La clique dorée. English

by Emile Gaboriau

  XIII.

  It was a week after Daniel's departure, a Wednesday, and about half-past eleven o'clock.

  Some thirty carriages, the most elegant, by all means, that Paris couldboast of, were standing alongside of the Church of St. Clothilda. In thepretty little square before the building, some hundred and fifty or twohundred idlers were waiting with open mouths. The passers-by, noticingthe crowd, went up and asked,--

  "What is going on?"

  "A wedding," was the answer.

  "And a grand wedding, apparently."

  "Why, the grandest thing you ever saw. It is a nobleman, and animmensely rich one, who is going to be married,--Count Ville-Handry.He marries an American lady. They have been in the church now for sometime, and they will soon come out again."

  Under the porch a dozen men, in the orthodox black costume, with yellowkid gloves, and white cravats showing under their overcoats, evidentlymen belonging to the wedding-party, were chatting merrily while theywere waiting for the end of the ceremony. If they were amused, theyhardly showed it; for some made an effort to hide their yawning, whileothers kept up a broken conversation, when a small _coupe_ drove up, andstopped at the gate.

  "Gentlemen," said a young man, "I announce M. de Brevan."

  It was he really.

  He stepped leisurely out of his carriage, and came up in his usualphlegmatic manner. He knew the majority, perhaps, of the young men inthe crowd; and so he commenced at once shaking hands all around, andthen said in an easy tone of voice,--

  "Who has seen the bride?"

  "I!" replied an old beau, whose perpetual smile displayed all thethirty-two teeth he owed to the dentist.

  "Well, what do you think of her?"

  "She is always sublime in her beauty, my dear. When she walked up theaisle to kneel down at the altar, a murmur of admiration followed herall the way. Upon my word of honor, I thought they would applaud."

  This was too much enthusiasm. M. de Brevan cut it short, asking,--

  "And Count Ville-Handry?"

  "Upon my word," replied the old beau ironically, "the good count canboast of a valet who knows almost as much as Rachel, the famous Englishenameller. At a little distance you would have sworn that he wassixteen years old, and that he was going, not to be married, but to beconfirmed."

  "And how did he look?"

  "Restless, I think."

  "He might well be," observed a stout, elderly gentleman, who was saidnot to be very happily married.

  Everybody laughed; but a very young man, a mere youth, who did not catchthe joke, said,--

  "Why so?"

  A man of about thirty years, a perfect model of elegance, whom theothers called, according to the degree of intimacy which they couldclaim, either "Your Grace," or "Duke" simply replied,--

  "Because, my dear viscount, Miss Brandon is one of those ladies whonever are married. They are courted; they are worshipped; they makeus commit a thousand follies for their sakes; they allow us to ruinourselves, and, finally, to blow our brains out for them, all right! Butto bear our name, never!"

  "It is true," said Brevan, "that they tell a number of stories abouther; but it is all gossip. However"--

  "You certainly would not ask," replied the duke, "that I should proveher to have been brought before a police-court, or to have escaped fromthe penitentiary?"

  And, without permitting himself to be interrupted, he went on,--

  "Good society in France, they say, is very exclusive. It does notdeserve that reputation. Except, perhaps, a score of houses, where oldtraditions are still preserved, all other houses are wide open to thefirst-comer, man or woman, who drives up in a carriage. And the numberof such first-comers is prodigiously large. Where do they come from? Noone knows. From Russia, from Turkey, from America, from Hungary, fromvery far, from everywhere, from below, I do not count the impudentfellows who are still muddy from the gutter in which they have beenlying. How do all these people live? That is a mystery. But they dolive, and they live well. They have, or at least seem to have, money;and they shine, they intrigue, they conspire, they make believe, andthey extort. So that I verily believe all this high-life society, bydint of helping one another, of pushing and crowding in, will, in theend, be master of all. You may say that I am not in the crowd. Verytrue. I willingly shake hands with the workmen who work for me, andwho earn their living worthily; but I do not shake hands with theseambiguous personages in yellow kids, who have no title but theirimpudence, and no means of living but their underhand intrigues."

  He addressed himself apparently to no one, following, with his absent-minded glance, the crowd in the garden; and yet, by his peculiarmanner, you would have known that he was speaking at some one among thelisteners.

  However, it was evident that he had no success, and that his doctrineseemed to be utterly out of season, and almost ridiculous. A young manwith a delicate black mustache, and extremely well dressed, even turnedto his neighbor, and asked,--

  "Who is our friend, the preacher?"

  "What! don't you know him?" replied the other.

  "That is the Duke of Champdoce, you know, who has married a princess ofMussidan. Quite an original."

  M. de Brevan, however, had remained perfectly impassive, and now said,--

  "At all events, I suppose it was not altogether a question of interestwhich made Miss Brandon marry the count."

  "Why not?"

  "Because she is immensely rich."

  "Pshaw!"

  An old gentleman came up, and said,--

  "She must needs be perfectly disinterested; for I have it from the counthimself that none of the property is to be settled upon Miss Brandon."

  "That certainly is marvellously disinterested."

  Having said what he meant to say, the duke had entered the church; andthe old beau now took the word.

  "The only thing that is clear to me in this matter is, that I think Iknow the person whom this wedding will not please particularly."

  "Whom do you mean?"

  "Count Ville-Handry's daughter, a young girl, eighteen years old, andwondrously pretty. Just imagine! Besides, I have looked for her all overthe church, and she is not there."

  "She is not present at the wedding," replied the old gentleman, thefriend of Count Ville-Handry, "because she was suddenly taken ill."

  "So they say," interposed the young man; "but the fact is, that a friendof mine has just seen her driving out in her carriage in full dress."

  "That can hardly be so."

  "My friend was positive. She intended this pretty piece of scandal as awedding-present for her stepmother."

  M. de Brevan shrugged his shoulders, and said in an undertone,--

  "Upon my word, I should not like to stand in the count's shoes."

  As a faithful echo of the gossip that was going on in society, thisconversation, carried on in broken sentences, under the porch of St.Clothilda, made it quite clear that public opinion was decidedly infavor of Miss Brandon. It would have been surprising if it should havebeen otherwise. She triumphed; and the world is always on the side ofthe victor. That Duke of Champdoce, an original, was the only one therewho was disposed to remember the past; the others had forgotten it. Thebrilliancy of her success was even reflected on those who belonged toher; and a young man who copied to exaggeration English fashions wasjust singing the praises of M. Thomas Elgin and Mrs. Brian, when a greatcommotion was noticed under the porch.

  People came out, and said,--

  "It is all over. The wedding-guests are in the vestry now to sign theirnames."

  The conversation stopped at once. The old beau alone exclaimed,--

  "Gentlemen, if we wish to present our respects to the newly-marriedcouple, we must make haste."

  And with these words he hurried into the church, followed by all theothers, and soon reached the vestry, which was too small to hold allthe guests invited by Count Ville-Handry. The parish register had beenplaced upon a small table; and every one approached, as his turn came,taking off his gl
oves before seizing the pen. Fronting the door, andleaning against one of the cupboards in which the holy vessels are kept,stood Miss Brandon, now Countess Ville-Handry, having at her side grimMrs. Brian, and tall, stiff M. Elgin.

  Her admirers had exaggerated nothing. In her white bridal costume shelooked amazingly beautiful; and her whole person exhaled a perfume ofinnocence and ingenuous purity.

  She was surrounded by eight or ten young persons, who overwhelmedher with congratulations and compliments. She replied with a slightlytremulous voice, and casting down her eyes with the long, silkyeyelashes. Count Ville-Handry stood in the centre of the room, swellingwith almost comic happiness; and at every moment, in replying to hisfriends, used the words, "My wife," like a sweet morsel which he rolledon his tongue.

  Still a careful observer might have noticed underneath his victoriousairs a trace of almost painful restraint. From time to time hisface darkened as one of those unlucky, awkward people, who turn upeverywhere, asked him,--

  "I hope Miss Henrietta is not complaining much? How very sorry she mustbe to be detained at home!"

  It is true, that, among these unlucky ones, there were not a fewmalicious ones. Nobody was ignorant that something unpleasant hadhappened in the count's family. They had suspected something from thebeginning of the ceremony.

  For the count had hardly knelt down by Miss Brandon's side, on a velvetcushion, when a servant wearing his livery had come up, and whispereda few words in his ear. The guests who were nearest had seen him turnpale, and utter an expression of furious rage.

  What had the servant told him?

  It became soon known, thanks to the Countess Bois, who went abouttelling everybody with inexhaustible volubility, that she had just metMiss Ville-Handry in the street.

  When the last name had been signed, nobody was, therefore, surprisedat seeing Count Ville-Handry give his arm to his wife, and hand herhurriedly to her carriage,--a magnificent state-carriage. He hadinvited some twenty people, former friends of his, to a great wedding-breakfast; but he seemed to have forgotten them. And once in hiscarriage, alone with Mrs. Brian, M. Elgin, and the young countess, hebroke forth in incoherent imprecations and absurd threatenings.

  When they reached the palace, he did not wait for the coachman to driveas usually around the yard, but jumped out, and, rushing up to thevestibule, cried out,--

  "Ernest! send Ernest here!"

  Ernest was his own valet, the clever artist to whom he was indebted forthe roses of his complexion. As soon as he appeared, he asked,--

  "Where is the young lady?"

  "Gone out."

  "When?"

  "Immediately after you, sir."

  The young countess, Mrs. Brian, and M. Elgin, had, in the meantime, comeup, and gone into the room in the lower story, where this scene tookplace.

  "Do you hear that?" he asked them.

  Then, turning again to the valet, he asked,--

  "How did it happen?"

  "Very naturally. The gates had not been closed behind your carriage,sir, when the young lady rang the bell. They went up to see what shewanted, and she ordered the landau to be brought round. She was toldvery respectfully, that all three coachmen were out, and that there wasno one there to drive her. 'If that be so,' she answered, 'I want you torun and get me a hired carriage.' And, when the servant to whom she gavethe order hesitated, she added, 'If you do not go instantly, I shall gomyself.'"

  The count trembled with rage.

  "And then?" he asked, seeing that the man was hesitating.

  "Then the servant was frightened, and did what she wanted."

  "He is dismissed, the fool!" exclaimed Count Ville-Handry.

  "But allow me to _say_," commenced Ernest.

  "No! Let his wages be paid. And you go on."

  Without showing any embarrassment, the valet shrugged his shoulders, andcontinued in a lazy tone,--

  "Then the hack came into the court-yard; and we saw the young ladycome down in a splendid toilet, such as we have never seen her wearbefore,--not pretty exactly, but so conspicuous, that it must haveattracted everybody's attention. She settled herself coolly on thecushions, while we looked at her, utterly amazed; and, when she wasready, she said, 'Ernest, you will tell my father that I shall notbe back for breakfast. I have a good many visits to make; and, asthe weather is fine, I shall afterwards go to the Bois de Boulogne.'Thereupon the gates were opened, and off they went. It was then that Itook the liberty to send you word, sir."

  In all his life Count Ville-Handry had not been so furious. The veinsin his neck began to swell; and his eyes became bloodshot, as if he hadbeen threatened with a fit of apoplexy.

  "You ought to have kept her from going out," he said hoarsely. "Why didyou not prevent her? You ought to have made her go back to her room, useforce if necessary, lock her up, bind her."

  "You had given no orders, sir."

  "You ought to have required no orders to do your duty. To let a madwoman run about! an impudent girl whom I caught the other day in thegarden with a man!"

  He cried out so loud, that his voice was heard in the adjoining room,where the invited guests were beginning to assemble. The unhappy man! Hedisgraced his own child. The young countess at once came up to him andsaid,--

  "I beseech you, my dear friend, be calm!"

  "No, this must end; and I mean to punish the wicked girl."

  "I beseech you, my dear count, do not destroy the happiness of the firstday of our married life. Henrietta is only a child; she did not knowwhat she was doing."

  Mrs. Brian was not of the same opinion. She declared,--

  "The count is right. The conduct of this young lady is perfectlyshocking."

  Then Sir Thorn interrupted her, saying,--

  "Ah, ah! Brian, where is our bargain? Was it not understood that wewould have nothing to do with the count's private affairs?"

  Thus every one took up at once his assigned part. The countess advocatedforbearance; Mrs. Brian advised discipline; and Sir Thorn was in favorof silent impartiality.

  Besides, they easily succeeded in calming the count. But, after such ascene, the wedding breakfast could not be very merry. The guests, whohad heard nearly all, exchanged strange looks with each other.

  "The count's daughter," they thought, "and a lover? That can hardly be!"

  In vain did the count try to look indifferent; in vain did the youngcountess display all her rare gifts. Everybody was embarrassed; nobodycould summon up a smile; and every five minutes the conversation gaveout. At half-past four o'clock, the last guest had escaped, and thecount remained alone with his new family. It was growing dark, and theywere bringing in the lamps, when the rolling of carriage-wheels washeard on the sand in the court-yard. The count rose, turning pale.

  "Here she comes!" he said. "Here is my daughter!"

  It was Henrietta.

  How could a young girl, usually so reserved, and naturally so timid,make up her mind to cause such scandal? Because the most timid peopleare precisely the boldest on certain occasions. Forced to abandontheir nature, they do not reason, and do not calculate, and, losing allself-possession, rush blindly into danger, impelled by a kind of madnessresembling that of sheep when they knock their heads against the wallsof their stable.

  Now, for nearly a fortnight, the count's daughter had been upset byso many and so violent emotions, that she was no longer herself. Theinsults which her father heaped upon her when he surprised her withDaniel had unsettled her mind completely.

  For Count Ville-Handry, acting under a kind of overexcitement, had thatday lost all self-control, and forgot himself so far as to treat hisdaughter as no gentleman would have treated his child while in hissenses, and that in the presence of his servants!

  And then, what tortures she had had to endure in the week that followed!She had declared that she would not be present at the reading of themarriage-contract, nor at the ceremonies of the civil marriage, norat church; and her father had tried to make her change her intentions.Hence every day a new
lamentable scene, as the decisive moment drewnearer.

  If the count had at least used a little discretion, if he had triedthe powers of persuasion, or sought to touch his daughter's heart byspeaking to her of herself, of her future, of her happiness, of herpeace!

  But no! He never came to her room without a new insult, thinking ofnothing, as he acknowledged himself, but of sparing Miss Brandon'sfeelings, and of saving her all annoyance. The consequence was, that histhreats, so far from moving Henrietta, had only served to strengthen herin her determination.

  The marriage-contract had been read and signed at six o'clock, justbefore a grand dinner. At half-past five, the count had once more cometo his daughter's room. Without telling her any thing of it, he hadordered her dressmaker to send her several magnificent dresses; and theywere lying about now, spread out upon chairs.

  "Dress yourself," he said in a tone of command, "and come down!"

  She, the victim of that kind of nervous exaltation which makes martyrdomappear preferable to yielding, replied obstinately,--

  "No, I shall not come down."

  She did not care for any subterfuge or excuse; she did not even pretendto be unwell; she said resolutely--

  "I will not!"

  And he, finding himself unable to overcome this resistance, maddened andenraged, broke out in blasphemies and insane threats.

  A chambermaid, who had been attracted by the loud voice, had come, and,putting her ear to the keyhole, had heard every thing; and the sameevening she told her friends how the count had struck his daughter, andthat she had heard the blows.

  Henrietta had always denied the charge.

  Nevertheless, it was but too true, that, in consequence of these lastinsults, she had come to the determination to make her protest aspublic as she could by showing herself to all Paris while her father wasmarried at St. Clothilda to Miss Brandon. The poor girl had no oneto whom she could confide her griefs, no one to tell her that all thedisgrace would fall back upon herself.

  So she had carried out her plan bravely. Putting on a very showycostume, so as to attract as much attention as possible, she had spentthe day in driving about to all the places where she thought she wouldmeet most of her acquaintances. Night alone had compelled her to return,and she felt broken to pieces, exhausted, upset by unspeakable anguishof soul, but upheld by the absurd idea that she had done her duty andshown herself worthy of Daniel.

  She had just alighted, and was about to pay the coachman, when thecount's valet came up, and said to her in an almost disrespectful toneof voice,--

  "My master has ordered me to tell you to come to him as soon as youshould come home."

  "Where is my father?"

  "In the large reception-room."

  "Alone?"

  "No. The countess, Mrs. Brian, and M. Elgin are with him."

  "Very well. I am coming."

  Gathering all her courage, and looking whiter and colder than the marbleof the statues in the vestibule, she went to the reception-room, openedthe door, and entered stiffly.

  "Here you are!" exclaimed Count Ville-Handry, restored to a certaindegree of calmness by the very excess of his wrath,--"here you are!"

  "Yes, father."

  "Where have you been?"

  She had at a glance taken in the whole room; and at the sight of the newcountess, and those whom she called her accomplices, all her resentmentarose. She smiled haughtily, and said carelessly,--

  "I have been at the Bois de Boulogne. In the morning I went out to makesome purchases; later, knowing that the Duchess of Champdoce is a littleunwell, and does not go out, I went to lunch with her; after that, asthe weather was so fine"--

  Count Ville-Handry could endure it no longer.

  Seizing his daughter by the wrists, he lifted her bodily, and, draggingher up to the Countess Sarah, he hurled out,--

  "On your knees, unhappy child! on your knees, and ask the best andnoblest of women to pardon you for all these insults!"

  "You hurt me terribly, father," said the young girl coldly.

  But the countess had already thrown herself between them.

  "For Heaven's sake, madam," she said, "spare your father!"

  And, as Henrietta measured her from head to foot with an insultingglance, she went on,--

  "Dear count, don't you see that your violence is killing me?"

  Promptly Count Ville-Handry let his daughter go, and, drawing back, hesaid,--

  "Thank her, thank this angel of goodness who intercedes in your behalf!But have a care! my patience is at an end. There are such things ashouses of correction for rebellious children and perverse daughters."

  She interrupted him by a gesture, and exclaimed with startling energy,--

  "Be it so, father! Choose among all these houses the very strictest, andsend me there. Whatever I may have to suffer there, it will bebetter than being here, as long as I see in the place of my motherthat--woman!"

  "Wretch!" howled the count.

  He was suffocating. By a violent effort he tore off his cravat; and,conscious that he was no longer master of himself, he cried to hisdaughter,--

  "Leave me, leave me! or I answer for nothing." She hesitated a moment.

  Then, casting upon the countess one more look full of defiance, sheslowly went out of the room.