by so many painful obstacles, and Adrienne was so well aware of the vigilant and active perfidy of her enemies, that even now she doubted of her happiness. Every instant, in spite of herself, her eyes wandered to the clock. A few minutes more, and the hour of the appointment would strike. It struck at last. Every reverberation was echoed from the depth of Adrienne’s heart. She considered that Djalma’s modest reserve had, doubtless, prevented his coming before the moment fixed by herself. Far from blaming this discretion, she fully appreciated it. But, from that moment, at the least noise in the adjoining apartments, she held her breath and listened with the anxiety of expectation.

  For the first few minutes which followed the hour at which she expected Djalma, Mdlle. de Cardoville felt no serious apprehension, and calmed her impatience by the notion (which appears childish enough to those who have never known the feverish agitation of waiting for a happy meeting), that perhaps the clocks in the Rue Blanche might vary a little from those in the Rue d’Anjou. But when this supposed variation, conceivable enough in itself, could no longer explain a delay of a quarter of an hour, of twenty minutes, of more, Adrienne felt her anxiety gradually increase. Two or three times the young girl rose, with palpitating heart, and went on tip-toe to listen at the door of the saloon. She heard nothing. The clock struck half-past three.

  Unable to suppress her growing terror, and clinging to a last hope, Adrienne returned towards the fireplace and rang the bell. After which she endeavored to compose her features, so as to betray no outward sign of emotion. In a few seconds, a gray-haired footman, dressed in black, opened the door, and waited in respectful silence for the orders of his mistress. The latter said to him, in a calm voice, “Andrew, request Hebe to give you the smelling bottle that I left on the chimney-piece in my room, and bring it me here.” Andrew bowed; but just as he was about to withdraw to execute Adrienne’s orders, which was only a pretext to enable her to ask a question without appearing to attach much importance to it in her servant’s eyes, already informed of the expected visit of the prince, Mdlle. de Cardoville added, with an air of indifference. “Pray, is that clock right?”

  Andrew drew out his watch, and replied as he cast his eyes upon it, “Yes, mademoiselle. I set my watch by the Tuileries. It is more than half past three.”

  “Very well — thank you!” said Adrienne kindly.

  Andrew again bowed; but, before going out, he said to Adrienne, “I forgot to tell you, lady, that Marshal Simon called about an hour ago; but, as you were only to be at home to Prince Djalma, we told him that you received no company.”

  “Very well,” said Adrienne. With another low bow, Andrew quitted the room, and all returned to silence.

  For the precise reason that, up to the last minute of the hour previous to the time fixed for her interview with Djalma, the hopes of Adrienne had not been disturbed by the slightest shadow of doubt, the disappointment she now felt was the more dreadful. Casting a desponding look at one of the portraits placed above her, she murmured, with a plaintive and despairing accent, “Oh, mother!”

  Hardly had Mdlle. de Cardoville uttered the words than the windows were slightly shaken by a carriage rolling into the courtyard. The young lady started, and was unable to repress a low cry of joy. Her heart bounded at the thought of meeting Djalma, for this time she felt that he was really come. She was quite as ce
rtain of it as if she had seen him. She resumed her seat and brushed away a tear suspended from her long eyelashes. Her hand trembled like a leaf. The sound of several doors opening and shutting proved that the young lady was right in her conjecture. The gilded panels of the drawing-room door soon turned upon their hinges, and the prince appeared.

  While a second footman ushered in Djalma, Andrew placed on a gilded table, within reach of his mistress, a little silver salver, on which stood the crystal smelling-bottle. Then he withdrew, and the door of the room was closed. The prince and Mdlle. de Cardoville were left alone together.

  CHAPTER XLI. ADRIENNE AND DJALMA.

  THE PRINCE HAD slowly approached Mdlle. de Cardoville. Notwithstanding the impetuosity of the Oriental’s passions, his uncertain and timid step — timid, yet graceful — betrayed his profound emotion. He did not venture to lift his eyes to Adrienne’s face; he had suddenly become very pale, and his finely formed hands, folded over his bosom in the attitude of adoration, trembled violently. With head bent down, he remained standing at a little distance from Adrienne. This embarrassment, ridiculous in any other person, appeared touching in this prince of twenty years of age, endowed with an almost fabulous intrepidity, and of so heroic and generous a character, that no traveller could speak of the son of Kadja sing without a tribute of admiration and respect. Sweet emotion! chaste reserve! doubly interesting if we consider that the burning passions of this youth were all the more inflammable, because they had hitherto been held in check.

  No less embarrassed than her cousin, Adrienne de Cardoville remained seated. Like Djalma, she cast down her eyes; but the burning blush on her cheeks, the quick heaving of her virgin bosom, revealed an emotion that she did not even attempt to hide. Notwithstanding the powers of her mind, by turns gay, graceful, and witty — notwithstanding the decision of her proud and independent character, and her complete acquaintance with the manners of the world — Adrienne shared Djalma’s simple and enchanting awkwardness, and partook of that kind of temporary weakness, beneath which these two pure, ardent, and loving beings appeared sinking — as if unable to support the boiling agitation of the senses, combined with the intoxicating excitement of the heart. And yet their eyes had not met. Each seemed to fear the first electric shock of the other’s glance — that invincible attraction of two impassioned beings — that sacred fire, which suddenly kindles the blood, and lifts two mortals from earth to heaven; for it is to approach the Divinity to give one’s self up with religious fervor to the most noble and irresistible sentiment that He has implanted within us — the only sentiment that, in His adorable wisdom, the Dispenser of all good has vouchsafed to sanctify, by endowing it with a spark of His own creative energy.