Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  The figure of this charming creature recalls the ideal Psyche, the lovely realization of a beauty so fleeting that it passes with the first flower of youth. Certain organizations retains their first youth a long time, and as we have said, in spite of her twenty-three years, Blue Beard is of the number of these privileged persons.

  For this is Blue Beard. We will no longer hide the name of the inmate of Devil’s Cliff from our readers, but will say she is called Angela. Unfortunately, this celestial name, this candid face, contrasts singularly with the diabolical reputation which this widow of three husbands possesses; and who it is said has as many consolers as she has had husbands. The course of this story will enable us to condemn or vindicate Blue Beard.

  At a slight sound which she hears in the adjoining room, Angela lifts her head suddenly, like a gazelle on the alert, and seats herself on the edge of the sofa, throwing back her locks by a graceful movement.

  At the moment she rises, exclaiming, “It it he!” a man raises the portière of the room. Not sooner does the iron fly to the magnet than does Angela to the newcomer. She throws herself into his arms, and twining them about him in a kind of tender fury, covered him with caresses and passionate kisses, and joyfully cries, “My tender friend — my dear James!”

  This first ebullition over, the newcomer takes Angela into his arms as if she were a child, and carries his precious burden over to the sofa. Then Angela, seated on his knee, takes one of his hands in hers, passes her beautiful arm about his neck, draws his head to her, and looked at him with eager delight.

  Alas! were the scandal-mongers right in suspecting Blue Beard’s morality?

  The man whom she receives with such familiar ardor is of the copper color of a mulatto; he is tall and supple, active and robust; his noble and fine features show nothing of the negro type; a profusion of jet black curls frame his forehead; his eyes are large and of velvety blackness; under his thin lips, red and moist, shine the most beautifully enameled teeth. This beauty, at once charming and manly, this appearance of strength and elegance, resembles the noble proportions of an Indian Bacchus or of an Antinous.

  The mulatto’s costume is such as certain filibusters then generally adopt when on shore. He wears a waistcoat of rich maroon velvet, with buttons of filigree gold; large Flemish boots of like material and ornamented with the same style of button, which extend the length of the thigh, being met by a belt of orange silk, in which is stuck a poignard richly chased; and, finally, long leggings of white kid embroidered in many colored silks after the Mexican style, show a leg of the finest outline.

  Nothing could be more striking or pretty than the contrast between James and Angela thus grouped. On the one hand, blond tresses, alabaster tints, rosy cheeks, infantile grace and elegance; on the other, the bronze tint, ebony locks, and manner at once assured and manly.

  Angela’s white dress is outlined on the somber colors of James’ vestments; and thus the fine and supple figure of Blue Beard is accentuated.

  Fixing her great blue eyes on the black eyes of the mulatto, the young woman amuses herself by turning back the embroidered collar of James’ shirt, in order to admire the better his sunburned neck, which in color and shape rivals the most beautiful Florentine bronze.

  After prolonging this unconventional performance, Angela gives the mulatto a noisy kiss under his ear, takes his head between her two hands, mischievously rumples up his black locks, gives him a little blow on the cheek, and says, “That is how I love you, Monsieur Hurricane.”

  A slight sound is heard behind the tapestry forming the portière, and Angela calls, “Is it you, Mirette? what do you wish?”

  “Madame, I am coming with the flowers and will arrange them in the stand.”

  “She hears us!” said Angela, making a mysterious signal to the mulatto; then she amuses herself laughing madly at and rumpling her lover’s hair. He takes her little caprices with complaisance, and contemplates her with love. Then he says, smilingly,

  “Child! because you look only sixteen, you think everything is permitted you.” Then he adds in a tone of gentle raillery, “and who would think, seeing this little rosy, ingenuous face that I hold on my knees the most notable scamp of the Antilles?”

  “And who would think that this man, who speaks in so sweet a voice, is the ferocious Captain Hurricane, the terror of England and Spain?” cried Angela, breaking into a laugh. The mulatto and the widow express themselves in the purest French, and without the slightest foreign accent.

  “What matters it,” she cries, smilingly, “it is not I whom they call Blue Beard.”

  At these words which appear to call up sad memories, the little widow, with a coquettish pout, gave a hardly perceptible tap to the end of Captain Hurricane’s nose, indicating by a movement of her hand that in the neighboring room one can hear him, and says with a mischievous air, “That will teach you to speak of trespassing.”

  “Fie! the monster!” says the captain, breaking into a laugh; “and what of remorse, then, madame?”

  “Give me a kiss of remorse, then, and I shall — —”

  “May Lucifer assist me! It takes a woman to be chief of criminals! Ah, my dear, you are well named; you make me tremble! Suppose we have supper.”

  Angela touches a bell. The young mulattress who had overheard the above conversation enters. She wears a dress of white linen with bright stripes, and has silver rings on arms and ankles.

  “Mirette, have you arranged the flowers,” said Blue Beard.

  “Yes, madame.”

  “You have been listening?”

  “No, madame.”

  “However, it does not matter; when I speak it is that I may be heard. Make ready the supper, Mirette.”

  Then, addressing herself to the captain, “What wine do you prefer?”

  “Sherry, but let it be iced; this is a notion of mine.”

  Mirette goes out for a moment, and shortly reappears and begins to prepare the table.

  “By the way, I forgot to tell you of a great event,” says Blue Beard’s companion.

  “What then? has one of my deceased husbands returned to life?”

  “Faith, almost.”

  “Now? Ah, Master James, Master James, no more of your wicked pleasantries,” cries Angela, with a frightened air.

  “No, it is not a dead man, a ghost, but a very living pretender who demands your hand in marriage.”

  “He wishes to marry me?”

  “He wishes to marry you.”

  “Oh, the unhappy wretch! is he then weary of life?” cried Angela, laughing.

  Mirette, at these words, makes the sign of the cross while superintending the spreading of the board by two other mulattresses who are carrying bottles of Bohemian glass, engraved with golden arabesques, and plates of the most magnificent Japanese porcelain.

  Blue Beard continues, “This lover of mine is not a countryman, then?”

  “By no means! for in spite of your wealth, my dear, I defy you to find a fourth husband, thanks to your diabolical reputation.”

  “Where does he come from, this would-be husband, my dear James?”

  “From France.”

  “France! he comes from France to espouse me, the deuce!”

  “Angela, you know that I do not like to hear you swear,” says the mulatto, with pretended seriousness.

  “Pardon, Captain Hurricane,” replies the young woman, dropping her eyes with a hypocritical air. “I only meant to signify that I find your news very astonishing. It appears that my reputation has reached Europe.”

  “Do not be so vain, my dear. It was on board the Unicorn that this worthy paladin heard you spoken of, and by the mere mention of your riches he has become enamored, yes, madly enamored of you. This, I trust, will take down your pride.”

  “The impertinent fellow! and who is this man, James?”

  “The Chevalier de Croustillac.”

  “Who?”

  “The Chevalier de Croustillac.”

  “This is the name
of the pretender to my hand?” And Angela breaks into a merry peal of laughter which nothing can arrest, and the mulatto finally joins in her merriment.

  The two have scarcely subsided when Mirette enters preceded by two other mulattresses who carry a table sumptuously set out in gilded dishes. The two slaves place the table near the divan; the captain arises to take a chair, while Angela, kneeling on the edge of the sofa, uncovers the dishes one after another, and examines the table with the air of an epicurean kitten.

  “Are you hungry, James? As for me, I am famished,” says Angela. And as if to prove without doubt this assertion, she opens her coral lips and shows two rows of ravishing little pearly teeth which she clinches twice.

  “Angela, my dear, you were certainly badly brought up,” said the captain, helping her to a portion of dorado, served with ham and an appetizing sauce.

  “Captain Hurricane, if I receive you at my table, it is not that you may scold,” said Angela, making an almost imperceptible grimace to the mulattress. Then she continues, attacking her fish bravely, and pecking at her bread like a bird, “If he scolds me, Mirette, I will not receive him again?”

  “No, mistress,” said Mirette.

  “And I will give his place to Rend-your-soul, the buccaneer?”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  “Or to Youmäale, the cannibal?”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  “You hear that, sir?” said Angela.

  “Never mind, my dear, I am not jealous, you know that; beauty is as the sun, it shines for all the world.”

  “Because you are not jealous, then, I will pardon you. Help yourself to what is before you. What is that, Mirette?”

  “Madame, the roe of fish fried in pigeon’s fat.”

  “Which is not equal to the fat of quail,” says the captain, “but it must have the juice of a lemon while it is warm.”

  “See what a glutton! Ah! but my future spouse, I had forgotten him. Pour me some wine, Mirette.”

  The filibuster, corsair as he is, forestalls the mulattress and pours out some iced sherry for Angela.

  “It must be that I love you, to drink this, I who prefer the wines of France.” And Blue Beard drinks resolutely three drops of the sherry, which puts fresh life into her lips and blue eyes and tinged her cheeks a carmine hue.

  “But to return to my future spouse. How is he? Is he agreeable? Is he worthy to join the others?”

  Mirette, in spite of her passive submission, cannot prevent a tremor in hearing her mistress speak thus, although the poor slave must be accustomed to these atrocious pleasantries, and doubtless many greater enormities.

  “What ails you, Mirette?”

  “Nothing, mistress.”

  “If you are unwell — —”

  “No, mistress.”

  “You would be sorry to see me marry again? I shall not do so for a long time. Go, child.” Then, addressing Captain Hurricane, “And the Chevalier de — de — what did you say was his name?”

  “Chevalier de Croustillac.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “No; but knowing his plans and that he intends, at all hazards, and in spite of the efforts of the good Father Griffen, to come here, I begged Youmäale, the cannibal,” says the captain, looking at Angela in a singular way, “to address a little warning in order to induce him to renounce his projects.”

  “And you did this without letting me know, sir? What if I do not wish to rebuff him, this pretender; for, after all, this Croustillac is a Gascon, and I never married a Gascon.”

  “Oh, he is the most famous Gascon that has ever gasconaded on the earth; with that, a figure indescribable and assurance unbounded; and as to the rest, sufficient courage.”

  “And Youmäale’s warning?”

  “Has accomplished nothing. It glided off the undaunted soul of this man as a ball from the scales of a crocodile; he started out this morning bravely, at break of day, to traverse the forest, with his pink silk hose, his rapier at his side, and a staff to frighten the serpents. He is still there, without doubt, at this hour, for the road to Devil’s Cliff is not known to all the world.”

  “James, I have an idea!” cries the widow joyfully; “let him come here and amuse us; that we may torment him. So, he is in love with my riches and not myself! So, he would espouse me, this fine knight errant. We will see as to that! Well? You do not laugh at my idea, James. What ails you? But moreover, you know, sir, that I will not be thwarted; I will make a feast for this Gascon. If he is not devoured by the wildcats or killed by the serpents I will have him here to-morrow. You go to sea to-morrow; tell the cannibal and Rend-your-soul to bring him to me.”

  The captain, instead of joining in the gayety of Blue Beard, according to his custom, is serious, pensive, and seems to reflect deeply.

  “James! James! do you not hear me?” cries Angela, impatiently, tapping her foot. “I want this Gascon. I want him.”

  The mulatto makes no reply; he draws with the forefinger of his right hand a circle about his throat, and looks significantly at the young woman. She understands this mysterious sign; her face all at once expresses both sorrow and distress; she rises suddenly, runs to the mulatto, falls on her knees before him and cries in a touching voice, “You are right. My God! you are right! I am insane to entertain such a thought. I understand you.”

  “Rise, Angela, calm yourself,” says the mulatto. “I do not know if this man is to be feared, but he is a stranger, he may come from England or France, and — —”

  “I tell you I was mad! that I was jesting, my dear James! I forgot that which I never ought to forget — it is frightful.”

  The beautiful eyes of the young woman fill with tears; she bends her head, and takes the hand of the mulatto, over which she weeps silently for some minutes.

  Hurricane kisses tenderly the forehead and tresses of Angela, and says gently, “I never wish to recall these cruel memories. I should have said nothing to you, assured myself that there is no danger in bringing this imbecile to you as a plaything, and then — —”

  “James, my friend,” cries Angela sadly, interrupting the mulatto, “my love, what do you think then? for a childish caprice that I would expose you, you whom I love most dearly in the world?”

  “There! there! be calm,” replies the mulatto, lifting her up and seating her near him; “do not be frightened; Father Griffen has informed himself as to the Gascon, he is only ridiculous. In order to be more certain, I will go to-morrow and speak with him at Macouba, and then I will tell Rend-your-soul, who is fortunately hunting on the coast, to discover this poor devil in the forest, where he has, no doubt, lost himself. If he is dangerous,” says the mulatto, making a sign to Angela (for the slaves were still present awaiting the conclusion of supper), “the buccaneer will relieve us of him and cure him of the desire to know you; if not, as you never have any amusement here, he shall bring him to you.”

  “No, no, I do not wish it,” says Angela. “All the thoughts which come to me, now are of mortal sadness — my disquietude returns.”

  Angela, seeing that the mulatto would not eat any more, arose; the filibuster imitated her, and says, “Reassure yourself, my Angela, there is nothing to fear. Come into the garden, the night is fine, the moon magnificent. Tell Mirette to bring my lute; in order to make you forget these painful thoughts I will sing you the Scotch ballads you love so.”

  So saying, the mulatto passes one arm around the figure of Angela, and clasping her thus, he descends the few steps leading to the garden. On leaving the apartment Blue Beard says to her slave, “Mirette, bring the lute into the garden, light the alabaster lamp in my bed-chamber. You can go, I shall not need you again to-night. Do not forget to say to Cora and to the other mulattresses that to-morrow begins their service.” Then she disappears, leaning on the arm of the mulatto. This last order of Angela was occasioned by a habit she has had, since her last widowhood, of alternating every three days the service of her women.

  Mirette carries a very beautiful e
bony lute incrusted with gold and mother of pearl, into the garden. After an interval of some moments, the filibuster’s voice is heard singing with infinite grace and pathos the Scotch ballads which the chief of royalist clans always sang in preference during the protectorate of Cromwell. The voice of the mulatto is at once sweet, vibrant and melancholy.

  Mirette and the two slaves listen with delight during some moments. At the last lines, the voice of the filibuster becomes moved, tears seem to mingle in it — then the songs cease.

  Mirette enters Blue Beard’s chamber in order to light the alabaster lamp, which throws a soft and veiled light on the surrounding objects. This room is splendidly furnished in Indian stuff with white ground embroidered with flowers; a mosquito net of muslin, fine as a spider’s web, envelopes an immense bed of gilded wood with a headboard of plate-glass, which appears thus in a slight mist.

  After executing the orders of her mistress, Mirette withdraws discreetly, and says to the two slaves with a malicious smile, “Mirette lights the lamp for the captain, Cora for the buccanneer, and Noun for the Caribbean.”

  The two slaves nod their heads with an intelligent air, and the three go out, after carefully closing and locking the door which leads to the outbuilding of this special domain of Blue Beard.

  CHAPTER IX.

  NIGHT.

  WE HAD LEFT the chevalier when he had penetrated into the forest, which was alive with the cries of all the animals which peopled it. For a moment stunned by the tumult, the Gascon bravely pursued his course, turning his steps ever toward the north, at least toward what he believed to be so, thanks to his astronomical knowledge. As the priest had foretold, he could not find any path through the forest; decayed vegetation, tall shrubs, vines, trunks of trees, an inextricable undergrowth, covered the ground; the trees were so thick that the air, light and sun, penetrated with difficulty through this veil of foliage, among which exhaled a warm moisture almost suffocating produced by the fermentation of vegetable matter which to a great extent thickly covered the earth.