Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  . . . . . . . . .

  In order to sum up the chances of the safety or danger to which the mysterious dwellers at Devil’s Cliff were exposed, we must remind the reader that De Chemerant had started from Fort Royal in the afternoon, and was advancing with all haste; that Father Griffen had hastily left Macouba in order to head off the French envoy; and that Colonel Rutler had secreted himself in the center of the garden.

  We must now relate all that since the morning had passed over the heads of Youmäale, Blue Beard and the Chevalier de Croustillac.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  THE SURPRISE.

  WE LEFT THE adventurer under the unexpected attack of a passion as sudden as it was sincere, and waiting impatiently the explanation, possibly the hope, which Blue Beard was about to give him.

  After partaking of a repast respectfully served him by Angela, to the despair of the chevalier, the Caribbean gravely withdrew and seated himself on the border of a small lake, under the shadow of a mangrove tree which grew on its bank; then resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in the palms of his hands Youmäale gazed into space, and motionless maintained for a long time the contemplative idleness so dear to savage races.

  Angela had re-entered the house. The chevalier walked up and down in the park, throwing, at intervals, a jealous and angry glance at the Caribbean. Impatient at the silence and immobility of his rival, and hoping, perhaps, to draw from him some information, Croustillac placed himself near Youmäale, who, however, did not appear to notice him. Croustillac moved and coughed; no change on the part of the Caribbean. Finally the chevalier, with whom patience was not a favorite virtue, touched him lightly on the shoulder and said, “What the devil have you been looking at for the past two hours? The sun is nearly setting, and you have not moved.”

  The Caribbean turned his head slowly toward the chevalier, looked fixedly at him, still resting his chin on his palms, and then resumed his former attitude, without replying.

  The adventurer colored angrily, and said, “Zounds! when I speak, I wish to be answered.”

  The Caribbean maintained silence.

  “These grand airs do not impress me,” cried Croustillac. “I am not one of those to be eaten alive!”

  No answer.

  “Zounds!” continued the chevalier; “do you not know, stupid cannibal that you are, I can make you take an involuntary bath in the lake as a means to teach you manners, and in order to civilize you, you savage?”

  Youmäale arose gravely, threw a disdainful glance at the chevalier, then pointed at an enormous trunk of a mahogany tree with gnarled roots which formed the rustic bench upon which he had been sitting.

  “Well, what of it?” said the chevalier. “I see that trunk, but I do not understand your gesture, unless it signifies that you are as deaf and dumb and as stupid as that tree.”

  Without responding to this, the Caribbean stooped, took the trunk of the tree in his muscular arms, and threw it into the lake with a significant gesture, which seemed to say, “That is how I could treat you.” Then he slowly withdrew, without having revealed in his features the slightest emotion.

  The chevalier was stupefied by this proof of extraordinary strength; for the block of mahogany tree appeared to him, and in fact was, so heavy that two men could with difficulty have accomplished what the Caribbean unaided had done. His surprise having passed, the chevalier hastened after the savage, exclaiming, “Do you mean to say that you would have thrown me into the lake as you threw that trunk?”

  The Caribbean, without pausing in his passage, bent his head affirmatively.

  “After all,” thought Croustillac, halting, “this eater of missionaries is not lacking in good sense; I threatened him first with throwing him into the water, and after what I have seen I am obliged to confess that I should have found it hard to do so, and then it would have been rather a dishonorable way in which to dispose of a rival! Ah, the evening is slow in coming. Thank God! the sun is setting, the night will soon fall; the moon will rise and I shall know my fate; the widow will tell me everything, I shall unravel all the profound mystery which is hidden from me now. Let me think over the sonnet which I have reserved for a grand effect — it is intended to describe the beauty of her eyes. Perhaps she has never heard a sonnet — possibly she will be sensible of its beauty and spirit; but no, I cannot hope for that happiness.”

  Pacing the path with long strides, Croustillac began to declaim his verses:

  “They are not eyes, they are two gods,

  Which are robed in power complete.

  Gods? nay, they are the heavens — —”

  The adventurer was not to finish his verse, for Mirette came to inform him that her mistress was awaiting him at supper. The Caribbean never partook of this meal, and Croustillac was to be alone with the widow. She seemed dreamy and said little; she started involuntarily and frequently.

  “What troubles you, madame?” said Croustillac, also preoccupied.

  “I do not know; strange presentiments, but I am foolish. It is your gloomy face that gives me the blues,” she added, with a forced smile. “Come, amuse me a little, chevalier. Youmäale is doubtless at this moment worshiping certain stars, and I am surprised at not seeing him; but it rests with you to make me forget his absence.”

  “Here is an excellent opportunity to produce my sonnet,” said the Gascon to himself. “If I dared, madame, I would recite some little verses which might, perhaps, interest you.”

  “Verses — how? are you a poet, chevalier?”

  “All lovers are, madame.”

  “That is an admission — you are in love, in order to be entitled to be a poet?”

  “No, madame,” said Croustillac sadly. “I am in love by right of suffering.”

  “And to chant your sad martyrdom — let us hear the verses.”

  “The verses, madame, do all in their power to picture two blue eyes, blue and beautiful, like yours; it is a sonnet.”

  “Let us have this sonnet.”

  And Croustillac recited the following lines in a languorous and impassioned tone:

  “They are not eyes, rather gods are they,

  They are above kings in power true.

  Gods, no! they are the heavens of tender blue,

  And their radiant glance makes kings obey.”

  “One must choose, chevalier,” said Blue Beard; “are they eyes, or gods, or the heavens?”

  Croustillac’s reply was a happy one:

  “The heavens, no! each a radiant sun

  Whose burning rays but blind the view.

  Suns? not so, but light so strong, so true,

  They predict the love but just begun!”

  “Really, chevalier, I am curious to know where you will stop. Suns, I own, please me; gods also.”

  Croustillac continued with a languorous softness:

  “Ah! if gods, would they work me ill?

  If the heavens, would add more sorrow still?

  Two suns? ’tis false — that orb is one — —”

  “Ah, heavens, chevalier, you delight me; among all these charming comparisons there remains nothing more for me but lightening — —”

  Croustillac bowed his head:

  “Stars! no, the stars are too many, too clear,

  Always my meaning shineth still,

  Eyes, gods, suns, and stars appear.”

  “How charming; at least, chevalier,” said Angela, laughing, “you have given me a choice of comparisons, and I have but to select; therefore I shall keep them all — gods, heavens, suns and stars.”

  The adventurer looked at Blue Beard a moment in silence; then he said, in a tone the sadness of which was so sincere that the little widow was struck by it, “You are right, madame; this sonnet is absurd; you do well to mock at it, but what would you have? I am unhappy, I am justly punished for my mad presumption, my stupidity.”

  “Ah, chevalier, chevalier, you forget my request; I told you to divert me, to amuse me — —”

  “And if, in so
doing, I suffer? if, in spite of my absurd situation, I experience a cruel mortification; how can I play the buffoon?”

  The adventurer uttered these words quietly but in a penetrating tone, and with considerable emotion. Angela looked at him in astonishment, and was almost touched by the expression of the chevalier’s face. She reproached herself for having played with this man’s feelings; after all, he lacked neither heart, courage nor goodness; these reflections plunged the young woman into the midst of melancholy thoughts. In spite of the passing effort which she had made to be gay and to laugh at the sonnet of the Gascon, she was a prey to inexplicable forebodings, oppressed by vague fears, as if she felt instinctively the dangers that were gathering about her.

  Croustillac had fallen into a sad reverie. Angela’s eyes fell upon him and she felt sorry for him; she would no longer prolong the mystery of which he was a victim. She rose abruptly from the table and said to him, with a serious air, “Come, we will walk in the garden and rejoin Youmäale. His absence worries me. I do not know why, but I am oppressed as if a violent tempest were about to break upon this house.”

  The widow left the room, the chevalier offered her his arm, and they descended into the garden, where they sauntered through the different paths. The adventurer was so impressed by the anxious frame of mind in which he saw Angela that he retained little hope, and hardly dared to recall to her the promise which she had made him. Finally he said with some embarrassment, “You promised me, madame, to explain the mystery of — —”

  Blue Beard interrupted the chevalier by saying, “Listen to me, sir; whether it is owing to timidity or to premonition, I grow more and more agitated — it seems to me that misfortune menaces us; on no account would I at this time, and in the condition of my spirits, prolong any further a jest which has already lasted too long.”

  “A jest, madame?”

  “Yes, sir; but I beg of you, let us descend to the lower terrace. Do you see Youmäale there?”

  “No, madame; the night is very clear, but I see no one. You say, then, a jest only — —”

  “Yes, sir; I learned through our friend, Father Griffen, that you intended to offer yourself to me; I sent the buccaneer to meet you, charging him to bring you here. I received you with the intention, I confess, and I beg your pardon, of amusing myself a little at your expense.”

  “But, madame, this evening, even, you intended to explain to me the mystery of your triple widowhood — the death of your husbands and the presence successively, of the filibuster, the — —”

  Angela interrupted the Gascon by saying, “Do you not hear a footfall? Is it Youmäale?”

  “I hear nothing,” said Croustillac, overwhelmed in the view of his ruined hopes, though he held himself in readiness for anything, now that a true love had extinguished his stupid and foolish vanity.

  “Let us go further,” said Blue Beard; “the Caribbean is among the orange trees by the fountain, perhaps.”

  “But, madame, this mystery?”

  “The mystery,” replied Angela, “if it is one, cannot, must not be solved by you. My promise to reveal this secret to you to-night was a jest of which I am now heartily ashamed, I tell you; and if I kept this foolish promise it would be to make you the object of another mystery more culpable still.”

  “Ah, madame,” said the chevalier quickly, “this is very cruel.”

  “What more would you ask, sir? I accuse myself and beg your pardon,” said Angela, in a sweet and sad voice. “Forget the folly of what I have said; think no longer of my hand, which can belong to no one; but sometimes remember the recluse of Devil’s Cliff, who is, perhaps, at once very culpable and very innocent. And then,” she continued hesitatingly, “as a remembrance of Blue Beard, you will permit me, will you not, to offer you some of the diamonds of which you were so enamored before you had seen me.”

  The chevalier blushed with shame and anger; the pure feeling which he felt for Angela made him feel as derogatory an offer which at one time would, doubtless, have been accepted without the slightest scruple. “Madame,” said he, with as much pride as bitterness, “you have accorded me hospitality for two days; to-morrow I shall leave; the only request I make of you is to give me a guide. As to your offer, it wounds me doubly — —”

  “Sir!”

  “Yes, madame, that you should believe me low enough to accept payment for the humiliating circumstances — —”

  “Sir, such was not my idea.”

  “Madame, I am poor, I am ridiculous and vain; I am what is termed a man of expediencies; but even I have my point of honor.”

  “But, sir — —”

  “But, madame, that I should barter my pride and will as an exchange for the hospitality offered me, would be a bargain like another, worse than another, perhaps; so be it; when one places oneself in dependence upon another more fortunate than oneself, one must be content with anything. I entertained the captain of the Unicorn in exchange for my passage, which he gave me on board his vessel. We are quits. I have cut a contemptible figure, madame; I know it more fully than any one else, for I have known misfortune more fully.”

  “Poor man!” said the widow, touched by his avowal.

  “I do not say this to be pitied, madame,” said Croustillac proudly. “I only desire to make you understand that if, from necessity, I have been compelled to accept the part of a complacent guest, I have never received money as a compensation for an insult.” Then he continued, in a tone of profound emotion, “Can you, madame, be ignorant of the wrong which has been done me by this proposition, not so much because it is humiliating, as because it was made by you? My God! you wished to amuse yourself with me: that I would have endured without complaint; but to offer me money to compensate for your raillery — ah! madame, you have made me acquainted with a misery of which I was heretofore ignorant.” After a moment’s silence he continued, with added bitterness, “After all, why should you have treated me otherwise? Who am I? Under what auspices did I come here? Even the clothes I wear are not my own! Why concern yourself with me?”

  These last words of the poor man had an accent of such sincere grief and mortification that the young woman, touched by them, regretted deeply the indiscreet proffer she had made him. With bent head she walked beside Croustillac. They arrived, thus, near the fountain of white marble of which they had spoken.

  The young widow still leaned on the adventurer’s arm. After a few minutes of reflection she said, “You are right; I was wrong. I judged you wrongly. The compensation I offered you was almost an insult; but do not for a moment think that I wished to humiliate you. Recall what I said to you this morning of your courage and the generosity of your heart. Well, all this I still think. You say you love me; if this love is sincere it cannot offend me; it would be wrong in me to receive so flattering a feeling with contempt. So,” she continued, with a charming air, “is peace declared? Are you still angry with me? Say no, that I may ask you to remain here some days as a friend, without fear of your refusal.”

  “Ah, madame,” cried Croustillac, with transport “order, dispose of me — I am your servant, your slave, your dog. These kind words which you have spoken will make me forget all! Your friend! you have called me your friend! Ah, madame, why am I only the poor younger son of a Gascon? I should be so happy to have it in my power to prove my devotion.”

  “Who knows but that I have a reparation to make you? Await me here; I must go and look for Youmäale and find something, a present, yes, chevalier, a present which I defy you to refuse this time.”

  “But, madame — —”

  “You refuse? Ah, heavens! when I think that you desired to be my husband! Wait here, I will return.” And so saying, Angela, who had reached the marble fountain, turned quickly into the path in the park on the side of the house.

  “What does she wish to say — to do?” asked Croustillac of himself, looking mechanically into the fountain. Then he exclaimed, with fervor, “It is all the same, I am hers for life and death; she has called me her fri
end. I shall perhaps never see her again, but all the same, I worship her; that cannot hurt any one; and I do not know but that it will make me a better man. Two days ago I would have accepted the diamonds; to-day I would be ashamed to do so. It is wonderful how love changes one.”

  Croustillac was suddenly interrupted in the midst of his philosophical reflections. Colonel Rutler, by the uncertain light of the moon, had seen the adventurer walking arm in arm with Blue Beard; he had heard her last words— “my husband; wait for me here.” Rutler had no doubt that the Gascon was the man for whom he was looking; he sprang suddenly from his hiding-place, hurled himself upon the chevalier threw a cloak over his face, and, profiting by Croustillac’s surprise, felled him to the ground. Then he passed a rope around his hands and had quickly mastered his captive’s resistance, thanks to great strength. The chevalier was thus overpowered, garroted and captured in less time than it has taken to write these words.

  This accomplished, the colonel held a dagger at Croustillac’s throat, and said, “My lord duke, you are dead if you make a movement, or if you call Madame the Duchess to your aid. In the name of William of Orange, King of England, I arrest you for high treason, and you will follow me.”

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  MY LORD DUKE.

  SUDDENLY ATTACKED BY an adversary of extraordinary strength, Croustillac did not even attempt to resist. The cloak which enveloped his head almost deprived him of breath. He could hardly utter a few inarticulate cries. Rutler leaned over him and said in English, with a strong Dutch accent, “My lord duke, I can remove this cloak, but beware, if you call for aid you are a dead man; can you feel the point of my dagger?”