“But, my dear girl, I said all that to him and he struck me in the face.”
“He laid hands on you! He dared to strike you, and is still alive!”
“Why, you see, Françoise, you, no more than I, would consent to live after that. No, my love, he is still alive because, when I was about to smash his head against the wall, he taunted me with being afraid of his pistol. You see, yourself, that I must fight him.”
“No, no; never.... The man is a murderer.”
“We should have fought before now if we could have found any seconds. We had to postpone the meeting. He is taking everything on himself. Both of us will have the necessary seconds. And now go back to your father, and keep silent about the whole matter. I have an hour left in which to write to you — to write to you at great length.”
“Why write to me? Why do you suddenly change your tone? Why do you again assume the coldness which has already caused me so much pain? You have but to say one word to me — the word which you have never yet said.”
“It is to tell you why I have never said that word that I want to write to you.”
“And afterwards you’ll fight?”
“I shall fight.”
“That means you don’t love me, Didier. Alas, my love, you have never loved me. And yet you know that I have loved you from the first day that I saw you... and you have done nothing but make me weep.”
“That’s true,” returned Didier. “But you are so good that I am certain you will forgive me.”
He sat down and, leaning with his elbows on the table, placed his hands before his face as if to shut out the vision of her for the last time. When he looked up again she was gone.
Then he began to write. His letter was a confession and a testament; one long wail of sorrow and love.
At daybreak, when d’Haumont entered the forest, Count de Gorbio and the four seconds whom he had undertaken to obtain were already waiting for him and he had the sensation of being face to face with a firing-party.
Those four men — the seconds — wore an ominous look, as if they knew that they were about to engage in an ugly business. The duel was occurring in such peculiar circumstances that de Gorbio must have had some difficulty in finding accomplices. It was not a pleasant sight for any one, except a German, to see a man shoot down a Captain in the French army, wounded in the war and not a little famous on account of his deeds. Count de Gorbio must have had to pay them a good price to induce them to act as seconds.
Nevertheless, the seconds, anticipating some future unpleasantness, were anxious that the duel should be fought strictly in accordance with the rules. They expressed regret that d’Haumont had not brought a case of pistols with him, but as he accepted, without demur, the pistols belonging to his opponent, they decided to go on. Captain d’Haumont’s seconds took the greatest care to see that the weapons were properly loaded. They drew lots and fate decreed that one of his seconds should take charge of the combat, and he offered the Captain a few words of advice.
It was obvious that he was quite in his element. He turned down the thin line of white collar which could be seen above the blue of d’Haumont’s jacket. He counselled him to stand sideways under cover of his right arm, and to bend it over his chest so that it might serve as a shield; and to fire standing in that position when the command was given, so that Count de Gorbio would not have time to take aim between the words, “One, two, three, and fire!” Of course, such precipitation would mean that he would be firing a little at random, but it was his only chance of saving his life, for there was no use hiding the fact that if Count de Gorbio were given time to take aim d’Haumont would be a dead man.
The second did not express in so many words an opinion which was shared by every one else, but he clearly hinted as much.
The seconds counted the paces. The adversaries were placed face to face. After the usual preliminaries, the word of command, “Fire!” rang out. Captain d’Haumont did not display any undue haste, but gave Count de Gorbio his full time and fired abstractedly, almost simultaneously with him.
He had recommended his soul to God and thought of Françoise for the last time. He expected to be struck to the ground. What was his stupefaction to see Count de Gorbio turn right round. The Count swayed for a second and then fell his length with his face on the sward. The seconds rushed up, followed by a gentleman whom the Captain had not previously observed, and who, it seemed, was the doctor.
At that moment a woman’s cry was heard, and Françoise appeared on the scene. She came hurrying up apparently to prevent the duel, and hearing the shots, she was shrieking all the more despairingly, feeling certain that she had arrived too late. It is only in fiction and plays that the heroine can calculate her time with such nicety that she appears on the ground at the psychological moment and glides in front of a pistol to receive the shot which was intended for the man she loves.
Nevertheless, when Mlle de la Boulays had made sure that the body which lay on the grass was the Count’s, and that d’Haumont was uninjured, she in no way regretted her late arrival. She flung herself into Didier’s arms.
“It is the judgment of God!”
These words coming from the beloved lips made an immense impression on d’Haumont, and affected him to a greater degree than the duel itself.
“The judgment of God!” It was true that God had been on his side in the battle, so that he had miraculously escaped the Count’s unerring pistol, while the Count was struck down by a bullet which had no chance of hitting him!
It was fated, therefore, that he should live. It was fated that he should love. It was shown that he had sufficiently suffered; made sufficient atonement. God, by removing that man from his path, had thrown that splendid girl into his arms, and she alone uttered the only words that were able to decide his destiny.
The judgment of God!
It was an inspiring thought and overwhelmed him with an exultation which may easily be imagined; while Françoise’s tears of joy, the clasp of her arms, the wonderful elation which seized him as he felt that he was on the threshold of a new life, illumined by love, took him out of himself — and he listened but absent-mindedly to the remarks of the seconds who were telling him that Count de Gorbio was not dead, but that he was not very far from it.
They raised their hats, and he returned the salute without quite knowing what he was about. And he allowed himself to be dragged away by Françoise.
Some weeks later she led him to the altar. The marriage made a great stir. It was one of the smartest among the war-weddings. As the wedding party emerged into the church square, bathed in the warm light, it was as though the sun of victory had risen that morning expressly to shine on Captain d’Haumont and his radiant bride.
They descended the main staircase amidst a murmur of admiration from a fashionably dressed crowd. As in the case of all marriages of wealthy people, a few eager beggars and down-at-heel loafers congregated here and there on the pavement. One of them climbed the gilded gate in order to see better, and his movements were like the contortions of a crab. Standing near him a squalid-looking peddler of rugs, carrying his bundle of trash on his shoulders, stared at the procession with not less interest. Captain d’Haumont was in the seventh heaven and had no eyes for earthly sights, nor did he hear the words that were spoken in an undertone by an over-dressed man to his companion, who might have been a sheriff’s clerk and looked rather shabby:
“Well, what do you think about it, Joker?”
“I think he is now ripe, Parisian.”
CHAPTER XV
THE HONEYMOON
THE MOON — Captain and Madame d’Haumont’s honeymoon — rose with its soft refulgence over the silver waves at Villefranche, at the extremity of Cape Ferrât, between Nice and Monte Carlo. It was here, in the seclusion of the fragrant gardens of “Thalassa,” the splendid villa which M. de la Boulays possessed on the azure coast of the Mediterranean, that they had hidden their great and new-found happiness.
Leaning on the beflow
ered balcony the happy couple listened in silence to the moaning of the sea breaking itself at the foot of the hills which watched over this enchanted bay. The dark mass of two vessels lay heavily asleep on their gleaming bed in the beautiful night.
Only the faint splash of two oars causing a light swirl of glistening foam could be heard from the roadstead, and a boat passed so near as to be almost at their feet.
“How pleasant it would be to have a row on the sea at this delightful hour,” murmured Françoise.
She had scarcely given expression to the wish when Didier hailed the fisherman who was rowing the boat and asked him to wait. They made their way down the steps which led to the beach, and the man, having consented by a gesture to take them with him, they were soon gliding over the surface of the waves, which were flowing out to the headland of Cape Ferrât.
“Do you often fish at this hour?” questioned Françoise. “I believe I caught sight of you yesterday pulling round the point.”
The man answered only with a grunt.
“Certainly our sailor is no gossip,” said Françoise in a whisper to Didier.
They did not again speak to him. They even completely forgot his existence. Didier’s arm gently stole round Françoise’s waist. Her head lay on his shoulder. A soft and scented breeze was wafted from the gardens at Saint Jean and the terraces at Beaulieu. Their lips met in the glad night as though they were alone.
The uncouth fisherman, a few feet away from them, was deemed as of no importance. Moreover he looked half asleep as he bent over his oars, drowsing in the huge muffler which covered his face. But the man was not slumbering, and in the innermost recesses of his mind he thought: “Love each other. Rejoice like children who are free from care while Chéri-Bibi keeps watch. Let nothing disturb the happiness which you have wrested from fate. I, too, have known those divine moments. I, too, have known what it is to be kissed by a beloved wife. I, too, have felt a beautiful form yield in my arms. I, too, have heard a lover’s sighs. Alas, there is an end to all things! Make haste! The most delightful nights are not far distant from the blackest chaos. The abyss lies under your feet. Forget it! Forget it, Nut, as long as you can! I have come from a great distance to remove from your path the cowardly forms clinging to your shadow who are lying in wait for you as for a quarry. Pray to your God in whom you believe, because your cup of happiness is full, that I may save you from evil before even you suspect its presence. Alas, nothing comes more swiftly in the world than misfortune. You are right to forget it lest your fondest kisses be fraught with bitter tears.”
Thus Chéri-Bibi’s thoughts flowed on in the lyrical and affected style which was usual with him when the occasion did not call upon him to express himself in the most frightful slang.
Those who have known as he knew, both sides of life as a result of complications which they have not sought, and which have sent them astray from their early path, find themselves again with a suddenness which cannot surprise them, either with a heart full of the joys of former times, or else wearing a hideous mask under which Fatality endeavors to suppress their former selves without entirely succeeding.
Chéri-Bibi half saw what was passing in the Nut’s elated mind. He was at that moment entirely transported with gratitude to Providence, the Giver of life and death, who had imposed on him such sore trials and made such splendid amends.
This secret pæan to the mighty spirit of goodness rose all the higher, inasmuch as the Nut could consider himself henceforward safe from a recurrence of his evil fortune. As far as the world was concerned the Nut was dead, Chéri-Bibi thought. The newspapers, some months before, had published the glad news:
“The tragedy of the murder of a well-known banker by Raoul de Saint Dalmas,” it was reported, “is now doubtless forgotten by the public. It may be stated that the prisoner succeeded in escaping from the convict settlement, but the Penitentiary Authorities have been able to satisfy themselves beyond any doubt that the miscreant perished in the primeval forest like so many other convicts who have attempted the same venture.”
No endeavor would be made to search further for him, and since he had learned from the same source, on his arrival in Europe, that the men who in Cayenne were called the Burglar, the Parisian, the Caid and the Joker had been recaptured, together with the notorious Chéri-Bibi, he had every reason to believe that the past contained no menace for him.
He was confident, moreover, that he owed his perfect security to Chéri-Bibi, and at those moments when his thoughts reverted to him, he vowed an even deeper gratitude to him.
“Be happy, Nut! You will learn all too soon, if you are to learn it, that your old companions in bondage escaped once again after four years of imprisonment, showing greater cunning this time, for they managed to return to France, and were present at your wedding. Oh, if you had known it! How you would have invoked in your prayers the demon of darkness who alone can save you, and whom, in the natural selfishness of your happiness, you no longer wished even to remember.”
* * * * *
Françoise loved adornment and admiration, and Didier was delighted, for he thought, with some reason, that a woman without elegance and style was a woman without charm.
During the early months of the war, Mlle de la Boulays restricted herself with a veritable enthusiasm to the greatest simplicity in dress. But, in truth, could she claim that she was devoted to her Red Cross costume solely because it served to remind her of her duties to humanity? Did she entirely ignore the fact that it suited her to perfection?
Her engagement, and then her marriage, which was a society event, afforded her more than a sufficient reason for returning to her former tastes, so that she found herself once more devoting herself to matters of toilet and dress. The fact, moreover, in no way detracted from her more solid qualities.
Captain d’Haumont was delighted to accompany his wife when she went shopping or visited her dressmaker. And when they were in Nice, after sauntering through the Promenade des Anglais, he never failed to bring her back to the verdant avenue where behind the great shop-fronts bloomed the latest fashions.
On that day they went to Violette’s to see a certain dress in white voile embroidered with pearls upon which Françoise had been casting longing eyes. The elder of the sisters, Violette, had just returned from their principal branch in Paris, bringing with her every kind of fashionable wonder. Françoise had not visited Violette’s during the war. But she knew the two sisters well, and she was quite surprised to see the elder one put out her hand to Didier with a pleasant smile. So Didier also knew her! So Didier used to visit the millinery shops before his marriage! With a charming pout, lifting in mock-seriousness a threatening finger, she remarked upon the fact.
“Don’t scold us, Madame,” said the elder Mlle. Violette with a smile. “It’s a great secret between Captain d’Haumont and me. But as it’s the secret of a good action, you must not ask me to tell you about it.”
“I insist on knowing what it is,” said Françoise gayly. “A husband ought not to have any secrets from his wife.”
“After all, you’re quite right, Madame, and well... the secret is..
At that juncture a girl appeared from the other end of the shop. She was wearing an exquisite dress which Françoise at once gazed upon enraptured. She did not even bestow a glance at the face of the wearer. A mannequin in the flesh means little more to the customers than a mannequin in dummy.
Nevertheless she was obliged to take stock of that handsome face with its refined and aristocratic outline, for the girl, catching sight of Captain d’Haumont, uttered a cry of joy, and blushing with pleasure went quickly up to him with outstretched hand. And then, doubtless feeling that her gesture was indiscreet, she stopped short and murmured, almost stammering:
“Oh, Captain d’Haumont!... How is it you’re here?”
“What about you?” returned d’Haumont. “Have you been in Nice long?”
“I brought her with me from Paris yesterday,” interposed Mlle. Violette. “W
e needed a few mannequins, and I took her away from the cash desk so as to have her taught a new business here. She does all that we want. We are very pleased with our favorite, Captain d’Haumont.”
“My dear,” said Captain d’Haumont, turning to his wife, who did not know what to say or what to think, and who remained standing somewhat nonplussed by the mystery, “I want you to be very nice to Mlle. Giselle who is quite worthy of it. It’s a story which I will tell you later.”
“A very pathetic story, Madame,” interposed Mlle. Violette, “and one that redounds to your husband’s credit.”
Giselle bowed gracefully to Madame d’Haumont. “I will try to deserve your kindness, Madame and Monsieur,” she said with great simplicity. “When my mother and I heard of Captain d’Haumont’s marriage we both of us prayed for your happiness.”
“She is delightful, this child,” said Françoise, as she shook her warmly by the hand. “And how pretty she is!” Then, turning to her husband with an adorable pout:
“I don’t know what you did to make them so grateful to you, but you know how to choose the people to whom to do good turns, my dear Didier.”
When they left the shop Françoise, who was agog with the greatest curiosity, asked him what it all meant.
“Be quick, tell me. You know that I am jealous, you brigand.”
D’Haumont was much amused by her impatience. He assumed an air of detachment.
“My dear, it’s a secret which belongs to that young girl,” he said. “I really don’t know if I can—”
“Oh, you’re making game of me! That’s not the old Didier. Think of the confidence that I have in you. We go into a shop and the first mannequin that we see throws herself into your arms and I don’t scratch her eyes out.”
“That would have been a pity, for they are very nice eyes,” said Didier.
“Yes, she has extremely nice blue eyes and an expression of gentle sadness which haunts one, it’s true. Oh, you’re an excellent judge. I congratulate you! All the same, you must admit that I am a good sort. Do I know what you did before our marriage?”
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 198
