“Come, if you will only put this scheme into execution, and be steady, nothing could be better.”
“Do you think so, M. Bossuet? And you—what will you become? A peer of France?”
“Ah,” said Andrea, “who knows?”
“Major Cavalcanti is already one, perhaps; but then, hereditary rank is abolished.”
“No politics, Caderousse. And now that you have all you want, and that we understand each other, jump down from the tilbury and disappear.”
“Not at all, my good friend.”
“How? Not at all?”
“Why, just think for a moment; with this red handkerchief on my head, with scarcely any shoes, no papers, and ten gold napoleons in my pocket, without reckoning what was there before—making in all about two hundred francs,—why, I should certainly be arrested at the barriers. Then, to justify myself, I should say that you gave me the money; this would cause inquiries, it would be found that I left Toulon without giving due notice, and I should then be escorted back to the shores of the Mediterranean. Then I should become simply No. 106, and good-by to my dream of resembling the retired baker! No, no, my boy; I prefer remaining honorably in the capital.” Andrea scowled. Certainly, as he had himself owned, the reputed son of Major Cavalcanti was a willful fellow. He drew up for a minute, threw a rapid glance around him, and then his hand fell instantly into his pocket, where it began playing with a pistol. But, meanwhile, Caderousse, who had never taken his eyes off his companion, passed his hand behind his back, and opened a long Spanish knife, which he always carried with him, to be ready in case of need. The two friends, as we see, were worthy of and understood one another. Andrea’s hand left his pocket inoffensively, and was carried up to the red mustache, which it played with for some time. “Good Caderousse,” he said, “how happy you will be.”
“I will do my best,” said the innkeeper of the Pont du Gard, shutting up his knife.
“Well, then, we will go into Paris. But how will you pass through the barrier without exciting suspicion? It seems to me that you are in more danger riding than on foot.”
“Wait,” said Caderousse, “we shall see.” He then took the greatcoat with the large collar, which the groom had left behind in the tilbury, and put it on his back; then he took off Cavalcanti’s hat, which he placed upon his own head, and finally he assumed the careless attitude of a servant whose master drives himself.
“But, tell me,” said Andrea, “am I to remain bareheaded?”
“Pooh,” said Caderousse; “it is so windy that your hat can easily appear to have blown off.”
“Come, come; enough of this,” said Cavalcanti.
“What are you waiting for?” said Caderousse. “I hope I am not the cause.”
“Hush,” said Andrea. They passed the barrier without accident. At the first cross street Andrea stopped his horse, and Caderousse leaped out.
“Well!” said Andrea,—“my servant’s coat and my hat?”
“Ah,” said Caderousse, “you would not like me to risk taking cold?”
“But what am I to do?”
“You? Oh, you are young while I am beginning to get old. Au revoir, Benedetto;” and running into a court, he disappeared. “Alas,” said Andrea, sighing, “one cannot be completely happy in this world!”
Chapter 22. A Conjugal Scene.
At the Place Louis XV the three young people separated—that is to say, Morrel went to the Boulevards, Chateau-Renaud to the Pont de la Revolution, and Debray to the Quai. Most probably Morrel and Chateau-Renaud returned to their “domestic hearths,” as they say in the gallery of the Chamber in well-turned speeches, and in the theatre of the Rue Richelieu in well-written pieces; but it was not the case with Debray. When he reached the wicket of the Louvre, he turned to the left, galloped across the Carrousel, passed through the Rue Saint-Roch, and, issuing from the Rue de la Michodiere, he arrived at M. Danglars’ door just at the same time that Villefort’s landau, after having deposited him and his wife at the Faubourg St. Honore, stopped to leave the baroness at her own house. Debray, with the air of a man familiar with the house, entered first into the court, threw his bridle into the hands of a footman, and returned to the door to receive Madame Danglars, to whom he offered his arm, to conduct her to her apartments. The gate once closed, and Debray and the baroness alone in the court, he asked,—“What was the matter with you, Hermine? And why were you so affected at that story, or rather fable, which the Count related?”
“Because I have been in such shocking spirits all the evening, my friend,” said the baroness.
“No, Hermine,” replied Debray; “you cannot make me believe that; on the contrary, you were in excellent spirits when you arrived at the Count’s. M. Danglars was disagreeable, certainly, but I know how much you care for his ill humor. Someone has vexed you; I will allow no one to annoy you.”
“You are deceived, Lucien, I assure you,” replied Madame Danglars; “and what I have told you is really the case, added to the ill-humor you remarked, but which I did not think it worthwhile to allude to.” It was evident that Madame Danglars was suffering from that nervous irritability which women frequently cannot account for even to themselves; or that, as Debray had guessed, she had experienced some secret agitation that she would not acknowledge to anyone. Being a man who knew that the former of these symptoms was one of the inherent penalties of womanhood, he did not then press his inquiries, but waited for a more appropriate opportunity when he should again interrogate her, or receive an avowal proprio motu. At the door of her apartment the baroness met Mademoiselle Cornelie, her confidential maid. “What is my daughter doing?” asked Madame Danglars.
“She practiced all the evening, and then went to bed,” replied Mademoiselle Cornelie.
“Yet I think I hear her piano.”
“It is Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly, who is playing while Mademoiselle Danglars is in bed.”
“Well,” said Madame Danglars, “come and undress me.” They entered the bedroom. Debray stretched himself upon a large couch, and Madame Danglars passed into her dressing-room with Mademoiselle Cornelie. “My dear M. Lucien,” said Madame Danglars through the door, “you are always complaining that Eugenie will not address a word to you.”
“Madame,” said Lucien, playing with a little dog, who, recognizing him as a friend of the house, expected to be caressed, “I am not the only one who makes similar complaints, I think I heard Morcerf say that he could not extract a word from his betrothed.”
“True,” said Madame Danglars; “yet I think this will all pass off, and that you will one day see her enter your study.”
“My study?”
“At least that of the minister.”
“Why so!”
“To ask for an engagement at the Opera. Really, I never saw such an infatuation for music; it is quite ridiculous for a young lady of fashion.” Debray smiled. “Well,” said he, “let her come, with your consent and that of the baron, and we will try and give her an engagement, though we are very poor to pay such talent as hers.”
“Go, Cornelie,” said Madame Danglars, “I do not require you any longer.”
Cornelie obeyed, and the next minute Madame Danglars left her room in a charming loose dress, and came and sat down close to Debray. Then she began thoughtfully to caress the little spaniel. Lucien looked at her for a moment in silence. “Come, Hermine,” he said, after a short time, “answer candidly,—something vexes you—is it not so?”
“Nothing,” answered the baroness.
“You are avoiding a topic, Hermine, I can see it as clearly as I see everything else in your face. Is there something which I might do to improve your temperament?”
“Why, Lucien, I do believe you are being quite forward.”
This game had been played in the lady’s chambers many times, a suitor come to call under the guise of a friend. Once inside he might pretend that the lady and he are not as acquainted as in truth they were. The lady would play coy; the gentleman pursuant, unt
il both amused parties ended in each other’s arms. A game they often played, of power, and lust.
“I am only forward, Hermine, because I spied you all night and I must say you put the stars to shame.”
“Lucien, you flatter me. I honestly look a fright and I have all evening. I should never have entertained the idea of a party.”
Lucien reached out and clutched Hermine’s hand in his own, stroking his thumb across the top of her smooth skin. Hermine was careful with her beauty, intent on holding on to it for as long as might be possible.
The lady’s breath caught and Lucien was already attuned to her every whim. It was a part of the bargain they shared, the moment he could not provide what she wanted and needed they would part forever.
“How might I improve your evening, Baroness?” Lucien repeated.
“I wish…I wish not to have to think this night, Lucien, calm my mind if you are able.”
Lucien, more than ready, and more than able, rose to stand in front of the distraught woman. Carefully, he leveled his hands around her narrow shoulders and pulled her to stand.
She remained silent as he stripped the soft gown from her body and allowed it to pool at her feet. Stepping across and into his arms was something the lady did for herself, completely at ease with her friend and lover. He held her close and slowly kissed the curve where her delicately shaped shoulder met her thin neck. The cold caused her to shudder and crowd further into him, which he relished completely.
He remained clothed as they traversed the path to her bed, neat as a pin in the corner of the chamber. Once she settled in the soft down he took his time removing every stitch of clothing, which he learned long ago, pleased the lady. If he undressed slow and seductive she enjoyed herself more, if he removed his clothing quickly she took offense at his lack of control and need to place himself at a rush.
He stood completely nude, and like a young man confident in his manhood, he waited for Hermine to call him to her side before he acquiesced. Once he lay her back amidst the plush down of her bedding there was no stopping. Bare skin as it placed against bare skin is one feeling the world had yet to create a duplicate for and both the baroness and Lucien lost themselves in the sensations.
“My love, tell me how I might please you, show me where you prefer me,” Lucien whispered to Hermine.
The lady made no subterfuge, simply grasped his manhood in one delicate hand and guided him to center, already prepared for his entrance.
On a breath, he entered her proffered body and they relished in the eye of the storm for a long moment. The lovemaking between Luciene and Hermine was always very civilized and slow. The lady did not wish a mark to mar the expanse of her body in case her husband actually made a show of interest in her life. She would have her lovers, but she would not publically shame him and their family name.
“Are you well, love?” Lucien asked after a soft kiss to her lips.
She smiled and nodded as he continued his movements over her body. Once they both grew achingly close to climax the small calm world they belonged to fell away for something more passionate and convulsive.
The lady began to clutch Lucien’s back, pulling him forward with both of their wills. Lucien drove himself in and out of her body with expertly controlled force, gentle and yet with powerful thrusts.
More often then not Lucien found himself wrapped in Hermine’s arms during a fortnight’s time. It took nothing to call him to her side; once she beckoned him everything was said between them that needed to be said. It mattered not that she had a husband or more likely other lovers. The time he spent with her was his alone and it was always an unspoken agreement between them: that focus.
Hermine cried out softly and Lucien followed at her heels. With great care he slowed his assault on her body and drew her into the curve of his arms. It was not a notion of virility but the quiet calm after lovemaking that was always Lucien’s most beloved moment of the copulating act. Nothing existed but heavy heartbeats and soft flesh, all of which Lucien cherished.
“Do not fall in love with me, Lucien,” Hermine whispered.
“I wouldn’t dare, lady,” came his reply in her ear.
It was the truth. No one dared fall in love with Madame Danglars or else they might have to pick up the pieces of their broken heart at a much later date.
“How much time do we have, love?” Lucien asked, after some time.
“I know not, M. Danglars keeps his own hours and does not usually deign to inform me what they might be.”
The bitterness in her tone was evident even to Lucien who often missed such subtext. He gently pried himself away from her and out of the tangle the bedding made around them. It would not do to linger when her husband might return at any moment.
“I will attire myself properly then. I would hate to cause you any embarrassment or hardship should he return tonight.”
“It is highly unlikely, my love, but the gesture is appreciated all the same.”
And yet, as she could scarcely breathe, she rose, shrugged back into her loose gown, and went towards the looking glass. “I am frightful tonight,” she said. Debray rose, smiling, and was about to contradict the baroness upon this latter point, when the door opened suddenly. M. Danglars appeared; Debray reseated himself. At the noise of the door Madame Danglars turned round, and looked upon her husband with an astonishment she took no trouble to conceal. “Good-evening, madame,” said the banker; “good-evening, M. Debray.”
Probably the baroness thought this unexpected visit signified a desire to make up for the sharp words he had uttered during the day. Assuming a dignified air, she turned round to Debray, without answering her husband. “Read me something, M. Debray,” she said. Debray, who was slightly disturbed at this visit, recovered himself when he saw the calmness of the baroness, and took up a book marked by a mother-of-pearl knife inlaid with gold. “Excuse me,” said the banker, “but you will tire yourself, baroness, by such late hours, and M. Debray lives some distance from here.”
Debray was petrified, not only to hear Danglars speak so calmly and politely, but because it was apparent that beneath outward politeness there really lurked a determined spirit of opposition to anything his wife might wish to do. The baroness was also surprised, and showed her astonishment by a look which would doubtless have had some effect upon her husband if he had not been intently occupied with the paper, where he was looking to see the closing stock quotations. The result was, that the proud look entirely failed of its purpose.
“M. Lucien,” said the baroness, “I assure you I have no desire to sleep, and that I have a thousand things to tell you this evening, which you must listen to, even though you slept while hearing me.”
“I am at your service, madame,” replied Lucien coldly.
“My dear M. Debray,” said the banker, “do not kill yourself tonight listening to the follies of Madame Danglars, for you can hear them as well tomorrow; but I claim tonight and will devote it, if you will allow me, to talk over some serious matters with my wife.” This time the blow was so well aimed, and hit so directly, that Lucien and the baroness were staggered, and they interrogated each other with their eyes, as if to seek help against this aggression, but the irresistible will of the master of the house prevailed, and the husband was victorious.
“Do not think I wish to turn you out, my dear Debray,” continued Danglars; “oh, no, not at all. An unexpected occurrence forces me to ask my wife to have a little conversation with me; it is so rarely I make such a request, I am sure you cannot grudge it to me.” Debray muttered something, bowed and went out, knocking himself against the edge of the door, like Nathan in “Athalie.”
“It is extraordinary,” he said, when the door was closed behind him, “how easily these husbands, whom we ridicule, gain an advantage over us.”
Lucien having left, Danglars took his place on the sofa, closed the open book, and placing himself in a dreadfully dictatorial attitude, he began playing with the dog; but the animal, not liking him
as well as Debray, and attempting to bite him, Danglars seized him by the skin of his neck and threw him upon a couch on the other side of the room. The animal uttered a cry during the transit, but, arrived at its destination, it crouched behind the cushions, and stupefied at such unusual treatment remained silent and motionless. “Do you know, sir,” asked the baroness, “that you are improving? Generally you are only rude, but tonight you are brutal.”
“It is because I am in a worse humor than usual,” replied Danglars. Hermine looked at the banker with supreme disdain. These glances frequently exasperated the pride of Danglars, but this evening he took no notice of them.
“And what have I to do with your ill-humor?” said the baroness, irritated at the impassibility of her husband; “do these things concern me? Keep your ill-humor at home in your money boxes, or, since you have clerks whom you pay, vent it upon them.”
“Not so,” replied Danglars; “your advice is wrong, so I shall not follow it. My money boxes are my Pactolus, as, I think, M. Demoustier says, and I will not retard its course, or disturb its calm. My clerks are honest men, who earn my fortune, whom I pay much below their deserts, if I may value them according to what they bring in; therefore I shall not get into a passion with them; those with whom I will be in a passion are those who eat my dinners, mount my horses, and exhaust my fortune.”
“And pray who are the persons who exhaust your fortune? Explain yourself more clearly, I beg, sir.”
“Oh, make yourself easy!—I am not speaking riddles, and you will soon know what I mean. The people who exhaust my fortune are those who draw out 700,000 francs in the course of an hour.”
“I do not understand you, sir,” said the baroness, trying to disguise the agitation of her voice and the flush of her face. “You understand me perfectly, on the contrary,” said Danglars: “but, if you will persist, I will tell you that I have just lost 700,000 francs upon the Spanish loan.”
“And pray,” asked the baroness, “am I responsible for this loss?”
“Why not?”
“Is it my fault you have lost 700,000 francs?”
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