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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..92862fc --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66517 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66517) diff --git a/old/66517-0.txt b/old/66517-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index d3628c8..0000000 --- a/old/66517-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11234 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Tragic Idyl, by Paul Bourget - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: A Tragic Idyl - -Author: Paul Bourget - -Release Date: October 11, 2021 [eBook #66517] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TRAGIC IDYL *** - -A TRAGIC IDYL - - - - -BY - - -PAUL BOURGET - - -AUTHOR OF "OUTRE-MER," ETC. - - - - -LONDON - -DOWNEY AND CO. LTD. - -12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN - -1896 - - - - -CONTENTS - -CHAPTER -I. Le "Tout Europe" -II. The Cry of a Soul -III. A Scruple -IV. Lovers' Resolutions -V. Afloat -VI. Il Matrimonio Segreto -VII. Olivier du Prat -VIII. Friend and Mistress -IX. Friend and Mistress--_continued_ -X. A Vow -XI. Between Two Tragedies -XII. The Dénouement - - - - -A TRAGIC IDYL - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -LE "TOUT EUROPE" - - -That night (toward the end of February, 188--) a vast crowd was -thronging the halls of the Casino at Monte Carlo. It was one of the -momentary occasions, well known to all who have passed the winter season -on the Corniche, when a sudden and prodigious afflux of composite -humanity transfigures that place, ordinarily so vulgar with the brutal -luxury of the people whom it satisfies. The gay madness that breaks out -at Nice during the Carnival attracts to this little point of the Riviera -the moving army of pleasure hunters and adventurers, while the beauty of -the climate allures thousands of invalids and people weary of living, -the victims of disease and of ill fortune; and on certain nights, like -that on which this narrative begins, when the countless representatives -of the various classes, scattered ordinarily along the coast, suddenly -rush together into the gaming-house, their fantastic variety of -character appears in all its startling incongruities, with the aspect of -a cosmopolitan pandemonium, dazzling and sinister, deafening and -tragical, ridiculous and painful, strewn with all the wrecks of luxury -and vice of every country and of every class, the victims of every -misfortune and disaster. In this stifling atmosphere, amid the glitter -of insolent and ignoble wealth, the ancient monarchies were represented -by three princes of the house of Bourbon, and the modern by two -grand-nephews of Bonaparte, all five recognizable by their profiles, -which were reproduced on hundreds of the gold and silver coins rolling -before them on the green tables. - -Neither these princes nor their neighbors noticed the presence at one of -the tables of a man who had borne the title of King in one of the states -improvised on the Balkan Peninsula. Men had fought for this man, men had -died for him, but his royal interests seemed now to be restricted to the -pasteboard monarchs on the table of _trente-et-quarante_. And king and -princes, grand-nephews and cousins of emperors, in the promiscuity of -this international resort, elbowed noblemen whose ancestors had served -or betrayed their own; and these lords elbowed the sons of tradesmen, -dressed like them, nourished like them, amused like them; and these -_bourgeois_ brushed against celebrated artists--here the most famous of -our portrait painters, there a well-known singer, there an illustrious -writer--while fashionable women mingled with this crowd in toilets which -rivalled in splendor those of the _demi-monde_. And other men poured in -continually, and other women, and especially others of the _demi-monde_. -Through the door they streamed in endlessly, of all categories, from the -creature with hungry eyes and the face of a criminal, in search of some -fortunate gambler whose substance she might absorb as a spider does that -of a fly, to the insolent and triumphant devourer of fortunes, who -stakes twenty-five louis on every turn of the roulette and wears in her -ears diamonds worth 30,000f. These contrasts formed here and there a -picture even more striking and significant; for example, between two of -these venders of love, their complexion painted with ceruse and with -rouge, their eyes depraved by luxury and greed, a young woman, almost a -child, recently married and passing through Monte Carlo on her wedding -journey, stretched forth her fresh, pretty face with a smile of -innocence and roguish curiosity. - -Further on, the amateurs of political philosophy might have seen one of -the great Israelitish bankers of Paris placing his stake beside that of -the bitterest of socialist pamphleteers. Not far from them a young -consumptive, whose white face spotted with purple, hollow cheeks, -burning eyes, and fleshless hands announced the fast approach of death, -was seated beside a "sporting" man, whose ruddy complexion, broad -shoulders, and herculean muscles seemed to promise eighty years of life. -The white glare of the electric globes along the ceiling and the walls, -and the yellow light that radiated from the lamps suspended above the -tables, falling upon the faces of this swarming crowd revealed -differences no less extraordinary of race and origin. Russian faces, -broad and heavy, powerfully, almost savagely Asiatic, were mingled with -Italian physiognomies, of a Latin fineness and of a modelling that -recalled the elegance of ancient portraits. German heads, thick, and, as -it were, rough-hewn, with an expression of mingled cunning and good -nature, alternated with Parisian heads, intelligent and dissipated, -which suggested the boulevard and the _couloirs_ of the _Variétés_. -Red and energetic profiles of Englishmen and Americans sketched their -vigorous outlines, evincing the habit of exercise, long exposure to the -tanning air and also the daily intoxication of alcohol; while exotic -faces, by the animation of their eyes and mouths, by the warm tones of -their complexions, evoked visions of other climes, of far-off countries, -of fortunes made in the antipodes, in those mysterious regions which our -fathers called simply _the isles_. And money, money, endless money -flowed from this crowd on to the green tables, whose number had been -increased since the previous day. Although the hands of the great clock -over the entrance marked a quarter to ten, the visitors became at every -moment more numerous. It was not the sound of conversation that was -audible in these rooms, but the noise of footsteps moving about the -tables, which stood firm amid this surging crowd like flat rocks on the -mounting sea, motionless under the lash of the waves. The noise of -footsteps was accompanied by another no less continuous--the clinking of -gold and silver coins, which one could hear falling, piling, separating, -living, in fact, with the sonorous and rapid life which they have under -the rake of the _croupier_. The rattle of the balls in the roulette -rooms formed a mechanical accompaniment to the formulae, mechanically -repeated, in which the words "_rouge_" and "_noir_," "_pair_" and -"_impair_," "_passe_" and "_manque_" recurred with oracular -impassibility. And, still more monotonous, from the tables of -_trente-et-quarante_ which lacked the rattle of the wheel, other -formulæ arose incessantly--"_Quatre, deux. Rouge gagne et la -couleur--Cinq, neuf. Rouge perd, la couleur gagne--Deux, deux. -Après_--" At the sight of the columns of napoleons and hundred-franc -pieces rising and falling on the ten or twelve tables, the bank-notes of -one hundred, five hundred, and a thousand francs, unfolded and heaped -up; the full dress of the men, the jewels of the women, the evident -prodigality of all these people, one felt the gaming-house vibrating -with a frenzy other than that of loss and gain. One breathed in the -fever of luxury, the excess and abuse of pleasure. On nights like this -gold seems to have no longer any value, so fast is it won and lost on -these tables, so wildly is it spent in the hotels, restaurants, and -villas which crowd around the Casino like the houses of a watering-place -around the spring. The beauty of women is here too tempting and -accessible, pleasure is too abundant, the climate too soft, comfort is -too easy. The paradise of brutal refinement installed here on this -flower-clad rock is hostile to calm enjoyment and to cool reflection. -The giddiness which it imparts to the passing guest has its crisis of -intensity, and this night was one of them. It had something of the -Kermess about it, and of Babylonian furore. Nor did it lack even the -_Mene_, _Tekel_, _Upharsin_ of the Biblical feast, for the despatches -posted on one of the columns in the vestibule recounted the bloody -episode of a strike that had broken out since the previous day in the -mining district of the North. The telegram told of the firing of the -troops, of workmen killed, and of an engineer murdered for revenge. But -who pictured in concrete images the details of this tragic despatch? Who -in this crowd, more and more athirst for pleasure, realized its -revolutionary menace? The gold and silver coins continued to roll, the -bank-notes to unfold and quiver, the _croupiers_ to cry "_Faites vos -jeux_" and "_Rien ne va plus_," the balls to spin around the wheels, the -cards to fall on the green cloth, the rakes to grasp the money of the -poor unfortunates, and each one to follow his mania for gambling or for -luxury, his fancy for snobbery and vanity, or the caprice of his -_ennui_. For how many different fancies this strange palace, with its -doors like those of the Alhambra, served as the theatre. On this night -of feverish excitement it was lending one of its divans to the -preparatives for a most fantastic adventure, the mere announcement of -which recalls the advertisements of the _Opéra Comique_, the music of -our great-grandmothers, and the forgotten name of Cimarosa--a secret -marriage. - -The group of three persons who had been compelled to choose a corner of -this mundane caravansary for that romantic conspiracy was composed of a -young man and two women. The young man appeared to be thirty-two years -old. That was also the age of one of the women, who was, as they say in -America, the chaperon of the other, a girl ten years younger. To -complete the paradoxical character of this matrimonial conference in the -long room that separates the roulette halls from those of the -_trente-et-quarante_, it is only necessary to add that the young girl, -an American, was in reality chaperoning the official chaperon, and that -the project of this secret marriage did not concern her in the least. -She was seated at the end of the divan, unmistakably a sentinel, while -her friend and the young man talked together. Her beautiful brown eyes -fearlessly scrutinized the passing crowd with the energy and confidence -natural to a girl of the United States, accustomed from her childhood to -realize her individuality, and who, if she dispenses with certain -conventionalities, at least knows why, and is not ashamed of it. She was -beautiful, with that beauty already so ripe which, accentuated by a -toilet almost too fashionable, gives to so many American women the air -of a creature on exhibition. Her features were delicate, even too small -for the powerful moulding of her face and the strength of her chin. On -her thick, chestnut-colored hair she wore a round hat of black velvet, -with a rim too wide and with plumes too high, which rose in the back -over a _cachepeigne_ of artificial orchids. It was the hat of a young -girl and a hat for the afternoon, but, in its excess, it was quite in -keeping with her dress of glossy cloth and her corsage, or rather -cuirass, trimmed with silver, which the most celebrated couturier in -Paris had designed for her. Thus adorned, and with the superabundance of -jewellery that accompanied this toilet, Miss Florence Marsh--that was -her name--might have passed for anything in the world except what she -really was--the most straightforward and honest of young girls, helping -to prepare for the conjugal happiness of a woman equally honest and -irreproachable. This woman was the Marquise Andryana Bonnacorsi, a -Venetian by birth, belonging to the ancient and illustrious dogal family -of the Navagero. Her dress, though it, too, came from Paris, bore the -marks of that taste for tinsel peculiar to Italian finery, which gives -it that _fufu_ air, to employ an untranslatable term, with which our -provincial _bourgeoisie_ ridicules these unsubstantial ornaments. A -flock of butterflies in black jet rested upon her black satin dress. The -same butterflies appeared on the satin of her small shoes and among the -pink roses of her hat, above her beautiful light hair of that red gold -so dear to the painters of her country. The voluptuous splendor of her -complexion, the nobility of her somewhat heavy features, the precocious -development of her bust accorded well with her origin, and even more the -soft blue of her eyes, in which there floated all the passion and -languor of the lagoons. The light of her blue eyes enveloped the young -man who was now speaking to her, and with whom she was visibly in love, -madly in love. He, in the full maturity of his strength, justified that -adoration more sensual than sentimental. He was a remarkable type of the -manly beauty peculiar to our Provence, which attests that for centuries -it was the land where the Roman race left its deepest imprint. His -short, black hair, over the straight, white forehead; his pointed, -slightly curling beard, the firm line if his nose, and the deep curve of -his brows, gave him a profile like that of a medal, which would have -been severe, if all the energy of a born lover had not burned in his -soft eyes, and all the gayety of the South sparkled in his smile. His -robust and supple physique could be divined even under his coat and -white waistcoat, and these signs of animal health were so evident, his -somewhat excessive gestures seemed to evince such exuberance, such -perfect joy in living, that one failed to notice how impenetrable were -those ardent eyes, how shrewd the smiling mouth, and how all the signs -of cunning calculation were imprinted on that face, so reflective under -its mobility. - -Two kinds of men thus excel in utilizing their defects to the profit of -their interest--the German, who shelters his diplomacy behind his -apparent dulness, and the Provençal, who conceals his beneath his -instinctive petulance, and who appears, as he really is on the surface, -an enthusiast, while he is executing some plan as solidly and coldly -realistic as though he were a Scotchman of the Border. Who would have -guessed that on this lounge of the Casino, while he talked so gayly with -his habitual abandon, the Viscount de Corancez--he belonged to a family -near Tarascon, of the least authentic title to nobility--was just -bringing to a successful conclusion the most audacious, the most -improbable, and the most carefully studied of intrigues? But who in all -the world suspected the real character of this "careless Marius," as he -was called by his father, the old vine-grower of Tarascon, whom his -compatriots had seen die in despair at the eternal debts of his son? -Certainly not these men of Tarascon and the Rhone valley, who had seen -the beautiful vines, so well cared for and regenerated by the father, -disappear, vineyard by vineyard, to satisfy the follies of the heir at -Paris. Nor was his real character known to the companions of his folly, -the Casal, the Vardes, the Machault, all be noted men of pleasure of the -time, who had clearly recognized the sensuality and vanity of the -Southerner, but not his cunning, and who had classed him once ad for all -among the provincials destined to disappear after shining like a meteor -in the firmament of Paris. No one had perceived in this joyous -companion, this gourmand ready for every pleasure, for a supper, for -cards, for a love-affair, the practical philosopher who should when the -hour arrived nimbly change his weapon. And the hour had struck several -months ago; of the 600,000f. left him by his father scarcely 40,000 -remained, and this winter the supple Southerner had begun to execute the -programme of is thirty-second year--a successful marriage. The -originality of this project lay in the peculiar conditions he affixed to -it. In the first place, he had perceived that, even if enriched by the -most fortunate marriage, his situation at Paris would never be what he -wished. His defeat at an aristocratic club, to which he had attempted to -gain admittance, trusting of certain influence imprudently offered and -accepted, had shown him the difference between mere comradeship and a -solid standing in society. Two or three visits to Nice had revealed the -cosmopolitan world to him, and, with his superior cleverness, he had -divined its resources. He had resolved to marry some stranger who had a -good standing in the society of Europe. He dreamed of passing the winter -on the coast, the summer in the Alps, the hunting season in Scotland, -the autumn on his wife's estate, and a few festive weeks in Paris in the -spring. This plan of existence presupposed that his wife should not be a -mere young girl. Corancez wished her to be a widow, older than himself -if need be, and yet still beautiful in her autumn. As he based his hopes -of success mainly upon his youthful and handsome appearance, it was -desirable that the matrimonial labors should not be too severe. An -Italian Marquise, belonging by birth to the highest Venetian -aristocracy, the widow of a nobleman, left with an income of 200,000f., -irreproachable in character, and devotedly religious, which would save -her from any love-affairs unsanctioned by marriage, and nevertheless led -by the influence of her Anglomaniac brother into cosmopolitan life, was -the ideal of all his hopes, embodied as though by enchantment. But all -the apples of Hesperides have their dragon, and the mythical monster was -in this case represented by the brother, the Count Alvise Navagero, a -doubtful personage under his snobbish exterior, who well understood how -to keep for his own use the millions of his deceased brother-in-law, -Francesco Bonnacorsi. How had the Provençal trickery eluded the -Venetian watchfulness? Even to this day, when those events are things of -the past, the five o'clock _habitués_ of the yacht club at Cannes -confess themselves unable to explain it, such astuteness had the -ingenious Corancez employed in preparing the mine without arousing a -suspicion of his subterranean labor. And four short months had sufficed. -Through an inner conflict of emotions and of scruples, of timidity and -passion, the Marquise Andryana had been brought to accept the idea of a -secret marriage, finding no other way to satisfy the ardor with which -she now burned, the exigencies of her religion, and her fear of her -brother, which grew with her love for Corancez. She trembled now at the -thought of it, although she knew this redoubtable guardian to be engaged -in risking at a near table the thousand-franc notes she had given to be -rid of him. Alvise was staking his money with the thoughtfulness and -care of an old gambler who had already been once ruined by cards, -unaware that within a few yards of him another game that concerned him -was being played, and a fortune was at stake which he, like a perfect -parasite, considered as his own. It was not simply at stake, it was -lost; for the romantic plan invented by Corancez to fasten an -inseparable bond between the Marquise and himself was about to be -consummated; the two lovers had just settled upon the place and time and -details. - -"And now," concluded Marius, "_rien ne va plus_, as they say in -roulette. We have only to wait patiently for two weeks.--I believe we -have not forgotten anything." - -"But I am so afraid of some mischance," said the Marquise Andryana, -softly shaking her blond head, the black butterflies trembling on her -hat. "If Marsh changes the date of his yachting party?" - -"You will telegraph me," said Corancez, "and I will meet you at Genoa -another day.--Anyhow, Marsh will not change the date. It was the -Baroness Ely who chose the 14th, and the wife of an archduke, though -morganatic, is not to be disappointed, even were Marsh such a democrat -as the western ranchman, who said once, with a strong handshake to an -Infanta of Spain, 'Very glad to meet you, Infanta.' It was Marsh himself -who told me this, and you remember his disgust, don't you, Miss -Florence?" - -"My uncle is as punctual in his pleasures as in his business," replied -the American girl; "and since the Baroness Ely is in the party--" - -"But if Alvise changes his mind and sails with us?" said the Venetian. - -"Ah, Marquise, Marquise," Corancez cried, "what dismal forebodings. You -forget that the Count Alvise is invited to the _Dalilah_, the yacht of -Lord Herbert Bohun, to meet H.K.H. _Alberto Edoardo_, Prince of Wales, -and Navagero miss that appointment? Never." - -In light mockery at his future brother-in-law's Anglomania, he imitated -the British accent which the Count affected, with a mimicry so gay that -the Marquise could not help exclaiming:-- - -"_Che carino!_" - -And with her fan she stroked the hand of her _fiancé_. Notwithstanding -his pleasantry at the expense of the domestic tyrant, at which the -Marquise was ready to smile, much as she trembled in his presence, -Corancez seemed to think the conversation dangerous, for he attempted to -bring it to an end:-- - -"I do not wish my happiness to cost you a moment of worry, and it will -not. I can predict hour by hour everything that will take place on the -14th, and you will see if your friend is not a prophet. You know what a -lucky line I have here," he added, showing the palm of his hand, "and -you know what I have read in your own pretty hand." - -It was one of his tricks, and at the same time one of his own -superstitions, to play the rôle of a parlor wizard and chiromancer, and -he continued with that tone of certitude that imparts firmness to the -irresolute:-- - -"You will have a magnificent passage to Genoa. You will find me you know -where with Dom Fortunato Lagumina, for the old _abbé_ is eager to act -as chaplain in this _matrimonio segreto_. You will return to Cannes -without any one in the world suspecting that _Mme. la Marquise -Bonnacorsi_ has become _Mme. la Vicomtesse de Corancez_, excepting the -Vicomte, who will find some way of making our little _combinazione_ -acceptable to the good Alvise. Until then you will write to me at Genoa, -_poste restante_, and I to you, in care of our dear Miss Florence." - -"Whose name is also Miss Prudence," said the young girl, "and she thinks -you are talking too long for conspirators. Beware of pickpockets," she -added in English. - -This was the signal agreed upon to warn them of the approach of some -acquaintance. - -"Bah, that pickpocket is not dangerous," said Corancez, following the -direction of Miss Marsh's fan, and recognizing the person who had -attracted her attention. "It is Pierre Hautefeuille, my old friend. He -doesn't even notice us. Marquise, do you wish to see a lover desperate -at not finding his loved one? And to think that I should be like him," -he added, in a lower tone, "if you were not here to intoxicate me with -your beauty." Then, raising his voice, "Watch him sit down on that -lounge in the corner, unconscious of the three pairs of eyes that are -observing him. A ruined gambler might blow out his brains beside him and -he would not turn his head. He would not even hear." - -The young man had at this moment an air of absorption so profound, so -complete, that he justified the laughing raillery of Corancez. If the -plot of a secret marriage, mapped out in these surroundings and amid -this crowd, appear strangely paradoxical, the reveries of this man whom -Corancez had called his "old friend"--they had been at school together -in Paris for two years--were still stranger and more paradoxical. The -contrast was too strong between the crowd swarming around Pierre -Hautefeuille and the hypnotism that appeared to be upon him. Evidently -the two thousand people scattered through these rooms ceased to exist -for him as soon as he had discovered the absence of a certain person. -And who could this be if not a woman? The disappointed lover had fallen, -rather than seated himself, upon the lounge in front of Corancez and his -fellow-conspirators. With his elbow on the arm of the divan, he pressed -his hand over his forehead, disconsolately. His slender fingers, pushing -back his hair, disclosed the noble outline of his brow, revealed his -profile, the slightly arched nose, the severe lips, whose proud -expression would have been almost fierce were it not for the tender -softness of his eyes. This look of strangely intense meditation in a -face so exhausted and pale, with its small, dark mustache, gave him a -resemblance to the classic portrait of Louis XIII. in his youth. His -narrow shoulders, his slightly angular limbs, the evident delicacy of -his whole body indicated one of those fragile organizations whose force -lies wholly in the nerves, a physique with no vital power of resistance, -ravaged eternally by emotions, down to the obscure and quivering centre -of consciousness, and as easily exhausted by sentiment as muscular -natures are by action and sensation. Although Pierre Hautefeuille was, -in his dress and manner, indistinguishable from Corancez and the -countless men of pleasure in the rooms, yet either his physiognomy was -very deceptive or he did not belong to the same race morally as these -cavaliers of the white waistcoat and the varnished pumps, who encircled -the ladies dressed like _demi-mondaines_, and the _demi-mondaines_ -dressed like ladies, or crowded around the tables, amid the throng of -gentlemen and swindlers. The melancholy in the curve of his lips and in -his tired eyelids revealed a sadness, not momentary, but habitual, an -abiding gloom, and if it were true that he had come to this place in -search of a woman whom he loved, this sadness was too naturally -explained. He must suffer from the life that this woman was -leading, from her surroundings, her pleasures, her habits, her -inconsistencies--suffer even to the extent of illness, and, perhaps, -without knowing why, for he had not the eyes that judge of one they -love. In any case, if he was, as Corancez said, a lover, he was -certainly not a successful one. His face showed neither the pride nor -the bitterness of a man to whom the loved woman has given herself, and -who believes in her or suspects her. Even the simplicity with which he -indulged his reveries in the midst of this crowd and on the lounge of a -gaming-house was enough to prove a youthfulness of heart and imagination -rare at his age. Corancez's companions were struck at the same time with -this naïve contrast, and each made to herself a little exclamation in -her native tongue:-- - -"_Com'è simpatico_," murmured the Italian. - -"_Oh, you dear boy_," said Miss Florence. - -"And with whom is he in love?" they asked together. - -"I could give you a hundred to guess," said Corancez, "but you could -not. Never mind. It is not a secret that was confided to me; I -discovered it myself, so I am not bound to keep it. Well, the -_sympathetic_, dear boy has chosen to fall in love with our friend -Madame de Carlsberg, the Baroness Ely, herself. She has been here for -six days with Madame Brion, and this poor boy has not been able to -remain away from her. He wished to see her without her knowing. He must -have been wandering around the Villa Brion, waiting for her to come out. -See the dust on his shoes and trousers. Then, having doubtless heard -that the Baroness spends her evenings here, he has come to watch her. He -has not found her in this crowd. That is how we love," he added, with a -look at the Marquise, "when we do love." - -"And the Baroness?" - -"You wish to know whether or not the Baroness loves him? Luckily you and -Miss Florence believe in hands, for it is only through my talent for -fortunetelling that I can answer you. You are interested? Well," he -continued, with his peculiar air of seriousness and mystification, "she -has in her hand a red heart-line, which indicates a violent passion, and -there is a mark that places this passion near her thirtieth year, which -is just her present age. By the way, did I never tell you that she has -also on the Mount of Jupiter, there, a perfect star--one of whose rays -forms a cross of union?" - -"And that means?" inquired the American girl, with the interest that the -people of the most materialistic country have for all questions of a -supernatural order, for everything that pertains to what they call -"spiritualism." - -"Marriage with a prince," replied the Southerner. - -There was a minute of silence, during which Corancez continued to watch -Pierre Hautefeuille with great attention. Suddenly his eyes sparkled -with an idea that had just occurred to him:-- - -"Marquise. The witness we need for the ceremony at Genoa. Why not have -him? I think he would bring us good luck." - -"That is so," said Madame Bonnacorsi; "it is delightful to meet with a -face like that at certain moments of one's life. But would it be wise?" - -"If I propose him to you," Corancez replied, "you may be sure that I -answer for his discretion. We have known each other since our boyhood, -Hautefeuille and I; he is solid gold. And how much safer than a hired -witness, who could at any time betray us." - -"Will he accept?" - -"I shall know to-morrow before leaving Cannes, if you have no objection -to my choosing him. Only," the young man added, "in that case it might -be better to have him on the yacht." - -"I'll attend to that," said Miss Marsh. "But how and when introduce him -to my uncle?" - -"This evening," Corancez replied, "while we are all in the train for -Cannes. I will secure our lover at once, and not leave him till we are -in the train--especially," he added, rising, "as we have been talking -here too long, and though the walls have no ears, they have eyes. My -dear," he murmured, passionately pressing the little hand of Madame -Bonnacorsi, who also had risen, "I shall not talk with you again before -the great day; give me a word to carry with me and live with until -then." - -"God guard you, _anima mia_," she answered, in her grave voice, -revealing all the passion that this skilful personage had inspired in -her. - -"It is written here," he said gayly, opening his hand, "and here," he -added, placing his hand upon his heart. - -Then, turning to the young girl:-- - -"Miss Flossie, when you need some one to go through fire for you, a -word, and he will be ready _right away_." - -While Miss Marsh laughed at this joke upon one of the little idioms of -the Yankee language, the Marquise followed him with the look of a -passionate woman whose heart goes out to every motion of the man she -loves. The Provençal moved toward his old friend with such grace and -suppleness of carriage that the American girl could not refrain from -remarking it. The young girls of that energetic race, so fond of -exercise and so accustomed to the easy familiarities of the tennis -court, are frankly and innocently sensible to the physical beauty of -men. - -"How handsome he is, your Corancez," she exclaimed to the Marquise. "To -me he is the Frenchman, the type that I used to picture to myself in -Marionville when I read the novels of Dumas. How happy you will be with -him." - -"So happy," the Italian murmured, but added, with a melancholy -foreboding, "yet God will not permit it." - -"God permits everything that one wishes, if one wishes it hard enough, -and it is just," Miss Florence interrupted. - -"No. I have had to tell Alvise too many lies. I shall be punished." - -"If you feel that way," said the American, "why don't you tell your -brother? Do you wish me to do it? Five minutes of conversation, and you -will not have a single lie on your conscience. You have the right to -marry. The money is yours. What do you fear?" - -"You don't know Alvise," she said, and her face had a look of actual -terror. "What if he should provoke him to a duel and kill him? No; let -us do as we have planned, and may the Madonna protect us." - -She closed her eyes a moment, sighing. Florence Marsh watched her with -amazement. The independent Anglo-Saxon could never understand the -hypnotic terror that Navagero threw over his sister. The thoughts of the -Marquise had wandered back to Cannes. She saw the little chapel of Notre -Dame des Pins, where every day for months a mass had been said in order -to find pardon for her falsehoods, and she saw the altar where she and -Corancez had knelt and made a vow that they would go together to Loretto -as soon as their marriage was announced. The Provençal believed in the -Madonna, just as he believed in the lines of the hand, with that -demi-scepticism and demi-faith possible only to those southern natures, -so childish and so cunning, so complex with their instinctive -simplicity, so sincere in their boastfulness, and forever superstitious -in even their coldest calculations. He saw in the scruples of Madame -Bonnacorsi the surest guarantee of his success; for, once in love, a -woman of such religious ardor and such passionate intensity would end -necessarily in marriage. And, besides, the tapers burning in the little -church at Cannes assured him in regard to the brother, whose suspicions -he had evaded, but whom he knew to be capable of anything in order not -to lose the fortune of his sister. So, unlike Miss Marsh, he was not -astonished at the fears of his _fiancée_. But what could the fury of -Alvise avail against a union consummated in due form before a genuine -priest, lacking only the civil consecration, which mattered nothing to -the pious Marquise? However, faithful to the old adage that two -precautions are better than one, Corancez, in view of the eventual -explanation, was not displeased at the prospect of having at his wedding -a man of his own set. Why had he not thought before of his old friend of -Louis-le-Grand, whom he had found again at Cannes, just as candid and -simple-hearted as in the days when they sat side by side on the benches -of the school? Corancez had recognized the candor and simplicity of his -old acquaintance at the first touch of his hand. He had recognized them -also in the innocent impulsiveness with which Hautefeuille had become -enamoured of the Baroness Ely de Carlsberg. He had revealed this passion -to his two interlocutors; but he had not told them that he believed -Madame de Carlsberg to be as much in love with the young man as he was -with her. However, he might justly have boasted of his perspicacity. It -had been keen in this case, as in so many others. But, perspicacious as -he was, the Southerner did not realize that in making use of his -discovery he was about to turn the _opéra bouffe_ of his marriage with -Madame Bonnacorsi into a dramatic episode. In speaking to himself of his -famous line of luck, he always said, "Only gay things come to me." It -seems, in fact, that there are two distinct types of men, and their -eternal coexistence proves the legitimacy of the two standpoints taken -since the world began by the painters of human nature--comedy and -tragedy. Every man partakes of one or the other, and rare is the destiny -in which both are mingled. For a whole group of persons--of whom -Corancez was one--the most romantic affairs end in a vaudeville; while -for the other class, to which, alas, Pierre Hautefeuille belonged, the -simplest adventures result in tragedy. If the first love sincerely, -never does the loved woman do them wrong. A smile is always ready to -mingle with their tears. The others are given to poignant emotions, to -cruel complications; all their idyls are tragic idyls. And truly, to see -these two young men side by side, as Corancez laid his hand on -Hautefeuille's shoulder, to arouse him from his reverie, these two -eternal types--the hero of comedy and the hero of tragedy--appeared in -all their contrast--the one robust and laughing, with bright eyes and -sensual lips, sure of himself, and throwing around him, as it were, an -atmosphere of good humor; the other frail and delicate, his eyes heavy -with thought, ready to suffer at the least contact with life, scarcely -able to conceal a quiver of irritation at the sudden interrupting of his -dreams. - -His irritation quickly vanished; when he had risen and Corancez had -taken him familiarly by the arm, the thought occurred to him that -perhaps he might hear from his old friend some news of the Baroness Ely -de Carlsberg, whom in fact he had been vainly seeking at Monte Carlo. -And the cunning Southerner began:-- - -"How sly of you to come here without letting me know. And how foolish. -You might have dined comfortably with me. I had this evening the -prettiest table in Monte Carlo: Madame de Carlsberg, Madame de Chésy, -Miss Marsh, Madame Bonnacorsi. You know all four of them, I believe. You -would not have been bored." - -"I didn't know until five o'clock that I should take the train at six," -said Hautefeuille. - -"I understand," said Corancez; "you are sitting comfortably in your room -at Cannes. You hear voices, like Jeanne d'Arc, only not quite the same; -'_Rien ne va plus_. _Messieurs, faites vos jeux_;' and the bank-notes -begin to pant in your purse, the napoleons to dance in your pocket, and -before you know it you find yourself in front of the green cloth. Have -you won?" - -"I never play," Pierre answered. - -"You will before long. But, tell me, do you often come here?" - -"This is the first time." - -"And you have been all winter at Cannes. I can still hear Du Prat -calling you Mademoiselle Pierrette. You are too good and too young. Look -out for the reaction. And, speaking of Du Prat, have you heard from -him?" - -"He is still on the Nile with his wife," Hautefeuille replied, "and he -insists upon my joining them." - -"And you wouldn't go and finish the wedding journey with them. That was -even wiser than refusing to play. That is the result of not spending -one's honeymoon here on the coast, like everybody else. They get bored -with each other even before the housewarming." - -"But I assure you that Olivier is very happy," Hautefeuille said, with -an emphasis that showed his affection for the man of whom Corancez had -spoken so lightly; then, to avoid any further comments upon his absent -friend: "But, frankly, do you find this society so amusing?" And he -motioned toward the crowd of players around the tables who were growing -more and more excited. "It is the paradise of the _rastaquouères_." - -"That's the prejudice of the Parisian," said the Provençal, who still -felt bitter against the great city on account of his defeat at the most -desirable of clubs. He continued to vent his bitterness; -"_Rastaquouères_. When you have uttered that anathema, you think that -you have settled the question; and by dint of repeating it, you blind -yourself to the fact that you Parisians are becoming the provincials of -Europe. Yes, you no longer produce the really great aristocrats; they -are now the English, the Russians, the Americans, the Italians, who have -as much elegance and wit as you Parisians, but with real temperament -beneath their elegance which you have never had, and with the gayety -which you have no more. And the women of these foreign lands. Contrast -them with that heartless, senseless doll, that vanity in _papier -mâché_, the Parisian woman." - -"In the first place, I am not at all a Parisian," interrupted Pierre -Hautefeuille; "I am rather a provincial of provincials. And then, I -grant the second part of your paradox; some of these women are -remarkable in their fineness and culture, in their brightness and charm. -And yet is their charm ever equal, not to that of the Parisienne, I -agree, but to that of the real Frenchwoman, with her good sense and her -grace, her tact, her intelligence--the poetry of perfect measure and -taste?" - -He had been thinking aloud, unconscious of the slight smile that passed, -almost invisibly, over the ironical lips of his interlocutor. The "Sire" -de Corancez was not the man to engage himself in a discussion for which -he cared no more than he did for the Pharaohs whose tombs served as the -background of their friend's honeymoon. Knowing Hautefeuille's -attachment to this man, he had brought up his name in order to give to -their conversation an accent of ease and confidence. Hautefeuille's -remarks about foreign women, confirming the diagnosis of his love for -Madame de Carlsberg, recalled Corancez to the real purpose of this -interview. He and his companion were at this moment near the table of -_trente-et-quarante_, at which was seated one of the persons most -involved in the execution of his project, the uncle of Miss Marsh, one -of the most celebrated of American railroad magnates, Richard Carlyle -Marsh, familiarly known as Dickie Marsh, he who was destined, on a fixed -day, to lend his yacht unwittingly to the wedding voyage of Madame -Bonnacorsi. It was in his company that Corancez was to return with his -friend to Cannes, and he wished to interest Hautefeuille in the Yankee -potentate in order to facilitate his introduction. - -"No," he continued, "I assure you that this foreign colony contains men -who are as interesting as their wives. We are apt to overlook this fact, -because they are not so pretty to look at.--I see one at this table whom -I shall introduce. We met his niece the other day at the Baroness's. He -is Marsh, the American. I wish you to see him playing-- Good, some one -is rising. Don't lose me, we may profit by this and get to the front of -the crowd." - -And the adroit Southerner managed to push himself and Hautefeuille -through the sudden opening of the spectators so that in a moment they -were stationed right behind the chair of the croupier, who was in the -act of turning the cards. They could command the whole table and every -movement of the players. - -"Now, look," Corancez whispered. "There is Marsh." - -"That little gray-faced man with the pile of bank-notes in front of him?" - -"That's the man. He is not fifty years old, and he is worth ten million -dollars. At eighteen he was a conductor of a tramway at Cleveland, Ohio. -Such as you see him now, he has founded a city of fifty thousand -inhabitants, named after his wife, Marionville, and he has made his -fortune literally with his own hands, since they say that he himself, -with a few workmen, built on the prairie the first miles of his -company's railroad, which is now more than two thousand miles long. -Observe those hands of his. You can see them so well against the green -cloth; they are strong and not common. You see the knotty knuckles, -which means reflection, judgment, calculation. The ends of the fingers -are a little too spatulated; that means an excessive activity, the need -of continual movement and a tendency toward mournful thoughts. I will -tell you some day about the death of his daughter. You see the thumb; -the two joints are large and of equal length; that means will and logic -combined. It curves backward; that is prodigality. Marsh has given a -hundred thousand dollars to the University of Marionville. And notice -his movements, what decision, what calm, what freedom from nervousness. -Isn't that a man?" - -"He is certainly a man with an abundance of money," said Hautefeuille, -amused by his friend's enthusiasm, "and a man who is not afraid of -losing it." - -"And that other, two places from Marsh, has he no money, then? That -personage with a rosette and a red, sinister face. It is Brion, the -financier, the director of the Banque Générale. Have you not met him -at the house of Madame de Carlsberg? His wife is the intimate friend of -Baroness Ely. Millionaire that he is, look at his hands, how nervous and -greedy. You observe that his thumb is ball-shaped; that is the mark of -crime. If that rascal is not a robber! And his manner of clutching the -bank-notes, doesn't it show his brutality? And beside him you may see -the play of a fool, Chésy, with his smooth and pointed fingers, the two -middle ones of equal length, that of Saturn and that of the Sun. That is -the infallible sign of a player who will ruin himself, especially if he -is no more logical than this one. And he thinks himself shrewd! He -enters into business relations with Brion, who pays court to Madame de -Chésy. You may see the inevitable end." - -"The pretty Madame de Chésy?" exclaimed Hautefeuille, "and that -abominable Brion? Impossible." - -"I do not say that it has happened; I say that, given this imbecile of a -husband, with his taste for gambling here and at the Bourse, there is a -great danger that it will happen some day. You see," he added, "that -this place is not so commonplace when you open your eyes; and you will -acknowledge that of the two Parisians and the _rastaquouère_ whom we -have seen, the interesting man is the _rastaquouère_." - -While Corancez was speaking, the two young men had left their post of -observation. He now led his companion toward the roulette rooms, adding -these words, which made Hautefeuille quiver from head to foot:-- - -"If you have no objection we might look for Madame de Carlsberg, whom I -left at one of these tables, and of whom I wish to take my leave. Fancy, -she hates to have her friends near her while she is playing. But she -must have lost all her money by this time." - -"Does she play very much?" asked Hautefeuille, who now had no more -desire to leave his friend than at first he had to follow him. - -"As she does everything," Corancez answered, "capriciously and to -beguile her _ennui_. And her marriage justifies her only too well. You -know the prince? No? But you know his habits. Is it worth while to -belong to the house of Hapsburg-Lorraine, to be called the Archduke -Henry Francis, and to have a wife like that, if one is to profess the -opinions of an anarchist, and spend sixteen hours out of the twenty-four -in a laboratory, burning one's hands and beard and eyes over furnaces, -and receive the friends of the Baroness in the way he does?" - -"Then," said Hantefeuille, his arm trembling a little, as he asked his -naïve question, "you think she is not happy?" - -"You have only to look at her," replied Corancez, who, rising on his -toes, had just recognized Madame de Carlsberg. - -It was the one table that Pierre had not approached, on account of the -crowd, which had been thicker around it than elsewhere. He signed to his -companion that he was not tall enough to see over the mass of shoulders -and heads; and Corancez, preceding his timid friend, began again to -glide through the living wall of spectators, whose curiosity was -evidently excited to the highest degree. The young men understood why, -when, after several minutes of breathless struggling, they succeeded in -gaining once more the place behind the croupier which they had had at -the table of _trente-et-quarante_. There was taking place, in fact, one -of those extraordinary events which become a legend on the coast and -spread their fame through Europe and the two Americas; and Hautefeuille -was shocked to discover that the heroine of this occasion was none else -than the Baroness Ely, whose adorable name echoed in his heart with the -sweetness of music. Yes, it was indeed Madame de Carlsberg who was the -focus of all the eyes in this _blasé_ multitude, and she employed in -the caprices of her extravagant play the same gentle yet imposing grace -that had inspired the young man with his passionate idolatry. Ah, she -was so proud even at this moment, and so beautiful. Her delicate bust, -the only part of her body he could see, was draped in a corsage of -violet silk, covered with a black plaited _mousseline de soie_, with -sleeves of the same stuff which seemed to tremble at every movement. A -set of Danube pearls, enormous and set with brilliants, formed a clasp -for this corsage, over which fell a thin watch-chain of gold studded -with various stones. She wore a diminutive hat, composed of two similar -wings, spangled with silver and with violet sequins. This stylish -trinket, resting on her black hair, divided simply into two heavy folds, -contrasted, like her dress and like her present occupation, with the -character of her physiognomy. Her face was one of those, so rare in our -aging civilization, imprinted with _la grande beauté_, the beauty that -is unaffected by age, for it lies in the essential lines of the -features, the shape of the head, the form of the brow, the curve of the -chin, the droop of the eyelids. To those who knew of the Greek blood in -her veins, the classic nobility of her face explained itself. Her -father, General de Sallach, when aide-de-camp of the Commander-in-Chief -at Zara, had married for love a Montenegrin girl at Bocca da Cattaro, -who was the daughter of a woman of Salonica. This blood alone could have -moulded a face at the same time so magnificent and so delicate, whose -warm pallor added to its vague suggestion of the Orient. But her eyes -lacked the happy and passionate lustre of the East. They were of an -indefinable color, brown verging upon yellow, with something dim about -them, as though perpetually obscured by an inner distress. One read in -them an _ennui_ so profound, a lassitude so incurable, that after -perceiving this expression one began in spite of one's self to pity this -woman apparently so fortunate, and to feel an impulse to obey her -slightest whim if so her admirable face might lose that look, if but for -a second. Yet doubtless it was one of those effects of the physiognomy -which signify nothing of the soul, for her eyes retained the same -singular expression at this moment while she abandoned herself to the -wild fancies of the play. She must have gained an enormous sum since -Corancez had left her, for a pile of thousand-franc notes--fifty -perhaps--lay before her, and many columns of twenty-franc and -hundred-franc pieces. Her gloved hands, armed with a little rake, -manipulated this mass of money with dexterous grace. The cause of the -feverish curiosity around her was that she risked at every turn the -maximum stake: nine napoleons on a single number, that of her age, -thirty-one, an equal number of napoleons on the squares, and six -thousand francs on the black. The alternations of loss and gain were so -great, and she met them with such evident impassibility, that she -naturally had become the centre of interest. Oblivious to the comments -that were whispered around her, she seemed scarcely to interest herself -even in the ball that bounded over the numbered compartments. - -"I assure you that she is an archduchess," said one. - -"She is a Russian princess," declared another; "there is no one but a -Russian for that game there." - -"Let her win but three or four times and the bank is broken." - -"She can't win, it is only the color that saves her." - -"I believe in her luck. I will play her number." - -"I'll play against her. Her luck is turning." - -"Her hands," Corancez whispered to Hautefeuille. "Look at her hands; -even under her gloves, the hands of the genuine aristocrat. See the -others beside her, the motion of those greedy and nervous paws. All -those fingers are plebeian after you have seen hers. But I am afraid we -have brought her bad luck. Red and 7: she has lost--Oh, lost again. That -means twenty-five thousand francs. If the word were not too vulgar to -apply to such a pretty woman, I would say, 'What stomach!' She is going -on." - -The young woman continued to distribute her gold and bank-notes upon the -same number, the same squares, and upon the black, and it seemed as -though neither the numbers, nor the squares, nor the black would ever -appear again. A few more turns, and the columns of twenty-franc and -hundred-franc pieces had disappeared as into a crucible, and, six by -six, the bank-notes had gone under the rake to join the pile heaped up -before the croupier. A quarter of an hour had scarcely elapsed since the -arrival of Corancez and Hautefeuille, and the Baroness Ely had nothing -before her but a little empty purse and a Russian cigarette case of gold -inlaid with niello and with sapphires, rubies, and diamonds. The young -woman weighed the case in her hand, while another turn of the wheel -brought up the red again. - -It was the eleventh time that this color had won. Suddenly, with the -same air of indifference, she turned to her neighbor, a large man of -about fifty years, with a square head and wearing spectacles, who had -abandoned his book of calculations to play simply against her. He had -before him now a mass of gold and bank-notes. - -"Monsieur," she said, handing him the case, "will you give me a thousand -francs for this box?" - -She spoke loud enough for Corancez and Hautefeuille, who had approached, -to hear this strange and unexpected question. - -"But we should be the ones to lend her the money," said Pierre. - -"I should not advise you to offer it," the other replied. "She is very -much of an archduchess when she chooses, and I fancy she would not -receive us well. However, there will be plenty of usurers to buy the -case at that price, if the man in the spectacles does not accept.--He is -speaking German. He doesn't understand.--Well, what did I tell you?" - -As though to support Corancez's pretensions to prophecy, just as Madame -de Carlsberg was replying to her neighbor in German, the hook-nose of a -jewel merchant penetrated the crowd, a hand held out the thousand-franc -note, and the gold case disappeared. The Baroness did not deign even to -glance at this personage, who was one of the innumerable moneylenders -that practise a vagrant usury around the tables. She took the bank-note, -and twisted it a moment without unfolding it. She waited until the red -had appeared twice more; seemed to hesitate; then, with the end of her -rake, pushed the note toward the _croupier_, saying:-- - -"On the red." - -The ball spun round again, and this time it was the black. Baroness Ely -picked up her fan and her empty purse, and rose. In the movement of the -crowd, while he was endeavoring to extricate himself in order to reach -her, Corancez suddenly noticed that he had lost Hautefeuille. - -"The awkwardness of that innocent boy," he murmured, while waiting for -Madame de Carlsberg. - -If the vanity of speaking to the wife--even morganatic--of an archduke -of Austria had not absorbed him at this moment, he might have observed -his companion making his way to the purchaser of the jewel so -fantastically sold. And perhaps he would have found the bargain very -clever which was made with this innocent boy, had he seen him take from -his pocket-book two bank-notes and receive from the usurer the case -which had a few moments ago sparkled on the table before the Baroness. -The usurer had sold the jewel to the lover for twice the sum that he had -paid. Such is the beginning of great business houses. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -THE CRY OF A SOUL - - -If Pierre Hautefeuille's action had escaped the malicious eyes of -Corancez, it had not, however, passed unperceived. Another person had -seen the Baroness Ely sell the gold box, and the young man buy it; and -this person was one whom the unfortunate lover should have most feared. -For to be seen by her was to be seen by Madame de Carlsberg herself, as -the witness of the two successive sales was no other than Madame Brion, -the confidante of Baroness Ely, residing at the same villa, and sure to -report what she had seen. But to explain the singular interest with -which Madame Brion had observed these two scenes, and the attitude with -which she was about to speak of it to her friend, it is necessary to -relate the circumstances that had caused so close an intimacy between -the wife of a Parisian financier of such low birth as Horace Brion, and -a noble lady of the European Olympus, who figured in the Almanach de -Gotha among the Imperial family of Austria. The peculiarity of the -cosmopolitan world, the trait that gives it its psychological -picturesqueness, in spite of the banal character inevitable to a society -composed of the rich and the idle, is the constant surprises of -connections like this. This society serves as the point of intersection -for destinies that have started from the widest extremities of the -social world. One may see there the interplay of natures so dissimilar, -often so hostile, that their simplest emotions have a savor of -strangeness, the poetry of unfamiliar things. Just as the love of Pierre -Hautefeuille, this Frenchman so profoundly, so completely French, for a -foreigner so charming as the Baroness Ely, with a charm so novel, so -difficult for the young man to analyze, was destined to occupy a place -of such importance in his sentimental life, so the friendship between -the Baroness Ely and Louise Brion could not fail to be a thing of -special and peculiar value in their lives, although its material -circumstances were, like everything in the cosmopolitan world, as -natural in their details as they were strange in their results. - -This friendship, like most lasting affections, began early, when the two -women were but sixteen. They had ended their girlhood together in the -intimacy of a convent, which is usually terminated at the entrance into -society. But when these attachments endure, when they survive through -absence, unaffected by difference of surroundings, or by new -engagements, they become as instinctive and indestructible as family -ties. When the two friends first met, the name of one was Ely de -Sallach, the other, Louise Rodier of the old family of Catholic bankers, -now extinct, the Rodier-Vimal. Certainly from their birthplaces, one the -Château de Sallach in the heart of the Styrian Alps, the other the -Hôtel Rodier in the Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré, it would seem that -their paths of life must forever separate. A similar misfortune brought -them together. They lost their mothers at the same time, and almost at -once their fathers both married again. Each of the young girls, during -the months that followed these second marriages, had had trouble with -her step-mother; and each had finally been exiled to the Convent du -Sacré-Cœur at Paris. The banker had chosen this establishment because -he managed the funds and knew the superioress. General Sallach had been -urged to this choice by his wife, who thus got rid of her step-daughter -and gained a pretext for coming often to Paris. Entering the same day -the old convent in the Rue de Varenne, the two orphans felt an -attraction toward each other which their mutual confidences soon -deepened into passionate friendship; and this friendship had lasted -because it was based upon the profoundest depths of their characters and -was strengthened by time. - -The classic tragedy was not so far from nature as hostile critics -pretend, when it placed beside its protagonists those personages whose -single duty was to receive their confidences. There are in the reality -of daily life souls that seem to be but echoes, ever ready to listen to -the sighs and moans of others--soul-mirrors whose entire life is in the -reflection they receive, whose personality is but the image projected -upon them. On her entrance into the convent Louise Brion had become one -of this race, whose adorable modesty Shakespeare has embodied in -Horatio, the heroic and loyal second in Hamlet's duel with the assassin -of his father. At sixteen as at thirty, it was only necessary to look at -her to divine the instinctive self-effacement of a timidly sensitive -character, incapable of asserting itself, or of living its own life. Her -face was a delicate one, but its fineness passed unnoticed, so great was -the reserve in her modest features, in her eyes of ashen gray, the -simple folds of her brown hair. She spoke but little, and in a voice -without accent; she had the genius for simplicity in dress, the style of -dress that in the _argot_ of women has the pretty epithet -"_tranquille_." Whether man or woman, these beings, so weak and -delicate, with their fine shades of sentiment, unfitted for active life, -their desires instinctively attenuated, usually attach themselves, in a -seeming contradiction which is at bottom logical, to some ardent and -impetuous character, whose audacity fascinates them. They feel an -irresistible desire to participate, through sympathy and imagination, in -the joy and pain which they have not the force to encounter in their own -experience. That was the secret of the relations between Madame Brion -and the Baroness de Carlsberg. From the first week of their girlish -intimacy, the passionate and fantastic Ely had bewitched the reasonable -and quiet Louise, and this witchery had continued through the years, -gaining from the fact that after their departure from the convent the -two friends had once more experienced an analogous misfortune. They had -both been in their marriage victims of paternal ambition. Louise Rodier -had become Madame Brion, because old Rodier, having fallen into secret -difficulties, thought that he could save himself by accepting Horace -Brion as a son-in-law and partner. The latter, after his father had been -ruined in the Bourse, had, in fifteen energetic years, not only made a -fortune, but won a kind of financial fame by re-establishing affairs -supposed to be hopeless, such as the Austro-Dalmatian Railway, so -feloniously launched and abandoned by the notorious Justus Hafner (vide -"Cosmopolis"). To efface the memory of his father Brion needed to ally -himself with one of those families of finance whose professional honor -is an equivalent of a noble title. The chief of the house of -Rodier-Vimal needed an aide-de-camp of distinguished superiority in the -secret crisis of his affairs. Louise, knowing the necessity of this -union, had accepted it, and had been horribly unhappy. - -It was the same year that Ely de Sallach, constrained by her father, -married the Archduke Henry Francis, who had fallen in love with her at -Carlsbad, with one of those furious passions that may overtake a -_blasé_ prince of forty-five, for whom the experience of feeling is so -violent and unexpected that he clings to it with all the fever of youth -momentarily recaptured. The Emperor, though very hostile on principle to -morganatic marriages, had consented to this one in the hope that the -most revolutionary and disquieting of his cousins would quiet down and -begin a new life. General Sallach had looked to the elevation of his -daughter for a field-marshalship. He and his wife had so persuaded the -girl, that she, tempted herself by a vanity too natural at her age, had -yielded. - -Twelve years had passed since then, and the two old friends of -Sacré-Cœur were still just as orphaned and as solitary and unhappy, -one in the glittering rôle of a demi-princess, the other, queen of the -great bank, as on the day when they first met under the trees of the -garden by the Boulevard des Invalides. They had never ceased to write to -each other; and each having seen the image of her own sorrow in the -destiny of the other, their affection had been deepened by their mutual -misery, by all their confidences, and by their silence, too. - -The hardness of the financier, his ferocious egoism, disguised beneath -the studied manners of a sham man of the world, his brutal sensuality, -had made it possible for Louise to understand the miseries of poor Ely, -abandoned to the jealous despotism of a cruel and capricious master, in -whom the intellectual nihilism of an anarchist was associated with the -imperious pride of a tyrant; while the Baroness was able to sympathize, -through the depth of her own misery, with the wounds that bled in the -tender heart of her friend. But she, daughter of a soldier, the -descendant of those heroes of Tchernagora, who had never surrendered, -was not submissive, like the heiress of the good Rodier and Vimal -families. She had immediately opposed her own pride and will to those of -her husband. The atrocious scenes she had passed through without -quailing would have ended in open rupture if the young woman had not -thought of appealing to a very high authority. A sovereign influence -commanded a compromise, thanks to which the Baroness recovered her -independence without divorce or legal separation, with what rage on the -part of her husband may be imagined. - -In fact, in four years this was the first winter she had spent with the -Archduke, who, being ill, had retired to his villa at Cannes--a strange -place, truly, made in the image of its strange master; half of the house -was a palace, and half a laboratory. - -Madame Brion had witnessed from afar this conjugal drama, whose example -she had not followed. The gentle creature, without a word, had let -herself be wounded and broken by the hard fist of the brute whose name -she bore. This contrast itself had made her friend dearer to her. Ely de -Carlsberg had served her as her own rebellion, her own independence, her -own romance--a romance in which she was ignorant of many chapters. For -the confidences of two friends who see each other only at long intervals -are always somewhat uncandid. Instinctively a woman who confesses to a -friend guards against troubling the image which the friend forms of her; -and that image gradually acquires a more striking resemblance to her -past than to her present. - -So the Baroness had concealed from her confidante all of one side of her -life. Beautiful as she was, rich, free, audacious, and unburdened with -principles, she had sought vengeance and oblivion of her domestic -miseries where all women who have her temperament and her lack of -religious faith seek a like oblivion and a like vengeance. She had had -adventures--many adventures--Madame Brion had no suspicion of them. She -loved the life in Ely, not realizing that this movement, this vitality, -this energy, could not exist in a creature of her race and her freedom -without leading to culpable experiences. But is it not the first -quality, even the very definition, of friendship, this inconsistent -favoritism which causes us to forget with certain persons the well-known -law of the simultaneous development of merits and faults, and the -necessary bond that connects these contrary manifestations of the same -individuality? - -Yet, however blinded by friendship a woman may be, and however honest -and uninitiated in the gallant intrigues that go on around her, she is -none the less a woman, and as such apparently possesses a special -instinct for sexual matters, which enables her to feel how her -confidential friend conducts herself toward men. Louise could not have -formulated the change in Ely, and yet for years, at every interview, she -had perceived the change. Was it a greater freedom in manner and dress, -a shade of boldness in her glance, a readiness to put an evil -interpretation on every intimacy she noticed, an habitual -disenchantment, almost a cynicism, in her conversation? - -The signs that reveal the woman who has dared to overstep conventional -prejudices, as well as moral principles, Madame Brion could not help -remarking in Madame de Carlsberg; but she did not permit herself to -analyze them, or even think about them. Delicate souls, who are created -for love, feel a self-reproach, almost a remorse, at the discovery of a -fault in one they love. They blame themselves and their impressions, -rather than judge the person from whom the impressions were received. An -uneasiness remains, however, which the first precise fact renders -insupportable. - -To Louise Brion this little fact had appeared in the recent attitude of -her friend toward Pierre Hautefeuille. She chanced to be at Cannes when -the young man was presented to the Baroness at the Chésy residence. On -that evening she had been surprised at Ely, who had had a long talk with -the young stranger _en tête-à-tête_ in a corner of the drawing-room. -Having left at once for Monte Carlo, she doubtless would not have -thought of it again, if, on another visit to Cannes, she had not found -the young man on a footing of very sudden intimacy at the Villa -Carlsberg. Staying herself a few days at the villa, she was forced to -recognize that her friend was either a great coquette or was very -imprudent with Hautefeuille. She had chosen the hypothesis of -imprudence. She told herself that this boy was falling wildly in love -with Ely, and she was capable, out of mere carelessness or _ennui_, of -accepting a diversion of that kind. Louise resolved to warn her, but did -not dare, overcome by that inner paralysis which the strong produce in -the weak by the simple magnetism of their presence. - -The little scene which she had observed this evening in the Casino had -given her the courage to speak. The action of Pierre Hautefeuille, his -haste to procure the jewel sold by Madame de Carlsberg, had singularly -moved this faithful friend. She had suddenly perceived the analogy -between her own feelings and those of the lover. - -Having herself mingled with the crowd of spectators to follow the play -of her friend, whose nervousness had all day disquieted her, she had -seen her sell the gold case. This Bohemian act had pained her cruelly, -and still more the thought that this jewel which Ely used continually -would be bought in a second-hand shop of Monte Carlo and given by some -lucky gambler to some _demi-mondaine_. She had immediately started -toward the usurer, with the same purpose as Pierre Hautefeuille; and to -discover that he had been moved by the same idea touched a deep chord of -sympathy in her. She had been moved in her affection for Madame de -Carlsberg, and in a secret spot of her gentle and romantic nature, so -little used to find in men an echo of her own delicacy. - -"Unfortunate man," she murmured. "What I feared has come. He loves her. -Is there still time to warn Ely, and keep her from having on her -conscience the unhappiness of this boy?" - -It was this thought that determined the innocent, good creature to speak -to her friend as soon as she had an opportunity; and the opportunity -presented itself at this moment. - -They had come out of the Casino at about eleven o'clock, escorted by -Brion, who had left them at the villa, and, when they were alone, the -Baroness had asked her friend to walk a while in the garden to enjoy the -night, which was really divine. Enveloped in their furs, they began to -pace the terrace and the silent alleys, captivated by the contrast -between the feverish atmosphere in which they had spent the evening and -the peaceful immensity of the scene that now surrounded them. And the -contrast was no less surprising between the Baroness Ely at roulette and -the Baroness Ely walking at this hour. - -The moon, shining full in the vast sky, seemed to envelop her with -light, to cast upon her a charm of languorous exaltation. Her lips were -half open, as though drinking in the purity of the cold, beautiful -night, and the pale rays seemed to reach her heart through her eyes, so -intently did she gaze at the silver disk which illumined the whole -horizon with almost the intensity of noon. The sea above all was -luminous, a sea of velvet blue, over which a white fire, quivering and -dying, traced its miraculous way. The atmosphere was so pure that in the -bright bay one could distinguish the rigging of two yachts, motionless, -at anchor by the Cape, upon whose heights stood the crenellated walls of -the old Grimaldi palace. The huge, dark mass of Cape Martin stretched -out on the other side; and everywhere was the contrast of transparent -brilliancy and sharp, black forms, stamped on the dream-like sky. The -long branches of the palms, the curved poignards of the aloes, the thick -foliage of the orange trees hung in deep shadow over the grass where the -fairy moonlight played in all its splendor. - -One by one the lights went out in the houses, and from the terrace the -two women could see them, white amid the dark olives sleeping in the -universal sleep that had fallen everywhere. The quiet of the hour was so -perfect that no sound could be heard but the crackling of the gravel -under their small shoes, and the rustle of their dresses. Madame de -Carlsberg was the first to break the silence, yielding to the pleasure -of thinking aloud, so delicious at such a time and with such a friend. -She had paused a moment to gaze more intently at the sky:-- - -"How pure the night is, and how soft. When I was a child at Sallach, I -had a German governess who knew the names of all the stars. She taught -me to recognize them. I can find them still: there is the Pole Star and -Cassiopeia and the Great Bear and Arcturus and Vega. They are always in -the same place. They were there before we were born, and will be after -we are dead. Do you ever think of it--that the night looked just the -same to Marie Antoinette, Mary Stuart, Cleopatra, all the women who, -across the years and the centuries, represent immense disasters, tragic -sorrows, and splendid fame? Do you ever think that they have watched -this same moon and these stars in the same part of the heavens, and with -the same eyes as ours, with the same delight and sadness; and that they -have passed away as we shall beneath these motionless stars, eternally -indifferent to our joy and misery? When these thoughts come to me, when -I think of what poor creatures we are, with all our agonies that cannot -move an atom of this immensity, I ask myself what matter our laws, our -customs, our prejudices, our vanity in supposing that we are of any -importance in this magnificent eternal and impassive universe. I say to -myself that there is but one thing of value here below: to satisfy the -heart, to feel, to drain every emotion to the bottom, to go to the end -of all our desires, in short, to live one's own life, one's real life, -free of all lies and conventions, before we sink into the inevitable -annihilation." - -There was something frightful in hearing these nihilistic words on the -lips of this beautiful young woman, and on such a night, in such a -scene. To the tender and religious Madame Brion these words were all the -more painful since they were spoken with the same voice that had -directed the croupier where to place the final stake. She greatly -admired Ely for that high intelligence which enabled her to read all -books, to write in four or five languages, to converse with the most -distinguished men and on every subject. - -Trained until her seventeenth year in the solid German manner, the -Baroness Ely had found, at first in the society of the Archduke, then in -her life in Italy, an opportunity for an exceptional culture from which -her supple mind of a demi-Slave had profited. - -Alas! of what use was that learning, that facile comprehension, that -power of expression, since she had not learned to govern her -caprices--as could be seen in the attitude at the roulette table--nor to -govern her thoughts--which was too well shown by the sombre creed that -she had just confessed? That inner want, among so many gifts and -accomplishments, once more oppressed the faithful friend, who had never -brought herself to admit the existence of certain ideas in her companion -of Sacré-Cœur. And she said:-- - -"You speak again as though you did not believe in another life. Is it -possible that you are sincere?" - -"No, I do not believe in it," the Baroness replied, with a shake of her -pretty head, a breath of air lifting the long, silky fur of her sable -cape. "That was the one good influence my husband had over me; but he -had that. He cured me of that feeble-heartedness that dares not look the -truth in the face. The truth is that man has never discovered a trace of -a Providence, of a pity or justice from on high, the sign of anything -above us but blind and implacable force. There is no God. There is -nothing but this world. That is what I know now, and I am glad to know -it. I like to oppress myself with the thought of the ferocity and -stupidity of the universe. I find in it a sort of savage pleasure, an -inner strength." - -"Do not talk like that," interrupted Madame Brion, clasping her arms -around her friend as though she were a suffering sister or a child. "You -make me feel too sad. But," she continued, pressing the hand of the -Baroness while they resumed their walk, "I know you have a weight on -your heart of which you do not tell me. You have never been happy. You -are less so than ever to-day, and you blame God for your hard fate. You -relieve yourself in blasphemy as you did to-night in play, wildly, -desperately, as they say some men drink; don't deny it. I was there all -the evening, hidden in the crowd, while you were playing. Pardon me. You -had been so nervous all day. You had worried me. And I did not want to -leave you five minutes alone. And, my Ely, I saw you sitting among those -women and those men, playing so unreasonably in the sight of all that -crowd whispering your name. I saw you sell the case you used so much. -Ah, my Ely, my Ely!" - -A heavy sigh accompanied this loved name, repeated with passionate -tenderness. That innocent affection which suffered from the faults of -its idol without daring to formulate a reproach, touched the Baroness, -and made her a little ashamed. She disguised her feelings in a laugh, -which she attempted to make gay, in order to quiet her friend's emotion. - -"How fortunate that I didn't see you! I should have borrowed money from -you and lost it. But do not worry; it will not happen again. I had heard -so often of the gambling fever that I wished just once, not to trifle as -I usually do, but really play. It is even more annoying than it was -stupid. I regret nothing but the cigarette case." She hesitated a -moment. "It was the souvenir of a person who is no longer in this world. -But I shall find the merchant to-morrow." - -"That is useless," said Madame Brion, quickly. "He no longer has it." - -"You have already bought it? How I recognize my dear friend in that!" - -"I thought of doing it," Louise answered in a low voice, "but some one -else was before me." - -"Some one else?" said Madame de Carlsberg, with a sudden look of -haughtiness. "Whom you saw and whom I know?" she asked. - -"Whom I saw and whom you know," answered Madame Brion. "But I dare not -tell the name, now that I see how you take it.--And yet, it is not one -whom you have the right to blame, for if he has fallen in love with you, -it is indeed your fault. You have been so imprudent with him--let me say -it, so coquettish!" - -Then, after a silence: "It was young Pierre Hautefeuille." - -The excellent woman felt her heart beat as she pronounced these last -words. She was anxious to prevent Madame de Carlsberg from continuing a -flirtation which she thought dangerous and culpable; but the anger which -she had seen come into her friend's face made her fear that she had gone -too far, and would draw down upon the head of the imprudent lover one of -Ely's fits of rage, and she reproached herself as for an indelicacy, -almost a treachery toward the poor boy whose tender secret she had -surprised. - -But it was not anger that, at the mention of this name, had changed the -expression of Madame de Carlsberg and flushed her cheeks with a sudden -red. Her friend, who knew her so well, could see that she was overcome -with emotion, but very different from her injured pride of a moment -before. She was so astonished that she stopped speaking. The Baroness -made no answer, and the two women walked on in silence. They had entered -an alley of palm trees, flecked with moonlight, but still obscure. And -as Madame Brion could no longer see the face of her friend, her own -emotions became so strong that she hazarded, tremblingly:-- - -"Why do you not answer me? Is it because you think I should have -prevented the young man from doing what he did? But for your sake I -pretended not to have seen it. Are you wounded at my speaking of your -coquetry? You know I would not have spoken in that way, if I did not so -esteem your heart." - -"You wound me?" said the Baroness. "You? You know that is -impossible. No, I am not wounded. I am touched. I did not know he was -there," she added in a lower tone, "that he saw me at that table, acting -as I did. You think that I have flirted with him? Wait, look." - -And as they had reached the end of the alley, she turned. Tears were -slowly running down her cheeks. Through her eyes, from whence these -tears had fallen, Louise could read to the bottom of her soul, and the -evidence which before she had not dared to believe now forced itself -upon her. - -"Oh! you are weeping." And, as though overcome by the moral tragedy -which she now perceived, "You love him!" she cried, "you love him!" - -"What use to hide it now?" Ely answered. "Yes, I love him! When you told -me what he did this evening, which proves, as I know, that he loves me, -too, it touched me in a painful spot. That is all. I should be happy, -should I not? And you see I am all upset. If you but knew the -circumstances in which this sentiment overtook me, my poor friend, you -would indeed pity your Ely. Ah!" she repeated, "pity her, pity her!" - -And, resting her head on her friend's shoulder, she began to weep, to -weep like a child, while the other, bewildered at this sudden and -unexpected outburst, replied--revealing even in her pity the naïveté -of an honest woman, incapable of suspicion:-- - -"I beg you calm yourself. It is true it is a terrible misfortune for a -woman to love when she has no right to satisfy it. But, do not feel -remorseful, and, above all, do not think I blame you. When I spoke as I -did it was to put you on your guard against a wrong that you might do. -Ah! I see too well that you have not been a coquette. I know you have -not allowed the young man to divine your feelings, and I know, too, that -he will never divine them, and that you will be always my blameless Ely. -Calm yourself, smile for me. Is it not good to have a friend, a real -friend, who can understand you?" - -"Understand me? Poor Louise! You love me, yes, you love me well. But you -do not know me." - -Then, in a kind of transport, she took her friend's arm, and, looking -her in the face, "Listen!" she said, "you believe me still to be, as I -was once, your blameless Ely. Well, it is not true. I have had a lover. -Hush, do not answer. It must be said. It is said. And that lover is the -most intimate friend of Pierre Hautefeuille, a friend to him as you are -to me, a brother in friendship as you are my sister. That is the weight -that you have divined here," and she laid her hand upon her breast. "It -is horrible to bear." - -Certain confessions are so irremediable that their frankness gives to -those who voluntarily make them something of grandeur and nobility even -in their fall; and when the confession is made by some one whom we love, -as Louise loved Ely, it fills us with a delirium of tenderness for the -being who proves her nobility by her confession while the misery of her -shame rends her heart. If a few hours before, in some house at Monte -Carlo, the slightest word had been said against the honor of Madame de -Carlsberg, what indignation would Madame Brion have not felt, and what -pain! Pain she indeed had, agonizing pain, as Ely pronounced these -unforgetable words; but of indignation there was not a trace in the -heart which replied with these words, whose very reproach was a proof of -tenderness, blind and indulgent to complicity:-- - -"Just God! How you must have suffered! But why did you not tell me -before? Why did you not confide in me? Did you think that I would love -you less? See, I have the courage to hear all." - -And she added, in that thirst for the whole truth which we have for the -faults of those who are dear to us, as though we looked to find a -pardonable excuse in the cruel details:-- - -"I beg you, tell me all, all. And first, this man? Do I know him?" - -"No," replied Madame de Carlsberg, "his name is Olivier du Prat. I met -him at Rome two years ago when I was spending the winter there. That was -the period of my life when I saw you least, and wrote to you least -frequently. It was also the time when I was the most wicked, owing to -solitude, inaction, unhappiness, and my disgust with everything, -especially with myself. This man was the secretary of one of the two -French embassies. He was much lionized because of the passion, he had -inspired in two Roman ladies, who almost openly disputed his favors. It -is very ignoble, what I am going to tell you, but such was the truth. It -amused me to win him from them both. In that kind of an adventure, just -as in play, one expects to find the emotions that others have found in -it, and then the result is the same as in roulette. One is bored with -it, and one throws one's self into the game from wilfulness and vanity, -in the excitement of an absurd struggle. I know now," and her voice -became graver, "that I never loved Olivier, but that I so persisted in -this liaison that he would have the right to say that I wished him to -love me, that I wished to be his mistress, and that I did all I could to -retain him. He was a singular character, very different from those -professional lovers, who are for the most part frightfully vulgar. He -was so changeable, so protean, so full of contrasts, so intangible, that -to this day I cannot tell whether he loved me or not. You hear me in a -dream, and I am speaking as in a dream. I feel that there was something -inexplicable in our relations, something unintelligible to a third -person. I have never met a being so disconcerting, so irritating, from -the endless uncertainty he kept you in, no matter what you did. One day -he would be emotional, tremulous, passionate even to frenzy, and on the -morrow, sometimes the same day, he would recoil within himself from -confidence to suspicion, from tenderness to persiflage, from abandonment -to irony, from love to cruelty, without it being possible either to -doubt his sincerity or to discover the cause of this incredible -alteration. He had these humors not only in his emotions, but even in -his ideas. I have seen him moved to tears by a visit to the Catacombs, -and on returning as outrageously atheistical as the Archduke. In society -I have seen him hold twenty people enraptured by the charm of his -brilliant fancy, and then pass weeks without speaking two words. In -short, he was from head to foot a living enigma, which I penetrate -better at a distance. He had been early left an orphan. His childhood -had been unhappy, and his youth precociously disenchanted. He had been -wounded and corrupted too soon. Thence came that insatiability of soul, -that elusiveness of character which appeared as soon as I became -interested in him in a kind of spasmodic force. When I was young at -Sallach I loved to mount difficult horses and try to master them. I -cannot better describe my relations with Olivier than by comparing them -to a duel between a rider and his horse, when each tries to get the -better of the other. I repeat it, I am sure I did not love him. I am not -certain that I did not hate him." - -She spoke with a dryness that showed how deeply these memories were -implanted. She paused a moment, and, plucking a rose from a bush near -her, she began to bite the petals nervously, while Madame Brion -sighed:-- - -"Need I pity you for that also,--for having sought happiness out of -marriage, and for having met this man, this hard and capricious monster -of egoism?" - -"I do not judge of him," Madame de Carlsberg answered. "If I had been -different myself, I should doubtless have changed him. But he had -touched me in an irritable spot; I wished to control him, to master him, -and I used a terrible weapon. I made him jealous. All that is a bitter -story, and I spare you the details. It would be painful to recall it, -and it does not matter. You will know enough when I say that after a day -of intimacy, when he had been more tender than ever before, Olivier left -Rome suddenly, without an explanation, without a word of adieu, without -even writing a letter. I have never seen him again. I have never heard -of him, except in a chance conversation this winter, when I learned that -he was married. Now you will understand the strange emotions I felt when -two months ago Chésy asked permission to present a son of a friend of -his mother, who had come to Cannes to recover from a bad cold, a young -man, rather solitary and very charming; his name was Pierre -Hautefeuille. In the countless conversations that Olivier and I had -together in the intervals of our quarrelling, this name had often been -spoken. Here again I must explain to you a very peculiar thing,--the -nature of this man's conversation and the extraordinary attraction it -had for me. This self-absorbed and enigmatic being had sudden hours of -absolute expansion which I have seen in no one else. It was as though he -relived his life aloud for me, and I listened with an unparalleled -curiosity. He used at these times a kind of implacable lucidity which -almost made you cry out, like a surgical operation, and which at the -same time hypnotized you with a potent fascination. It was a brutal yet -delicate disrobing of his childhood and his youth, with -characterizations of such vividness that certain individuals were -presented to me as distinctly as though I had really met them. And he -himself? Ah, what a strange soul, incomplete and yet superior, so noble -and so degraded, so sensitive and so arid, in whom there seemed to be -nothing but lassitude, failure, stain, and disillusionment--excepting -one sentiment. This man who despised his family, who never spoke of his -country without bitterness, who attributed the worst motive to every -action, even his own, who denied the existence of God, of virtue, of -love, this moral nihilist, in short, in so many ways like the Archduke, -had one faith, one cult, one religion. He believed in friendship, that -of man for man, denying that one woman could be the friend of another. -He did not know you, dear friend. He pretended--I recall his very -words--that between two men who had proved each other, who had lived, -and thought, and suffered together, and who esteemed each other while -loving each other, there arises a kind of affection so high, so -profound, and so strong that nothing can be compared with it. He said -that this sentiment was the only one he respected, the only one that -time and change could not prevail against. He acknowledged that this -friendship was rare; yet he declared that he had met with it several -times, and that he himself had experienced one in his life. It was then -that he evoked the image of Pierre Hautefeuille. His accent, his look, -his whole expression changed while he lingered over the memory of his -absent friend. He, the man of all the ironies, recounted with tenderness -and respect the naïve details of their first meeting at school, their -growing attachment, their boyish vacations. He related with enthusiasm -their enlisting together in 1870, and the war, their adventures, their -captivity in Germany. He was never tired of praising his friend's purity -of soul, his delicacy, his nobility. I have already said that this man -was an enigma to me. Such he was above all in his retrospective -confidences, to which I listened with astonishment, almost stupor, to -behold this anomaly in a heart so lamentably withered, in a land so -sterile this flower of delicate sentiment, so young and rare that it -made me think--and in spite of Olivier's paradox, it is the highest -praise I could give--of our own friendship." - -"Thanks," said Madame Brion, "you make me happy. As I listened to you a -moment ago I seemed to hear another person speaking whom I did not -recognize. But now I have found you again, so loving, gentle, and good." - -"No, not good," Madame de Carlsberg replied. "The proof is that no -sooner had Chésy pronounced the name of Pierre Hautefeuille than I was -possessed by an idea which you will think abominable. I shall pay for -it, perhaps, dearly enough. Olivier's departure and then his marriage -had stirred in me that hate of which I spoke. I could not hear to think -that this man had left me as he did, and was now happy, contented, -indifferent--that he had regained his serenity without my being -revenged. One acquires these base passions by living as I have so long, -unhappy and desperate, surrounded by pleasure and luxury. Too much moral -distress is depraving. When I knew that I was to meet the intimate -friend of Olivier, a possible vengeance offered itself to me, a refined, -atrocious, and certain vengeance. My life was forever separated from -that of Du Prat. He had probably forgotten me. I was sure that if I won -the affections of his friend, and he knew of it, it would strike the -deepest and most sensitive place in his heart; and that is why I -permitted Chésy to present Hautefeuille, and why I indulged in those -coquetries for which you blamed me. For it is true that I began thus. -_Dieu_! how recent it was, and how long ago it seems!" - -"But," interrupted Madame Brion, "does Pierre Hautefeuille know of your -relations with Olivier?" - -"Ah! you touch me in the sorest spot. He is ignorant of them, as he is -of all the base realities of life. It is by his innocence, his -simplicity of heart, of which his friend so often spoke--his youth, in -short--that this boy, against whom I began so cruel a plot, has won me -completely. Never has a doubt or a suspicion entered that heart, so -young and so innocent of evil, for which evil does not even exist. I had -not spoken with him three times before I understood all that Olivier had -said in our conversations at Rome, which left me incredulous and -irritated. That respect, that veneration almost, which he professed for -this candor and goodness, I felt also in my turn. All the expressions he -had used in speaking of his friend came back to me, and at every new -encounter I perceived how just they were, how fine, and how true. In my -surprise I relinquished my plan of vengeance at the contact of this -nature so young and delicate, whose perfume I inhaled as I do that of -this flower." - -And she lifted to her face the rose with its half-nibbled petals. - -"If you only knew how the life I lead wearies and oppresses me! How -tired I am of hearing about nothing but the breakfasts that Dickie Marsh -gives on his yacht to the grand dukes, of Navagero's bezique with the -Prince of Wales, of Chésy's speculations at the Bourse, and the -half-dozen titled fools that follow his advice! If you only knew how -even the best of this artificial society tires me! What does it matter -to me whether Andryana Bonnacorsi decides to marry the Sire de Corancez, -or any of the countless subjects of gossip at the five o'clock teas in -Cannes? And I need not speak of the inferno my house has become since my -husband suspects me of favoring the marriage of Flossie Marsh with his -assistant. To meet in this artificial atmosphere, made up of _ennui_ and -vanity, folly and stupidity, a being who is at the same time profound -and simple, genuine and romantic, in fact archaic, as I like to call -him, was a delight. And then the moment came when I realized that I -loved this young man and that he loved me. I learned it through no -incident, no scene, no word--just by a look from him which I -accidentally caught. That is why I have taken refuge here for the last -eight days, I was afraid. I am still afraid--afraid for myself a little. -I know myself too well, and I know that once started on that road of -passion I would go to the end, I would stake my whole life upon it, and -if I lost, if--" - -She did not finish, but her friend understood her terrible forebodings -as she continued: "And I am afraid for him, too, ah, much afraid! He is -so young, so inexperienced! He believes so implicitly in me. I cannot -better show you how I have changed than by saying this: six weeks ago, -when Hautefeuille was presented to me, I had but one desire,--that -Olivier should learn of my acquaintance with his friend. To-day, if I -could prevent these two men from ever meeting, or from ever speaking of -me to each other, I would give ten years of my life. Now do you -understand why the tears came to my eyes when you told me what he did -this evening, and how, without speaking to me, he had seen the way I -spend my time away from him? I am ashamed, terribly ashamed. Think what -it would be if he knew the rest!" - -"And what are you going to do?" Madame Brion mournfully exclaimed. -"These men will meet again. They will talk about you. And if Olivier -loves his friend as you say he does, he will tell him all. Listen," she -continued, clasping her hands, "listen to what the tenderest and most -devoted affection advises you to do. I do not speak of your duty, of the -opinion of the world, or the vengeance of your husband. I know you would -brave all that, as you did before, to win your happiness. But you will -not win it. You could not be happy in this love with that secret on your -heart. You will be tortured by it, and if you speak--I know you, you -must have thought of it--if you speak--" - -"If I told him, I would never see him again," said Madame de Carlsberg. -"Ah! without that certitude--" - -"Well! Have the courage to do it," interrupted the other. "You had the -strength to leave Cannes for a week. You should have enough to leave for -good. You will not be alone. I will go with you. You will suffer. But -what is that, when you think of what otherwise would happen,--that you -would be everything to this young man, and he everything to you, and he -would know that you had been the mistress of his friend!" - -"Yes, I have thought of all that," replied the Baroness, "and then I -remember I might have had six months, a year, and perhaps more. And that -is to have lived, to have been in this hard world for a year one's self, -one's true self, the being that one is in one's innermost and deepest -reality." - -And as she spoke she gazed at the sky with the same look that she had -had at the beginning of the walk. She seemed once more to bathe her face -in the moonlight, and to absorb the impassive serenity of the mountains -and the stars, as though to gather force to go to the end of her desire. -And as they resumed again in silence their promenade among the obscure -palms, by the fragrant rose-beds, and beneath the sombre shadow of the -orange trees, the faithful friend murmured:-- - -"I will save her in spite of herself." - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -A SCRUPLE - - -The "Sire" de Corancez--as Madame de Carlsberg disdainfully called the -Southerner--was not a man to neglect the slightest detail that he -thought advantageous to a well-studied plan. His father, the -vine-grower, used to say to him, "Marius? Don't worry about Marius. He's -a shrewd bird." And, in truth, at the very moment when the Baroness Ely -was beginning her melancholy confidences in the deserted garden alleys -of the Villa Brion, this adroit person discovered Hautefeuille at the -station, installed him in the train between Chésy and Dickie Marsh and -manœuvred so skilfully that before reaching Nice the American had -invited Pierre to visit the next morning his yacht, the Jenny, anchored -in the roadstead at Cannes. But the next morning would be the last hours -that Corancez could spend at Cannes before his departure, ostensibly for -Marseilles and Barbentane, in reality for Italy. - -He had the promise of Florence Marsh that Hautefeuille's visit to the -_Jenny_ would be immediately followed by an invitation to take part in -the cruise of the 14th. Would Pierre accept? Above all, would he consent -to act as witness in that clandestine ceremony, at which the queerly -named Venetian _abbé_, Don Fortunato Lagumina, would pronounce the -words of eternal union between the millions of the deceased Francesco -Bonnacorsi and the heir of the doubtful scutcheon of the Corancez? The -Provençal had but this last morning to persuade his friend. - -But he had no fear of failure, and at half-past nine, fresh, in spite of -the fact that he had returned from Monte Carlo on the last train the -night before, he briskly descended the steps of the hill that separates -Cannes from the Gulf of Juan. Pierre Hautefeuille had installed himself -for the winter in one of those hotels whose innumerable flower-framed -windows line this height, which the people of Cannes have adorned with -the exotic name of California. - -It was one of those mornings of sun and wind--of fresh sunlight and warm -breeze--which are the charm of winter on this coast. Roses bloomed by -hundreds on hedge and terrace. The villas, white or painted, shone -through their curtains of palm trees and araucarias, aloes and bamboos, -mimosas and eucalyptus. The peninsula of La Croisette projected from the -hill toward the islands, and its dark forest of pines, flecked with -white houses, arose in strong relief between the tender blue of the sky -and the sombre blue of the sea, and the Sire de Corancez went on gayly, -a bouquet of violets in the buttonhole of the most becoming coat that a -complacent tailor ever fashioned for a handsome young man in chase of an -heiress, his small feet tightly fitted in russet shoes, a straw hat on -his thick, black hair; his eyes bright, his teeth glistening in a half -smile, his beard lustrous and scented, his movements graceful. - -He was happy in the animal portion of his nature; a happiness that was -wholly physical and sensual. He was able to enjoy the divine sunlight, -the salt breeze, odorous with flowers; this atmosphere, soft as spring; -to enjoy the morning and his own sense of youth, while the calculator -within him soliloquized upon the character of the man he was about to -rejoin and upon the chances of success:-- - -"Will he accept or not? Yes, he will beyond any doubt, when he knows -that Madame de Carlsberg will be on the boat. Should I tell him? No; I -would offend him. How his arm trembled in mine last night when I -mentioned her name! Bah! Marsh or his niece will speak to him about her, -or they are no Americans. That is their way--and it succeeds with -them--to speak right out whatever they think or wish.--If he accepts? Is -it prudent to have one more witness? Yes; the more people there are in -the secret, the more Navagero will be helpless when the day comes for -the great explanation.--A secret? With three women knowing it? Madame de -Carlsberg will tell it all to Madame Brion. It will go no further on -that side. Flossie Marsh will tell it all to young Verdier. And it will -stop there, too. Hautefeuille? Hautefeuille is the most reliable of -all.--How little some men change! There is a boy I have scarcely seen -since our school-days. He is just as simple and innocent as when we used -to confess our sins to the good Father Jaconet. He has learned nothing -from life. He does not even suspect that the Baroness is as much in love -with him as he with her. She will have to make a declaration to him. If -we could talk it over together, she and I. Let nature have her way. A -woman who desires a young man and does not capture him--that may occur, -perhaps, in the horrible fogs of the North, but in this sunlight and -among these flowers, never.--Good, here is his hotel. It would be -convenient for a rendezvous, these barracks. So many people going in and -out that a woman might enter ten times without being noticed." - -Hôtel des Palmes--the name justified by a tropical garden--appeared in -dazzling letters on the façade of this building, whose gray walls, -pretentiously decorated with gigantic sculpture, arose at a bend of the -road. The balconies were supported by colossal caryatides, the terrace -by fluted columns. Pierre Hautefeuille occupied a modest room in this -caravansary, which had been recommended by his doctor; and if, on the -night before, his sentimental reverie in the hall at Monte Carlo had -seemed paradoxical, his daily presence in a cell of this immense -cosmopolitan hive was no less so. - -Here he lived, retired, absorbed in his chimerical fancies, enveloped in -the atmosphere of his dreams, while beside him, above him, and below him -swarmed the agitated colony which the Carnival attracts to the coast. -Again on this morning the indulgent mockery of Corancez might have found -a fitting subject, if the heavy stones of the building had suddenly -become transparent, and the enterprising Southerner had seen his friend, -with his elbows on the writing-table, hypnotized before the gold box -purchased the evening before; and his mockery would have changed to -veritable stupefaction, had he been able to follow the train of this -lover's thoughts, who, ever since his purchase, had been a prey to one -of those fevers of remorseful anxiety which are the great tragedies of a -timid and silent passion. - -This fever had begun in the train on the way back from Monte Carlo amid -the party collected by Corancez. One of Chésy's remarks had started it. - -"Is it true," Chésy asked of Marius, "that Baroness Ely lost this -evening a hundred thousand francs, and that she sold her diamonds to one -of the gamblers in order to continue?" - -"How history is written!" Corancez responded. "I was there with -Hautefeuille. She lost this evening just what she had gained, that is -all; and she sold a trifling jewel worth a hundred louis,--a gold -cigarette case." - -"The one she always uses?" asked Navagero; then gayly, "I hope the -Archduke will not hear this story. Although a democrat, he is severe on -the question of good form." - -"Who do you suppose would tell him?" Corancez replied. - -"The aide-de-camp, _parbleu_," exclaimed Chésy. "He spies into -everything she does, and if the jewel is gone, the Archduke will hear of -it." - -"Bah! She will buy it back to-morrow morning. Monte Carlo is full of -these honest speculators. They, in fact, are the only ones who win at -the game." - -While Hautefeuille was listening to this dialogue, every word of which -pierced to his heart, he caught a glance from the Marquise Bonnacorsi--a -look of curiosity, full of meaning to the timid lover, for he plainly -read in it the knowledge of his secret. The subject of the conversation -immediately changed, but the words that had been spoken and the -expression in Madame Bonnacorsi's eyes sufficed to fill the young man -with a remorse as keen as though the precious box had been taken from -the pocket of his evening coat, and shown to all these people. - -"Could the Marquise have seen me buy it?" he asked himself, trembling -from head to foot. "And if she saw me, what does she think?" - -Then, as she entered into conversation with Florence Marsh, and appeared -once more to be perfectly indifferent to his existence, "No, I am -dreaming," he thought; "it is not possible that she saw me. I was -careful to observe the people who were there. I was mistaken. She looked -at me in that fixed way of hers which means nothing. I was dreaming. But -what the others said was not a dream. This cigarette case she will wish -to buy back to-morrow. She will find the merchant. He will tell her that -he has sold it. He will describe me. If she recognizes me from his -description?" - -At this thought he trembled once more. In a sudden hallucination he saw -the little parlor of the Villa Helmholtz--the Archduke had thus named -his house after the great savant who had been his master. The lover saw -the Baroness Ely sitting by the fire in a dress of black lace with bows -of myrtle green, the one of her dresses which he most admired. He saw -himself entering this parlor in the afternoon; he saw the furniture, the -flowers in their vases, the lamps with their tinted shades, all these -well-loved surroundings, and a different welcome--a look in which he -would perceive, not by a wild hypothesis this time, but with certitude, -that Madame de Carlsberg knew _what he had done_. The pain which the -mere thought of this caused him brought him back to reality. - -"I am dreaming again," he said to himself, "but it is none the less -certain that I have been very imprudent--even worse, indelicate. I had -no right to buy that box. No, I had no right. I risked, in the first -place, the chance of being seen, and of compromising her. And then, even -as it is, if some indiscreet remark is made, and if the Prince makes an -investigation?" - -In another hallucination he saw the Archduke Henry Francis and the -Baroness face to face. He saw the beautiful, the divine eyes of the -woman he loved fill with tears. She would suffer in her private life -once more, and from his fault, on account of him who would have given -all his blood with delight in order that mouth so wilfully sad -might smile with happiness. Thus the most imaginary, but also the most -painful of anxieties commenced to torture the young man, while Miss -Marsh and Corancez in a corner of the compartment exchanged in a low -voice these comments:-- - -"I shall ask my uncle to invite him, that's settled," said the young -American girl. "Poor boy, I have a real sympathy for him. He looks so -melancholy. They have pained him by talking so of the Baroness." - -"No, no," said Corancez. "He is in despair at having missed, by his own -fault, a chance of speaking with his idol this evening. Imagine, at the -moment when I went up to her--piff--my Hautefeuille disappeared. He is -remorseful at having been too timid. That is a sentiment which I hope -never to feel." - -Remorse. The astute Southerner did not realize how truly he had spoken. -He was mistaken in regard to the motive, but he had given the most -precise and fitting term to the emotion which kept Hautefeuille awake -through the long hours of the night, and which this morning held him -motionless before the precious case. It was as though he had not bought -it, but had stolen it, so much did he suffer to have it there before his -eyes. What was he to do now? Keep it? That had been his instinctive, his -passionate desire when he hurried to the merchant. This simple object -would make the Baroness Ely so real, so present to him. Keep it? The -words he had heard the night before came back to him, and with them all -his apprehension. Send it back to her? What could be more certain to -make the young woman seek out who it was who had taken such a liberty, -and if she did find out? - -A prey to these tumultuous thoughts, Pierre turned the golden box in his -hands. He spelled out the absurd inscription written in precious stones -on the cover of the case: "M.E. moi. 100 C.C.--Aimez-moi sans cesser," -the characters said; and the lover thought that this present, bearing -such a tender request, must have been given to Madame de Carlsberg by -the Archduke or some very dear friend. - -What agony he would have felt had the feminine trinket been able to -relate its history and all the quarrels that its sentimental device had -caused during the _liaison_ of the Baroness Ely with Olivier du Prat. -How often Du Prat, too, had tried to discover from whom his mistress had -received this present--one of those articles whose unnecessary gaudiness -savors of adultery. And he could never draw from the young woman the -name of the mysterious person who had given it, of whom Ely had said to -Madame Brion, "It was some one who is no longer in this world." - -In truth, this suspicious case was not a souvenir of anything very -culpable; the Baroness had received it from one of the Counts Kornow. -She had had with him one of her earliest flirtations, pushed far -enough--as the inscription testified--but interrupted before its -consummation by the departure of the young Count for the war in Turkey. -He had been killed at Plevna. - -Yes, how miserable Hautefeuille would have been if he could have divined -the words that had been uttered over this case--words of romantic -tenderness from the young Russian, words of outrageous suspicion from -his dearest friend, that Olivier whose portrait--what irony!--was on the -table before him at this moment. That heart so young, still so intact, -so pure, so confiding, was destined to bleed for that which he did not -suspect on this morning when, in all his delicacy, he accused no one but -himself. - -Suddenly a knock on the door made him start in terror. He had been so -absorbed in his thoughts that he had not noticed the time, or remembered -the rendezvous with his friend. He hid the cigarette case in the table -drawer, with all the agitation of a discovered criminal. "Come in," he -said in a quivering voice; and the elegant and jovial countenance of -Corancez appeared at the door. With that slight accent which neither -Paris nor the princely salons of Cannes had been able wholly to correct, -the Southerner began:-- - -"What a country mine is, all the same! What a morning, what air, what -sunlight! They are wearing furs up there, and we--" He threw open his -light coat. Then, as his eye caught the view, he continued, thinking -aloud: "I have never before climbed up to your lighthouse. What a scene! -How the long ridge of the Esterel stretches out, and what a sea! A piece -of waving satin. This would be divine with a little more space. You are -not uncomfortable with only one room?" - -"Not in the least," said Hautefeuille; "I have so few things with -me--merely a few books." - -"That's so," Corancez replied, glancing over the narrow room, which, -with the modest case opened on the bureau, had the look of an officer's -tent. "You have not the mania for _bric-à-brac_. If you could see the -ridiculously complete dressing-case that I carry around with me, not to -speak of a trunk full of knick-knacks. But I have been corrupted by the -foreigners. You have remained a true Frenchman. People never realize how -simple, sober, and economical the French are. They are too much so in -their hate of new inventions. They detest them as much as the English -and Americans love them--you, for example. I am sure that it was only by -accident you came to this ultra-modern hotel, and that you abominate the -luxury and the comfort." - -"You call it luxury?" Hautefeuille interrupted, shrugging his shoulders. -"But there is truth in what you say. I don't like to complicate my -existence." - -"I know that prejudice," Corancez replied; "you are for the stairway -instead of the lift, for the wood fire instead of the steam heater, for -the oil lamp instead of the electric light, for the post instead of the -telephone. Those are the ideas of old France. My father had them. But I -belong to the new school. Never too many hot and cold water faucets. -Never too many telegraph and telephone wires. Never too many machines to -save you the slightest movement. They have one fault, however, these new -hotels. Their walls are thin as a sheet of paper; and as I have -something serious to say to you, and also a great service to ask of you, -we will go out, if you are willing. We'll walk to the port, where Marsh -will wait for us at half-past ten. Does that suit you? We'll kill time -by taking the longest way." - -The Provençal had a purpose in proposing the "longest way." He wished -to lead his friend past the garden of Madame de Carlsberg. - -Corancez was something of a psychologist, and was guided by his instinct -with more certainty than he could have been by all the theories of M. -Taine on the revival of images. He was certain that the proposition in -regard to the plot at Genoa would be accepted by Hautefeuille for the -sake of a voyage with the Baroness Ely. The more vividly the image of -the young woman was called up to the young man, the more he would be -disposed to accept Corancez's proposition. - -Thanks to his innocent Machiavelism, the two friends, instead of going -straight toward the port, took the road that led to the west of -California. They passed a succession of wild ravines, still covered with -olives, those beautiful trees whose delicate foliage gives a silver tone -to the genuine Provençal landscape. The houses grew more rare and -isolated, till at certain places, as in the valley of Urie, one seemed -to be a hundred miles from town and shore, so completely did the wooded -cliffs hide the sea and the modern city of Cannes. - -The misanthropy of the Archduke Henry Francis had led him to build his -villa on this very ridge, at whose foot lay that species of -park--inevitably inhabited and preserved by the English--through which -Corancez conducted Hautefeuille. They came to a point where the Villa -Helmholtz suddenly presented itself to their view. It was a heavy -construction of two stories, flanked on one side by a vast greenhouse -and on the other by a low building with a great chimney emitting a dense -smoke. The Southerner pointed to the black column rising into the blue -sky and driven by the gentle breeze through the palms of the garden. - -"The Archduke is in his laboratory," he said; "I hope that Verdier is -making some beautiful discovery to send to the Institute." - -"You don't think, then, that he works himself?" asked Pierre. - -"Not much," said Corancez. "You know the science of princes and their -literature. However, that doesn't matter to me in the least. But what I -don't like at all is the way he treats his charming wife--for she is -charming, and she has once more proved it to me in a circumstance that I -shall tell you about; and you heard what they said last night, that she -is surrounded by spies." - -"Even at Monte Carlo?" Hautefeuille exclaimed. - -"Above all at Monte Carlo," replied Corancez. "And then, it is my -opinion that if the Archduke does not love the Baroness he is none the -less jealous, furiously jealous, of her, and nothing is more ferocious -than jealousy without love. Othello strangled his wife for a -handkerchief he had given her, and he adored her. Think of the row the -Archduke would make about the cigarette case she sold if it was he who -gave it to her." - -These remarks, in a tone half serious, half joking, contained a piece of -advice which the Southerner wished to give his friend before departing. -It was as though he had said in plain language: "Court this pretty woman -as much as you like; she is delicious; but beware of the husband." He -saw Hautefeuille's expressive face suddenly grow clouded, and -congratulated himself on being understood so quickly. How could he have -guessed that he had touched an open wound, and that this revelation of -the Prince's jealousy had but intensified the pain of remorse in the -lover's tender conscience? - -Hautefeuille was too proud, too manly, with all his delicacy, to harbor -for a moment such calculations as his friend had diplomatically -suggested. He was one of those who, when they love, are afflicted by -nothing but the suffering of the loved one, and who are always ready to -expose themselves to any danger. That which he had seen the night before -in the hallucination of his first remorsefulness he saw again, and more -clearly, more bitterly,--that possible scene between the Archduke and -the Baroness Ely, of which he would be the cause, if the Prince learned -of the sale of the case, and the Baroness was unable to recover it. - -So he listened distractedly to Corancez's talk, who, however, had had -the tact to change the conversation and to relate one of the humorous -anecdotes of his repertory. What interest could Pierre have in the -stories, more or less true, of the absurdities or scandals of the coast? -He did not again pay attention to his companion until, having reached La -Croisette, Corancez decided to put the great question. Along this -promenade, more crowded than usual, a person was approaching who would -furnish the Southerner with the best pretext for beginning his -confidence; and, suddenly taking the arm of the dreamer to arouse him -from his reveries, Corancez whispered:-- - -"I told you a moment ago that Madame de Carlsberg had of late been -particularly good to me, and I told you, as we left the hotel, that I -had a service to ask of you, a great service. You do not perceive the -connection between these two circumstances? You will soon understand the -enigma. Do you see who is coming toward us?" - -"I see the Count Navagero," Hautefeuille answered, "with his two dogs -and a friend whom I do not know. That is all." - -"It is the whole secret of the enigma. But wait till they pass. He is -with Lord Herbert Bohun. He will not deign to speak to us." - -The Venetian moved toward them, more English in appearance than the -Englishman by his side. This child of the Adriatic had succeeded in -realizing the type of the Cowes or Scarborough "masher," and with such -perfection that he escaped the danger of becoming a caricature. Clothed -in a London suit of that cloth which the Scotch call "harris" from its -place of origin, and which has a vague smell of peat about it, his -trousers turned up according to the London manner, although not a drop -of rain had fallen for a week, he was walking with long, stiff strides, -one hand grasping his cane by the middle, the other hand holding his -gloves. - -His face was smoothly shaven; he wore a cap of the same cloth as that of -his coat, and smoked a briarwood pipe of the shape used at Oxford. Two -small, hairy Skye terriers trotted behind him, their stubby legs -supporting a body three times as long as it was high. From what tennis -match was he returning? To what game of golf was he on his way? His red -hair, of that color so frequent in the paintings of Bonifazio, an -inheritance from the doges, his ancestors, added the finishing touch to -his incredible resemblance to Lord Herbert. - -There was, however, one difference between them. As they passed Corancez -and Hautefeuille, the twins uttered a good morning--Bohun's entirely -without accent, while the syllables of the Venetian were emphasized in a -manner excessively Britannic. - -"You have observed that man," Corancez continued, when they had passed -beyond earshot, "and you take him for an Anglomaniac of the most -ridiculous kind. But, when you scratch his English exterior, what do you -suppose you find beneath it? An Italian of the time of Machiavelli, as -unscrupulous as though he were living at the court of the Borgias. He -would poison us all, you, me, any one who crossed his path. I have read -it in his hand, but don't be uneasy; he has not yet put his principles -into practice, only he has tortured for six years a poor, defenceless -woman, the adorable Madame Bonnacorsi, his sister. I do not attempt to -explain it. But for six years he has so terrorized over this woman that -she has not taken a step without his knowing of it, has not had a -servant that he has not chosen, has not received a letter without having -to account for it to him. It is one of those domestic tyrannies which -you would not believe possible unless you had read of them in the -newspaper reports, or actually witnessed it as I have. He does not wish -her to remarry, because he lives on her great fortune. That is the -point." - -"How infamous!" Hautefeuille exclaimed. "But are you sure?" - -"As sure as I am that I see Marsh's boat," replied Corancez, pointing to -the trim yacht at anchor in the bay. And he continued lightly, in a tone -that was sentimental and yet manly, not without a certain grace: "And -what I am going to ask you is to help me circumvent this pretty -gentleman. We Provençaux have always a Quixotic side to our character. -We have a mania for adventurous undertakings; it is the sun that puts -that in our blood. If Madame Bonnacorsi had been happy and free, -doubtless I should not have paid much attention to her. But when I -learned that she was unhappy, and was being miserably abused, I fell -wildly in love with her. How I came to let her know of this and to find -that she loved me I will tell you some other day. If Navagero is from -Venice, I am from Barbentane. It is a little further from the sea, but -we understand navigation. At any rate, I am going to marry Madame -Bonnacorsi, and I am going to ask you to be my groomsman." - -"You are going to marry Madame Bonnacorsi?" repeated Hautefeuille, too -astonished to answer his friend's request. "But the brother?" - -"Oh! he knows nothing about it," Corancez replied. "But that is just -where the good fairy came into the story in the form of the charming -Baroness Ely. Without her, Andryana--permit me thus to call my -_fiancée_--would never have brought herself to say 'yes.' She loved me, -and yet she was afraid. Do not misjudge her. These tender, sensitive -women have strange timidities, which are difficult to understand. She -was afraid, but chiefly for me. She feared a quarrel between her brother -and me--hot words, a duel. Then I proposed and persuaded her to accept -the most romantic and unusual expedient,--a secret marriage. On the 14th -of next month, God willing, a Venetian priest, in whom she has -confidence, will marry us in the chapel of a palace at Genoa. In the -meantime I shall disappear. I am supposed to be at Barbentane among my -vineyards. And on the 13th, while Navagero is playing the Englishman on -Lord Herbert Bohun's yacht, with the Prince of Wales and other royal -personages, Marsh's boat, to which you will be invited, will sail away -with a number of passengers, among whom will be the woman I love the -most in the world, and to whom I shall devote my life, and the friend I -most esteem, if he does not refuse my request. What does he answer?" - -"He answers," said Hautefeuille, "that if ever he was astonished in his -life, he is so now. You, Corancez, in love, and so much in love that you -will sacrifice your liberty. You have always seemed so careless, so -indifferent. And a secret marriage. But it will not remain a secret -twenty-four hours. I know your exuberance. You always tell everything -you know to everybody. But I thank you for the friendship you have shown -me, and I will be your groomsman." - -As he said these last words he shook Corancez's hand with that simple -seriousness which he showed for everything. His companion had touched -him deeply. Doubtless this simplicity and candid trustfulness -embarrassed the Southerner. He was very willing to profit from them, but -he felt a little ashamed at abusing too much this loyal nature, whose -charm he also felt, and he mingled with his thanks a confession such as -he had never before made to any one. - -"Don't think me so exuberant. The sun always has that effect. But, in -truth, we men of the South never say what we mean.--Here we are. -Remember," he said, with his finger on his lips, "Miss Marsh knows all, -Marsh knows nothing." - -"One word more," Hautefeuille replied; "I have promised to be your -groomsman. But you will permit me to go to Genoa another way? I don't -know these people well enough to accept an invitation of that kind." - -"I trust to Flossie Marsh to overcome your scruples," said Corancez, -unable to repress a smile. "You will be one of the passengers on the -_Jenny_. Do you know why this boat is called the _Jenny_? Only an -Anglo-Saxon would permit himself seriously such a play upon words. You -have heard of Jenny Lind, the singer? Well, the reason the facetious -Marsh gave this pretty name to his floating villa was _because she keeps -the high seas_. And every time he explains this he is so amazed at his -wit that he fairly chokes with laughter.--But what a delicious day." - -The elegant lines of the _Jenny's_ rigging and white hull could now be -seen close at hand. She seemed the young, coquettish queen of the little -port, amid the fishing boats, yawls, and coasters that swarmed about the -quay. A group of sailors on the stone curb sang while they mended their -nets. On the ground-floor of the houses were offices of ship companies, -or shops, stored with provisions and tackle. The working population, -totally absent from this city of leisure, is concentrated upon the -narrow margin of the port, and gives it that popular picturesqueness so -refreshing in contrast with the uniform banality imprinted on the South -by its wealthy visitors. It was doubtless an unconscious sense of that -contrast that led the plebeian Marsh to choose this point of the -roadstead. - -This self-made man who also had labored on the quays at Cleveland, by -the shores of Lake Erie, whose waters are more stormy than the -Mediterranean, despised at heart the vain and vapid society in which he -lived. He lived in it, however, because the cosmopolitan aristocracy was -still another world to conquer. - -When he regaled some grand duke or prince regent on board his yacht, -what voluptuous pride he might feel on looking at these fishermen of his -own age, and saying to himself, while he smoked his cigar with the royal -or imperial highness: "Thirty years ago these fishermen and I were -equals. I was working just as they are. And now?" As Hautefeuille and -Corancez did not figure on any page of the Almanach de Gotha, the master -of the yacht did not consider it necessary to await his visitors on -deck; and when the young men arrived they found no one but Miss Flossie -Marsh, seated on a camp-stool before an easel, sketching in water -colors. Minutely, patiently, she copied the landscape before her,--the -far-off group of islands melting together like a long, dark carapace -fixed on the blue bay, the hollow and supple line of the gulf, with the -succession of houses among the trees, and, above all, the water of such -an intense azure, dotted with white sails, and over all that other azure -of the sky, clear, transparent, luminous. The industrious hand of the -young girl copied this scene in forms and colors whose exactitude and -hardness revealed a very small talent at the service of a very strong -will. - -"These American women are astonishing," whispered Corancez to -Hautefeuille. "Eighteen months ago she had never touched a brush. She -began to work and she has made herself an artist, as she will make -herself a _savante_ if she marries Verdier. They construct talents in -their minds as their dentists build gold teeth in your mouth.--She sees -us." - -"My uncle is busy at present," said the young girl, after giving them a -vigorous handshake. "I tell him he should call the boat his office. As -soon as we reach a port his telephone is connected with the telegraph -station, and the cable begins to communicate with Marionville. Let us -say good morning to him, and then I will show you the yacht. It is -pretty enough, but an old model; it is at least ten years old. Mr. Marsh -is having one built at Glasgow that will beat this one and a good many -others. It is to measure four thousand tons. The _Jenny_ is only -eighteen hundred. But here is my uncle." - -Miss Florence had led the young men across the deck of the boat, with -its planking as clean, its brass-work as polished, its padded furniture, -of brown straw, as fresh, its Oriental rugs as precious as though this -flooring, this metal, these armchairs, these carpets belonged to one of -the villas on the coast, instead of to this yacht which had been tossed -on all the waves of the Atlantic and Pacific. And the room into which -the young girl introduced them could not have presented a different -aspect had it been situated in Marionville on the fifth story of one of -those colossal buildings which line the streets with their vast cliffs -of iron and brick. Three secretaries were seated at their desks. One of -them was copying letters on a typewriter, another was telephoning a -despatch, the third was writing in shorthand at the dictation of the -little, thick-set, gray-faced man whom Corancez had shown to -Hautefeuille at the table of _trente-et-quarante_. This king of Ohio -paused to greet his visitors:-- - -"Impossible to accompany you, gentlemen," he said. "While you are taking -your promenade," he added, with that air of tranquil defiance by which -the true Yankee manifests his contempt for the Old World, "we shall -prepare a pretty voyage for you. But you Frenchmen are so contented at -home that you never go anywhere. Do you know the Lake Region? Wait, here -is the map. We have there, just on these four lakes--Superior, Michigan, -Huron, and Erie--sixty thousand ships, amounting to thirty-two million -tons, which transport every year three thousand five hundred million -tons of merchandise. The problem is to put this fleet and the cities on -the lakes--Duluth, Milwaukee, Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland, Buffalo, -Marionville--in communication with Europe. The lakes empty into the -ocean through the St. Lawrence. That is the road to follow. -Unfortunately we have a little obstacle to overcome at the outlet of -Lake Erie, an obstacle once and a half as high as the Arc de l'Etoile at -Paris. I mean Niagara, and also the rapids at the outlet of Lake -Ontario. They have made seven or eight canals, with locks which permit -the passage of little boats. But we wish a free passage for any -transatlantic vessel. This gentleman is about to conclude the affair," -and Marsh pointed to the secretary at the telephone. "Our capital has -been completed this morning--two hundred million dollars. In two years I -shall sail home in the _Jenny_ without once disembarking. I wish -Marionville to become the Liverpool of the lakes. It has already a -hundred thousand inhabitants. In two years we shall have a hundred and -fifty thousand; that is equal to your Toulouse. In ten years, two -hundred and fifty thousand--that is equal to your Bordeaux--and in -twenty years we shall reach the five hundred and seventeen thousand of -old Liverpool. We are a young people, and everything young should begin -by progressing. You will excuse me for a few minutes, gentlemen?" - -And the indefatigable worker had re-commenced his dictation before his -niece had led from the room these degenerate children of slow Europe. - -"Is he enough of an American for you?" Corancez whispered to -Hautefeuille. "He knows it too well, and he acts his own rôle to the -point of caricature. All their race appears in that." Then aloud: "You -know, Miss Flossie, we can talk freely of our plan before Pierre. He -consents to be my groomsman." - -"Ah! how delightful!" the young girl cried; then added gayly: "I had no -doubt you would accept. My uncle has asked me to invite you to join our -little voyage to Genoa. You will come, then. That will be perfectly -delicious. You will be rewarded for your kindness. You will have on -board your flirt, Madame de Carlsberg." - -As she said this the laughing girl looked the young man in the face. She -had spoken without malice, with that simple directness upon which -Corancez had justly counted. - -The people of the Hew World have this frankness, which we take for -brutality; it results from their profound and total acceptation of -facts. Flossie Marsh knew that the presence of Baroness Ely on the yacht -would be agreeable to Hautefeuille. Innocent American girl as she was, -she did not imagine for a moment that the relations between this young -man and a married woman could exceed the limits of a harmless flirtation -or a permissible sentimentality. So it had seemed to her as natural to -hazard this allusion to Pierre's sentiments as it would have been to -hear an allusion to her own sentiments for Marcel Verdier. Thus it was -strangely painful for her to see by the sudden pallor of the young man -and the trembling of his lips that she had wounded him. And her face -grew very red. - -If the Americans in their simplicity are at times wanting in tact, they -are sensitive to the highest degree; and these faults of tact which they -commit so easily are a real affliction to them. But that blush only -aggravated the painful surprise which Hautefeuille had felt at hearing -Madame de Carlsberg thus spoken of. By an inevitable and overwhelming -association of ideas he recalled Corancez's words, "I am sure that Miss -Marsh will overcome your scruples," and the smile with which he said -this. The look Madame Bonnacorsi had given him in the train the night -before returned to his memory. By an intuition, unreasoned yet -irrefutable, he perceived that the secret of his passion, hidden so -profoundly in his heart, had been discovered by these three persons. - -He quivered in every nerve with shame, revulsion, and distress; his -heart palpitated so violently that he could scarcely breathe. The -martyrdom of having to speak at this painful moment was spared him, -thanks to Corancez, who saw clearly enough the effect produced upon his -friend by the imprudence of the American girl, and, assuming the rôle -of host, he began:-- - -"What do you think, Hautefeuille, of this salon and this smoking-room? -Isn't it well arranged? This trimming of light, varnished wood--what -neat and virile elegance! And this dining-room? And these cabins? One -could spend months, years in them. You see, each one with its separate -toilet-room." - -And he led on his companion and the young girl herself. He remembered -everything, with that astonishing memory for objects possessed by -natures like his, created for action, adapted to realities; with his -habitual self-assurance, he commented upon everything, from the pikes -and guns on the middle deck, awaiting the pirates of the South Seas, to -the machinery for filling and emptying the baths, and suddenly he asked -Miss Marsh this question, singular enough in a passage of that colossal -and luxurious toy which seemed to sum up the grand total of all -inventions for the refinement of life:-- - -"Miss Flossie, may we see the death chamber?" - -"If it would interest M. Hautefeuille," said Florence Marsh, who had not -ceased to regret her thoughtless remark. "My uncle had an only -daughter," she continued, "who was named Marion, after my poor aunt. You -know that Mr. Marsh, who lost his wife when he was very young, named his -town after her, Marionville. My cousin died four years ago. My uncle was -almost insane with grief. He wished nothing to be altered in the room -she occupied on the yacht. He put her statue in it, and she has always -around her the flowers she loved in life. Wait, look, but do not go in." - -She opened the door, and the young men saw, by the light of two -blue-shaded lamps, a room all draped in faded pink. It was filled with a -profusion of small objects such as might be possessed by a spoiled child -of a railroad magnate--a toilet case of silver and gold, jewels in glass -boxes, portraits in carved frames--and in the centre, on a real bed of -inlaid wood, lay the statue of the dead girl, white, with closed -eyelids, the lips slightly parted, among sheaves of carnations and of -orchids. The silence of this strange shrine, the mystery, the delicate -perfume of the flowers, the unlooked-for poetry of this posthumous -idolatry, in the boat of a yachtsman and a man of business, would, in -any other circumstances, have appealed to the romanticism innate in -Pierre Hautefeuille's heart. But during all this visit he had had but -one thought,--to escape from Miss Marsh and Corancez, to be alone in -order to reflect upon the evidence, so painfully unexpected, that his -deepest secret had been discovered. So it was a relief to depart from -the boat, and still a torture to have the company of his friend a few -minutes longer. - -"Did you notice," said Corancez, "how much the dead girl resembles -Madame de Chésy? No? Well, when you meet her some time with Marsh, be -sure to observe her. The canal by the Great Lakes, his railroad, the -buildings of Marionville, his mines, his boat--he forgets them all. He -thinks of his dead daughter. If little Madame de Chésy should ask him -for the Kohinoor, he would set out to find it, for the mere sake of this -resemblance. Isn't it singular, such a sentimental trait in a rogue of -his stamp? His character ought to please you. If you are interested in -him, you will be able to study him at your leisure on the 13th, 14th, -and 15th. And let me thank you again for what you are going to do for -me. If you have anything to communicate to me, my address is Genoa, -_poste restante_. And now I must return to look after the packing. Will -you let me take you part of the way? I see the old coachman whom I told -to come here at eleven." - -Corancez hailed an empty cab which was passing, drawn by two small -Corsican ponies, who saluted the young man with a wink, his "Good day, -Monsieur Marius" revealing the familiarity of long conversations -between these two Provençaux. Pascal Espérandien, otherwise known as -the Old Man, was an alert little personage and very crafty, the pride of -whose life was to make his two rats trot faster than the Russian horses -of the grand dukes residing at Cannes. He harnessed them, trimmed them, -ornamented them so fantastically that they drew from all Miss Marsh's -compatriots, from Antibes to Napoule, the same exclamations of "How -lovely, how enchanting, how fascinating!" that they would have uttered -before a Raphael or a Worth dress, a polo match or a noted gymnast. -Doubtless the wily old man, with his shrewd smile, possessed diplomatic -talents which might make him useful in a secret intrigue, for the -prudent Corancez never took any other carriage, especially when he had, -as on this morning, a rendezvous with the Marquise Andryana. He was to -see her for five minutes in the garden of a hotel where she had a call -to make. Her carriage was to stand before one of the doors, the Old -Man's equipage before another. So nothing could have been more agreeable -than Pierre's response to this clandestine _fiancé_. - -"Thanks, but I prefer to walk." - -"Then good-by," said Corancez, getting into the cab. And, parodying a -celebrated verse, "To meet soon again, Seigneur, where you know, with -whom you know, for what you know?" - -The cab turned the corner of the Rue d'Antibes, and departed with -furious speed. Hautefeuille was at last alone. He could filially face -the idea which had been formulating itself in his thoughts with terrible -precision ever since Miss Florence Marsh had spoken these simple words, -"Your flirt, Madame de Carlsberg." - -"They all three know that I love her--the Marquise, Corancez, and Miss -Marsh. The look I caught from one of them last night, the remark and the -smile of the other, and what the third one said, and her blush at having -thought aloud--these are not dreams. They know I love her--But then, -Corancez, last night, when he led me to the gambling-table, must have -divined my thoughts. Such dissimulation!--is it possible? But why not? -He acknowledged it himself awhile ago. To have concealed his sentiments -for Madame Bonnacorsi, he must know how to keep a secret. He kept his -and I have not kept mine. Who knows but they all three saw me buy the -cigarette case? But no. They could not have had the cruelty to speak of -it and to let it be spoken of before me. Marius is not malicious, -neither is the Marquise, nor Miss Marsh. They know--that is all--they -know. But how did they find out?" - -Yes, how? With a lover of his susceptibility such a question would of -necessity result in one of those self-examinations in which the scruples -of conscience develop all their feverish illusions. On the way back to -California and at the table where his luncheon was served to him apart, -and afterward on a solitary walk to the picturesque village of Mougins, -his life during these last few weeks came back to him, day by day, hour -by hour, with a displacement of perspective which presented all the -simple incidents of his naïve idyl as irreparable faults, crowned by -that last fault, the purchase of the gold box in a public place and in -full view of such people. - -He recalled his first meeting with Madame de Carlsberg, in the Villa -Chésy. How the peculiar beauty of the young woman and her strange charm -had captivated him from the start, and how he had permitted himself to -gaze upon her unrestrainedly, not dreaming that he was thus attracting -attention and causing remarks! He remembered how often he had gone to -her house, seizing every opportunity of meeting her and talking with -her. The indiscretion of such assiduity could not have passed -unperceived, any more than his continued presence at places where he had -never gone before. - -He saw again the golf field on those mornings when the Baroness Ely -seemed so beautiful, in her piquant dress of the bright club colors--red -and white. He saw himself at the balls, waiting in a corner of the room -until she entered with that enchantment which emanated from every fold -of her gown. He remembered how often at the confectioner's, or La -Croisette, he had approached her, and how she had always invited him to -sit at her table with such grace in her welcome. Each of these memories -recalled her amiability, her delicate indulgence. - -The memory of that charm, to which he yielded himself so completely, -augmented his self-reproach. He recalled his imprudent actions, so -natural when one does not feel one's self to be observed, but which -appear to be such faults as soon as one is conscious of suspicion. For -example, during the ten days on which the Baroness was absent from -Cannes he had not once returned to those places where he had gone simply -for the sake of seeing her. No one had met him at the golf field, nor at -any evening party, nor at any five o'clock tea. He had not even made a -call. Could this coincidence of his retirement with the absence of the -Baroness have failed to be remarked? What had been said about it? Since -his love had drawn him into this agitated world of pleasure he had often -been pained by the light words thrown out at hazard at the women of this -society, when they were not present. Had he been simply an object of -ridicule, or had they taken advantage of his conduct to calumniate the -woman he loved with a love so unhappy, ravaged by all the chimeras of -remorse? - -The words used by Florence Marsh--"your flirt"--gave a solid basis to -these hypotheses. He had always despised the things which this word -implied,--that shameful familiarity of a woman with a man, that dangling -of her beauty before his desire, all the vulgarity and indiscretion -which this equivocal relationship suggests. Could they think that he had -such relations with Madame de Carlsberg? Had this evil interpretation -been put upon his impulsiveness? Then he thought of the sorrows which he -divined in the life of this unique woman, of the espionage that was -spoken of, and again the hall at Monte Carlo appeared to him, and he -could not understand why he had not realized the prodigious indelicacy -of his action. He felt it now with most pitiful acuteness. - -Haunted by these thoughts he prolonged his walk for hours and hours, and -when in the twilight, suddenly grown dark and cold, as it happens in the -South after days most soft and blue, as he entered the door of his -hotel, the concierge handed him a letter on which he recognized the -writing of Baroness Ely, his hands trembled as he tore open the -envelope, sealed with the imprint of an antique stone--the head of -Medusa. And if the head of this pagan legend had appeared alive before -him he would not have been more overwhelmed than he was by the simple -words of this note:-- - - -"DEAR SIR--I have returned to Cannes and I should be happy if you could -come to-morrow, at about half-past one, to the Villa Helmholtz. I wish -to talk with you upon a serious matter. That is why I set this hour, at -which I am most certain of not being interrupted." - - -And she signed herself, not as in her last letters with her full name, -but as in the first she had written him--Baroness de Sallach Carlsberg. -Hautefeuille read and re-read these cold, dry lines. It was evident that -the young woman had learned of his purchase at Monte Carlo, and all the -agony of his remorse revealed itself in these words, which he cried -aloud as he entered his room:-- - -"She knows! I am lost!" - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -LOVERS' RESOLUTIONS - - -The note which had thus brought Pierre's anxiety to its extreme -represented the first act in a plan invented by Madame Brion to put an -immediate and irreparable end to a sentiment for which her friendly -insight had led her to predict frightful suffering, a possible tragedy, -a certain catastrophe. After Madame de Carlsberg's sudden and passionate -confidences, she had said to herself that if she did not succeed in -immediately separating these two beings, drawn to each other by such an -instinctive attraction, the young man would not be slow to discover the -sentiment he inspired in the woman he loved. It was only thanks to his -remarkable ingenuousness and candor that he had not already discovered -it. - -When he knew the truth, what would happen? Ingenuous and candid though -she was herself, Louise Brion could not evade the true answer to this -question. As soon as an understanding took place between Hautefeuille -and Ely, she would go to the end of her desire. She had too clearly -revealed in her confession the indomitable audacity of her character, -her need of complying with the demands of her passions. She would become -the young man's mistress. Although the conversation of the night before -had imposed upon Louise the evidence of faults already committed by her -friend, neither her mind nor her heart could entertain the thought of -these faults. The mere idea of this liaison filled her with a shudder of -fright, almost of horror. All through the night she had tried to think -of some way to obtain the only escape she could see for Ely, the -voluntary departure of Hautefeuille. - -Her first thought was to appeal to his delicacy. The portrait Madame de -Carlsberg had drawn of him, his interesting face, his frank and honest -look, the naïveté of his amorous action in buying the gold box, all -revealed an exquisite fineness of nature. If she should write him, -bravely, simply, an unsigned letter, speaking of that action, of that -purchase which might have been, and no doubt had been, seen by others -too? If on this account she should beg him to leave in order to save -Madame de Carlsberg from trouble? During her long and feverish insomnia -she had tried to formulate this letter, without discovering expressions -which satisfied her. - -It was so difficult to make such a request without letting it signify, -"Go, because she loves you!" - -Then in the morning, when she had wakened from the tardy sleep that -ended this night of agony, a chance accident, commonplace enough, but in -which her piety saw something providential, gave her an unexpected -excuse for pleading, not with the young man at a distance, but with -Madame de Carlsberg herself and at once. While reading distractedly in -bed one of those newspapers of the Riviera, journals of international -snobbism which communicate information concerning all these arrant -aristocrats, she discovered the arrival at Cairo, of M. Olivier du Prat, -secretary of the Embassy, and his wife; and she rose at once to show Ely -these two lines of mundane news, so insignificant, yet so full of menace -for her. - -"If they are at Cairo," she said to the Baroness, "it means that their -Nile trip is over, and that they think of returning. What is the natural -route for them? From Alexandria to Marseilles. And if he is so near his -friend, this man will wish to see him." - -"It is true," said Ely, her heart beating wildly as she read the letters -of that name, Olivier du Prat. - -"It is true," she repeated. "They will meet again. Was I not right last -night?" - -"See," cried Louise Brion, "what it would have been if you had not had -thus far the strength to fight against your sentiment. See what it will -be if you do not put an end to it forever." - -And she continued describing with all the eloquence of her passionate -friendship a plan of conduct which suddenly occurred to her as the -wisest and most effectual. - -"You must take this opportunity which is offered to you. You will never -have a better one. You must have the young man come, and speak to him -yourself about the purchase he made last night. Tell him that others -have seen it; show him your astonishment at his indiscretion; tell him -that his assiduity has been noticed. For the sake of your welfare and -your reputation command him to go away. A little firmness for a few -minutes and it will all be done. He is not what you paint him, what I -feel him to be, if he does not obey your request. Ah! believe me, the -one way to love him is to save him from this tragedy, which is not -simply a far-off possibility, but an immediate and inevitable danger." - -Ely listened, but made no reply. Worn out by the terrible emotion of her -confidence on the previous night, she had no strength left to resist the -tender suggestions which appealed to her love itself, to struggle -against her love. There is, in fact, in these complete passions an -instinctive and violent desire for extreme resolutions. When these -sentiments cannot find satisfaction in perfect happiness, they obtain a -kind of grateful relief in their absolute frustration. Filling our soul -to the exclusion of all else, they bear it incessantly to one or the -other of the two poles, ecstasy and despair, without resting for a -moment between them. Having come to this stage of her passion, it -followed of necessity, as Louise Brion had clearly seen, that the -Baroness Ely should either become the young man's mistress, or that she -should put between herself and him the insurmountable barrier of a -separation before the _liaison_--secret romance of so many women, both -virtuous and otherwise. Yes! how many women have thus, in a delirium of -renouncement, dug an abyss between them and a secretly idolized being, -who never suspects this idolatry or this immolation. To the innocent -ones, the anticipation of the remorse which would follow their fault -gives the requisite energy; the others, the culpable, feel, as Madame de -Carlsberg felt so strongly, the inability to efface the past, and they -prefer the exalted martyrdom of sacrifice to the intolerable bitterness -of a joy forever poisoned by the atrocious jealousy of that -indestructible past. - -Another influence aided in overcoming the young woman's spirit of -revolt. Stranger as she was to all religious faith, she did not, like -her pious friend, attach anything providential to this commonplace -accident,--a newspaper account of a diplomatist's voyage,--but had -acquired, through her very incredulity, that unconscious fatalism which -is the last superstition of the sceptic. The sight of these fine printed -syllables, "Olivier du Prat," a few hours after the night's -conversation, had filled her with that feeling of presentiment, harder -to brave than real danger for certain natures, like hers, made up of -decision and action. - -"You are right," she answered, in the broken accent of an irremediable -renunciation, "I will see him, I will speak to him, and all will be -finished forever." - -It was with this resolution, made in truth with the fullest strength of -her heart, that she arrived at Cannes on the afternoon of the same day, -accompanied by Madame Brion, who did not wish to leave her; and, as soon -as she arrived, she had, almost under the dictation of her faithful -friend, written and despatched the letter which overwhelmed -Hautefeuille. She truly believed herself to be sincere in her resolution -to separate from him, and yet if she had been able to read to the bottom -of her heart, she might have seen, from a very trifling act, how fragile -this resolution was, and how much she was possessed by thoughts of love. -No sooner had she written to him from whom she wished to separate -forever than, at the same place, and with the same ink, she wrote two -letters to two persons of her acquaintance, in whose love-affairs she -was the confidante, and to some extent the accomplice,--Miss Florence -Marsh and the Marquise Andryana Bonnacorsi. - -She invited them to lunch with her on the morrow, thus obeying a -profound instinct which impels a woman who loves and suffers to seek the -company of women who are also in love, with whom she may talk of -sentimental things, of the happiness which warms them, who will pity her -sorrow, if she tells them of it, who will understand her and whom she -will understand. Usually, as she had said the night before, the -hesitation of the sentimental and timid Italian woman fatigued her, and -in the passion of the American girl for the Archduke's assistant, there -was an element of deliberate positivism, which jarred upon her native -impulsiveness. But the young widow and the young girl were two women in -love, and that sufficed, in this season of melancholy, to make it -delightful, almost necessary, to see them. She little thought that this -impulsive and natural invitation would provoke a violent scene with her -husband, or that a conjugal conflict would arise from it, whose final -episode was to have a tragic influence upon the issue of that growing -passion, which her reason had sworn to renounce. - -Having arrived at Cannes at three o'clock in the afternoon, she had not -seen him during the rest of the day. She knew that he had been with -Marcel Verdier in the laboratory, nor was she surprised to see him -appear at the dinner hour, accompanied by his aide-de-camp, Comte von -Laubach, the professional spy of His Highness, without a sign of -interest in her health, without a question as to how she had spent the -past ten days. - -The Prince had been in his youth one of the bravest and most handsome of -the incomparable cavaliers of his country, and the old soldier was -recognizable in the figure of this scientific maniac, which had remained -slender in spite of the fact that he was approaching his sixtieth year, -in the tone of command which his slightest accents retained, in his -martial face, scarred by a sabre at Sadowa, in his long mustache of -grizzly red. But what one never forgot after seeing the singular man was -his eyes--eyes of an intense blue, very bright and almost savagely -restless, under the pale, reddish brows of formidable thickness. The -Archduke had the eccentric habit of always wearing, even with his -evening dress, heavy laced shoes, which permitted him, as soon as the -dinner was over, to go out on foot, accompanied sometimes by his -aide-de-camp, sometimes by Verdier, for an endless nocturnal walk. He -prolonged them at times till three o'clock in the morning, having no -other means of gaining a little sleep for his morbid nerves. This -extreme nervousness was betrayed by his delicate hands, burned with -acids and deformed by tools of the laboratory, whose fingers twitched -incessantly in uncontrollable movements. - -From all his actions could be divined the dominant trait of his -character, a moral infirmity for which there is no precise term, the -inability to continue any sensation or to persist in any effort of the -will. That was the secret of the singular uneasiness which this man, so -distinguished in certain ways, imparted to those around him, and from -which he was the first to suffer. One felt that in the hands of this -strangely irritable person every enterprise would fail, and that a kind -of inward and irresistible frenzy prevented him from putting himself in -harmony with any environment, any circumstance, any necessity. This -superior nature was incapable of submission to facts. - -Perhaps the secret of his unbalanced condition lay in the fixed idea -that he had been at one time so near the throne and had lost it forever, -that he had seen irreparable faults committed in politics and in war, -that he had known of them while they were taking place and had not been -able to prevent them. - -Thus at the beginning of the war of 1866 he had, it was said, planned a -campaign which might have changed the face of Europe at this end of the -century. Instead he had to risk his life to execute manœuvres whose -certain failure he foresaw. Every year, on the anniversary of the famous -battle at which he had been wounded, he became literally insane for -forty-eight hours. He was equally so whenever he heard mentioned the -name of some great revolutionary soldier. - -The Archduke did not forgive himself for his weakness in continuing the -benefits attached to his title and rank when his tastes for abstract -theories and the bitterness of his blighted destiny had led him to -embrace the worst convictions of anarchistic socialism. With all that, -prodigiously learned, a great reader, and a great conversationalist, he -seemed to take revenge upon his own inconsistencies in conduct and in -action by the acuteness of his criticism. Never did his lips express -admiration without some disparaging and cruel reservation. Only -scientific research, with its impregnable certitudes, appeared to -communicate to this disordered intelligence a little repose, and, as it -were, a steadier equilibrium. - -Since the time when his disagreements with his wife had resulted in that -species of moral divorce imposed by higher authority, his researches had -absorbed him more than ever. - -Retired at Cannes, where he was kept by the beginning of an attack of -asthma, he had worked so hard that he had transformed himself from an -amateur into a professional, and a series of important discoveries in -electricity had given him a semi-reputation among specialists. His -enemies had spread abroad the report, which Corancez had echoed, that he -had simply published under his own name the work of Marcel Verdier, a -graduate of the École Normale, attached for some years to his -laboratory. In justice to the Archduke, it must be said that this -calumny had not lessened the enthusiasm and jealous affection which the -strange man felt for his assistant. For the final trait of this being, -so wavering, uncertain, and, in consequence, profoundly, passionately -unjust, was that his only attachments were infatuations. The story of -his relations with his wife was the same as with all the relations -formed in a life made up of alternations between passionate sympathy and -inordinate antipathy for the same persons, and for no other cause than -that incapacity of self-control, an incapacity which had made him, with -all his gifts, tyrannical, unamiable, and profoundly unhappy, and, to -borrow a vulgar but too justifiable epigram from Corancez, the great -Failure of the Almanach de Gotha. - -Madame de Carlsberg had had too long an experience with her husband's -character not to understand it admirably, and she had suffered too much -from it to avoid being, on her side, exceedingly unjust toward him. A -bad temper is of all faults the one that women are least willing to -pardon in a man, perhaps because it is the most opposed to the most -virile of virtues, steadfastness. - -She was too keen not to discern in that tormented face the approaching -storm, as sailors read the face of the sky and the sea. - -When on this evening of her return to Cannes, she found herself sitting -at the table in front of the Archduke, she easily divined that the -dinner would not end without some of those ferocious words with which he -relieved his ill temper. At the first glance she understood that he had -another violent grievance against her. What? Had he already been -informed by that infamous Judas, in his feline manner, of how she had -conducted herself at the gambling-table the night before, and was he, -the democratic prince, with one of his customary resumptions of pride, -preparing to make her feel that such Bohemian manners were not becoming -to their rank? Was he offended--this inconsistency would not have -astonished her any more than the other--because she had stayed at Monte -Carlo all the week, without sending a word, except the despatch to the -_maître d'hôtel_ to announce her return. - -Her heart was so full of pain at the thought of her resolution that she -felt that kind of insensibility which follows moral suffering. So she -did not pay attention during the dinner to the fierce sallies with which -the Archduke, addressing Madame Brion, abused in turn Monte Carlo and -the women of fashion, the Frenchmen on the coast, and the foreign -colony--the wealthy class, in short, and all society. The livery -servants were moving silently about the table, and their knee-breeches, -silk stockings, and powdered wigs lent a contrast of inexpressible irony -to the words of the master of this princely house. The aide-de-camp, -with a wheedling mixture of politeness and perfidy, replied to the -witticisms of the Archduke in such a way as to exasperate them, while -Madame Brion, growing more and more red, submitted to the assault of -insolent sarcasms, with the idea that she was suffering for Ely, who -scarcely paid the slightest attention to such whimsical outbursts as -this:-- - -"Their pleasures are the measure of a society, and that is what I like -on this coast. You see in all their perfection the folly and the infamy -of the plutocrats.--Their wives? They amuse themselves like jades, and -the men like blackguards.--The taxes, the laws, the magistrates, the -army, the clergy--all this social machinery which works for the profit -of the rich, accomplishes what? The protection of a gilded debauchery of -which we have a perfect specimen on this coast.--I admire the naïveté -of socialists, who, before an aristocracy of this kind, talk of reforms! -A gangrenous limb should simply be burnt and cut off. But the great -fault of modern revolutionists is their respect. Happily the weakness -and folly of the ruling class are exposing themselves everywhere with -such magnificent ingenuousness that the people will end by perceiving -them, and when the millions of workingmen who nourish this handful of -parasites make a move--a move--ah! we'll laugh, we'll laugh!--Science -will make it so easy to prepare for action. Make all the children of the -proletariat electricians and chemists, and in a generation the thing -will be done." - -Whenever he proffered declarations of this order the Archduke glared -around him with a physiognomy so menacing that no one thought of smiling -at his paradoxes, as comical as they were ineffectual in these opulent -surroundings. Those who were acquainted with the secrets of contemporary -history remembered that a legend, though calumnious, associated the name -of the "Red Archduke" with a mysterious attempt made upon the life of -the head of his own family. The sanguinary dream of a demagogic -Cæsarism was too plainly visible in those eyes, which never looked at -one without a menace, and one felt one's self to be in the presence of a -tyrant whom circumstances had thwarted, but by so little that one -trembled. - -Usually after he had thus thrown out some sinister witticism no one -replied, and the dinner continued in a silence of embarrassment and -oppression, in which the disappointed despot revelled for a time. Then -it occasionally happened that, having relieved his spleen, he would show -the seductive side of his nature, his remarkable lucidity of mind, and -his immense knowledge of actual facts. This evening he was doubtless -tormented by some peculiar agitation; for he did not disarm until, just -as they returned to the parlor, a remark of Madame de Carlsberg to -Madame Brion brought forth an outburst which revealed the true cause for -this terrible mood. - -"We shall ask Flossie Marsh about that. She will lunch with us -to-morrow," the Baroness had said. - -"May I have five minutes' conversation with you?" suddenly demanded the -Prince; and, leading her aside, careless of the witnesses of this -conjugal scene, "You have invited Miss Marsh to lunch to-morrow?" he -continued. - -"Certainly," she replied. "Does that annoy Your Highness?" - -"The house is yours," said the Archduke, "but you will not be surprised -if I forbid Verdier to be there.--Don't interrupt.--For some time I have -observed that you favor the project of this girl, who has taken it into -her head to marry that boy. I do not wish this marriage to take place. -And it shall not take place." - -"I am ignorant of Miss Marsh's intentions," replied the Baroness, whose -pale cheeks had grown red as she listened to her husband's discourse. "I -invite her because she is my friend, and I am pleased to see her. As for -M. Verdier, he seems to be of an age to know whether or not it is best -for him to marry, without taking orders from any one. Besides, if he -wishes to talk to Miss Marsh, he has no need of my intermediation, and -if he was pleased to dine with her this evening--" - -"He has dined with her this evening?" interrupted the Prince in his -violent exasperation. "You know of it? Answer. Be frank." - -"Your Imperial Highness may entrust other persons with this espionage," -said the young woman, proudly, throwing at Monsieur von Laubach a glance -of mingled contempt and defiance. - -"Madame, no ironies," exclaimed the Archduke. "I will not endure them. I -wish to give you a message for your friend, and if you do not deliver it -I will speak to her myself. Tell her that I am aware of all her -intrigues. I know, understand me, I know that she doesn't love this -young man, but is an instrument in the service of her uncle, who has -heard of a discovery that we have made, Verdier and I, in my residence," -and he pointed in the direction of the laboratory. "It is a revolution -in electric railroads, this invention; but to have it, it is necessary -to have the inventor. I am neither to be bought nor married. No more is -Verdier to be bought, but he is young, he is innocent, and Mr. Marsh has -employed his niece. I perceive that he has brought you to side with him, -and that you are working for him. Listen to what I say: Visit them, the -uncle and the niece, as much as you like; join their parties at Monte -Carlo and anywhere. If you like _rastaquouères_, that is your affair. -You are free. But do not mix with this intrigue or you will pay dearly -for it. I shall know the point to strike you in. With her uncle's -millions, let this girl buy a name and a title, as they all do. There is -no lack of English marquises, French dukes, and "Roman princes to sell -their armorial devices, their ancestors, and their persons. But this man -of millions, my friend, my pupil--hands off! That Yankee would turn his -genius into a new dollar-coining machine. Never that; never, never. This -is what I beg you to say to that girl; and no remonstrance from -you.--Monsieur von Laubach." - -"Monseigneur?" - -Scarcely had the aide-de-camp time to take leave of the two ladies, so -precipitately did the Archduke depart, with the air of a man who could -no longer contain himself. - -"And that is the secret of his fury," said Madame Brion, when her friend -had repeated the brutal discourse of the Prince. "It is very unjust. But -I am glad it is only that. I was so afraid he had heard of your play -last night, and especially that imprudence. You are going to cancel your -invitation to Miss Florence?" - -"I?" said the Baroness, shrugging her shoulders, and her noble face wore -an expression of disgust. "There was a time when this boorishness -crushed me; a time when it revolted me. To-day I care no more than that -for this brute and all his rage." - -While saying this she had lit a Russian cigarette, with a long paper -stem, at a little lamp used for this purpose, and from her contemptuous -lips she blew a ring of smoke, which rose, opening and stretching out -till it was dissipated in the warm and perfumed atmosphere of the little -room. It was an atmosphere of intimacy surrounding the two friends, in -this bright parlor, with the soft shades of its tapestry, the old -paintings, the precious furniture, the vague green of the conservatory -behind one of the glass doors, and everywhere flowers--the beautiful -living flowers of the South, interwoven with threads of sunlight. Lamps, -large and small, veiled in shades of supple silk, radiated through this -retreat an attenuated light which blended with the clear, gay fire. Ah, -the unfortunate would little envy these surroundings of the rich, if -they but knew the secret agony for which these surroundings so often -serve as a theatre! Ely de Carlsberg had sunk upon a lounge; she was -saying:-- - -"What do you suppose these wretched things matter to me, with the pain -you know is in my heart? I shall receive Flossie Marsh to-morrow, and -for several days after, and the Archduke may be as angry as he likes. He -says he knows the place to attack me. There is only one, and I am going -to strike it myself. It is as though he should threaten to fight a duel -with some one who has determined to commit suicide." - -"But do you not think he is right about Marsh's calculations?" asked -Madame Brion to arrest the crisis of the revolt which she saw -approaching. - -"It is quite possible," said the Baroness. "He is an American, and for -those people a sentiment is a fact like any other, and is to be utilized -as much as possible. But admitting that he speculates on Flossie's -passion for a savant and an inventor, does the uncle's speculation prove -that the sentiment of the niece is not sincere? Poor Flossie," she added -in a tone that once more vibrated with her inward torment. "I hope she -will not allow herself to be separated from the man she loves. She would -suffer too much, and if it is necessary to help her not to lose him, I -will help her." - -These two successive cries betrayed such distress, and in consequence so -much uncertainty still remaining in the wise resolution they had made -together, that the faithful friend was terrified. The thought which she -had had the night before, and had rejected as being too difficult to -execute, the thought of appealing directly to the magnanimity of the -young man, seized her again with excessive force. This time, she gave -free rein to it, and the next morning a messenger, found at the station, -delivered at the Hôtel des Palmes the following letter, which Pierre -Hautefeuille opened and read after a long night of anxiety and cruel -insomnia:-- - - -"MONSIEUR--I trust to your delicacy not to seek to know who I am, or the -motive which leads me to write you these lines. They come from one who -knows you, although you do not know her, and who esteems you profoundly. -I have no doubt that you will listen to this appeal made to your honor. -A word will suffice to show you how much your honor is concerned in -ceasing to compromise, most involuntarily, I am sure, the peace and the -reputation of a person who is not free, and whose elevated situation is -exposed to much envy. You were seen, Monsieur, the night before last, in -the roulette hall at Monte Carlo, when you bought an article which that -person had just sold to a merchant. If that were an isolated -circumstance, it would not have such a dangerous significance. But you -must yourself perceive that your attitude during the last few weeks -could not have escaped malignant comments. The person concerned is not -free. She has suffered a great deal in her private life, and the -slightest injury done to the one upon whom her situation depends might -provoke a catastrophe for her. Perhaps she will never tell you herself -what pain your action, of which she has been informed, has caused her. -Be an honest man, Monsieur, and do not try to enter into a life which -you can only trouble. Do not compromise a noble-hearted woman, who has -all the more right to your respect from the fact that she does not -distrust you. Have, then, the courage to do the only thing that can -prevent calumny, if it has not already begun, and that can put an end to -it if it had begun. Leave Cannes, Monsieur, for some weeks. The day will -come when you will be glad to think you have done your duty, your whole -duty, and that you have given to a noble woman the one proof of devotion -that you could be permitted to offer--a consideration for her welfare -and her honor." - - -In the famous story of Daniel DeFoe, that prodigious epitome of all the -profound emotions of the human heart, there is a celebrated page which -symbolizes the peculiar terror we feel at revelations that are -absolutely, tragically unexpected. It is when Robinson sees with a -shudder the print of a bare foot on the shore of his island. - -A like convulsive trembling seized Pierre Hautefeuille as he read this -letter, in which he saw the proof after twenty-four hours of -incertitude--the indisputable overwhelming proof--that his action had -been seen. By whom? But what mattered the name of the witness, now that -Madame de Carlsberg was informed? His secret instinct had not deceived -him. She had summoned him in order to reprove his indiscretion, perhaps -to banish him forever from her presence. The certainty that the subject -of this interview would be the act for which he now reproached himself -as for a crime was so intolerable to the lover that he was seized with -the idea of not going to the rendezvous, of never seeing again that -offended woman, of fleeing anywhere far away. He took up the letter, -saying, "It is true; there is nothing but to go!" Wildly, yet -mechanically, as though a mesmeric suggestion had emanated from the -written words on that little sheet of paper, he rang, ordered the -timetable, his bill, and his trunk. If the express to Italy, instead of -leaving late in the afternoon, had left at about eleven, perhaps the -poor young man, in that hour of semi-madness, would have precipitately -taken flight--an action which in a few hours was to appear as senseless -as it now appeared necessary. - -But he was forced to wait, and, the first crisis once over, he felt that -he should not, that he could not go without explaining himself. He did -not think of justifying himself. In his own eyes he was unpardonable. -And yet he did not wish Madame de Carlsberg to condemn him without a -plea for the delicacy of his intentions. What would he say to her, -however? During the hours that separated him from his rendezvous, how -many discourses he imagined without suspecting that the imperious force -that attracted him to the Villa Helmholtz was not the desire to plead -his cause! It was toward the sensation of her presence that he was -irresistibly moving, the one idea around which everything centres in -that heart of a lover, at which everything ends, from the most -justifiable bitterness to the extremest timidity. - -When the young man entered the parlor of the Villa Helmholtz, the excess -of his emotions had thrown him into that state of waking somnambulism in -which the soul and body obey an impulse of which they are scarcely -conscious. This state is analogous to that of a resolute man passing -through a very great danger--a similitude which proves that the two -fundamental instincts of our nature, that of self-preservation and that -of love, are the work of impersonal forces, exterior and superior to the -narrow domain of our conscious will. - -At such times our senses are at once super-acute and -paralyzed,--super-acute to the slightest detail that corresponds to the -emotion that occupies us, paralyzed for everything else. Thinking -afterward of those minutes so decisive in his life, Hautefeuille could -never remember what road he had taken from the hotel to the villa, nor -what acquaintances he had met on the way. - -He was not roused from this lucid dream until he entered the first and -larger of the two parlors, empty at this moment. A perfume floated -there, mingled with the scent of flowers, the favorite perfume of Madame -de Carlsberg,--a composition of gray amber, Chypre, and Russian cologne. -He had scarcely time to breathe in that odor which brought Ely's image -so vividly before him when a second door opened, voices came to him, but -he distinguished only one, which, like the perfume, went to his heart. - -A few steps further and he was before Madame de Carlsberg herself, who -was talking with Madame Brion, the Marquise Bonnacorsi, and the pretty -Vicomtesse de Chésy. Further on, by the window near the conservatory, -Flossie Marsh stood talking with a tall, blond young man, badly dressed, -by no means handsome, yet revealing under his dishevelled hair the -bright face of a savant, the frank smile, the clear meditative eyes. It -was Marcel Verdier, whom the young girl had boldly forewarned by a note, -in the American manner, and who, kept from lunching by the Archduke, had -escaped for ten minutes from the laboratory in order to get to her. - -Neither was the Baroness seated. She was pacing the floor in an effort -to disguise the nervousness which was brought to its extreme by the -arrival of him she awaited. But how could he have suspected this? How -could he have divined from her classic, tailor-made walking dress of -blue serge that she had not been able that morning to remain indoors? -She had been within sight of his hotel, as he had so often been near the -Villa Helmholtz, to see the house and to return with beating heart. And -how could he have read the interest in the tender, blue eyes of Madame -de Bonnacorsi, or in the soft brown eyes of Madame Brion a solicitude -which to a lover capable of observing would have given reason for hope? -Hautefeuille saw distinctly but one thing,--the uneasiness which -appeared in Madame de Carlsberg's eyes and which he at once interpreted -as a sign of measureless reproach. That was almost enough to deprive him -of the force to answer in the commonplace phrases of politeness; he took -a seat by the Marquise at the invitation of the romantic Italian, who -was moved to pity by his visible emotion. - -Meanwhile the gay Madame de Chésy, the pretty blonde, whose eyes were -as lively as those of Andryana Bonnacorsi were deep, was smiling on the -newcomer. This smile formed little dimples in her fresh, rounded face, -while under the cap of otter skin, and with her light figure in a jacket -of the same fur, her small hands playing with her muff, her slender feet -in their varnished boots, she was one of those charming little images of -frivolity toward whom the world does well to be indulgent, for their -presence suffices to render gay and frivolous as themselves the most -embarrassing occasions and the most ominous situations. With all that -Madame Brion knew, and all that Madame de Bonnacorsi thought, and with -all the feelings of the Baroness Ely and Pierre Hautefeuille, his -arrival would have made the conversation by far too difficult and -painful, if the light Parisienne had not continued her pretty bird-like -babble:-- - -"You! I ought not to recognize you," she said to Pierre Hautefeuille. -"For ten days," she added, turning to Madame de Carlsberg, "yes, ever -since I dined beside him here the night before your departure; yes, for -eight days, he has disappeared. And I did not write about it to his -sister, who entrusted him to me. For she entrusted you to me, that is -positive, and not to the young ladies of Nice and Monte Carlo." - -"But I have not been away from Cannes for a week," Pierre replied, -blushing in spite of himself. - -Madame de Chésy's remark had pointed too plainly to the significant -coincidence of his disappearance and the absence of Madame de Carlsberg. - -"And what were you doing only last night at the table of -_trente-et-quarante_?" the young woman asked, teasingly. "If your sister -knew of that; she who thinks her brother is basking prudently in the -sun!" - -"Don't scold him," interrupted Madame Bonnacorsi. "We brought him back -with us." - -"And you didn't finish telling us of your adventure," Madame de -Carlsberg added. - -The innocent teasing of Madame de Chésy had displeased her, because of -the embarrassment it had caused in Hautefeuille. Now that he was there, -living and breathing in the little room, she, too, felt that sensation -of a loved one's presence which overpowers the strongest will. Never had -the young man's face appeared more noble, his expression more -attractive, his lips more delicate, his movements more graceful, his -whole being more worthy of love. She discerned in his attitude that -mingling of respect and passion, of timidity and idolatry irresistible -to women who have suffered from the brutality of the male, and who dream -of a love without hate, a tenderness without jealousy, voluptuous -rapture devoid of violence. - -She felt like crying to Yvonne de Chésy, "Stop. Don't you see that you -are wounding him?" But she knew well that the thoughtless woman had not -an atom of malice in her heart. She was one of the modern women of -Paris, very innocent with a very bad tone, playing childishly with -scandal, but very virtuous at heart--one of those imprudent women who -sometimes pay with their honor and happiness for that innocent desire to -astonish and amuse. And she continued, revealing her whole character in -the anecdote which Hautefeuille's arrival had interrupted:-- - -"The end of my adventure? I have already told you that this gentleman -took me for one of those demoiselles. At Nice, a little woman, dining -all alone at a little table in a little restaurant. And he was doing his -best to call my attention with his 'hum! hum!'--I felt like offering him -gumdrops--and his 'waiter!' perfectly useless to make me turn. And I did -turn, not much, just enough, to let him see me--without laughing. I -wanted to badly enough! Finally I paid, rose, and left. He paid. He -rose. He left. I didn't know what to do to get to the train. He followed -me. I let myself be followed.--Have you ever wondered, when you think of -those demoiselles, what they say to them to begin with?" - -"Things which I think I should be rather afraid to hear," said Madame -Bonnacorsi. - -"I don't think so any longer," Madame de Chésy replied; "for it is just -as stupid as what these gentlemen say to us. I stopped before the window -of a florist. He stopped beside me on my left. I looked at the bouquets. -He looked at the bouquets. I heard his old 'hum! hum!' He was going to -speak. 'Those are fine roses, madame,' he said. 'Yes, monsieur, they are -fine roses.' 'Are you very fond of flowers, madame?' I was just going to -say, 'Yes, monsieur, I am very fond of flowers,' when a voice on my -right called out, 'Well, Yvonne, you here?' And I was face to face with -the Grand Duchess Vera Paulovna, and at the same moment I saw my -follower turning the color of the roses we had been looking at together, -as he, stammering, bowed before Her Imperial Highness, and she, with her -Russian accent, 'My dear, allow me to present the Count Serge Kornow, -one of my most charming compatriots.' Tableau!" - -The laughing woman had scarcely finished her account of this childish -prank, told with the inexplicable but well-known pleasure which women of -society find in the contact with the _demi-monde_, when the sudden -entrance of a new personage into the parlor arrested the laughter or the -reproof of the friends who had been listening to this gay narrative. - -It was no other than the Archduke Henry Francis, his face red as it -usually was, his feet in heavy laced shoes, his tall, thin body in a -suit of dark clothes whose stains and grime spoke of the laboratory. -Faithful to his threat of the previous night, he had prevented Verdier -from lunching at the table of the Baroness; neither had he been present -himself. The master and the pupil had eaten, as they often did, between -two experiments, standing in their working aprons beside one of the -furnaces. Then the Prince had retired, ostensibly for a siesta, it not -appearing whether he had really wished to rest, or had planned a -decisive proof, by which to measure the intimacy already existing -between Miss Marsh and his assistant. He had, of course, not mentioned -the name of any guest to Verdier, nor had Verdier spoken of this matter. -So when on entering the parlor he saw the American girl and the young -man talking familiarly apart, a look of veritable fury came into his -face. - -His eyes glared from one group to the other. If he had had the power at -that moment, he would have put them all in irons, his wife because she -was certainly to blame for this treason, Madame Brion and Madame -Bonnacorsi because Madame de Carlsberg loved them; Madame de Chésy and -Hautefeuille because they were the complacent witnesses of this -_tête-à-tête_! In his imperious voice, which he could scarcely -control, he called from one end of the room to the other:-- - -"Monsieur Verdier!" - -Verdier turned. His shock at seeing the Prince, his humiliation at being -summoned in this way before the woman he loved, his impatience with a -yoke borne so long, were audible in the accent with which he answered:-- - -"Monseigneur?" - -"I need you in the laboratory," said the Archduke; "please come, and -come at once." - -Now it was the eyes of the assistant that shone with fury. For a few -moments the spectators of this odious scene could observe the tragic -combat of pride and gratitude in the face of this superior man so -unworthily humiliated. The Archduke had been peculiarly kind to the -young man's family. A dog unjustly beaten has that way of looking at his -master; will he fly at his throat or obey him? Doubtless Verdier, -knowing the Archduke, feared to arouse the anger of that madman and a -burst of insulting insolence against Florence Marsh. Perhaps, too, he -thought that his position of an employee under obligations permitted but -one dignified course--to oppose his own correctness of deportment to the -unqualified roughness of his master. - -"I am coming, monseigneur," he replied, and, taking Miss Marsh's hand -for the first time, he dared to kiss it. "You will excuse me, -mademoiselle," he said, "for having to leave you, but I hope to be able -to call before long--mesdames, monsieur." - -And he followed his redoubtable patron, who had departed as abruptly as -he had entered, when he saw Verdier raise to his lips the hand of Miss -Marsh. - -Every one remained standing in silence, the silence that follows a gross -breach of politeness, which the company cannot criticise aloud. Neither -Madame Brion nor Madame Bonnacorsi nor Madame de Chésy dared to look at -Madame de Carlsberg, who had faced the Prince with defiance and now -trembled with anger under the affront which her husband had inflicted -upon her by so demeaning himself at the very doors of her own parlor. - -Florence Marsh, bending over a table, pretended to be hunting for the -gloves, handkerchief, and smelling salts which she had left there, -doubtless endeavoring to hide the expression of her face. As for -Hautefeuille, ignorant of the under side of this society, except for the -indiscretions shrewdly measured out by Corancez, knowing absolutely -nothing of the relations between Marcel Verdier and the American girl, -he would not have been a lover if he had not connected this outburst of -the Prince with the fixed idea which possessed him. Beyond doubt the -espionage had done its work. The Archduke had learned of his -indiscretion. How much this indiscretion was to blame for the ferocious -humor of Madame de Carlsberg's husband, the young man could not tell. -What appeared to him but too certain, after he had met the terrible eyes -of the Prince, was that his presence was odious to this man, and whence -could arise that aversion if not from reports, alas, but too well -founded. - -Ah, how could he beg pardon of the loved one for having added new -troubles to all her others? But the silence was broken by Madame de -Chésy, who, after looking at her watch, kissed the Baroness and said:-- - -"I shall be late for the train. I dine at Monte Carlo to-night. But that -will be all over after the carnival! Adieu, dear, dear Ely." - -"And we, too, must go," said Madame Bonnacorsi, who had taken Miss -Marsh's arm while Yvonne de Chésy was leaving, "I shall try to console -this tall girl a little." - -"But I have consoled myself," replied Florence, adding with a tone that -was singularly firm: "One always succeeds in anything that one wishes, -if it is wished enough. Shall we walk?" she asked of the Marquise. - -"Then you will go through the garden, and I'll accompany you for a -little air," said Madame Brion. And, kissing Ely, she said aloud: "Dear, -I shall be back in a quarter of an hour," and added, in a whisper, "Have -courage." - -The door through which they passed into the garden closed. Ely de -Carlsberg and Pierre Hautefeuille were at last alone. Both of them had -long meditated over the words they should speak at this interview. Both -had come to it with a fixed determination, which was the same; for she -had decided to ask of him precisely what he had decided to offer,--his -departure. But both had been confused by the unexpected scene they had -witnessed. - -It had moved the young woman especially in every fibre of her being; the -wild spirit of revolt, which had been dormant under her growing love, -rose again in her heart. Her wounded pride, soothed, almost healed by -that gentle influence, suddenly reopened and bled. She felt anew the -hardness of the fate which placed her, in spite of all, at the mercy of -that terrible Prince, the evil genius of her youth. - -As for Hautefeuille, all the legends gathered here and there about the -tyranny and jealousy of the Archduke had suddenly taken shape before his -eyes. That vision of the man and wife, face to face, one menacing, the -other outraged, which had been so intolerable even to imagine, had been -realized in an unforgetable picture during the five minutes that the -Prince was in the room. That was enough to make him another man in this -interview. Natures like his, pure and delicate, are liable to -hesitations and indecisions which appear feeble, almost childish, so -long as they are not confronted by a clear situation and a positive -duty. It is enough for them to think they could be helpful to one they -love in order to find in the sincerity of their devotion all the energy -which they seem to lack. Pierre had felt that he could not even bear the -look of Baroness Ely the moment he read in it the knowledge of his -action. But now he was ready to tell her himself of this action, -naturally, simply, in his irresistible and passionate desire to expiate -his fault, if it were to blame for her suffering, which he had witnessed -with an aching heart. - -"Monsieur," she began, after that silence which precedes an explanation, -and which is more painful than the explanation itself, "I have written -you that we must have a conversation upon a rather serious and difficult -subject. But I wish you to be assured of one thing at the start--if in -the course of our conversation I have to say anything that pains you, -know that it will cost me a great deal;" she repeated, "a great deal." - -"Ah, madame," he answered, "you are afraid of being hard on me when you -have the right to be so severe. What I wish to assure you of at the -start is that your reproaches could not equal my self-reproach! Yes," he -continued, in a tone of passionate remorse, "after what I have seen and -understood, how can I ever forgive myself for having caused you an -annoyance, even were it but the slightest. I understand it all. I know -(from an anonymous letter that came with yours) that what I did the -night before last was seen,--my purchase of the case which you had just -sold. I know that you have been told of it, and I may divine what you -think. I do not ask you to pardon an indiscretion whose gravity I should -have felt at once. But then I didn't think. I saw the merchant take that -case, which I had seen you use so often. The thought of that object, -associated with your image in my mind--the thought of its being sold the -next day in a shop of that horrible locality, and being bought, perhaps, -by one of those frightful women like those around me near the -table--yes, this idea was too strong for my prudence, too strong for my -duty of reserve regarding you. You see, I do not attempt to justify -myself. But perhaps I have the right to assure you that even in my -thoughtless indiscretion there was still a respect for you." - -"I have never doubted your delicacy," said Madame de Carlsberg. - -She had been moved to the bottom of her heart by this naïve -supplication. She felt so keenly the contrast of his youth and -tenderness with the brutal manners of the Prince a quarter of an hour -before in this same place. And then, as she had recognized the hand of -Louise Brion in the anonymous letter, she was touched by that secret -proof of friendship, and she attempted to bring the conversation to the -point which her faithful friend had so strongly urged--timid and -fruitless effort now to conceal the trouble in her eyes, the involuntary -sigh that heaved her breast, the trembling of her heart in her voice. - -"No," she repeated, "I have never doubted it. But you know yourself the -malice of the world, and you see by the letter that was written to you -that your action was observed." - -"They will not write to me twice," the young man interrupted. "It was -not only from that letter that I understood the world's malice and -ferocity. What I perceived still more plainly a few moments ago," he -added, with that melancholy firmness which holds back the tears of -farewell, "was that my duty is clear now. My indiscretion the night -before last, and others that I might commit, it is happily in my power -to redeem, and I have come to tell you simply, madame, that I am going; -going," he repeated. "I shall leave Cannes, and if you permit me to hope -that I may gain your esteem by doing this I shall leave, not happy, but -less sad." - -"You are going!" Ely repeated. "You wish to go?" She looked the young -man in the face. She saw that delicate physiognomy whose emotion touched -her in a way she had never known before, and that fine mouth, still -trembling from the words just spoken. The thought of being forever -deprived of his presence suddenly became real to her with a vividness -which was physically intolerable, and with this came the certainty of -happiness if they should yield to the profound instinct that drew them -toward each other. She abandoned her will to the force of her -irresistible desire, and, feeling aloud, she said:-- - -"You shall not go, you cannot go. I am so lonely, so abandoned, so -miserable. I have nothing genuine and true around me; nothing, nothing, -nothing. And must I lose you?" - -She rose with a passionate movement, which brought Hautefeuille also to -his feet, and, approaching him, her eyes close to his, supernaturally -beautiful with the light that illuminated her admirable face in the rush -of her soul into her lips and eyes, she took his two hands in her hands, -and, as though by this pressure and these words she would mingle her -being with his, she cried:-- - -"No, you shall not leave me. We will not separate. That is not possible -since you are in love with me, and I with you." - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -AFLOAT - - -Fifteen days had passed since Madame de Carlsberg, in spite of her -promises, her resolutions, her remorse, had confessed her passion to -Pierre Hautefeuille. The date fixed for the cruise of the Jenny had -arrived, and he and she were standing side by side on the deck of the -yacht, which was bearing also the Marquise Bonnacorsi toward her -fantastic marriage, and her confidante, Miss Marsh, and pretty Madame de -Chésy and her husband for the entertainment of the Commodore. That was -the nickname given by his niece to the indefatigable Carlyle Marsh, who, -in truth, scarcely ever left the bridge, where he stood directing the -course of the boat with the skill of a professional sailor. - -This Marionville potentate would have had no pleasure in a carriage -unless he drove it, or in a yacht unless he steered it. He said himself, -without boasting:-- - -"If I should be ruined to-morrow I know twenty ways of making a living. -I am a mechanic, coachman, carpenter, pilot." - -On this afternoon, while the _Jenny_ sailed toward Genoa, he was at his -post on the bridge, in his gold braided hat, glass in hand, his maps -open before him, and he directed the course with an attention as -complete and scrupulous as though he had been occupied all his life in -giving orders to sailors. He had to a supreme degree that trait common -to all great workers,--the capacity for giving himself always and wholly -to the occupation of the moment. And to him the vast sea, so blue and -soft, whose calm surface scarcely rippled, was but a racecourse upon -which to exercise his love of contest, of struggle, the one pleasure of -the Anglo-Saxon. Five hundred yards to the right, ahead of the _Jenny_, -was a low, black yacht, with a narrower hull, steaming at full speed. It -was the _Dalilah_, of Lord Herbert Bohun. Farther ahead, on the left, -another yacht was sailing in the same direction. This one was white, -like the _Jenny_, but with a wider beam. It was the _Albatross_, the -favorite plaything of the Grand Dukes of Russia. The American had -allowed these two yachts to leave Cannes some time before him, with the -intention, quickly perceived by the others, of passing them, and -immediately, as it were, a tacit wager was made by the Russian prince, -the English lord, and the American millionaire, all three equally -fanatical of sport, each as proud of his boat as a young man of his -horses or his mistress. - -To Dickie Marsh, as he stood with his glass in his hand, giving orders -to the men, the whole scene reduced itself to a triangle, whose corners -were marked by the three yachts. He was literally blind to the admirable -horizon that stretched before him; the violet Esterel, with the long, -undulating line of its mountains, its dark ravines and jagged -promontories, the port of Cannes and the mole, with the old town and the -church rising behind it, all bathed in an atmosphere so transparent that -one could distinguish every little window and its shutters, every tree -behind the walls, the luxuriant hills of Grasse in the background, and -along the bay the line of white villas set in their gardens; then the -islands, like two oases of dark green, and suddenly the curve of another -gulf, terminated by the solitary point of the Antibes. And the trees on -this point, like those of the islands, bouquets of parasol pines, all -bent in one direction, spoke of the eternal drama of this shore, the war -of the mistral and the waves. But now the drama was suspended, giving -place to the most intoxicating flood of light. Not a fleck of foam -marred the immense sweep of liquid sapphire over which the Jenny -advanced with a sonorous and fresh sound of divided water. Not one of -those flaky clouds, which sailors call cattails, lined the radiant dome -of the sky where the sun appeared to expand, dilate, rejoice in ether -absolutely pure. It seemed as though this sky and sea and shore had -conspired to fulfil the prophecy of the chiromancer, Corancez, upon the -passage of the boat that was bearing his clandestine _fiancée_; and -Andryana Bonnacorsi recalled that prediction to Flossie Marsh as they -leaned on the deck railing, clothed in similar costumes of blue and -white flannel--the colors of the _Jenny's_ awning--and talked while they -watched the _Dalilah_ drawing nearer and nearer. - -"You remember in the Casino at Monte Carlo how he foretold this weather -from our hands, exactly this and no other. Isn't it extraordinary, after -all?" - -"You see how wrong you were to be afraid," replied Miss Marsh; "if he -saw clearly in one case, he must have done so in the others. We are -going to have a fine night on sea, and by one o'clock to-morrow we shall -head for Genoa." - -"Don't be so confident," said the Italian, extending her hand with two -fingers crossed to charm away the evil fates; "you will bring us bad -luck." - -"What! with this sky, this sea, this yacht, these lifeboats?" - -"How should I know? But suppose Lord Herbert Bohun decides simply to -follow us to the end and go with us to Genoa?" - -"Follow us to the end on the _Dalilah_ and we on the _Jenny_? I should -like to see him try it!" said the American. "See how we gain on him. But -be careful, Chésy and his wife are coming in this direction. Well, -Yvonne," she said to the pretty little Vicomtesse, blond and rosy in her -dress of white serge, embroidered with the boat's colors, "you are not -afraid to go so fast?" - -"No," said Madame de Chésy, laughing; and, turning toward the bow, she -drew in a long breath. "This air intoxicates me like champagne!" - -"Do you see your brother, Marquise?" asked Chésy, pointing to one of -the persons standing on the deck of the _Dalilah_. "He is beside the -Prince. They must not feel very well satisfied. And his terriers, do you -see his terriers running around like veritable rats? I am going to make -them angry. Wait." And making a trumpet of his hands he shouted these -words, whose irony he did not suspect:-- - -"Ay, Navagero; can we do anything for you at Genoa?" - -"He doesn't understand, or pretends not to," said Madame de Chésy. "But -here's something he will understand. The Prince is not looking, is he?" -And boyishly she stretched her two hands from her nose with the most -impertinent gesture that a pretty woman ever made to a company -containing a royal highness. "Ah! the Prince saw me," she cried, with a -wild laugh. "Bah! he's such a good fellow! And if he doesn't like it," -and she softly tapped her eye with the ends of her fingers, "et voilà!" - -When the frolicsome Parisienne began this piece of disrespectful -childishness the two yachts had come abreast of each other. For a -quarter of an hour they went side by side, cutting through the water, -propelled only by the force of their robust lungs of steel, vomiting -from their chimneys two straight, black columns, which scarcely curved -in the calm air; and behind them stretched a furrow of glaucous green -over the blue water, like a long and moving path of emerald fringed with -silver, and on it rolled and pitched a sailboat manned by two young men, -sporting in the wake of the steamers. - -On this wild race the deck was yet so motionless that the water did not -tremble in the vases of Venetian glass placed on the table near a group -of three women. The purple and saffron petals of the large roses slowly -dropped upon the table. Beside the flowers, amid their perfume, Madame -de Carlsberg was sitting. She had ungloved one of her beautiful hands to -caress the bloom of the flowers, and she gazed, smiling and dreamily, -from the _Dalilah_ to the luminous horizon, from her fellow-voyagers out -to the vast sea, and at Hautefeuille standing, with Chésy, beside her, -and turning to her incessantly. The breeze of the boat's motion revealed -the slender form of the young man under his coat of navy blue and -trousers of white flannel, and softly fluttered the supple red stuff of -Baroness Ely's blouse and her broad tie of black _mousseline de soie_, -matched with the large white and black squares of her skirt. The young -man and the young woman both had in their eyes a feverish joy in living -that harmonized with the radiance of the beautiful afternoon. How little -his smile--the tender and ready smile of a lover who is loved--resembled -the tired laughter that the jokes of Corancez had won from him two weeks -before. And she, with the faint rose that tinged her cheeks, usually so -pale, with her half-opened lips breathing in the healthful odor of the -sea and the delicate perfume of the flowers, with her calm, clear -brow--how little she resembled the Ely of the villa garden, defying, -under the stars of the softest Southern night, the impassive beauty of -nature. Seated near her loved one, how sweet nature now appeared--as -sweet as the perfume of the roses that her fingers deflowered, as -caressing as the soft breeze, as intoxicating as the free sky and water! -How indulgent she felt for the little faults of her acquaintances, which -she had condemned so bitterly the other night! For the eternal -hesitations of Andryana Bonnacorsi, for the positivism of Florence -Marsh, for the fast tone of Yvonne Chésy, she had now but a complacent -half-smile. She forgot to be irritated at the naïve and comic -importance which Chésy assumed on board the boat. In his blue yachting -cap, his little body stiff and straight, he explained the reasons of the -_Jenny's_ superiority over the _Dalilah_ and the _Albatross_, with the -technical words he had caught from Marsh, and he gave the orders for -tea:-- - -"Dickie is coming down as soon as we pass the other yacht," he said, -and, turning to a sailor, "John, tell the _chef_ to have everything -ready in a quarter of an hour;" then addressing Madame de Carlsberg: -"You are uncomfortable here, Baroness. I told Dickie that he should -change his chairs. He is so careless at times. Do you notice these rugs? -They are Bokharas--magnificent! He bought five at Cairo, and they would -have rotted on the lower deck if I had not discovered them and had them -brought here from the horrible place where he left them. You remember? -And these plants on deck — that is better, is it not? But has he taken -too many cocktails this morning--See how close we are passing to the -Albatross! Good evening, monseigneur." - -And he saluted the Grand Duke--a kind of giant, with the broad, genial -face of a moujik--who applauded the triumph of the _Jenny_, calling out -in his strong voice:-- - -"Next year I'll build another that will beat you!" - -"Do you know I was frightened," said Chésy to Marsh, who, according to -his promise, had descended from the bridge; "we just grazed the -_Albatross_!" - -"I was very sure of the boat," Marsh continued; "but I should not have -done it with Bohun. You saw how far I kept away from him. He would have -cut our yacht in two. When the English see themselves about to be -beaten, their pride makes them crazy, and they are capable of anything." - -"That is just what they say of the Americans," gayly replied Yvonne de -Chésy. - -The pretty Parisienne was probably the only person in the world that the -master of the Jenny would have permitted such a pleasantry. But Corancez -had been right in what he said to Hautefeuille--when the malicious -Vicomtesse was speaking Marsh could see his daughter. So he did not take -offence at this epigram against his country, susceptible as he usually -was to any denial that in everything America "beat the Old World." - -"You are attacking my poor compatriots again," he said simply. "That is -very ungrateful. All of them that I know are in love with you." - -"Come, Commodore," replied the young woman; "don't try the madrigal. It -is not your specialty. But lead us down to tea, which ought to be -served, should it not, Gontran?" - -"They are astonishing," Miss Marsh whispered, when her uncle and the -Chésys had started toward the stairway that led to the salon. "They act -as though they were at home." - -"Don't be jealous," said Madame Bonnacorsi. "They will be so useful to -us at Genoa in occupying the terrible uncle." - -"If it were only she," Florence replied; "she is amusing and such a good -girl. But he--I don't know if it is the blood of a daughter of the great -Republic, but I can't endure a nobleman who has a way of being insolent -in the rôle of a parasite and domestic." - -"Chésy is simply the husband of a very pretty woman," said Madame de -Carlsberg. "Everything is permitted to those husbands on account of -their wives, and they become spoilt children. You are going down? I -shall remain on deck. Send us tea here, will you? I say us, for I shall -keep you for company," she continued, turning to Hautefeuille. "I know -Chésy. Now that the race is over he will proceed to act as the -proprietor of the yacht. Happily, I shall protect you. Sit here." - -And she motioned to a chair beside her own, with that tender and -imperious grace by which a woman who loves, but is obliged to restrain -herself before others, knows how to impart all the trembling passion of -the caress she cannot give. Lovers like Pierre Hautefeuille obey these -orders in an eager, almost religious, way which makes men smile, but not -the women. They know so well that this devotion in the smallest things -is the true sign of an inward idolatry. So neither Miss Marsh nor Madame -Bonnacorsi thought of jesting at Hautefeuille's attitude. But while -retiring, with that instinctive complicity with which the most virtuous -women have for the romance of another, they said:-- - -"Corancez was indeed right. How he loves her!" - -"Yes, he is happy to-day; but to-morrow?" - -But to-morrow? He had no thought for the mysterious and dangerous morrow -of all our peaceful to-days. The _Jenny_, free of her antagonists, -continued with her rapid and cradling motion over this velvet sea. The -_Dalilah_ and the _Albatross_ were already faint in the blue distance, -where the coast also was disappearing. A few more strokes of the -engines, a few more turns of the screw, and there would be nothing -around them but the moving water, the motionless sky, and the sinking -sun. The end of a beautiful winter day in Provence is really divine -during that hour before the chill of evening has touched the air and -darkened the sea and land. Now that the other guests of the yacht had -gone down to the dining-room, it seemed as though the two lovers were -all alone in the world on a floating terrace, amid the shrubbery and the -perfume of flowers. One of the boat's servants, a kind of agile and -silent genius, had placed the small tea-table beside them, with a -complicated little apparatus of silver, on which, as well as on the cups -and plates, was the fantastic coat of arms adopted by Marsh--the arch of -a bridge over a swamp, "arch on Marsh"--this pun, in the same taste as -that in which the boat had been baptized, was written under the -scutcheon. The bridge was in or, the marsh in sable, on a field of -gules. The American cared nothing for heraldic heresies. Black, red, and -yellow were the colors of the deck awning, and this scutcheon and device -signified that his railroad, celebrated in fact for the boldness of its -viaducts, had saved him from misery, here represented by the marsh. -Naïve symbolism which would have typified even more justly the arch of -dreams thrown by the two lovers over all the mire of life. Even the -little tea-set, with its improvised coat of arms, added to this fleeting -moment a charm of intimacy, the suggestion of a home where they two -might have lived heart to heart in the uninterrupted happiness of each -other's daily presence; and it was this impression that the young man -voiced aloud after they had enjoyed their solitude for a few moments in -silence. - -"How delicious is this hour," he said, "more delicious than I had ever -dreamed! Ah! if this boat belonged to us, and we could go thus on a long -voyage, you and I, to Italy, which I would not see without you, to -Greece, which gave you your beauty. How beautiful you are, and how I -love you! _Dieu_! if this hour would never end!" - -"Every hour has an end," answered Ely, half shutting her eyes, which had -filled with ecstasy at the young man's impassioned words, and then, as -though to repress a tremor of the heart that was almost painful in its -tenderness, she said, with the grace and gayety of a young girl: "My old -German governess used to say, as she pointed to the eagles of Sallach, -'You must be like the birds who are happy with crumbs'; and it is true -that we find only crumbs in life.--I have sworn," she went on, "that -you, that we, will not fall into the 'terrible sorrow.'" - -She emphasized the last two words, which were doubtless a tender -repetition of a phrase often spoken between them, and which had become a -part of their lovers' dialect. And playfully she turned to the table and -filled the two cups, adding:-- - -"Let us drink our tea wisely, and be as _gemüthlich_ as the good -_bourgeois_ of my country." - -She handed one of the cups to Hautefeuille while she said this. As the -young man took it, he touched with his fingers the small and supple hand -that served him with the delight in humble indulgences so dear to women -who are really in love. His simple caress caused them to exchange one of -those looks in which two souls seem to touch, melt together, and absorb -each other by the magnetism of their desire. They paused once more, rapt -in the sense of their mutual fever so intoxicating to share amid that -atmosphere, mixed with the scent of the sea and the perfume of the -roses, with the languid palpitation of the immense waters sleeping -around them in their silence. During the two weeks that had passed since -the sudden avowal of Madame de Carlsberg they had repeated their vows of -love, they had written passionate, wild letters, and had exchanged their -souls in kisses, but they had not given themselves yet wholly to each -other. As he looked at her now on the deck of the yacht he trembled -again from head to foot to see her smile with those lips, whose fresh -and delicious warmth he still felt on his own. To see her so supple and -so young, her body quivering with all the nervousness of a creature of -fine race, recalled the passionate clasp with which he had enfolded her -in the garden of her villa two days after the first vows. She had led -him, under the pretext of a conversation, to a kind of belvedere, or -rather cloister, a double row of marble columns, overlooking the sea and -the islands. In the centre was a square space thick planted with -gigantic camellias. The ground was all strewn with blossoms, buried in -the large petals of red and rose and white fallen from the trees, and -the red, rose, and white of other flowers gleamed above amid the sombre -and lustrous foliage. It was there that he had for the second time held -her close in his arms, and again still more closely in an obscure spot -of the adorable villa of Ellenrock, at Antibes, where he had gone to -wait for her. She had come to him, in her dress of mauve, along a path -bordered with blue cineraria, violet heart's-ease, and great anemones. -The neighboring roses filled the air with a perfume like that around -them now, and sitting on the white heather, beneath the pines that -descended to a little gray-rocked cove, he rested his head upon the -heart of his dear companion. - -All these memories--and others as vivid and troubling--mingled with his -present emotion and intensified it. The total unlikeness of Ely to all -the women he had met served to quiet the young man's naïve remorse for -his past experiences, and to make him forget the culpability of that -sweet hour. Ely was married, she had given herself to one man, and had -no right while he lived to give herself to a second. Although Pierre was -no longer sufficiently religious to respect marriage as a sacrament, the -imprint of his education and his memories of home were too deep, and -above all he was too loyal not to feel a repugnance for the stains and -miseries of adultery. But Ely had been careful to prevent him from -meeting the Archduke after that terrible scene, and to the lover's -imagination the Prince appeared only in the light of a despot and a -tormentor. His wife was not his wife; she was his victim. And the young -man's pity was too passionate not to overcome his scruples; all the more -since he had, for the last two weeks, found his friend in an incessant -revolt against an outrageous espionage--that of the sinister Baron von -Laubach, the aide-de-camp with the face of a Judas. And this voluntary -policeman must really have pursued Ely with a very odious surveillance -for his memory to come to her at this moment when she wished to forget -everything except this sky and sea, the swift boat, and the ecstatic -lover who was speaking by her side. - -"Do you remember," he was saying, "our uneasiness three days ago, when -the sea was so rough that we thought we could not start? We had the same -idea of going up to La Croisette to see the storm. I could have thanked -you on my knees when I met you with Miss Marsh." - -"And then you thought that I was angry with you," she said, "because I -passed with scarcely speaking to you. I had just caught a glimpse of -that foxlike Iago von Laubach. Ah! what a relief to know that all on -board are my friends, and incapable of perfidy! Marsh, his niece, -Andryana, are honor itself. The little Chésys are light and frivolous, -but there is not a trace of ill-nature about them. The presence of a -traitor, even when he is not feared, is enough to spoil the most -delightful moments. And this moment, ah! how I should suffer to have it -spoiled!" - -"How well I understand that!" he answered, with the quick and tender -glance of a lover who is delighted to find his own ways of feeling in -the woman he loves. "I am so much like you in that; the presence of a -person whom I know to be despicable gives me a physical oppression of -the heart. The other evening at your house, when I met that Navagero of -whom Corancez had so often spoken, he poisoned my visit, although I had -with me that dear, dear letter which you had written the night before." -Then, dreamily following this train of thought, he continued: "It is -strange that every one does not feel the same about this. To some -people, and excellent ones too, a proof of human infamy is almost a joy. -I have a friend like that--Olivier du Prat, of whom I spoke to you and -whom you knew at Rome. I have never seen him so gay as when he had -proved some villainy. How he has made me suffer by that trait of his! -And he was one of the most delicate of men, with the tenderest of hearts -and finest of minds. Can you explain that?" - -The name of Olivier du Prat, pronounced by that voice which had been -moving Ely to the heart--what an answer to the wish sighed by the -amorous woman that this divine moment should not be spoiled! These -simple words were enough to dissipate her enchantment, and to interrupt -her happiness with a pain so acute that she almost cried aloud. Alas! -she was but at the very beginning of her love's romance, and already -that which had been predicted by Louise Brion, her faithful and too -lucid friend, had come true--she was shut in the strange and agonizing -inferno of silence which must avoid, as the most terrible of dangers, -the solace of confession. How many times already in like moments had a -similar allusion evoked between her and Pierre the image of that other -lover! Pierre had very soon alluded lightly and gayly to his friend, and -as the Baroness had thought it best not to conceal the fact that she had -met him in Rome, he continued to recall memories of Du Prat, without -suspecting that his words entered like a knife into the poor woman's -heart. To see how much Hautefeuille loved Du Prat--with a friendship -equal to that which the latter had for him--how could she help feeling -anew the constant menace hanging over her? And then, as at the present, -she was filled with an inexpressible anguish. It was as though all the -blood in her veins had suddenly flowed out through some deep and -invisible wound. At other times it was not even necessary that the -redoubtable name should be mentioned in their conversation. It sufficed -that the young man, in the course of the intimate talks which she -encouraged as often as her social servitude permitted, should -ingenuously express his opinion on some of the love-affairs reported by -the gossips of the coast. She would then insist upon his talking in -order to measure his uncompromising morality. She would have been pained -if he had felt differently, for then he would not have been that noble -and pure conscience unspotted by life; and she suffered because he did -feel thus, and so unconsciously condemned her past. She made him open -his mind to her, and always she found at the bottom this idea, natural -to an innocent soul, that if love may be pardoned for everything, -nothing should be pardoned to caprice, and that a woman of noble heart -could not love a second time. When Hautefeuille would make some remark -like this, which revealed his absolute and naïve faith in the -singleness and uniqueness of true love, inevitably, implacably, Olivier -would reappear before the inward eye of the poor woman. Wherever they -were, in the silent patio strewn with camellia leaves, under the -murmuring pines of the Villa Ellenrock, on the field at La Napoule, -where the golf players moved amid the freshest and softest of -landscapes, all the marvellous scenery of the South would vanish, -disappear--the palms and orange trees, the ravines, the blue sky and the -luminous sea, and the man she loved. She would see nothing before her -but the cruel eyes and evil smile of her old lover at Rome. In a sudden -half hallucination she would hear him speaking to Pierre. Then all her -happy forces would suddenly be arrested. Her eyelids would quiver, her -mouth gasp for air, her features contract with pain, her breast shudder -as though pierced by a knife; and, as at present, her tender and -unconscious tormentor would ask, "What is the matter?" with an eager -solicitude that at the same time tortured and consoled her; and she -would answer, as now, with one of those little falsehoods for which true -love cannot forgive itself. For hearts of a certain depth of feeling, -complete and total sincerity is a need that is almost physical, like -hunger and thirst. What an inoffensive deception it was! And yet Ely had -once more a feeling of remorse at giving this explanation of her sudden -distress:-- - -"It is a chill that has come over me. The night comes so quickly in this -country, with such a sudden fall of temperature." - -And while the young man was helping to envelop her in her cloak, she -said, in a tone that contrasted with the insignificance of her remark:-- - -"Look how the sea has changed with the sinking sun; how dark it has -grown--almost black--and what a deep blue the sky is. It is as though -all nature had suddenly been chilled. How beautiful it is yet, but a -beauty in which you feel the approach of shadows." - -And, indeed, by one of those atmospheric phenomena more general in the -South than elsewhere, the radiant and almost scorching afternoon had -suddenly ended, and the evening had come abruptly in the space of a few -minutes. The _Jenny_ moved on over a sea without a wave or a ripple. The -masts, the yards, and the funnel threw long shadows across the water, -and the sun, almost at the edge of the horizon, was no longer warm -enough to dissipate the indistinct and chilly vapor that rose and rose, -already wetting with its mist drops the brass and woodwork of the deck. -And the blue of the still sea deepened into black, while the azure of -the clear sky paled and waned. Then, as the disk of the sun touched the -horizon abruptly, the immeasurable fire of the sunset burst from the sky -over the sea. The coast had disappeared, so that the passengers of the -yacht, now returned to the deck, had nothing before them but the water -and the sky, two formless immensities over which the light played in its -fairy fantasies--here spread in a sheet of tender and transparent rose, -like the petals of the eglantine; there rolling in purple waves, the -color of bright blood; there stretching like a shore of emerald and -amethyst, and farther, built into solid and colossal porticos of gold, -and this light opened with the sky, palpitated with the sea, dilated -through infinite space, and suddenly as the disk disappeared beneath the -waves, this splendor vanished as it came, leaving the sea again a bluish -black, and the sky, too, almost black, but with a bar of intense orange -on its verge. This bright line vanished in its turn. The earliest stars -began to come out, and the yacht lights to appear, illumining the dark -mass which went on, bearing into the falling night the heart of a woman -which had all day reflected the divine serenity of the bright hours, and -which now responded to the melancholy of the rapid and fading twilight. - -Although she was not at all superstitious, Ely could not help feeling, -with a shudder, how this sudden invasion of the radiant day by the -sadness of evening, resembled the darkening of her inward heaven by the -evocation of her past. This analogy had given an added poignancy to her -contemplation of the tragic sunset, the battle of the day's last fire -with the shadows of night, and happily the magnificence of this -spectacle had been so overwhelming that even her light companions had -felt its solemnity. No one had spoken during the few minutes of this -enchantment in the west. Now, when the babble recommenced, she felt like -fleeing from it--fleeing even from Hautefeuille, whose presence she -feared. Moved as she was, she was afraid of breaking into tears beside -him; tears that she would not be able to explain. When he approached her -she said, "You must pay some attention to the others," and she began to -pace the deck from end to end in company with Dickie Marsh. The American -had the habit, while on board, of taking a certain amount of exercise -measured exactly by the watch. He looked at the time, then paced over a -measured distance until he had complied with his hygienic rules. "At -Marionville," he would say, "it was very simple; the blocks are each -exactly a half mile long. When you have walked eight of them, you know -you have done four miles. And your constitutional is finished." Usually, -when thus engaged in the noble duty of exercise, Marsh remained silent. -It was the time when he invented those schemes that were destined to -make him a billionaire. Ely, knowing of this peculiarity, counted upon -not exchanging ten words while walking with the potentate of -Marionville. She thought that the silent promenade would quiet her -overwrought nerves. They had paced thus for perhaps ten minutes, when -Dickie Marsh, who appeared more preoccupied than usual, suddenly -asked:-- - -"Does Chésy sometimes speak to you of his affairs?" - -"Sometimes," answered the young woman, "as he does to everybody. You -know he has an idea that he is one of the shrewdest on the Bourse, and -he is very glad to talk about it." - -"Has he told you," Marsh continued, "that he is speculating in mining -stocks?" - -"Very likely. I do not listen to him." - -"I heard him say so," the American said, "and just a moment ago, after -tea, and I am still upset by it. And there are not many things that can -worry me. At this moment," he continued, looking at Madame de Chésy, -who was talking with Hautefeuille, "this charming Vicomtesse Yvonne is, -beyond doubt, ruined; absolutely, radically ruined." - -"That is impossible. Chésy is advised by Brion, who, I have heard, is -one of the best financiers of the day." - -"Pooh!" said Dickie Marsh, "he would be swallowed in one mouthful in -Wall Street. As for the small affairs on this side of the water, he -understands them well enough. But it is just because he understands them -that his advice will ruin Chésy. It will not bore you to have me -explain how and why I am sure that a crash is coming in that famous -silver mine syndicate which you have at least heard of. All those who -buy for a rise--whom we call the bulls--will be caught. Chésy has a -fortune of $300,000. He explained his position to me; he will lose -$250,000. If it has not happened already, it will happen to-morrow." - -"And you have told him all that?" - -"What's the use?" the American replied. "It would only spoil his trip. -And then it will be time enough at Genoa, where he can telegraph. But -you, Baroness, will help me to do them a real service. You see that if -Brion advises Chésy to join the bulls, it is because he himself is with -the bears. That is our name for those who play for a decline. All this -is legitimate. It is a battle. Each one for himself. All the financiers -who give advice to men of society do the same, and they are right. Only -Brion has still another reason: imagine Madame de Chésy with an income -of ten thousand francs.--You understand." - -"It is ignoble enough for him, that calculation," Ely said with disgust. -"But how can I help you to prevent that scoundrel from proposing to the -poor little woman to be his paid mistress, since that is certainly what -you mean?" - -"Exactly," replied the American. "I wish you would say to her, not this -evening, or to-morrow, but when things have turned the way I know they -will. 'You have need of some one to help you out of your embarrassment? -Remember Dickie Marsh, of Marionville.' I would tell her myself. But she -would think me like Brion, amorous of her, and offering money for that. -These Frenchwomen are very clever, but there is one thing they will -never understand; that is that a man may not be thinking with them about -the 'little crime,' as they call it themselves. That is the fault of the -men of this country. All Europe is rotten to the core. If you speak to -her, there will be a third person between her and me, and she will know -very well that I have another reason." - -He paused. He had so often explained to Madame de Carlsberg the -resemblance between Yvonne de Chésy and his dead daughter, which moved -him so strongly, that she was not deceived in regard to the secret -reason of his strange interest and stranger proposition. There was in -this business man, with all his colossal schemes, a touch of romanticism -almost fantastic, and so singular that Ely did not doubt his sincerity, -nor even wonder at it. The thought of seeing that pretty and charming -face, sister to the one he had loved so much, soiled by the vile lust of -a Brion, or some other _entreteneur_ of impoverished women of society, -filled this man with horror, and, like a genuine Yankee, he employed the -most practical means of preventing this sacrilege. Neither was Ely -surprised at the inconsistency of Marsh's conscience when the speculator -found Brion's rascality in money affairs very natural, while the -Anglo-Saxon was revolted at the mere thought of a love-affair. No, it -was not astonishment that Madame de Carlsberg felt at this unexpected -confidence. Troubled as she was by her own unhappiness, she felt a new -thrill of sadness. While she and Marsh paced from one end of the boat to -the other during this conversation, she could hear Yvonne de Chésy -laughing gayly with Hautefeuille. For this child, too, the day had been -delicious, and yet misfortune was approaching her, from out of the -bottomless gulf of destiny. This impression was so intense that, after -leaving Marsh, Ely went instinctively to the young woman, and kissed her -tenderly. And she, laughing, answered:-- - -"That is good of you. But you have been so good to me ever since you -discovered me. It took you long enough." - -"What do you mean?" asked the Baroness. - -"That you did not at first suspect that there was a gallant little man -hidden in your crazy Yvonne! Pierre's sister knows it well, and always -has." - -As the pretty and heedless young woman made this profession of faith, -her clear eyes revealed a conscience so good in spite of her fast tone, -that Ely felt her heart still more oppressed. The night had come, and -the first bell for dinner had sounded. The three lights, white, green, -and red, shone now like precious stones on the port, the starboard, and -the foremast. Ely felt an arm pass under hers. It was Andryana -Bonnacorsi who said:-- - -"It is too bad that we must go down to dress; it would be so pleasant to -spend the whole night here." - -"Would it not?" replied the Baroness, murmuring to herself, "She at -least is happy." Then aloud: "It is the farewell dinner to your -widowhood; you must look beautiful. But you seem to be worried." - -"I am thinking of my brother," said the Italian woman, "and the thought -of him weighs upon me like remorse. And then, I think also of Corancez. -He is a year younger than I. That is nothing to-day, but in ten years?" - -"She too feels the menace of the future," thought Ely, a quarter of an -hour later, while her maid was arranging her hair in the chamber of -honor that had been given her next to that of the dead girl. "Marsh is -disconsolate to see Chésy confronted by a terrible disaster. Andryana -is preparing for marriage, haunted by remorse and fear. Florence is -uncertain of ever being able to wed the man she loves. And Hautefeuille -and I, with a phantom between us, which he does not see, but which I see -so clearly, and which to-morrow, or the day after, in a week or two, -will be a living man, who will see us, whom I shall see, and who will -speak,--will speak to him." - -A prey to this growing melancholy, the young woman took her seat at the -dinner table, laden with the costly flowers that delight the -ostentatious Americans. Incomparable orchids spread over the table a -carpet of the softest hues. Other orchids were wreathed about the -candles and the electric chandelier suspended from the varnished -ceiling; and amid this prodigality of fantastic corollas, gleamed a set -of goldware of the time of Louis XIV.--the historical personage who was -second only to Napoleon in the estimation of this Ohio democrat, who -evinced, on this point, as on so many others, one of the most -astonishing inconsistencies of his compatriots. And the bright tones of -the wainscoting, the precision of the service, the delicacy of the food -and wine, the brilliant toilets of the women, made this a setting for -the consummation of refinement, with the sea visible through the open -portholes, still motionless, and now touched by the rays of the crescent -moon. Marsh had ordered the boat's speed to be slackened, so that the -vibration of the screw was scarcely noticeable in the dining-room. The -hour was really so exquisite, that the guests gradually yielded to the -charm, the master of the boat first of all. He had placed Madame de -Carlsberg in front of him, between Chésy and Hautefeuille, in order to -have Madame de Chésy on his left, and in his tones and looks, as he -talked to her, there was an amused and tender affection, a protecting -indulgence, and an inexpressible depth of reverie. Resolved to save her -from the danger which Chésy's confidences had suddenly revealed, it was -as though he were going to do something more for the other, for the dead -one whose image was sleeping in the rear room. He laughed at the follies -of Yvonne, delicious in her pink dress, a little excited by the dry -champagne whose golden foam sparkled in the glass,--a gold the color of -her hair,--and still more excited by the sense of pleasing--the most -dangerous and the only intoxication that women thoroughly enjoy. Miss -Marsh, all in blue, seated between her and Chésy, listened to his -discourse upon hunting, the one subject on which this gentleman was well -informed, with the profound attention of an American girl who is -gathering new information. Andryana Bonnacorsi was silent, but cheered -by the genial surroundings, her tender blue eyes, the color of the -turquoise in her magnificent white corsage, smiled musingly. She forgot -the dangerous character of her brother, and the future infidelity of her -_fiancé_, to think of nothing but the caressing eyes, the voluptuous -lips, and the alluring grace of the young man whose wife she would be in -a few hours. Nor could the Baroness Ely resist the contagion that -floated in this atmosphere. Once more the loved one was near her and all -her own. In his youthful eyes she could see such respect and love, -timidity and desire. He spoke to her in words that all could hear, but -with a trembling in his voice which she alone could understand. She -began by replying to him, then she also grew silent. A great wave of -passion rose within her, drowning all other thoughts. Her fears of the -future, her remorse for the past--all was forgotten in the presence of -Pierre, whom she could see with his heart beating, his breast agitated, -alive and quivering beside her. How often he was thus to see her in -memory, and pardon the fearful suffering she had caused him for the sake -of her beauty at that moment! Ah! divine, divine beauty! Her eyes were -drowned in languorous ecstasy. Her open lips breathed in the air as -though half dying. The admirable curve of her neck rose with such grace -above her low-cut dress of black,--a black that gave a richer gleam to -the whiteness of her flower-soft skin; and in the simple folds of her -hair, crowning her noble head, burned a single stone, a ruby, red and -warm as a drop of blood. - -How often he was to remember her thus, and as she appeared to him when -later she leaned on the railing of the deck and watched the water that -murmured, dashed, and sighed in the darkness, and the sky and the silent -innumerable stars; and then looked at him and said: "I love you. Ah! how -I love you." They had exchanged no promises. And yet, as surely as the -sea and sky were there around them he knew that the hour had come, and -that this night, this sky and sea, were the mystic and solemn witnesses -of their secret betrothal! Nothing was audible in the calm night but the -peaceful and monotonous respiration of the moving boat and the rhythmic -splash of the sea--the caressing sea, their accomplice, who enchanted -and rocked them in its gentle waves--while the tempest waited. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -IL MATRIMONIO SEGRETO - - -When the first pale rays of dawn broke upon the glass of the porthole, -Pierre rose and went on deck. Dickie Marsh was there already, regarding -the sky and the sea with the attentive scrutiny of an old sailor. - -"For a Frenchman," he said to the young man, "you surprise me. I have -seen a good many of your countrymen upon the _Jenny_. And yet you are -the first that I have seen, so far, who rises at the most delicious hour -of the day on sea.--Just breathe the breeze that comes from the open. -You could work for ten hours without feeling tired, after taking a -supply of such oxygen into your lungs.--The sky makes me a little -uneasy," he added. "We have gone too far out of our course. We cannot -reach Genoa before eight o'clock and the _Jenny_ may receive a good -tossing before that time.--I never had any sympathy for those yachtsmen -who invite their friends to enjoy the hospitality of a stateroom in -company with a slop-pail!--We could have gone from Cannes to Genoa in -four hours, but I thought it better to let you sleep away from the -tumult of the port.--The barometer was very high! I have never seen it -descend so quickly." - -The dome of the heavens, so clear all the preceding day and night, had -indeed, little by little, been obscured by big, gray, rock-like clouds. -Others were spread along the line of the horizon like changing lines -fleeing from each other. Pale rays of sunlight struggled to pierce this -curtain of gray vapor. The sea was still all around them, but no longer -motionless and glossy. The water was leadlike in hue, opaque, heavy, -menacing. The breeze freshened rapidly, and soon a strong gust of wind -swept over the sullen sheet of the water. It caused a trembling to run -along the surface, as though it shuddered. Then thousands of ripples -showed themselves, becoming larger and larger, until they swelled into -countless short, choppy waves, curling over and tossing their white -crests in the air. - -"Are you a good sailor?" Marsh asked Hautefeuille. "However, it does not -matter. I was mistaken in my calculations. The _Jenny_ will not get much -tossing about, after all.--We're going before the wind and will soon be -under the shelter of the coast. Look! There is the Porto-Fino -lighthouse. As soon as we have rounded the cape, we shall be out of -danger." - -The sea, by this time, was completely covered with a scattered mass of -bubbling foam through which the yacht ploughed her way easily without -rolling much, although she listed alternately to the right and then to -the left like a strong swimmer accommodating his stroke to the waves. -Close to a ruined convent, some distance ahead, a rocky point projected, -bearing a dazzlingly white lighthouse at its extremity. The promontory -was covered, as with a fleece, with a thick growth of silvery olive -trees, between which could be seen numerous painted villas, while its -rocky base was a network of tiny creeks. This was Cape Porto-Fino, a -place rendered famous by the captivity there of Francis I. after Pavia. -The yacht rounded it so closely that Hautefeuille could hear the roar of -the waves breaking upon the rocks. Beyond the promontory again stretched -the sullen sheet of water with the long line of the Ligurian coast, -which descends from Chiappa and Camogli as far as Genoa by way of Recco, -Nervi, and Quinto. Height ascending after height could be seen, the -hills forming the advance guard of the Apennines, their valleys planted -with figs and chestnuts, their villages of brightly painted cottages, -dotting the scene, and with, in the foreground, the narrow strip of -sandy soil that serves as seashore. The landscape, at once savage and -smiling, impressed the business man and the lover in different ways, for -the former said with disdain:-- - -"They have not been able to make a double track railway along their -coast! I suppose the task is too big for these people.--Why, my line -from Marionville to Duluth has four tracks--and we had to make tunnels -of a different sort from these!" - -"But even one line is too much here," replied Hautefeuille, pointing to -a locomotive that was slowly skirting the shore, casting out a thick -volume of smoke. "What is the good of modern inventions in an old -country?--How can one dream of an existence of struggles amid such -scenery?" he continued, as though thinking aloud. "How is it possible to -contemplate the stern necessities of life upon this Riviera, or upon the -other?--Provence and Italy are oases in your desert of workshops and -manufactories. Have a little respect for them. Let there be at least a -corner of the world left for lovers and poets, for those who yearn for a -life of peace and happiness, for those who dream of a solitude shared -only by some beloved companion and surrounded by the loveliness of -nature and of art.--Ah! how sweet and peaceful this morning is!" - -This state of enraptured exaltation, which made the happy lover reply -with dreamy poetical reflections to the American's practical remarks, -without noticing the comical character of the contrast, lasted all -through the day. It even increased as time passed. The _Jenny's_ -passengers came up on deck one by one. And then Madame de Carlsberg -appeared, pale and languid. In her eyes was the look of tender anxiety -that gives such a touching aspect to the expression of a loving woman on -the morrow of her first complete surrender. And what a happy revulsion, -what rejoicing, when she sees, as Ely de Carlsberg did in her first -glance, that the soul of her beloved vibrates in sympathy with her own, -that he is as sensitive, as tender, as loving as before! This similarity -of nature was so sweet, so deep, so penetrating, for the charming woman, -that she could have gone down upon her knees before Pierre. She adored -him at this moment for being so closely the image of what she desired -him to be. And she felt compelled to speak of it, when they were seated -side by side, as upon the night before, watching the gulf growing into -life before them, with Genoa the Superb surging from the waves. - -"Are you like me?--Were you afraid and yet longing to see me again, just -as I longed to see you and yet was afraid? Were you also afraid of being -soon called upon to differ for so much happiness? Did you feel as though -a catastrophe were close at hand?--When I awoke and saw stretching -before me the leaden sea and clouded sky, a shudder of dread ran through -me like a presentiment.--I thought all was over, that you were no longer -my Prince Beau-Temps"--this was a loving title she had conferred upon -Pierre, alleging that the sky had cleared each time she had met him. -"How exquisite it is," she continued caressingly, with the irresistible -fascination of a loving woman, "to have trembled with apprehension and -then to find you just as you were when I left you last night--no, not -last night, this morning!" - -At the remembrance of the fact that they had parted only so short a time -before, she smiled. Her face lit up with an expression in which languor -was mingled with such archness, grace with such voluptuous charm, that -the young man, at the risk of being seen by the Chésys or Dickie Marsh, -printed a kiss upon the hem of the loose Scotch cloak that enveloped -her, its long hood streaming behind in the wind. Happily the American -and his two guests had eyes for nothing but the beautiful city growing -nearer and nearer and more distinct. It towered aloft now, girdled by -its encircling mountains. Beyond the two ports, with their forests of -masts and spars, could be seen the countless houses of the town, of all -shapes and heights, pressed closely one upon the other. Tiny, narrow -streets, almost lanes, wound upward, cutting through the mass of -dwellings at right angles. The colors of the houses, once bright and -gay, were faded and washed out by sun and rain. And yet it seemed still -a city of wealth and caprice, with the terraces of its palaces outlined -and covered with rare plants and statues. The apparently endless line of -scattered villas stretching along the coast were here clustered in -groups like little hamlets, forming suburbs outside the suburbs, and -further on stood isolated in the luxuriant verdure of gardens and -shrubbery. With the simple aid of a field-glass Marsh recognized -everything, palaces, villas, suburbs, one after the other. - -"There is San Pier d'Arena," he said, handing the glass to Yvonne and -her husband, "and there are Cornegliano and Sestri to the left. To the -right you can see San Francesco d'Albaro, Quarto, Quinto, San Mario -Ligure, the Villa Gropallo, the Villa Croce." - -"Why, Commodore, there is another trade you can turn to the day your -pockets are empty," said Madame de Chésy, laughingly. "You can become -cicerone." - -"Oh," said Marsh, "it is the easiest thing in the world. When I see a -place that I cannot recognize or that I do not know, I feel as though I -were blind." - -"Ah! You are not like me," cried Chésy. "I never could understand a -map, and yet that has not prevented me getting a lot of amusement out of -my travels.--Believe me, my dear fellow, we are right not to trouble -about such things; we have sailors on sea and coachmen on land to attend -to them!" - -While this conversation was going on at the bow, Florence Marsh was aft -trying to instil a little courage into Andryana Bonnacorsi. The future -Vicomtesse de Corancez would not even glance at the town, but remained -with her eyes looking fixedly at the vessel's wake. - -"I feel convinced," she said with a sigh, "that Genoa will be fatal to -me; 'Genova prende e non rende,' as we Italians say." - -"It will take your name, Bonnacorsi, and will not return it, that is -all," replied Florence, "and the proverb will be verified!--We have a -proverb, too, in the United States, one that Lincoln used to quote. You -ought to take note of it, for it will put an end to all your fears. It -is not very, very pretty, particularly to apply to a marriage, but it is -very expressive. It is, 'Don't trouble how to cross a mud creek before -you get to it.'" - -"But suppose Lord Bohun has changed his mind and the _Dalilah_ is in the -port with my brother on board? Suppose the Chésys want to come with us? -Suppose Prince Fregoso at the last minute refuses to lend us his -chapel?" - -"And suppose Corancez says, 'I will not' at the altar?" interrupted -Florence. "Suppose an earthquake engulfs the lot of us?--Don't be -uneasy, the _Dalilah_ is riding at anchor in the roadstead at Calvi or -Bastia. The Chésys and my uncle have five or six English and American -yachts to visit, and it is madness to think that they will sacrifice -this arrangement for the sake of going with us to museums and churches. -Since the old prince has consented to lend his place to Don Fortunato it -is not likely that he has changed his mind--particularly as he and the -abbé were companions in prison in 1859. Between Italians anything -concerning the _Risorgimento_ is sacred. You know that better than I do. -I have only one fear," she added with a gay laugh, "and that is that -this Fregoso may have sold some of his finest paintings and his most -beautiful statuary to one of my countrymen. Those pirates loot -everything, under the plea that they have not only the money but also -good taste, and that they are connoisseurs. Would you believe it, when I -was at college in Marionville, the professor of archæology taught us -the history of Grecian art anterior to Phidias with the aid of -photographs of specimens in the collection belonging to this very -Fregoso?" - -"Well, what did I tell you?" Florence Marsh again asked her friend, a -couple of hours later. "Was I right? Have you come to the mud creek?" - -The passengers had landed, just as had been prearranged. The Chésys and -Dickie Marsh had gone off to visit the fleet of pleasure yachts moored -near the pier. The Marchesa had received a telegram from Navagero -announcing the arrival of the Dalilah in Corsican waters. And now a -hired landau was bearing the tender-hearted woman, in company with -Florence, Madame de Carlsberg, and Pierre Hautefeuille, toward the -Genoese palace, where Corancez was awaiting them. The carriage climbed -up the narrow streets, passing the painted façades of the old marble -houses whose columns, all over the city, testify to the pretentious -opulence of the old half-noble, half-piratical merchants. All along the -route the streets, or rather the corridors, that descended to the port -swarmed with a chattering, active, gesticulating people. Although the -north wind was now blowing keenly, the three women had insisted upon the -carriage being left open, so that they could see the crowd, the -crumbling, splendid façades, and the picturesque costumes. The Marchesa -smiled, still agitated, but now happy, in reply to Miss Marsh's words of -encouragement, as she said:-- - -"Yes, you were right. I am not afraid now, and begin to think that I am -awake and not dreaming.--Yet, if any one had told me that some day I -should go with you three along the Piazza delle Fontane Morose to do -what I am going to do.--Ah! _Jésus Dieu_! there is Corancez!--How -imprudent he is!" - -It was, indeed, the Provençal. He was standing at the corner of the -famous square and the ancient via Nuova, now the via Garibaldi, the -street which Galéas Alessi, Michael Angelo's pupil, glorified with the -palaces of Cambiaso, Serra, Spinola, Doria, Brignole-Sale, and Fregoso, -masterpieces of imposing architecture that, by themselves, are -sufficient justification for the title of Superb, given to Genoa by its -arrogant citizens. - -It was certainly ill-advised to venture into the streets, risking a -meeting with some French acquaintance. But Corancez had not been able to -resist the temptation. He was playing for such high stakes that for once -his nervousness had overmastered the natural prudence of the Provençal, -ordinarily patient and circumspect, one of those people for whom the -Genoese would seem to have invented this maxim: "He who is patient will -buy thrushes for a liard each." - -By means of a messenger he had been informed of the arrival of the -_Jenny_. He had then left the safe shelter of the palace so as to be -sure that his _fiancée_ had arrived. When he saw the beautiful golden -hair of Madame Bonnacorsi, a wave of hot blood seemed to course through -his veins. He jumped upon the carriage-step gayly, boyishly even, -without waiting for the carriage to stop. Without any more delay than -was required to kiss his betrothed's hand, to utter a word of welcome to -Madame de Carlsberg and Florence, and to greet Hautefeuille gratefully, -he began to tell of his two weeks' exile with his usual gayety. - -"Don Fortunato and I are already a couple of excellent friends," he -said. "Wait till you see what a comical little fellow he is with his -knee-breeches and big hat. You know him, Marchesa, so you can imagine. I -am already his _figlio mio_!--As for you, Andryana, he worships you. He -has written, specially for you, an epithalamium in fifty-eight -cantos!--And yet this religious marriage without the civil ceremony -disquiets him.--What would Count Camillo Cavour, whose walking-stick and -portrait he piously cherishes, have said of it? Between Cavour and the -Marchesa, the Marchesa and Cavour, he has been hard pushed to make a -choice. However, he has thrown in his lot with the Marchesa, a decision -that I understand very easily. All the same, he is now afraid to even -glance at the portrait and the stick, and will not dare to do so until -we have complied with all the requirements of the Italian law.--I vowed -to him that there would only be a delay of a few days, and then Prince -Pierre reassured him.--That is another character.--You will have to -visit the museum and see his favorites there.--But, here we are!" - -The landau stopped before the imposing door of a palace, having, like -its neighbors, a marble peristyle, and brilliantly painted, like the -other houses. The balustrade of the balcony upon the first floor bore a -huge carved escutcheon, displaying the three stars of the Fregosi, an -emblem that was once dreaded all over the Mediterranean when the vessels -of the Republic swept the seas of the Pisans, the Venetians, the -Catalans, Turks, and French. - -The new arrivals were received by a _concierge_ wearing the livery, very -much soiled, of the Fregosi, the buttons stamped with armorial bearings. -He carried a colossal silver pommelled cane in his hand, and led the -visitors into a vaulted vestibule at the foot of a huge staircase. - -Beyond they could see an enclosed garden, planted with orange trees. -Ripe fruit glowed among the sombre foliage, through which glimpses could -be obtained of an artificial grotto peopled with gigantic statuary. -Several sarcophagi embellished the entrance, characterized by that air -of magnificence and decay common to old Italian mansions. How many -generations had mounted that worn staircase since the gifted genius -designed the white moulding upon a yellow background that decorated the -ceiling! How many visitors had arrived here from the distant colonies -with which the great Republic traded! And yet probably no more singular -spectacle had been seen for three centuries, than that presented by the -noble Venetian lady arriving from Cannes upon the yacht of an American, -for the purpose of marrying a ruined would-be gentleman from Barbentane, -and accompanied by a young American girl, and the morganatic wife of an -Austrian archduke with her lover, one of the most artless, most -provincial Frenchmen of the best school of French chivalry. - -"You must admit that my wedding _cortège_ is anything but commonplace," -said Corancez to Hautefeuille, glancing at the three women behind whom -he and his friend were standing. - -They had not met since the morning they had visited the _Jenny_ at -Cannes. The acute Southerner, the moment of his arrival, had felt that -there was a vague embarrassment in Pierre's greeting and in his -expression. Upon the boat, the young lover's happiness had not been in -the least troubled by the presence of Miss Marsh and of the Marchesa, -although he knew they could not be ignorant of his sentiments. But he -also knew that they would respect his feelings. With Corancez it was -different. A mere glance of Corancez's disturbed him. "All is over," the -Provençal had evidently thought. And, with his easy-going instincts of -loose morality, Corancez was all the happier for his friend's happiness; -he rejoiced in his friend's joy. He therefore bent all his energies upon -the task of dispelling Hautefeuille's slight uneasiness, which he had -discovered with his infallible tact. - -"Yes," he went on in a conciliatory tone, "this staircase is a little -more chic than the staircase of some vile _mairie_.--And it is also -delightful to have such a friend as you for my witness! I don't know -what life may hold in store for us, and I am not going to make a lot of -protestations, but, remember, you can ask me anything, after this proof -of your friendship.--There must have been a host of things that were -disagreeable to you in this expedition. Don't deny it. I know you so -well!--And yet you have faced them all for the sake of your old friend, -who is not, for all that, Olivier du Prat.--Isn't my _fiancée_ -gloriously beautiful this morning?" he continued. "But, hush! here comes -the old Prince in person, and Don Fortunato.--Watch closely, and listen; -you'll find it worth your while!" - -Two old gentlemen were just issuing from the entrance of a high windowed -hall, at the top of the staircase. They might have stepped out of one of -the pictures in which Longhi has fixed so accurately, and so -unpretentiously, the picturesque humor of ancient Italy. One was the -Abbé Lagumina, very thin, very little; with his shrivelled legs, no -thicker than skeleton's, buried in knee-breeches, and stockings that -came above his knees. His bowed body was wrapped in a long -ecclesiastical frock-coat. He rubbed his hands together unceasingly and -timidly, bowing all the time. And yet his physiognomy was so acute, so -stamped with intelligence, that the ugliness of his huge nose and his -toothless gums was forgotten and only the charm of his expression -remained. - -The other was Prince Paul Fregoso, the most celebrated descendant of -that illustrious line, whose doughty deeds are inscribed in the golden -book of Genoa's foreign wars, and, alas! in the book of brass devoted to -her civil conflicts. The Prince owed his Christian name, Paul, an -hereditary one in the family, to the legendary souvenirs of the famous -Cardinal Fregoso, who was driven from the city, and ruled the seas for -a long time as pirate. - -This grandnephew of the curious hero was a veritable giant. His features -were massive, and his eyes intensely bright. His feet and hands were -distorted by gout. In spite of his faded, sordid costume, in spite of -the fact that he was almost bent in two and leaned upon his stick, of -which the point was protected from slipping by an india-rubber shield, -Prince Paul looked every inch a descendant of the doges by his haughty -mien. He spoke with a deep, voluminous, cavernous voice, that indicated -great vigor even at his advanced time of life, for he was about -seventy-nine years of age. - -"Ladies," he said, "I beg you to excuse me for not having descended this -diabolical staircase in order to greet you as I ought to have done. -Please do not believe the epigram that our Tuscan enemies have made -about us: 'At Genoa there are no birds in the air, the sea has no fish, -the mountains are woodless, and the men without politeness.'--You see my -birds," and he pointed through the window to the gulls that soared above -the port in search of food. "I hope, if you do me the honor of lunching -with me, that you will find my mullets are as good as those you get at -Leghorn.--And, with your permission, we will go at once into another -salon, where there is a fireplace. In that fireplace you will see plenty -of wood that comes from my estates outside the Roman gate. With such a -north wind we need plenty of warmth in these big halls, which in our -fathers' time required only a scaldino.--The first greeting is that due -to the health of our guests! Madame la baronne! Madame la marquise! Miss -Marsh!"--And he bowed to each of the three ladies, although he did not -know either of them, with an indescribable air of easy grace and -ceremonious courtesy.--"The abbé will lead the way.--I can only follow -you like an unfortunate _gancio di mare_--the deformed, miserable -creature you call a crab," he added, addressing Corancez and -Hautefeuille. He made them go on before him, and then dragged himself -along in their wake with his poor, feeble steps, to a rather smaller -salon. - -Here a meagre wood fire smouldered, making much smoke in a badly -constructed chimney. The floor was formed of a mosaic of precious -marbles, and the ceiling decorated with colored stuccoes and frescoes, -representing the arrival of Ganymede at the feast of the gods. It was -painted lightly and harmoniously with colors whose brilliancy seemed -quite fresh. The graceful figures, the exquisite fancifulness of -landscape and architecture, all the pagan charm, in fact, in its very -delicacy, spoke of some pupil of Raphael. Below the moulding were hung -several portraits. The aristocratic touch of Van Dyck was apparent at -the first glance. Beneath the huge canvases antique statues were grouped -on the floor, and stools that had once been gilded, shaped like the -letter X, and without backs, gave the air of a museum to the salon. The -three women could not restrain their admiration. - -"How beautiful it is! What treasures!" they cried. - -"Look at the Prince," said Corancez, in a whisper to Pierre. "Do you see -how disgusted he is? You have got a front seat for a comedy that I can -guarantee as amusing. I am going to pay a little attention to my -_fiancée_. Don't lose a word; you will find it worth attention." - -"You think this is beautiful?" said the Prince to the Baroness and Miss -Marsh, who stood beside him, while Corancez and Madame Bonnacorsi -chatted in a corner. "Well, the ceiling is not too bad in its way. -Giovanni da Udine painted it. The Fregoso of that time was jealous of -the Perino del Vagas of the Doria Palace. That particular head of the -house was my namesake, Cardinal Paolo, the one you know who was a -pirate--before he was a cardinal. He summoned another of Raphael's -pupils, the one who had aided the master at the Vatican.--Each of those -gods has a history. That Bacchus is the cardinal himself, and that -Apollo, whose only garment is his lute, was the cardinal's -coadjutor!--Don't be shocked, Don Fortunato.--Ah, I see, he has gone off -to prepare for the marriage sacrament; _mene malo_.--The Van Dycks, -also, are not bad as Van Dycks.--They too have their history. Look at -that beautiful woman, with her impenetrable, mysterious smile.--The one -holding a scarlet carnation against her green robe.--And then look at -that young man, with the same smile, his pourpoint made of the same -green material, with the same carnation.--They were lovers, and had -their portraits painted in the same costume. The young man was a -Fregoso, the lady an Alfani, Donna Maria Alfani.--All this was going on -during the absence of the husband, who was a prisoner among the -Algerians. They both thought he would never return.--'Chi non muore, si -revede,' the cardinal used to like to say, 'He who is not dead always -returns.'--The husband came back and slew them both.--These portraits -were hidden by the family. But I found them and hung them there." - -The two immense pictures, preserved in all their brilliancy by a long -exile from the light, smiled down upon the visitors with that -enigmatical smile of which the old collector had spoken. A voluptuous, -culpable grace shone out of the eyes of Donna Maria Alfani, lingered -upon her crimson lips, her pale cheeks, and her dark hair. The delicate -visage, so mobile, so subtle, preserved a dangerous, fascinating -attraction even up there in the stiff outlines of the lofty green -frieze. The passionate pride of a daring lover sparkled in the black -eyes of the young man. The perfect similarity in the colors of their -costumes, in the hue of the carnations they held in their hands, in the -pose of the figures, and in the style of the paintings seemed to prolong -their criminal liaison even after death. It seemed like a challenge to -the avenger. He had killed them, but not separated them, for they were -there, upon the same panel of the same wall, proclaiming aloud their -undying devotion, glorified by art's magic, looking at each other, -speaking to each other, loving each other. - -Ely and Pierre could not resist the temptation to exchange a glance, to -look at each other with the tenderness evoked by the meeting of two -lovers with the relics of a passion long since passed away. In it could -be read how keenly they felt the evanescent nature of their present -happiness in the face of this vanished past. Ely was moved more deeply -still. The cardinal-pirate's threatening adage, "Chi non muore, si -revede," had made her shudder again, had thrilled her with the same -terror she had felt upon the boat at the sweetest moment of that -heavenly hour. But this terror and melancholy were quickly dissipated -like an evil dream when Miss Marsh replied to the commentaries of the -Genoese prince:-- - -"My uncle would pay a big price for those two portraits. You know how -fond he is of returning from his visits to the Old World laden with -knick-knacks of this kind! He calls them his scalps.--But Your Highness -values them very highly, I suppose? They are such beautiful works of -art!" - -"I value them because they descend to me as heirlooms from my family," -replied Fregoso. "But don't profane in that way the great name of Art," -he added solemnly. "This and that," he continued, pointing to the -vaulted dome and to the picture, "can be called anything you like, -brilliant decoration, interesting history, curious illustrated legend, -the reproduction of customs of a past age, instructive psychology.--But -it is not Art.--There has never been any art except in Greece, and once -in modern times, in the works of Dante Alighieri. Never forget that, -Miss Marsh." - -"Then you prefer these statues to the pictures?" asked Madame de -Carlsberg, amused by the tone of his sally. - -"These statues?" he replied. He looked around at the white figures -ranged along the walls, and the grand lines of his visage took on an -expression of extreme contempt. "Those who bought these things did not -even know what Greek art was. They knew about as little as the -ignoramuses who collected the mediocrities of the Tribune or of the -Vatican." - -"What?" interrupted Madame de Carlsberg. "The Venus de' Medici is at the -Tribune and the Apollo and the Ariadne at the Vatican!" - -"The Venus de' Medici!" cried Fregoso, angrily, "don't speak to me about -the Venus de' Medici!--Look," he went on, pointing to one of the statues -with his gouty fingers, "do you recognize it? That is your Venus!--It -has the same slender, affected body, the same pose of the arms, the same -little cupid at her feet, astride a playful dolphin, and, like the -other, it is a base copy made from Praxiteles's masterpiece in the taste -of the Roman epoch which brought it into existence.--Would you have in -your house one of those reproductions of 'Night' which encumber the -shops of the Tuscan statuary dealers?'--Copies, I tell you; they are all -copies, and made in such a way!--That is the sort of art you admire in -Florence, Rome, Naples.--All those emperors and Roman patricians who -stocked their villas with the reproductions of Greek _chefs d'œuvre_ -were barbarians, and they have left to us the shadow of a shadow, a -parody of the real Greece, the true, the original, the Greece that -Pausanias visited!--Why, that Venus is a pretty woman bathing, who takes -flight to arouse desire! She is a coquette, she is lascivious!--What has -she in common with the Anadyomene, with the Aphrodite who was the -incarnation of all the world's passionate energies, and whose temple was -forbidden to men, with the goddess that was also called the Apostrophia, -the Preserver?--Think of asking this one to resist desire, to tear Love -from the dominion of the senses!--And look at this Dromio of your -Apollo.--Does it not resemble in a confusing way the Belvedere that -Winckelmann admired so much?--It is another Roman copy of a statue by -Scopas. But what connection is there between this academic gladiator and -the terrible god of the Iliad, such as he is still figured on the -pediment at Olympia?--The original was the personification of terrible, -mutilating, tragical light. You feel the influence of the East and of -Egypt, the irresistible power of the Sun, the torrid breath of the -desert.--But here?--It is simply a handsome young man destined to -lighten the time of a depraved woman in a secluded chamber, a _venereo_, -such as you can find by the hundred in the houses at Pompeii.--There is -not an original touch about these statues; nothing that reveals the hand -of the artist, that discloses the eye guiding the hand, the soul guiding -the eye, and guiding the soul, the city, the race, all those virtues -that make Art a sacred, magisterial thing, that make it the divine -blossom of human life!" - -The old man spoke with singular exaltation of spirit. His faded visage -was transfigured by a noble, intellectual passion. Suddenly the comical -and familiar side of the man came uppermost again. His long lips -protruded in a ludicrous pout and, threateningly shaking his knotted -finger at one of the statues, a Diana with a quiver, whose countenance, -white in some parts and yellow in others, disclosed the fact that it had -been restored, he added:-- - -"And the hussies are not even intact!--They are only patched-up -copies.--Just look at this one.--Ah, you baggage, you should not keep -that nose if it were not too much trouble to knock it off!--Ah!" he -continued, as a servant opened the double door at the end of the -gallery, "a thoroughbred needs no spur--Don Fortunato is ready." - -Approaching Andryana Bonnacorsi, he said:-- - -"Will Madame la marchesa do me the honor of accepting my arm to lead her -to the altar? My age gives me the right to play the rôle of father. And -if I cannot walk quickly enough you must excuse me; the weight of years -is the heaviest man ever has to carry.--And don't be alarmed," added the -good old man in a whisper, as he felt the arm of his companion tremble. -"I have studied your Corancez very deeply for several days. He is an -excellent and good fellow." - -"Well," said Corancez to Madame de Carlsberg, offering her his arm, -while Florence Marsh took Hautefeuille's, "are you still as sceptical as -you were about chiromancy and the line of fate? Is it simply a chance -that I should have the Baroness Ely leaning on my arm in my wedding -procession? And is it merely hazard that has provided me with an -original like our host to amuse you during the wearisome affair?" - -"It is not wearisome," replied the Baroness, laughing. "All the same, -you are lucky in marrying Andryana; she is looking so beautiful to-day, -and she loves you so much!--As to the Prince, you are right; he is -unique. It is pleasant to find such enthusiasm in a man of his -age.--When Italians are taken up with an idea they are infatuated with -it passionately, devotedly, as they are with a woman.--They have rebuilt -their country with the help of that very quality." - -During these few minutes Miss Marsh was talking to Hautefeuille. - -"You cannot understand that feeling," she was saying, "for you belong to -an old country. But I come from a town that is very little older than -myself, and it is an ecstasy to visit a palace like this where -everything is eloquent of a long past." - -"Alas, Miss Marsh," replied Hautefeuille, "if there is anything more -painful than living in a new country, it is living in one that wants to -become new at any price when it is filled to overflowing with relics of -the past, of a glorious past,--a country where every one is making -desperate efforts to destroy everything.--France has had that mania for -about a hundred years." - -"Yes, and Italy has had it for twenty-five years," said the American -girl. "But we are here," she added gayly, "to buy everything and to -preserve it.--Oh! what an exquisite chapel.--Just look at it!--Now I'll -bet you that those frescoes will finish their existence in Chicago or -Marionville." - -As she spoke she pointed out to Pierre the mural paintings that -decorated the chapel they entered at the moment. The little place where -the cardinal-pirate had doubtless often officiated was embellished with -a vast symbolical composition from floor to ceiling. It was the work of -one of those unknown masters whose creations confront one at every step -in Italy and which anywhere else would be celebrated. But there, as the -soldiers in the famous charge say, they are too numerous! This -particular painter, influenced by the marvellous frescoes with which -Lorenzo Lotto had beautified the Suardi Chapel at Bergamo, had -represented, above the altar, Christ standing up and holding out His -hands. From the Saviour's finger-tips a vine shoot spread out, climbing -up and up to the dome, covered with grapes. The tendrils wound round, -making frames for the figures of five saints on one side, and on the -other five female figures. Above the head of Christ the inscription, -"Ego sum vitis, vos palmites," gave an evangelical significance to the -fantastic decoration. - -The principal episodes in the legend of St. Laurence, the patron saint -of the cathedral at Genoa, were painted on the walls and in the panels -made by the pillars. These were: Decius slaying the Emperor Philip in -his tent; the young sou of the dead Emperor confiding his father's -treasures to Sixtus to be distributed among the poor; Sixtus being led -to the scene of his martyrdom, followed by Laurence, crying, "Where art -thou going, O father, without thy son? Where art thou going, O priest, -without thy deacon?" Laurence receiving the treasures in his turn and -confiding them to the poor widow; Laurence in prison converting the -officer of the guard; Laurence in Sallust's gardens collecting together -the poor, the halt, and the blind, saying at the same time to Decius, -"Behold the treasures of the Church!" Laurence surrounded by flames upon -a bed of fire!--The picturesqueness of the costumes, the fancy displayed -in the architecture, the fruitful nature of the landscape, the breadth -of the drawing, and the warmth of the coloring revealed the influence of -the Venetian school, although attenuated and softened by the usury of -time, which had effaced the too glaring brilliancy and toned down the -too vivid warmth of the painting. It had taken on something of the faded -tone of old tapestry. - -The whole gave to the marriage that was being celebrated in the old -oratory of the ancient palace of an aged prince by a Gallophobe priest a -fantastic character that was both delightful and droll. The ultra-modern -Corancez kneeling with the descendants of the doges with Don Fortunato -to bless them, in a setting of the sixteenth century, was one of those -paradoxes that only nature dare present, so pronounced are they as to be -almost incredible! And equally incredible was the simple-mindedness of -the abbé, the impassioned worshipper of Count Camillo. He rolled out a -little oration to the young _fiancés_ before uniting them. This oration -was in French, a condescension he had determined upon making, in spite -of his political hatreds, for the sake of the foreigner to whom he was -to marry his dear marchesa. - -"Noble lady! Honored sir! I do not intend to say much.--Tongueless birds -furnish no auguries.--Sir, you are going to marry this dear lady in the -presence of God. In thus consecrating the union of a great Venetian name -with that of a noble French family, it seems as though I were asking -once more for the blessing of Him Who can do all things, that I were -appealing to Him to consecrate the friendship between two countries -which ought to be only one in heart; I mean, my lady, our dear Italy, -and your beautiful France, my lord!--Italy resembles that figure painted -by a master, a genius, upon the wall of this chapel. It is from her that -proud Spain and brilliant France, two young branches of the Latin race, -have sprung as from a fruitful vine. The same vigorous sap courses -through the veins of the three nations. May they be reunited some day! -May the mother once more have her two daughters by her side! May they be -united some day as they are already by the relationship of their -languages, by the communion of their religion! May they be bound -together by a bond of love that nothing can break, such as is going to -unite you, my dear lord and lady! Amen!" - -"Did you hear him?" Corancez asked Hautefeuille an hour later. - -The _Ita missa est_ had been spoken; the solemn "I will" had been -exchanged, and the luncheon--including the mullet that surpassed those -of Leghorn--had been brought to an end amid toasts, laughter, and the -reading of the epithalamium upon which Don Fortunato had worked so long -and so patiently. The entire company had adjourned to the gallery for -coffee, and the two young men were chatting in the angle of a window -close to the repaired Artemis. - -"Did you hear him? The good old abbé simply worships me.--He worships -me even too much, for I am not as noble as he has made me out.--He has -given Andryana a proof of inalienable affection in consenting to our -secret marriage. He is as intelligent as it is possible to be. He knows -Navagero to the very marrow and dreaded an unhappy future for Andryana -if she did not escape from her brother's clutches. He is also a clever -diplomatist, for he persuaded his old companion in _carcere duro_ to -lend us his little chapel.--Well, intelligence, diplomacy, friendship, -and all the rest are swept on one side in the Italian soul by the law of -primogeniture. Did you not hear how, in his quality of Cavour's friend, -he made us feel that France was only the youngest scion of the great -Latin family?--In this case the youngest has fared better than the -eldest! But I pardoned all Don Fortunato's presumption when I thought of -the face my brother-in-law will pull, Italian though he is, when he is -shown the piece of paper which bears your name beside that of the -Prince.--Would you like another proof of Corancez's luck? Look over -yonder." - -He pointed through the window to the sky covered with black clouds and -to the street below, at the foot of the palace, where the north wind, -sweeping along, made the promenaders huddle up in their cloaks. - -"You don't understand?" he went on. "Don't you see you cannot sail again -while such a sea is on? The ladies will stay at the hotel all night." As -he spoke the Provençal smiled with an easy-going, semi-complicity. -Happily the newly made vicomtesse drew near and brought the -_tête-à-tête_ to an end. She was leaning on Madame de Carlsberg's -arm. The two young women, so beautiful, so graceful, so delicate, so -enamoured, formed a living commentary as they thus approached the two -young men. And the pagan air that one seems to breathe in Italy was so -keen, so penetrating, that Pierre's uneasy scruples were soothed by the -love he could read in his mistress's brown eyes that were lit up by the -same tender fire that shone in the blue eyes of the Venetian when she -regarded her husband. - -"You have come to us from the Prince, I suppose?" asked Corancez. "I -know him! You will have no peace until he has shown you his treasures." - -"Yes, he has been asking for you," said Andryana. "But I came on my own -account.--A husband who abandons his wife an hour after marriage is -rather hurried." - -"Yes, it is a little too soon," repeated Ely. And the hidden meaning of -the words, addressed as it was in reality to Hautefeuille, was as sweet -as a kiss to the young man. - -"Let us obey the Prince--and the Princess," he said, bearing his -mistress's hand to his lips as though in playful gallantry, "and go to -the treasure-house. You know all about it, I suppose?" he added, turning -to his friend. - -"Do I know it?" replied Corancez. "I had not been here an hour before I -had gone through the whole place. He is a little bit--" and he tapped -his forehead significantly, pointing to the old Prince and Don -Fortunato, who were going out of the gallery with Miss Marsh. "He is a -little bit crazy.--But you will judge for yourself." - -All the procession--to use the term employed by the "representative -of a great French family," as the Abbé Lagumina styled the -Provençal--followed in Fregoso's wake and descended a narrow staircase -leading to the private apartments of the collector. He was now leading, -eager to show the way. As is often the case in big Italian mansions, the -living rooms were as little as the reception halls were big. The Prince, -when alone, lived in four cramped rooms, of which the scanty furniture -indicated very plainly the stoicism of the old man, wrapped up in a -dream-world and as indifferent to comfort as he was impervious to -vanity. The twenty or twenty-five pieces that formed his museum were -hung on the walls. At the first glance the Fregoso collection, -celebrated all over the two hemispheres, was made up of shapeless -fragments, rudely carved, that could not fail to produce the same -impression upon the ignorant in such matters that Corancez had felt. -Fregoso had studied antique art so closely that he now cared for nothing -but statuary dating from an epoch anterior to Phidias. He worshipped -these relics of the sixth century which afford glimpses of primitive and -heroic Greece--the Greece that repulsed the Asiatic invasion by the -simple virtue of a superior, elevated race placed face to face with the -countless hordes of an inferior people. - -The Genoese nobleman had become the most devoted of archæologists after -being one of the most active conspirators. And now he lived among the -gods and heroes of that little known and distant Hellas as though he had -been a contemporary of the famous soldier carved upon the stele of -Aristion. - -The gouty old man seemed to be miraculously rejuvenated the moment the -last of his guests crossed the threshold of the first chamber, which -usually served him as a smoking-room. He stood erect. His feet no longer -dragged upon the floor as though too heavy for his strength. His dæmon, -as his beloved Athenians would have said, had entered into him and he -began to talk of his collection with a fire that arrested any -inclination to smile. Under the influence of his glowing language the -mutilated marble seemed to become animated and to live again. He could -see the figures of two thousand four hundred years ago in all their -freshness. And by a species of irresistible hypnotism his imagination -imposed itself upon the most sceptical among his auditors. - -"There," he said, "are the oldest carvings known.--Three statues of -Hera, three Junos in their primitive form: that is, wooden idols copied -in stone by a hand that still hesitates as though unfamiliar with the -work." - -"The xoanon!" said Florence Marsh. - -"What! You have heard of the xoanon?" cried Fregoso. And from this point -on he addressed only the American girl. "In that case, Miss Marsh, you -are capable of understanding the beauty of these three examples of art. -They are unique.--Neither that of Delos, that of Samos, or that of the -Acropolis is worthy to be compared with them.--You can see the creation -of life in them.--Here you see the body in its sheath, and what a -sheath!--One as shapeless and rough as the harshest of wools. And yet it -breathes, the bosom is there, the hips, the legs are indicated.--Then -the material grows supple, becoming a delicate fabric of fine wool, a -long divided garment that lends itself to every movement. The statue -awakes. It walks.--Just look at the grandeur of the torso under the -peplum, the closely fitting cloak gathered in closely fitting folds on -one side and spread fanlike on the other. Don't you admire the pose of -the goddess as she stands, the weight of her body thrown upon the right -foot, with the left advanced?--Now she moves, she lives!--Oh! Beauty! -Heavenly Beauty!--And look at the Apollos!" - -He was so excited by his feverish enthusiasm that he could no longer -speak. He pointed in speechless admiration to three trunks carved in -stone that had been turned red by a long sojourn in a ferruginous soil. -They were headless and armless, with legs of which only the stumps -remained. - -"Are they not the models of those at Orchomenos, Thera, and Tenea?" -asked Miss Marsh. - -"Certainly," replied the Prince, who could no longer contain his -happiness. "They are funeral images, statues of some dead hero deified -in the form of Apollo.--And to think that there are barbarians in the -world who pretend that the Greeks went to Egypt and to Mesopotamia in -search of their art!--Do you think an Egyptian or an Asiatic could ever -have imagined that proud carriage, that curved chest, that strong -back?--They never made anything but sitting idols glued to the -wall.--Just look at the thighs! Homer says that Achilles could leap -fifty feet. I have studied the subject deeply, and I find that the -tiger's leap at its maximum is exactly that distance. It appears -incredible to us that a man could do that. But look at those -muscles--that makes such a leap a possibility. Art is seen at its -perfection there; magnificent limbs capable of magnificent efforts. 'I -moti divini,' as Leonardo said. If you put that energy at the service of -the city and represent that city by gods, by its gods, you have Greece -before you." - -"And you have Venice, you have Florence, you have Sienna, you have -Genoa, all Italy, in fact!" interrupted Don Fortunato. - -"Italy is the humble pupil of Greece," replied Fregoso, solemnly. "She -has received touches of grand beauty, but she is not the grand beauty." - -Looking around, he added mysteriously:-- - -"Ah! we must close the shutters and lower the curtains. Will you help -me, Don Fortunato?" - -When the room had thus been darkened, the old man handed a lighted taper -to the abbé and made a sign for them all to follow him. Approaching a -head carved in marble placed upon a pedestal, he said, in a voice broken -with emotion:-- - -"The Niobe of Phidias!" - -The three women and the two young men then saw by the light of the tiny -flame a shapeless fragment of marble. The nose had been broken and -shattered. The place where the eyes ought to have been was hardly -recognizable. Almost all the hair was missing. By chance, in all the -dreadful destruction through which the head had passed, the lower lip -and the chin had been spared. Accustomed as he was to the almost -infantile _mise-en-scène_ of the archæologist, Don Fortunato let the -light shine full on the mutilated mouth and chin. - -"What admirable life and suffering is displayed in that mouth!" cried -Fregoso, "and what power there is in the chin!--Does it not express all -the will and pride and energy of the queen who defied Latona?--You can -hear the cry that issues from the lips.--Follow the line of the cheek. -From what remains you can figure the rest.--And what a noble form the -artist has given the nose!--Look at this." - -He took up the head, placed it at a certain angle, drew out his -handkerchief, and taking a portion of it in his hands, he stretched it -across the base of the forehead at the place where there was nothing but -a gaping fracture in the stone. - -"There you have the line of the nose!--I can see it.--I can see the -tears that flow from her eyes," and he placed the head at another angle. -"I can see them!--Come!" he said, sighing, after a silence, "we must -return to everyday life. Draw up the curtains and open the shutters." - -When daylight once more lit up the shapeless mass Fregoso sighed again. -Then, taking up a head, rather less battered than the Niobe, he bowed to -Miss Marsh, whose technical knowledge and attentive attitude had -appealed in a flattering way to his mania. - -"Miss Marsh," he said, "you are worthy of possessing a fragment of a -statue that once graced the Acropolis.--Will you allow me to offer you -this head, one only recently discovered? Look how it smiles." - -The head really seemed to smile in the old man's hands, with a curious, -disquieting smile, mysterious and sensual at the same time. - -"It is the Eginetan smile, is it not?" asked the American girl. - -"Archæologists have given it that name on account of the statues upon -the famous pediment. But I call it the Elysian smile, the ecstasy that -ought to wreathe forever the lips of those tasting the eternal -happiness, revealed in advance to the faithful by the gods and -goddesses.--Remember the line Æschylus wrote about Helen: 'Soul serene -as the calm of the seas.' That smile expresses the line completely." - -When Hautefeuille and the three women were once again in the landau that -was taking them toward the port after the fantastic marriage and the -more fantastic visit, they looked at each other with astonishment. It -was about three o'clock in the afternoon and it seemed so strange to be -again in the streets full of people, to see the houses with the little -shops on the ground-floor, to read the bills that covered the walls, and -to form part of the swarming, contemporary life. They felt the same -impression that seizes one after a theatrical performance in the daytime -when one is again on the boulevard flooded with sunshine. The deception -of the theatre, which has held you for a couple of hours, makes the -reawakening to life almost painful. Andryana was the first to speak of -this uncomfortable sensation. - -"If I had not Don Fortunato's epithalamium in my hand," she said, -showing a little book she held, "I should think I had been dreaming.--He -has just given it to me with great ceremony, telling me at the same time -that only four copies of it had been printed at the workshop where the -proclamations of Manin, our last doge, used to be, printed. There is one -for Corancez, one for Fregoso, one for the abbé himself, and this -one!--Yes, I should think I had been dreaming." - -"And I also," said Florence, "if this head were not so heavy." She -weighed the strange gift which the archæologist had honored her with in -her little hands. "Heavens, how I should like to visit the museum -without the Prince!--I have an idea that he hypnotized us, and that if -he were not there we should see nothing.--For example, we saw the smile -on this face when Fregoso showed it to us.--I cannot find the least -trace of it now. Can you?" - -"No!--Nor I!--Nor I!--" cried Ely de Carlsberg, Andryana, and -Hautefeuille in chorus. - -"I am certain, however," the latter added, laughingly, "that I saw -Niobe, who had neither eyes nor cheeks, weeping." - -"And I saw Apollo run, although he had no legs," said Madame de -Carlsberg. - -"And I saw Juno breathe, though she had no bosom," said Andryana. - -"Corancez warned me of it," said Hautefeuille. "When Fregoso is absent, -his collection is a simple heap of stones; when he is there, it is -Olympus." - -"That is because he is a believer and impassioned about art," replied -the Baroness. "The few hours we spent with him have taught me more about -Greece than all my promenades in the Vatican, the capital, and the -Offices. I do not even regret being unable to show you the Red Palace," -she said, addressing Hautefeuille, "notwithstanding the fact that its -Van Dycks are wonderful." - -"You will have plenty of time to-morrow," said Miss Marsh. "My uncle -will sail to-night, I know; but he will leave us here, for the _Jenny_ -is going to have a rough time, and he will not allow any one to be sick -on his boat. Look how the sea is already rolling in to the port.--There -is a tempest raging out at sea." - -The landau arrived at the quay where the yacht's dingy was awaiting the -travellers. Little waves were breaking against the walls. All the -roadstead was agitated by the rising north wind and was a mass of tiny -ripples, too small to affect the big steamers riding at anchor, but -strong enough to pitch about the pleasure boats and fishing smacks. What -a difference there was between this threatening gray swell that was felt -even in the port, in spite of its protecting piers, and the wide -mirror-like expanse of motionless sapphire which had spread before them -the day before at the same hour in the open sea off Cannes! What a -contrast between this cloudy sky and the azure dome that smiled down -upon their departure, between this keen north wind and the perfumed -sighing of the breeze yesterday!--But who thought of this? Certainly not -Florence Marsh, completely happy in the possession of the archaic scalp -she was taking on board. Certainly not Andryana, to whom the prospect of -a night spent on shore was full of such happy promise; she was to meet -her husband, and the idea of this clandestine and at the same time -legitimate rendezvous after her romantic marriage had filled the loving -woman with happiness. It was the first time for many years that she had -forgotten her dreaded brother. Nor did Hautefeuille or his mistress -notice the contrast, for the long hours of the night were to be spent -together. The young man, who had fallen behind with Ely de Carlsberg, -said gayly and yet tenderly, as they walked down toward the dingy of the -Jenny, whose red, white, and black flag crackled in the breeze:-- - -"I am beginning to believe that Corancez is right about his lucky -line!--And it appears to be contagious." - -At the very moment he spoke, and as Ely answered him with a smile full -of languor and voluptuousness, one of the sailors standing on the quay -near the boat handed a large portfolio to Miss Marsh. It was the -vessel's postman, who had just returned with the passengers' mail. The -young girl rapidly ran through the fifteen or twenty letters. - -"Here is a telegram for you, Hautefeuille," she said. - -"You will see," he said to Ely, continuing his badinage, "it is good -news." - -He tore open the yellow slip. His visage lit up with a happy smile, and -he handed the telegram to Madame de Carlsberg, saying:-- - -"What did I tell you?" - -The despatch said simply:-- - - -"Am leaving Cairo to-day. Shall be at Cannes Sunday or Monday at latest. -Will send another telegram. So happy to see you again. - -OLIVIER DU PRAT." - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -OLIVIER DU PRAT - - -The second telegram arrived, and on the following Monday, at two -o'clock, Pierre Hautefeuille was at the station at Cannes, awaiting the -arrival of the express. It was the train he had taken to come from Paris -in November, while still suffering from the attack of pleurisy that had -been nearly fatal to him. Any one who had seen him getting out of the -train on that November afternoon, thin, pale, shivering in spite of his -furs, would never have recognized the invalid, the feverish -convalescent, in the handsome young fellow who crossed the track four -months later, supple and erect, rosy-cheeked and smiling, and with his -eyes lit up with a happy reflection that brightened all his visage. -Between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five, in that period of life -when the vital principle is ripe and intact, the most timid of men have -at times a keen joy in life which betrays itself in every gesture. It is -a sign that they love, that they are beloved, that all around smiles -upon their love. And the sensation that no obstacle stands between them -and their passions fills them to overflowing with happiness. Their very -physique seems to be transfigured, to be exalted. They have a different -bearing, another look, a prouder attitude. It is as though some magnetic -current emanated from happy lovers, that clothes them with a momentary -beauty intelligible to every woman. They recognize at once the -"enraptured lover," and hate him or sympathize with him, according as -they are envious or indulgent, prosaic or romantic. - -To this latter class belonged the two people whom Hautefeuille met face -to face on the little central platform that serves as a sort of -waiting-place at the Cannes station. One of these was Yvonne de Chésy, -accompanied by her husband and Horace Brion. The other was the Marchesa -Bonnacorsi,--as she still called herself,--escorted by her brother, -Navagero. To reach them, the young man had to work his way through the -fashionable crowd gathered there, as is usual at this hour, awaiting the -train that is to carry them to Monte Carlo. The comments exchanged -between the two women and their escorts during the few minutes that this -operation took proved once more that the pettiness of malignant jealousy -is not the characteristic of the gentler sex solely. - -"Hallo! there is Hautefeuille!" said Madame de Chésy. "How pleased his -sister will be to see him so wonderfully changed!--Don't you think he is -a very handsome young fellow?" - -"Yes, very handsome," assented the Venetian, "and the prettiest part of -it is that he does not seem to be aware of it." - -"He won't keep that quality long," said Brion. "It is 'Hautefeuille -here, 'Hautefeuille' there! You hear of nothing but Hautefeuille at your -house," addressing Yvonne, "at Madame Bonnacorsi's, at Madame de -Carlsberg's. He was simply a good, little, inoffensive, insignificant -youngster. You are going to make him frightfully conceited." - -"Without considering that he will compromise one of you sooner or later -if it continues," said Navagero, glancing at his sister. - -Since the trip to Genoa the artful Italian had noticed an unusual air -about Andryana and had been seeking the motive of it, but in the wrong -direction. - -"Ah! That's it, is it?" cried Yvonne, laughingly. "Well, just to punish -you I am going to ask him to come into our compartment, and shall invite -him to dine with us at Monte Carlo, so that he can take charge of -Gontran--who needs some one to look after him. I say, Pierre," she went -on, addressing the young man who was now standing before her, "I attach -you to my service for the afternoon and evening.--You will report it to -me if my lord and master loses more than one hundred louis.--He lost a -thousand the day before yesterday at _trente-et-quarante_. Two affairs -like that every week throughout the winter would be a nice income.--I -shall have to begin thinking of how I am to earn the living expenses." - -Chésy did not reply. He tugged at his mustache nervously, shrugging his -shoulders. But his features contracted with a forced smile that was very -different from the one his wife's witty sallies usually provoked. The -catastrophe Dickie Marsh had predicted was slowly drawing near, and the -unfortunate fellow was childish enough to try to offset the imminent -disaster by risking the little means he had left upon the green cloth at -Monte Carlo. Heedless to say, his wife was entirely ignorant of the -truth. Thus Yvonne's remark was singularly cruel for him, and for her, -uttered as it was, in the presence of Brion, the professional banker of -needy _mondaines_. Hautefeuille, who had been enlightened by his -conversations with Corancez and Madame de Carlsberg, felt the irony -hidden in the pretty little woman's conversation at such a moment, and -said:-- - -"I am not going to Monte Carlo. I am simply waiting for one of my -friends--for Olivier du Prat--whom, I think, you know." - -"What! Olivier! Why, he is an old sweetheart of mine, when I was staying -with your sister.--Yes, I was crazy about him for at least a fortnight. -Bring him along then and invite him to dine with us this evening. You -can take the five o'clock train." - -"But he is married." - -"Well, invite his wife as well," cried the giddy creature, gayly. "Come, -Andryana, persuade him. You have more power over him than I have." - -Continuing her teasing like a spoilt child, she took Navagero's arm, and -turning away, nothing amused her more than to see the expression on the -Italian's face when he saw his sister in conversation with some one of -whom he was suspicious. She was ignorant of the service she was -rendering her friend, who profited by the few instants of her brother's -absence to say to Pierre:-- - -"He also arrives by this train. I only came down to see him. Will you -tell him that I am going to meet Florence upon the _Jenny_ to-morrow -morning at eleven o'clock? And, above all, don't be annoyed if Alvise is -not very polite. He has got the idea that you are paying me -attentions.--But here is the train." - -The locomotive issued out of the deep cutting that leads into Cannes, -and Pierre saw Corancez's happy profile almost immediately. He jumped -out before the train stopped, and, embracing Hautefeuille, said loudly, -so that his wife could hear:-- - -"How good of you to come to meet me!" adding in a whisper, "Try to get -my brother-in-law away for a minute." - -"I cannot," replied Hautefeuille; "I am expecting Olivier du Prat. Did -you not see him in the train? Ah! I see him." - -He left the Provençal's side without troubling himself further about -this new act in the _matrimonio segreto_ which was being played upon the -station platform, and ran toward a young man standing upon the step of -the train looking at him with a tender, happy smile. Although Olivier du -Prat was only the same age as Pierre, he looked several years older, so -stern and strongly marked was his bronzed, emaciated face. His features -were so irregular and striking that it was impossible to forget them. -His black eyes, of a humid, velvety black, the whiteness of his regular -teeth, his thick, flowing hair, gave a sort of animal grace to his -physiognomy which counterbalanced the bitterness that seemed to be -expressed in his mouth, his forehead, and, above all, his hollow cheeks. -Without being tall, his arms and shoulders denoted great strength. -Hardly had he stepped down from the carriage when he embraced -Hautefeuille with a fervor that almost brought the happy tears to his -eyes, and the two friends remained looking at each other for a few -seconds, both forgetting to offer a helping hand to a young woman who -was, in her turn, standing upon the high step awaiting with the most -complete impassibility until one of the young men should think about -her. Madame Olivier du Prat was a mere child of about twenty years of -age, very pretty, very refined, and with a delicacy in her beauty that -was almost doll-like and pretty. Her hair was of a golden color that was -cold through its very lightness. In her blue eyes there was, at this -moment, that indefinable impenetrable expression that can be seen on the -faces of most young wives before the friends of their husband's youth. -Did she feel sympathy or antipathy, confidence or suspicion, for -Olivier's dearest friend, who had been her husband's groomsman at their -marriage? Nothing could be gathered from her greeting when the young man -came and excused himself for not having welcomed her before and assisted -her to the platform. She hardly rested the tips of her fingers upon the -hand that Pierre held out to her. But this might only be a natural -shyness, as the remark she made when he asked her about the journey -might express a natural desire to rest:-- - -"We had a very pleasant journey," she said, "but after such a long -absence one longs to be at home again." - -Yes, the remark was a natural one. But, uttered by the lips of the -slender, chilly little wife, it also signified: "My husband wished to -come and see you and I could not prevent him. But don't be mistaken, I -am very dissatisfied about it." At any rate, this was the involuntary -construction Hautefeuille placed upon the words in his inner -consciousness. Thus he was grateful to Corancez when he approached and -spared him the difficulty of replying. The train started off again, -leaving the road clear for the passengers, and the Southerner walked up, -holding out his hand and smiling. - -"How do you do, Olivier?--You don't remember me?--I am Corancez. We -studied rhetoric together. If Pierre had only told me that you were in -the train, we could have travelled together and had a good gossip about -old times. You are looking splendidly, just as you did at twenty. Will -you present me to Madame du Prat?" - -"As a matter of fact, I did not recognize him," Olivier said a few -minutes later, when they were in the carriage that was rolling toward -the Hôtel des Palmes. "And yet he has not changed. He is the type of -the Southerner, all familiarity that is intolerable when it is real and -is ignoble when it is affected. Among all the detestable things in our -country--and there is a good assortment — the most detestable is the -'old schoolfellow.' Because he has been a convict with you in one of -those prisons called French colleges, he calls you by your Christian -name, he addresses you as though you were his dearest friend. Do you see -Corancez often?" - -"He seems to think a great deal of you, Monsieur' Hautefeuille," said -the young wife. "He embraced you the instant he was on the platform." - -"He is rather demonstrative," replied Pierre, "but he is really a very -amiable fellow, and has been very useful to me." - -"That surprises me," said Olivier. "But how is it you never spoke to me -of him in your letters? I should have been more communicative." - -This little conversation was also unimportant. But it was sufficient to -establish that feeling of awkwardness that is often sufficient to -destroy the joy felt in the most dearly desired meeting. Hautefeuille -divined there was a little reproach in the remark made by his friend -about his letters, and he felt again the sensation, of hostility in -Madame du Prat's observation. He became silent. The carriage was -ascending the network of roads that he had traversed with Corancez upon -the morning of their visit to the Jenny, and the white silhouette of the -Villa Helmholtz stood out upon the left beyond the silvery foliage of -the olive trees. His mistress's image reappeared in the mind of the -young man with the most vivid intensity. He could not help making a -comparison between his dear beloved Ely and his wife's friend. The -little Frenchwoman seated by his side, a little constrained and stiff in -spite of her elegant correctness, suddenly appeared to him so poor, so -characterless, such a nullity, so uninteresting beside the supple, -voluptuous image of the foreigner. - -Berthe du Prat was the embodiment of the quiet and somewhat negative -distinction that stamps the educated Parisienne (for the species -exists). Her travelling costume was the work of a famous _costumier_, -but she had been so careful to shun the merest approach to eccentricity -that it was completely impersonal. She was certainly pretty with the -fragile, delicate prettiness of a Dresden china figure. But her visage -was so well under control, her lips so close pressed, her eyes so devoid -of expression, that her charming physiognomy did not provoke the least -desire to know what sort of a soul it hid. It was so apparent that it -would only be made up of accepted ideas, of conventional sentiments, of -perfectly irreproachable desires. This is the sort of woman that men who -have seen much life ordinarily seek for wives. After having corrupted -his imagination in too many cases of irregularity, Olivier had naturally -married the child whose beauty flattered his pride and whose -irreproachable conduct was a guarantee against any cause for jealousy. - -It was not less natural that Pierre, educated in the midst of -conventional ideas, and who had suffered from the prejudices of his -family, should remark in the composition of the young woman her very -evident poverty of human sympathy, as well as all that was mean and -mediocre, particularly by comparison. - -Impressions of this kind quickly produced that shrinking, that retreat -of the soul, that we call by a big word, convenient by reason of its -very mystery; that is, antipathy. Pierre had not felt this antipathy at -the first meeting with Mademoiselle Berthe Lyonnet, now Madame du Prat. -And yet she ought to have displeased him still more, among her original -surroundings, between her father, the most narrow-minded of solicitors, -and her mother, a veritable dowager of the better class of Parisian -middle life. But at that time the romantic side of the young man was as -yet dormant. The intoxication of love had awakened him, and he was now -sensitive to shades of feminine nature that had been hidden from him -before. Being too little accustomed to analyzing himself to recognize -how the past few weeks had modified his original ideas, he explained the -sentiment of dislike that he felt for Berthe du Prat by this simple -reason, one that helps us to justify all our ignorance on the subject of -another's character. - -"What is it that is changed in her?--She was so charming when she was -married! And now she is quite a different woman.--Olivier has also -changed. He used to be so tender, so loving, so gay! And now he is quite -indifferent, almost melancholy. What has happened?--Can it be that he is -not happy?" - -The carriage stopped before the Hôtel des Palmes just as this idea took -shape in Pierre's mind with implacable clearness. He kept repeating the -question while watching Olivier and his wife in the vestibule. They -walked about, chatting of the orders to be given about the luggage and -to the chambermaid. Their very step was so out of harmony, so different, -that by itself it opened up a vista of secret divorce between the two. -It is in such minute, in the instinctive fusion, the unison in the -gesture of both, that the inner sympathy animating two lovers, or -husband and wife, must be sought. Olivier and his wife walked out of -step metaphorically, for expressions have to be created to characterize -the shades of feeling that can neither be defined nor analyzed, but -which are attested by indisputable evidence. And what a world of -evidence was contained in a remark made by Du Prat, when the hotel clerk -showed him the rooms that had been kept for him. The suite was composed -of a large room with a big bed, two _cabinets de toilette_, one of which -was huge, and a drawing-room. - -"But where are you going to put my bed?" he asked. "This dressing-room -is very little." - -"I have another suite with a salon and two contiguous bedrooms," said -the clerk; "but it is on the fourth floor." - -"That doesn't matter," replied Du Prat. - -He and his wife went up in the elevator without even glancing at the -beautiful flowers with which Pierre had embellished the vases. He had -beautified the conjugal chamber of Olivier and Berthe in the way he -would have liked the room to be decorated which he would have shared -with Ely. Left alone breathing the voluptuous aroma of mimosa mingled -with roses and narcissus, he looked through the window across the clear -afternoon landscape, the Esterels, the sea, and the islands. The little -sunny chamber, quiet and attractive, was a veritable home for kisses -with such perfumes and such a view. And yet Olivier's first idea had -been to go and seek two separate rooms! This little fact added to the -other remarks, and, above all, to his involuntary, intuitive -conclusions, made Hautefeuille become meditative. A comparison between -the passionate joy of his sweet romance and the strange coldness of this -young household again arose in his mind. He recalled the first night of -real love, that night in heavenly intimacy on the yacht. He remembered -the second night, the one Ely and he had passed at Genoa. How sweet it -had been to slumber a brief moment, his head resting upon the bosom of -his beloved mistress. He thought of the very preceding evening when Ely -had yielded to his supplications to allow him to visit her that night at -the Villa Helmholtz, and he had glided into the garden by means of an -unprotected slope. At the hothouse he found the door open with his -mistress awaiting him. She had taken him to her room by a spiral -staircase which led to the little salon and which only she used. Ah! -What passionate kisses they had exchanged under the influence of the -double emotions of Love and Danger! This time he left the room with -despair and heartburning. He had returned alone, along the deserted -roads, under the stars, dreaming of flight with her, with his beloved, -of flight to some distant spot, to live with her forever, husband living -with his wife! Could it be that Olivier had not the same sentiments -toward his young wife; that he could forego that right to rest upon her -adored heart all the night and every night? Could he forego that -precious right, the most precious of all, of passing all the night and -every night, half the year to the end of the year, half a lifetime to -the end of life, with her pressed close to him? Could he renounce the -ecstasy of her presence when, with her dress, the woman had put off her -social existence to become once again the simple, true being, beautified -only with her youth, with her love, to become only the confiding, -tender, all-renouncing creature that no other sees? - -But if they loved each other so little after so short a married life, -had he ever really loved her? And if he had never really loved her, why -had he married her?--Pierre had got to this point in his reflections -when he was abruptly aroused by a hand being laid upon his shoulder. -Olivier was again standing before him, this time alone. - -"Well," he said, "I have arranged everything. The rooms are rather high, -but the view is all the more beautiful. Have you anything to do just -now? Suppose we go for a walk." - -"How about Madame du Prat?" asked Hautefeuille. - -"We must give her time to get settled," replied Olivier, "and I admit -that I am very glad to be alone with you for a few minutes. One can only -talk when there are two. By one I mean 'us.'--If you only knew how glad -I am to be with you again!" - -"My dear Olivier!" cried Pierre, deeply moved by the sincere accent of -the remark. - -They took each other's hands and their glances met, as at the station. -No word was spoken. In the Fioretti of St. Francis it is related how St. -Louis one day, disguised as a pilgrim, came and knocked at the door of -the convent of Santa Maria degli Angeli. Another saint, named Egidio, -opened the door and recognized him. The king and the monk kneeled, the -one before the other, and then separated without speaking. "I read his -heart," said Egidio, "and he read mine." The beautiful legend is the -symbol of the meeting of friends such as the two young people. When two -men who know each other, who have loved each other since infancy, as -Pierre and Olivier did, meet face to face again, they have no need of -protestation, no need of fresh assurances of their reciprocal -faithfulness, esteem, confidence, respect, devotion; all the noble -virtues of male affection need no words to explain them. They shine and -glow, their mere presence sufficing, like a pure and steady flame. Once -again the two friends felt that they could count upon each other.--Once -more they felt how closely they were united with the bonds of fraternal -love. - -"So you were good enough to think of putting flowers in the rooms to -welcome us?" said Olivier, taking his friend's arm. "I will just give -orders for them to be taken up to our apartments.--Let us go now.--Not -to the Croisette, eh?--If it is like what it used to be when I stayed -here before, it must be intolerable. Cannes was a real 'Snobopolis' at -that time, with its army of princes and prince worshippers!--I remember -some lovely spots between California and Vallauris, where the scenery is -almost wild, where there are big forests of pines and of oaks--with none -of those grotesque feather brushes they call palms, which I hate." - -They were by this time leaving the hotel garden, and Du Prat pointed, as -he spoke, to the alley of trees that gave its name to the fashionable -caravansary. His friend began to laugh, as he replied:-- - -"Don't throw too much sepia over the gardens of poor Cannes. They are -very excellent hotbeds for an invalid! I know something about it." - -This was an allusion to an old joke that Pierre had often made in their -youth when he would liken the wave of bitterness that seemed to sweep -over Olivier in his evil moments to the jet of black liquid projected by -the cuttlefish to hide its whereabouts. Olivier also laughed at the -memories the souvenir recalled. But he continued:-- - -"I don't recognize you in your present state. You fraternize with -Corancez, you the irreconcilable! You, the master of Chaméane, love -these paltry gardens, with their lawns that they turn up in spring, with -their colored metallic trees and with their imitation verdure!--I prefer -that." - -And he pointed, as he spoke, to the turning of the road, where the -mountain showed itself covered with a fleece of dark pines and light -larch trees. At its foot the line of villas from Cannes to Golfe Juan -continued for a little distance and then ceased, leaving nothing upon -the mountain side right up to the peak but a growth of primitive forest. -To the right spread the sea, deserted, unbroken by even a single sail. -The sense of isolation was so complete that for a moment, glancing from -the verdant mountain to the shimmering sea, the illusion of what the -landscape must have been before it had become a fashionable -wintering-place was startlingly complete. - -The two young men walked on for a few hundred yards further and plunged -into mid-forest. The red trunks of the pines were now growing so thickly -around them that the azure brilliancy of the waves could only be seen -fitfully. The black foliage above their heads was outlined against the -open sky with singular distinctness. The refreshing, penetrating odor of -resin, mingled at intervals with the delicate perfume of a large, -flowing mimosa, enveloped them in a balmy atmosphere. - -Olivier surveyed the forest with its northern aspect with all the -pleasure of a traveller returning from the East, tired of sandy -horizons, weary of that monotonous, implacably burnished nature, and who -feels a keen joy at the sight of a variegated vegetation and in the -multitudinous colors of the European landscape. - -Hautefeuille, for his part, looked at Olivier. Disquieted to the verge -of anxiety by the enigma of a marriage that he had formerly accepted -without remark, he began to study the changing shades of thought, grave -and gay, that flitted across his friend's candid physiognomy. Olivier -was plainly more at ease in the absence of his wife. But he retained the -expression of scorn in his eyes and the bitter curve on his lips that -his friend knew so well. These signs were the invariable forerunners of -one of those acrimonious fits of which Madame de Carlsberg had told -Madame Brion. Pierre had always suffered for his friend when these -crises attacked Olivier, and when he began to speak about himself and -about life in a tone of cruel scorn that disclosed an abnormal state of -cynical disillusion, he suffered doubly to-day; for his heart was -unusually sensitive by reason of the love that filled it. What would his -suffering have been could he have understood the entire significance of -the remarks in which his companion's melancholy sought relief! - -"It is strange," Olivier began musingly, "how complete a presentiment of -life we have while still very young! I remember, as clearly as though it -were this very moment, a walk we took together in Auvergne.--I am sure -you do not recall it. We had returned to Chaméane from La Varenne, -during the vacation after our third year. I had spent a fortnight with -your mother, and upon the morrow I was to return to that abominable -rascal, my guardian. It was in September. The sky was as soft as it is -to-day, and the atmosphere was as transparent. We sat down at the foot -of a larch for a few minutes' rest. I could see you before me. I saw the -sturdy tree, the lovely forest, the glorious sky. All at once I felt a -nameless languor, a sickly yearning for death. The idea suddenly came -over me that life held nothing better for me, that I need expect -nothing.--What caused such an idea? Whence did it come, for I was only -sixteen then?--Even now I cannot explain it. But I shall never forget -the intense suffering that wrung my soul that mild afternoon under the -branches of the huge tree, with you by my side. It was as though I felt -in advance all the misery, all the vanity, all the disasters of my -life." - -"You have no right to speak in that way," said Hautefeuille. "What -miseries have you? What failures? What disasters?--You are thirty-two. -You are young. You are strong. Everything has smiled upon you. You have -been lucky in fortune, in your career,--in your marriage. You have an -income of eighty thousand a year. You are going to be First Secretary. -You have a charming wife--and a friend from Monomotapa," he added -laughingly. - -Olivier's deep sigh pained him keenly. He felt all the melancholy that -had prompted his outbreak, which to others would have seemed singularly -exaggerated! And, as he had often done before, he combated it with a -little commonplace raillery. It was rare that Du Prat, with his -delicate, critical turn of mind, sensitive to the least lack of good -taste, did not also change his mood when his friend spoke in such a way. -But this time the weight upon his heart was too heavy. He continued in a -duller, more hopeless tone:-- - -"Everything has smiled upon me?" and he shrugged his shoulders. "And yet -it seems so when one makes up the account with words.--But in reality, -at thirty-two youth is over, the real, the only youth is -finished.--Health and good fortune still preserve you from a few -worries, but for how long?--They are not additional happinesses.--As to -my career.--Don't let us speak on that idiotic subject.--And my -marriage?" - -He paused for a second as though he recoiled from the confidence he had -been about to make. Then with a bitterness in his voice that made Pierre -shudder, for it revealed an interior abscess that was full to bursting -with an evil, malignant substance:-- - -"My marriage? Well, it is a failure like all the rest, a frightful, -sinister failure.--But," he added, shaking his head, "what does it -matter, either that or anything else?" - -And he went on while Pierre listened without further interruption:-- - -"Did you never wonder what decided me to marry? You thought, I suppose, -like everybody else, that I was tired of a solitary life, and that I -wanted to settle down, that I had met a match that fulfilled all the -conditions requisite for a happy alliance. Nothing was lacking. There -was a good dowry, an honorable name, a pretty, well-educated girl. And -you thought the marriage the most natural thing in the world. I don't -wonder at it. It was simply an illustration of ordinary ideas. We are -the slaves of custom without even knowing it. We ask why so-and-so has -not married like every one else. But we never think of asking why -so-and-so has married like every one else when he is not every one -else.--Besides, you did not know, you could not know, what bitter -experiences had brought me to that point.--We have always respected each -other in our confidences, my dear Pierre. That is why our friendship has -remained so noble, so rare, something so different from the loathsome -companionship that most men designate by the name. I never spoke to you -about my mistresses, about my loves. I never sought to hear of yours. -Such vilenesses, thank God, have always remained outside our affection." - -"Stop," broke in Hautefeuille, hurriedly, "don't sully your souvenirs in -that way. I don't know them, but they must be sacred. If I have never -questioned you about the secrets of your sentiments, my dear Olivier, it -is through respect for them and not through any respect for our -friendship.--Our affection would not have been limited by association -with a true, deep love. Do not calumniate yourself. Do not tell me that -you have never loved truly and deeply, and do not blaspheme." - -"True love!" interrupted Olivier, with singular irony. "I don't even -know what the two words taken together mean. I have had more than one -mistress. And, when I think of them, they all represent wild desire, -followed by deeper disgust; bitter sensuality, saturated with jealousy, -much falsehood understood, much falsehood uttered, and not an emotion, -not one, do you understand? Not one that I would wish to recall, not a -happiness, not a noble action, not a satisfaction! Whose fault is it? Is -it due to the women I have met or to myself, to their vileness or to my -poverty of heart?--I cannot say." - -"The heart is not poor," interrupted Hautefeuille, with just as much -earnestness, "in him who has been the friend that you have been to me." - -"I have been that friend to you because you are yourself, my dear -Pierre," replied Olivier, in a tone of absolute sincerity. "Besides, the -senses have no place in friendship. They have a big one in love, and my -senses are cruel. I have always suffered from evil desires, from wicked -voluptuousness. And I cannot tell you what leaven of ferocity has worked -in the deepest depths of my soul every time that my desires have been -strongly aroused.--I do not justify myself. I do not explain the -mystery. It exists, that is all. And all my _liaisons_, from the first -to the last, have been poisoned by this strange, fermenting mixture of -hatred." - -"Yes," he went on, "from the first to the last.--Above all, the -last!--It was at Rome, two years ago. If ever I thought I could love it -was at that time. In that unique city I met a woman, herself unique, -different from the others, with so much unflinching courage in her mind, -so much charm in her heart, without any meanness, without any smallness, -and beautiful!--Ah! so beautiful!--And then our pride clashed and -wounded us both. She had had lovers before me.--One at least, whom I was -sure about.--He was a Russian, and had been killed at Plevna. I knew she -had loved him. And although he was no more, that unreasoning jealousy, -the unjust, inexpressible jealousy of the dead, made me cruel toward the -unhappy woman, even before our first rendezvous, from our first -kisses!--I treated her brutally.--She was proud and coquettish. She -avenged herself for my cruelty. She accepted another lover without -dismissing me--or I thought she did, which amounts to the same -thing.--In any case she made me suffer so horribly that I left her, the -first. I left her abruptly one day without even saying farewell, -swearing that never again would I seek satisfaction in that way. - -"I was at the middle of my life. From the passionate experiences I had -tasted, all that remained to me was such a poverty of sentiment, such a -singular interior distortion, if I may so explain myself, such a -terrible weariness of my mode of life, that I made a sudden resolution -to change it, certain that nothing would be, nothing could be, -worse.--There are marriages of calculation, of sentiment, of -convenience, of reason. I made a marriage of weariness.--I don't think -that such cases are rare. But it is much more rare for one to admit -having made such a marriage. I admit it.--I never had but one -originality. I was never hypocritical with myself. I hope to die without -having lost the quality.--There you have my story." - -"And yet you seemed to love your _fiancée_," said Pierre. "If you had -not loved her, or if you had not thought you loved her, you, the -honorable friend, whom I know so well, would never have linked your life -with hers." - -"I did not love her," replied Olivier. "I never thought I loved her. I -hoped to love her. I told myself that I should feel what I had never -felt at the contact of this soul so different, so new, so fresh, and in -a life that resembled my past so little. Yes, once again I hoped and -tried to feel." He accentuated the words with singular energy. "The real -evil of this twilight of the century is the obstinate headstrong -research of emotion. That malady I have.--I said to myself, to soothe my -conscience: 'If I do not marry this girl, another will. She will be -swept off by one of those countless rascals that flourish upon the Paris -boulevards and one who is only hungry for her dowry. I shall not be a -worse husband than such a one.'--And then I hoped for children, for a -son.--Even that would not stir my heart now, I believe. The experiment -has been made. Six months have been enough. My wife does not love me. I -do not love, I never shall love, my wife.--There is the whole -account.--But you are right. Honor still remains, and I will keep my -word to the best of my ability." - -He passed his hand before his eyes and across his brow, as though to -drive away the hideous ideas that he had just evoked with such brutal -frankness, and went on more calmly:-- - -"I don't know why I should sadden you with my nervousness in the first -moments of our meeting.--Yes, I do know.--It is the fault of this -forest, of the color of the sky, of the souvenir of sixteen years ago, -a souvenir so exact that it is a veritable obsession. However, it is -finished. Don't speak; don't console me. The bitter pill has to be -swallowed without a word." - -Then, with a smile, once again tender and open, he said:-- - -"Let us talk about yourself. What are you doing here? How are you? I see -from your face that the South has cured you. But upon these shores, -where the sun does you good, the weariness of life does you so much -harm, that it is more than compensated for." - -"But I assure you I am not weary, not the least in the world!" replied -Pierre. - -He felt that Olivier could not, that he ought not to, speak any more -intimately about his married life. His heart was torn by the confidences -he had just been listening to, and he could only wait until the wounds -which had been so suddenly exposed to his view were less irritated, more -healed. There was nothing left for him to do other than to give way to -his friend's capricious curiosity. Besides, if Du Prat was going to stay -at Cannes for any length of time, he must be prepared to see him going -about and paying visits. He, therefore, continued:-- - -"What do I do?--Really, I hardly know. I simply go on living.--I go out -rather less than ordinarily. You have not yet felt the charm of Cannes, -for you stayed here too short a time. It is a town of little circles. -You must be in one or two to feel the sweetness of this place. I have -been lucky enough to fall into the most agreeable of all.--Tennis, golf, -five o'clock teas, dinners here and there, and you have the springtime -upon you before you have even noticed that August has ended. And then -there is yachting.--When I received your telegram from Cairo, I was at -Genoa making a cruise on board an American's yacht. I will introduce you -to him. His name is Marsh. He is very original, and will amuse you." - -"I doubt it very much," replied Olivier. "I don't get along very well -with the Americans. The useless energy of the race tires me even to -think of. And what a lot of them there is!--What numbers I saw in Cairo, -or on the Nile, men and women, all rich, all healthy, all active, all -intelligent, observing everything, understanding everything, knowing -everything, digesting everything!--And all had gone, were going, or were -going again round the world. They seemed to me to be a moral -representation of those mountebanks one seeks at the fairs, who swallow -a raw fowl, a shoe sole, a dozen rifle-balls, and a glass of water into -the bargain.--Where do they store the pile of incoherent impressions -which they must carry away with them?--It is a puzzle to me.--But your -Yankee must be of a different sort, since he seems to have pleased -you.--What reigning or dethroned prince had he on board?" - -"None!" replied Hautefeuille, happy to see the misanthropic humor of his -friend disappearing before his gayety. "There was simply his niece, Miss -Florence, who has, I must admit, the ostrich-like stomach which amuses -you so much. She paints, she is an archæologist and a chemist, but she -is also a very fine girl.--Then there was a Venetian lady, the Marchesa -Bonnacorsi, a living Veronese." - -"I like them best in pictures," said Olivier. "The resemblance of -Italians to the paintings of the great masters was my despair in Rome. -You enter a salon and you see a Luini talking to a Correggio upon a sofa -in the corner. You draw near them. And you find that the Luini is -telling the plot of the vilest and stupidest of the latest French novel -to the Correggio, who listens to the Luini with an interest that -disgusts you forever with the Madonnas of both painters. But, all the -same, you had a pretty cosmopolitan party on your boat. Two Americans, -an Italian, and a Frenchman.--What other nations were represented?" - -"France, or rather Paris, and Austria, that was all.--Paris was -represented by the two Chésys. You know the wife; Yvonne.--Don't you -remember?--Mademoiselle Bressuire." - -"What, the girl whom your sister wanted me to marry? She who displayed -her shoulders to the middle of her back and painted her face at sixteen -years old?--Who is her lover?" - -"Why, she is the best little woman in the world!" replied Hautefeuille. - -"Then she was a poor representative of Paris," said Olivier. "What about -the Austrian?" - -"The Austrian?" replied Pierre. - -He hesitated for a second. He knew that he would have to speak of his -mistress sooner or later to Olivier. He had only mentioned his cruise in -the yacht in order to bring her name into their first conversation. And -yet he was afraid. What remark would his idol's name call forth from his -ironical friend? There was a little unsteadiness in his voice as he -repeated: - -"The Austrian?" and he added, "Oh, Austria was represented by the -Baroness de Carlsberg, whom you met in Rome. We have often spoken about -you." - -"Yes, I met her in Rome," said Olivier. - -It was now his turn to hesitate. At the sound of that name spoken by his -friend in the silence of the wood where was heard but the rustling of -the pines, his surprise was so great that his very countenance changed. -His hesitation, this alteration in his physiognomy, the very reply of Du -Prat, ought to have warned Hautefeuille of some impending danger. But he -dared not look at his friend, who had now mastered his quivering nerves, -and said:-- - -"Yes, I remember, the Archduke has a villa at Cannes.--Does she live -with him now?" - -"Why, was she separated from him then?" asked Pierre. - -"Legally, no; in reality, yes," replied Olivier. - -He was too much of a gentleman to make even the least slighting remark -about a woman of whom he had been the lover. The bitter, profound grudge -he bore her manifested itself in a strange way. As he could not, as he -would not speak any evil of her, he began to praise her husband, the man -whom he detested the most in the world. - -"I never knew why they could not agree," he said. "She is very -intelligent, and he is one of the first men of his time. He is one of -the three or four important personages, with the Emperor of Brazil, the -Prince of Monaco, and the Archduke of Bavaria, who have taken a place in -the ranks of science to the honor of royalty. It appears that he is a -true scientist." - -"He may be a true scientist," replied Hautefeuille; "I don't deny it. -But he is a detestable creature.--If you had only seen him as I did, in -his wife's salon, making a violent scene before six people, you would -admire her for supporting life with that monster, even for a single day, -and you would pity her." - -He spoke now with a passionate seriousness. At any time Olivier would -have been surprised at the intensity of this openly avowed interest, for -he knew Pierre to be very undemonstrative. But now, agitated as he was, -the sincerity of his friend surprised him still more, stirred him more -deeply. He looked at him again. He perceived an expression that he had -never before seen on the face he had known from childhood. In a sudden -blinding flash of overpowering intuition, he understood. He did not -grasp the entire truth as yet. But he saw enough to stun him. "Does he -love her?" he asked himself. The question sprang into being in his mind -suddenly, spontaneously, as though an unknown voice had whispered it in -him in spite of himself. - -The idea was too unexpected, too agonizing, for a reaction to fail to -follow instantly. "I am mad," he thought; "it is impossible." And yet he -felt that it was beyond his strength to question Pierre about the way he -had made the acquaintance of Madame de Carlsberg, about their trip to -Genoa, about the life he led at Cannes. Such inability to lay bare the -truth seizes one before certain hypotheses which touch the tenderest, -most sensitive part of the heart. He replied simply:-- - -"Perhaps you are right. I was only going upon hearsay." - -The conversation continued without any further mention of the Baroness -Ely's name. The two friends spoke of their travels, of Italy, of Egypt. -But when the spirit of observation is once aroused, it is not soothed to -slumber by a mere act of the will. It is like an instinctive and -uncontrollable force working within us and around us, in spite of us, -until the moment that it has satisfied its desire to know. During the -long promenade, upon their return, during and after dinner, all -Olivier's powers of attention were involuntarily, unceasingly, painfully -concentrated upon Pierre. It was as though there were two beings in him. -He joked, replied to his wife, gave orders about the service. And yet -all his senses were upon the _qui vive_, and he discovered signs by the -score that he had not noticed at first, absorbed as he had been by the -joy of revisiting his friend, and then later by his thoughts about -himself and his destiny. - -In the first place, he saw the indefinable but unmistakable indications -of a more virile, more decided personality in Pierre, in his looks, in -his features, in his gestures and attitude. His former _farouche_ -timidity had yielded to the proud reserve that the certainty of being -loved gives to some delicate, romantic natures. Next he noted the -principal, the infallible sign of secret happiness, the expression of -tender ecstasy that seemed to lurk in the depths of his eyes, and a -constant faraway look. Never had Olivier noticed this abstraction in -their former conversations. Never had Pierre's thoughts been in other -climes while his friend spoke. Lovers are all alike. They speak to you. -You speak to them. They know not what to say, nor do they hear you. -Their soul is elsewhere. At this moment Pierre's thoughts were upon the -deck of a yacht illumined by the moonbeams; upon the staircase of an old -Italian palace; in the patio of the Villa Helmholtz, far away from the -little table of the hotel dining-room; far away from Madame du Prat, -upon whom he forgot to attend; far away from Olivier, whom he no longer -even saw! - -And then Olivier noticed tiny details of masculine adornment, little -nothings which disclosed the tender coquetting of a mistress who would -not have her lover make a gesture without being reminded of her by some -caressing souvenir. Pierre wore a ring upon his little finger that his -friend had never seen, two golden serpents interlaced, with emerald -heads. A St. George medal, which he did not recognize, was hanging to -his watch-chain. In taking out his handkerchief it gave forth a delicate -perfume that Pierre had never formerly used. Olivier had been engaged in -too many intrigues to be mistaken for an instant about any of these -evidences of feminine influence. They were only additional proofs. They -simply confirmed the change he had noticed in Pierre's inexplicable -acquaintance with Corancez, in his liking for cosmopolitan society, in -the unexpected frivolity of his mode of life, in his evident sympathy -for things at Cannes that Olivier had expected would have most shocked -his friend. - -How was it possible not to put these facts together? How was it possible -not to draw the conclusion from them that Pierre was in love? But with -whom? Did the energy with which he had attacked the Archduke prove that -he loved Madame de Carlsberg? Had he not defended Madame de Chésy with -the same energy? Had he not equally warmly sung the praises of Madame -Bonnacorsi's beauty, of Miss Marsh's grace? - -While Olivier was studying his friend with a super-acute and almost -mechanical tension of the nerves, these three names occurred to him -again and again. Ah! how he longed for another sign among all these -indications; for one irrefutable proof, something that would drive away -and annihilate the first hypothesis, the one that he had seen for an -instant as in a flash, and yet plainly enough for him to be already -possessed by it as by the most ghastly, threatening nightmare. - -Toward eleven o'clock Pierre withdrew upon the pretext that the -travellers must be longing to rest. Olivier, having taken leave of his -wife, felt that it was impossible any longer to support this -uncertainty. Often, in former days, when Pierre and he were together in -the country, if one was suffering from insomnia, he would awake the -other, and they would go out for a walk in the night air, talking -incessantly. Olivier thought that this would be the surest way of -exorcising the idea that was again beginning to haunt him, an idea that -stirred up in him, without his knowing why, a wave of unreasoning, -violent, almost savage, revolt. Yes, he would go and talk to -Hautefeuille. That would do him good, although he did not know how nor -of what they would talk. - -The most elementary delicacy would prevent him speaking a word that -could arouse the suspicions of his friend, no matter what were the -relations that existed between Pierre and Ely de Carlsberg. But the -conversations of close friends afford such opportunities! Perhaps an -intonation of the voice, a look, a movement, would furnish him with the -passionately desired sign after which he would never again even think of -the possibility of Pierre having a sentiment for his former mistress. - -He was already in bed when this idea seized him. Automatically, without -any further reflection, he rose. He descended the staircases of the -immense hotel, now silent and in semi-darkness. He arrived at -Hautefeuille's door. He knocked. There was no reply. He knocked again, -and again there was silence. The key was in the lock. He turned it and -entered. By the light of the moon that flooded the room through the open -window, he saw that the bed was undisturbed. Pierre had gone out. - -Why did Olivier feel a sudden pain at his heart, followed by an -inexpressible rush of melancholy, as he noticed this? He went and leaned -on the window rail. He glanced over the immense horizon. He saw all the -serene beauty of the Southern night, the stars that glittered in the -soft, velvety blue of the sky, the bronzed golden moon whose beams -played caressingly with the sea--the sea that rolled supple and vast -afar off. He saw the lights of the town shining among the black masses -of shrubbery in the gardens. The warm breeze enveloped him with the -languorous, enthralling, enchanting odor of lemon blossom. What a divine -night for the meeting of lovers! And what a divine night for a lover -dreaming of his mistress, as he wandered along the solitary paths!--Was -Pierre that lover? Had he gone to meet his mistress? Or was he simply -pursuing his vision in the perfumed solitude of the gardens?--How was he -to know?--Olivier thought of the Yvonne de Chésy with whom he had -danced. He recalled all the Americans and the Italians he had ever -known, in order to compose a Marchesa Bonnacorsi and an ideal Florence -Marsh.--It was in vain! Always did his imagination return to the -souvenir of Ely de Carlsberg, to that mistress of a so short time ago, -whose image was still so present. Always did his thoughts return to the -memory of those caresses, whose intoxicating tenderness he had tested. -And he sighed, sadly and mournfully, in the pure night air:-- - -"Ah! What unhappiness if he loves her! My God! What unhappiness!" - - -His sigh floated off and was lost in the soft voluptuous breeze which -bore it away from him who unconsciously called it forth. At this moment -Pierre was making his way through the shrubbery of the Villa Helmholtz -gardens as he had done once before. He arrived at the door of the -hothouse. A woman awaited him there, trembling with love and -terror.--What caused the terror? Hot the fear of being surprised in this -secret meeting. Ely's courage was superior to such weaknesses. No. She -knew that Olivier had returned that day. She knew that he had passed the -afternoon talking with Pierre. She knew that her name must have been -pronounced between them. She was certain that Pierre would not betray -their dear secret. But he was so young, so innocent, so transparent to -the observer, while the other was so penetrating, so keen!--She was -going to learn if their love had been suspected by Olivier, if this man -had warned his friend against her in revenge.--When she heard Pierre's -slow, furtive footsteps upon the pathway, her heart beat so strongly -that she seemed to hear it echo through the deathly silence of the -hothouse!--He is here. She takes his hand. She feels that the beloved -fingers reply with their old confident pressure. She takes him in her -arms. She seeks his mouth and their lips unite in a kiss in which she -feels that he is all hers to the depths of his soul. That other has not -spoken! And now tears begin to flow down the cheeks of the loving woman, -warm tears that the lover dries with his burning kisses, as he asks:-- - -"What, are you weeping! What is it, my beloved?" - -"I love you," she replies, "and they are tears of joy." - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -FRIEND AND MISTRESS - - -Olivier du Prat thought he knew himself. It was a pretension he had -often justified. He was really, as he had said to Hautefeuille, a child -of the declining century in his tastes, in his passion, almost mania, -for self-analysis, in his thirst for emotions, in his powerlessness to -remain faithful to any one of his sensations, in his useless lucidity, -as regarded himself, and in his indulgence of the morbid, unsatisfied, -unquiet longings of his nature. He felt his case was irremediable, the -gloomy sign that characterizes the tragically disturbed age we live in, -and one of the infallible marks of decadence in a race. Healthy life -does not entirely rest upon a freedom from wounds. For the body as for -the soul, for a nation as for an individual, vigorous life is indicated -by the power to heal those that are made. Olivier was entirely without -this capacity. Even the most distant troubles of his childhood became so -real as to be agonizing when he thought of them after all the years that -had passed. In recalling their walk among the mountains of Auvergne, as -he had done the night before to Pierre, he had simply been thinking -aloud as he always thought to himself. His imagination was incessantly -occupied in turning and returning with an unhealthy activity of mental -retrospection, to the hours, the minutes, that had forever vanished. In -his mind he reanimated, revived, the past and lived it over again. And -by this self-abandonment to a past sensitiveness he continually -destroyed all present sensitiveness. He never allowed the wounds that -had once been made to heal over, and his oldest injury was always ready -to bleed afresh. - -This unfortunate singularity of his nature would, under any -circumstances, have made a meeting with Madame de Carlsberg very -painful, even though the dearest friend of his youth had not been -concerned in it. And he would never have heard that his friend loved -without being deeply moved. He knew he was so tender-hearted, so -defenceless, so vulnerable! Here, again, he was the victim of a -retrospective sensitiveness. Friendship carried to the extreme point -that his feeling for Hautefeuille occupied is a sentiment of the -eighteenth rather than of the thirty-second year. In the first flush of -youth, when the soul is all innocence, freshness, and purity, these -fervent companionships, these enthusiasms of voluntary fraternity, these -passionate, susceptible, absolute friendships, often appear to quickly -fade away. Later in life self-interest and experience individualize one -and isolation is unavoidable. Complete communion of soul with soul -becomes possible only by the sorcery of love, and friendship ceases to -suffice. It is relegated to the background with those family affections -that once also occupied a unique place in the child and in the youth. -Certain men there are, however, and Olivier was one of the number, upon -whom the impression made by friendships about their eighteenth year has -been too deep, too ineffaceable, and, above all, too delicate, to be -ever forgotten, and even to be ever equalled. It remains an incomparable -sentiment. These men, like Olivier, may pass through burning passions, -suffer all the feverish shocks of love, be bruised in the most daring -intrigues, but the true romance of their sensitive natures is not to be -found in these passions. It is to be found in those hours of life when, -in thought, they project themselves into the future with an ideal -companion, with a brother that they have chosen, in whose society they -realize for an instant La Fontaine's sublime fable, the complete union -of mind, tastes, hopes:-- - - -"And one possess'd nothing that the other did not share." - - -In the case of Olivier and Pierre this ideal comradeship had been -sacredly cemented. Not only had they been brothers in their dreams, they -had been brothers in arms. They were nineteen years of age in 1870. At -the first news of the immense national shipwreck both had enlisted. Both -had gone through the entire war. The first snowfall of the winter that -saw the terrible campaign found them bivouacking upon the banks of the -Loire. It was as though this friendship of the two students, now become -soldiers in the same battalion, had been heroically baptized. And they -had learned to esteem as much as they loved each other as they simply, -bravely, obscurely risked their lives side by side. These souvenirs of -their youth had remained intact and living in both, but particularly in -Olivier. For him they were the only recollections unmixed with -bitterness, unsullied by remorse. Before these memories his life had -been full of sadness, completely orphaned as he had been early in life -and turned over to the guardianship of a horribly selfish uncle. Sensual -and jealous, suspicious and despotic as he was, he had only known the -bitterness and the pains of love apart from his souvenirs of Pierre. -Nothing more is necessary to explain to what a degree this illogical and -passionate, this troubled and disillusioned being was moved by the mere -idea that a woman had come between his friend and him--and what a woman, -if she were Madame de Carlsberg, so hated, despised, condemned by him -formerly! - -Olivier's imagination could only attach itself to two precise facts -during the night that followed the arousing of his first suspicions,--a -night that was given up to the consideration, one by one, of the -possibilities of a love-affair between Ely and Hautefeuille. These were -the character of his friend and that of his former mistress. The -character of his friend made him fear for him; the character of his -former mistress made him fear for her. Upon this latter point also his -feelings were very complex. He was convinced that Ely de Carlsberg had -had a lover before him, and the idea had tortured him. He was convinced -that she had had a lover at the same time with him, and he had left her -on account of this idea. He was mistaken, but he was sincere, and had -only yielded to proofs of coquetry that appeared sufficiently damaging -to convince his jealous nature. This double conviction had left in him a -scornful resentment against Ely; had left that inexpiable bitterness -which compels us to continually vilify in our mind an image that we -despairingly realize can never become entirely indifferent to us. He -would have considered a _liaison_ with such a creature a frightful -misfortune for any man. What, then, were his feelings when he saw that -she had made herself beloved by his friend or that she might make -herself beloved?--Having such a prejudiced, violent contempt for this -sort of woman, Olivier divined what was really the truth, although it -had remained so for so short a time. Ely had been angered by his -departure. She had felt the same resentment with him that he had felt -with her. Chance had brought her face to face with his dearest friend, -with Pierre Hautefeuille, of whom he had so often spoken in exalted -terms. She must have decided upon revenge, upon a vengeance that -resembled her--criminal, refined, and so profoundly, so cruelly, -intelligent!--In this way Du Prat reasoned. And, although his reasoning -was only hypothetical, he felt, as he fed his mind with such thoughts, a -suffering mingled with a sort of unhealthy and irresistible satisfaction -that would have terrified him had he considered it calmly. To suppose -that Madame de Carlsberg had avenged herself upon him with such -calculation was to suppose that she had not forgotten him. The windings -in the human heart are so strange! In spite of the fact that he had -insulted his former mistress all the time they had been together, that -he had left her first, without a farewell, that he had married after due -reflection, and had resolved to keep his vows honorably--in spite of all -this, the idea that she still remembered him secretly stirred him -strangely. It must be remembered that he was just passing through one of -the most dangerous moments of conjugal existence. Every moral crisis is -complicated with a multitude of contradictory elements in souls such as -his,--souls without fixed principles, that are turned aside at every -moment by the influence of their faintest impression. Marriages -contracted through sheer lassitude, such as the one he admitted having -contracted, bring down their own punishment upon the abominable egoism -that prompts them. They have to pay a penalty worse than the most -redoubtable catastrophe. They are followed immediately by profound, -incurable weariness. The man, thirty years of age, who, thinking he is -disgusted forever with sensual passions, and who, mistaking this disgust -for wisdom, settles down, as the saying is, quickly finds that those -very passions that sickened him are as necessary to him as morphine is -to the morphine maniac who has been deprived of his Pravaz syringe, as -necessary as alcohol is to the inebriate put upon a _régime_ of pure -water. He suffers from a species of nostalgia, of longing for those -unhealthy emotions whose fruitlessness he has himself recognized and -condemned. If a brutal but very exact comparison can be borrowed from -modern pathology, he becomes a favorable medium for the cultivation of -all the morbid germs floating in his atmosphere. And at the very moment -when everything seems to point to the pacific arrangement of their -destiny, some revolution takes place, as it was doing in Olivier,--a -revolution so rapid, so terrible, that the witness and victims of these -sudden wild outbursts are left almost more disconcerted than despairing. - -He had therefore passed the night meditating upon all the details, -significant and unimportant, that he had observed in the afternoon and -evening, from the moment he had remarked the unexpected intimacy of -Pierre with Corancez until the instant he had entered his friend's -chamber hoping for an explanation, and had found it empty. - -Toward five o'clock he fell asleep, slumbering brokenly and heavily as -one does in a railway train in the morning. He dreamed upon the lines of -thought that had kept him awake, as was to be expected. But it -heightened his uneasiness by an appearance of presentiment. He thought -he was again in the little salon of the palace at Rome, where Ely de -Carlsberg used to receive him. Suddenly his wife arrived, leading Pierre -Hautefeuille by the hand. Pierre stopped, as though smitten with terror, -and tried to scream. Suddenly paralysis struck him down, turning his leg -rigid, forcing out his left eye, drawing down the corner of his mouth, -whence not a sound issued! The suffering caused by this nightmare was so -intense that Olivier felt its influence even after he was awake. - -He felt so ill that he could not even wait to see his wife before going -out. He scribbled a line telling her that he was suffering from a slight -headache, and that he had gone out to try and seek relief. He added that -he had not liked to disturb her so early in the morning, and that he -would be back about nine o'clock. He told her, however, that she was not -to await his return should he happen to be late. - -He felt that he must steady his nerves by means of a long walk so as to -be prepared to cope with the events of the day, which he was convinced -would be decisive. Prolonged walks were his invariable remedy in his -nervous crises, and he might have been successful this time if, after -having walked straight before him for some time, he had not come, about -ten o'clock, to the corner of the Rue d'Antibes, the most animated and -interesting part of Cannes. - -At this hour the long corridor-like street was one mass of sharply -outlined shadow, swept and freshened by one of those brisk breezes that -impart a touch of crispness to the burning air of morning in Provence. -The carriage wheels seemed to roll more rapidly, the horses' hoofs -seemed to ring more resonantly upon the white roadway. - -Young people were passing to and fro, English for the most part, -attending with characteristic thoroughness to their after-breakfast -constitutional or their before-lunch exercise. They walked along, -overtaking or meeting young girls with whom they chatted gayly, having -doubtless arranged the meeting upon the preceding evening. Others were -hastening to the station to catch the train for Nice or Monte Carlo. -Their manner, bearing, and costume bore that indescribable imprint of a -frivolous life of amusement. Olivier was all the more deeply impressed -by this from the mere fact that he had formerly been a leader in such an -aimless mode of life. - -Mornings such as this recurred to his mind. He remembered his life in -Rome just two years before. Yes, the sky was of the same shade of blue, -the same fresh breeze softened the sun's burning rays in the streets. -Carriages rolled along there with the same busy hurry, people walked -about wearing the same unconcerned look of amused idleness. And he, -Olivier, was one of those promenaders. - -He remembered just such a morning when he had gone to meet Ely at some -appointed place. He had bought some flowers in the Piazza di Spagna to -brighten the room where he was to meet her. - -Moved by that mechanical parody of will which remembrance sometimes -calls into action, he entered a florist's in this Rue d'Antibes, which -had recalled to him the Roman Corso for a moment. Roses, pinks, -narcissus, anemones, mimosa, and violets were piled up in heaps on the -counter. Everywhere was displayed the glorious prodigality of the soil -which, from Hyères to San Remo, is nothing but a vast garden nestling -upon the shores of the sea. The shop was filled with a sweet penetrating -odor which resembled the perfumes that enveloped them in their hours of -love long ago. - -The young man carelessly selected a cluster of pinks. He came out again -holding them in his hand. And the thought flashed into his mind: "I have -no one to whom I can offer them!" As a contrast to this thought the -image of his friend and Madame de Carlsberg recurred to him. The thought -provoked another sentiment in addition to those of which he had been the -prey for some sixteen hours. He felt the most instinctive, the most -unreasoning jealousy. He shrugged his shoulders and was just upon the -point of flinging the pinks into the road when he thought, in a rush of -the ironical self-analysis with which he often found relief for his -weary heart:-- - -"It is your own doing, Georges Dandin," he thought. "I will offer the -bouquet to my wife. It will give me an excuse for having gone out -without saying good morning." - -Berthe was seated before her desk, writing a letter in her long, -characterless hand, upon a travelling pad, when he entered the salon of -their little apartment at the hotel, to carry out his project of marital -gallantry,--something very novel for him. Around the blotter a score of -tiny knick-knacks were arranged--a travelling clock, portraits in -leather frames, an address book, a note pad--all ready as though she had -inhabited the room for several weeks, instead of several hours. She was -dressed in a tailor-made costume which she had put on with the idea that -her husband would certainly return to show her around Cannes. Then, as -he was late, she began to reply to overdue correspondence with an -apparent calmness that completely deceived Olivier. - -She did not let him see the slightest sign of vexation or reproach when -he came in. Her rigid features remained just as cold and fixed as -before. The two young people had begun this life of distant politeness -in the early weeks of their married life. Of all forms of conjugal -existence, this form is the most contrary to nature and the most -exceptional in the beginning. The fact that a marriage has been a -failure must be an accepted one before it is possible to realize that -politeness is the sole remedy for incompatibility of temper. It, at any -rate, reduces the difficulties of daily intercourse which is as -intolerable when love is lacking as it is sweet and necessary in a happy -marriage. - -But even in the most inharmonious households this very politeness often -conceals in one of the two persons displaying it all the violence of -passion, kept in check because misunderstood. Was this the case with -Madame du Prat, with this child of twenty-two, with this woman so -completely mistress of herself that she seemed to be naturally -indifferent? Did she suffer because of her husband without showing it? -The future would show. For the moment she was a woman of the world -travelling, tranquil in aspect, who held up her forehead for the kiss of -her lord and master, without a complaint, without a shade of surprise, -even when he began:-- - -"I am sorry I let the luncheon hour go by. I hope you did not wait for -me. I have brought you these flowers in the hope that you will excuse -me." - -"They are very beautiful," replied Berthe, burying her face in the -bouquet and inhaling its subtle perfume. - -The brilliant reds of the large flowers, so warm and rich in hue, seemed -to accentuate all the coldness of her blond beauty. Her blue eyes had -something metal lie in their depth, something steely, as though they had -never felt the softening influence of a tear. And yet, from the manner -in which she revelled in the musky, pungent odor of the flowers offered -her by her husband, it was easy to detect an almost emotional -nervousness. But there was no trace of this in the tone with which she -asked:-- - -"Have you been out without eating?--That is very foolish.--Has your -headache disappeared?--You must have slept badly last night, for I heard -you walking about." - -"Yes; I had a little attack of insomnia," replied Olivier, "but it is -nothing. The open air on such a beautiful morning has put me all right -again.--Have you seen Hautefeuille?" he added. - -"No," she replied dryly. "Where could I see him? I have not been out." - -"And he has not asked after me?" - -"Not that I know of." - -"He is perhaps also unwell," continued Olivier. "If you don't mind, I -will go and ask after him." - -He left the salon before he had finished speaking. The young woman -remained with her forehead resting upon her hand in the same attitude. -Her cheeks were burning, and although she was not weeping, her heart was -swollen with grief, and her breathing was agitated and hurried. She -became another woman with Olivier absent. Apart from him she could -abandon herself completely to the strange sentiment that her husband -inspired in her. She felt a sort of wounded and unrequited affection for -him. Her feelings could not seek relief either in reproaches or in -caresses. They were, therefore, in a constant state of mute irritation. -Under such moral conditions Olivier's visibly partial affection for -Pierre could not be very sympathetic to the young woman, particularly -since their return to Cannes, which had delayed their return just at the -moment she was longing to see her family again. - -But there was another reason that caused her to detest this friendship. -Like all young women who marry into a different circle from their own, -she was mortally anxious about her husband's past. Olivier, in one of -those half-confidences that even the most self-contained men fall into -in the moment of candor following marriage, had allowed her to see that -he had suffered a particularly cruel disillusion in the latter part of -his bachelor life. Another half-confidence had enabled her to learn that -this incident had taken place at Rome, and that the cause of it was a -foreigner of noble birth. - -Olivier had completely forgotten these two imprudent phrases, but Berthe -treasured them in the recesses of her memory. She had even not been -content to brood over the avowals; she had put them side by side, and -had completed them by that species of mental mosaic work in which women -excel, seizing a detail here, another there, in the most insignificant -conversation to add them to the story upon which they are at work. They -make deductions in this way that the most scientific observers, the most -wily detectives, cannot equal. - -Olivier had not the least suspicion of this work going, on in Berthe's -mind. Still less did he suspect that she had discovered the first name -of this unknown mistress, a name whose very singularity had helped to -betray it. It happened in this way: When they were married he had -destroyed a number of letters, thrown a lot of faded flowers into the -fire with many a portrait. Then--it is the common story of those mental -_autos da fé_--his hand had trembled in taking up some of these relics, -relics of a troubled, unhappy youth, of his youth. And this had made him -treasure a portrait of Madame de Carlsberg, in profile, so beautiful, so -clear cut, so marvellously like the profile of some antique medallion -that he could not bear to burn it. He slipped the portrait into an -envelope, and, some one happening to call upon him at this moment, he -placed the envelope in a large portfolio in which he carried his papers. -Then he forgot all about it. He had never thought about the portrait -until he was in Egypt. Again he decided to burn it, and again he could -not bear to destroy it. - -In the cosmopolitan society into which his diplomatic functions called -him it is a frequent thing for women to give their photographs bearing -their signatures to their friends, sometimes even to mere acquaintances. -Ely's name written at the foot of the photograph, therefore, signified -nothing. Berthe would never find the portrait, or if she did all that he -would need to do would be to speak of her as an acquaintance. He, -therefore, returned the photograph to its hiding-place in the portfolio, -and one day the improbable happened in the simplest way in the world. -They were staying at Luxor. He happened to be away from the hotel for a -short time. Berthe, who during the entire journey kept the accounts of -their expenses with a natural and cultivated exactitude, was looking for -a bill that her husband had paid, and, without thinking, opened the -portfolio. There she found the photograph. But the second half of -Olivier's reasoning was faulty. She never thought of questioning him -upon the subject. The presence of the portrait among Olivier's papers, -the regal and singular beauty of the woman's face, the strangely foreign -name, the elegant toilet, the place where the photograph had been -taken,--Rome,--all told the young wife that this was the mysterious -rival who had taken up such a large place in her husband's past. - -She thought about it continually. But she could not speak to Olivier -without his thinking that she had spied upon him, that she had -deliberately searched among his papers. And besides, what was there to -ask him about? She divined all that she did not actually know. So she -kept silent, her heart seared with this torturing and fatal curiosity. - -Her knowledge was sufficient to make her think, when her husband went -out the day before with the most intimate friend of his youth: "They are -going to talk about her!" For who could be in Olivier's confidence if -not Pierre Hautefeuille? Was any other reason necessary to explain her -antipathy? She had noticed Olivier's agitation upon his return from the -walk with his friend. And she had said to herself: "They have talked -about her." In the night she had heard her husband walking restlessly -about in his room, and she had thought: "He is thinking about her." And -this was the reason why she remained, now that the door was again -closed, alone, her brow resting upon her hand, motionless, with her -heart beating as though it would burst, and hating with an intense -hatred the friend who knew what she ignored. By dint of concentrated -reflection, she had divined a part of the truth. It would have been -better for her, better for Olivier, better for all, had she only known -it all! - -Olivier's heart was also beating rapidly when, after having knocked at -Pierre's door, he heard the words, "Come in," spoken by the voice he -knew so well and whose sound he had so longed to hear the night before -upon this very staircase. Pierre was not yet out of bed, though it was -eleven o'clock. He excused himself merrily. - -"You see what Southern habits I have fallen into. I shall soon be like -one of the Kornows who stays here. Corancez called the other day and -found him in bed at five o'clock in the afternoon. 'You know,' said -Kornow, 'we are not early risers in Russia.'" - -"You do well to take care of yourself," said Olivier, "seeing that you -have been so ill." - -He had spoken with some embarrassment and a little at random. How he -wished his friend would tell him of his nocturnal promenade in reply! -But no, a little crimson flush colored Pierre's cheek, and that was all. -But it was sufficient to remove all doubt from Olivier's mind as to the -reason of his midnight absence. His mind suddenly made a choice between -the two alternatives imagined when he had found the room empty. The -evidence was overpowering. Pierre had a mistress and he had gone to meet -her. He saw the countenance, still so youthful, reposing upon the pillow -and bearing the traces of a voluptuous lassitude imprinted upon it. The -eyes were sunken, his face had that pallor that follows the excesses of -a too exquisite passion, as though the blood were momentarily fatigued, -and his lips were curved in a smile that was both languid and yet -contented. - -While chatting upon one thing and another, Olivier noted all these -overwhelming indications. He suffered, almost physically, as he remarked -them, and â pang of agonizing pain shot through his heart, a pain that -almost wrung a cry from him, at the idea that the caresses which had. -left Pierre weary, and still intoxicated, had been lavished upon him by -Ely. - -With the passionate anxiety of a trembling friendship, of an awakening -jealousy, of a longing that refuses to be calmed, of a curiosity that -will not slumber, he continued his implacable and silent reasoning. Yes, -Pierre had a mistress. And this mistress was a society woman, and not -free. The proof of this was the hour fixed for their meeting, in the -precautions taken, and, above all, in the strange pride in his beloved -secret that the lover had in the depths of his eyes. To meet her he must -have had to go through a thicket in some garden. Upon his return, Pierre -had flung his soft hat that he had worn during his promenade upon the -drawers. Little twigs of shrubbery still remained on the brim, and a -faint green line bore witness to a passage through foliage pushed on one -side with the head. The young man had placed his jewellery near the hat, -and lying in close proximity to the watch and keys and purse, was the -ring that Olivier had already noticed, the two serpents interlaced, with -emerald heads. Du Prat rose from his chair under the pretext of walking -about the room, in reality to take up the ring. It fascinated him with -an unhealthy, irresistible attraction. As he passed before the commode, -he took up the ring, mechanically and without ceasing to talk, and -turned it about in his hand for a second with an indifferent air. He -noticed an inscription engraved in tiny letters upon its inner surface. -_Ora e sempre_, "Now and forever." It was a phrase that Prince Fregoso -had used in speaking about Greek art, and, as a souvenir of their voyage -to Genoa, Ely had had the idea of having the words engraved upon the -love talisman she gave to Pierre upon their return. Olivier could not -possibly divine the hidden meaning of this tender allusion to hours of -ecstatic happiness. He laid down the ring again without any comment. But -if any doubt had remained in his mind as to what was causing him such -secret anxiety, it would have disappeared before his immediate relief. -He found nothing in the ring to suggest, as he had expected, a present -from Madame de Carlsberg. On the contrary, the words, in Italian, again -suggested the idea that Pierre's mistress might just as easily be Madame -Bonnacorsi as the Baroness Ely. He thought, "I am the horse galloping -after its shadow once more." And, looking at his friend, who had again -crimsoned under Olivier's brief scrutiny, he asked:-- - -"Is the Italian colony here very large?" - -"I know the Marchesa Bonnacorsi and her brother, Navagero.--And I must -admit the latter is a sort of Englishman much more English than all the -Englishmen in Cannes!" - -Hautefeuille reddened still more as he spoke of the Venetian. He guessed -what association of ideas had suggested Olivier's question so quickly -after having toyed with the ring and after having undoubtedly read the -inscription. His friend thought the souvenir was the gift of some -Italian. And who could this be if not the Marchesa Andryana? Any one -else would have hailed with satisfaction the error that turned his -friend's watchful perspicacity in a wrong direction. Hautefeuille, -however, was too sensitive not to be pained by a mistake that -compromised an irreproachable woman, to whose marriage he had even been -a witness. - -His embarrassment, his crimson cheeks, a slight hesitation in his voice, -were only so many signs to Olivier that he was upon the right path. He -felt remorse at having yielded to an almost instinctive impulse. He was -afraid he had wounded his friend and he wished to ask his pardon. But to -ask pardon for an indiscretion is sometimes only to be more indiscreet. -All that he could do, all that he did, was to make up a little for the -impression his sarcasm upon the day before must have made upon -Hautefeuille if he was in love with the Venetian. Navagero's Anglomania -served him as a pretext to caricature in a few words a snob of the same -order whom he had met in Rome and he then said, in conclusion:-- - -"I was in a vile temper yesterday, and I must have appeared somewhat -prudish in my fit of sepia.--I have often been amused by the motley -society one meets in watering-places, and I have felt all the charm of -the women from other countries!--I was younger then.--I remember even -having been fond of Monte Carlo!--I am curious to see it again. Suppose -we dine there to-day? It would amuse Berthe, and I don't think it would -bore me." - -He spoke truly. In such mental crises, purely imaginary, the first -moments of relief are accompanied by a strange feeling of -light-heartedness, which shows itself in an almost infantile gayety, -often as unreasoning as the motives from which it springs. During the -rest of the time until the train started for Nice Olivier astonished his -wife and friend by the change in his temper and conversation, a change -that was inexplicable for them. The _Ora e sempre_ of the ring and its -sentimentality; all his recollections of the simplicity, of the -naïveté of Italians in love; the opulent beauty that Pierre had -suggested in comparing Madame Bonnacorsi to a Veronese,--all gave him -the idea that his friend was the lover of an indulgent and willing -mistress, one who was both voluptuous and gentle. It pleased him to -think of this happy passion. He felt as much satisfaction in -contemplating it as he had suffered at the thought of the other -possibility. And he believed in all good faith that his anxiety of the -night before and of the morning had been solely prompted by his -solicitude about Hautefeuille, and that his present content grew out of -his reassured friendship. - -A very simple incident shattered all this edifice of voluntary and -involuntary illusions. At Golfe Juan Station, as Hautefeuille was -leaning a little out of the window, a voice hailed him. Olivier -recognized the indestructible accent of Corancez. The door opened and -gave admittance to a lady, no other than the ex-Marchesa Bonnacorsi, -escorted by the Southerner. When she saw that Pierre was not alone, -Andryana could not help blushing to the roots of her beautiful blond -hair, while Corancez, equal to every circumstance, always triumphant, -beaming, smiling, performed the necessary introduction. The conjugal -seducer had thought of everything, and before leaving for Genoa he had -established a meeting-place in one of the villas at Golfe Juan in which -to enjoy the prolongation of their secret honeymoon. Andryana had -managed to cheat her brother's watchfulness and had gone to meet her -husband upon the first day of his arrival. Her happiness began to give -her the courage upon which the wily Southerner had counted to bring his -enterprise to a successful conclusion, but he had not yet trained her to -lie with grace. Hardly was she seated in the compartment when she said -to Olivier and his wife, without waiting for any question:-- - -"I missed the last train, and as Monsieur de Corancez did the same, we -decided to walk to Golfe Juan to take the next train instead of waiting -wearily in the station at Cannes." - -All the time she was speaking Olivier was looking at her little patent -leather shoes and the hem of her dress, which gave such a palpable lie -to her statement. There was not a speck of dust upon them and her -alleged walking companion's gaiters had very evidently not taken more -than fifty steps. The married plotters surprised Olivier's look. It -completed the Italian's confusion and almost provoked a wild fit of -laughter in Corancez, who said merrily:-- - -"Are you going to Monte Carlo? I will perhaps meet you there. Where -shall you dine?" - -"I don't know," replied Olivier, with a forbidding tone that was almost -rude. - -He did not speak another word while the train fled along the coast, -flying through tunnel after tunnel. The Southerner, without taking any -notice of his old comrade's very apparent bad temper, entered into a -conversation with Madame du Prat, which he managed to make almost a -friendly one. - -"So this is the first time you have been to the gaming-rooms, madame? In -that case I shall ask you to let me play as you think best, in case we -meet in the rooms.--Good, here is another tunnel.--Do you know what the -Americans call this bit of the railway?--Has Miss Marsh not told you, -Marchesa?--No?--Well, they call it 'the flute,' because there are only -a few holes up above from time to time.--Isn't it pretty? How did you -like Egypt, madame?—They say Alexandria is like Marseilles.--But the -Marseillais would say they have no mistral.--Hautefeuille, you know my -_cocher_, L'Ainé, as they call him?--About a couple of months ago at -Cannes--one day when all the villas were rocking--he said to me: 'Do you -like the South, Monsieur Marius?'--'Yes,' I replied, 'if it were not for -the wind.' '_Hé, pécheire_!' he cried, 'wind! Why, there is never any -wind upon this coast, from Marseilles to Nice!' 'What is that?' I asked, -pointing to one of the palms on the Croisette, which was so much bent -upon one side that it was slipping into the sea. 'Do you call that the -wind, Monsieur Marius?' he said; 'why, that is not wind--it is the -mistral, which makes Provence so bright and cheerful!'" - -"No, Corancez is the Italian's real lover," thought Olivier. He had only -needed to see Hautefeuille with Andryana a couple of minutes to be quite -convinced. She was certainly not the unknown mistress with whom the -young man had passed part of the previous night. - -The evident intimacy existing between her and the Southerner, their -pleasure together, the too apparent falsehood she had told, the -fascination Corancez's showiness had for her, as well as a host of -indications, left no room for doubt. - -"Yes," he repeated, "there is her lover.--They are worthy of each other. -This beautiful, luxuriant woman, who might sell oranges on the Riva dei -Schiavoni, is a fitting mate for this handsome chatterbox! Heavens! What -an accurate observer he was who said:--'Will you be quiet a minute, -Bouches-du-Rhône?'--Just look how complacently Hautefeuille listens to -him! He does not seem at all astonished at these people vaunting their -adultery in a train side by side with a young married couple. How he has -changed!" - -With all his scepticism, Olivier was still a slave to current illogical -prejudices. While he was young it had seemed the most natural thing in -the world for him to carry on his intrigues under the shelter of -pure-minded women who might happen to be friends or relatives of his -mistresses. And yet he was astonished that Pierre was not shocked at the -idea of Madame Bonnacorsi and Corancez installing themselves comfortably -in the same compartment as Monsieur and Madame du Prat! But the -principal portion of his reflections had to do with the painful -deductions that had been interrupted for a few hours. "No," he thought, -"this plump Italian and this mountebank from the South cannot interest -him.--If he tolerates them at all, it is because they are in his secret; -they represent an easy-going complicity, or they are simply people who -know his mistress.--For I am sure he has one. Even though I did not know -that he had passed the night away from his room, even had I not seen him -in bed this morning, with sunken eyes and pallid complexion, even had I -not held in my hands his ring with its inscription, I should only have -to look at him now.--He is another man!" - -As he soliloquized in this way Olivier watched his friend intently, -taking note of every movement with eager avidity, observing the very -fluttering of his eyelids, of his respiration, as closely as a savage -would note, analyze, and interpret the trampled grass, a footprint in -the earth, a broken branch, a crumpled leaf upon the road taken by a -fugitive. - -He also noticed the weakening of the exclusively Gallic character in -Pierre, which he had formerly liked. The young man had been in love with -Ely only three months; it was only three weeks since he had learned that -she loved him; but by dint of thinking of her all his associations of -ideas, all his quotations, had been modified insensibly but strikingly. -His conversation was tinged with an exotic quality. He referred to -Italian and Austrian matters quite naturally. He who formerly astonished -Olivier by his absolute lack of curiosity, now appeared to enjoy with -the pleasure of the newly initiated the stories of the cosmopolitan -society to which he was attached by secret but none the less living -bonds. He had now an interest in it, was accustomed to it, sympathized -with it. And yet nothing in his letters had prepared his friend for this -metamorphosis. - -Olivier continued to seek indications disclosing the identity of the -woman he loved in his conversation, in the expression on Pierre's face, -in the least important words of the three speakers. Berthe, who had -hardly deigned to reply to Corancez's attempts to interest her, now -appeared absorbed in contemplation of the beautiful view across the sea. -The afternoon was drawing to its close. The sheets of blue and violet -water slumbered in the indented coast. The foam tossed about, appearing -and disappearing around the big wooded promontories. And on the other -side, shutting in the horizon, beyond the deep mountains, were outlined -the white sierras of the snowclad peaks. - -But the young woman's self-absorption was but in appearance. And if -Olivier had not been too startled by the sound of a name suddenly -mentioned he must have seen that the name also made a shudder run -through his wife. - -"Are you dining at the Villa Helmholtz to-morrow?" Madame Bonnacorsi -asked Hautefeuille. - -"I shall go later in the evening," he replied. - -"Do you know whether the Baroness Ely is at Monte Carlo to-day?" asked -Corancez. - -"No," answered Hautefeuille; "she is dining with the Grand Duchess -Vera." - -Simple as was the sentence, his voice trembled as he spoke. It would -have seemed to him both puerile and ignoble to attempt to hide anything -from Olivier, and it was perfectly natural for Corancez, who knew of his -relations with Madame de Carlsberg, to ask him about such a trifling -matter. But the gift of second sight seems to descend upon lovers. He -felt that his friend was watching him with a singular expression in his -eyes. And--more extraordinary still--his friend's young wife was also -observing him. The knowledge of the tender secret he carried hidden in -his heart, a sanctuary of adoration, made the glances so painful to -support that insensibly his face disclosed his feelings just -sufficiently to enable the two people spying upon him at the moment to -find food in his momentary agitation for their thoughts. - -"The Baroness Ely?--Why, that is the name on the portrait!"--How was it -possible for Berthe to avoid the rapid reflection? And then she thought: -"Can this woman be at Cannes? How embarrassed both Olivier and Pierre -look!" - -As for Olivier, he thought: "He knows all about her movements.--How -naturally Corancez asked him about her!--That is just the tone such -people adopt in speaking with you about a woman with whom you have a -_liaison_.--And yet, is it possible there is such a _liaison_?" - -Was it possible? The inner voice, stilled for a moment by the words -engraved on the ring, again began to be heard. It replied that a -_liaison_ between Ely and Pierre was not only possible; it was probable; -it was even certain.--And still the indisputable facts to support this -feeling of certitude were far from numerous. But others began to be -gathered. In the first place, Pierre disclosed a secret to his friend in -the name of Corancez, who had not been blind to the coldness of his old -schoolfellow. - -"You were not very pleased to see Corancez walk into our compartment. He -felt it. Now admit it." - -"That is one of the customs of this region," replied Olivier. "I simply -think he might have spared me this association with my wife. All the -better for him if Madame Bonnacorsi is his mistress, but for him to -present her to us in the way he did is, I think, rather cool." - -"She is not his mistress," replied Hautefeuille. "She is his wife. He -has just asked me to tell you. I will explain all about it." - -Pierre continued with the story, in a few hurried words, of the -extraordinary secret marriage, of Navagero's tyranny over his sister, of -the resolution the lovers had taken, of the departure of them all upon -the yacht, and of the ceremony in the ancient Genoese palace. To make -this disclosure he had seized the moment, in the vestibule of the -restaurant, when Berthe was taking off her veil and cloak a few paces -away, and while they themselves were handing their overcoats to the -cloak-room attendant. It was the first minute they had had alone since -the arrival of the train. - -"But, with all that to do, you cannot have had time to see Genoa?" said -Olivier, as his wife approached. - -"Oh, yes. The sea was so rough that we did not return until next day." - -"They passed the night together there," thought Olivier. Even if they -had passed it on the boat, his conclusion would have been the same. And -then, just as though Fate were obstinately trying to dissipate his last -lingering doubts, Hautefeuille stopped as they were traversing the -restaurant to secure a table. Among the mingled crowd of diners Pierre -saluted four people seated round a table more richly appointed than the -others and embellished with rare flowers. - -"Did you not recognize your former cotillon partner?" he asked Olivier, -when he was once more with the Du Prats. - -"Yvonne de Chésy? How little she has changed.--Yes, she is very young," -replied Olivier. - -Before him there was a large mirror, in which he saw reflected all the -picturesque confusion of the fashionable restaurant. He could see the -tables surrounded by women of the highest society and women of the most -dubious, in gorgeous toilets and coquettish bonnets, elbowing each -other, chatting to their companions, men who knew the women of both -classes. The position in which he was placed gave him a view of Yvonne's -profile. In front of her was her husband, no longer the dazzling, -rattlebrained Chésy of the _Jenny_, but a nervous, anxious, -absent-minded creature, the exact type of the ruined player who amid the -most brilliant surroundings is wondering whether or not he will leave -the place to blow out his brains. - -Between this poor being, visibly ill at ease, and the laughing young -wife, who never dreamed of anything so tragic, was seated an individual -of ignoble physiognomy, flabby-cheeked, with double chin, piercing, -inquisitorial, brutal eyes set in a full-blooded countenance. He had the -rosette of the Legion d'Honneur at his buttonhole, and he was paying -manifest court to the young wife. - -Between Yvonne and Chésy, a second woman was placed. At first Olivier -could only see the back of her head. Then he noticed that this woman -turned some three or four times to look toward their table at them. -There was something so strange in the action of the unknown, the -attention she paid to the group in which Hautefeuille and Olivier were -was in such total contrast to the reserved expression on her face and to -her quiet bearing, that Olivier had for a moment a flash of fresh hope. -What if this woman, so pretty, so refined, with an expression that was -so gentle and interesting, were Pierre's beloved mistress? As though -absent-mindedly, he asked:-- - -"Who are the Chésys dining with? Who is the man with the decoration?" - -"It is Brion, the financier," replied Hautefeuille. "The charming woman -in front of him is his wife." - -Again Olivier looked in the mirror. This time he surprised Madame Brion -with her eyes evidently fixed upon him. His memory, so tenacious of all -touching his sojourn in Rome, awoke and reminded him of the time he -heard the name last, reminded him in a souvenir that brought back the -name as pronounced by an unforgetable voice. He pictured himself again -in a garden walk at the Villa Cœlimontana, talking to Ely about his -friendship for Pierre and entering into a discussion with her such as -they often had. - -He declared that friendship, that pure, proud sentiment, that mixture of -esteem and affection, of absolute confidence and sympathy, could not -exist except between man and man. She averred that she had a friend upon -whom she could depend just as he could upon Hautefeuille. And she had -then spoken of Louise Brion. It was Ely's friend who was now dining a -few feet away. And if she was regarding him with that singular -persistence, it was because she knew.--What did she know?--Did she know -that he had been Madame de Carlsberg's lover?--Without doubt that was -it. Did she know that Pierre was her lover now? - -This time the idea became such a violent, such an imperious obsession -that Olivier felt he could no longer stand it. Besides, was there not a -means close at hand of learning the truth, and that immediately? Had not -Corancez told them that he should finish the evening in the Casino? And -he must certainly know, seeing that he had passed the winter with -Hautefeuille and Madame de Carlsberg. - -"I will ask him about it openly, frankly," said Olivier to himself. -"Whether he replies or not, I shall be able to read what he knows in his -eyes.--He is so stupid!" - -Then he felt ashamed of such a proceeding, as though of a frightful -indelicacy in regard to his friend. - -"That is what comes of a woman stealing in between two men. They become -vile at once!--No, I will not try to get the facts of the case from -Corancez. And yet--" - -Was Corancez stupid? It was impossible to be more mistaken about the -wily Southerner. Unfortunately, he was at times too astute. And in the -present case, his excessive subtlety made him commit the irreparable -fault of definitely enlightening Olivier. For the scruples of this -latter were, alas! powerless to withstand the temptation. After all he -had thought, in spite of all he felt so clearly, he succumbed to the -fatal desire to know. And when, about ten o'clock, he encountered -Corancez in one of the rooms of the Casino, he asked him abruptly:-- - -"Is the Baroness Ely, of whom you spoke in the train, the Madame de -Carlsberg I knew in Rome?--She was the wife of an Austrian archduke." - -"The very same," responded Corancez, saying inwardly: "Hallo! -Hautefeuille has not said anything.--Du Prat knew her in Rome? Heaven -grant he has no feeling in that quarter, and that he will not go -chattering to Pierre!" - -Then, aloud, he said:-- - -"Why do you ask?" - -"For no reason," replied Olivier. - -There was a short silence. Then he said:-- - -"Is not my dear friend Hautefeuille somewhat in love with her?" - -"Ah! Now for it," thought the Southerner. "He'll be sure to learn all -about it sooner or later. It had better be sooner. It will prevent -mistakes." - -And he replied:-- - -"Is he in love with her? I saw it from the beginning. He simply worships -her." - -"And she?" asked Olivier. - -"She?" echoed Corancez. "She is madly in love with him!" - -And he congratulated himself upon his perspicacity, saying to himself:-- - -"At any rate, I feel more at ease now. Du Prat will not commit any -folly." - -For once the Southerner had not realized the irony of his own thoughts. -He was as naïve as his secret wife, simple-minded Andryana, who, -discovering Madame du Prat at one of the roulette tables, replied to the -questions of the young wife without noticing her trouble, answering with -the most imprudent serenity. - -"You were talking about a Baroness Ely in the train.--What an odd name!" - -"It is a diminutive of Elizabeth, and is common enough in Austria." - -"Then she is an Austrian?" - -"What! You don't know her? It is Madame de Carlsberg, the morganatic -wife of the Archduke Henry Francis.--You are sure to meet her in Cannes. -And you will see for yourself how beautiful and good and sympathetic she -is." - -"Did she not live in Rome for some time?" continued the young wife. - -How her heart beat as she asked the question! The Venetian replied in -the most natural tone:-- - -"Yes, for a couple of winters. She was not on good terms with her -husband then, and they lived according to their own guise. Things are a -little better now, although--" - -And the good creature was discreetly silent. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -FRIEND AND MISTRESS--_Continued_ - - -The sentiment of perfect happiness that Ely experienced when she was -convinced, in talking to Pierre, that Olivier had not disclosed anything -to his friend did not continue long. She knew her former lover too well -not to understand the constant danger threatening her. She knew that he -still remembered her, and she realized the intensity of morbid passion -of which the unhappy man was capable. It was impossible that he should -not feel toward her now as in the past, that he should not judge her in -the present as during the time of their liaison, with a savage cruelty -allied to a suspicion that had so wounded her. She knew how dearly he -loved Hantefeuille. She knew how solicitous, how jealous that friendship -was. No, he would not suffer her to possess his beloved companion -without a struggle, were it only to save him from her whom he judged so -hardly. - -Besides her tact, the intuition of the former mistress was not to be -deceived. When the man whom she knew to suffer, as from a malady, from a -sensuality that was almost ferocious, should learn the truth, his worst, -most hideous jealousy would be aroused into action. Had she not counted -upon this very thing in the first place when she had nourished a scheme -of vengeance that to-day filled her with shame? - -All these ideas crowded into her mind immediately Hautefeuille left her. -Again, as after his first visit, she accompanied him as far as the -threshold of the hothouse, clasping his hand and leading him through the -salon plunged in darkness, with a feeling of terror and yet of pride -when she felt that the hand of the young man, indifferent to danger, -never trembled. She shuddered at the first contact of the cold night -air. A last embrace, their lips united in a yearning final kiss, the -kiss of farewell,--always heartrending between lovers, for fate is -treacherous and misfortune flies swiftly,--a few minutes during which -she stood listening to his steps resounding as he walked down the -deserted pathways of the garden, and then she returned to her room, -returned to find the place, now cold, where her beloved had reposed in -her solitary bed. In the sudden melancholy mood caused by separation her -intelligence awoke from its vision of happiness and forgetfulness, awoke -to a sense of reality. And she was afraid. - -Here fear was intense, but short-lived. Ely descended from a line of -warriors. She was capable of carrying out actively an energetic policy. -She could think out clearly a situation. Resourceful and proud natures -like hers have no time for the feverish creations of an unsound -imagination enfeebled by terror. She was one of those who dare to look -upon approaching danger. Thus in the first flush of her dawning passion -for Hautefeuille, as her confession to Madame Brion proved, she had -foreseen with a clearness that was almost a certainty the struggle that -would take place between her love and Olivier's friendship for Pierre. - -But this power of courageous realization allows such natures to measure -the danger once they are face to face with it. They lay bare, with the -greatest clearness, the facts of the crisis through which they pass. -They have the strength that comes from daring to hope, from having an -exact idea of the danger in moments that appear desperate. Thus though -Ely de Carlsberg was a victim to a return of her awful anxiety, after -Hautefeuille's departure, when she again laid down her head upon the -pillow, though she suffered from a disquietude that kept her awake, when -she arose the following morning she again felt confidence in the future. -She had hope! - -She had hope, and for motives that she saw clearly, just as the General, -her father, used to see a battlefield laid out in imagination definitely -and accurately. She had hope, in the first place, in Du Prat's love for -his wife. She had felt how refreshing to the heart is the love of a -young, pure nature innocent of the world. She had experienced it -herself. She knew how the moral nature is restored, reformed, -re-created, is purified by contact with the belief in the good, the -magnanimity of generous impulses, the nobility of a broad charity. She -knew how such an association washes away all shameful bitterness, all -evil sentiment, all traces of vice. Olivier had married the girl of his -choice. She loved him and he loved her. Why should he not have felt all -the beneficent influence of youth and purity? And in that case where -would he find the strength to wreck the happiness of a woman whom he had -loved, whom he judged severely, but in whose sincerity he could not fail -to believe? - -Ely had this basis for her hope. She trusted in the truth of her passion -for Pierre, in the evidence that would confront Olivier of his friend's -happiness. She said to herself: "Once his first moment of suspicion is -passed, he will begin to observe, to notice. He will see that with -Pierre I have been free from any of the faults that he used to magnify -into crimes, that I have been neither proud nor frivolous nor -coquettish."--She had been so single-minded, so upright, so true in her -love! Like all people possessed by a complete happiness, she thought it -impossible for any one to misunderstand the truth of her heart. - -Then, again, she trusted in the honor of both--in Pierre's, to begin -with. Not only was she sure he would not speak of her, she knew in -addition that he would use all his strength to prevent his secret being -suspected by even his most intimate friend. Then she trusted in Olivier. -She knew him to be of a scrupulous delicacy in all things, to be careful -in his speech, to be a perfect gentleman! He would certainly never -speak. To utter the name of one who had once been his mistress when -their relations had been conducted under certain unrevealed conditions -would be an infraction of a tacit agreement, as sacred as his word of -honor, would be to be disgraced in his own eyes. Olivier had too much -self-respect to be guilty of such a fault, unless it were in a moment of -maddening suffering. This condition was lacking in his case. He could -never have this excuse under the circumstances in which he returned, -married and happy, after an absence of months and months, almost two -years! No, there could not arrive this crisis in his life now. And, -above all, he would never cause his friend to suffer.--Besides--and this -was the final motive upon which Ely's hopes were based, was the most -solid of all, and only that proved how thoroughly she knew Olivier--if -he spoke of her to Pierre it would place a woman between them, it would -trouble the ideal serenity of their affection, which had never been -dimmed by a cloud. Even should he lose his self-respect, Olivier would -never lose his respect for his friendship. - -It was in such thoughts that the unhappy woman sought relief upon the -day following Olivier's arrival in Cannes. It was the very day that the -young man's suspicions took bodily form, the day when all indications -pointed to one thing only, accumulated around him and were condensed -into absolute certainty by the well-meant but irreparable words spoken -by Corancez! - - -Ely de Carlsberg hoped, and her reason confirmed her hopes. But that -very same reason was to destroy, bit by bit, the ground for hoping in -the week following Olivier's return. And this, also, without her once -meeting him. She dreaded nothing so much as meeting him face to face, -and yet she would have preferred an explanation, even a stormy one, to -this total lack of intercourse. That they did not meet was evidently an -intentional act upon the part of the young man, for it was an -impoliteness that could not be accidental. - -There was only one way left for Ely to learn the truth, the talks that -she had with Hautefeuille. How her suffering was intensified, how her -agony was increased! Only from Hautefeuille could she hear of Olivier -during the week. Through Hautefeuille she followed the tragedy being -enacted in the heart of her former lover. To Pierre it was quite natural -to tell his dear confidante of all the anxiety that his friend caused -him. He never dreamt that the least important detail was full of -significance for her. In every conversation with Pierre during the first -eight days she descended deeper and deeper into the dangerous abyss of -Olivier's thoughts. She saw a possible catastrophe approaching from the -first,--a possible catastrophe that became a probability, even a -certainty, at last. - -The first blow to Ely's hope was dealt upon the day following the dinner -at Monte Carlo, when she again saw Pierre, not this time in the quiet -intimacy of a nocturnal meeting, but at the big soirée which had been -spoken about in the train. It was late when he arrived. The salons were -quite full, for it was nearly eleven o'clock. - -"Olivier insisted upon keeping me," he said, excusing the lateness to -Madame de Carlsberg. "I began to think he would never let me go." - -"He wanted to keep you for himself," she replied; "it is so long since -he saw you." - -With a beating heart she waited to hear if Du Prat had manifested any -repugnance when he knew that Pierre was coming to her house. - -"You must not wound the susceptibility of an old friend." - -"He is not susceptible," replied Pierre. "He knows well enough how -attached I am to him. He kept me talking about his married life." - -And, he added, sadly:-- - -"He is so unhappy! His wife is so badly suited to him. She does not -understand him He does not love her and she does not love him.--Ah! it -is frightful!" - -So the rejuvenation of Olivier's heart by the love of a girl, the -sentimental renewal upon which his former mistress had counted, was only -one of her illusions. The man was unhappy in the very marriage in which -she would have liked to see a sure guarantee of forgetfulness, the -effacing of both their pasts. The revelation was so full of menace to -the future of her own happiness that she felt she must know more, and -she kept Pierre in a corner of the little salon, questioning him. They -were near the foot of the private staircase leading to her room. By one -of those contrasts that re-vivify in two lovers the fiery sweetness of -their secret this salon, traversed by them with peril, in complete -obscurity, hand clasping hand, this little salon, witness of their -secret meetings, was now blazing with light, and the crowd moving about -gave, as it does to all the fêtes on the Riviera, the sensation of a -worldly aristocracy. - -It served as a passage between the brilliantly lighted hothouse and the -rooms of the ground-floor, decorated with shrubs and flowers and -overflowing with guests. The prettiest women in the American and English -colonies were there, extravagantly displaying their wealth of jewels, -talking and laughing aloud, with the splendid complexion that -characterizes the race. And mingling with them were Russians and -Italians and Austrians, all looking alike at the first glance: all -different at the second. The ostentations elegance of toilets, all -daringly bright-colored, spoke loudly of the preponderance of foreign -taste. - -Evening coats were sprinkled about among these women, worn by all the -authentic princes in the wintering-place and also by the society men of -the place. All the varieties of the kind were represented there. The -most celebrated of sportsmen, renowned for his success as a pigeon shot, -elbowed an explorer who had come to Provence in search of rest after -five years spent in "Darkest Africa," and both were chatting with a -Parisian novelist of the first rank, a Norman Hercules with a faunlike -face, contented smile, and laughing eyes, who a few winters later was to -die a death worse than death, was to see the wreck of his magnificent -intellect. - -This evening an air of gayety appeared to hang over the salons, lit by -innumerable electric lamps and ventilated by the balmy breath of early -spring. In a few more days this society would be dispersed to the four -corners of the continent. Did the fête owe its animation to this -sentiment of a season that was almost finished, to the approach of an -adieu soon to be spoken? - -In any case this spring seemed to have penetrated even as far as the -master of the house--the Archduke Henry Francis--in person. It was his -first appearance in his wife's salon since the terrible day when he came -there in search of Verdier to take him off almost by force to the -laboratory. Those who had assisted at his cavalier entrance upon that -occasion, and who were again present this evening, Madame de Chésy, for -example, Madame Bonnacorsi, Madame Brion, who had come from Monte Carlo -for two days, and Hautefeuille, were astounded by the change. - -The tyrant was in one of his rare moments of good humor, when it was -impossible to dislike him. He went about from group to group with a -kindly word for all. In his quality of Emperor's nephew, and one who had -almost ascended the throne, he had the princely gift of an infallible -memory for faces. This enabled him to call by their names people who had -been presented to him only once. And he joined to this quality another, -one that disclosed him to be a man of superior calibre, an astonishing -power of talking with each upon his special subject. To a Russian -general, famous for having built at great peril a railroad through an -Asiatic desert, he spoke of the Trans-Caspian plains with the knowledge -of an engineer, coupled to a thorough familiarity with hydrography. He -recited a verse from the Parisian novelist's first work, a volume of -poems now too little known. With a diplomatist who had been for a long -time in the United States he discussed the question of tariffs, and -immediately afterward recommended the latest model of gun, with all the -knowledge of a maker, to the celebrated pigeon shot. He talked with -Madame Bonnacorsi about her ancestors in Venice, like an archæologist -from the St. Mark library; with Madame de Chésy about her costumes, -like some habitué of the Opéra, and had a kindly and private word for -Madame Brion about the Rodier firm and the rôle it was playing in an -important Austrian loan. - -This prodigious suppleness of intellect, assisted by such a technical -memory, made him irresistibly seductive when he chose to be winning. - -He had thus arrived, amid general fascination, at the last salon, when -he saw his wife talking with Hautefeuille. At this sight, as though it -were an additional pleasure to surprise Ely _tête-à-tête_ with the -young man, his blue eyes, which shone so brightly in his ruddy face, -became even more brilliant still. Advancing toward the pair, who became -silent when they saw him approaching, he said in an easy manner to the -Baroness, the friendliness of the tone accentuating the irony of the -words:-- - -"I do not see your friend Miss Marsh this evening. Is she not here?" - -"She told me she would come," replied Madame de Carlsberg. "She is -perhaps indisposed." - -"Have you not seen her to-day?" asked the Prince. - -"Yes, I saw her this morning.--Will Your Highness tell me why you ask -the question?" - -"Simply because I am deeply interested in everybody who interests you," -replied the Archduke. - -As he uttered the insolently mocking phrase, the eyes of the terrible -man shot a glance at Hautefeuille that was so savage that he felt an -almost magnetic thrill shoot through him. It was only a flash and then -the Prince was in another group talking, this time about horses and the -last Derby with the Anglomaniac Navagero, without paying any more -attention to the two lovers, who separated after a couple of minutes, -heavy with unuttered thoughts. - -"I must go and speak to Andryana," said Madame de Carlsberg. "I know the -Prince too well not to be sure that his good temper hides some cruel -vengeance. He must have found some way of embroiling Florence with -Verdier.--Good-by for the present.--And don't be cast down over the -misery of your friend's married life.--I assure you there are worse." - -As she spoke, she gently waved a big fan of white feathers. The perfume -she preferred, the perfume that the young man associated with the -sweetest emotions, was waved abroad by the feathers. She gently bowed as -a sign of farewell, and her soft brown eyes closed with the tender look -of intelligence that falls upon a lover's heart like an invisible kiss. - -But at that moment Pierre was unable to feel its sweetness. Again he had -experienced, in the presence of the Archduke, the pain that is one of -the frightful penalties of adultery; to see the beloved one ill-treated -by the man who has the right because he is the husband, see it, and to -be unable to defend her. He watched her going away now with the bearing -of a beautiful, graceful queen, so proudly regal in her costume of pink -moiré shot with silver. Upon the beloved visage which he saw in profile -as she crossed the room, he discerned traces of profound melancholy, and -again he pitied her with all his heart for the bitterness of her married -life. He never dreamt that the Archduke's sarcasm left Madame de -Carlsberg completely indifferent, nor that the relations of Miss Marsh -and Verdier did not interest her sufficiently to cause such a complete -feeling of depression. No. It was this idea that was weighing upon the -mind of the young woman, that was lying upon her heart like lead in the -midst of the fête: "Olivier is unhappily married! He is miserable. He -has not gained that gentleness of heart that he would have done had he -loved his wife.--He is still the same.--So he hates me yet.--It was -enough for him to learn that Pierre was to pass the evening with me for -him to try to prevent him from coming here.--And yet he does not know -all.--When he does!" - -And hoping against hope, she forced herself to think, to say, to repeat: -"Well! When he does know he will see that I am sincere; that I have not -made his friend unhappy; that I never will make him suffer." - -It was also Pierre who awoke her from the second illusion that Olivier -would be touched by the truth and purity of her love. Three days passed -after the soirée, during which the young man did not see his mistress. -Cruel as were these separations, Ely judged it wisest to prolong them -during Du Prat's stay. She hoped to make up for it later; for she -counted upon passing the long weeks of April and May at Cannes with -Hautefeuille, weeks that were so mild, so covered with flowers, so -lonely upon the coast and among the deserted gardens. The idea of making -a voyage to Italy, where they could meet, as they had done at Genoa, in -surroundings full of charm, also haunted her. The prospect of certain -happiness, if she could escape from the danger menacing her, gave her -strength to support the insupportable; an absence that contained all the -possibilities of presence, the torture of so great a love, of being so -near and yet not seeing each other. - -It was the one way, she believed, of preventing suspicion from awakening -in Olivier. After these three weary days of longing, she appointed a -meeting with Pierre one afternoon in the garden of the Villa Ellenrock, -which recalled to both an hour of exquisite happiness. While her -carriage rolled toward the Cap d'Antibes, she looked out upon the -foliage of the climbing roses, peering over the coping of the walls, the -branches, already long and full of leaves, falling under their heavy -load, instead of standing out strong and boldly, and casting heavy, deep -shadows. A conflagration of full-blown roses blazed upon the branches. -At the foot of the silvery olive trees, a thick growth of young wheat -covered the loose soil of the fields. All these were the visible signs -that the year had passed from winter to springtide in the three weeks. -And a shudder of melancholy shot through the young woman at the sight. -It was as though she felt the time slipping away, bearing her happiness -with it. In spite of a sky, daily warmer and of a softer azure; in spite -of the blue sea, of the odors permeating the soft, balmy air; in spite -of the fascination of the flowers, blooming all around, as she strolled -down the alleys, still bordered with cinerarias, anemones, and pansies, -she felt that her heart was not as light as when she had flown to the -last rendezvous. She perceived Hautefeuille, in profile, awaiting her -under the branches of the big pine, at the foot of which they had -rested. She felt at the first glance that he was no longer the lover of -that time, enraptured with an ecstatic, perfect joy, and without a -hidden thought. It seemed as though a shade hovered before his eyes and -enveloped his thoughts. It could not be that he was vexed with her. It -could not be that his friend had revealed the dreaded secret. And yet -Pierre was troubled about Olivier. He admitted it at once before Ely had -time to question him. - -"I cannot think," he said, "what has come between us. I have the strange -impression that certain things in me irritate him, unnerve him, -displease him.--He is vexed with me about trifles that he would not even -have noticed formerly; as, for example, my friendship with Corancez. -Would you believe it? He reproached me yesterday for having witnessed -the ceremony at Genoa, as though it were a crime.--And all because we -met poor Marius and his wife in the train at Golfe Juan yesterday! - -"'Our nest is built there,' Corancez said to me, adding--these were his -very words--that 'the bomb was going to explode,' meaning that Andryana -was going to speak to her brother.--I told the story to Olivier to amuse -him, and he flew into a temper, going so far as to talk of its being -'blackmail,' as though one could blackmail that abominable creature -Navagero!--I replied to him, and he answered me.--You cannot imagine in -what terms he spoke to me about myself, about the danger that I ran in -frequenting the society of this place, of the unhappiness my change of -tastes and ideas gave him.--He could not have talked more seriously had -Cannes been tenanted by a gang of thieves who wished to enroll me in -their ranks.--It is inexplicable, but the fact remains. He is pained, -wounded, uneasy because I am happy here. Can you understand such madness -in a friend whom I love so sincerely, who loves me so tenderly?" - -"That is the very reason why you must not feel angry," replied Ely. -"When one suffers, one is unjust. And he is unhappy in his married life. -It is so hard to have made a mistake in that way." - -She spoke in this way, prompted by a natural jealousy. Her passionate, -ungovernable nature was too proud, too noble to employ the method of -secretly poisoning the mind of husband or lover against friendships that -are disliked, a method that wives and mistresses exercise with a sure -and criminal knowledge. But to herself she said:-- - -"Olivier has discovered that Pierre loves some one. Does he suspect that -it is I?" - -The reply to the question was not a doubtful one. Ely had too often -noticed, when in Rome, the next to infallible perspicacity displayed by -Olivier in laying bare the hidden workings of the love intrigues going -on all around them. Although she continued, in spite of all, to hope in -his honor, she dreaded, with a terror that became daily more intense, -the moment when she would acquire the certitude that he knew. These two -beings began to draw closer together by means of Hautefeuille, began to -measure each other's strength, to penetrate each other's minds, even -before the inevitable shock precipitated them into open conflict. - -Again it was Pierre who brought to his suffering mistress the proof for -which she longed and which she feared.--It was the seventh night after -Olivier's arrival, and she was awaiting Pierre at half-past eleven, -behind the open door of the hothouse. She had only seen him in the -afternoon long enough to fix this nocturnal meeting which made her pulse -throb as with a happy fever. The afternoon had been cloudy, heavy, -stormy. And the opaque dome of clouds stretched over the sky hid every -ray of moonlight, every twinkling star. Heavy lightning glowed upon the -horizon at moments, lighting up the garden, disclosing everything to the -eyes of the young woman who stooped forward to see the white alleys -bordered with the bluish agaves, the lawns with their flowering shrubs, -the green stems of the bamboos, a bunch of parasol pines with their red -trunks whose dark foliage stood out for a moment in the sudden flash of -light followed immediately by a darker, more impenetrable shadow. Was it -nervousness caused by the approaching tempest, for a heavy gust of hot -wind swept across the garden, announcing the advent of a hurricane, or -was it remorse at the idea of exposing her friend to the violence of the -storm when he parted from her, that made Ely already anxious, troubled, -and unhappy? When she at last saw Hautefeuille, by the light of the cold -and livid lightning, passing along the fringe of bamboos, her heart beat -with anxiety. - -"Heavens!" she said to him, "you ought not to have come upon such a -night.--Listen." - -Big drops of rain began to fall upon the glass of the hothouse. Two -formidable thunderclaps were heard in the distance. And now the drops of -rain became more and more general, so that around the two lovers under -the protecting dome of glass there was a continuous, sonorous rattle -that almost drowned the sound of their voices. - -"You see our good genius protects us," answered the young man, pressing -her passionately to his heart, "since I got here just in time.--And, -besides, I should have come through the tempest without noticing it.--I -have been too unhappy this evening. I felt I must see you to comfort me, -to help me." - -"You look disturbed," she replied. And touching his face in the darkness -with her soft, caressing hands, she added, her voice changing: "Your -cheeks are burning and there are tears in your eyes.--What is the -matter?" - -"I will tell you presently," Pierre answered, "when I have been -comforted by feeling that you are near me.--God! How I love you! How I -love you!" he repeated with an intensity in which she discerned -suffering. - -Then, later, when they were both in the solitude of her room, he said:-- - -"I think Olivier is going mad. These last few days he has been even -stranger than ever.--This evening, for example, he regarded me with a -look that was so curious, so insistent, so penetrating, that I feel -positively uneasy. I have not reposed any confidence in him, and yet I -had the impression that he read in me — not your name.--Ah! happily, -not that--not that!--but how am I to explain it?--my impatience, my -desire, my passion, my happiness, all my sensations? And I had a feeling -that my sentiments filled him with horror.--Why?--Is he not unjust? Have -I taken away from our friendship in loving you? I was very miserable -about it. Finally at ten o'clock I bade good night to him and his -wife.--A quarter of an hour later some one knocked at my door. It was -Olivier.--He said, 'Would you mind coming for a walk? I feel that I -cannot sleep until I have taken a stroll.'--I replied, 'I am sorry I -cannot; I have some letters to write.' I had to find some excuse. He -looked at me again with the same expression that he had had during -dinner.--And all at once he began to laugh. I cannot describe his laugh -to you. There was something so cruel in it, so frightfully insulting, so -impossible to tolerate. He had not spoken a word, and yet I knew that he -was laughing at my love. I stopped him, for I felt a sort of fury rising -in me. I said, 'What are you laughing at?'--He replied, 'At a souvenir.' -His face became perfectly pale. He stopped laughing just as brusquely as -he had begun. I saw that he was going to burst into tears, and before I -could ask him anything he had said 'Adieu' and gone out of the room." - -There is a necessity for conflict in the natural, logical issue of -certain situations, a necessity so inevitable that even those who feel -they will be destroyed by it accept the struggle when it comes without -seeking to avoid it. It is thus, in public life, that peoples go to war, -and in private life rivals accept the duel with a passive fatalism that -often contradicts their complete character. They recognize that they -have been caught in the orbit of action of a power stronger than human -will. - -When Pierre Hautefeuille had left Ely that night, she felt very cruelly -the impression that a struggle was inevitable and that it was not only a -struggle with a man, but with destiny! As long as her lover remained -near, her tense nerves dominated this impression, but when he had gone -she gave herself up to its contemplation. Alone, without sufficient -strength to go to her bed, she crouched, thoroughly unnerved, upon a -sofa. She began to weep, a crisis that lasted indefinitely, as though -she felt herself trapped, threatened, conquered in advance! Her last -hope had just been shattered. She could no longer doubt, after the scene -that Pierre had told her of, that Olivier knew all. Yes, he knew all. -And his nervousness, his fits of anger, his laughter, his despair, -proved only too clearly that he would not accept the situation, and that -a tempest of ungovernable desires were unchained within him. Now that he -had arrived at such a point of exasperation and of knowledge, what was -he going to do? In the first place, he would try to meet her again. She -felt as certain of this as though he had been standing there before her -laughing the cruel laugh that had wounded Hautefeuille's heart. In a few -days--perhaps in a few hours--she would be in the presence of her mortal -enemy, an enemy not only of herself but of her love. He would be there; -she would see him, hear him moving, breathing, living! A shudder of -horror ran through her frame at the idea. The thought that this man had -once possessed her filled her with a kind of acute suffering that made -her heart almost stop beating. The remembrance of caresses given and -returned induced a feeling of nausea and crushed her with shameful -distress. She had never felt so much as at this minute how her sincere, -deep love had really changed her, had made of her another woman, a -rejuvenated, forgiven, renewed creature!--But it could not be helped. -She would accept, she would support the odious presence of her former -lover. It would be the punishment for not having awaited her love of the -present in perfect purity; for not having foreseen that one day she -would meet Hautefeuille; for not having lived worthy of his love. She -had arrived at that religion--she, the reasoner, the nihilist, atheist, -had come to accept the mysticism of her happiness so natural to the -woman truly in love, and which makes all previous emotions not provoked -by the loved one a sort of blasphemous sacrilege. She would expiate the -blasphemy by supporting his odious presence.--Alas! Olivier would not be -content with simply inflicting the horror of his presence on her. He -would speak with her. What would he say? What would he want? What would -he ask?--She did not deceive herself for a moment. The sentiments of -this man as regarded herself had not changed. As Hautefeuille had told -her of the incident in his room, she had again heard his laugh, cruel -and agonizing and insulting, that she knew so well. And with this laugh -had come back to her all the flood of jealous sensuality that had -sullied her formerly to so great an extent that the traces were still to -be seen. After he had outraged her, trampled her under foot, left her, -after having placed the irreparable obstacle of marriage and desertion -between them, she felt and understood this monstrous thing, one -impossible in any other man, but quite natural in him, that Olivier -loved her still. He loved her, if it can be called love to have for a -woman that detestable mixture of passion and hatred which calls forth -incessantly the cruelty of enjoyment, the ferocity of pleasure. - -He loved her. His attitude toward her would have been inexplicable -without this anomalous, hideous sentiment which had lived in him through -all and in spite of all! And, at the same time, he treasured his friend -with that jealous, stormy, passionate friendship which was tearing his -heart at this moment with unheard-of emotions and sufferings. To what -extent might he not be led by the frenzy of such torture agonizing as a -steel blade turned and re-turned in a wound? What could equal the pain -of having loved, of still loving, a former mistress,--of loving her with -such evil, sinister love,--and of knowing that woman was the -mistress of his best, his most tenderly beloved friend, of a brother by -adoption, cherished more than a brother by blood? - -As clearly as she saw the first rays of dawn piercing the curtains at -the end of this night of terrified meditation, Ely saw these sentiments -at work in Olivier's heart. - -"He who sows the wind shall reap the tempest," says an Austrian proverb. -When she wished to meet Hautefeuille, to make herself dear to him, she -wanted to strike Du Prat in the tenderest, most vulnerable spot in his -organization, to wound him through his friendship, to torture him -through it, to avenge herself in this way. She had succeeded only too -well! What blow was he going to strike in the rage of suffering now -consuming him? She had changed so much since the moment she had -conceived the project of cruel vengeance that she asked herself what she -was to do, what path she was to take? What if she appealed to this man, -made supplication to him, sought to melt his mood?--Or would it be -better to play with him, to cause him to think no _liaison_ existed -between her and Hautefeuille, for, after all, he had no proof.--Or -better still, why not oppose a bold front, and when he dared to appear -before her, drive him from her door, for he had no claim upon her.--Her -pride revolted against the first, her nobility of character against the -second, her reason against the third. In such a decisive crisis as the -one through which the poor woman was passing, the mind calls -instinctively upon all the most secret resources of nature, just as it -collects, summons to the centre of the personality, all its hidden -strength. Ely was remarkable by her need of truth and energy in the -middle of a society that is refined to excess and composite to the verge -of falsity. As she said to her confidante in the alleys of the Brions' -garden, on that night that was so recent and seemed so distant, it was -the truth in Hautefeuille's soul that had first of all attracted her, -charmed her, seduced her. It was in order to live a true life, to feel -true emotions, that she had entered the paths of this love, whose -dangers she had foreseen. After having in thought taken up and laid -down, accepted and rejected a score of projects, she finished by -deciding within herself that she would trust to the simple truth in the -redoubtable scene she felt was drawing near, thinking:-- - -"I will show him all my heart, just as it is, and he may trample on it -if he can find the strength." - -This was the policy that this woman, capable of any error but not of -meanness or common calculation, arrived at after her wretched -wakefulness. She did not find forgetfulness in it for a peril drawing -near. But it gave her the courage that every human being feels in being -completely, absolutely logical in thought, wish, and belief. She was -not, therefore, as much surprised as she even expected when, about ten -o'clock, she received a note that proved how accurately she had -reasoned. - -The letter was very short. But it was full of menace for her who read it -in the same little salon where she had made up her mind to dismiss -Pierre Hautefeuille,--a resolution that had been so weakly broken, and -that had been prompted by the very terror of the catastrophe that the -few lines announced:-- - - -"MADAME--I shall have the honor of calling upon you to-day at two -o'clock. May I hope that you will receive me? or if the hour does not -suit you, that you will fix another? Let me assure you that your -slightest wishes will always be commands for - - -"Yours respectfully, - -"Olivier du Prat." - - -"Very well," she said, "I shall be at home this afternoon." - -It was impossible for her to answer the letter in writing. Commonplace -though it was, she could see that Olivier had written it in a singular -state of agitation and decision. Ely knew his handwriting, and she could -see from the few lines that the pen had been clenched, almost crushed in -his hand. - -"It is war!" she said to herself. "So much the better. I shall know what -to expect in a few hours." - -But in spite of her native energy, in spite of the power of resistance -that her passion gave her, the hours seemed so long to her. Her nerves -became more tense, painfully and unceasingly, as she counted the -minutes. She had given orders that she was not at home to any one except -her dreaded visitor. It seemed that she must regain her strength in a -final solitary retirement before engaging in the duel upon which the -future of her happiness depended. - -For this reason she could not completely hide her disappointment when -about half-past one she saw Yvonne de Chésy, who had insisted upon -being admitted, enter the salon. She had only to give one glance at the -face of the pretty little frivolous Parisienne to see that a tragedy was -being enacted in her life also, a life that seemed created only to enjoy -perpetual happiness. The childish countenance of the young woman was -marked by an expression of astounded suffering. Her eyes, usually so -sparkling and laughing, had in their blue depths an expression of -terror, of stupefaction, as though brought suddenly face to face with -some horrible vision. Her gestures betrayed a strained nervousness that -was in strange contrast with her habitual gayety and butterfly -frivolity. - -Ely suddenly remembered Marsh's conversation on the boat. She at once -guessed that Brion had begun his amorous blackmailing of the poor child. -She reproached herself for her momentary impatience, and even with all -her own anguish she welcomed the poor girl with all her accustomed -grace. Yvonne stammered an excuse for her insistence. - -"You were quite right in coming in," replied Ely; "you know that I am -always at home for you.--But you are all upset. What is the matter?" - -"Simply," replied Yvonne, "that I am lost unless I can find some one to -help me.--Ah!" she continued, holding her face in her hands as though to -shut out some dreadful nightmare, "when I think of all that has taken -place since yesterday, I cannot help thinking that I am in a dream.--In -the first place we are ruined, absolutely, irreparably ruined. I only -heard of it twenty-four hours ago.--Poor Gontran did everything to keep -me from learning the truth right to the end,--and I reproached him for -gambling at Monte Carlo! Poor, dear fellow! He hoped that a lucky chance -would give him a hundred or two hundred thousand francs, something of a -capital with which to rebuild our fortune.--For he is going to work! He -is determined to do something, no matter what.--If you only knew how -good and courageous he is!--It is only on my account he feels the -misfortune. It was for me, to obtain everything for me, that he entered -into too risky investments. He does not know how little I care for -wealth.--I can live on next to nothing, I have already told him.--All I -want is a little _couturière_ whom I can direct to make my costumes -according to my ideas; a little establishment at Passy in one of those -tiny English houses; a hired carriage or a coupé for my visits and for -going to the theatre, and I should be the happiest woman. I would go to -the market in the morning, and I am sure I should have a better table -than we have now. And I know I should be happy in such a life.--As a -matter of fact, I was not born to be rich--happily!" - -She sketched out this little programme that she thought so modest and -which would have necessitated at the least 50,000f. a year, with such a -charming mixture of girlishness and courage that Madame de Carlsberg's -heart ached. She took her by the hand and kissed her, saying:-- - -"I know your kind heart, Yvonne.--But I hope everything is not yet -lost.--You have many friends, good ones, beginning with myself.--At -first one is terrified, and then it is always discovered that the ruin -is not as complete as was thought." - -"This time it appears that the contrary is the case," said the young -woman, shaking her head. "But it is precisely because I know you to be -my friend," she went on, "that I have come to see you this morning. The -other evening the Archduke spoke to my husband of the difficulty he -experienced in finding some upright superintendent to look after his -estates in Transylvania.--And as the Prince was so pleasant to us that -evening we thought--" - -"That Chésy could become his superintendent," interrupted Ely, who -could not keep back a smile at her friend's naïveté. "I wouldn't wish -such a fate for my worst enemy.--If things are really at such a point -that your husband has to seek a position, there is only one man who can -help him." - -As she spoke, she saw Yvonne's infantile visage, which had brightened -for a moment under the influence of her bright welcome, become again -overclouded, and her look betrayed a feeling of pain and disgust. - -"Yes," went on Ely, "there is only one man, and it is Dickie Marsh." - -"The Commodore!" said Madame de Chésy, with manifest astonishment. - -Then, shaking her head again, with her mouth closed in a bitter smile, -she added:-- - -"No, I know now too well the value of these men's friendships and the -price they place upon their services. I have only been ruined a short -time, and already some one,"--she hesitated a second,--"yes, some one -has offered me wealth.--Ah! dear Ely,"--and she clasped her hands over -her eyes, blushing with indignation,--"if I would become his mistress. -You do not know, you cannot know, what a woman feels when she suddenly -discovers that for months and months she has been tracked and waited for -by a man whom she thought her friend, like an animal tracked by a -hunter.--Every familiarity she has allowed, without thinking, because -she saw no harm in it, the little coquettishness that she has innocently -shown, the intimacy that she has not guarded against, all return to her -with shame, with sickening shame. The vile cleverness that was hidden -under the comedy of friendliness she has not seen, and now it is as -clear as daylight. She has not been culpable, and yet it seems as though -she had been. I will never suffer another such affront! Marsh would make -me the same ignoble proposition that the other did.--Oh! it is horrible, -shameful!" - -She had spoken no name. But by her trembling, by her look of outraged -innocence, Madame de Carlsberg could imagine the scene that had taken -place, that very morning, perhaps, between the good, if imprudent, -creature and Brion, vile and despicable as he was. She understood for -the second time that the Parisienne was really pure and innocent and -that she was being initiated in the brutalities of life. There was -something pathetic, something that was heartbreaking, in her remorse, -her scruples, the sudden revulsion of a soul that had remained naïve by -irrealism. - -Threatened though she was by another man, Ely felt her soul go out -toward the unhappy child. She determined to speak to her about Marsh, to -tell her of the conversation on the yacht, of the promise made by the -American, when, with that acuity of the senses that is awakened by our -inquietude at certain moments, she heard the door of the outer salon -open. - -"It is Olivier," she said to herself. - -At the same time, with instinctive superstition, she looked at the still -trembling Yvonne and added mentally:-- - -"I will help her. Such an action will surely bring me good luck." - -Turning away, she said:-- - -"Do not be alarmed. I cannot speak to you just now, as I am expecting -some one. But come again to-morrow afternoon and I promise you I will -have found the very thing you want for Gontran. Let me act as I think -best,--and, above all, no weakness!--No one must suspect anything.--You -must never let people know that you suffer!" - -The heroic counsel was addressed to herself. And she illustrated the -remark at the same moment, for the footman opened the door and announced -Monsieur Olivier du Prat. Madame de Chésy could never have guessed, to -see Ely so calm, with such a welcoming smile, what Hautefeuille's -mistress felt as she saw the newcomer enter the little salon. Olivier, -not less calm and polite than the two women, excused himself for not -having called sooner. - -"You are forgiven," said Yvonne, who had risen upon Olivier's entrance -and had remained standing. "Really, if the society round had to be gone -through on one's wedding journey, it would not be worth while having a -honeymoon.--Make yours last as long as you can! That is the advice your -old cotillon partner gives you--and excuse me for running away. Gontran -was to come and meet me, and I don't want to miss him." - -Then, turning to Ely, with a parting kiss, she said, in a whisper:-- - -"Are you satisfied with me?" - -And the courageous little woman went off with a smile that her friend -'had hardly strength enough to return. Olivier's first glance had been a -terrible trial to support for Madame de Carlsberg. She read in it so -distinctly that brutality of a physical souvenir so intolerable for a -woman after the breaking off of an intrigue, so intolerable, in fact, -that they often prefer the scandal of an open rupture rather than -undergo the torture of meeting a man whose eyes say plainly: "Go on with -your comedy, my dear friend! Receive everybody's adulation, respect, -affection! I know you, and nothing you understand, nothing can efface -that souvenir." - -In love, as she was, still glowing with the memory of Hautefeuille's -caresses of the past night, Ely's soul was so wrung by this impression -that she could have shrieked had she dared. She had only one idea, to -cut his visit short. She felt that if it was prolonged to any extent she -should faint before the end. But, suffering torture though she was, -terrified to the verge of unconsciousness, she was still the woman of -the world, the semi-princess, one who preserves her dignity in the midst -of the most cruel explanations. And she had all the grace of a queen as -she said to the man who had once been her lover and whom she so much -dreaded:-- - -"You wished to see me? I might have refused to receive you, for I have -that right. But I would not exercise it.--Still, I beg you to remember -that this interview is hideously painful to me. Whatever you have to -tell me, say it without a word that can increase my suffering, if it is -possible.--You see, I have neither hostility, bitterness, nor distrust -for you. Spare me any insinuations, any sarcasm, any cruelty.--It is all -I ask, and it is my right." - -She spoke with a simple dignity that astonished Olivier. He no longer -noticed the air of defiance that formerly used to exasperate him with -her. From the moment he entered the salon he had been struck by a change -in the character of her beauty. Her countenance was always the same, -with its noble, pure outline, with its delicate and proud features, lit -up by those fathomless eyes, so charming with their touching -languorousness. But there was no longer that mobile curious expression, -that look of unquiet yearning there used to be imprinted on it. - -This sensation was, however, too vague to impress her old lover, to -change his hostility into tenderness. He had brooded over one idea too -intensely during the last week, and an anger that was hardly restrained -betrayed itself in his voice as he replied:-- - -"I will try to obey you, madame! Still, in order that the interview that -I asked for may be understood, I shall have to say some things that you -might perhaps wish unspoken." - -"Say them," she said, interrupting him. "All that I ask is that you -should not add anything that is not distinctly necessary." - -"I will be very brief," said Olivier. - -There was a moment's silence. Then, in a still more bitter tone, he -said:-- - -"Do you remember about two years ago in Rome, at the Palazzo -Savorelli,--you see I am being exact,--a young man being presented to -you, a young man who did not even think about you, and with whom you -were--How can I describe it without wounding you?" - -"Say at once that I coquetted with him," Ely again interrupted, "and -that I tried to make him love It is the truth." - -"Since you have such a good memory," went on Olivier, "you surely -recollect that these coquetries went so far that the young man became -your lover." - -What a shudder of horror shot through Ely, making her eyelids tremble -with pain, as he accentuated the word with the cruelty that she had -prayed him to spare her! - -He continued remorselessly:-- - -"You remember also that this love was a very miserable one. The man was -sensitive, suspicious, jealous. He had suffered very much in his life. A -woman who loved him truly would have had but one thought,--to lull to -slumber the horrible malady of distrust that raged in him. You did just -the opposite. Close your eyes and look back in memory to a certain ball -at the Countess Steno's, and that young man in the corner of the salon -and you dancing--with whom?" - -This allusion to a forgotten episode of the saddest part of their past -brought a wave of blood to Ely's cheeks. She saw again, as her -implacable questioner had asked her, one of the Princes Pietrapertosa -paying his court to her. He was one of the imaginary rivals that Olivier -had detested the most. - -She replied-- - -"I know. I acted wrongly." - -"You admit it," went on Du Prat, "and you will also admit that the young -man with whom you played so cruelly had the right to judge you as he -did, to leave you as he did, because when near you he felt all his worst -impulses rise to the surface, because you made him evil, cruel, through -his suffering. Is that also the truth?--And is it not also true that -your pride was wounded by his desertion and that you determined to be -revenged?--Will you deny that, having encountered later the most -intimate, the dearest friend of that man, the deepest and most complete -affection that had ever entered his life, you conceived a horrible idea? -Will you deny that you determined to make his friend love you with the -hope, the certainty, that he would learn, sooner or later, and would -suffer horribly from the knowledge that his former mistress had become -the mistress of his best, his only friend? Do you deny it?" - -"No. It is true," she replied. - -This time her beautiful face became livid. Her pallor, her aching head -bowed as though under the weight of the blows it received, the fixed -look in her eyes, her half-open mouth gasping for breath, the humble -character of her replies, which proved how sincere she was in her firm -resolve to not offer any defence of her action, ought to have disarmed -Olivier. - -But as he uttered the words "to the mistress of his friend" the image -again rose before his eyes, the vision that had tortured him from the -moment he had suspected the truth. He again saw Hautefeuille's face -close to her lovely countenance, his eyes looking into hers, his lips -pressed upon hers. Ely's avowal only increased the tangibility of the -vision. It completed his madness. He had never thought he loved her so -well, that he had such a desire for the woman he had treated so -brutally. His passion took complete possession of him. - -"And you admit it!" he cried; "calmly, frankly, you admit it? You do not -see how infamous, how abominable, monstrous your vengeance is? Think of -it; you take a being such as he is, pure, youthful, delicate, one -incapable of distrust, one all simplicity, all innocence, and you make -him love you at the risk of destroying him, of ruining his soul -forever.--And for what?--To satisfy the miserable spite of a flirt angry -at being deserted.--Even his freshness and nobility of soul did not make -you hesitate. Did you never think that to deceive such a defenceless -creature was infamous? Did you never think of what you were destroying -in his soul? Knowing as you did the friendship that bound him to me, if -there had been a spark of--I will not say nobility--a spark of humanity -in your heart, you must have recoiled from this crime, from the -loathsome infamy of soiling, of ravishing him from his noble, beautiful -affection, to give him in exchange a frivolous _liaison_ of a few days, -just long enough for you to find amusement in the vileness of your -caprice!--He had done nothing to you! He had not deserted you! He had -not married another!--Oh, God! What a cowardly, loathsome -vengeance.--But at any rate I cry in your face that it was cowardly, -cowardly, cowardly!" - -Ely sprang to her feet as her implacable enemy flung the insulting words -in her face. Her eyes were fixed on Olivier with a regard in which there -was no anger or revulsion of feeling under his affront. Her eyes even -seemed to have an expression of calmness in their sincerity. She took a -few steps toward the young man and put her hand on his arm--the arm that -menaced her--with a gesture so gentle, and at the same time so firm, -that Olivier stopped speaking. And she began to reply to him in a tone -of voice that he did not recognize. It was so simple, so human, that it -was impossible to doubt the sincerity of her words. Her heart was really -disclosed before him. He felt that her words penetrated to the very -centre of his inner nature. He loved this woman more than he knew -himself. He had sought, without being able to create it, to call into -being exactly what he now saw in the woman whose beauty he idolized. The -soul that he saw shining through her tender, sad eyes, the passionate, -shy, ardent soul, capable of the greatest, the most complete, sacrifice -to love, was what he had divined to exist in her, what he had pursued -without ever capturing, what he had longed for and had never possessed -in spite of all their caresses, of all the violence and brutality of his -jealousy! Her real nature had been awakened by another! And that other -was his dearest friend!--He listened to Ely, for she was now speaking. - -"You are unjust, Olivier," she said, "very unjust. But you do not know -all--you cannot know.--You saw that I did not try to contradict you when -you reproached me, that I did not try to brave it out. I was not the -proud woman with whom you fought so often in years gone by.--I seem to -have no pride left! How could I have when I see, as I listen to you, -what I was, what I should be still had I not met Pierre, and without the -love that has taken possession of my soul like an honored guest?--When I -told you that I at first thought only of making him love me to avenge -myself upon you, I told you the truth. You ought to believe me when I -tell you that the mere idea now fills me with the same horror that you -feel.--When I got to know him, when I realized the beauty, the nobility, -the purity of his nature, all the virtues that you have just been -speaking of, I awoke to the sense of the infamy I was going to commit. -You are quite right, I should have been a monster if I had been able to -deceive a soul so youthful, so innocent, so lovable, so true! But I have -not been such a monster.--I had not talked with Pierre more than twice -when I had utterly renounced all idea of such a frightful revenge, when -he had won my love entire. I loved him! I love him!--Do you think that I -have not said, that I do not say every day, every hour, to myself all -that you have just spoken? Do you think I have not felt it ever since I -knew what my sentiments were for him? I loved him, and he was your -friend, your brother. I have been your mistress, and I knew that a time -must come when you would meet again, when he would speak to you of me--a -time when he would perhaps know all. Do you think I did not dread -that a time would come when I should see you again and you would speak -to me as you have just been speaking?--Oh, it is horrible, agonizing!" - -She dropped Olivier's arm and pressed her clenched hands upon her eyes -with a movement of physical anguish. It was in her being that she -suffered, in the body once abandoned completely to the man who heard -her, as she continued:-- - -"But pardon me. I do not concern you. It is not what I have suffered -that we have to think of, but of him.--You cannot doubt now that I love -him with all there is in me that is noble, good, and true. You also must -have realized how he loves me with all the wealth of affection that you -know so well. All this week while he was speaking to me I saw you--with -what agony!--I felt that you were laying bare our secret hour by -hour.--Now you know that secret. Pierre loves me as I love him, with an -absolute, unique, passionate love.--And now, if you choose, go and tell -him that I was once your mistress. I will not defend myself any more -than I did a few minutes ago. I have not strength enough to lie to him. -The day he asks me, 'Is it true that Olivier has been your lover?' I -shall reply, 'It is true!'--But it is not I alone whom you will have -killed!" - -She ceased speaking, and fell into her chair with her head resting on -the back, as though exhausted by the effort of laying bare her thoughts, -in which were mingled so many sad and bitter memories. She waited -Olivier's reply with an anxiety so intense that her strength seemed to -be ebbing away, and she closed her eyes as in dread. With the logic of a -woman deeply in love, she had forced the man who had come there to -threaten and insult her into a position where he must take one of the -two courses that their wretched situation left open to him,--either to -tell all to Hautefeuille, who would then decide for himself whether he -loved Ely enough to trust her after he knew that she had been his -friend's mistress; or, to spare him this torture, to leave Hautefeuille -in ignorance with his happiness. In this latter case Olivier would have -to go away, to put an end forever to his own misery, and to cease -inflicting the pain of his presence upon Ely, a pain that, in itself, -was the cause of a nervous state sufficient to reveal sooner or later -their past relations. - -What would he do? He did not reply; he, who only a few minutes before -had been so eager to speak, so bitter in his reproaches. Through her -half-closed eyes, quivering with the intensity of her anxiety to know -the worst, Ely saw that he was regarding her with a strange, impassioned -look. A struggle was going on within him. What was its cause? What would -be its result? She was about to learn, and also what sort of a sentiment -her heartbreaking appeal had awakened in the heart that had never been -able to tear itself away from her entirely. - -"You love him?" he said at last. "You love him?--But, why do I ask? I -know you love him. I feel it, I see it.--It is only love that could have -prompted such words--could have imprinted such an accent, such truth -upon them.--Oh!" he went on bitterly, "if you had only been, when we -were in Rome, what you are now; if only once I had felt that you -vibrated with genuine emotion!--But you did not love me and you love -him!" He repeated, "You love him!--I thought we had inflicted upon each -other all the pain that is in a human being's power, and that I could -never suffer any more than I did in Rome, than I have done during these -past days when I felt that you were his mistress.--But beside this--that -you love him--my sufferings were nothing.--And yet how could you help -loving him?--How was it that I did not understand at once that you would -be touched, penetrated, changed; that your heart would be imbued with -the charm of his grace, of his youth, of his delicacy, of all that makes -him what he is?--Ah! I see you now as I longed to see you once, as I -despaired of ever seeing you, and it is through him, it is for him!" - -Then, with a moan as of some stricken animal, he cried:-- - -"No! I cannot support it. I suffer too much, I suffer too much!" - -And words of grief, mingled with words of rage and love, poured forth in -a wild stream. - -"Since you hate me enough to have thought of such a brutal vengeance," -he cried, cruelly, savagely, "since you longed to make me jealous of him -through you, enjoy your work.--Look at it.--You have succeeded." - -"Spare me, spare me!" cried Ely. "Oh, God! do not talk like that!" - -His sudden outburst, the strange betrayal of his feelings, even in her -suffering, made her shudder. With a mingled feeling of indescribable -terror and pity she had a glimpse into another secret recess in the -heart of the tortured being who, during a half hour of mortal anguish, -had insulted, humiliated, despised, then had understood, accepted, -justified, pitied, and who now cursed her. She had felt, as she listened -to Pierre's confidences on the subject of his friend, that a reflux of -loathing sensuality still seethed in her former lover's heart. She saw -it now. And she also saw that a deep, true passion had always lived, -palpitated, germinated under his sensuality, under his hate. His passion -had never developed, grown, put forth its blossom, because she had never -been the woman he sought, the woman he yearned for, the woman he felt -was in her. Thanks to the miracle worked by love for another, she had -now become the woman he desired. What a martyrdom of suffering for the -unhappy man! Forgetting her fears and inspired only by a movement of -compassion, she said:-- - -"What! rejoice in your grief?--Think of my vengeance yet. Did you not -feel how sincere I was, what shame I feel at ever having conceived such -a hideous idea? Did you not see how bitterly I loathe, how I regret my -life at Dome? Do you not feel that my heart bleeds at the sight of your -suffering?" - -"I am very grateful for your pity," interrupted Olivier. - -His voice suddenly became dry and cold. Was he trying to recover his -dignity? Was he wounded by her womanly pity, a pity that is humiliating -when given in place of love? Was he afraid of saying too much, of -feeling too deeply if the interview was prolonged? - -"I beg your pardon for not having kept my nerves under better -control.--There is nothing more to say. I promise you one thing: I will -do everything in my power to keep Pierre from ever knowing. Don't thank -me. I will keep silent on his account, on my own account, so as to -preserve a friendship that has always been dear to me, that always will -be dear. I did not come here to threaten you that I would disclose the -past to him. I came to ask you to be silent, to not push your vengeance -to its last extreme.--And now, as I bid you farewell forever, I still -ask you that. You love Pierre, he loves you; promise me that you will -never use his love against our friendship, to respect that feeling in -his heart." - -There was a supplicating humility in Olivier's voice. All the religious -sentiment of his friendship, which Ely knew filled him, betrayed itself -in his tone, sadly, almost solemnly! And with a solemn emotion she -replied:-- - -"I promise you." - -"Thank you again," he said, "and farewell." - -"Farewell," she replied. - -He took a few steps toward the door. Then he turned and approached her. -This time she read in his eyes all the maddening vertigo of love and -desire. She was seized with such a terror that she could not move. When -he arrived at her chair, he took her head between his hands and -frantically, passionately pressed it to his heart. He covered her brow, -her hair, her eyes with kisses, and strove to kiss her lips with a mad -frenzy that restored the woman all her strength. Thrusting him from her -with all the vigor that her indignation gave her, she rose and took -refuge in the corner of the salon, crying, as though appealing for help -to the being who had the right to defend her:-- - -"Pierre! Pierre! Pierre!" - -As he heard the name of his friend, Olivier seized a chair as though he -were about to faint. And suddenly, without looking at Ely, who was -crouching against the wall almost swooning, with her hand pressed upon -her heart, without saying a single word either of adieu or to ask -pardon, he left the salon. - -She heard him traverse the bigger room and heard the second door close. -He went away with the terrified air of a man who had almost succumbed to -the temptation to crime and who flees from himself and his loathsome -desire. He passed, without seeing them, the two footmen in the -vestibule, who had to run after him with his cane and overcoat. He went -along one of the alleys in the garden without knowing it. The rush of -emotion that had flung him upon his former mistress, now the mistress of -his dearest friend, now gave way to such a flood of remorse, he was so -tossed about on the sea of conflicting emotions caused by the kisses -pressed upon the face he had longed for so secretly, with such -intensity, during the past few days, by the sensation of her lips -seeking to avoid contact with his own, of the beloved figure thrusting -him away with repulsion and horror, that he felt his reason was giving -way. - -All at once, as he turned round the corner of the railing surrounding -the villa, he saw that some one was awaiting him in a carriage. The -sight arrested him with the same ghastly terror he would have felt at -seeing the spectre of some one he believed dead and resting in the bosom -of the earth. It was the avenger whom Ely had called to her aid. It was -Hautefeuille! - -"Olivier!" - -It was all he said. But his voice, his deadly pallor, his eyes, in which -shone the suffering of a heartbreaking anguish, told his friend that he -knew all. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -A VOW - - -The most extraordinary results are always brought about by the simplest -causes, just as the most unexpected things are always logical -happenings. A little reflection would oftener than not have been -sufficient to prevent the one and to foresee the other. But the -characteristic of passion is that its object absorbs its attention -completely. It takes no note of the fact that other passions exist -outside itself, as furious as itself, as uncontrollable with which it -must come in contact. It is a train flying along under full steam, with -no signal to warn it that another train is coming in the opposite -direction on the same line. - -Swept away by a torrent of suffering, wrapped up in his thoughts during -this week of mortal agony, Olivier had not noticed that there was a -being near him living, trembling, suffering also. Monomania is full of -such egoism, of such forgetfulness. He had not noticed the working of -his wife's mind, nor foreseen the natural possibility that, exasperated -by her suspicions, Berthe might appeal to her husband's friend for help, -that she might implore Hantefeuille to aid her! This was just what she -finally did, and the interview between them had as result one easy to -prognosticate--that the young wife's jealousy tore off the bandage that -covered the eyes of her husband's unwitting friend. In one minute Pierre -understood everything! - -This tragedy--such an interview was one, and one that was big with a -terrible dénouement--was brought about by a last mad imprudence on -Olivier's part. The eve of his meeting with Madame de Carlsberg he had -manifested a more than usually feverish agitation. Not one of the -indications of this state of mind had escaped his wife's notice. He had -walked about in his room almost all the night, sitting down at intervals -to try and write the letter he was going to send to Ely in the morning. -Through the thin dividing partition of the room Berthe, awake and her -senses acutely tense, heard him walk, sit down, rise, sit down again, -crumpling up and tearing papers, walk about again, crush up and tear -other paper. She knew that he was writing. "To her," she thought. Ah! -how she longed to go, to open the door, which was not even locked, to -enter the room, and to know if the anxiety that had consumed her during -the last week was well founded or not, to learn if Olivier had really -met again the mistress he had known in Rome, to discover if this woman -was the cause of the agitated crisis he was going through, if, yes or -no, that former mistress was the Baroness Ely she had so much longed to -meet in one of the salons at Cannes. - -But, without her being able to say anything, her husband arranged -something for every day, and they had not paid a single visit or dined a -single time with any of their friends. She was too intelligent not to -have understood at once that Olivier did not wish to mix with the -society of Cannes, and that he would not, on the other hand, go away -from the town. Why? A single premiss would have enabled Berthe to solve -the enigma, but she had not that premiss. Her wifely instinct, however, -was not to be deceived--there was a mystery. With an infallible -certainty all pointed to this fact. - -By dint of thinking and observing, she came to this conclusion: "This -woman is here. He regrets her, and yet is afraid of her.--He longs for -her, and that is why we remain here and why he is so unhappy.--He is -afraid of her, and that is why he will not let me mix in society here." - -How many times during the week she had been tempted to tell him that -such a situation was too humiliating, that he must choose between his -wife and his former mistress, that she had determined to go away, to -return to Paris, to be once more at home among her own people! - -And then Hautefeuille was there, always making a third; Hautefeuille, -who certainly knew all the truth! She hated him all the more in -proportion as she suffered from her helpless ignorance. When alone with -Olivier an invincible timidity prostrated her. She had a shamed terror -of owning that she had discovered the name of the Baroness Ely. She -dreaded having to own she had seen the portrait, as though she had been -guilty of some vile spying. She trembled with fear lest some irreparable -word should be spoken in the explanation that must follow. The unknown -in her husband's character terrified her. She had often heard the -histories of households broken up forever during the first year of -married life. Suppose he should abandon her, return to the other in a -fit of rage? The poor child felt her heart grow cold at the mere idea. - -She loved Olivier! And even without any question of love, how could she -accept the idea of seeing her conjugal happiness wrecked with the -scandal of a separation, she so calm, so reasonable, so truly pure and -simple-minded? - -Again during the miserable night preceding Olivier's meeting with Ely -she had listened to the restlessness of her husband and had kept silent, -in spite of her suffering, of her sense of desertion, of her jealousy! -Every footstep in the adjoining room made her pray, made her long for -strength to resist the temptation to have finished forever with all her -suffering. A dozen times she compelled herself to begin the comforting -prayer, "Our Father--" and every time when she arrived at the sentence, -"As we forgive them that have trespassed against us," her entire being -had revolted. - -"Forgive that woman? Never! never! I cannot." An almost insignificant -detail--are there any insignificant details in such crises?--completed -the tension of her nerves. Toward nine o'clock her husband, ready -dressed for going out, entered her room. He had a letter in his hand -slipped between his gloves and his hat. Berthe could not read the -address on the envelope, but she saw that it bore no stamp. With her -heart beating wildly with expectation of the reply he would make to the -simple question, she said to her husband:-- - -"Do you want a stamp?--You will find one in my writing case on the -table." - -"No, thank you," replied Olivier. "It is simply a line to be delivered -by hand. I will leave it myself." - -He went out, adding that he would be back for luncheon. He never dreamed -that his wife burst into a passion of weeping the moment she was alone. -She was now certain the letter was for the Baroness Ely. Then, like -every jealous woman, she gave way to the irresistible, savage instinct -of material research which mitigates nothing, satisfies nothing--for, -suppose a proof of the justice of suspicion is discovered, does that -make the jealous suffering inspired by that suspicion any easier to -bear? - -She went into her husband's room. In the wastepaper basket she saw the -fragments of a score of letters, thrown there by the feverish hand of -the young man. They were the drafts of the letters she had heard him -begin and crumple up and destroy the night before. With trembling hands -and burning cheeks, her throat parched with the horror of what she was -doing, she gathered together and rearranged. She thus reconstituted the -beginnings of a score of letters, letters of the most utter -insignificance to any one unaided by the intuition of wounded love, but -terribly, frightfully clear and precise to her. - -They were all addressed to a woman. Berthe could read the incoherence of -Olivier's thoughts in them. The entire gamut of sentiment was gone -through, by turn ceremonious: "Madame, will you allow a visitor who has -not yet had the honor;" ironical, "You will not be surprised, madame, -that I cannot leave Cannes;" familiar, "I reproach myself, dear madame, -for not having called upon you before this." - -How the young man's pen had hesitated over the form of asking such a -simple thing--the permission to pay a visit! This hesitation was, in -itself, the certain proof of a mystery, and one of the fragments thus -put together again revealed its nature: "Some vengeances are infamous, -my dear Ely, and the one you have conceived--" - -Olivier had written this in the most cruel minute of his insomnia. His -suffering found relief in the insolent use of the Christian name, in the -insulting remembrance of an ineffaceable intimacy. Then he tore up the -sheet of paper into minute fragments which betrayed the rage consuming -him. After she had put together and deciphered this fatal phrase Berthe -saw nothing else. All her presentiments were well founded: Baroness Ely -de Carlsberg, of whom Corancez had spoken to Hautefeuille in the train, -was her husband's former mistress! He had only wanted to come to Cannes -because she was there, so as to see her again! The letter in his hand a -few minutes before had been for her! He had gone with it to her villa! - -Face to face with this indisputable and overwhelming certainty, the -young woman was seized with a convulsive trembling that increased as the -hour for luncheon drew near.--It burst all bounds when, toward noon, she -received a card from Olivier upon which he had scribbled in -pencil--always the same handwriting!--that a friend whom he had met had -insisted upon keeping him for luncheon, and he begged her not to wait -for him! - -"She has won him back from me! He is with her!" - -When she had realized this thought, weighted with all the horrible pain -given by evidence that pierces to the heart, like some glittering, icy -cold knife, she felt that she could not support this physical suffering. -With the automatic action that comes upon such occasions she put on her -hat and veil and gloves. Then when she was dressed and ready for going -out a final gleam of reason showed her the folly of the project she had -conceived. She had thought of going to her rival's house, of surprising -Olivier, and of finishing with it all forever! - -To finish with it all! She looked at herself in the mirror, her teeth -chattering, her face lividly pale, all her body convulsively trembling. -She realized that such a step in her present state with such a woman -would be absurd. But suppose some one else took this step? Suppose some -one else went to Olivier and said, "Your wife knows all. She is dying. -Come." - -The idea of him whom she believed to be her husband's confidant had no -sooner occurred to the mind of the unhappy woman when she rang for her -chambermaid with the same automatic nervousness. - -"Beg Monsieur Hautefeuille to come here, if he is in his room," she -said, she who had never had a single conversation in her life -_tête-à-tête_ with the young man. - -But she cared nothing for conventionality at the moment. Her nervousness -was so great that she had to sit down when the chambermaid returned, and -said that Monsieur Hautefeuille was coming. Her limbs would no longer -support her. When he entered the room about five minutes later she did -not give him the time to greet her, to ask why she had sent for him. She -sprang toward him like some wild creature seizing her prey, and, taking -his arm in her trembling hand with the incoherence of a madwoman who -only sees the idea possessing her and not the being to whom she speaks, -she said:-- - -"Ah! you have come at last.--You must have felt that I suspected -something.--You must go and tell him that I know all, you hear me, -all,--and bring him here. Go! Go! If he does not come back I shall go -mad.--You have an honorable heart, Monsieur Hautefeuille. You must think -it wrong, very wrong, that he should return to that woman after only six -months of married life. Go, and tell him that he must come back, that I -forgive him, that I will never speak about it again. I cannot show him -how I love him.--But I do love him, I swear that I love him.--Ah! my -head is reeling." - -"But, Madame du Prat," said Pierre, "what is the matter? What has gone -wrong? Where must I go to find Olivier? What is it that you know? What -is it that he has hidden from you? Where has he returned to?--I assure -you I do not understand a single thing." - -"Ah! you are lying to me again!" replied Berthe, more violent still. -"You are trying to spare me!--But I tell you I know all.--Do you want -proofs? Would you like me to tell you what you talked about in your -first conversation together the day we arrived, when you left me alone -at the hotel? Would you like to know what you talk about every time that -I am not present?--It is of the woman who was his mistress in Rome, of -whom he has never ceased thinking.--He travelled with her portrait in -his portfolio during our honeymoon! I saw that portrait--I tell you I -saw it! That was how I learned her name. The portrait was signed at the -bottom, signed 'Ely.'--You are satisfied now.--Do you think I did not -notice your agitation, the uneasiness of both of you, when some one -spoke of this woman before me the day we went to Monte Carlo?--You -thought I did not see anything, that I suspected nothing.--I know, I -tell you, that she is here. I will tell you the name of her villa if you -like. It is the Villa Helmholtz.--I know that he only came to Cannes to -see her again. He is with her now, I am certain.--He is with her now! -Don't tell me I am wrong. I have here the pieces of letters that he -wrote to her this past night asking for a meeting." - -With her trembling hands, which had hardly strength enough to lift up -the sheets of paper upon which she had arranged the damning fragments -with such patience, she showed Pierre all the beginnings of a letter, -among them the irrefutable sentence that had another significance for -him. He was trembling so violently, his features expressed such anguish, -that Berthe was convinced of his complicity. This fresh proof, after so -many, that her suspicions were well founded, was so painful to the poor -woman that before Pierre's eyes she gave way to a fit of hysterics. She -made a sign to show that her breath was failing her. Her heart beat so -furiously that she felt she was suffocating. She pressed her hand upon -her heart, sobbing, "Oh, God!"--Her voice died away in her throat, and -she fell upon the floor, her head hanging loosely, her eyes gleaming -whitely, and with a little foam at the corners of her mouth as though -she were dying. - -The young man recovered his senses before the necessity of helping the -poor woman, whose anguish terrified him, of succoring her by the -simplest means that could be imagined readily, of summoning the -chambermaid, of sending for the doctor and of awaiting his diagnosis. -These cares carried him through the frightful half hour that follows -every such revelation, the half hour that is so terrible. - -He only recovered consciousness of the reality of his own misfortune -when the departure of the doctor had reassured him of the young woman's -state. The physician recommended antispasmodics and promised to come -again during the evening. Although he did not seem much alarmed, the -young wife's illness was serious enough to demand the presence of the -husband. - -Hautefeuille said, "I am going for M. du Prat," and went off in the -direction of the Villa Helmholtz. It was on the way, while his carriage -was rolling along the road now so familiar to him, that he felt the -first attack of real despair. The news he had just heard was so -stunning, so unexpected, so disconcerting, and full of anguish for him -that he felt as though in the grasp of some hideous nightmare.--He would -awake presently and would find everything as it was only that -morning.--But no.--Berthe's words suddenly recurred to him. He saw again -in imagination the opening of the letter, written in the hand he had -known for twenty years: "Some vengeances are infamous, my dear Ely, and -the one you have conceived--" - -In the light of the terrible sentence, Olivier's strange attitude since -his arrival in Cannes became quite comprehensible with a frightful -clearness. Indications to which Pierre had paid no attention crowded -pell-mell into his memory. He recalled glances his friend had cast at -him, his sudden silence, his half confidences, his allusions. All -invaded his recollection like a flood of certainty. It mounted to his -brain, which was stupefied by the fumes of a grief as strong and intense -as though by the influence of some poisonous alcohol. As his horse was -walking up the steep incline of Urie he met Yvonne de Chésy. He did not -recognize her, and even when she called to him he did not hear her. She -made a sign to the driver to stop, and laughing, even in all her -trouble, she said to the unhappy youth:-- - -"I wanted to know if you had met my husband, who was to have met me. But -I see that a herd of elephants might have gone by without your seeing -them! You are going to call upon Ely? You will find Du Prat there. He -even deigned to recognize me." - -Although Pierre had not the least doubt that Olivier was at Madame de -Carlsberg's, this fresh evidence, gathered by pure chance, seemed to -break his heart. A few minutes later he saw the roofs and the terraces -of the villa. Then he came, to the garden. The sight of the hedge he had -passed through only the night before with so much loving confidence, so -much longing desire, completed the destruction of all the reason that -remained to him. He felt that in his present state of semi-madness it -was impossible for him to see his friend and his mistress face to face -with each other without dying with pain. This was why Olivier found him, -awaiting his arrival, at a turn of the road, livid with a terrible -pallor, his physiognomy changed, his eyes gleaming madly. - -The situation of the two friends was so tragic, it presaged so painful -an interview, that both felt they could not, that they must not, enter -into an explanation there. - -Olivier got into the carriage as though nothing were amiss, and took the -vacant place. As he felt the contact of his friend, Pierre shivered, but -recovered himself immediately. He said to the coachman:-- - -"Drive to the hotel quickly." - -Then, turning to Du Prat, he continued:-- - -"I came for you because your wife is very ill." - -"Berthe?" cried Olivier. "Why, when I left her this morning she seemed -so cheerful and well!" - -"She told me where you were," went on Hautefeuille, avoiding a more -direct reply. "By accident she has found among your papers a photograph -taken in Rome and bearing a striking signature. She heard some one -mention this name here. She at once came to the conclusion that the -person bearing the name, and who lives at Cannes, was the original of -the portrait from Rome. She discovered the torn fragments of some -letters in which the same name occurred, and in which you asked for a -rendezvous. In fact, she knows all." - -"And you also?" asked Olivier, after a silence. - -"And I also!" assented Pierre. - -The two friends did not exchange another word during the quarter of an -hour the carriage took to arrive at the Hôtel des Palmes. What could -they have said in such a moment to increase or diminish the mortal agony -that choked their utterance? - -Olivier went straight to his wife's room the moment the carriage -arrived, without asking Pierre when they would meet again and without -Pierre asking him. It was one of those silences that happen at a -death-bed, when all seems paralyzed by the first icy impression of the -unchangeable, when all is stifled in the grip of the "nevermore"! - -The crisis of weakness, the necessity of expansion that follows such -struggles, began for Du Prat on the threshold of Berthe's room. He was -saluted by the sickly odor of ether upon his entrance. Outlined, pale -and haggard, against the pillow, regarding him with eyes swimming in -tears, he saw the wasted face of the girl who had trusted him, who had -given him her life, the flower of her youth, all her hopes and -aspirations. How unyielding he must have been toward the suffering, -self-contained creature for her to have concealed all her feelings from -him, loving him as she did! - -He could not utter a word. He sat down near the bed and remained for a -long time looking at the poor invalid. The sensation of the suffering -that enveloped all four--Berthe, Pierre, Ely, and himself--pierced him -to the heart. Berthe loved him and knew that her lave was not returned. -Pierre loved Ely, and was beloved by her, but his happiness had just -been poisoned forever by the most horrible of revelations. As for -himself, he was in the grasp of a passion for his former mistress, one -whom he had suspected, insulted, deserted, and who had now given herself -to his dearest friend. - -Like a man who falls overboard in mid-ocean, who is swimming desperately -in the raging sea, and who sees the waves assembling that will swallow -him up, Olivier felt the irresistible power of the love he had so -yearned to know, rising all around, within him and on every hand. He was -in the influence of the storm, and he felt it sweeping him away. He was -afraid. While he sat near the bedside, listening to the irregular -breathing of his young wife, he felt for an instant the intellectual and -emotional vertigo that imparts to even the least philosophical natures -at such moments the vision of the fatal forces of nature, the implacable -workers-out of our destinies. And then, like a swimmer tossed about by -the palpitating ocean, making a feeble effort to struggle against the -formidable waves before they engulf him, he tried to recover himself--to -act. He wanted to speak with Berthe, to soften all that it was possible -to soften of her suffering. - -"You are angry with me?" he said.--"And yet you see that I came the -moment I knew you were ill.--When you are well again I will explain all -that has taken place. You will see that things have not been what you -believe.--Ah! what suffering you would have spared us both if you had -only spoken during the past few days!" - -"I do not condemn you," said the poor girl, "and I do not ask you to -explain anything.--I love you and you do not love me; that is what I -know. It is not your fault, but nothing can change it.--You have just -been very good to me," she added, "and I thank you for it. I am so worn -out that I would like to rest." - -"It is the beginning of the end," thought Olivier, as he passed into the -salon in obedience to his wife's wish. "What will become of our -household?--If I do not succeed in winning her back, in healing her -wounded heart, it will mean a separation in a very short time, and for -me it will mean the recommencement of an aimless life.--Heal her heart -when my own is bleeding!--Poor child! How I have made her suffer!" - -Through all the complications caused by his impressionability, he had -retained the conscience of an honorable man. It was too sensitive not to -shrink with remorse from the answer to this question. But--who does not -know it by experience?--neither remorse nor pity, the two noblest -virtues of the human soul, has ever prevailed against the dominating -frenzy of passion in a being who loves. Olivier's thoughts quickly -turned from the consideration of poor Berthe to the opposite side. The -fever of the kisses he had pressed on Ely's pale, quivering face burned -in his veins. The image of his friend, of the lover to whom the woman -now belonged, recurred to him at the same time, and his two secret -wounds began to bleed again so violently that he forgot everything that -did not concern Ely or Pierre, Pierre or Ely. And a keener suffering -than any he had yet experienced attacked him. What was his friend, his -brother, doing? What had become of the being to whom he had given so -large a part of his very soul? What was still left of their friendship? -What would there still be left to-morrow? - -Face to face with a prospective rupture with Hautefeuille, Olivier felt -that this was for him the uttermost limit of anguish, the supreme stroke -that he could not support. The wreck of his married life was a blow for -which he was prepared. His frightful and desperate reflux of passion for -Ely de Carlsberg was a horrible trial, but he would submit to it. But to -lose his consecrated friendship, to possess no longer this unique -sentiment in which he had always found a refuge, a support, a -consolation, a reason for self-esteem and for believing in good, was the -final destruction of all. After this there was nothing in life to which -he could turn, no one for whom and with whom to live. It was the -entrance into the icy night, into total solitude. - -All the future of their friendship was at stake in this moment, and yet -he remained there motionless, letting time slip by that was priceless. A -few minutes before, when they were in the carriage returning to the -hotel, he could not say a single word to Pierre. Now he must at all -costs defend this beloved, noble sentiment, take part in the struggle of -which the heart of his friend, so cruelly wounded, was the scene. How -would he receive him? What could they say to each other? Olivier did not -ask. The instinct that made him leave his room to go down to -Hautefeuille's was as unconscious, as irreflective, as his wife's appeal -to Hautefeuille had been, that appeal which had ruined all. Would -Olivier's advances be followed with as fatal results? - -When he had passed the threshold of the room, he saw Pierre sitting -before a table, his head resting on his hands. A sheet of paper before -him, still blank, showed that he had intended to write a letter, but had -not been able. The pen had slipped from his fingers upon the paper and -he had left it there. Through the window beyond this living statue of -despair Olivier saw the wonderful afternoon sky, a soft pile of delicate -hues in which the blue was deepened into mauve. Glorious masses of -mimosa filled the vases and filled with their refreshing and yet heavy -perfume the retreat in which the young lover had revelled during the -winter in hours of romantic reverie, in which he was now draining the -vast cup of bitterness that the eternal Delilah fills for her dearest -victims! - -Olivier had suffered many a poignant shock during this tragic afternoon, -but none more agonizing than the silent spectacle of this deep, endless -suffering. All the virility of his friendship awoke and his own grief -melted in a fathomless tenderness for the companion of his childhood and -youth, who was dying before his eyes. He put his hand upon Pierre's -shoulder, gently and lightly, as though he divined that at his contact -the jealous body of the lover must rebel and shrink back in horror, in -aversion. - -"It is I," he said; "it is I, Olivier.--You must feel that we cannot -remain with this weight upon our hearts. It is a load under which you -are reeling and which is stifling me. You are suffering; I am also in -torture. Our pain will be less if we bear it together, each supporting -the other.--I owe you an explanation, and I have come to give it you. -Between us there can be no secret now. Madame de Carlsberg has told me -all." - -Hautefeuille did not appear to have heard the first words his friend -uttered. But at the sound of his mistress's name he raised his head. His -features were horribly contracted, betraying the dreadful suffering of a -grief that has not found relief in tears. He replied in a dry voice in -which all his repulsion was manifest. - -"An explanation between us? What explanation? To tell you what? To -inform me of what? That you were that woman's lover last year, and that -I am your successor?" Then, as though lashing himself to fury with his -own words, he went on:-- - -"If it is to tell me again what you did before I knew whom you were -talking about, you may spare yourself the pain. I have forgotten -nothing.--Neither the story of the first lover, nor of the other, nor of -the one who was the cause of your leaving her.--She is a monster of -falsehood and hypocrisy. I know it, and you have proved it. Don't let us -begin again. It hurts me too much, and, besides, it is useless. She died -for me to-day. I no longer know her." - -"You are very hard upon her," replied Olivier, "and you have no right to -be." - -The cynicism of the insults Pierre was hurling at Ely was insupportable. -It betrayed so much suffering in the lover who was thus outraging a -mistress whom only the night before he had idolized! And then the -passionate, true tone of the woman was still ringing in his ears as she -spoke of her love. An irresistible magnanimity compelled him to witness -for her, and he repeated:-- - -"No, you have no right to accuse her. With you she has neither been -deceitful nor hypocritical! She loves you, loves you deeply and -passionately.--Be just. Could she tell you what you now know? If she has -lied to you, it was to keep you; it was because you are the first, the -only love of her life." - -"It is a lie!" cried Hautefeuille. "There is no love without complete -sincerity.--But I would have forgiven her all, forgiven all the past, if -she had told me.--Besides, there was a first day, a first hour.--I shall -never forget that day and that hour.--We spoke of you that very day when -I first met her. I can still hear her uttering your name. I did not hide -from her how much I loved you. She knew through you how dearly you loved -me.--It was an easy matter to never see me again, to not attract me, to -leave me free to go my way! There are so many other men in the world for -whom the past would have been nothing more than the past.--But no; what -she wanted was a vengeance, a base, ignoble vengeance! You had left her. -You had married. She took me, as an assassin takes a knife, to strike -you to the heart.--You dare not deny it.--Why, I have read it; I know -you believe that, for I have read it in your handwriting! Tell me, yes -or no, did you write those words?" - -"Yes, but I was wrong," said Olivier. "I believed it then, but I was -mistaken. Ah!" he continued with a tone of despair, "why must it be my -lot to defend her to you?--But if I did not believe that she loves you -do you not think that I should be the first to tell you, the first to -say, 'She is a monster'?--Yes, I thought she had taken you in a spirit -of revenge. I thought it from the day of my arrival, when we wandered in -the pine forest and you spoke of her. I saw so clearly that you loved -her, and oh! how I suffered!" - -"Ah! You admit it!" cried Pierre. - -He rose, and, grasping his friend by the shoulder, he began to shake him -in a fury of rage, repeating:-- - -"You admit it! You admit it! You knew that I loved her, and yet you said -nothing. For an entire week you have been with me, been near me, you -have seen me giving all my heart, all that is good in me, all that is -tender and affectionate to your former mistress, and you said nothing! -And if I had not learned from your wife you would have let me sink -deeper and deeper in this passion every day, you would have left me in -the toils of some one you despise!--It was at the beginning you ought to -have said, 'She is a monster!'--not now." - -"How could I?" said Olivier, interrupting. "Honor forbade it. You know -that very well." - -"But honor did not forbid you writing to her," replied Pierre, "when you -knew that I loved her, to ask her for a meeting unknown to me; it did -not prevent you going to her house, when you knew I was not there." - -He looked at Olivier with an expression in which shone a veritable -hatred. - -"I see clearly now," he went on. "You have both been playing with -me.--You wanted to use what you had discovered to enter into her life -again. Judas! You have lied to me.--Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!" - -With the cry of some stricken animal, he sank into a chair and began to -weep passionately, uttering among his sobs:-- - -"Friendship, love; love, friendship, all is dead. I have lost all. Every -one has lied to me, everything has betrayed me.--Ah! how miserable I -am!--" - -Du Prat recoiled, paling under the influence of this flood of invective. -The pain caused by his friend's insult was deep enough. But there was no -anger, no question of egoism in his feelings. The terrible injustice of -a being naturally good, delicate, and tender only increased his pity. At -the same time the sentiment of the irremediable rupture of their -affections, if the interview finished like this, restored a little of -the sangfroid that the other had quite lost. With a voice that was full -of emotion in its gravity, he replied:-- - -"Yes, you must be suffering, Pierre, to speak to me in that way--me, -your old companion, your friend! your brother--I a Judas? I a -traitor?--Look me in the face. You have insulted me, threatened -me--almost struck me--and you see I have no feeling in my heart for you -except the friendship that is as tender, as sentient as it was -yesterday, as it was a year, ten years, twenty years ago! I have played -with you?--I have deceived you?--No, you cannot think that, you do not -believe it!--You know well enough that our friendship is not dead, that -it cannot die!--And all"--here his voice became agitated and -bitter--"because of a woman!--A woman has come between us, and you have -forgotten all, you have renounced all.--Ah! Pierre, arouse yourself, I -implore you; tell me that you only spoke in your anger; tell me that you -still care for me, that you still believe in our friendship. I ask it in -the name of our childhood, of those innocent moments when we met and -mourned because we were not really brothers. Is there a single -recollection of that time with which I am not connected?--To efface you -from my life would be to destroy all my past, all that part of it that I -turn to with pride, that I contemplate when I want to free myself from -the vileness of the present!--For God's sake, remember our youth and all -that it held of good and noble and pure affection. In 1870, the day -after Sedan, when you wanted to enlist, you came to seek me, do you -recollect? And you found me going off to your house. Do you remember the -embrace that drew us heart to heart? Ah! if any one had told us that a -day would arrive when you would call me traitor, that you would call me, -by whose side you wanted to die, a Judas; with what confidence we should -have replied, 'Impossible!' And do you remember the snowy night in the -forest of Chagey, toward the end, when we learned that all was lost, -that the army was entering Switzerland and that on the morrow we had to -give up our arms? And have you forgotten our oath, that if ever we had -to fight again, we would be together, shoulder to shoulder, heart to -heart, in the same line?--Suppose the hour should come, what would you -do without me?--Ah, you are looking at me again, you understand me, you -feel with me.--Come to my arms, Pierre, as on that third of -September, now more than ten years ago, and yet it seems like -yesterday.--Everything else in this life may fail us, but not our -friendship.--Everything else is passion, sensual, delirium, but that -feeling is our heart, that friendship is our very being!" - -As Olivier spoke Pierre's attitude began to change. His sobs stopped and -in his eyes, still wet with tears, a strange gleam appeared. His -friend's voice betrayed such poignant emotion, the vision evoked by his -brotherly love recalled such ideal thoughts to the unhappy man--visions -of heroic deeds and courageous efforts--that, after the first shock of -horrible pain, all his manly energy was called to life by the appeal of -his old brother in arms. He rose, hesitated a second, and then seized -Olivier in his arms. And they embraced with one of those noble -sentiments that dry the tears in our eyes, that strengthen the wavering -will and renew the strength of generosity in our hearts. Then briefly -and simply Pierre replied:-- - -"I beg your pardon, Olivier; you are better than I am. But the blow was -such a terrible one, and came so suddenly!--I had such entire, complete -confidence in that woman. And I learned all in five minutes, and in that -way!--I knew nothing, suspected nothing.--Then came the two lines in -your handwriting after what your wife had told me, and on the top of -your confidences!--It was like a ship upon the ocean at midnight cut in -two by another vessel, and plunging beneath the waves forever.--A man -could go mad in such a moment.--But let us say nothing more about that. -You are right. We must save our friendship from this shipwreck." - -He put his hand before his eyes as though to shut out another vision -that was paining him. - -"Listen, Olivier," he said, "you may think me very weak, but you must -tell me the truth.--Have you ever seen Madame de Carlsberg since you -parted in Rome?" - -"Never!" replied Olivier. - -"You wrote a letter to her this morning. Not the one of which I read the -beginning, but another. What did you write about?" - -"To ask for an interview, nothing more." - -"And she? Did she reply?" - -"Not personally. She sent word that she was at home." - -"Why did you ask for this meeting? What did you say to her?" - -"I said what I then thought was the truth. I was overwhelmed by the idea -that she was trying to revenge herself upon me through you, and I felt I -must arouse a sense of shame in her. She replied to my reproaches and -proved to me that she loved you." - -And he added:-- - -"Do not ask me anything more." - -Pierre looked at him. The fever of such an interrogation began to scorch -him again. A question was burning his lips. He longed to ask, "Did you -speak of your past? Did you speak of your love?" - -Then his native nobility recoiled before the baseness of such a -degrading inquisition. He became silent and began to walk up and down -the room, the living scene of a struggle which his friend watched in -mortal anguish. The questions that he had just put brought Ely present -before him with a too cruel vividness. They had reanimated the -sentiments Olivier's manly and apologizing appeal had exorcised a few -minutes before. Love, despising, disabused, vilified, and cruel, but -still love, struggled with friendship in his aching heart. Suddenly the -young man stopped. He stamped upon the floor, shaking his clinched fist -at the same time. He uttered a single "Ah!" full of repulsion, of -disgust, and of deliverance, and then, looking straight into his -friend's eyes, he said:-- - -"Olivier, give me your word of honor that you will not see this woman -again, that you will not receive her if she comes to see you, that you -will not answer if she writes to you, that you will never ask after her -no matter what may happen, never, never, never." - -"I give you my word of honor," said Olivier. - -"And I," said Hautefeuille, with a deep sigh that betrayed both despair -and relief, "I give you my word of honor to do the same, that I will -never see her again, that I will never write to her.--There is not room -for you and her in my heart. I feel it now, and I cannot lose you." - -"Thank God!" said Olivier, taking his friend's hand. An inexpressible -emotion overcame him, a mixed feeling of joy, of gratitude, and of -terror--joy because of their beloved friendship, gratitude for the -delicacy which had made Pierre save him the pangs of the most horrible -jealousy, terror of the terrible agony imprinted upon his friend's face -as he made his vow of self-sacrifice. - -Hautefeuille seemed eager to escape from the room where such a terrible -scene had taken place, and opened the door. - -"You have a patient upstairs," he said. "You ought to be near her. She -must get better quickly so that we can go away, to-morrow if possible, -but the next day at the very latest.--I will come with you and will -await you in the salon." - -The two friends had hardly stepped into the corridor when they were met -by a servant of the hotel. The man had a letter upon a tray, which he -held out to Pierre, saying:-- - -"The bearer is waiting for a reply, Monsieur Hautefeuille." - -Hautefeuille took the letter and looked at the superscription. Then, -without opening it, he handed it to Olivier, who recognized Ely's bold -handwriting. He returned the letter to Pierre and asked:-- - -"What are you going to do?" - -"What I promised," replied Hautefeuille. - -Re-entering his room, he put the unopened letter in another envelope. He -then wrote on it Madame de Carlsberg's name and the address of her -villa. Returning to the corridor he handed it to the servant, saying:-- - -"There is the reply." - -And when he again took Olivier's arm he felt it trembled more than his -own did. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -BETWEEN TWO TRAGEDIES - - -Ely awaited Pierre's reply to her letter without apprehension. -Immediately Olivier had left she wrote, impelled by an instinctive, an -irresistible desire to refresh and purify herself in Hautefeuille's -loyal, devoted tenderness, after the cruel scene from which she issued -broken, humiliated, and soiled. Not for a single minute did she do -Olivier the injustice of suspecting that he would, even though possessed -by the most hateful love, try to destroy the image that Pierre had of -her--an image that bore no resemblance to her in the past, but now so -true--so true to the inner nature of her present being. - -She said nothing in this letter to her lover that she had not told him -twenty times before--that she loved him, then again that she loved him, -and, finally, that she loved him. She was sure that he would also reply -with words of love, already read and re-read a score of times, but -always new and welcome as an untasted happiness. When she received the -envelope upon which Pierre had written her address, she weighed it in -her hands, with the joy of a child. "How good he is to send me such a -long letter!" And she tore it open in an ecstasy of love that was at -once changed to terror. She looked first at her own letter with the seal -unbroken and then again at the envelope bearing her name. Was it -possible that such an insult had really been paid her by "her sweet," as -she called her lover, with the affectation common to all sentiments? -Could such an insult really have come from Pierre, who that very night -had clasped her to his bosom with so much respect, mingled with his -idolatry, with piety almost in his passion? - -Alas, doubt was not possible! The address was in the young man's -handwriting. It was certainly he who returned the letter to his mistress -without even opening it. Following the terrible scene of a short time -before, this refusal to hear from her, this return of her letter, -signified a rupture. The motive of it was indicated to Ely's terrified -eyes with hideous plainness. It was impossible for her to guess the -exact truth. She could not divine that it had been brought about by -Berthe du Prat's jealousy,--a jealousy awakened by so many suspicions -which started the long-continued inner tragedy and ended in the -irresistible impulse which drove the young wife to make the most -desperate appeal to the most intimate friend of her husband, to make an -appeal that revealed all to him. It was a succession of chances that -nothing could have foretold. - -On the other hand, a voluntary indiscretion on the part of Olivier -appeared so probable, so conformable to the habitual meanness of wounded -masculine pride! Ely never thought of any other cause, never sought any -other motive for the crushing revolution wrought in Pierre's soul, of -which she had before her a mute proof, more indisputable, more -convincing than any phrase. The details of the catastrophe appeared -before her simply and logically. Olivier had left her frantic with anger -and desire, with jealousy and humiliated pride. In an excess of -semi-madness he had failed of his honor. He had spoken! What had he -said? All?-- - -At the mere idea the blood froze in the poor woman's veins. From the -minute when, upon the quay of the old port at Genoa, Hautefeuille had -held out to her the despatch announcing Olivier's return, she had -traversed so many horrible hours that it appeared as though in her -thoughts she must have become accustomed to the danger, that she must -have admitted the possibility of this event. But, when in love, the -heart possesses such stores of confidence, united to a keen power of -self-deception, that she came face to face with the actuality as -unprepared, unresigned, as unwittingly as we all meet death.--Ah! if she -could only see Pierre at once. If she could only be alone with him, -could only talk to him, could only plead her cause, defend herself, -explain to him all she once had been and why, show him what she had now -become and the reason, tell him of her struggles, of her longing to -unbosom herself to him at the beginning, and that she had only kept -silence through fear of losing him, through a trembling terror of -wounding him in his tenderest feelings! If she could only see him to -show him that love had caused it all, that it was love!-- - -Yes, see him! But where? When? How? At the hotel? He would not receive -her. Olivier was there watching, guarding him. See him at her own villa? -He would not come there again. Make a rendezvous with him? She could -not. He would not even open her letter! She felt in the depths of her -nature, which had remained so primitive and unrestrained, all the savage -spirit of her Black Mountain ancestors rebelling against the bonds that -tied her. With all her wretchedness she could not keep down a movement -of reckless violence. Her powerless rage found vent--it was the only -outlet possible--in a letter written to her cowardly denunciator, -Olivier. She despised him at this moment for all the faith that she had -felt in his loyalty. She loathed him with the same energy that she loved -Pierre. - -This second letter was useless and unworthy of herself. But to give free -course to her rage against Olivier was to give relief to her passion for -his friend. Besides--for in stirring up the depths of our nature -suffering arouses that vague foundation of hope that remains with us in -spite of the deepest despair--was it not possible that Olivier, when he -once saw how infamously he had acted, would go to his friend and say: -"It was not true; I lied when I told you she had been my mistress"? - -This whirlwind of mad ideas, vain rage, and senseless hypotheses was -shattered and driven away by an event as brutal as the first. Ely sent -the letter to Olivier by one of her footmen about seven o'clock. Half an -hour later, when she was finishing her toilet in a fever of anxiety, the -man brought back the reply. It was a large sealed envelope with her -address written in Olivier's handwriting. Inside was her letter -unopened. - -The two friends had thus made a compact. They both insulted her in the -same way! It was as plain to her as though she had seen them take each -other's hand and swear a pact of alliance against her in the name of -their friendship. - -For the first time this woman, usually superior to all the pettiness of -her sex, felt against their friendship all the unreasoning hate that the -ordinary mistress has for even the simple companionships of her lover. -She felt that instinctive impulse of feminine antipathy for sentiments -purely masculine, and from which the woman feels excluded forever. -During the hours following the double insult, Ely was not only a woman -in love repulsed and disdained, a woman who loses with him she loves all -joy in life, a woman who will die of the effect of her loss. She was not -only this, she also suffered all the pangs of a devouring jealousy. She -was jealous of Olivier, jealous of the affection he inspired in Pierre -and that Pierre returned. In the despair that the certainty of the cruel -desertion caused her, she felt mingled an additional pang of suffering -at the idea that these two men were happy in the triumph of their -fraternal tenderness, that they dwelt under the same roof, that they -could talk with each other, that they esteemed each other, loved each -other. - -True, such impressions were out of conformity with her innate -magnanimity. But extreme sufferings have one trait in common: they -distort the natural feelings and sentiments. The most delicate nature -becomes brutal, the most confiding loses the noble power of expansion, -the most loving becomes misanthropic when in the grasp of a great grief. -There is no more ill-founded prejudice than the one echoed in the famous -line-- - - -"Man is an apprentice; suffering, his master." - - -It may be a master, but it is a degrading, depraving master. Not to be -corrupted by suffering one must accept the trial as a punishment and a -redemption. And then it is not the suffering that ameliorates one, but -faith! - -Without doubt if poor Ely had not been the disabused nihilist who -believed, as she once said energetically, that "there is only this -world," all the obscure fatalities that were crushing her down would -have been made clear with a blinding light. She would have recognized a -mysterious justice, stronger than our intentions, more infallible than -our calculations, in the encounter that made the punishment of her -double adultery issue from the friendship of those who had been her -guilty partners in her failings, and caused those same accomplices to be -each a punishment to the other. But in the blow that overwhelmed her she -saw only the base vengeance of a former lover. And such a form of -suffering could only end in degrading her. All her virtues of generous -indulgence, of tender goodness, of sentimental scrupulousness that her -love, magnificent in its enthusiastic spontaneity, had awakened in her -heart, had receded from her. And she felt that all the most hideous and -all her worst instincts were taking their place at the idea that these -two men, both of whom had possessed her, one of whom she loved to the -verge of madness, despised her. And in imagination she again saw Pierre -as he was there before her, only twenty-four hours before, so devoted, -so noble, so happy!--Ah! Pierre!--All her bitterness melted into a flood -of tears as she cried aloud the beloved name. Ah! to what good was it -that she cried for him? The man for whom such passionate sighs were -breathed would not even listen to them! - -What an evening, what a night the unfortunate woman passed, locked in -her room! What courage it needed not to remain there all the following -day, with windows closed, curtains down! How she longed to flee the -daylight, life, to flee from herself, plunged and engulfed in a night -and silence as of death!--But she was the daughter of an officer and the -wife of a prince. She had thus twice over the trait of a military -education, an absolute exactitude in carrying out her promises, a trait -that causes the disciplined will to rise superior to all events and to -execute at the appointed time the duties imposed. She had promised the -night before to intercede with Dickie Marsh in Chésy's favor, and she -was to give his reply in the afternoon. Her lassitude was so great in -the morning that she nearly wrote to Madame Chésy to postpone her visit -and that to the American's yacht. Then she said, "No, that would be -cowardly."--And at eleven o'clock in the morning, her face hidden by a -white veil that prevented her reddened eyes and agitated features from -being seen, she stepped from her carriage on to the little quay to which -the Jenny was moored. When she saw the rigging of the yacht and her -white hull outlined against the sky, pale with the presage of heat, she -remembered her arrival upon the same sun-scorched stones of the little -quay, in the same carriage, only a fortnight before, and the profound -joy she felt when she saw Pierre's silhouette as he looked for her from -the boat anxiously. Those two weeks had been long enough for her -romantic and tender idyl to be transformed into a sinister tragedy. -Where was the lover who was with her when they left for Genoa? Where was -he trying to hide the awful pain caused by her and which she could not -even console? Had he already left Cannes? Ever since the night before -the idea that Pierre had left her forever had made her heart icy with -cold terror. And yet she devoured with her eyes the yacht upon which she -had been so happy. - -She was now near enough to be able to count the portholes, of which the -line appeared just above the rail of a cutter moored near the Jenny. The -seventh was the one lighting her cabin, their cabin, the nuptial refuge -where they had tasted the intoxicating joy of their first night of love. -A sailor was seated upon a plank suspended from the rail washing the -shell of the boat with a brush that he dipped from time to time in a big -bucket. The triviality of the detail, of the work being done at that -minute and at that place, completed the faintness of the young woman -caused by the air of contrast. She was speechless with emotion when she -stepped upon the gangway leading from the quay to the boat. Her -agitation was so apparent that Dickie Marsh could not resist an -inclination to question her, thus failing for once to observe the great -Anglo-Saxon principle of avoiding personal remarks. - -"It is nothing," she replied; "or rather nothing that concerns me." - -Then, making his question an excuse for introducing the subject of her -visit, she said:-- - -"I am all upset by the news I have just learned from Yvonne." - -"Shall we go into the smoking-room?" asked the American, who had -trembled at the sound of Madame de Chésy's name. "We shall be able to -talk better there." - -They were in the office where Marsh was busy when Ely arrived. The dry -clicking of the typewriter under the fingers of a secretary had not -stopped or even slackened a moment upon the entrance of the young woman. -Another secretary went on telephoning to the telegraph office, and a -third continued arranging documents. The intensity of their industry -proved the importance and the pressing nature of the work being done. -But the business man left his dictations and his calculations with as -little compunction as an infant displays when he casts aside his hoop or -ball, to question Yvonne's messenger with a veritable fever of anxiety. - -"So the bolt has fallen! Are they ruined?" he asked, when they were -alone. Then, in reply to Ely's affirmation, he went on: "Was I not -right? I have not seen the Vicomtesse for some little time. I have not -even tried to see her. I thought Brion was at the bottom of all. I was -sure you would make me a sign at the right moment, unless--But no, -there is no unless--I was sure the poor child would estimate that man -for the abominable cad that he is, and that she would show him the door -the first word he uttered." - -"She came to see me," said Ely, "trembling, and revolted at the ignoble -propositions the wretch made to her." - -"Ah, what 'punishment' he merits!" said Marsh, with an expressive -gesture that accentuated the energetic boxing term. "Did you tell her to -apply to me? Is her husband willing to work?" - -"She came to see me to ask for a place for Gontran as superintendent on -the Archduke's estate," replied Ely. - -"No, no!" interrupted Dickie Marsh. "I have the very thing for him. It -is better for me even than for him, for I have a principle that all -services ought to be of some use to him that renders them. In that way, -if the man you oblige proves ungrateful, you are paid in advance.--This -is the affair. Since we were in Genoa we have done a lot of work. We -have founded in Marionville--by we I mean myself and three others, the -'big four,' as we are called--a society for working a score of ruined -ranches we have bought in North Dakota. We have thus miles and miles of -prairies upon which we want to raise not cattle, but horses.--Why -horses? For this reason: In the States a horse is worth nothing. My -countrymen have done away with them, and with that useless thing, the -carriage. Railways, electric tramways, and cable cars are quite -sufficient for every need. In Europe, with your standing armies, things -are different. In another five years you will not be able to find horses -for your cavalry. Now follow me closely. We are going to buy in the -horses in America by the thousand for a song. We shall restore them to -the prairies. We shall cross them with Syrian stallions. I have just -bought five hundred from the Sultan by telegraph." - -Excited by the huge perspective of his enterprise, he left the "we" to -use the more emphatic "I." - -"I am going to create a new breed, one that will be superb for light -cavalry. I will supply a mount for every hussar, uhlan, and chasseur in -Europe. I have calculated that. I can deliver the animals in Paris, -Berlin, Rome, Vienna at a fourth less than the State pays in France, -Germany, Italy, and in your country. But I must have some competent and -trustworthy man to look after my breeding stables. I want Chésy to take -this place. I will give him $115,000 per year, all his travelling -expenses paid, and a percentage upon the profits. You will perhaps say -that when you want to make wealth by the plough you must put your hand -to it.--That is true. But with the cable I am at hand if only my man -does not rob me. Now, Chésy is honest. He understands horses like any -jockey. He will save for me what a rascally employee would steal and all -that an incompetent one would waste. In ten years he can return to -Europe richer than he would ever have been by following Brion's advice -and without owing me anything.--But will he accept?" - -"I can answer for that," replied Ely. "I have an appointment with Yvonne -this afternoon. She will write to you." - -"In that case," Marsh continued, "I will cable instructions for the -furnishing of their residences in Marionville and Silver City to be -hurried on. They will have two houses at the society's expense. I shall -go to the States to start him upon his duties. They can be there for -June.--And if they accept will you tell the Vicomtesse that we start for -Beyrout the day after to-morrow on the _Jenny_? I want them to go along -with me. Chésy could begin his work straight away. He will prevent the -Bedouins selling me a lot of old nags in the batch. I will write to him, -however, more at length upon the matter." - -There was a short silence. Then he said:-- - -"There is some one I should like to take with them." - -"Who is that?" asked Ely. - -The contrast was a very striking one between the sentiment of silent -misery, of despairing prostration, of the uselessness of everything that -prostrated her, and the almost boundless energy of the Yankee business -man. In addition to her sorrow she felt a sort of bewilderment, and she -forgot all about Marsh's intention in regard to his niece's marriage. - -"Who?" echoed the American, "why Verdier, naturally. I have also my -secret service bureau," he went on. This time there was even more energy -in his manner. Admiration and covetousness were visible in all his being -as he sounded the praises of the Prince's assistant and of his -inventions. "I know that he has solved his problem. Has he not spoken to -you about it? Well, it is a marvel! You will realize that in a -minute.--You know that aluminum is the lightest of metals. It has only -one fault; it costs too much. Now, in the first place, Verdier has -discovered a process of making it by electrolysis, without the need of -any chemical transformations. He can thus get it very cheap. Then, with -his aluminum, he has invented a new kind of electric accumulator. It is -fifteen times more powerful according to its weight than the -accumulators at present in use.--In other words, the electric railway is -an assured fact. The secret is discovered!--I want to take Verdier with -me to the States, and with the help of his invention we shall wreck the -tramway companies in Marionville and Cleveland and Buffalo. It means the -death of Jim Davis; it means his end, his destruction, his complete -ruin!--You don't know Davis. He is my enemy. You know what it is to have -an enemy, to have some one in the world with whom you have been fighting -for years; all your life, in fact? Well, in my case that some one is Jim -Davis. His affairs are shaky just now. If I can get Verdier's invention, -I can crush him into pieces and utterly smash up the Republican party in -Ohio at the same time." - -"Still," said Madame de Carlsberg, interrupting him, "I cannot go to the -laboratory to ask him for his invention." - -In spite of her trouble she could not help smiling at the flood of -half-political, half-financial confidences that issued pell-mell from -Marsh. With his strange mixture of self-possession and excitability, he -did not lose sight of his objects for a single moment. He had just -rendered a service to the Baroness Ely. His motto was, give and take. It -was now her turn to serve him. - -"No," he replied eagerly, "but you can find out what the young man has -against Flossie. You know that I planned their marriage. Did she not -tell you? It is a very good match for both--for all. To him it means a -fortune, to her it means happiness, to me, a useful instrument. Ah! what -a superb one this genius will be in my hands!" he cried, closing his -hands nervously like a workman seizing the levers of an engine that he -is starting in motion. "Everything seemed to be going on all right when, -suddenly--bang! All came to grief. About five or six days ago I noticed -that the girl was very silent, almost sad. I asked her point-blank, 'Are -you engaged, Flossie?' 'No, uncle,' she replied, 'and I never shall be.' -I talked with her and drew her out--not too much, simply enough to know -that some lovers' quarrel is at the bottom of it all. If you would talk -to her, Baroness, she would tell you more than she will me, and you can -also talk to Verdier. There is no sense in letting the affair drag on in -this way when they love each other as they do. For I know that they are -both in love. I met Mrs. Marsh--she was then Miss Potts--one Thursday at -a bazaar. On the following Saturday we were engaged. There is no time to -lose, not a day, not an hour or minute ought to be thrown away. We shall -waste enough when we are dead!" - -"So you would like me to learn from Florence why she is so sad and why -the affair is broken off? I will find out. And I will rearrange the -whole thing if you like." - -"That's it, Baroness," said Marsh, adding simply, "Ah! if my niece were -only like you! I would make you a partner in all my business affairs. -You are so intelligent, so quick and matter of fact when it is -necessary. You will find Flossie in her room. As to Chésy, it is an -understood thing. If you like, I will cable for them." - -"Do so," said Ely, as she walked away toward Miss Marsh's cabin. - -She had to pass the door of the one she had occupied on that -never-to-be-forgotten night. She pushed open the door with a frightful -feeling of melancholy. The little cabin, now unoccupied, was so blank, -seemed so ready to welcome any passing guest, to afford a refuge for -other happiness, other sorrows, other dreams, or other regrets! Was it -possible that the joy felt in this place had disappeared forever? -Whether it was Marsh's conversation which had communicated some of his -energy and confidence to the young woman or that, like the instinct to -struggle to the last that animates a drowning man, the soul is moved by -a vital energy at a certain point of discouragement, whether it were one -or the other motive it is hard to say, but Ely replied, No! to her own -question. Standing upon the threshold of the narrow cell that had been -for her an hour's paradise, she vowed that she would not surrender, that -she would fight for her happiness, that she would again recover it. It -was only a minute's respite, but it sufficed to give her courage to -compose her features so that Miss Marsh, a keener observer than her -uncle, did not notice the marks of a deep sadness imprinted too plainly -upon her face. The young American girl was painting. She was copying a -magnificent bunch of pinks and roses, of yellow, almost golden pinks, -and of blood-red, purple roses, whose deep tints seemed almost black. -The harmonious combination of yellow and red had attracted her eye, -always sensible to bright colors. Her unskilful brush laid coats of -harsh color upon the canvas, but she stuck to her task with an obstinacy -and energy and patience equal to that displayed by her uncle in his -business. And yet she was a true woman, in spite of all her decision and -firm manner. Her emotion upon Ely's entrance was only too visible. She -divined that the Baroness, whose villa she had avoided for several days, -was going to talk to her about Verdier. She did not employ any artifice -with her friend. At her first allusion she replied:-- - -"I know it is my uncle who has sent you as intermediary. He was quite -right. What I would not tell him, what, in fact, I could not tell him, I -can tell you. It is quite true, I have quarrelled with Monsieur Verdier. -He believed some wicked calumnies that he heard about me. That is all." - -"In other words you mean that it is the Archduke who has slandered you, -do you not?" asked Madame de Carlsberg, after a short silence. - -"Everything appeared to condemn me," replied Florence, ignoring the -Baroness's remark, "but when there is faith there can be no question of -trusting to appearances. Do you not think so?" - -"I think that Verdier loves you," said Ely, in reply, "and that in love -there is jealousy. But what was the matter?" - -"There can be no love where there is no esteem," said the young girl, -angrily, "and you cannot esteem a woman whom you think capable of -certain things. You know," she went on, her anger increasing in a way -that proved how keenly she felt the outrage, "you know that Andryana and -her husband hired a villa at Golfe Juan. I went there several times with -Andryana, and Monsieur Verdier knew about it. How I do not know, and yet -it does not astonish me, for once or twice as we went there about -tea-time I thought I saw Monsieur von Laubach prowling about. And what -do you think Monsieur Verdier dared to think of me,--of me, an American? -What do you think he dared to reproach me with? That I was chaperoning -an intrigue between Andryana and Corancez, that I was cognizant of one -of those horrible things you call a liaison." - -"But it was the simplest thing in the world to clear yourself," said -Ely. - -"I could not betray Andryana's secret," replied Florence. "I had -promised to keep it sacred, and I would not ask her permission to speak; -in the first place, because I had no right to do so, and in the second," -and her physiognomy betrayed all her wounded pride and sensation of -honor, "in the second because I would not stoop to defend myself against -suspicion. I told Monsieur Verdier that he was mistaken. He did not -believe me, and all is over between us." - -"So that you accept the idea of not marrying him," said Ely, "simply -through pride or bitterness rather than make a very simple -explanation!--But suppose he came here, here upon your uncle's boat, to -beg you to forgive him for his unjust suspicions, or rather for what he -believed himself justified in thinking? Suppose he did better still; -suppose he asks for your hand, that he asks you to marry him, will you -say him nay? Will all be over between you?" - -"He will not come," said Florence. "He has not written or taken a step -for the last week. Why do you speak to me in that way? You are taking -away all my courage, and, believe me, I have need of it all." - -"What a child you are, Flossie!" said Ely, kissing her. "You will -realize some day that we women have no courage to withstand those we -love and those that love us. Let me follow my idea. You will be engaged -before this evening is over." - -She spoke the last words of exhortation and hope with a bitter tone that -Florence did not recognize. As she listened to the young girl telling of -the little misunderstanding that separated her and Verdier, she had a -keen sensation of her own misery. This lovers' quarrel was only a -dispute between a child--as she had called Miss Marsh--and another -child. She thought of her rupture with Pierre. She thought of all the -bitterness and vileness and inexpiable offence that there was between -them. Face to face with the pretty American's pride before an unjust -suspicion, she felt more vividly the horror of being justly accused and -of being obliged either to lie or to own her shame while asking for -pity. At the same time she was overwhelmed with a flood of indignation -at the thought of the odious means employed by the Archduke to keep -Verdier with him. She found in it the same sentiment that had aroused -her hatred against Olivier the night before: the attachment of man for -man, the friendship that is jealous of love, that is hostile to woman, -that pursues and tracks her in order to preserve the friend. True, the -sentiment of the Prince for his coadjutor was not precisely the same -that Pierre felt for Olivier and that Olivier felt for Pierre. It was -the affection of a scientist for his companion of the laboratory, of a -master for his disciple, almost of a father for a son. - -But this friendship, intellectual though it might be, was not the less -intense after its kind. Madame de Carlsberg, therefore, felt a personal -satisfaction as though she were avenging herself in taking steps to -thwart the Prince's schemes as soon as she had left the Jenny. It was a -poor revenge. It did not prevent her feeling that her heart was broken -by the despair caused by her vanished love, even amid all the intrigues -necessary to protect another's happiness. - -Her first step after her conversation with Florence was to go to the -villa that Andryana occupied on the road to Fréjus, at the other end of -Cannes. She had no need to ask anything of the generous Italian. No -sooner had she heard of the misunderstanding that separated Verdier and -Miss Marsh, than she cried:-- - -"But why did she not speak? Poor, dear girl! I felt sure something was -the matter these last few days. And that was it? But I will go straight -away and see Verdier, see the Prince and tell them all the truth. They -must know that Florence would never countenance any evil. Besides, I -have had enough of living in hiding. I have had enough of being obliged -to lie. I mean to disclose the fact of my marriage to-day. I only -awaited some reason for deciding Corancez, and here it is." - -"How about your brother?" asked Ely. - -"What? My brother? My brother?" repeated the Venetian. - -The rich blood swept to her cheeks in a flood of warm color at this -allusion and then fled, leaving her pale. It was plain that a last -combat was taking place in the nature so long downtrodden. The remains -of her terror fought with her moral courage and was finally conquered. -She had two powerful motives for being brave,--her love, strengthened by -her happiness and rapture, and then a dawning hope of having a child to -love. She told it to Ely with the magnificent daring that is almost -pride of a loving wife. - -"Besides," she added, "I shall not have any choice for very much longer. -I think I am about to become a mother. But let us send for Corancez at -once. Whatever you advise, he will do. I do not understand why he -hesitates. If I had not perfect confidence in him, I should think he -already regretted being bound to me." - -Contrary to Andryana's sentimental fears, the Southerner did not raise -any objection when Madame de Carlsberg asked him to reveal the mystery -or comedy of the _matrimonio segreto_ to the Archduke and his assistant. -The occasion would have furnished his father with an opportunity of once -more using his favorite dictum, "Marius is a cunning blade," if he had -been able to see the condescending way with which he accorded the -permission that brought to a culminating-point the desires of the -cunning intriguer. There is both Greek and Tuscan in the Southerners -from the neighborhood of Marseilles, and they appear to have written in -their hearts the maxim which contains all Italian or Levantine -philosophy: "Chi ha pazienza, ha gloria." He had expected to make his -marriage public the instant there was a chance that he was to become a -father. But he had never hoped for an opportunity of appearing both -magnanimous and practical, such as was afforded him by consenting to the -announcement upon the request of the Baroness Ely, and that out of -chivalrous pity for a girl who had been calumniated. All these -complexities, natural to an imaginative and practical personage, were to -be found in the discourse that he held with the two women, a discourse -that was almost sincere. - -"We have to yield to fate, Andryana," he said. "That is a maxim I -revere, you know. The story of Miss Marsh and Verdier gives us an -indication of what we have to do. We must announce our marriage, no -matter what happens. I should have liked to keep the secret a little -longer. Our romance is so delightful. You know that I am romantic before -everything, that I am a man of the old school, a troubadour. To see her, -to worship her," he indicated Andryana, who blushed with pleasure at his -protestations, "and without any witnesses of our happiness other than -such friends as you"--he turned toward Ely--"such as Pierre, as Miss -Marsh, was to realize an ideal. But it will be another ideal to be able -to say proudly to every one, 'She chose me for a husband.' But," and he -waited a moment in order to accentuate the importance of his advice, "if -Corancez is a troubadour, he is a troubadour who knows his business. -Unless it's contrary to your idea, I do not think it would be very wise -for Andryana and me to announce our marriage to the Prince in person. -Let me speak frankly, Baroness. Besides, I never was good at flattery. -The Prince--I hardly know how to say it--the Prince attaches a great -deal of importance to his own ideas. He does not care to be thwarted, -and Verdier's feelings for Miss Marsh are not very much to his taste. He -must know of their little quarrel. Indeed, he may have spoken very -harshly of the young girl before his assistant. He wants to keep that -youth in his laboratory, and it is only natural. Verdier has so much -talent. In short, all that cannot make it very agreeable for two people -to come and say to him, 'Miss Marsh has been slandered; she has been the -friend of the most honorable and most loyal of women, who is honorably -and legally married to Corancez.' - -"And besides, to have to admit that you are in error in such a matter, -and in public, is a very difficult position to be in. Frankly, it -appears to me simpler and more practical, in order to bring about the -final reconciliation, to let the Prince learn all about the matter from -you, my dear Baroness, and from you alone. Andryana will write a letter -to you this very moment. I will dictate it to her, asking you to be her -intercessor with His Royal Highness, and announce our marriage. -Everything else will work easily while we are arranging as well as we -can with good old Alvise." - -The most diverse influences, therefore, combined to bring Madame de -Carlsberg again into conflict with her husband at the moment she was -passing through a crisis of such profound sorrow that she was incapable -of forethought and of self-defence, or even of observation. She often -thought about this morning later, and of the whirl of circumstances in -which it seemed as though neither Pierre nor Olivier nor herself could -be dragged, a rush of circumstances which had carried her away in the -first place, and had then reached the two young men. That Chésy had -stupidly ruined himself on the Bourse; that Brion was ready to profit by -his ruin to seduce poor Yvonne; that this latter woman resembled feature -by feature Marsh's dead daughter, and that this identity of physiognomy -interested the Nabob of Marionville to such an extent that he was -determined upon the most romantic and the most practical form of -charity; that Verdier had made a discovery of an immense value to -industry, and that Marsh was trying to gain the benefit of this -invention by the surest means in giving his niece as a wife to the young -scientist; that Andryana and Corancez were waiting for an opportunity to -make their astounding secret marriage public,--were only so many facts -differing with those concerning her own life, facts which appeared to -have never touched her, save indirectly. - -And yet each of these stories had some bearing, as though by -prearrangement, upon the step that she was about to take, acting on the -advice of Corancez. This step itself was to prepare an unexpected -dénouement, a terrible dénouement for the moral tragedy in which she -had plunged without any hope of ever issuing. This game of events, -widely separate from each other, which gives to the believer the -soothing certainty of a supreme justice, inflicts on us, on the -contrary, an impression of vertigo when, without faith, we notice the -astounding unexpectedness of certain encounters. How many times did Ely -not ask herself what would have been the future of her passion after the -interview of Olivier with Pierre, if she had not gone upon the _Jenny_ -that day to render a service to Yvonne, if Marsh had not asked her to -bring about a reconciliation between Verdier and Florence, and, finally, -if the marriage of Andryana and Corancez had not been announced to the -Archduke under conditions that seemed like bravado, and which only -increased his exasperation and bitterness. - -These are vain hypotheses, but they are felt bitterly by those who give -themselves up to the childish work of rebuilding their life in thought. -It seems a manifestation of the irresistible nature of fate. - -As she approached the Villa Helmholtz, with Andryana's letter in her -hand, Ely had not the faintest suspicion of the terrible tragedy drawing -near. She was not happy; in fact, joy did not exist for her now that she -was separated so cruelly from Pierre. But she felt a bitter satisfaction -in her vengeance, a feeling that she was to pay for very dearly. - -Hardly had she entered the house when she sent a request to the Prince, -who never lunched with her now, to be granted an audience, and she was -ushered into the laboratory, which she had only visited about three -times. The heir of the Hapsburgs, a big apron wrapped around him and a -little cap upon his head, was standing in the scientific workshop before -the furnace of a forge, in which he was heating a bar of iron which he -held in his acid-eaten hands. A little further away Verdier was -arranging some electric batteries. He was dressed like his employer. -There was nothing in the entire room, which was lighted from the -ceiling, except complicated machines, mysterious instruments and -apparatus whose use was unknown to any but the scientists. The two men, -thus surprised in the exercise of their profession, had that attentive -and reflective physiognomy that experimental science always gives to its -followers. It is easy to recognize in it a certain submission to the -object, a patience imposed by the necessary duration of a phenomenon, -the certainty of the result to be gained by waiting--noble, intellectual -virtues created by constant attention to natural law. Nevertheless, in -spite of the calmness he displayed in his work, it was plain that care -hung over the assistant. The Prince appeared rejuvenated by his gayety, -but it was an evil, wicked gayety, which the presence of his wife -appeared to render even more cruel. He met her with this sentence, the -words being full of hideous allusions:-- - -"What has given us the honor of your visit to our pandemonium? It is not -very gay at the first glance, yet we are happier here than anywhere -else. Natural science gives you a sensation that your life does not even -know of--a sensation of truth. There cannot be either falsehood or -deception in an experiment that has been carefully performed. Is that -not so, Verdier?" - -"I am happy to hear Your Highness speak in that way," replied the young -woman, returning irony for irony. "Since you are so fond of the truth, -you will help me, I hope, to secure justice for a person who has been -cruelly slandered here, perhaps even to you, Your Highness, and -certainly to Monsieur Verdier." - -"I don't understand," said the Archduke, whose visage suddenly darkened. -"We are not society people, and Monsieur Verdier and I do not permit any -one to be calumniated before us. When we believe anything against any -one, we have decided proof. Is not that so, Verdier?" and he turned -toward his assistant, who did not reply. - -The Baroness Ely's words had been as clear to the two men as though she -had named Miss Marsh, and Verdier's look revealed how he loved the young -American, and what suffering it had caused him to know that he could no -longer esteem her. This additional avowal of a hated sentiment was -distasteful to the Archduke, and his voice became authoritative, almost -brutal, as he went on:-- - -"Besides, madame, we are very busy. An experiment cannot be kept -waiting, and you will oblige me very much if you will speak plainly and -not in enigmas." - -"I will obey Your Highness," replied Madame de Carlsberg, "and I will be -very plain. I learn from my friend, Miss Marsh--" - -"The conversation is useless if you have come to speak of that -intriguing woman," said the Prince, brusquely. - -"Your Highness!" - -It was Verdier who spoke as he took a step forward. The insult the -Archduke had cast at Florence had made him tremble to his innermost -being. - -"Well," demanded his master, turning toward his assistant, "is it true -that Madame Bonnacorsi arranges for meetings in a little house at Golfe -Juan? Did we see them enter? Do we know by whom the house is engaged and -the lover whom she goes there to meet? If you had a brother or a friend, -would you let him marry a girl whom you knew to be in the secret of such -an intrigue?" - -"She is not in the secret of any intrigue," interrupted Ely, with an -indignation that she did not seek to dissimulate. "Madame Bonnacorsi has -not a lover." She repeated: "No, Madame Bonnacorsi has no lover. Since -you have authorized me, let me speak frankly, Your Highness. The 14th of -this month, you understand me, at Genoa, I was present at her marriage -with Monsieur de Corancez in the Chapel of the Fregoso Palace, and Miss -Marsh was also there. Sight or wrong, they did not wish the ceremony to -be made public. I suppose they had their motives. They have not these -motives any longer, and here is the letter in which Andryana begs me to -officially announce to Your Highness the news of her marriage. You see," -she went on, addressing Verdier, "that Florence was never anything but -the most honest, the most upright, and the purest of young girls. Was I -not right when I said that she has been cruelly, unworthily -calumniated?" - -The Archduke took Andryana's letter. He read it and then returned it to -his wife without any comment. He looked her straight in the face with -the keen, haughty regard that seems natural to princes, and whose -imperious, inquisitorial scrutiny reads to the bottom of the soul. He -saw she was telling the truth. He next looked at Verdier. And now the -anger in his eyes changed into an expression of deep sadness. Without -paying any more attention to Ely than if she were not there, he spoke to -the young man with the familiarity that the difference in their ages and -positions authorized, although it was a familiarity that the Prince did -not usually take in speaking to his assistant before witnesses. - -"My dear boy," he said--and his voice, usually so metallic and harsh, -became tender--"tell me the truth. Are you sorry for the resolution you -took?" - -"I am sorry that I have been unjust," replied Verdier, with a voice -almost as broken as that of his master. "I regret to have been unjust, -Your Highness, and I would like to ask the pardon of the woman whom I -have misjudged." - -"You will have all the time you want to ask pardon in," replied the -Archduke. "Of that you may be assured. It is from her that this -knowledge comes. Is it not so, madame?" he replied, looking at Ely. - -"Yes," replied the young woman. - -"You see I was right," replied the Prince. "Come," he said, with a -peculiar mixture of pity and abruptness, "look into your heart. You have -had eight days in which to make up your mind. Do you still love her?" - -"I love her dearly," replied Verdier, after a short silence. - -"Another good man ruined," said the Prince, shrugging his shoulders. He -accompanied the brutal triviality of his remark with a deep sigh which -took away its cynicism. - -"So," he continued, "the life that we lead together, a life that is so -full, so noble, so free, does not suffice now: our manly joy and the -proud happiness in discovering that we have so often felt together, that -has rewarded us largely, royally, and fully so often, is no longer -enough for you? You want to re-enter that hideous society that I have -taught you to judge at its true value? You wish to marry, to leave this -refuge, leave science, leave your master and your friend?" - -"But, Your Highness," interrupted Verdier, "can I not be married and -continue to work with you?" - -"With that woman? Never!" replied the Archduke, in a tone of passionate -energy. His anger increased; and he repeated: "Never--Let us separate, -since it has come to that. But let us separate without hypocrisy, -without falsehood, in a manner that is really worthy of what we have -been for each other. You know well enough that the first condition of -your marriage with that girl will be that you make known to her brigand -of an uncle, this secret," and he touched with his hand one of the -accumulators standing on the table. "Don't tell me that you would refuse -to make it known, because the invention belongs to us both. I give you -my part. Do you hear? I give it to you. You would certainly betray me -sooner or later, either through weakness or through that cowardly love -that I see in your heart. I want to spare you that remorse. Marry that -woman. Sell our invention to that business man. Sell him the result of -our research. I give you full authority, but I shall never see you -again. For the secret that you are selling to him is, believe me, -Science. Follow your own will, but it shall at any rate not be said that -you did not know what you were doing, or that in doing it you -participated in all the ignominy of this age: that you lent aid to that -vast collective crime which idiots call civilization. You will continue -to work. You will still have genius, and from this discovery and others -that you will make, your new master will secure millions and millions. -Those millions will signify an abject luxury and viciousness on high, -and a heap of misery and human slavery below. How well I judged that -girl from the first day! Behold her work! She appeared and you have not -been able to hold firm. And against what? Against smiles and looks which -would have been directed at others if you had not been there, which -would have been for the first imbecile who had turned up with a manly -figure and a pair of mustaches!--Against toilet, against dresses, and -against riches. Let me continue for a moment. In an hour you will be -near her, and you can laugh with her at your old master, your old -friend, as much as you like. You do not know what it is to have a friend -like me, one who loves you as I do. You will understand it some day. You -will realize it when you have measured the difference between this -feeling that you are leaving one side, between our manly communion of -ideas, our heroic intimacy of thought, and that which you now prefer, -the life which you are about to commence--an idle, degraded, poisoned -life! - -"Good-by, Verdier," and this strange person, in saying the word -_good-by_, spoke with a tone of infinite sadness and bitterness. "I read -in your eyes that you will marry that girl, and since it is to be so, -go. I prefer never to see you again. Make a fortune with the knowledge -that you have secured here. You would certainly have learned it -elsewhere, so we are quits. The happiest hours of my life for years have -been due to you, and I forgive you on that account. But I tell you -again, I see you for the last time. Everything is over between you and -me. - -"As for you, madame," he continued, casting a glance of bitter hatred at -Ely, "I promise you I will discover some means of punishing you." - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -THE DÉNOUEMENT - - -The Archduke's threat was uttered in a way that betrayed an inflexible -resolution. It did not cause the young woman to flinch or to lower her -gaze. She did not remember anything of this scene, one, nevertheless, -that was momentous for her, since it called down upon her the hatred of -the most vindictive and unjust of men. She did not remember anything -that had passed when she regained her room save one thing, and that was -quite foreign to herself. As she had listened to the Archduke's -passionate cry, wrung from him by wounded friendship, she saw, as though -in a flash of blinding revelation, what had been the strength of the -bonds uniting Olivier and Pierre. She realized keenly the sentiment that -linked them in their revolt against her--the revolt of suffering Man -against Woman and against Love. She understood at last the impulse that -had made them take refuge in a virile fraternal affection, the one -fortress which the fatal passion cannot subdue. She had seen the -passions of Love and Friendship in conflict. - -In Verdier's heart love had conquered. He had for the Prince only the -affection of a pupil for his master, of a debtor for his benefactor. It -was a sentiment made up of deference and gratitude. Besides, Verdier -esteemed the woman he loved. How different would have been his attitude -had he returned his protector's friendship with a similar sentiment, had -he felt for the Prince the affection that Olivier had for Pierre, that -Pierre had for Olivier! And, above all, what a change there would have -been in him had he had to condemn Miss Marsh as Pierre had been forced -to condemn his mistress! - -This analogy and its contrast forced themselves upon Ely's notice, when -she left the laboratory, with an intensity that completely exhausted all -the physical strength that was left in her. She was no longer supported -by the necessity of working for the sake of others. She was now alone, -face to face with her grief. And, as often happens after any violent -emotion that has been followed by too energetic efforts, she succumbed -under the shock. Hardly had she reached her room than she was -overpowered by an agonizing nervous headache. Such a crisis is really -the shattering of the nervous system, whose strength has been exhausted -by the force of will, and which has finally to surrender. - -Ely did not try to struggle any longer. She lay down on her bed like -some one in death agony, at one o'clock, after having sent off a -despatch to the one woman whose presence she felt she could support, the -one woman upon whom she could rely--to Louise Brion, whose devotion she -had almost forgotten during the past weeks. - -"She is my friend," she thought, "and our friendship is better than -theirs, for the friendship of those men is made up of hate!" - -In the extremity of her distress she, therefore, also had recourse to -the sentiment of friendship. She was mistaken in thinking that Louise -was more devoted to her than was Pierre to Olivier, or than was the -Archduke to Verdier. But she was not mistaken in thinking the devotion -of her friend was of a different character. In reality, feminine -friendship and masculine friendship have a striking difference. The -latter is almost always the mortal foe of love, while the former is most -often only love's complacent ally. It is rare that a man can regard with -any indulgence the mistress of his friend, while a woman, of even the -most upright character, has almost always a natural sympathy for her -friend's lover so long as he makes her friend happy; it is because the -majority of women have a tender feeling for love, for all love, for that -of others as well as for that which concerns them more closely. Men, on -the contrary, have an instinct which remains in them, a relic of the -savage despotism of an earlier barbarism. They do not sympathize with -any love that they do not feel, that they do not inspire. - -Louise Brion had felt a pity for Hautefeuille at the very moment when -she had received Ely's confession in the garden of her villa, at the -very moment she had implored her friend to give up the dangerous passion -she had inspired in the young Frenchman. From that evening she had felt -an interest in the young man, in his sentiments, in his movements, even -though at the time she was using all the eloquence that her trembling -affection could suggest to persuade Ely to see him no more. When Ely -gave herself up entirely to her passion later, Louise had withdrawn, had -effaced herself, on account of her scruples, and in order that she might -not be a witness of an intrigue which her conscience considered a great -crime. She had gone away through discretion, so as to not impose an -inopportune friendship on the two lovers, and delicacy had also had its -share in her retirement, for she had felt all the shrinking of the pure -woman from forbidden ecstasy. But she had not felt the least hostility -to Pierre in her retirement and self-effacement. Her tender woman's -imagination had not ceased to link him, in spite of herself, with the -romantic passion of her friend. The singular displacement of her -personality, which had always made her lead, in imagination, the life -Ely was living, rather than her own individual existence, had continued, -had been even accentuated. - -Since Olivier's return this identification of her feelings with those of -her dear friend had been more and more complete. The dinner at Monte -Carlo with the Du Prats in such close proximity had made her feverish -with anxiety. She had expected an appeal from her friend from that -moment. She had lived in expectancy of this summons to help Ely to bear -her terrors, to fight with her friend, to share the sufferings of a love -whose happiness she had vainly striven to ignore. - -She was thus neither surprised nor deceived by Ely's despatch, which -simply spoke of a little indisposition. She divined the catastrophe that -had happened at once, and before the end of the afternoon she was -sitting at the bedside of the poor woman, receiving, accepting, -provoking all her confidences, without any further inclination to -condemn her. She was ready to do anything to dry the tears that flowed -down the beloved face, to calm the fever that burned in the little hand -she held. She was ready for anything, weak enough for anything, with -indulgence for all and in the secret of all! - -For a day and a half Ely was helpless with a severe headache. Then she -asked her friend to assist her in her plans. Like all people of vigorous -frame, Ely was never either well or ill in extremes. When at last she -was able to sleep the heavy slumber that follows such a shock, she felt -as well, as energetic, as strong-willed as upon the day her happiness -had been so completely destroyed. But she did not knowhow to employ her -recovered energy. Again and again she asked herself the question, upon -whose answer her movements depended: "Is Pierre still in Cannes?" - -She hoped to see some one in the afternoon who would inform her, but -none of the visitors who came to see her even uttered Hautefeuille's -name. Upon her part she had not the courage to speak of the young man. -She felt that her voice could not utter the beloved syllables without -her face suffusing with blood, without her emotion being apparent to -every one. - -And yet there were only very dear friends who called upon her that -afternoon. Florence Marsh was one of the first. Her eyes were bright -with a deep, contented happiness. Her pleasant smile wreathed her lips -at every moment. - -"I felt that I had to come to thank you, my dear Baroness. I am engaged -to Monsieur Verdier. I shall never forget all that I owe you. My uncle -asked me to excuse him to you. He has so many things to do, and we leave -to-morrow upon the _Jenny_. My _fiancé_ comes with us." - -How could Ely mingle any of the pain which oppressed her heart with the -joy whose innocence caused her deep suffering? How could she let -Andryana, who came in smiling at the footman's announcement, "Madame la -Comtesse de Corancez"--how could she let Andryana suspect her pain? - -"Well," said the Venetian, "Alvise took it very calmly. How childish it -was to be afraid! We might have spared ourselves so much trouble if I -had only spoken to him from the first. But," she added, "I do not regret -our folly. It is such a pleasant memory. And I had told such tales about -Alvise to Marius that he was afraid. What could he do to us now?" - -Next the Chésys arrived, Madame Chésy quivering with her new-found -gayety, while Gontran was simply astoundingly impertinent as he spoke -with aristocratic nonchalance of his rôle of horse-breeder in the West. - -"When horses are in question, poor Marsh is simply a child," he said. -"But he is such a lucky fellow. At the very moment that he undertakes -such an enterprise he finds me ready to hand!" - -"I am glad I am going to see the Americans at home," said Yvonne. "I am -not sorry to be able to give them a few lessons in real _chic_." - -How was Ely to trouble this little household of childlike Parisians? How -could she stop their amusing babble? She congratulated herself that they -did not even speak of the subject that lay so close to her heart. She -listened to them talking of their American expedition with a gayety that -gave the impression that they were once more playing at housekeeping, -forgetful of the terrible trial they had just gone through. - -Ely could not help envying them these faculties of forgetfulness, of -freshness, of illusion. But were not the destinies of Marsh, of Verdier, -and of Corancez all alike? Had they not all before them space, and the -future? Did they not resemble ships sailing upon a vast flood carrying -them toward the open ocean? Her destiny, on the contrary, was like that -of a boat locked in the narrow turn of a river, arrested and imprisoned -by some barrier beyond which lie the rapids, the cataract, the -precipice! A word uttered by Yvonne, who was wild with joy at the idea -of seeing Niagara, brought this simile up in Ely's mind. The idea -pleased her. It was a true image of her sentimental isolation. And while -her visitors stayed she looked incessantly at Louise as if she wished to -convince herself that there was one witness to her emotions, that there -was one heart capable of understanding her, of pitying her, of serving -her. Above all, of serving her! - -In spite of the conversation she listened to, notwithstanding the -questions to which she replied, her thoughts followed one idea. She felt -she must know if Pierre had left Cannes. And this was the question that -came quite naturally to her lips the instant she was alone with Madame -Brion. - -"You heard all they said?" she said to her. "I know no more than I did -before. Is Pierre still here? And if he is, when is he going away? Ah! -Louise!" - -She did not finish. The service she wanted to ask of her friend was of -too delicate a nature. She was ashamed of her own desire. But the tender -creature to whom she spoke understood her and was grateful to her for -her hesitation. - -"Why do you not speak frankly?" she said. "Would you like me to find out -for you?" - -"But how can you?" replied Ely, without feeling any astonishment at the -facility with which her weak-minded friend lent herself to a mission -that was so opposed to her own character, to her principles, and to her -reason. - -What result could possibly come from this inquiry about Pierre's -presence and about his approaching departure? Was not this the occasion -for Louise to repeat, with still more energy, the counsels she had given -to Ely after her first confidence? There could be nothing but silence -and forgetfulness between Madame de Carlsberg and Hautefeuille in -future. For them to see each other again would be simply to condemn them -to the most useless and painful explanations. For them to recommence -their relations would be purgatory. Louise Brion knew all this very -well. But she also knew that if she obeyed Ely's wishes, those dear -eyes, now so sad, would be brightened by a gleam of joy. And the only -reply she gave to the question was to rise and say:-- - -"How can I arrange it? That is the simplest thing in the world. In half -an hour I shall know all you want to know. Have you the list of visitors -here?" - -"You'll find it on the fourth page of one of the papers," said Ely. "Why -do you wish to see it?" - -"In order to find the name of a person whom I know and who is staying at -the Hôtel des Palmes. I have it. Here it is, Madame Nieul. Try and be -patient until I get back." - -"Well," she said, re-entering the salon about half an hour later, as she -had said she would, "they are both here, and they do not leave for a few -days. Madame du Prat is very ill. It cost me little to find that out," -she added, with a little nervous smile. "I went to the Hôtel des Palmes -and asked if Madame Nieul was there, and sent up my card. Then I looked -through the list of visitors and questioned the secretary with an -indifferent air. 'I thought Monsieur and Madame du Prat had already -left,' I said to him. 'Do they stay much longer?' And his answer told me -all I wanted to know." - -"How good you were to take all that trouble for me!" replied Ely, taking -her hand and stroking it lovingly. "How I love you! It seems to have -given me a fresh lease of life. I feel that I shall see him again. And -you will help me to meet him. Promise me that. I must speak with him -once more, only once. I feel that I must tell him the truth, so that he -may know at least how well I have loved him, how sincere and passionate -and deep is my love for him! It is so hard not to know what he thinks of -me." - -Yes! What did Pierre Hautefeuille think of the mistress whom he had -idolized only a few days before, of the mistress who had stood so high -in his esteem, and who was suddenly convicted in his eyes so shamefully? - -Alas! The unhappy youth did not even know himself. He was not capable of -finding his way among the maze of ideas and of contradictory impressions -that crowded, jostled, and succeeded each other in his soul. If he had -been able to leave Cannes at once, this interior tumult might have been -less intense. It was the only plan to be followed after the vow that -Olivier and he had exchanged. They ought to have gone away, to have put -distance and time and events between them and the woman they both loved, -and that they had sworn to give up to their friendship. But what can the -will do, no matter what its strength, against imagination, sentiment, -against the emotion in the troubled depths of the heart? We are only -masters of our acts. We cannot govern our dreams, our regrets, and our -desires. They awake, quiver, and increase by themselves. They bring back -memories until recollection becomes an obsession. All the charm of -looks, of smiles, of a face, all the splendor of outline, the beauty of -form of a beloved creature, is made a living reality, and the old fever -once more burns in our veins. The mistress whom we have abandoned stands -before us. She wishes for us, she calls for us, she recovers possession -of us. And if we are in the same city with her, if it only requires a -quarter of an hour's walk to see her again, what courage is needed in -order not to yield! - -Pierre and Olivier felt the necessity of this saving flight, and they -had taken a resolution to go away. Then an unfortunate event kept them -in the hotel. As the secretary had told Louise Brion, Madame du Prat was -really ill. She had felt the influence of a shock too great for her -strength, and she could not recover from it. A weakness of the heart -remained, of such intensity that even when she could leave her bed and -stand erect, the least movement brought on palpitations that seemed to -suffocate her. The doctor studying her case forbade her to even attempt -to travel for several days. - -Under these circumstances, if Hautefeuille had been wise, he would have -gone away alone. This he did not do. It was impossible for him to leave -Du Prat alone in Cannes. He said to himself that it was because he could -not leave his friend at such a moment. If he had gone down to the bottom -of his heart, if he had probed the place where we dissemble thoughts of -which we are ashamed, where lie hidden plans and secret egoism, he would -have discovered that there were other motives that kept him there, -motives that were much more degrading. Although he had the most complete -confidence in Olivier's word, he trembled at the idea of his remaining -alone in the same town as Ely de Carlsberg. In spite of the heroic -effort to preserve a friendship that was so dear to them both, -notwithstanding the esteem, the tenderness and pity they felt for each -other, in spite of so many sacred recollections, in spite of honor, a -woman stood between them. And that woman had introduced with her all the -fatal influence that so quickly creeps into friendly relations, all the -instinctive jealousy, the quivering susceptibility and uneasy -taciturnity that destroys all. - -They were not long in feeling this. Each understood how deeply the fatal -poison had eaten into their souls. And soon they understood a thing that -is both strange and monstrous in appearance, and yet is really so -natural--they realized that the love whose death they had vowed in the -name of their friendship was now bound up in that friendship by the -closest ties! - -Neither one nor the other could think of his friend, could look at him, -or hear him, without immediately seeing Ely's image, without immediately -thinking of the mistress who had belonged to them both. They were in the -grasp of an idea that turned the few following days of intimacy into a -veritable crisis of madness, a madness that was all the more torturing -because they both avoided the name of the woman out of fidelity to their -promise. - -But was it necessary for them to speak of her, seeing that each knew the -other was thinking of her? How painful these few days were! Although -they were not many, they seemed interminable! - -They met the morning following their conversation about ten o'clock in -Olivier's salon. To hear them greet each other, to hear Pierre ask about -Berthe, to listen to Olivier's replies, and then to hear the two speak -of the paper they had been reading, of the weather, of what they were -going to do, one would never have thought their first meeting so -painful. Pierre felt that his friend was studying him. And he was -studying his friend. Each hungered and thirsted to know at once if the -other had had the same thoughts, or rather the same thought, during the -hours they had been separated. Each read this thought in the eyes of the -other, as distinctly as though it had been written upon paper like the -horrible sentence that had enlightened Pierre. The invisible phantom -stood between them, and they were silent. And yet they saw through the -open window that the radiant Southern spring still filled the sky with -blue, still beautified the roads with flowers and sweetened the air with -perfume. - -One of them proposed a walk, in the vain hope that a little of the -luminous serenity of nature might enter their souls. They used to like -to walk together formerly, thinking aloud, keeping step in their minds -as in their bodies. They went out, and after ten minutes conversation -came to an end between them. Instinctively, and without prearrangement, -they shunned the quarters in Cannes where they ran the risk of meeting -either Ely or any one of her set. They kept away from the Rue d'Antibes, -La Croisette, and the Quai des Yachts. They avoided even the pine forest -near Vallauris, where they had spoken of her upon the day that Olivier -arrived. - -Behind one of the hills which served as outposts to California, they -found a deserted valley, quite neglected on account of its northern -situation. In this valley there was a kind of wild park, which had been -for sale for years. There, in this ravine without horizon, they came -almost like two wounded animals taking refuge in the same fold. The -roads were so narrow that they could no longer walk abreast. This gave -them a pretext for ceasing to talk. The branches stung their faces, -their hands were torn with thorns before they arrived at the little -rivulet running at the bottom of the gorge. They sat down upon a rock -among the tall ferns, and the savageness of this corner of the world, so -solitary, and yet so close to the charming city, soothed their suffering -for a few moments. The fresh humidity of the vegetation growing in the -shadow recalled to their minds similar ravines in the woods of -Chaméane. And then they could speak again together, could recall their -childhood and their distant friendly souvenirs. It seemed as though they -felt their friendship dying away, and that they sought desperately the -place whence it had sprung in order to revive its force. From their -childhood they passed to their youth, to the years spent together in -college, to the impression the war had made upon them. - -But there was something forced in these glances backward. There was -something conventional, something prearranged, that arrested all freedom -of intercourse between them. They felt too keenly in comparison with -their former talks in the same way that the spontaneity, the plenitude -that had been the charm of their most unimportant conversations formerly -was now lacking. - -Was their affection any less than at that distant period? Would their -friendship never be happy again? Would it never be delivered from this -horrible taint of bitterness? - -In addition, during their morning and afternoon walks, they only were -witnesses to their suffering. If they did not speak freely of their -thoughts, at any rate there was no deception. There was no necessity to -act before each other. This was all changed during the meal times. They -lunched and dined in the salon so that Berthe could be present. - -The immediate recommencement of a daily familiarity after such scenes as -those which had taken place between the two friends and the young woman -appeared at first impossible. In reality it is quite simple and easy. -Family life is made up of that only. Olivier and Pierre forced -themselves to talk gayly and incessantly out of delicacy toward their -companion. The effort was a painful one. And then even the most guarded -conversation may be full of danger. A phrase, a word even, was -sufficient to send the minds of both back to their relations with Ely. -If Olivier made any allusion to something in Italy, Pierre's imagination -would turn to Rome. He could see Ely, his Ely of the terrace covered -with white and red camellias, his Ely of the garden of Ellenrock, his -Ely of the night he had spent at sea. But instead of coming to him she -was going toward Olivier. Instead of pressing him to her heart, she -flung her arms round Olivier and kissed him. And the vision, prompted by -a retrospective jealousy, tortured him. - -And if, on his part, he made the most innocent allusion to the beauty of -the promenades around Cannes, he saw his friend's eyes dim with a pain -which recalled his own sufferings. Olivier could see him in thought -walking with Ely, taking her in his arms, kissing her lips. This -communion of suffering in the same thought, while it wrung their souls, -attracted them with a morbid fascination. How they wished at such -moments to question each other about the most secret details of their -reciprocal romance! How they wished to know all, to understand all, to -suffer at every episode! - -When they were alone, a final remnant of dignity forbade them giving way -to these hideous confidences, and, when Berthe was there at table, they -turned the conversation at once so as not to cause any suffering to the -young woman. They could hear her breathe with that uneven respiration, -at times short and at others too deep, the breathing that reveals -heart-disease. And this sensation of a physical suffering so close to -them stirred up a remorse in Olivier and a pity in Pierre that took away -all power to act. - -Thus the mornings and afternoons and evenings passed away. And both -awaited with fear and impatience the moment of retiring. With -impatience, because solitude brought with it the liberty of giving -themselves up completely to their sentiments; with fear, because they -both felt that the vow they had exchanged had not settled the conflict -between their love and their friendship. - -It is written, "Thou shalt not commit adultery." And the Book adds, "He -that hath looked upon the wife of another with desire in his heart hath -already committed adultery." The phrase is admirable in its truth. It -defines in a word the moral identity that exists between thought and -act, concupiscence and possession. The conscience of the two friends was -too delicate not to feel with shame that their thoughts, when once -alone, were but one long, passionate infidelity to their vow. - -Olivier would begin to walk about from his room to that of his wife when -Pierre had left him, talking to her, trying to utter affectionate words, -fighting against the haunting idea which he knew would completely -possess him shortly. Immediately he entered his room, what he called -"his temptation" grasped him, bound him, and dominated him. All his -Roman souvenirs recurred to his imagination. He saw Ely again. Hot the -proud, coquettish Ely of former times, not the woman he had brutalized -while desiring her, hated while loving her, through despair of never -possessing her completely, but the Ely of the present moment, the woman -whom he had seen so tender, so passionate, so sincere, with a soul that -resembled her beauty. And all his soul went out toward this woman in an -impulse of love and longing. He spoke to her aloud, appealing to her -like a madman. The tone of his own voice would awake him from his dream. -He felt all the horror and madness of this childishness. He realized the -crime of his cowardly yearning. He thought of his friend, saying to -himself, "If he only knew!" He would like to have begged his pardon for -the impossibility of ceasing to love Ely, and also pardon for having -made the vow he had not the power to keep. He knew that at the same -moment Pierre was suffering as he was himself. The idea was dreadful. At -these moments of his martyrdom one thought recurred again and again to -Olivier's mind, one idea possessed his heart. He felt that he ought to -go to Pierre and say: "You love her, and she loves you. Remain with her, -and forget me." - -Alas! when such a project, with all its supreme magnanimity, occurred to -him, he felt strongly that Pierre would reply, No! and that he himself -was not sincere. He understood it with a mingling of terror and shame. -In spite of all it was a joy for him--a savage, hideous joy, but still a -joy--to think that if Ely was no longer his mistress she would nevermore -be the mistress of his friend. - -They were cruel moments. The time was not less miserable for Pierre. He -also, the moment he was alone, tried not to think of Ely. And in trying -he felt that he was yielding. In order to drive her image away he would -call up in his mind the image of his friend, and this formed the very -nature of his suffering. He would tell himself that Olivier had been -this woman's lover, and this fact, which he knew to be the truth, which -he knew to be of the most complete, the most, indisputable verity, took -possession of his brain. He felt as though a hand had taken him by the -head, a hand that would never let him go again. - -While Olivier was thinking about his mistress in Rome, a softened, -ennobled mistress, transformed by the love that Pierre inspired in her, -Pierre perceived, beyond the sweet and gentle Ely of the past winter, -the woman whom Olivier had described to him without naming her. He saw -her again, coquettish and perverse, with the same beautiful face in -which he had believed so sincerely. He told himself that she had had two -other lovers, one when she was Olivier's mistress and one before then. -Olivier, Pierre, and those two men made four, and probably there were -others of whom he did not know. The idea that this woman, whom he had -believed he possessed in all the purity of her soul, had simply passed -from one adultery to another, the idea that she had come to him sullied -by so many intrigues, maddened him with pain. All the episodes of his -delightful romance, of his fresh and lovely idyl, faded away and became -vile in his eyes. He saw nothing in it now save the lustful desire of a -woman, wounded in her pride, who had attracted him by one artful plan -after another. - -Then he would open the drawer in which he preserved the relics of what -had been his happiness. He would take out the cigarette case he had -bought at Monte Carlo with such happiness. The sight of this foreign -trinket wounded his soul, for it brought back to him the words uttered -by his friend in the woods of Vallauris, "She had lovers before me; at -any rate she had one, a Russian, who was killed at Plevna." - -It was probably this lover who had given Ely the object around which he, -Pierre, had woven so many cherished ideas, which he had worshipped -almost with a scrupulous piety. This ironical contrast was so -humiliating that the young man quivered with indignation. - -Then he would see in another corner of the drawer the packet of letters -from his mistress. He had not had strength to destroy them. Other words -spoken by Olivier recurred to his memory--words in which he had -affirmed, had vowed that she had loved him, Pierre, truly and sincerely. -Did not every detail of their romantic intimacy prove that Olivier was -right? Was it possible that she had lied upon the yacht, at Genoa, and -in so many other unforgetable hours? A passionate desire to see her -again took possession of Pierre. It appeared to him that if he could -only see her, question her, understand her, his sufferings would be -soothed. He imagined the questions that he would ask and her replies. He -could hear her voice. All his energy melted away before the fatal -weakness of his desire, a degraded desire whose sensuality was sharpened -by scorn. And at such moments the young man hated himself. He remembered -his vow. He remembered all he owed to his self-respect, all he owed to -his friend. What he had said at the moment of the sacrifice was true--he -felt that it was true. If ever he again saw Ely, nevermore could he meet -Olivier. He had a confused impression already that he hated them both. -He had suffered so much from him on her account; so much from her on his -account. Honor finally always won the day, and he would hold himself -erect, strengthen himself in the renunciation he had resolved upon. "It -is only a trial," he said to himself, "and it will not last forever. -Once I am far from here I shall forget it." - -This singular existence had lasted five days, when two incidents -happened, one after the other, one caused by the other--two incidents -that were to have a decisive influence upon the tragic dénouement of -the tragic situation. - -The first was a visit from the jovial and artful Corancez. Pierre had, -in fact, expected him before. In order to put a bar to any tentative at -reconciliation, the young man had given strict orders that he was at -home to no one. But Corancez was one of those people who have the gift -of triumphing over the most difficult obstacles. And on the morning of -the sixth day, a morning as bright and radiant as the one upon which -they had visited the Jenny together, Hautefeuille saw him again enter -his room, the everlasting bunch of pinks in his buttonhole, a smile on -his lips, a healthy color in his face, and his eyes bright with -happiness. A patch of dry collodion upon his temple bore witness to the -fact that he had received a severe blow either the night before or very -recently. The purple swelling was still visible. But this sign of an -accident did not diminish his good humor nor the gayety of his -physiognomy. - -"Oh, this little cut," he said to Hautefeuille, after having lightly -excused himself for insisting upon seeing him, "you want to know what -caused it? Well, it's another proof of my luck. And, in spite of the -homily of Monseigneur Lagumina, the Frenchman has cheated the Italian. -It was caused by a little attempt that my brother-in-law made to bring -about my death. That is all," he added, with his usual jesting laugh. - -"You are not speaking seriously," said Hautefeuille. - -"I never was more serious in my life," replied Corancez. "But it is -written that I shall meet with a cheerful end. I do not lend myself to -tragedy, it appears. In the first place, you know that my marriage was -made public about five days ago. That is why you have not seen me -before. I had to pay my wedding visits to all the highnesses and lords -in Cannes. I met with a great deal of sympathy and provoked a vast -amount of astonishment. Everybody was asking, 'But why did you have a -secret marriage?' Acting under my advice, Andryana invented an old vow -as the reason. Everybody thought it was very original and very charming. - -"I had even too much success, above all with Alvise. He only made one -reproach--that we had hidden it from him, that we had ever supposed for -a moment he would have stood in the way of his sister's happiness. It -was 'my brother' here, 'my brother' there. It was the only thing one -heard in the entire house. But we Southerners understand revenge, -particularly when Corsicans, Sardinians, or Italians are in question. I -asked myself at every moment, 'When is the sword going to fall?'" - -"It was very imprudent of him to get so quickly to work," interrupted -Pierre. - -"You don't know the anecdote," said Corancez, "of some one who saw a -poor devil going past on his way to the gallows. 'There is a man who has -miscalculated,' he said. Every murderer does that, and, after all, he -hadn't calculated so badly as you think. Who would ever have suspected -Count Alvise Navagero of having made away with his sister's husband, the -man who was his intimate friend? I told you before that he was a man of -the time of Machiavelli, very modernized. - -"Just judge for yourself. I kept my eyes open, without appearing to -notice anything. A couple of days ago, just about this hour, he proposed -that we should go for a bicycle ride. It's funny, isn't it, the idea of -Borgia bicycling along a public road with his future victim? I suppose I -am the only one who ever enjoyed this spectacle. We were going along as -quick as the wind, descending the winding road of Villauris upon the -edge of a species of cliff which cut sheer down at one side, when -suddenly I felt my machine double up under me. I was thrown about twenty -metres--on the opposite side to the abyss, luckily. That's the cause of -this cut. I was not killed. In fact, I was so little hurt that I -distinctly read on my companion's face something which made me think -that my accident belonged to the sixteenth century, in spite of the -prosaic means employed. Navagero went off to get a carriage to bring me -back. When I was alone I dragged myself to the ruins of my bicycle, -which still lay in the road, and I saw that a file had been cleverly -used on two of the pieces in such a way that, after a half hour of -violent exercise, the whole thing would break up--and me with it." - -"And didn't you have the wretch arrested?" asked Hautefeuille. - -"Oh, I don't like a scandal in the family," replied Corancez, who was -enjoying his effect. "Besides, my brother-in-law would have maintained -that he had nothing to do with it. And how could I have proved that he -had? No, I simply opened my other eye, the best one, knowing very well -that he would not wait long before recommencing. - -"Well, yesterday evening, before dinner, I entered the salon and there I -found this rascal with his eyes gaining so brightly and with such a -contented air that I said at once to myself, 'It is going to take place -this evening.' - -"I can't explain how it was that I began to think about Pope Alexander -VI. and the poisoned wine which killed him. I suppose I have a good -scent, like foxhounds. You know, or perhaps you don't know, that -Andryana drinks nothing but water, and that Anglomaniac, my -brother-in-law, only drinks whiskey and soda. - -"'I think to-night,' I said, when we were at table, and wine was offered -me, 'I think I will follow your example. Give me some whiskey.' - -"'All right,' he replied. - -"To be poisoned with an English drink by a Venetian struck me as rather -novel. At the same time he was so calm when I refused to take any wine -that I thought I must have been mistaken. But he praised a certain port -that he has received from Lord Herbert so highly that I at once had the -idea that this was the particular wine I must not touch. He pressed it -upon me. I allowed the servant to pour me out a glass and smelled it. - -"'What a singular odor,' I said to him, calmly. 'I am sure there must be -something in this wine.' - -"'It must be a bad bottle,' said Navagero; 'throw it away.' - -"His voice, his look, his bearing, convinced me. I felt I was right. I -said nothing. But at the moment the _maître d'hôtel_ was going to take -away my glass I laid my hand upon it, and asked for a little bottle. - -"'I am going to take this wine to an analyst,' I said, with the most -natural air in the world. 'They say that port made for the English -market never even sees a grape. I am curious to know if that is the -truth.' - -"They brought me a little bottle, and with the greatest calmness -possible I filled it with the wine, corked it up and placed the bottle -in my pocket. I wish you could have seen my brother-in-law's expression. -We had a little explanation later on in the evening, at the end of which -it was decided between us, in quite a friendly way, that I would not -denounce him to the police, but that he would leave for Venice to-day. -He will reside in the Palace, he will have a decent income, and I am -certain he will not begin again. I warned him, in any case, I would have -the wine analyzed, and that the result of this analysis would be placed -somewhere safely. I may tell you that he had put a strong dose of -strychnine in the bottle. I have two copies of the analyst's report. One -of them I have given to Madame de Carlsberg and the other I would like -you to keep. Will you?" - -"Gladly," replied Pierre, taking the paper that the Southerner held out -to him. - -Such is the egoism of passion that, notwithstanding the astounding -adventure of which he had just been made the confidant, Ely's name, -uttered by chance, had moved him more than all the rest. It appeared to -him that, as he spoke of Madame de Carlsberg, Corancez looked at him -inquisitively. He wondered whether he had brought a message for him. No! -Ely was not a woman to choose such a man as Corancez as ambassador. - -But Corancez was just the man to undertake such a conciliatory mission -upon his own responsibility. He had gone to Ely's villa the night before -to tell her the same story and to ask of her the same service. He had -naturally spoken of Hautefeuille, and he had suspected a quarrel. This -strange creature had a real affection, almost a religion, for Pierre. He -felt a tender gratitude to Ely. Forgetting his own story, of which he -was nevertheless very proud, he at once began to try to bring the two -lovers together again. With all his intelligence he could not guess the -truth of the tragedy being enacted in the souls of these two beings. He -had seen them so loving and so happy together! He thought that to tell -Pierre that Ely was suffering would be sufficient to bring him back to -her. - -"Is it long since you saw Madame de Carlsberg?" he asked, after having -finished commenting upon his adventure, which he did very modestly, for -he was amiable enough in his triumph. - -"Not for several days," replied Hautefeuille. And the question made his -heart beat. - -In order to keep his word scrupulously, he ought not to have permitted -his wily friend to go any further. On the contrary, he could not resist -asking:-- - -"Why?" - -"Oh, nothing," said Corancez. "I only wished to ask your opinion about -her. I am not satisfied that she is very well. She was very charming -last night, as usual, but nervous and melancholy. I am afraid her -household affairs are going from bad to worse, and that brute of an -Archduke is leading her a life of martyrdom--all the more because she -has helped Verdier to marry Miss Marsh. Did you not know? Dickie, our -friend of the Jenny, has left for the East with the Chésys, his niece, -and Verdier on board. You can just imagine the Prince's fury." - -"So you think he is cruel with her?" asked Pierre. - -"I don't think it, I am sure. Go and see her, it will do her good. She -feels a real affection for you. Of that I am convinced. And she was -thinking about you, I feel certain, when she said that all her friends -had abandoned her." - -So she was unhappy! While Corancez was speaking, it seemed to Pierre -that he heard the echo of the sigh that had issued from the heart of the -woman he loved so much! He saw again the sad, longing look of the -mistress he judged so harshly. This indirect contact with her, short as -it was, moved him deeply--so deeply, in fact, that Olivier noticed his -agitation. He immediately suspected that something had happened. - -"I met Corancez leaving the hotel," he said. "Did you see him?" - -"He has just paid me a long visit," replied Pierre. He told Olivier the -story of the two attempts which had been made upon the life of -Andryana's husband. - -"He would only have had what he deserves," said Olivier. "You know what -my opinion is about him and his marriage. Was that all he had to tell -you?" - -There was a short silence. Then he added:-- - -"He did not speak to you of--you know whom?" - -"Yes," replied Pierre. - -"And it has pained you?" asked Olivier. - -"Very much." - -The two friends looked at each other. For the first time in six days -they had made a definite allusion to the being constantly in their -thoughts. Olivier hesitated, as if the words he was going to say were -beyond his strength. Then he went on in a dull tone of voice:-- - -"Listen, Pierre," he began; "you are too miserable. This state of things -cannot last. I am going away the day after to-morrow. Berthe is almost -well again. The doctor authorizes her to return to Paris; he even -advises it. Let things stay as they are for another forty-eight hours; -then, when I am no longer here, return to her. I release you from your -vow. I shall not see her, and I shall not know that you have seen her. -Let what is past remain dead between us. You love her more than you love -me. Let that love triumph." - -"You are mistaken, Olivier," replied Pierre. "Of course it pains me; I -do not deny it. But the suffering does not come from my resolution--that -I have never regretted for a moment. No, the suffering is caused by the -past. But it is past, and forever. It would be intolerable for us both -were I to return to her under these conditions. No, I have given you my -word and I repeat it. As to what you say, that I love her more than I -love you, you have only to look at me." - -Big, heavy tears were in his eyes and rolling down his cheeks as he -spoke. Tears also sprang from Olivier's heart to his eyes at the sight. -For a few moments they remained without speaking. This common suffering, -after their long silence, brought their souls closer together again. The -same impulse of pity had made Olivier release Pierre from his vow and -had made Pierre refuse to be released. It was the same impulse of pity -that brought tears to their eyes. Each pitied the other and each felt he -was pitied. Their affection returned in all its strength, and their -friendship moved them so deeply that once again love was conquered. - -Pierre was the first to dry his eyes. With the same resolute tone as -when he made his vow, he said: "I shall leave when you do, in two days, -and it will not cause me a single pang. To remain here would be -impossible. I will not do you that injustice. I will not be a traitor to -our friendship." - -"Ah, my dear boy," replied Olivier, "you give me a fresh lease of life. -I would have left you without a single reproach, without a complaint. I -was very sincere in my proposition, but it was too hard. I believe it -would have killed me." - -After this conversation they passed an afternoon and evening that were -strangely quiet, almost happy. When the soul is ill, there are such -moments of respite, just as when the body is diseased--moments of -languid calm, when it appears as though one were brought to life again, -still feeble and bruised, it is true. - -This sensation of recovery, fragile and feeble though it might be, was -increased in the two friends by the convalescence of Berthe. Olivier had -contented her and brought about her recovery, by what charitable -deceptions no one but he knew. But the young wife was much better and -could walk about, devoting her attention to the many details of their -approaching departure. She was so visibly happy to go away that a tiny -trace of reserve seemed to melt away before her pleasure. She had -suffered so much in these last few days, and the suffering had been -sufficient to awake her feminine tact from its long sleep. She had made -a resolution. It was to win her husband's love, and to merit it. Such -efforts are touching to a man who can understand them, for they indicate -such humility and so much devotion. It is so hard for a young wife, it -is so opposed to her instincts of sentimental pride, to beg for a -sentiment, to provoke it, to conquer. It is so hard to be loved because -she loves, and not because she is loved. - -Olivier had too much delicacy not to feel this shade of sentiment. He -gave himself up to the peculiar impression which a man feels who suffers -through a woman, when he receives from another the caresses of which his -unhappy love has taught him the value. He smiled at Berthe as he had -never previously smiled, and Pierre was even deceived by this -semi-cheerfulness of his friend. Was it not in a certain sense his own -work? Was it not the price of the sacrifice he had made when he had -renewed his vow? It was one of those moments which often appear just -before the event of some great crisis of which the deceitful calmness -impresses our mind later, which astonishes us and makes us tremble when -we look back. Nothing bears a more eloquent witness that life is but a -dream, that we are simply the playthings of a superior power which urges -us along the road we have to take, in which we can never see to-day what -to-morrow will bring forth. Danger approaches and stands face to face -with us. The masters of our destiny are by our side. They live and -breathe without seeming to realize the work which is reserved for them. -Is it hazard, fatality, providence? What lot does Fate reserve for us? - -Corancez called on Friday. The friends were to leave Cannes on Sunday. -On Saturday morning, about eleven o'clock, Hautefeuille was in his room -packing some of his clothes, when a knock at the door startled him. -Although he was firmly resolved to keep his word, he could not help -hoping. Hoping for what? He could not have told himself. But an -unconscious, irresistible intuition warned him that Ely would not let -him go without trying to see him again. And yet she had not given any -sign of life since he had returned her letter. She had not sent any one -to see him, for Corancez had come without her knowledge. But the young -man was in the state of nervous anxiety which presages and precedes any -great event close at hand. And his voice trembled as he called out "Come -in" to the unknown visitor who knocked at his door. He knew that this -visitor, no matter who it was, came from Ely. - -It was simply one of the hotel servants. He brought a letter. It had -been delivered by a messenger who had gone away without waiting for a -reply. Hautefeuille looked at the envelope without opening it. Was he -going to read this letter? He knew it had been sent him by Madame de -Carlsberg. The address was not written in her handwriting. Pierre cast -about in his memory to find out where he had seen this nervous, uneven, -almost timid-looking writing. All at once he remembered the anonymous -note he had received after the evening spent at Monte Carlo. He had -shown it to Ely, who had said, "It is from Louise." The letter he held -in his hand also came from Madame Brion. - -There was no longer any possible doubt. To open the envelope was to -communicate with Ely, to seek to hear from her, to break his word, to -betray his friend. Pierre felt all this, and, throwing the tempting -letter from him, he remained for a long while his face buried in his -hands. To do him justice, he did not try to excuse himself by any -sophistry. "I ought not to read this letter," he thought. "I ought not -to read it!" And then, after a few moments, after having locked the door -like a robber preparing for his work, his face purple with shame, he -suddenly tore the envelope open with trembling hand. A letter fell out, -followed by a second envelope, sealed and unaddressed. If there had -remained the least doubt in Pierre's mind as to the contents of this -second envelope, Madame Brion's note would have dissipated it. It read -as follows:-- - - -"DEAR SIR--A few weeks ago you received a letter which begged you to -leave Cannes, and not to bring a certain misfortune upon some one who -was severely tried and who merited your regard. You did not listen to -the advice contained in this letter from an unknown friend. The dreaded -misfortune has now arrived, and the same friend begs you not to repulse -the second appeal as you did the first. The person into whose life you -have entered and taken up so large a place never hopes to recover the -happiness of which she has been robbed. All that she asks is that you -will not condemn her unheard. If you will search in your conscience, you -will admit that she has the right to ask it. She has written you a -letter which you will find enclosed in this one. Do not send it back, as -you did her first, with a harshness that is not natural to you. If you -ought not to read it, destroy it at once. But if you do, you will be -very cruel to a being who has given you all that has remained in her -that is sincere, noble, delicate, and true." - - -Pierre read again and again the simple, awkward sentences that were yet -so eloquent to him. He felt in them all the passionate fondness Louise -Brion had for Ely. He was touched by them as all unhappy lovers are -touched by proofs of devotion shown to their mistress. He felt such a -longing to know that she was loved, protected, and cared for, although -at the same moment he hated her with the most implacable hatred, -although he was ready to condemn her with all the madness of rage. And -what devotion could be greater than this shown by the pure-minded Louise -in going from weakness to weakness so far as to charge herself with a -letter from Ely to Hautefeuille. She had longed to go in person to the -Hôtel des Palmes to ask for Pierre, to speak with him, to give him the -envelope herself, but she had not dared. Perhaps she would have failed -had she done so, whereas this indirect expedient conquered the young -man's scruples. The emotions that the simple note had aroused left him -powerless to contend with the flood of loving souvenirs that swept over -him. He opened the second envelope and read:-- - - -"PIERRE--I do not know whether you will even read these few words, -whether I am not writing them in vain, just as the tears that I have -shed in thinking of you ever since that frightful day have been shed -vainly. I do not know whether you will let me tell you once more how I -love you, whether you will let me tell you that I never loved any one in -the world except you, that I feel I shall never love any one else. But I -must tell it to you with the hope that my plea may reach you, the humble -plea of a heart that suffers less from its own pain than from the -knowledge that it has caused you to suffer. When I received back the -other letter I wrote,--the one that you would not open,--my heart bled -at the thought that you must have been mad with pain, or you would not -have been so harsh with me. And I felt nothing except that you were -suffering. - -"No, my beloved, I cannot speak to you in any other way than I have done -since the hour when I called you to me to ask you to go away, the hour -when I took you in my arms. I have tried to conquer my feelings. It -caused me too much pain not to disclose all that I felt. If you do not -read these lines, you will not hate me for the loving words I have said -to you, for you will not know of them. But if you read them--ah! if you -read them you will remember the hours which passed so quickly on the -seashore in the shade of the calm pines at the Cap d'Antibes, the hours -spent upon the deck of the yacht, hours spent at Genoa before you were -struck down by the terrible blow, hours when I could still see you -happy, when I could still make you happy! You do not know, sweetheart, -you cannot know, what it is for a woman to make the man she loves happy! -If I did not tell you at once what you know to-day, it was because of -the certainty that never again should I see in your eyes the clear light -of complete happiness which shone from your enraptured soul--a light -that I have seen so much and loved so much. - -"Understand me, beloved, I do not wish to excuse my crime. I was never -worthy of you. You were beauty, youth, and purity--all that is best, -tenderest, and most loving in this world. I had lost the right to be -loved by such a man as you. I ought to have told you the first day I met -you. Then, if you had wished for me, you could have taken me and left me -like a poor being that only lived for you, that was only made to please -you a moment, to distract you and then say good-by. I thought of it, -believe me, and I have paid very dearly for the movement not of pride, -but of love. I had a horror of being despised by you. And then the woman -that you had called into being in me was so different from what I had -been before I knew you. I said to myself, 'I am not deceiving him.' And, -believe me, I did not lie when I told you that I loved you. My heart was -so completely changed. All! how I loved you! How I loved you! You will -never know how much nor even I myself. It was something so deeply -implanted in my heart, it was so sad when I thought of what might have -been if I had only waited for you. - -"You see, Pierre, that I speak of myself in the past as one speaks of -the dead. Do not be afraid. I have not any idea of ending my life. I -have caused you too much sorrow to increase your suffering by remorse. I -live, and I shall live, if that can be called living in a being who has -known you, who has loved and been beloved by you, and who has lost you. -I know that you are leaving Cannes, that you are going away to-morrow. I -cannot think that you will leave me forever without speaking to me. My -hand trembles even in writing. I cannot find the words with which to -explain my thoughts. Yet it will be too cruel if you leave me without -giving me the opportunity of making what excuse I have for the life I -once led. If you were near me for only one hour, you could go away and -then you would think differently of me. What once was can never be -again. But I wish to carry with me into the solitude which will surround -my life in future the consolation of thinking that you see me as I am, -and that you do not believe me capable of something I have never -committed. My beloved, the time is so short. You leave to-morrow. When -you read this letter, if you do read it, we shall not even have an -entire day to be in the same city. If you do read my poor letter, if it -touches you, if you find that my request is not too great, come to me at -the hour you used to come. At eleven o'clock I will wait for you in the -hothouse. If you condemn me without any appeal, if you refuse to grant -me this last interview, good-by again, and again good-by. Not a reproach -will ever find place in my heart, and I shall always say forever and -ever, 'Thanks, my beloved, for having loved me.'" - - -"I will not go," said the young man to himself, when he had finished -reading the pages, eloquent with a passionate emanation of love. He -repeated: "I will not go." But he felt that he was not frank with -himself. He knew that he could not resist. He knew that he would yield -to her imploring appeal, that he would obey the voice of the woman, a -voice whose music rang in every word of her letter, a voice that -implored him, that told of her adoration, that soothed his wounded heart -like a sad caress sweet as death. - -But the nearer Pierre drew to the meeting-place the more he felt an -unspeakable sadness. His action appeared to him so culpable when he -realized all its infamy that he was overwhelmed. And yet he would not -draw back. On and on he went. The love potion the words of the letter -had poured into his veins continued to dominate his failing will. He -went on, but the contrast between this despicable, clandestine walk to a -woman that he despised, to a woman who made him despise himself for -longing for her, was very different from the pilgrimages he used to make -toward the same villa, along the same road, filled with a happy fervor. - -And Olivier? Heaven! if Olivier could see him at present! If Olivier, -whom he was betraying so cruelly, could only see him! - -The tension of his nerves was so great, he was so shaken by the double -emotions of love and remorse, that the tiniest noise startled him. The -surrounding objects took on an aspect that was both menacing and -fantastic. His heart beat and his nerves quivered. He was afraid. He -seemed to hear footsteps following him in the night, and he stopped to -listen. At the moment that he was going to ascend the slope by which he -had been accustomed to enter Ely's garden, the idea that he was being -followed became so strong that he retraced his steps, peering about -along the road, among the bushes and heaps of stones. He avoided the -strong rays of light of an electric lamp standing on one of the pillars -of the fence as though he had been a robber. - -His examination, however, was fruitless. But the idea was so strong that -he was afraid to enter by the same path. It appeared too open, too easy -of access. He began to run, as though he had really been followed, -around the little park which ended the garden of the villa at its upper -end. A wall enclosed a part of it. With the help of the branches of an -oak growing at its foot, he climbed over. While still on the coping he -listened again. He heard but the sound of the dying breeze, the -quivering of the foliage, the vast silence of night, and far, far away, -the barking of a dog in some isolated house. He thought he must have -been dreaming, and slipped down on the other side of the wall. It was -about three metres in height, and he was lucky enough to fall upon a -spot of soft earth. Then he made his way toward the house. - -A few minutes later he was at the door of the greenhouse. He pushed it -open gently and Ely's hand took his own. - -But what would have been his thoughts if he had known that his fears -were well founded, if he had known that he had been followed since he -left the hotel, that the witness whose presence he had felt so near him -in the dark, until the moment he began to run, was none other than -Olivier? - -The house stood closed and silent in all the mystery of its shadows, -with isolated spots of light where the lamp shone full upon it. The same -vast silence of night that had oppressed Pierre while upon the wall, the -silence broken by the distant baying of a dog, still enveloped the -country. The trees still quivered, and the flowers poured forth their -perfume. The stars still shone, and Olivier remained motionless at the -edge of the garden, in the place where he had thrown himself down so -that his friend might not see him. - -His suffering at this moment was not the suffering of some one who -struggles and fights. When he saw Pierre at luncheon, his contracted -features, his shining eyes, his trembling lips, had revealed to him that -something had happened. He was so weary of fighting, so tired of always -struggling with his own heart, of seeing so much suffering in his -friend's heart! Besides, what more could he ask him after the -conversation of the night before? So he kept silent. What was the good -of continually torturing each other? - -Then, as Hautefeuille's agitation increased, his suspicions were -aroused. He thought, "She has written to him asking for a meeting!" But -no, it was not possible! To receive a letter from Ely, read it, and not -speak about it was a crime against their friendship under their present -relations that Pierre would never be guilty of. Olivier struggled to -convince himself of the madness of his suspicion. The emotion of his -friend communicated itself to him. He felt, when he took his hand upon -separating for the night, that his betrayal was near, was certain, was -even then an accomplished fact! - -Why did he not speak to him at that moment? A heart that has been -deceived often yields to such an impulse of renunciation. It is -impossible to struggle against certain unexpected events, it is -impossible to complain of them. What reproach could he make to Pierre? -What was the good of reproaching him if he had really conceived the idea -of breaking the compact he had entered into with him? Yes, what was the -good? And Olivier remained leaning upon the windowsill, summoning up all -his dignity to keep from going to his friend's room while repeating that -it was impossible. - -And then, at a certain moment, he thought he saw Pierre's profile as -some one crossed the garden of the hotel. This time he could resist no -longer. He felt compelled to go down and question the concierge. He -learned that Pierre had just gone out. A few minutes later he himself -took the direction of the Villa Helmholtz. He recognized his friend and -followed him. He saw him turn, listen, and go on again. Just as Pierre -was entering the garden, Olivier could not help making a step forward. -It was at this moment that Pierre heard him. Olivier drew back into the -darkness. His friend passed quite close to him. Indeed, he almost -touched him, and then began to run, most probably toward another -entrance with which he was familiar, and Olivier ceased to follow him. - -He sank down on the slope and gave way to unutterable despair, in which -were reunited and collected all the sorrow and suffering he had gone -through during the last two weeks. He knew that at that very minute, in -the silent house so near him, Ely and Pierre were together. He knew that -they had forgiven each other, that they loved each other. And the -thought caused him a pang of agony so keen that he could not move. He -almost fainted under the emotions caused by his passionate love for this -woman and the sentiment that his friend, a friend so dear to him, had -trampled him under foot on his way to her, mingled with the tortures of -jealousy and the bitterness of betrayal. He ended by flinging himself, -face downward, upon the cold earth, the gentle earth that takes us all -into her embrace one day, whose weight, while crushing us down, also -crushes out the intolerable sufferings of our heart. There he lay, his -arms extended, his face buried in the grass, like a corpse, longing for -death, longing to be free, longing to love this woman no more, to never -again see his friend, to have finished with existence, to sleep the -sleep that is without dreams, without memory, a sleep in which Ely and -Pierre and himself would seem as though they had never been. - -How long did he remain thus, face to the ground, a prey to the complete, -irremediable sorrow which ends by calming the heart through its very -intensity? A sound of voices behind the hedge which separated him from -the garden aroused him abruptly from the paroxysm of suffering which had -overwhelmed him. They came from some men walking without a light, -measuring their steps, speaking in muffled tones. They came so close to -Olivier that he could have touched them if he had risen to his feet. - -"He entered here, and went out again by this place the other nights that -he came, monseigneur," said one of the voices, a whispering, -insinuating, almost inaudible voice. "We cannot possibly miss him." - -"Are you certain that none of your men suspect the truth?" said another -easily recognizable voice. - -"Not one, monseigneur. They think they have to do with a robber." - -"Monsieur von Laubach," said a third voice, the voice of an inferior, -"the gardener says that the door of the hothouse is open." - -"I will go and see," went on the first speaker, while the second -imperious voice uttered a "Verfluchter Esel." - -This exclamation showed how disagreeable this detail of surveillance was -to him who had ordered this trap. A trap for whom? Knowing what he knew, -Olivier had not a moment's doubt: the Archduke had learned that a man -was with his wife, and he was preparing for his vengeance. He desired an -anonymous vengeance, as was shown by the question he had asked of his -aid-de-camp, and afterwards his wrath against the "cussed ass" who had -mentioned the hothouse door. The lover was to be killed like a common -burglar, "to spare Ely's honor," reflected Olivier, who now got up and, -leaning his head forward, listened to the voices dying out in the -distance. Doubtless the Archduke and his lieutenant were completing the -surrounding of the garden. Pierre was lost. - -Pierre was lost! Olivier rose to his feet. The possibility of saving the -friend he loved so dearly flashed across his mind. Suppose he entered -the garden? Suppose he penetrated as far as the greenhouse door, of -which one of the watchers had spoken and whence it was evident the man -they were about to kill would issue? Suppose he then rushed out so as to -make them believe he was returning to town? - -The idea of such a substitution with its self-sacrifice took possession, -with irresistible force, of the unhappy man who had so keen a longing -for death. He began to walk along, at first in the shades of the bank -and then of the wall, which he climbed at almost the same place as his -friend had done. Then he walked straight toward the villa, which stood -silent and still before him, not a ray of light issuing from the -interstices of the shuttered windows. - -Olivier regarded it with a strange ardor shining in his eyes. How he -longed to be able to pierce the walls with his gaze, to penetrate there -in spirit, to appear before him for whom he was risking his life! - -Alas! Would his courage for the sacrifice he was about to make have been -strong enough to withstand the sight of Ely's room as it was at that -moment? Could he have supported the picture presented, in the rays of a -pink-shaded lamp, of Ely's head nestling close to Pierre's on the same -pillow? - -The beautiful arm of the young woman was wound round his neck, and she -was saying:-- - -"I believe I should have died before morning of love and grief if you -had not come. But I felt you would come; I felt you would pardon me. -When I touched your hand, before I could even see you, all my sufferings -were forgotten. And yet, how hard you were to me at first! What cruel -things you said! How you made me suffer! But it is all forgotten! Say -that all is forgotten! You have taken me to your heart again, you know -that I love you, and that you let me love you! Tell me that you love me! -Ah, tell me again that you love me as you did upon the boat when we -listened to the sighing of the sea! Do you remember, sweet?" - -And her eyes sought those of her lover, trying to find in them the light -of complete happiness, of which her letter had spoken. Alas! it was not -there. An expression of settled sadness and remorse dwelt in their -depths. - -And this was soon to change to one of terror. At the very instant that -Ely pressed her more tender, more caressing, more loving lips on the -young man's eyelids, trying to drive away the melancholy she read in his -gaze, a report rang out in the garden, then a second, then a third, shot -after shot. A cry rent the air. - -Then all was still again. A terrifying silence now reigned. The two -lovers looked at each other. The same idea flashed through their minds -at the same moment. - -"Hide yourself behind the curtains," said Ely. "I will find out what has -happened." - -She threw a dressing-gown over her shoulders and drew one of the -curtains of the alcove before the young man. Then, lamp in hand, she -walked toward the window, opened it, and asked in a loud voice:-- - -"Who is there? What is the matter?" - -"Do not be alarmed, my dear," replied a voice whose sinister irony made -her shiver. "It was only a robber trying to break into the villa.--He -must have two or three bullets in him. We are just looking for him. -Don't be frightened. _He will never come back again_! Laubach fired at -him point-blank." - -Ely closed the window. When she turned she saw that Pierre was already -more than half dressed. He was very pale, and his hands were trembling. - -"You are not thinking of going?" she cried. "The garden is crowded with -men!" - -"I must go!" he replied. "They were shooting at Olivier!" - -"At Olivier?" she repeated. "You are mad!" - -"Yes, at Olivier," he said with an agonized energy; "they took him for -me. He must have seen me leave the hotel and he followed me. They were -his steps that I heard." - -"No, I cannot, I will not let you go," she said, standing in front of -the door. "Stop here for a few moments, I implore you. It was not -Olivier, it could not be he! They will kill you. Oh, my love, I pray you -to stay! Do not go, do not leave me!" - -He had now finished dressing. He thrust her rudely to one side, and -said: "Let me go! Let me go!" without a look, without a word of adieu. - -He had descended the stairs, passed through the hothouse into the -garden, before she could move. She remained leaning against the wall -where he had thrown her, listening, her head bent forward, listening -with an anguish that was maddening.--But there was no further report. -Pierre did not meet either the Prince or his men, for they were occupied -in hunting for some traces of the first fugitive. - -"Ah" she moaned, "he is safe!--If the other has only escaped!" - -Pierre's terror had taken possession of her. Yes, the unknown visitor at -whom the men had shot could be no one but Olivier. She had understood -too well the Prince's tone. Her husband had learned that she was with -her lover. He had laid a trap for him. Who, then, could have fallen into -it instead of Pierre?--For the first time in many years this woman, so -broad-minded, so permeated with the spirit of fatalism and nihilism, -this woman felt an impulse to appeal to a higher power. She was blinded -with terror at what she foresaw if she and Pierre had really brought -about the death of the man who had been her lover, of the man who had -been Pierre's sole friend; she was so overwhelmed that she fell upon her -knees and prayed that this punishment might be spared them. - -Vain prayer! As fruitless as the mad flight of her guilty accomplice who -tore along the road, halting at intervals to cry, "Olivier! Olivier!" - -He received no reply to his calls. At last he arrived at the hotel. He -would soon know whether he was not under the influence of some evil -dream. What were his feelings when the porter said in answer to his -inquiries:-- - -"Monsieur du Prat? He went out immediately after you had left, sir!" - -"Did he ask if I had gone out?" - -"Yes, sir. I'm surprised that you did not meet him, sir. He went along -the same road immediately after you." - -So his presentiments had not deceived him! Olivier had really followed -him. Olivier had been taken by surprise in the garden. Was he dead? Was -he wounded? Where was he lying helpless? - -All night long Hautefeuille wandered about the roads, searching in the -ditches, among the hedges, the stones, feeling about on the ground at -the foot of the trees. In the morning he was returning, literally mad -after his useless researches, when, going toward the hotel by another -road, he met two gardeners pushing a handcart. In it was laid a human -form. He walked up to it and recognized his friend. - -Olivier had received two balls in the chest. Upon his face, soiled with -the sand of the road, was an expression of infinite sadness. Judging -from the place where the gardeners had found him, he must have walked -for a quarter of an hour after being wounded. Then his strength had -failed him; he had fainted and had died--probably without ever coming to -himself again--of a hemorrhage caused by his wounds and the effort he -had made. - - -Where are the dead, our dead? Where go those who have loved us, whom we -have loved, those to whom we have been gentle, kind, helpful, those -towards whom we have been guilty of inexplicable wrongs, those who have -left us before we have ever known if we have been pardoned? - -But whether this life of the invisible dead which surround our -terrestrial existence be a dream or a reality, it is certain that Ely -has never dared to see Pierre or to write to him since that terrible -night. Whenever she takes up the pen to draw near him again, once more -something prevents her. And something always stays Pierre's hand when he -tries to give her a sign of his existence. - -The dead stands between the living, the dead who will never, never -disappear. - - - - -THE END - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TRAGIC IDYL *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: A Tragic Idyl</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Paul Bourget</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: October 11, 2021 [eBook #66517]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TRAGIC IDYL ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/idyl_cover.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<h1>A TRAGIC IDYL</h1> - - - - -<h5>BY</h5> - - -<h2>PAUL BOURGET</h2> - - -<h3>AUTHOR OF "OUTRE-MER," ETC.</h3> - - - - -<h4>LONDON</h4> - -<h4>DOWNEY AND CO. LTD.</h4> - -<h4>12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN</h4> - -<h5>1896</h5> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h4>CONTENTS</h4> - -<p class="nind">CHAPTER<br /> -<a href="#chap01">I. Le "Tout Europe"</a><br /> -<a href="#chap02">II. The Cry of a Soul</a><br /> -<a href="#chap03">III. A Scruple</a><br /> -<a href="#chap04">IV. Lovers' Resolutions</a><br /> -<a href="#chap05">V. Afloat</a><br /> -<a href="#chap06">VI. Il Matrimonio Segreto</a><br /> -<a href="#chap07">VII. Olivier du Prat</a><br /> -<a href="#chap08">VIII. Friend and Mistress</a><br /> -<a href="#chap09">IX. Friend and Mistress—<i>continued</i></a><br /> -<a href="#chap10">X. A Vow</a><br /> -<a href="#chap11">XI. Between Two Tragedies</a><br /> -<a href="#chap12">XII. The Dénouement</a></p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - - -<h4>A TRAGIC IDYL</h4> - - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap01"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER I -<br /><br /> -LE "TOUT EUROPE"</h4> - -<p> -That night (toward the end of February, 188—) a vast crowd was -thronging the halls of the Casino at Monte Carlo. It was one of the -momentary occasions, well known to all who have passed the winter season -on the Corniche, when a sudden and prodigious afflux of composite -humanity transfigures that place, ordinarily so vulgar with the brutal -luxury of the people whom it satisfies. The gay madness that breaks out -at Nice during the Carnival attracts to this little point of the Riviera -the moving army of pleasure hunters and adventurers, while the beauty of -the climate allures thousands of invalids and people weary of living, -the victims of disease and of ill fortune; and on certain nights, like -that on which this narrative begins, when the countless representatives -of the various classes, scattered ordinarily along the coast, suddenly -rush together into the gaming-house, their fantastic variety of -character appears in all its startling incongruities, with the aspect of -a cosmopolitan pandemonium, dazzling and sinister, deafening and -tragical, ridiculous and painful, strewn with all the wrecks of luxury -and vice of every country and of every class, the victims of every -misfortune and disaster. In this stifling atmosphere, amid the glitter -of insolent and ignoble wealth, the ancient monarchies were represented -by three princes of the house of Bourbon, and the modern by two -grand-nephews of Bonaparte, all five recognizable by their profiles, -which were reproduced on hundreds of the gold and silver coins rolling -before them on the green tables. -</p> - -<p> -Neither these princes nor their neighbors noticed the presence at one of -the tables of a man who had borne the title of King in one of the states -improvised on the Balkan Peninsula. Men had fought for this man, men had -died for him, but his royal interests seemed now to be restricted to the -pasteboard monarchs on the table of <i>trente-et-quarante</i>. And king -and princes, grand-nephews and cousins of emperors, in the promiscuity -of this international resort, elbowed noblemen whose ancestors had -served or betrayed their own; and these lords elbowed the sons of -tradesmen, dressed like them, nourished like them, amused like them; and -these <i>bourgeois</i> brushed against celebrated artists—here the -most famous of our portrait painters, there a well-known singer, there -an illustrious writer—while fashionable women mingled with this -crowd in toilets which rivalled in splendor those of the -<i>demi-monde</i>. And other men poured in continually, and other women, -and especially others of the <i>demi-monde</i>. Through the door they -streamed in endlessly, of all categories, from the creature with hungry -eyes and the face of a criminal, in search of some fortunate gambler -whose substance she might absorb as a spider does that of a fly, to the -insolent and triumphant devourer of fortunes, who stakes twenty-five -louis on every turn of the roulette and wears in her ears diamonds worth -30,000f. These contrasts formed here and there a picture even more -striking and significant; for example, between two of these venders of -love, their complexion painted with ceruse and with rouge, their eyes -depraved by luxury and greed, a young woman, almost a child, recently -married and passing through Monte Carlo on her wedding journey, -stretched forth her fresh, pretty face with a smile of innocence and -roguish curiosity. -</p> - -<p> -Further on, the amateurs of political philosophy might have seen one of -the great Israelitish bankers of Paris placing his stake beside that of -the bitterest of socialist pamphleteers. Not far from them a young -consumptive, whose white face spotted with purple, hollow cheeks, -burning eyes, and fleshless hands announced the fast approach of death, -was seated beside a "sporting" man, whose ruddy complexion, broad -shoulders, and herculean muscles seemed to promise eighty years of life. -The white glare of the electric globes along the ceiling and the walls, -and the yellow light that radiated from the lamps suspended above the -tables, falling upon the faces of this swarming crowd revealed -differences no less extraordinary of race and origin. Russian faces, -broad and heavy, powerfully, almost savagely Asiatic, were mingled with -Italian physiognomies, of a Latin fineness and of a modelling that -recalled the elegance of ancient portraits. German heads, thick, and, as -it were, rough-hewn, with an expression of mingled cunning and good -nature, alternated with Parisian heads, intelligent and dissipated, -which suggested the boulevard and the <i>couloirs</i> of the -<i>Variétés</i>. Red and energetic profiles of Englishmen and -Americans sketched their vigorous outlines, evincing the habit of -exercise, long exposure to the tanning air and also the daily -intoxication of alcohol; while exotic faces, by the animation of their -eyes and mouths, by the warm tones of their complexions, evoked visions -of other climes, of far-off countries, of fortunes made in the -antipodes, in those mysterious regions which our fathers called simply -<i>the isles</i>. And money, money, endless money flowed from this crowd -on to the green tables, whose number had been increased since the -previous day. Although the hands of the great clock over the entrance -marked a quarter to ten, the visitors became at every moment more -numerous. It was not the sound of conversation that was audible in these -rooms, but the noise of footsteps moving about the tables, which stood -firm amid this surging crowd like flat rocks on the mounting sea, -motionless under the lash of the waves. The noise of footsteps was -accompanied by another no less continuous—the clinking of gold and -silver coins, which one could hear falling, piling, separating, living, -in fact, with the sonorous and rapid life which they have under the rake -of the <i>croupier</i>. The rattle of the balls in the roulette rooms -formed a mechanical accompaniment to the formulae, mechanically -repeated, in which the words "<i>rouge</i>" and "<i>noir</i>," -"<i>pair</i>" and "<i>impair</i>," "<i>passe</i>" and "<i>manque</i>" -recurred with oracular impassibility. And, still more monotonous, from -the tables of <i>trente-et-quarante</i> which lacked the rattle of the -wheel, other formulæ arose incessantly—"<i>Quatre, deux. Rouge -gagne et la couleur—Cinq, neuf. Rouge perd, la couleur -gagne—Deux, deux. Après</i>—" At the sight of the columns -of napoleons and hundred-franc pieces rising and falling on the ten or -twelve tables, the bank-notes of one hundred, five hundred, and a -thousand francs, unfolded and heaped up; the full dress of the men, the -jewels of the women, the evident prodigality of all these people, one -felt the gaming-house vibrating with a frenzy other than that of loss -and gain. One breathed in the fever of luxury, the excess and abuse of -pleasure. On nights like this gold seems to have no longer any value, so -fast is it won and lost on these tables, so wildly is it spent in the -hotels, restaurants, and villas which crowd around the Casino like the -houses of a watering-place around the spring. The beauty of women is -here too tempting and accessible, pleasure is too abundant, the climate -too soft, comfort is too easy. The paradise of brutal refinement -installed here on this flower-clad rock is hostile to calm enjoyment and -to cool reflection. The giddiness which it imparts to the passing guest -has its crisis of intensity, and this night was one of them. It had -something of the Kermess about it, and of Babylonian furore. Nor did it -lack even the <i>Mene</i>, <i>Tekel</i>, <i>Upharsin</i> of the Biblical -feast, for the despatches posted on one of the columns in the vestibule -recounted the bloody episode of a strike that had broken out since the -previous day in the mining district of the North. The telegram told of -the firing of the troops, of workmen killed, and of an engineer murdered -for revenge. But who pictured in concrete images the details of this -tragic despatch? Who in this crowd, more and more athirst for pleasure, -realized its revolutionary menace? The gold and silver coins continued -to roll, the bank-notes to unfold and quiver, the <i>croupiers</i> to -cry "<i>Faites vos jeux</i>" and "<i>Rien ne va plus</i>," the balls to -spin around the wheels, the cards to fall on the green cloth, the rakes -to grasp the money of the poor unfortunates, and each one to follow his -mania for gambling or for luxury, his fancy for snobbery and vanity, or -the caprice of his <i>ennui</i>. For how many different fancies this -strange palace, with its doors like those of the Alhambra, served as the -theatre. On this night of feverish excitement it was lending one of its -divans to the preparatives for a most fantastic adventure, the mere -announcement of which recalls the advertisements of the <i>Opéra -Comique</i>, the music of our great-grandmothers, and the forgotten name -of Cimarosa—a secret marriage. -</p> - -<p> -The group of three persons who had been compelled to choose a corner of -this mundane caravansary for that romantic conspiracy was composed of a -young man and two women. The young man appeared to be thirty-two years -old. That was also the age of one of the women, who was, as they say in -America, the chaperon of the other, a girl ten years younger. To -complete the paradoxical character of this matrimonial conference in the -long room that separates the roulette halls from those of the -<i>trente-et-quarante</i>, it is only necessary to add that the young -girl, an American, was in reality chaperoning the official chaperon, and -that the project of this secret marriage did not concern her in the -least. She was seated at the end of the divan, unmistakably a sentinel, -while her friend and the young man talked together. Her beautiful brown -eyes fearlessly scrutinized the passing crowd with the energy and -confidence natural to a girl of the United States, accustomed from her -childhood to realize her individuality, and who, if she dispenses with -certain conventionalities, at least knows why, and is not ashamed of it. -She was beautiful, with that beauty already so ripe which, accentuated -by a toilet almost too fashionable, gives to so many American women the -air of a creature on exhibition. Her features were delicate, even too -small for the powerful moulding of her face and the strength of her -chin. On her thick, chestnut-colored hair she wore a round hat of black -velvet, with a rim too wide and with plumes too high, which rose in the -back over a <i>cachepeigne</i> of artificial orchids. It was the hat of -a young girl and a hat for the afternoon, but, in its excess, it was -quite in keeping with her dress of glossy cloth and her corsage, or -rather cuirass, trimmed with silver, which the most celebrated couturier -in Paris had designed for her. Thus adorned, and with the superabundance -of jewellery that accompanied this toilet, Miss Florence -Marsh—that was her name—might have passed for anything in -the world except what she really was—the most straightforward and -honest of young girls, helping to prepare for the conjugal happiness of -a woman equally honest and irreproachable. This woman was the Marquise -Andryana Bonnacorsi, a Venetian by birth, belonging to the ancient and -illustrious dogal family of the Navagero. Her dress, though it, too, -came from Paris, bore the marks of that taste for tinsel peculiar to -Italian finery, which gives it that <i>fufu</i> air, to employ an -untranslatable term, with which our provincial <i>bourgeoisie</i> -ridicules these unsubstantial ornaments. A flock of butterflies in black -jet rested upon her black satin dress. The same butterflies appeared on -the satin of her small shoes and among the pink roses of her hat, above -her beautiful light hair of that red gold so dear to the painters of her -country. The voluptuous splendor of her complexion, the nobility of her -somewhat heavy features, the precocious development of her bust accorded -well with her origin, and even more the soft blue of her eyes, in which -there floated all the passion and languor of the lagoons. The light of -her blue eyes enveloped the young man who was now speaking to her, and -with whom she was visibly in love, madly in love. He, in the full -maturity of his strength, justified that adoration more sensual than -sentimental. He was a remarkable type of the manly beauty peculiar to -our Provence, which attests that for centuries it was the land where the -Roman race left its deepest imprint. His short, black hair, over the -straight, white forehead; his pointed, slightly curling beard, the firm -line if his nose, and the deep curve of his brows, gave him a profile -like that of a medal, which would have been severe, if all the energy of -a born lover had not burned in his soft eyes, and all the gayety of the -South sparkled in his smile. His robust and supple physique could be -divined even under his coat and white waistcoat, and these signs of -animal health were so evident, his somewhat excessive gestures seemed to -evince such exuberance, such perfect joy in living, that one failed to -notice how impenetrable were those ardent eyes, how shrewd the smiling -mouth, and how all the signs of cunning calculation were imprinted on -that face, so reflective under its mobility. -</p> - -<p> -Two kinds of men thus excel in utilizing their defects to the profit of -their interest—the German, who shelters his diplomacy behind his -apparent dulness, and the Provençal, who conceals his beneath his -instinctive petulance, and who appears, as he really is on the surface, -an enthusiast, while he is executing some plan as solidly and coldly -realistic as though he were a Scotchman of the Border. Who would have -guessed that on this lounge of the Casino, while he talked so gayly with -his habitual abandon, the Viscount de Corancez—he belonged to a -family near Tarascon, of the least authentic title to nobility—was -just bringing to a successful conclusion the most audacious, the most -improbable, and the most carefully studied of intrigues? But who in all -the world suspected the real character of this "careless Marius," as he -was called by his father, the old vine-grower of Tarascon, whom his -compatriots had seen die in despair at the eternal debts of his son? -Certainly not these men of Tarascon and the Rhone valley, who had seen -the beautiful vines, so well cared for and regenerated by the father, -disappear, vineyard by vineyard, to satisfy the follies of the heir at -Paris. Nor was his real character known to the companions of his folly, -the Casal, the Vardes, the Machault, all be noted men of pleasure of the -time, who had clearly recognized the sensuality and vanity of the -Southerner, but not his cunning, and who had classed him once ad for all -among the provincials destined to disappear after shining like a meteor -in the firmament of Paris. No one had perceived in this joyous -companion, this gourmand ready for every pleasure, for a supper, for -cards, for a love-affair, the practical philosopher who should when the -hour arrived nimbly change his weapon. And the hour had struck several -months ago; of the 600,000f. left him by his father scarcely 40,000 -remained, and this winter the supple Southerner had begun to execute the -programme of is thirty-second year—a successful marriage. The -originality of this project lay in the peculiar conditions he affixed to -it. In the first place, he had perceived that, even if enriched by the -most fortunate marriage, his situation at Paris would never be what he -wished. His defeat at an aristocratic club, to which he had attempted to -gain admittance, trusting of certain influence imprudently offered and -accepted, had shown him the difference between mere comradeship and a -solid standing in society. Two or three visits to Nice had revealed the -cosmopolitan world to him, and, with his superior cleverness, he had -divined its resources. He had resolved to marry some stranger who had a -good standing in the society of Europe. He dreamed of passing the winter -on the coast, the summer in the Alps, the hunting season in Scotland, -the autumn on his wife's estate, and a few festive weeks in Paris in the -spring. This plan of existence presupposed that his wife should not be a -mere young girl. Corancez wished her to be a widow, older than himself -if need be, and yet still beautiful in her autumn. As he based his hopes -of success mainly upon his youthful and handsome appearance, it was -desirable that the matrimonial labors should not be too severe. An -Italian Marquise, belonging by birth to the highest Venetian -aristocracy, the widow of a nobleman, left with an income of 200,000f., -irreproachable in character, and devotedly religious, which would save -her from any love-affairs unsanctioned by marriage, and nevertheless led -by the influence of her Anglomaniac brother into cosmopolitan life, was -the ideal of all his hopes, embodied as though by enchantment. But all -the apples of Hesperides have their dragon, and the mythical monster was -in this case represented by the brother, the Count Alvise Navagero, a -doubtful personage under his snobbish exterior, who well understood how -to keep for his own use the millions of his deceased brother-in-law, -Francesco Bonnacorsi. How had the Provençal trickery eluded the -Venetian watchfulness? Even to this day, when those events are things of -the past, the five o'clock <i>habitués</i> of the yacht club at Cannes -confess themselves unable to explain it, such astuteness had the -ingenious Corancez employed in preparing the mine without arousing a -suspicion of his subterranean labor. And four short months had sufficed. -Through an inner conflict of emotions and of scruples, of timidity and -passion, the Marquise Andryana had been brought to accept the idea of a -secret marriage, finding no other way to satisfy the ardor with which -she now burned, the exigencies of her religion, and her fear of her -brother, which grew with her love for Corancez. She trembled now at the -thought of it, although she knew this redoubtable guardian to be engaged -in risking at a near table the thousand-franc notes she had given to be -rid of him. Alvise was staking his money with the thoughtfulness and -care of an old gambler who had already been once ruined by cards, -unaware that within a few yards of him another game that concerned him -was being played, and a fortune was at stake which he, like a perfect -parasite, considered as his own. It was not simply at stake, it was -lost; for the romantic plan invented by Corancez to fasten an -inseparable bond between the Marquise and himself was about to be -consummated; the two lovers had just settled upon the place and time and -details. -</p> - -<p> -"And now," concluded Marius, "<i>rien ne va plus</i>, as they say in -roulette. We have only to wait patiently for two weeks.—I believe we -have not forgotten anything." -</p> - -<p> -"But I am so afraid of some mischance," said the Marquise Andryana, -softly shaking her blond head, the black butterflies trembling on her -hat. "If Marsh changes the date of his yachting party?" -</p> - -<p> -"You will telegraph me," said Corancez, "and I will meet you at Genoa -another day.—Anyhow, Marsh will not change the date. It was the -Baroness Ely who chose the 14th, and the wife of an archduke, though -morganatic, is not to be disappointed, even were Marsh such a democrat -as the western ranchman, who said once, with a strong handshake to an -Infanta of Spain, 'Very glad to meet you, Infanta.' It was Marsh himself -who told me this, and you remember his disgust, don't you, Miss -Florence?" -</p> - -<p> -"My uncle is as punctual in his pleasures as in his business," replied -the American girl; "and since the Baroness Ely is in the party—" -</p> - -<p> -"But if Alvise changes his mind and sails with us?" said the Venetian. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, Marquise, Marquise," Corancez cried, "what dismal forebodings. You -forget that the Count Alvise is invited to the <i>Dalilah</i>, the yacht -of Lord Herbert Bohun, to meet H.K.H. <i>Alberto Edoardo</i>, Prince of -Wales, and Navagero miss that appointment? Never." -</p> - -<p> -In light mockery at his future brother-in-law's Anglomania, he imitated -the British accent which the Count affected, with a mimicry so gay that -the Marquise could not help exclaiming:— -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Che carino!</i>" -</p> - -<p> -And with her fan she stroked the hand of her <i>fiancé</i>. Notwithstanding -his pleasantry at the expense of the domestic tyrant, at which the -Marquise was ready to smile, much as she trembled in his presence, -Corancez seemed to think the conversation dangerous, for he attempted to -bring it to an end:— -</p> - -<p> -"I do not wish my happiness to cost you a moment of worry, and it will -not. I can predict hour by hour everything that will take place on the -14th, and you will see if your friend is not a prophet. You know what a -lucky line I have here," he added, showing the palm of his hand, "and -you know what I have read in your own pretty hand." -</p> - -<p> -It was one of his tricks, and at the same time one of his own -superstitions, to play the rôle of a parlor wizard and chiromancer, and -he continued with that tone of certitude that imparts firmness to the -irresolute:— -</p> - -<p> -"You will have a magnificent passage to Genoa. You will find me you know -where with Dom Fortunato Lagumina, for the old <i>abbé</i> is eager to act -as chaplain in this <i>matrimonio segreto</i>. You will return to Cannes -without any one in the world suspecting that <i>Mme. la Marquise -Bonnacorsi</i> has become <i>Mme. la Vicomtesse de Corancez</i>, excepting -the Vicomte, who will find some way of making our little -<i>combinazione</i> acceptable to the good Alvise. Until then you will -write to me at Genoa, <i>poste restante</i>, and I to you, in care of our -dear Miss Florence." -</p> - -<p> -"Whose name is also Miss Prudence," said the young girl, "and she thinks -you are talking too long for conspirators. Beware of pickpockets," she -added in English. -</p> - -<p> -This was the signal agreed upon to warn them of the approach of some -acquaintance. -</p> - -<p> -"Bah, that pickpocket is not dangerous," said Corancez, following the -direction of Miss Marsh's fan, and recognizing the person who had -attracted her attention. "It is Pierre Hautefeuille, my old friend. He -doesn't even notice us. Marquise, do you wish to see a lover desperate -at not finding his loved one? And to think that I should be like him," -he added, in a lower tone, "if you were not here to intoxicate me with -your beauty." Then, raising his voice, "Watch him sit down on that -lounge in the corner, unconscious of the three pairs of eyes that are -observing him. A ruined gambler might blow out his brains beside him and -he would not turn his head. He would not even hear." -</p> - -<p> -The young man had at this moment an air of absorption so profound, so -complete, that he justified the laughing raillery of Corancez. If the -plot of a secret marriage, mapped out in these surroundings and amid -this crowd, appear strangely paradoxical, the reveries of this man whom -Corancez had called his "old friend"—they had been at school together -in Paris for two years—were still stranger and more paradoxical. The -contrast was too strong between the crowd swarming around Pierre -Hautefeuille and the hypnotism that appeared to be upon him. Evidently -the two thousand people scattered through these rooms ceased to exist -for him as soon as he had discovered the absence of a certain person. -And who could this be if not a woman? The disappointed lover had fallen, -rather than seated himself, upon the lounge in front of Corancez and his -fellow-conspirators. With his elbow on the arm of the divan, he pressed -his hand over his forehead, disconsolately. His slender fingers, pushing -back his hair, disclosed the noble outline of his brow, revealed his -profile, the slightly arched nose, the severe lips, whose proud -expression would have been almost fierce were it not for the tender -softness of his eyes. This look of strangely intense meditation in a -face so exhausted and pale, with its small, dark mustache, gave him a -resemblance to the classic portrait of Louis XIII. in his youth. His -narrow shoulders, his slightly angular limbs, the evident delicacy of -his whole body indicated one of those fragile organizations whose force -lies wholly in the nerves, a physique with no vital power of resistance, -ravaged eternally by emotions, down to the obscure and quivering centre -of consciousness, and as easily exhausted by sentiment as muscular -natures are by action and sensation. Although Pierre Hautefeuille was, -in his dress and manner, indistinguishable from Corancez and the -countless men of pleasure in the rooms, yet either his physiognomy was -very deceptive or he did not belong to the same race morally as these -cavaliers of the white waistcoat and the varnished pumps, who encircled the -ladies dressed like <i>demi-mondaines</i>, and the <i>demi-mondaines</i> -dressed like ladies, or crowded around the tables, amid the throng of -gentlemen and swindlers. The melancholy in the curve of his lips and in -his tired eyelids revealed a sadness, not momentary, but habitual, an -abiding gloom, and if it were true that he had come to this place in -search of a woman whom he loved, this sadness was too naturally -explained. He must suffer from the life that this woman was -leading, from her surroundings, her pleasures, her habits, her -inconsistencies—suffer even to the extent of illness, and, perhaps, -without knowing why, for he had not the eyes that judge of one they -love. In any case, if he was, as Corancez said, a lover, he was -certainly not a successful one. His face showed neither the pride nor -the bitterness of a man to whom the loved woman has given herself, and -who believes in her or suspects her. Even the simplicity with which he -indulged his reveries in the midst of this crowd and on the lounge of a -gaming-house was enough to prove a youthfulness of heart and imagination -rare at his age. Corancez's companions were struck at the same time with -this naïve contrast, and each made to herself a little exclamation in -her native tongue:— -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Com'è simpatico</i>," murmured the Italian. -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Oh, you dear boy</i>," said Miss Florence. -</p> - -<p> -"And with whom is he in love?" they asked together. -</p> - -<p> -"I could give you a hundred to guess," said Corancez, "but you could -not. Never mind. It is not a secret that was confided to me; I -discovered it myself, so I am not bound to keep it. Well, the -<i>sympathetic</i>, dear boy has chosen to fall in love with our friend -Madame de Carlsberg, the Baroness Ely, herself. She has been here for -six days with Madame Brion, and this poor boy has not been able to -remain away from her. He wished to see her without her knowing. He must -have been wandering around the Villa Brion, waiting for her to come out. -See the dust on his shoes and trousers. Then, having doubtless heard -that the Baroness spends her evenings here, he has come to watch her. He -has not found her in this crowd. That is how we love," he added, with a -look at the Marquise, "when we do love." -</p> - -<p> -"And the Baroness?" -</p> - -<p> -"You wish to know whether or not the Baroness loves him? Luckily you and -Miss Florence believe in hands, for it is only through my talent for -fortunetelling that I can answer you. You are interested? Well," he -continued, with his peculiar air of seriousness and mystification, "she -has in her hand a red heart-line, which indicates a violent passion, and -there is a mark that places this passion near her thirtieth year, which -is just her present age. By the way, did I never tell you that she has -also on the Mount of Jupiter, there, a perfect star—one of whose rays -forms a cross of union?" -</p> - -<p> -"And that means?" inquired the American girl, with the interest that the -people of the most materialistic country have for all questions of a -supernatural order, for everything that pertains to what they call -"spiritualism." -</p> - -<p> -"Marriage with a prince," replied the Southerner. -</p> - -<p> -There was a minute of silence, during which Corancez continued to watch -Pierre Hautefeuille with great attention. Suddenly his eyes sparkled -with an idea that had just occurred to him:— -</p> - -<p> -"Marquise. The witness we need for the ceremony at Genoa. Why not have -him? I think he would bring us good luck." -</p> - -<p> -"That is so," said Madame Bonnacorsi; "it is delightful to meet with a -face like that at certain moments of one's life. But would it be wise?" -</p> - -<p> -"If I propose him to you," Corancez replied, "you may be sure that I -answer for his discretion. We have known each other since our boyhood, -Hautefeuille and I; he is solid gold. And how much safer than a hired -witness, who could at any time betray us." -</p> - -<p> -"Will he accept?" -</p> - -<p> -"I shall know to-morrow before leaving Cannes, if you have no objection -to my choosing him. Only," the young man added, "in that case it might -be better to have him on the yacht." -</p> - -<p> -"I'll attend to that," said Miss Marsh. "But how and when introduce him -to my uncle?" -</p> - -<p> -"This evening," Corancez replied, "while we are all in the train for -Cannes. I will secure our lover at once, and not leave him till we are -in the train—especially," he added, rising, "as we have been talking -here too long, and though the walls have no ears, they have eyes. My -dear," he murmured, passionately pressing the little hand of Madame -Bonnacorsi, who also had risen, "I shall not talk with you again before -the great day; give me a word to carry with me and live with until -then." -</p> - -<p> -"God guard you, <i>anima mia</i>," she answered, in her grave voice, -revealing all the passion that this skilful personage had inspired in -her. -</p> - -<p> -"It is written here," he said gayly, opening his hand, "and here," he -added, placing his hand upon his heart. -</p> - -<p> -Then, turning to the young girl:— -</p> - -<p> -"Miss Flossie, when you need some one to go through fire for you, a -word, and he will be ready <i>right away</i>." -</p> - -<p> -While Miss Marsh laughed at this joke upon one of the little idioms of -the Yankee language, the Marquise followed him with the look of a -passionate woman whose heart goes out to every motion of the man she -loves. The Provençal moved toward his old friend with such grace and -suppleness of carriage that the American girl could not refrain from -remarking it. The young girls of that energetic race, so fond of -exercise and so accustomed to the easy familiarities of the tennis -court, are frankly and innocently sensible to the physical beauty of -men. -</p> - -<p> -"How handsome he is, your Corancez," she exclaimed to the Marquise. "To -me he is the Frenchman, the type that I used to picture to myself in -Marionville when I read the novels of Dumas. How happy you will be with -him." -</p> - -<p> -"So happy," the Italian murmured, but added, with a melancholy -foreboding, "yet God will not permit it." -</p> - -<p> -"God permits everything that one wishes, if one wishes it hard enough, -and it is just," Miss Florence interrupted. -</p> - -<p> -"No. I have had to tell Alvise too many lies. I shall be punished." -</p> - -<p> -"If you feel that way," said the American, "why don't you tell your -brother? Do you wish me to do it? Five minutes of conversation, and you -will not have a single lie on your conscience. You have the right to -marry. The money is yours. What do you fear?" -</p> - -<p> -"You don't know Alvise," she said, and her face had a look of actual -terror. "What if he should provoke him to a duel and kill him? No; let -us do as we have planned, and may the Madonna protect us." -</p> - -<p> -She closed her eyes a moment, sighing. Florence Marsh watched her with -amazement. The independent Anglo-Saxon could never understand the -hypnotic terror that Navagero threw over his sister. The thoughts of the -Marquise had wandered back to Cannes. She saw the little chapel of Notre -Dame des Pins, where every day for months a mass had been said in order -to find pardon for her falsehoods, and she saw the altar where she and -Corancez had knelt and made a vow that they would go together to Loretto -as soon as their marriage was announced. The Provençal believed in the -Madonna, just as he believed in the lines of the hand, with that -demi-scepticism and demi-faith possible only to those southern natures, -so childish and so cunning, so complex with their instinctive -simplicity, so sincere in their boastfulness, and forever superstitious -in even their coldest calculations. He saw in the scruples of Madame -Bonnacorsi the surest guarantee of his success; for, once in love, a -woman of such religious ardor and such passionate intensity would end -necessarily in marriage. And, besides, the tapers burning in the little -church at Cannes assured him in regard to the brother, whose suspicions -he had evaded, but whom he knew to be capable of anything in order not -to lose the fortune of his sister. So, unlike Miss Marsh, he was not -astonished at the fears of his <i>fiancée</i>. But what could the fury of -Alvise avail against a union consummated in due form before a genuine -priest, lacking only the civil consecration, which mattered nothing to -the pious Marquise? However, faithful to the old adage that two -precautions are better than one, Corancez, in view of the eventual -explanation, was not displeased at the prospect of having at his wedding -a man of his own set. Why had he not thought before of his old friend of -Louis-le-Grand, whom he had found again at Cannes, just as candid and -simple-hearted as in the days when they sat side by side on the benches -of the school? Corancez had recognized the candor and simplicity of his -old acquaintance at the first touch of his hand. He had recognized them -also in the innocent impulsiveness with which Hautefeuille had become -enamoured of the Baroness Ely de Carlsberg. He had revealed this passion -to his two interlocutors; but he had not told them that he believed -Madame de Carlsberg to be as much in love with the young man as he was -with her. However, he might justly have boasted of his perspicacity. It -had been keen in this case, as in so many others. But, perspicacious as -he was, the Southerner did not realize that in making use of his -discovery he was about to turn the <i>opéra bouffe</i> of his marriage with -Madame Bonnacorsi into a dramatic episode. In speaking to himself of his -famous line of luck, he always said, "Only gay things come to me." It -seems, in fact, that there are two distinct types of men, and their -eternal coexistence proves the legitimacy of the two standpoints taken -since the world began by the painters of human nature—comedy and -tragedy. Every man partakes of one or the other, and rare is the destiny -in which both are mingled. For a whole group of persons—of whom -Corancez was one—the most romantic affairs end in a vaudeville; while -for the other class, to which, alas, Pierre Hautefeuille belonged, the -simplest adventures result in tragedy. If the first love sincerely, -never does the loved woman do them wrong. A smile is always ready to -mingle with their tears. The others are given to poignant emotions, to -cruel complications; all their idyls are tragic idyls. And truly, to see -these two young men side by side, as Corancez laid his hand on -Hautefeuille's shoulder, to arouse him from his reverie, these two eternal -types—the hero of comedy and the hero of tragedy—appeared in -all their contrast—the one robust and laughing, with bright eyes and -sensual lips, sure of himself, and throwing around him, as it were, an -atmosphere of good humor; the other frail and delicate, his eyes heavy -with thought, ready to suffer at the least contact with life, scarcely -able to conceal a quiver of irritation at the sudden interrupting of his -dreams. -</p> - -<p> -His irritation quickly vanished; when he had risen and Corancez had -taken him familiarly by the arm, the thought occurred to him that -perhaps he might hear from his old friend some news of the Baroness Ely -de Carlsberg, whom in fact he had been vainly seeking at Monte Carlo. -And the cunning Southerner began:— -</p> - -<p> -"How sly of you to come here without letting me know. And how foolish. -You might have dined comfortably with me. I had this evening the -prettiest table in Monte Carlo: Madame de Carlsberg, Madame de Chésy, -Miss Marsh, Madame Bonnacorsi. You know all four of them, I believe. You -would not have been bored." -</p> - -<p> -"I didn't know until five o'clock that I should take the train at six," -said Hautefeuille. -</p> - -<p> -"I understand," said Corancez; "you are sitting comfortably in your room -at Cannes. You hear voices, like Jeanne d'Arc, only not quite the same; -'<i>Rien ne va plus</i>. <i>Messieurs, faites vos jeux</i>;' and the -bank-notes begin to pant in your purse, the napoleons to dance in your -pocket, and before you know it you find yourself in front of the green -cloth. Have you won?" -</p> - -<p> -"I never play," Pierre answered. -</p> - -<p> -"You will before long. But, tell me, do you often come here?" -</p> - -<p> -"This is the first time." -</p> - -<p> -"And you have been all winter at Cannes. I can still hear Du Prat -calling you Mademoiselle Pierrette. You are too good and too young. Look -out for the reaction. And, speaking of Du Prat, have you heard from -him?" -</p> - -<p> -"He is still on the Nile with his wife," Hautefeuille replied, "and he -insists upon my joining them." -</p> - -<p> -"And you wouldn't go and finish the wedding journey with them. That was -even wiser than refusing to play. That is the result of not spending -one's honeymoon here on the coast, like everybody else. They get bored -with each other even before the housewarming." -</p> - -<p> -"But I assure you that Olivier is very happy," Hautefeuille said, with -an emphasis that showed his affection for the man of whom Corancez had -spoken so lightly; then, to avoid any further comments upon his absent -friend: "But, frankly, do you find this society so amusing?" And he -motioned toward the crowd of players around the tables who were growing -more and more excited. "It is the paradise of the <i>rastaquouères</i>." -</p> - -<p> -"That's the prejudice of the Parisian," said the Provençal, who still -felt bitter against the great city on account of his defeat at the -most desirable of clubs. He continued to vent his bitterness; -"<i>Rastaquouères</i>. When you have uttered that anathema, you think that -you have settled the question; and by dint of repeating it, you blind -yourself to the fact that you Parisians are becoming the provincials of -Europe. Yes, you no longer produce the really great aristocrats; they -are now the English, the Russians, the Americans, the Italians, who have -as much elegance and wit as you Parisians, but with real temperament -beneath their elegance which you have never had, and with the gayety -which you have no more. And the women of these foreign lands. Contrast -them with that heartless, senseless doll, that vanity in <i>papier -mâché</i>, the Parisian woman." -</p> - -<p> -"In the first place, I am not at all a Parisian," interrupted Pierre -Hautefeuille; "I am rather a provincial of provincials. And then, I -grant the second part of your paradox; some of these women are -remarkable in their fineness and culture, in their brightness and charm. -And yet is their charm ever equal, not to that of the Parisienne, I -agree, but to that of the real Frenchwoman, with her good sense and her -grace, her tact, her intelligence—the poetry of perfect measure and -taste?" -</p> - -<p> -He had been thinking aloud, unconscious of the slight smile that passed, -almost invisibly, over the ironical lips of his interlocutor. The "Sire" -de Corancez was not the man to engage himself in a discussion for which -he cared no more than he did for the Pharaohs whose tombs served as the -background of their friend's honeymoon. Knowing Hautefeuille's -attachment to this man, he had brought up his name in order to give to -their conversation an accent of ease and confidence. Hautefeuille's -remarks about foreign women, confirming the diagnosis of his love for -Madame de Carlsberg, recalled Corancez to the real purpose of this -interview. He and his companion were at this moment near the table of -<i>trente-et-quarante</i>, at which was seated one of the persons most -involved in the execution of his project, the uncle of Miss Marsh, one -of the most celebrated of American railroad magnates, Richard Carlyle -Marsh, familiarly known as Dickie Marsh, he who was destined, on a fixed -day, to lend his yacht unwittingly to the wedding voyage of Madame -Bonnacorsi. It was in his company that Corancez was to return with his -friend to Cannes, and he wished to interest Hautefeuille in the Yankee -potentate in order to facilitate his introduction. -</p> - -<p> -"No," he continued, "I assure you that this foreign colony contains men -who are as interesting as their wives. We are apt to overlook this fact, -because they are not so pretty to look at.—I see one at this table -whom I shall introduce. We met his niece the other day at the Baroness's. -He is Marsh, the American. I wish you to see him playing— Good, some -one is rising. Don't lose me, we may profit by this and get to the front -of the crowd." -</p> - -<p> -And the adroit Southerner managed to push himself and Hautefeuille -through the sudden opening of the spectators so that in a moment they -were stationed right behind the chair of the croupier, who was in the -act of turning the cards. They could command the whole table and every -movement of the players. -</p> - -<p> -"Now, look," Corancez whispered. "There is Marsh." -</p> - -<p> -"That little gray-faced man with the pile of bank-notes in front of him?" -</p> - -<p> -"That's the man. He is not fifty years old, and he is worth ten million -dollars. At eighteen he was a conductor of a tramway at Cleveland, Ohio. -Such as you see him now, he has founded a city of fifty thousand -inhabitants, named after his wife, Marionville, and he has made his -fortune literally with his own hands, since they say that he himself, -with a few workmen, built on the prairie the first miles of his -company's railroad, which is now more than two thousand miles long. -Observe those hands of his. You can see them so well against the green -cloth; they are strong and not common. You see the knotty knuckles, -which means reflection, judgment, calculation. The ends of the fingers -are a little too spatulated; that means an excessive activity, the need -of continual movement and a tendency toward mournful thoughts. I will -tell you some day about the death of his daughter. You see the thumb; -the two joints are large and of equal length; that means will and logic -combined. It curves backward; that is prodigality. Marsh has given a -hundred thousand dollars to the University of Marionville. And notice -his movements, what decision, what calm, what freedom from nervousness. -Isn't that a man?" -</p> - -<p> -"He is certainly a man with an abundance of money," said Hautefeuille, -amused by his friend's enthusiasm, "and a man who is not afraid of -losing it." -</p> - -<p> -"And that other, two places from Marsh, has he no money, then? That -personage with a rosette and a red, sinister face. It is Brion, the -financier, the director of the Banque Générale. Have you not met him -at the house of Madame de Carlsberg? His wife is the intimate friend of -Baroness Ely. Millionaire that he is, look at his hands, how nervous and -greedy. You observe that his thumb is ball-shaped; that is the mark of -crime. If that rascal is not a robber! And his manner of clutching the -bank-notes, doesn't it show his brutality? And beside him you may see -the play of a fool, Chésy, with his smooth and pointed fingers, the two -middle ones of equal length, that of Saturn and that of the Sun. That is -the infallible sign of a player who will ruin himself, especially if he -is no more logical than this one. And he thinks himself shrewd! He -enters into business relations with Brion, who pays court to Madame de -Chésy. You may see the inevitable end." -</p> - -<p> -"The pretty Madame de Chésy?" exclaimed Hautefeuille, "and that -abominable Brion? Impossible." -</p> - -<p> -"I do not say that it has happened; I say that, given this imbecile of a -husband, with his taste for gambling here and at the Bourse, there is a -great danger that it will happen some day. You see," he added, "that -this place is not so commonplace when you open your eyes; and you will -acknowledge that of the two Parisians and the <i>rastaquouère</i> whom we -have seen, the interesting man is the <i>rastaquouère</i>." -</p> - -<p> -While Corancez was speaking, the two young men had left their post of -observation. He now led his companion toward the roulette rooms, adding -these words, which made Hautefeuille quiver from head to foot:— -</p> - -<p> -"If you have no objection we might look for Madame de Carlsberg, whom I -left at one of these tables, and of whom I wish to take my leave. Fancy, -she hates to have her friends near her while she is playing. But she -must have lost all her money by this time." -</p> - -<p> -"Does she play very much?" asked Hautefeuille, who now had no more -desire to leave his friend than at first he had to follow him. -</p> - -<p> -"As she does everything," Corancez answered, "capriciously and to -beguile her <i>ennui</i>. And her marriage justifies her only too well. -You know the prince? No? But you know his habits. Is it worth while to -belong to the house of Hapsburg-Lorraine, to be called the Archduke -Henry Francis, and to have a wife like that, if one is to profess the -opinions of an anarchist, and spend sixteen hours out of the twenty-four -in a laboratory, burning one's hands and beard and eyes over furnaces, -and receive the friends of the Baroness in the way he does?" -</p> - -<p> -"Then," said Hantefeuille, his arm trembling a little, as he asked his -naïve question, "you think she is not happy?" -</p> - -<p> -"You have only to look at her," replied Corancez, who, rising on his -toes, had just recognized Madame de Carlsberg. -</p> - -<p> -It was the one table that Pierre had not approached, on account of the -crowd, which had been thicker around it than elsewhere. He signed to his -companion that he was not tall enough to see over the mass of shoulders -and heads; and Corancez, preceding his timid friend, began again to -glide through the living wall of spectators, whose curiosity was -evidently excited to the highest degree. The young men understood why, -when, after several minutes of breathless struggling, they succeeded in -gaining once more the place behind the croupier which they had had at -the table of <i>trente-et-quarante</i>. There was taking place, in fact, -one of those extraordinary events which become a legend on the coast and -spread their fame through Europe and the two Americas; and Hautefeuille -was shocked to discover that the heroine of this occasion was none else -than the Baroness Ely, whose adorable name echoed in his heart with the -sweetness of music. Yes, it was indeed Madame de Carlsberg who was the -focus of all the eyes in this <i>blasé</i> multitude, and she employed in -the caprices of her extravagant play the same gentle yet imposing grace -that had inspired the young man with his passionate idolatry. Ah, she -was so proud even at this moment, and so beautiful. Her delicate bust, -the only part of her body he could see, was draped in a corsage of -violet silk, covered with a black plaited <i>mousseline de soie</i>, with -sleeves of the same stuff which seemed to tremble at every movement. A -set of Danube pearls, enormous and set with brilliants, formed a clasp -for this corsage, over which fell a thin watch-chain of gold studded -with various stones. She wore a diminutive hat, composed of two similar -wings, spangled with silver and with violet sequins. This stylish -trinket, resting on her black hair, divided simply into two heavy folds, -contrasted, like her dress and like her present occupation, with the -character of her physiognomy. Her face was one of those, so rare in our -aging civilization, imprinted with <i>la grande beauté</i>, the beauty -that is unaffected by age, for it lies in the essential lines of the -features, the shape of the head, the form of the brow, the curve of the -chin, the droop of the eyelids. To those who knew of the Greek blood in -her veins, the classic nobility of her face explained itself. Her -father, General de Sallach, when aide-de-camp of the Commander-in-Chief -at Zara, had married for love a Montenegrin girl at Bocca da Cattaro, -who was the daughter of a woman of Salonica. This blood alone could have -moulded a face at the same time so magnificent and so delicate, whose -warm pallor added to its vague suggestion of the Orient. But her eyes -lacked the happy and passionate lustre of the East. They were of an -indefinable color, brown verging upon yellow, with something dim about -them, as though perpetually obscured by an inner distress. One read in -them an <i>ennui</i> so profound, a lassitude so incurable, that after -perceiving this expression one began in spite of one's self to pity this -woman apparently so fortunate, and to feel an impulse to obey her -slightest whim if so her admirable face might lose that look, if but for -a second. Yet doubtless it was one of those effects of the physiognomy -which signify nothing of the soul, for her eyes retained the same -singular expression at this moment while she abandoned herself to the -wild fancies of the play. She must have gained an enormous sum since -Corancez had left her, for a pile of thousand-franc notes—fifty -perhaps—lay before her, and many columns of twenty-franc and -hundred-franc pieces. Her gloved hands, armed with a little rake, -manipulated this mass of money with dexterous grace. The cause of the -feverish curiosity around her was that she risked at every turn the -maximum stake: nine napoleons on a single number, that of her age, -thirty-one, an equal number of napoleons on the squares, and six -thousand francs on the black. The alternations of loss and gain were so -great, and she met them with such evident impassibility, that she -naturally had become the centre of interest. Oblivious to the comments -that were whispered around her, she seemed scarcely to interest herself -even in the ball that bounded over the numbered compartments. -</p> - -<p> -"I assure you that she is an archduchess," said one. -</p> - -<p> -"She is a Russian princess," declared another; "there is no one but a -Russian for that game there." -</p> - -<p> -"Let her win but three or four times and the bank is broken." -</p> - -<p> -"She can't win, it is only the color that saves her." -</p> - -<p> -"I believe in her luck. I will play her number." -</p> - -<p> -"I'll play against her. Her luck is turning." -</p> - -<p> -"Her hands," Corancez whispered to Hautefeuille. "Look at her hands; -even under her gloves, the hands of the genuine aristocrat. See the -others beside her, the motion of those greedy and nervous paws. All -those fingers are plebeian after you have seen hers. But I am afraid we -have brought her bad luck. Red and 7: she has lost—Oh, lost again. -That means twenty-five thousand francs. If the word were not too vulgar to -apply to such a pretty woman, I would say, 'What stomach!' She is going -on." -</p> - -<p> -The young woman continued to distribute her gold and bank-notes upon the -same number, the same squares, and upon the black, and it seemed as -though neither the numbers, nor the squares, nor the black would ever -appear again. A few more turns, and the columns of twenty-franc and -hundred-franc pieces had disappeared as into a crucible, and, six by -six, the bank-notes had gone under the rake to join the pile heaped up -before the croupier. A quarter of an hour had scarcely elapsed since the -arrival of Corancez and Hautefeuille, and the Baroness Ely had nothing -before her but a little empty purse and a Russian cigarette case of gold -inlaid with niello and with sapphires, rubies, and diamonds. The young -woman weighed the case in her hand, while another turn of the wheel -brought up the red again. -</p> - -<p> -It was the eleventh time that this color had won. Suddenly, with the -same air of indifference, she turned to her neighbor, a large man of -about fifty years, with a square head and wearing spectacles, who had -abandoned his book of calculations to play simply against her. He had -before him now a mass of gold and bank-notes. -</p> - -<p> -"Monsieur," she said, handing him the case, "will you give me a thousand -francs for this box?" -</p> - -<p> -She spoke loud enough for Corancez and Hautefeuille, who had approached, -to hear this strange and unexpected question. -</p> - -<p> -"But we should be the ones to lend her the money," said Pierre. -</p> - -<p> -"I should not advise you to offer it," the other replied. "She is very -much of an archduchess when she chooses, and I fancy she would not -receive us well. However, there will be plenty of usurers to buy the case -at that price, if the man in the spectacles does not accept.—He is -speaking German. He doesn't understand.—Well, what did I tell you?" -</p> - -<p> -As though to support Corancez's pretensions to prophecy, just as Madame -de Carlsberg was replying to her neighbor in German, the hook-nose of a -jewel merchant penetrated the crowd, a hand held out the thousand-franc -note, and the gold case disappeared. The Baroness did not deign even to -glance at this personage, who was one of the innumerable moneylenders -that practise a vagrant usury around the tables. She took the bank-note, -and twisted it a moment without unfolding it. She waited until the red -had appeared twice more; seemed to hesitate; then, with the end of her -rake, pushed the note toward the <i>croupier</i>, saying:— -</p> - -<p> -"On the red." -</p> - -<p> -The ball spun round again, and this time it was the black. Baroness Ely -picked up her fan and her empty purse, and rose. In the movement of the -crowd, while he was endeavoring to extricate himself in order to reach -her, Corancez suddenly noticed that he had lost Hautefeuille. -</p> - -<p> -"The awkwardness of that innocent boy," he murmured, while waiting for -Madame de Carlsberg. -</p> - -<p> -If the vanity of speaking to the wife—even morganatic—of an -archduke of Austria had not absorbed him at this moment, he might have -observed his companion making his way to the purchaser of the jewel so -fantastically sold. And perhaps he would have found the bargain very -clever which was made with this innocent boy, had he seen him take from -his pocket-book two bank-notes and receive from the usurer the case -which had a few moments ago sparkled on the table before the Baroness. -The usurer had sold the jewel to the lover for twice the sum that he had -paid. Such is the beginning of great business houses. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap02"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER II -<br /><br /> -THE CRY OF A SOUL</h4> - -<p> -If Pierre Hautefeuille's action had escaped the malicious eyes of -Corancez, it had not, however, passed unperceived. Another person had -seen the Baroness Ely sell the gold box, and the young man buy it; and -this person was one whom the unfortunate lover should have most feared. -For to be seen by her was to be seen by Madame de Carlsberg herself, as -the witness of the two successive sales was no other than Madame Brion, -the confidante of Baroness Ely, residing at the same villa, and sure to -report what she had seen. But to explain the singular interest with -which Madame Brion had observed these two scenes, and the attitude with -which she was about to speak of it to her friend, it is necessary to -relate the circumstances that had caused so close an intimacy between -the wife of a Parisian financier of such low birth as Horace Brion, and -a noble lady of the European Olympus, who figured in the Almanach de -Gotha among the Imperial family of Austria. The peculiarity of the -cosmopolitan world, the trait that gives it its psychological -picturesqueness, in spite of the banal character inevitable to a society -composed of the rich and the idle, is the constant surprises of -connections like this. This society serves as the point of intersection -for destinies that have started from the widest extremities of the -social world. One may see there the interplay of natures so dissimilar, -often so hostile, that their simplest emotions have a savor of -strangeness, the poetry of unfamiliar things. Just as the love of Pierre -Hautefeuille, this Frenchman so profoundly, so completely French, for a -foreigner so charming as the Baroness Ely, with a charm so novel, so -difficult for the young man to analyze, was destined to occupy a place -of such importance in his sentimental life, so the friendship between -the Baroness Ely and Louise Brion could not fail to be a thing of -special and peculiar value in their lives, although its material -circumstances were, like everything in the cosmopolitan world, as -natural in their details as they were strange in their results. -</p> - -<p> -This friendship, like most lasting affections, began early, when the two -women were but sixteen. They had ended their girlhood together in the -intimacy of a convent, which is usually terminated at the entrance into -society. But when these attachments endure, when they survive through -absence, unaffected by difference of surroundings, or by new -engagements, they become as instinctive and indestructible as family -ties. When the two friends first met, the name of one was Ely de -Sallach, the other, Louise Rodier of the old family of Catholic bankers, -now extinct, the Rodier-Vimal. Certainly from their birthplaces, one the -Château de Sallach in the heart of the Styrian Alps, the other the -Hôtel Rodier in the Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré, it would seem that -their paths of life must forever separate. A similar misfortune brought -them together. They lost their mothers at the same time, and almost at -once their fathers both married again. Each of the young girls, during -the months that followed these second marriages, had had trouble with -her step-mother; and each had finally been exiled to the Convent du -Sacré-Cœur at Paris. The banker had chosen this establishment because -he managed the funds and knew the superioress. General Sallach had been -urged to this choice by his wife, who thus got rid of her step-daughter -and gained a pretext for coming often to Paris. Entering the same day -the old convent in the Rue de Varenne, the two orphans felt an -attraction toward each other which their mutual confidences soon -deepened into passionate friendship; and this friendship had lasted -because it was based upon the profoundest depths of their characters and -was strengthened by time. -</p> - -<p> -The classic tragedy was not so far from nature as hostile critics -pretend, when it placed beside its protagonists those personages whose -single duty was to receive their confidences. There are in the reality -of daily life souls that seem to be but echoes, ever ready to listen to -the sighs and moans of others—soul-mirrors whose entire life is in -the reflection they receive, whose personality is but the image projected -upon them. On her entrance into the convent Louise Brion had become one -of this race, whose adorable modesty Shakespeare has embodied in -Horatio, the heroic and loyal second in Hamlet's duel with the assassin -of his father. At sixteen as at thirty, it was only necessary to look at -her to divine the instinctive self-effacement of a timidly sensitive -character, incapable of asserting itself, or of living its own life. Her -face was a delicate one, but its fineness passed unnoticed, so great was -the reserve in her modest features, in her eyes of ashen gray, the -simple folds of her brown hair. She spoke but little, and in a voice -without accent; she had the genius for simplicity in dress, the style of -dress that in the <i>argot</i> of women has the pretty epithet -"<i>tranquille</i>." Whether man or woman, these beings, so weak and -delicate, with their fine shades of sentiment, unfitted for active life, -their desires instinctively attenuated, usually attach themselves, in a -seeming contradiction which is at bottom logical, to some ardent and -impetuous character, whose audacity fascinates them. They feel an -irresistible desire to participate, through sympathy and imagination, in -the joy and pain which they have not the force to encounter in their own -experience. That was the secret of the relations between Madame Brion -and the Baroness de Carlsberg. From the first week of their girlish -intimacy, the passionate and fantastic Ely had bewitched the reasonable -and quiet Louise, and this witchery had continued through the years, -gaining from the fact that after their departure from the convent the -two friends had once more experienced an analogous misfortune. They had -both been in their marriage victims of paternal ambition. Louise Rodier -had become Madame Brion, because old Rodier, having fallen into secret -difficulties, thought that he could save himself by accepting Horace -Brion as a son-in-law and partner. The latter, after his father had been -ruined in the Bourse, had, in fifteen energetic years, not only made a -fortune, but won a kind of financial fame by re-establishing affairs -supposed to be hopeless, such as the Austro-Dalmatian Railway, so -feloniously launched and abandoned by the notorious Justus Hafner (vide -"Cosmopolis"). To efface the memory of his father Brion needed to ally -himself with one of those families of finance whose professional honor -is an equivalent of a noble title. The chief of the house of -Rodier-Vimal needed an aide-de-camp of distinguished superiority in the -secret crisis of his affairs. Louise, knowing the necessity of this -union, had accepted it, and had been horribly unhappy. -</p> - -<p> -It was the same year that Ely de Sallach, constrained by her father, -married the Archduke Henry Francis, who had fallen in love with her at -Carlsbad, with one of those furious passions that may overtake a -<i>blasé</i> prince of forty-five, for whom the experience of feeling is so -violent and unexpected that he clings to it with all the fever of youth -momentarily recaptured. The Emperor, though very hostile on principle to -morganatic marriages, had consented to this one in the hope that the -most revolutionary and disquieting of his cousins would quiet down and -begin a new life. General Sallach had looked to the elevation of his -daughter for a field-marshalship. He and his wife had so persuaded the -girl, that she, tempted herself by a vanity too natural at her age, had -yielded. -</p> - -<p> -Twelve years had passed since then, and the two old friends of -Sacré-Cœur were still just as orphaned and as solitary and unhappy, -one in the glittering rôle of a demi-princess, the other, queen of the -great bank, as on the day when they first met under the trees of the -garden by the Boulevard des Invalides. They had never ceased to write to -each other; and each having seen the image of her own sorrow in the -destiny of the other, their affection had been deepened by their mutual -misery, by all their confidences, and by their silence, too. -</p> - -<p> -The hardness of the financier, his ferocious egoism, disguised beneath -the studied manners of a sham man of the world, his brutal sensuality, -had made it possible for Louise to understand the miseries of poor Ely, -abandoned to the jealous despotism of a cruel and capricious master, in -whom the intellectual nihilism of an anarchist was associated with the -imperious pride of a tyrant; while the Baroness was able to sympathize, -through the depth of her own misery, with the wounds that bled in the -tender heart of her friend. But she, daughter of a soldier, the -descendant of those heroes of Tchernagora, who had never surrendered, -was not submissive, like the heiress of the good Rodier and Vimal -families. She had immediately opposed her own pride and will to those of -her husband. The atrocious scenes she had passed through without -quailing would have ended in open rupture if the young woman had not -thought of appealing to a very high authority. A sovereign influence -commanded a compromise, thanks to which the Baroness recovered her -independence without divorce or legal separation, with what rage on the -part of her husband may be imagined. -</p> - -<p> -In fact, in four years this was the first winter she had spent with the -Archduke, who, being ill, had retired to his villa at Cannes—a -strange place, truly, made in the image of its strange master; half of the -house was a palace, and half a laboratory. -</p> - -<p> -Madame Brion had witnessed from afar this conjugal drama, whose example -she had not followed. The gentle creature, without a word, had let -herself be wounded and broken by the hard fist of the brute whose name -she bore. This contrast itself had made her friend dearer to her. Ely de -Carlsberg had served her as her own rebellion, her own independence, her -own romance—a romance in which she was ignorant of many chapters. For -the confidences of two friends who see each other only at long intervals -are always somewhat uncandid. Instinctively a woman who confesses to a -friend guards against troubling the image which the friend forms of her; -and that image gradually acquires a more striking resemblance to her -past than to her present. -</p> - -<p> -So the Baroness had concealed from her confidante all of one side of her -life. Beautiful as she was, rich, free, audacious, and unburdened with -principles, she had sought vengeance and oblivion of her domestic -miseries where all women who have her temperament and her lack of -religious faith seek a like oblivion and a like vengeance. She had had -adventures—many adventures—Madame Brion had no suspicion of -them. She loved the life in Ely, not realizing that this movement, this -vitality, this energy, could not exist in a creature of her race and her -freedom without leading to culpable experiences. But is it not the first -quality, even the very definition, of friendship, this inconsistent -favoritism which causes us to forget with certain persons the well-known -law of the simultaneous development of merits and faults, and the -necessary bond that connects these contrary manifestations of the same -individuality? -</p> - -<p> -Yet, however blinded by friendship a woman may be, and however honest -and uninitiated in the gallant intrigues that go on around her, she is -none the less a woman, and as such apparently possesses a special -instinct for sexual matters, which enables her to feel how her -confidential friend conducts herself toward men. Louise could not have -formulated the change in Ely, and yet for years, at every interview, she -had perceived the change. Was it a greater freedom in manner and dress, -a shade of boldness in her glance, a readiness to put an evil -interpretation on every intimacy she noticed, an habitual -disenchantment, almost a cynicism, in her conversation? -</p> - -<p> -The signs that reveal the woman who has dared to overstep conventional -prejudices, as well as moral principles, Madame Brion could not help -remarking in Madame de Carlsberg; but she did not permit herself to -analyze them, or even think about them. Delicate souls, who are created -for love, feel a self-reproach, almost a remorse, at the discovery of a -fault in one they love. They blame themselves and their impressions, -rather than judge the person from whom the impressions were received. An -uneasiness remains, however, which the first precise fact renders -insupportable. -</p> - -<p> -To Louise Brion this little fact had appeared in the recent attitude of -her friend toward Pierre Hautefeuille. She chanced to be at Cannes when -the young man was presented to the Baroness at the Chésy residence. On -that evening she had been surprised at Ely, who had had a long talk with -the young stranger <i>en tête-à-tête</i> in a corner of the drawing-room. -Having left at once for Monte Carlo, she doubtless would not have -thought of it again, if, on another visit to Cannes, she had not found -the young man on a footing of very sudden intimacy at the Villa -Carlsberg. Staying herself a few days at the villa, she was forced to -recognize that her friend was either a great coquette or was very -imprudent with Hautefeuille. She had chosen the hypothesis of -imprudence. She told herself that this boy was falling wildly in love with -Ely, and she was capable, out of mere carelessness or <i>ennui</i>, of -accepting a diversion of that kind. Louise resolved to warn her, but did -not dare, overcome by that inner paralysis which the strong produce in -the weak by the simple magnetism of their presence. -</p> - -<p> -The little scene which she had observed this evening in the Casino had -given her the courage to speak. The action of Pierre Hautefeuille, his -haste to procure the jewel sold by Madame de Carlsberg, had singularly -moved this faithful friend. She had suddenly perceived the analogy -between her own feelings and those of the lover. -</p> - -<p> -Having herself mingled with the crowd of spectators to follow the play -of her friend, whose nervousness had all day disquieted her, she had -seen her sell the gold case. This Bohemian act had pained her cruelly, -and still more the thought that this jewel which Ely used continually -would be bought in a second-hand shop of Monte Carlo and given by some -lucky gambler to some <i>demi-mondaine</i>. She had immediately started -toward the usurer, with the same purpose as Pierre Hautefeuille; and to -discover that he had been moved by the same idea touched a deep chord of -sympathy in her. She had been moved in her affection for Madame de -Carlsberg, and in a secret spot of her gentle and romantic nature, so -little used to find in men an echo of her own delicacy. -</p> - -<p> -"Unfortunate man," she murmured. "What I feared has come. He loves her. -Is there still time to warn Ely, and keep her from having on her -conscience the unhappiness of this boy?" -</p> - -<p> -It was this thought that determined the innocent, good creature to speak -to her friend as soon as she had an opportunity; and the opportunity -presented itself at this moment. -</p> - -<p> -They had come out of the Casino at about eleven o'clock, escorted by -Brion, who had left them at the villa, and, when they were alone, the -Baroness had asked her friend to walk a while in the garden to enjoy the -night, which was really divine. Enveloped in their furs, they began to -pace the terrace and the silent alleys, captivated by the contrast -between the feverish atmosphere in which they had spent the evening and -the peaceful immensity of the scene that now surrounded them. And the -contrast was no less surprising between the Baroness Ely at roulette and -the Baroness Ely walking at this hour. -</p> - -<p> -The moon, shining full in the vast sky, seemed to envelop her with -light, to cast upon her a charm of languorous exaltation. Her lips were -half open, as though drinking in the purity of the cold, beautiful -night, and the pale rays seemed to reach her heart through her eyes, so -intently did she gaze at the silver disk which illumined the whole -horizon with almost the intensity of noon. The sea above all was -luminous, a sea of velvet blue, over which a white fire, quivering and -dying, traced its miraculous way. The atmosphere was so pure that in the -bright bay one could distinguish the rigging of two yachts, motionless, -at anchor by the Cape, upon whose heights stood the crenellated walls of -the old Grimaldi palace. The huge, dark mass of Cape Martin stretched -out on the other side; and everywhere was the contrast of transparent -brilliancy and sharp, black forms, stamped on the dream-like sky. The -long branches of the palms, the curved poignards of the aloes, the thick -foliage of the orange trees hung in deep shadow over the grass where the -fairy moonlight played in all its splendor. -</p> - -<p> -One by one the lights went out in the houses, and from the terrace the -two women could see them, white amid the dark olives sleeping in the -universal sleep that had fallen everywhere. The quiet of the hour was so -perfect that no sound could be heard but the crackling of the gravel -under their small shoes, and the rustle of their dresses. Madame de -Carlsberg was the first to break the silence, yielding to the pleasure -of thinking aloud, so delicious at such a time and with such a friend. -She had paused a moment to gaze more intently at the sky:— -</p> - -<p> -"How pure the night is, and how soft. When I was a child at Sallach, I -had a German governess who knew the names of all the stars. She taught -me to recognize them. I can find them still: there is the Pole Star and -Cassiopeia and the Great Bear and Arcturus and Vega. They are always in -the same place. They were there before we were born, and will be after -we are dead. Do you ever think of it—that the night looked just the -same to Marie Antoinette, Mary Stuart, Cleopatra, all the women who, -across the years and the centuries, represent immense disasters, tragic -sorrows, and splendid fame? Do you ever think that they have watched -this same moon and these stars in the same part of the heavens, and with -the same eyes as ours, with the same delight and sadness; and that they -have passed away as we shall beneath these motionless stars, eternally -indifferent to our joy and misery? When these thoughts come to me, when -I think of what poor creatures we are, with all our agonies that cannot -move an atom of this immensity, I ask myself what matter our laws, our -customs, our prejudices, our vanity in supposing that we are of any -importance in this magnificent eternal and impassive universe. I say to -myself that there is but one thing of value here below: to satisfy the -heart, to feel, to drain every emotion to the bottom, to go to the end -of all our desires, in short, to live one's own life, one's real life, -free of all lies and conventions, before we sink into the inevitable -annihilation." -</p> - -<p> -There was something frightful in hearing these nihilistic words on the -lips of this beautiful young woman, and on such a night, in such a -scene. To the tender and religious Madame Brion these words were all the -more painful since they were spoken with the same voice that had -directed the croupier where to place the final stake. She greatly -admired Ely for that high intelligence which enabled her to read all -books, to write in four or five languages, to converse with the most -distinguished men and on every subject. -</p> - -<p> -Trained until her seventeenth year in the solid German manner, the -Baroness Ely had found, at first in the society of the Archduke, then in -her life in Italy, an opportunity for an exceptional culture from which -her supple mind of a demi-Slave had profited. -</p> - -<p> -Alas! of what use was that learning, that facile comprehension, that -power of expression, since she had not learned to govern her -caprices—as could be seen in the attitude at the roulette -table—nor to govern her thoughts—which was too well shown by -the sombre creed that she had just confessed? That inner want, among so -many gifts and accomplishments, once more oppressed the faithful friend, -who had never brought herself to admit the existence of certain ideas in -her companion of Sacré-Cœur. And she said:— -</p> - -<p> -"You speak again as though you did not believe in another life. Is it -possible that you are sincere?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, I do not believe in it," the Baroness replied, with a shake of her -pretty head, a breath of air lifting the long, silky fur of her sable -cape. "That was the one good influence my husband had over me; but he -had that. He cured me of that feeble-heartedness that dares not look the -truth in the face. The truth is that man has never discovered a trace of -a Providence, of a pity or justice from on high, the sign of anything -above us but blind and implacable force. There is no God. There is -nothing but this world. That is what I know now, and I am glad to know -it. I like to oppress myself with the thought of the ferocity and -stupidity of the universe. I find in it a sort of savage pleasure, an -inner strength." -</p> - -<p> -"Do not talk like that," interrupted Madame Brion, clasping her arms -around her friend as though she were a suffering sister or a child. "You -make me feel too sad. But," she continued, pressing the hand of the -Baroness while they resumed their walk, "I know you have a weight on -your heart of which you do not tell me. You have never been happy. You -are less so than ever to-day, and you blame God for your hard fate. You -relieve yourself in blasphemy as you did to-night in play, wildly, -desperately, as they say some men drink; don't deny it. I was there all -the evening, hidden in the crowd, while you were playing. Pardon me. You -had been so nervous all day. You had worried me. And I did not want to -leave you five minutes alone. And, my Ely, I saw you sitting among those -women and those men, playing so unreasonably in the sight of all that -crowd whispering your name. I saw you sell the case you used so much. -Ah, my Ely, my Ely!" -</p> - -<p> -A heavy sigh accompanied this loved name, repeated with passionate -tenderness. That innocent affection which suffered from the faults of -its idol without daring to formulate a reproach, touched the Baroness, -and made her a little ashamed. She disguised her feelings in a laugh, -which she attempted to make gay, in order to quiet her friend's emotion. -</p> - -<p> -"How fortunate that I didn't see you! I should have borrowed money from -you and lost it. But do not worry; it will not happen again. I had heard -so often of the gambling fever that I wished just once, not to trifle as -I usually do, but really play. It is even more annoying than it was -stupid. I regret nothing but the cigarette case." She hesitated a -moment. "It was the souvenir of a person who is no longer in this world. -But I shall find the merchant to-morrow." -</p> - -<p> -"That is useless," said Madame Brion, quickly. "He no longer has it." -</p> - -<p> -"You have already bought it? How I recognize my dear friend in that!" -</p> - -<p> -"I thought of doing it," Louise answered in a low voice, "but some one -else was before me." -</p> - -<p> -"Some one else?" said Madame de Carlsberg, with a sudden look of -haughtiness. "Whom you saw and whom I know?" she asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Whom I saw and whom you know," answered Madame Brion. "But I dare not -tell the name, now that I see how you take it.—And yet, it is not -one whom you have the right to blame, for if he has fallen in love with -you, it is indeed your fault. You have been so imprudent with -him—let me say it, so coquettish!" -</p> - -<p> -Then, after a silence: "It was young Pierre Hautefeuille." -</p> - -<p> -The excellent woman felt her heart beat as she pronounced these last -words. She was anxious to prevent Madame de Carlsberg from continuing a -flirtation which she thought dangerous and culpable; but the anger which -she had seen come into her friend's face made her fear that she had gone -too far, and would draw down upon the head of the imprudent lover one of -Ely's fits of rage, and she reproached herself as for an indelicacy, -almost a treachery toward the poor boy whose tender secret she had -surprised. -</p> - -<p> -But it was not anger that, at the mention of this name, had changed the -expression of Madame de Carlsberg and flushed her cheeks with a sudden -red. Her friend, who knew her so well, could see that she was overcome -with emotion, but very different from her injured pride of a moment -before. She was so astonished that she stopped speaking. The Baroness -made no answer, and the two women walked on in silence. They had entered -an alley of palm trees, flecked with moonlight, but still obscure. And -as Madame Brion could no longer see the face of her friend, her own -emotions became so strong that she hazarded, tremblingly:— -</p> - -<p> -"Why do you not answer me? Is it because you think I should have -prevented the young man from doing what he did? But for your sake I -pretended not to have seen it. Are you wounded at my speaking of your -coquetry? You know I would not have spoken in that way, if I did not so -esteem your heart." -</p> - -<p> -"You wound me?" said the Baroness. "You? You know that is -impossible. No, I am not wounded. I am touched. I did not know he was -there," she added in a lower tone, "that he saw me at that table, acting -as I did. You think that I have flirted with him? Wait, look." -</p> - -<p> -And as they had reached the end of the alley, she turned. Tears were -slowly running down her cheeks. Through her eyes, from whence these -tears had fallen, Louise could read to the bottom of her soul, and the -evidence which before she had not dared to believe now forced itself -upon her. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh! you are weeping." And, as though overcome by the moral tragedy -which she now perceived, "You love him!" she cried, "you love him!" -</p> - -<p> -"What use to hide it now?" Ely answered. "Yes, I love him! When you told -me what he did this evening, which proves, as I know, that he loves me, -too, it touched me in a painful spot. That is all. I should be happy, -should I not? And you see I am all upset. If you but knew the -circumstances in which this sentiment overtook me, my poor friend, you -would indeed pity your Ely. Ah!" she repeated, "pity her, pity her!" -</p> - -<p> -And, resting her head on her friend's shoulder, she began to weep, to -weep like a child, while the other, bewildered at this sudden and -unexpected outburst, replied—revealing even in her pity the naïveté -of an honest woman, incapable of suspicion:— -</p> - -<p> -"I beg you calm yourself. It is true it is a terrible misfortune for a -woman to love when she has no right to satisfy it. But, do not feel -remorseful, and, above all, do not think I blame you. When I spoke as I -did it was to put you on your guard against a wrong that you might do. -Ah! I see too well that you have not been a coquette. I know you have -not allowed the young man to divine your feelings, and I know, too, that -he will never divine them, and that you will be always my blameless Ely. -Calm yourself, smile for me. Is it not good to have a friend, a real -friend, who can understand you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Understand me? Poor Louise! You love me, yes, you love me well. But you -do not know me." -</p> - -<p> -Then, in a kind of transport, she took her friend's arm, and, looking -her in the face, "Listen!" she said, "you believe me still to be, as I -was once, your blameless Ely. Well, it is not true. I have had a lover. -Hush, do not answer. It must be said. It is said. And that lover is the -most intimate friend of Pierre Hautefeuille, a friend to him as you are -to me, a brother in friendship as you are my sister. That is the weight -that you have divined here," and she laid her hand upon her breast. "It -is horrible to bear." -</p> - -<p> -Certain confessions are so irremediable that their frankness gives to -those who voluntarily make them something of grandeur and nobility even -in their fall; and when the confession is made by some one whom we love, -as Louise loved Ely, it fills us with a delirium of tenderness for the -being who proves her nobility by her confession while the misery of her -shame rends her heart. If a few hours before, in some house at Monte -Carlo, the slightest word had been said against the honor of Madame de -Carlsberg, what indignation would Madame Brion have not felt, and what -pain! Pain she indeed had, agonizing pain, as Ely pronounced these -unforgetable words; but of indignation there was not a trace in the -heart which replied with these words, whose very reproach was a proof of -tenderness, blind and indulgent to complicity:— -</p> - -<p> -"Just God! How you must have suffered! But why did you not tell me -before? Why did you not confide in me? Did you think that I would love -you less? See, I have the courage to hear all." -</p> - -<p> -And she added, in that thirst for the whole truth which we have for the -faults of those who are dear to us, as though we looked to find a -pardonable excuse in the cruel details:— -</p> - -<p> -"I beg you, tell me all, all. And first, this man? Do I know him?" -</p> - -<p> -"No," replied Madame de Carlsberg, "his name is Olivier du Prat. I met -him at Rome two years ago when I was spending the winter there. That was -the period of my life when I saw you least, and wrote to you least -frequently. It was also the time when I was the most wicked, owing to -solitude, inaction, unhappiness, and my disgust with everything, -especially with myself. This man was the secretary of one of the two -French embassies. He was much lionized because of the passion, he had -inspired in two Roman ladies, who almost openly disputed his favors. It -is very ignoble, what I am going to tell you, but such was the truth. It -amused me to win him from them both. In that kind of an adventure, just -as in play, one expects to find the emotions that others have found in -it, and then the result is the same as in roulette. One is bored with -it, and one throws one's self into the game from wilfulness and vanity, -in the excitement of an absurd struggle. I know now," and her voice -became graver, "that I never loved Olivier, but that I so persisted in -this liaison that he would have the right to say that I wished him to -love me, that I wished to be his mistress, and that I did all I could to -retain him. He was a singular character, very different from those -professional lovers, who are for the most part frightfully vulgar. He -was so changeable, so protean, so full of contrasts, so intangible, that -to this day I cannot tell whether he loved me or not. You hear me in a -dream, and I am speaking as in a dream. I feel that there was something -inexplicable in our relations, something unintelligible to a third -person. I have never met a being so disconcerting, so irritating, from -the endless uncertainty he kept you in, no matter what you did. One day -he would be emotional, tremulous, passionate even to frenzy, and on the -morrow, sometimes the same day, he would recoil within himself from -confidence to suspicion, from tenderness to persiflage, from abandonment -to irony, from love to cruelty, without it being possible either to -doubt his sincerity or to discover the cause of this incredible -alteration. He had these humors not only in his emotions, but even in -his ideas. I have seen him moved to tears by a visit to the Catacombs, -and on returning as outrageously atheistical as the Archduke. In society -I have seen him hold twenty people enraptured by the charm of his -brilliant fancy, and then pass weeks without speaking two words. In -short, he was from head to foot a living enigma, which I penetrate -better at a distance. He had been early left an orphan. His childhood -had been unhappy, and his youth precociously disenchanted. He had been -wounded and corrupted too soon. Thence came that insatiability of soul, -that elusiveness of character which appeared as soon as I became -interested in him in a kind of spasmodic force. When I was young at -Sallach I loved to mount difficult horses and try to master them. I -cannot better describe my relations with Olivier than by comparing them -to a duel between a rider and his horse, when each tries to get the -better of the other. I repeat it, I am sure I did not love him. I am not -certain that I did not hate him." -</p> - -<p> -She spoke with a dryness that showed how deeply these memories were -implanted. She paused a moment, and, plucking a rose from a bush near -her, she began to bite the petals nervously, while Madame Brion -sighed:— -</p> - -<p> -"Need I pity you for that also,—for having sought happiness out of -marriage, and for having met this man, this hard and capricious monster -of egoism?" -</p> - -<p> -"I do not judge of him," Madame de Carlsberg answered. "If I had been -different myself, I should doubtless have changed him. But he had -touched me in an irritable spot; I wished to control him, to master him, -and I used a terrible weapon. I made him jealous. All that is a bitter -story, and I spare you the details. It would be painful to recall it, -and it does not matter. You will know enough when I say that after a day -of intimacy, when he had been more tender than ever before, Olivier left -Rome suddenly, without an explanation, without a word of adieu, without -even writing a letter. I have never seen him again. I have never heard -of him, except in a chance conversation this winter, when I learned that -he was married. Now you will understand the strange emotions I felt when -two months ago Chésy asked permission to present a son of a friend of -his mother, who had come to Cannes to recover from a bad cold, a young -man, rather solitary and very charming; his name was Pierre -Hautefeuille. In the countless conversations that Olivier and I had -together in the intervals of our quarrelling, this name had often been -spoken. Here again I must explain to you a very peculiar thing,—the -nature of this man's conversation and the extraordinary attraction it -had for me. This self-absorbed and enigmatic being had sudden hours of -absolute expansion which I have seen in no one else. It was as though he -relived his life aloud for me, and I listened with an unparalleled -curiosity. He used at these times a kind of implacable lucidity which -almost made you cry out, like a surgical operation, and which at the -same time hypnotized you with a potent fascination. It was a brutal yet -delicate disrobing of his childhood and his youth, with -characterizations of such vividness that certain individuals were -presented to me as distinctly as though I had really met them. And he -himself? Ah, what a strange soul, incomplete and yet superior, so noble -and so degraded, so sensitive and so arid, in whom there seemed to be -nothing but lassitude, failure, stain, and disillusionment—excepting -one sentiment. This man who despised his family, who never spoke of his -country without bitterness, who attributed the worst motive to every -action, even his own, who denied the existence of God, of virtue, of -love, this moral nihilist, in short, in so many ways like the Archduke, -had one faith, one cult, one religion. He believed in friendship, that -of man for man, denying that one woman could be the friend of another. -He did not know you, dear friend. He pretended—I recall his very -words—that between two men who had proved each other, who had lived, -and thought, and suffered together, and who esteemed each other while -loving each other, there arises a kind of affection so high, so -profound, and so strong that nothing can be compared with it. He said -that this sentiment was the only one he respected, the only one that -time and change could not prevail against. He acknowledged that this -friendship was rare; yet he declared that he had met with it several -times, and that he himself had experienced one in his life. It was then -that he evoked the image of Pierre Hautefeuille. His accent, his look, -his whole expression changed while he lingered over the memory of his -absent friend. He, the man of all the ironies, recounted with tenderness -and respect the naïve details of their first meeting at school, their -growing attachment, their boyish vacations. He related with enthusiasm -their enlisting together in 1870, and the war, their adventures, their -captivity in Germany. He was never tired of praising his friend's purity -of soul, his delicacy, his nobility. I have already said that this man -was an enigma to me. Such he was above all in his retrospective -confidences, to which I listened with astonishment, almost stupor, to -behold this anomaly in a heart so lamentably withered, in a land so -sterile this flower of delicate sentiment, so young and rare that it -made me think—and in spite of Olivier's paradox, it is the highest -praise I could give—of our own friendship." -</p> - -<p> -"Thanks," said Madame Brion, "you make me happy. As I listened to you a -moment ago I seemed to hear another person speaking whom I did not -recognize. But now I have found you again, so loving, gentle, and good." -</p> - -<p> -"No, not good," Madame de Carlsberg replied. "The proof is that no -sooner had Chésy pronounced the name of Pierre Hautefeuille than I was -possessed by an idea which you will think abominable. I shall pay for -it, perhaps, dearly enough. Olivier's departure and then his marriage -had stirred in me that hate of which I spoke. I could not hear to think -that this man had left me as he did, and was now happy, contented, -indifferent—that he had regained his serenity without my being -revenged. One acquires these base passions by living as I have so long, -unhappy and desperate, surrounded by pleasure and luxury. Too much moral -distress is depraving. When I knew that I was to meet the intimate -friend of Olivier, a possible vengeance offered itself to me, a refined, -atrocious, and certain vengeance. My life was forever separated from -that of Du Prat. He had probably forgotten me. I was sure that if I won -the affections of his friend, and he knew of it, it would strike the -deepest and most sensitive place in his heart; and that is why I -permitted Chésy to present Hautefeuille, and why I indulged in those -coquetries for which you blamed me. For it is true that I began thus. -<i>Dieu</i>! how recent it was, and how long ago it seems!" -</p> - -<p> -"But," interrupted Madame Brion, "does Pierre Hautefeuille know of your -relations with Olivier?" -</p> - -<p> -"Ah! you touch me in the sorest spot. He is ignorant of them, as he is -of all the base realities of life. It is by his innocence, his simplicity -of heart, of which his friend so often spoke—his youth, in -short—that this boy, against whom I began so cruel a plot, has won -me completely. Never has a doubt or a suspicion entered that heart, so -young and so innocent of evil, for which evil does not even exist. I had -not spoken with him three times before I understood all that Olivier had -said in our conversations at Rome, which left me incredulous and -irritated. That respect, that veneration almost, which he professed for -this candor and goodness, I felt also in my turn. All the expressions he -had used in speaking of his friend came back to me, and at every new -encounter I perceived how just they were, how fine, and how true. In my -surprise I relinquished my plan of vengeance at the contact of this -nature so young and delicate, whose perfume I inhaled as I do that of -this flower." -</p> - -<p> -And she lifted to her face the rose with its half-nibbled petals. -</p> - -<p> -"If you only knew how the life I lead wearies and oppresses me! How -tired I am of hearing about nothing but the breakfasts that Dickie Marsh -gives on his yacht to the grand dukes, of Navagero's bezique with the -Prince of Wales, of Chésy's speculations at the Bourse, and the -half-dozen titled fools that follow his advice! If you only knew how -even the best of this artificial society tires me! What does it matter -to me whether Andryana Bonnacorsi decides to marry the Sire de Corancez, -or any of the countless subjects of gossip at the five o'clock teas in -Cannes? And I need not speak of the inferno my house has become since my -husband suspects me of favoring the marriage of Flossie Marsh with his -assistant. To meet in this artificial atmosphere, made up of <i>ennui</i> -and vanity, folly and stupidity, a being who is at the same time profound -and simple, genuine and romantic, in fact archaic, as I like to call -him, was a delight. And then the moment came when I realized that I -loved this young man and that he loved me. I learned it through no -incident, no scene, no word—just by a look from him which I -accidentally caught. That is why I have taken refuge here for the last -eight days, I was afraid. I am still afraid—afraid for myself a -little. I know myself too well, and I know that once started on that road -of passion I would go to the end, I would stake my whole life upon it, and -if I lost, if—" -</p> - -<p> -She did not finish, but her friend understood her terrible forebodings -as she continued: "And I am afraid for him, too, ah, much afraid! He is -so young, so inexperienced! He believes so implicitly in me. I cannot -better show you how I have changed than by saying this: six weeks ago, -when Hautefeuille was presented to me, I had but one desire,—that -Olivier should learn of my acquaintance with his friend. To-day, if I -could prevent these two men from ever meeting, or from ever speaking of -me to each other, I would give ten years of my life. Now do you -understand why the tears came to my eyes when you told me what he did -this evening, and how, without speaking to me, he had seen the way I -spend my time away from him? I am ashamed, terribly ashamed. Think what -it would be if he knew the rest!" -</p> - -<p> -"And what are you going to do?" Madame Brion mournfully exclaimed. -"These men will meet again. They will talk about you. And if Olivier -loves his friend as you say he does, he will tell him all. Listen," she -continued, clasping her hands, "listen to what the tenderest and most -devoted affection advises you to do. I do not speak of your duty, of the -opinion of the world, or the vengeance of your husband. I know you would -brave all that, as you did before, to win your happiness. But you will -not win it. You could not be happy in this love with that secret on your -heart. You will be tortured by it, and if you speak—I know you, you -must have thought of it—if you speak—" -</p> - -<p> -"If I told him, I would never see him again," said Madame de Carlsberg. -"Ah! without that certitude—" -</p> - -<p> -"Well! Have the courage to do it," interrupted the other. "You had the -strength to leave Cannes for a week. You should have enough to leave for -good. You will not be alone. I will go with you. You will suffer. But -what is that, when you think of what otherwise would happen,—that -you would be everything to this young man, and he everything to you, and -he would know that you had been the mistress of his friend!" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I have thought of all that," replied the Baroness, "and then I -remember I might have had six months, a year, and perhaps more. And that -is to have lived, to have been in this hard world for a year one's self, -one's true self, the being that one is in one's innermost and deepest -reality." -</p> - -<p> -And as she spoke she gazed at the sky with the same look that she had -had at the beginning of the walk. She seemed once more to bathe her face -in the moonlight, and to absorb the impassive serenity of the mountains -and the stars, as though to gather force to go to the end of her desire. -And as they resumed again in silence their promenade among the obscure -palms, by the fragrant rose-beds, and beneath the sombre shadow of the -orange trees, the faithful friend murmured:— -</p> - -<p> -"I will save her in spite of herself." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap03"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER III -<br /><br /> -A SCRUPLE</h4> - -<p> -The "Sire" de Corancez—as Madame de Carlsberg disdainfully called the -Southerner—was not a man to neglect the slightest detail that he -thought advantageous to a well-studied plan. His father, the -vine-grower, used to say to him, "Marius? Don't worry about Marius. He's -a shrewd bird." And, in truth, at the very moment when the Baroness Ely -was beginning her melancholy confidences in the deserted garden alleys -of the Villa Brion, this adroit person discovered Hautefeuille at the -station, installed him in the train between Chésy and Dickie Marsh and -manœuvred so skilfully that before reaching Nice the American had -invited Pierre to visit the next morning his yacht, the Jenny, anchored -in the roadstead at Cannes. But the next morning would be the last hours -that Corancez could spend at Cannes before his departure, ostensibly for -Marseilles and Barbentane, in reality for Italy. -</p> - -<p> -He had the promise of Florence Marsh that Hautefeuille's visit to the -<i>Jenny</i> would be immediately followed by an invitation to take part in -the cruise of the 14th. Would Pierre accept? Above all, would he consent -to act as witness in that clandestine ceremony, at which the queerly -named Venetian <i>abbé</i>, Don Fortunato Lagumina, would pronounce the -words of eternal union between the millions of the deceased Francesco -Bonnacorsi and the heir of the doubtful scutcheon of the Corancez? The -Provençal had but this last morning to persuade his friend. -</p> - -<p> -But he had no fear of failure, and at half-past nine, fresh, in spite of -the fact that he had returned from Monte Carlo on the last train the -night before, he briskly descended the steps of the hill that separates -Cannes from the Gulf of Juan. Pierre Hautefeuille had installed himself -for the winter in one of those hotels whose innumerable flower-framed -windows line this height, which the people of Cannes have adorned with -the exotic name of California. -</p> - -<p> -It was one of those mornings of sun and wind—of fresh sunlight and -warm breeze—which are the charm of winter on this coast. Roses -bloomed by hundreds on hedge and terrace. The villas, white or painted, -shone through their curtains of palm trees and araucarias, aloes and -bamboos, mimosas and eucalyptus. The peninsula of La Croisette projected -from the hill toward the islands, and its dark forest of pines, flecked -with white houses, arose in strong relief between the tender blue of the -sky and the sombre blue of the sea, and the Sire de Corancez went on gayly, -a bouquet of violets in the buttonhole of the most becoming coat that a -complacent tailor ever fashioned for a handsome young man in chase of an -heiress, his small feet tightly fitted in russet shoes, a straw hat on -his thick, black hair; his eyes bright, his teeth glistening in a half -smile, his beard lustrous and scented, his movements graceful. -</p> - -<p> -He was happy in the animal portion of his nature; a happiness that was -wholly physical and sensual. He was able to enjoy the divine sunlight, -the salt breeze, odorous with flowers; this atmosphere, soft as spring; -to enjoy the morning and his own sense of youth, while the calculator -within him soliloquized upon the character of the man he was about to -rejoin and upon the chances of success:— -</p> - -<p> -"Will he accept or not? Yes, he will beyond any doubt, when he knows -that Madame de Carlsberg will be on the boat. Should I tell him? No; I -would offend him. How his arm trembled in mine last night when I -mentioned her name! Bah! Marsh or his niece will speak to him about her, -or they are no Americans. That is their way—and it succeeds with -them—to speak right out whatever they think or wish.—If he -accepts? Is it prudent to have one more witness? Yes; the more people -there are in the secret, the more Navagero will be helpless when the day -comes for the great explanation.—A secret? With three women -knowing it? Madame de Carlsberg will tell it all to Madame Brion. It -will go no further on that side. Flossie Marsh will tell it all to young -Verdier. And it will stop there, too. Hautefeuille? Hautefeuille is the -most reliable of all.—How little some men change! There is a boy I -have scarcely seen since our school-days. He is just as simple and -innocent as when we used to confess our sins to the good Father Jaconet. -He has learned nothing from life. He does not even suspect that the -Baroness is as much in love with him as he with her. She will have to -make a declaration to him. If we could talk it over together, she and I. -Let nature have her way. A woman who desires a young man and does not -capture him—that may occur, perhaps, in the horrible fogs of the -North, but in this sunlight and among these flowers, never.—Good, -here is his hotel. It would be convenient for a rendezvous, these -barracks. So many people going in and out that a woman might enter ten -times without being noticed." -</p> - -<p> -Hôtel des Palmes—the name justified by a tropical -garden—appeared in dazzling letters on the façade of this -building, whose gray walls, pretentiously decorated with gigantic -sculpture, arose at a bend of the road. The balconies were supported by -colossal caryatides, the terrace by fluted columns. Pierre Hautefeuille -occupied a modest room in this caravansary, which had been recommended -by his doctor; and if, on the night before, his sentimental reverie in -the hall at Monte Carlo had seemed paradoxical, his daily presence in a -cell of this immense cosmopolitan hive was no less so. -</p> - -<p> -Here he lived, retired, absorbed in his chimerical fancies, enveloped in -the atmosphere of his dreams, while beside him, above him, and below him -swarmed the agitated colony which the Carnival attracts to the coast. -Again on this morning the indulgent mockery of Corancez might have found -a fitting subject, if the heavy stones of the building had suddenly -become transparent, and the enterprising Southerner had seen his friend, -with his elbows on the writing-table, hypnotized before the gold box -purchased the evening before; and his mockery would have changed to -veritable stupefaction, had he been able to follow the train of this -lover's thoughts, who, ever since his purchase, had been a prey to one -of those fevers of remorseful anxiety which are the great tragedies of a -timid and silent passion. -</p> - -<p> -This fever had begun in the train on the way back from Monte Carlo amid -the party collected by Corancez. One of Chésy's remarks had started it. -</p> - -<p> -"Is it true," Chésy asked of Marius, "that Baroness Ely lost this -evening a hundred thousand francs, and that she sold her diamonds to one -of the gamblers in order to continue?" -</p> - -<p> -"How history is written!" Corancez responded. "I was there with -Hautefeuille. She lost this evening just what she had gained, that is -all; and she sold a trifling jewel worth a hundred louis,—a gold -cigarette case." -</p> - -<p> -"The one she always uses?" asked Navagero; then gayly, "I hope the -Archduke will not hear this story. Although a democrat, he is severe on -the question of good form." -</p> - -<p> -"Who do you suppose would tell him?" Corancez replied. -</p> - -<p> -"The aide-de-camp, <i>parbleu</i>," exclaimed Chésy. "He spies into -everything she does, and if the jewel is gone, the Archduke will hear of -it." -</p> - -<p> -"Bah! She will buy it back to-morrow morning. Monte Carlo is full of -these honest speculators. They, in fact, are the only ones who win at -the game." -</p> - -<p> -While Hautefeuille was listening to this dialogue, every word of which -pierced to his heart, he caught a glance from the Marquise -Bonnacorsi—a look of curiosity, full of meaning to the timid -lover, for he plainly read in it the knowledge of his secret. The -subject of the conversation immediately changed, but the words that had -been spoken and the expression in Madame Bonnacorsi's eyes sufficed to -fill the young man with a remorse as keen as though the precious box had -been taken from the pocket of his evening coat, and shown to all these -people. -</p> - -<p> -"Could the Marquise have seen me buy it?" he asked himself, trembling -from head to foot. "And if she saw me, what does she think?" -</p> - -<p> -Then, as she entered into conversation with Florence Marsh, and appeared -once more to be perfectly indifferent to his existence, "No, I am -dreaming," he thought; "it is not possible that she saw me. I was -careful to observe the people who were there. I was mistaken. She looked -at me in that fixed way of hers which means nothing. I was dreaming. But -what the others said was not a dream. This cigarette case she will wish -to buy back to-morrow. She will find the merchant. He will tell her that -he has sold it. He will describe me. If she recognizes me from his -description?" -</p> - -<p> -At this thought he trembled once more. In a sudden hallucination he saw -the little parlor of the Villa Helmholtz—the Archduke had thus named -his house after the great savant who had been his master. The lover saw -the Baroness Ely sitting by the fire in a dress of black lace with bows -of myrtle green, the one of her dresses which he most admired. He saw -himself entering this parlor in the afternoon; he saw the furniture, the -flowers in their vases, the lamps with their tinted shades, all these -well-loved surroundings, and a different welcome—a look in which he -would perceive, not by a wild hypothesis this time, but with certitude, -that Madame de Carlsberg knew <i>what he had done</i>. The pain which the -mere thought of this caused him brought him back to reality. -</p> - -<p> -"I am dreaming again," he said to himself, "but it is none the less -certain that I have been very imprudent—even worse, indelicate. I -had no right to buy that box. No, I had no right. I risked, in the first -place, the chance of being seen, and of compromising her. And then, even -as it is, if some indiscreet remark is made, and if the Prince makes an -investigation?" -</p> - -<p> -In another hallucination he saw the Archduke Henry Francis and the -Baroness face to face. He saw the beautiful, the divine eyes of the -woman he loved fill with tears. She would suffer in her private life -once more, and from his fault, on account of him who would have given -all his blood with delight in order that mouth so wilfully sad -might smile with happiness. Thus the most imaginary, but also the most -painful of anxieties commenced to torture the young man, while Miss -Marsh and Corancez in a corner of the compartment exchanged in a low -voice these comments:— -</p> - -<p> -"I shall ask my uncle to invite him, that's settled," said the young -American girl. "Poor boy, I have a real sympathy for him. He looks so -melancholy. They have pained him by talking so of the Baroness." -</p> - -<p> -"No, no," said Corancez. "He is in despair at having missed, by his own -fault, a chance of speaking with his idol this evening. Imagine, at the -moment when I went up to her—piff—my Hautefeuille disappeared. -He is remorseful at having been too timid. That is a sentiment which I -hope never to feel." -</p> - -<p> -Remorse. The astute Southerner did not realize how truly he had spoken. -He was mistaken in regard to the motive, but he had given the most -precise and fitting term to the emotion which kept Hautefeuille awake -through the long hours of the night, and which this morning held him -motionless before the precious case. It was as though he had not bought -it, but had stolen it, so much did he suffer to have it there before his -eyes. What was he to do now? Keep it? That had been his instinctive, his -passionate desire when he hurried to the merchant. This simple object -would make the Baroness Ely so real, so present to him. Keep it? The -words he had heard the night before came back to him, and with them all -his apprehension. Send it back to her? What could be more certain to -make the young woman seek out who it was who had taken such a liberty, -and if she did find out? -</p> - -<p> -A prey to these tumultuous thoughts, Pierre turned the golden box in his -hands. He spelled out the absurd inscription written in precious stones -on the cover of the case: "M.E. moi. 100 C.C.—Aimez-moi sans cesser," -the characters said; and the lover thought that this present, bearing -such a tender request, must have been given to Madame de Carlsberg by -the Archduke or some very dear friend. -</p> - -<p> -What agony he would have felt had the feminine trinket been able to -relate its history and all the quarrels that its sentimental device had -caused during the <i>liaison</i> of the Baroness Ely with Olivier du -Prat. How often Du Prat, too, had tried to discover from whom his -mistress had received this present—one of those articles whose -unnecessary gaudiness savors of adultery. And he could never draw from -the young woman the name of the mysterious person who had given it, of -whom Ely had said to Madame Brion, "It was some one who is no longer in -this world." -</p> - -<p> -In truth, this suspicious case was not a souvenir of anything very -culpable; the Baroness had received it from one of the Counts Kornow. -She had had with him one of her earliest flirtations, pushed far -enough—as the inscription testified—but interrupted before its -consummation by the departure of the young Count for the war in Turkey. -He had been killed at Plevna. -</p> - -<p> -Yes, how miserable Hautefeuille would have been if he could have divined -the words that had been uttered over this case—words of romantic -tenderness from the young Russian, words of outrageous suspicion from -his dearest friend, that Olivier whose portrait—what -irony!—was on the table before him at this moment. That heart so -young, still so intact, so pure, so confiding, was destined to bleed for -that which he did not suspect on this morning when, in all his delicacy, -he accused no one but himself. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly a knock on the door made him start in terror. He had been so -absorbed in his thoughts that he had not noticed the time, or remembered -the rendezvous with his friend. He hid the cigarette case in the table -drawer, with all the agitation of a discovered criminal. "Come in," he -said in a quivering voice; and the elegant and jovial countenance of -Corancez appeared at the door. With that slight accent which neither -Paris nor the princely salons of Cannes had been able wholly to correct, -the Southerner began:— -</p> - -<p> -"What a country mine is, all the same! What a morning, what air, what -sunlight! They are wearing furs up there, and we—" He threw open his -light coat. Then, as his eye caught the view, he continued, thinking -aloud: "I have never before climbed up to your lighthouse. What a scene! -How the long ridge of the Esterel stretches out, and what a sea! A piece -of waving satin. This would be divine with a little more space. You are -not uncomfortable with only one room?" -</p> - -<p> -"Not in the least," said Hautefeuille; "I have so few things with -me—merely a few books." -</p> - -<p> -"That's so," Corancez replied, glancing over the narrow room, which, -with the modest case opened on the bureau, had the look of an officer's -tent. "You have not the mania for <i>bric-à-brac</i>. If you could see the -ridiculously complete dressing-case that I carry around with me, not to -speak of a trunk full of knick-knacks. But I have been corrupted by the -foreigners. You have remained a true Frenchman. People never realize how -simple, sober, and economical the French are. They are too much so in -their hate of new inventions. They detest them as much as the English and -Americans love them—you, for example. I am sure that it was only by -accident you came to this ultra-modern hotel, and that you abominate the -luxury and the comfort." -</p> - -<p> -"You call it luxury?" Hautefeuille interrupted, shrugging his shoulders. -"But there is truth in what you say. I don't like to complicate my -existence." -</p> - -<p> -"I know that prejudice," Corancez replied; "you are for the stairway -instead of the lift, for the wood fire instead of the steam heater, for -the oil lamp instead of the electric light, for the post instead of the -telephone. Those are the ideas of old France. My father had them. But I -belong to the new school. Never too many hot and cold water faucets. -Never too many telegraph and telephone wires. Never too many machines to -save you the slightest movement. They have one fault, however, these new -hotels. Their walls are thin as a sheet of paper; and as I have -something serious to say to you, and also a great service to ask of you, -we will go out, if you are willing. We'll walk to the port, where Marsh -will wait for us at half-past ten. Does that suit you? We'll kill time -by taking the longest way." -</p> - -<p> -The Provençal had a purpose in proposing the "longest way." He wished -to lead his friend past the garden of Madame de Carlsberg. -</p> - -<p> -Corancez was something of a psychologist, and was guided by his instinct -with more certainty than he could have been by all the theories of M. -Taine on the revival of images. He was certain that the proposition in -regard to the plot at Genoa would be accepted by Hautefeuille for the -sake of a voyage with the Baroness Ely. The more vividly the image of -the young woman was called up to the young man, the more he would be -disposed to accept Corancez's proposition. -</p> - -<p> -Thanks to his innocent Machiavelism, the two friends, instead of going -straight toward the port, took the road that led to the west of -California. They passed a succession of wild ravines, still covered with -olives, those beautiful trees whose delicate foliage gives a silver tone -to the genuine Provençal landscape. The houses grew more rare and -isolated, till at certain places, as in the valley of Urie, one seemed -to be a hundred miles from town and shore, so completely did the wooded -cliffs hide the sea and the modern city of Cannes. -</p> - -<p> -The misanthropy of the Archduke Henry Francis had led him to build -his villa on this very ridge, at whose foot lay that species of -park—inevitably inhabited and preserved by the English—through -which Corancez conducted Hautefeuille. They came to a point where the -Villa Helmholtz suddenly presented itself to their view. It was a heavy -construction of two stories, flanked on one side by a vast greenhouse -and on the other by a low building with a great chimney emitting a dense -smoke. The Southerner pointed to the black column rising into the blue -sky and driven by the gentle breeze through the palms of the garden. -</p> - -<p> -"The Archduke is in his laboratory," he said; "I hope that Verdier is -making some beautiful discovery to send to the Institute." -</p> - -<p> -"You don't think, then, that he works himself?" asked Pierre. -</p> - -<p> -"Not much," said Corancez. "You know the science of princes and their -literature. However, that doesn't matter to me in the least. But what I -don't like at all is the way he treats his charming wife—for she is -charming, and she has once more proved it to me in a circumstance that I -shall tell you about; and you heard what they said last night, that she -is surrounded by spies." -</p> - -<p> -"Even at Monte Carlo?" Hautefeuille exclaimed. -</p> - -<p> -"Above all at Monte Carlo," replied Corancez. "And then, it is my -opinion that if the Archduke does not love the Baroness he is none the -less jealous, furiously jealous, of her, and nothing is more ferocious -than jealousy without love. Othello strangled his wife for a -handkerchief he had given her, and he adored her. Think of the row the -Archduke would make about the cigarette case she sold if it was he who -gave it to her." -</p> - -<p> -These remarks, in a tone half serious, half joking, contained a piece of -advice which the Southerner wished to give his friend before departing. -It was as though he had said in plain language: "Court this pretty woman -as much as you like; she is delicious; but beware of the husband." He -saw Hautefeuille's expressive face suddenly grow clouded, and -congratulated himself on being understood so quickly. How could he have -guessed that he had touched an open wound, and that this revelation of -the Prince's jealousy had but intensified the pain of remorse in the -lover's tender conscience? -</p> - -<p> -Hautefeuille was too proud, too manly, with all his delicacy, to harbor -for a moment such calculations as his friend had diplomatically -suggested. He was one of those who, when they love, are afflicted by -nothing but the suffering of the loved one, and who are always ready to -expose themselves to any danger. That which he had seen the night before -in the hallucination of his first remorsefulness he saw again, and more -clearly, more bitterly,—that possible scene between the Archduke and -the Baroness Ely, of which he would be the cause, if the Prince learned -of the sale of the case, and the Baroness was unable to recover it. -</p> - -<p> -So he listened distractedly to Corancez's talk, who, however, had had -the tact to change the conversation and to relate one of the humorous -anecdotes of his repertory. What interest could Pierre have in the -stories, more or less true, of the absurdities or scandals of the coast? -He did not again pay attention to his companion until, having reached La -Croisette, Corancez decided to put the great question. Along this -promenade, more crowded than usual, a person was approaching who would -furnish the Southerner with the best pretext for beginning his -confidence; and, suddenly taking the arm of the dreamer to arouse him -from his reveries, Corancez whispered:— -</p> - -<p> -"I told you a moment ago that Madame de Carlsberg had of late been -particularly good to me, and I told you, as we left the hotel, that I -had a service to ask of you, a great service. You do not perceive the -connection between these two circumstances? You will soon understand the -enigma. Do you see who is coming toward us?" -</p> - -<p> -"I see the Count Navagero," Hautefeuille answered, "with his two dogs -and a friend whom I do not know. That is all." -</p> - -<p> -"It is the whole secret of the enigma. But wait till they pass. He is -with Lord Herbert Bohun. He will not deign to speak to us." -</p> - -<p> -The Venetian moved toward them, more English in appearance than the -Englishman by his side. This child of the Adriatic had succeeded in -realizing the type of the Cowes or Scarborough "masher," and with such -perfection that he escaped the danger of becoming a caricature. Clothed -in a London suit of that cloth which the Scotch call "harris" from its -place of origin, and which has a vague smell of peat about it, his -trousers turned up according to the London manner, although not a drop -of rain had fallen for a week, he was walking with long, stiff strides, -one hand grasping his cane by the middle, the other hand holding his -gloves. -</p> - -<p> -His face was smoothly shaven; he wore a cap of the same cloth as that of -his coat, and smoked a briarwood pipe of the shape used at Oxford. Two -small, hairy Skye terriers trotted behind him, their stubby legs -supporting a body three times as long as it was high. From what tennis -match was he returning? To what game of golf was he on his way? His red -hair, of that color so frequent in the paintings of Bonifazio, an -inheritance from the doges, his ancestors, added the finishing touch to -his incredible resemblance to Lord Herbert. -</p> - -<p> -There was, however, one difference between them. As they passed Corancez -and Hautefeuille, the twins uttered a good morning—Bohun's entirely -without accent, while the syllables of the Venetian were emphasized in a -manner excessively Britannic. -</p> - -<p> -"You have observed that man," Corancez continued, when they had passed -beyond earshot, "and you take him for an Anglomaniac of the most -ridiculous kind. But, when you scratch his English exterior, what do you -suppose you find beneath it? An Italian of the time of Machiavelli, as -unscrupulous as though he were living at the court of the Borgias. He -would poison us all, you, me, any one who crossed his path. I have read -it in his hand, but don't be uneasy; he has not yet put his principles -into practice, only he has tortured for six years a poor, defenceless -woman, the adorable Madame Bonnacorsi, his sister. I do not attempt to -explain it. But for six years he has so terrorized over this woman that -she has not taken a step without his knowing of it, has not had a -servant that he has not chosen, has not received a letter without having -to account for it to him. It is one of those domestic tyrannies which -you would not believe possible unless you had read of them in the -newspaper reports, or actually witnessed it as I have. He does not wish -her to remarry, because he lives on her great fortune. That is the -point." -</p> - -<p> -"How infamous!" Hautefeuille exclaimed. "But are you sure?" -</p> - -<p> -"As sure as I am that I see Marsh's boat," replied Corancez, pointing to -the trim yacht at anchor in the bay. And he continued lightly, in a tone -that was sentimental and yet manly, not without a certain grace: "And -what I am going to ask you is to help me circumvent this pretty -gentleman. We Provençaux have always a Quixotic side to our character. -We have a mania for adventurous undertakings; it is the sun that puts -that in our blood. If Madame Bonnacorsi had been happy and free, -doubtless I should not have paid much attention to her. But when I -learned that she was unhappy, and was being miserably abused, I fell -wildly in love with her. How I came to let her know of this and to find -that she loved me I will tell you some other day. If Navagero is from -Venice, I am from Barbentane. It is a little further from the sea, but -we understand navigation. At any rate, I am going to marry Madame -Bonnacorsi, and I am going to ask you to be my groomsman." -</p> - -<p> -"You are going to marry Madame Bonnacorsi?" repeated Hautefeuille, too -astonished to answer his friend's request. "But the brother?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh! he knows nothing about it," Corancez replied. "But that is just -where the good fairy came into the story in the form of the charming -Baroness Ely. Without her, Andryana—permit me thus to call my -<i>fiancée</i>—would never have brought herself to say 'yes.' She -loved me, and yet she was afraid. Do not misjudge her. These tender, -sensitive women have strange timidities, which are difficult to -understand. She was afraid, but chiefly for me. She feared a quarrel -between her brother and me—hot words, a duel. Then I proposed and -persuaded her to accept the most romantic and unusual expedient,—a -secret marriage. On the 14th of next month, God willing, a Venetian -priest, in whom she has confidence, will marry us in the chapel of a -palace at Genoa. In the meantime I shall disappear. I am supposed to be -at Barbentane among my vineyards. And on the 13th, while Navagero is -playing the Englishman on Lord Herbert Bohun's yacht, with the Prince of -Wales and other royal personages, Marsh's boat, to which you will be -invited, will sail away with a number of passengers, among whom will be -the woman I love the most in the world, and to whom I shall devote my -life, and the friend I most esteem, if he does not refuse my request. -What does he answer?" -</p> - -<p> -"He answers," said Hautefeuille, "that if ever he was astonished in his -life, he is so now. You, Corancez, in love, and so much in love that you -will sacrifice your liberty. You have always seemed so careless, so -indifferent. And a secret marriage. But it will not remain a secret -twenty-four hours. I know your exuberance. You always tell everything -you know to everybody. But I thank you for the friendship you have shown -me, and I will be your groomsman." -</p> - -<p> -As he said these last words he shook Corancez's hand with that simple -seriousness which he showed for everything. His companion had touched -him deeply. Doubtless this simplicity and candid trustfulness -embarrassed the Southerner. He was very willing to profit from them, but -he felt a little ashamed at abusing too much this loyal nature, whose -charm he also felt, and he mingled with his thanks a confession such as -he had never before made to any one. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't think me so exuberant. The sun always has that effect. But, in -truth, we men of the South never say what we mean.—Here we are. -Remember," he said, with his finger on his lips, "Miss Marsh knows all, -Marsh knows nothing." -</p> - -<p> -"One word more," Hautefeuille replied; "I have promised to be your -groomsman. But you will permit me to go to Genoa another way? I don't -know these people well enough to accept an invitation of that kind." -</p> - -<p> -"I trust to Flossie Marsh to overcome your scruples," said Corancez, -unable to repress a smile. "You will be one of the passengers on the -<i>Jenny</i>. Do you know why this boat is called the <i>Jenny</i>? Only an -Anglo-Saxon would permit himself seriously such a play upon words. You -have heard of Jenny Lind, the singer? Well, the reason the facetious -Marsh gave this pretty name to his floating villa was <i>because she keeps -the high seas</i>. And every time he explains this he is so amazed at his -wit that he fairly chokes with laughter.—But what a delicious day." -</p> - -<p> -The elegant lines of the <i>Jenny's</i> rigging and white hull could now be -seen close at hand. She seemed the young, coquettish queen of the little -port, amid the fishing boats, yawls, and coasters that swarmed about the -quay. A group of sailors on the stone curb sang while they mended their -nets. On the ground-floor of the houses were offices of ship companies, -or shops, stored with provisions and tackle. The working population, -totally absent from this city of leisure, is concentrated upon the -narrow margin of the port, and gives it that popular picturesqueness so -refreshing in contrast with the uniform banality imprinted on the South -by its wealthy visitors. It was doubtless an unconscious sense of that -contrast that led the plebeian Marsh to choose this point of the -roadstead. -</p> - -<p> -This self-made man who also had labored on the quays at Cleveland, by -the shores of Lake Erie, whose waters are more stormy than the -Mediterranean, despised at heart the vain and vapid society in which he -lived. He lived in it, however, because the cosmopolitan aristocracy was -still another world to conquer. -</p> - -<p> -When he regaled some grand duke or prince regent on board his yacht, -what voluptuous pride he might feel on looking at these fishermen of his -own age, and saying to himself, while he smoked his cigar with the royal -or imperial highness: "Thirty years ago these fishermen and I were -equals. I was working just as they are. And now?" As Hautefeuille and -Corancez did not figure on any page of the Almanach de Gotha, the master -of the yacht did not consider it necessary to await his visitors on -deck; and when the young men arrived they found no one but Miss Flossie -Marsh, seated on a camp-stool before an easel, sketching in water -colors. Minutely, patiently, she copied the landscape before her,—the -far-off group of islands melting together like a long, dark carapace -fixed on the blue bay, the hollow and supple line of the gulf, with the -succession of houses among the trees, and, above all, the water of such -an intense azure, dotted with white sails, and over all that other azure -of the sky, clear, transparent, luminous. The industrious hand of the -young girl copied this scene in forms and colors whose exactitude and -hardness revealed a very small talent at the service of a very strong -will. -</p> - -<p> -"These American women are astonishing," whispered Corancez to -Hautefeuille. "Eighteen months ago she had never touched a brush. She -began to work and she has made herself an artist, as she will make -herself a <i>savante</i> if she marries Verdier. They construct talents in -their minds as their dentists build gold teeth in your mouth.—She -sees us." -</p> - -<p> -"My uncle is busy at present," said the young girl, after giving them a -vigorous handshake. "I tell him he should call the boat his office. As -soon as we reach a port his telephone is connected with the telegraph -station, and the cable begins to communicate with Marionville. Let us -say good morning to him, and then I will show you the yacht. It is -pretty enough, but an old model; it is at least ten years old. Mr. Marsh -is having one built at Glasgow that will beat this one and a good many -others. It is to measure four thousand tons. The <i>Jenny</i> is only -eighteen hundred. But here is my uncle." -</p> - -<p> -Miss Florence had led the young men across the deck of the boat, with -its planking as clean, its brass-work as polished, its padded furniture, -of brown straw, as fresh, its Oriental rugs as precious as though this -flooring, this metal, these armchairs, these carpets belonged to one of -the villas on the coast, instead of to this yacht which had been tossed -on all the waves of the Atlantic and Pacific. And the room into which -the young girl introduced them could not have presented a different -aspect had it been situated in Marionville on the fifth story of one of -those colossal buildings which line the streets with their vast cliffs -of iron and brick. Three secretaries were seated at their desks. One of -them was copying letters on a typewriter, another was telephoning a -despatch, the third was writing in shorthand at the dictation of the -little, thick-set, gray-faced man whom Corancez had shown to -Hautefeuille at the table of <i>trente-et-quarante</i>. This king of Ohio -paused to greet his visitors:— -</p> - -<p> -"Impossible to accompany you, gentlemen," he said. "While you are taking -your promenade," he added, with that air of tranquil defiance by which -the true Yankee manifests his contempt for the Old World, "we shall -prepare a pretty voyage for you. But you Frenchmen are so contented at -home that you never go anywhere. Do you know the Lake Region? Wait, here -is the map. We have there, just on these four lakes—Superior, -Michigan, Huron, and Erie—sixty thousand ships, amounting to -thirty-two million tons, which transport every year three thousand five -hundred million tons of merchandise. The problem is to put this fleet -and the cities on the lakes—Duluth, Milwaukee, Chicago, Detroit, -Cleveland, Buffalo, Marionville—in communication with Europe. The -lakes empty into the ocean through the St. Lawrence. That is the road to -follow. Unfortunately we have a little obstacle to overcome at the -outlet of Lake Erie, an obstacle once and a half as high as the Arc de -l'Etoile at Paris. I mean Niagara, and also the rapids at the outlet of -Lake Ontario. They have made seven or eight canals, with locks which -permit the passage of little boats. But we wish a free passage for any -transatlantic vessel. This gentleman is about to conclude the affair," -and Marsh pointed to the secretary at the telephone. "Our capital has -been completed this morning—two hundred million dollars. In two -years I shall sail home in the <i>Jenny</i> without once disembarking. I -wish Marionville to become the Liverpool of the lakes. It has already a -hundred thousand inhabitants. In two years we shall have a hundred and -fifty thousand; that is equal to your Toulouse. In ten years, two -hundred and fifty thousand—that is equal to your -Bordeaux—and in twenty years we shall reach the five hundred and -seventeen thousand of old Liverpool. We are a young people, and -everything young should begin by progressing. You will excuse me for a -few minutes, gentlemen?" -</p> - -<p> -And the indefatigable worker had re-commenced his dictation before his -niece had led from the room these degenerate children of slow Europe. -</p> - -<p> -"Is he enough of an American for you?" Corancez whispered to -Hautefeuille. "He knows it too well, and he acts his own rôle to the -point of caricature. All their race appears in that." Then aloud: "You -know, Miss Flossie, we can talk freely of our plan before Pierre. He -consents to be my groomsman." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah! how delightful!" the young girl cried; then added gayly: "I had no -doubt you would accept. My uncle has asked me to invite you to join our -little voyage to Genoa. You will come, then. That will be perfectly -delicious. You will be rewarded for your kindness. You will have on -board your flirt, Madame de Carlsberg." -</p> - -<p> -As she said this the laughing girl looked the young man in the face. She -had spoken without malice, with that simple directness upon which -Corancez had justly counted. -</p> - -<p> -The people of the Hew World have this frankness, which we take for -brutality; it results from their profound and total acceptation of -facts. Flossie Marsh knew that the presence of Baroness Ely on the yacht -would be agreeable to Hautefeuille. Innocent American girl as she was, -she did not imagine for a moment that the relations between this young -man and a married woman could exceed the limits of a harmless flirtation -or a permissible sentimentality. So it had seemed to her as natural to -hazard this allusion to Pierre's sentiments as it would have been to -hear an allusion to her own sentiments for Marcel Verdier. Thus it was -strangely painful for her to see by the sudden pallor of the young man -and the trembling of his lips that she had wounded him. And her face -grew very red. -</p> - -<p> -If the Americans in their simplicity are at times wanting in tact, they -are sensitive to the highest degree; and these faults of tact which they -commit so easily are a real affliction to them. But that blush only -aggravated the painful surprise which Hautefeuille had felt at hearing -Madame de Carlsberg thus spoken of. By an inevitable and overwhelming -association of ideas he recalled Corancez's words, "I am sure that Miss -Marsh will overcome your scruples," and the smile with which he said -this. The look Madame Bonnacorsi had given him in the train the night -before returned to his memory. By an intuition, unreasoned yet -irrefutable, he perceived that the secret of his passion, hidden so -profoundly in his heart, had been discovered by these three persons. -</p> - -<p> -He quivered in every nerve with shame, revulsion, and distress; his -heart palpitated so violently that he could scarcely breathe. The -martyrdom of having to speak at this painful moment was spared him, -thanks to Corancez, who saw clearly enough the effect produced upon his -friend by the imprudence of the American girl, and, assuming the rôle -of host, he began:— -</p> - -<p> -"What do you think, Hautefeuille, of this salon and this smoking-room? -Isn't it well arranged? This trimming of light, varnished wood—what -neat and virile elegance! And this dining-room? And these cabins? One -could spend months, years in them. You see, each one with its separate -toilet-room." -</p> - -<p> -And he led on his companion and the young girl herself. He remembered -everything, with that astonishing memory for objects possessed by -natures like his, created for action, adapted to realities; with his -habitual self-assurance, he commented upon everything, from the pikes -and guns on the middle deck, awaiting the pirates of the South Seas, to -the machinery for filling and emptying the baths, and suddenly he asked -Miss Marsh this question, singular enough in a passage of that colossal -and luxurious toy which seemed to sum up the grand total of all -inventions for the refinement of life:— -</p> - -<p> -"Miss Flossie, may we see the death chamber?" -</p> - -<p> -"If it would interest M. Hautefeuille," said Florence Marsh, who had not -ceased to regret her thoughtless remark. "My uncle had an only -daughter," she continued, "who was named Marion, after my poor aunt. You -know that Mr. Marsh, who lost his wife when he was very young, named his -town after her, Marionville. My cousin died four years ago. My uncle was -almost insane with grief. He wished nothing to be altered in the room -she occupied on the yacht. He put her statue in it, and she has always -around her the flowers she loved in life. Wait, look, but do not go in." -</p> - -<p> -She opened the door, and the young men saw, by the light of two -blue-shaded lamps, a room all draped in faded pink. It was filled with a -profusion of small objects such as might be possessed by a spoiled child -of a railroad magnate—a toilet case of silver and gold, jewels in -glass boxes, portraits in carved frames—and in the centre, on a -real bed of inlaid wood, lay the statue of the dead girl, white, with -closed eyelids, the lips slightly parted, among sheaves of carnations -and of orchids. The silence of this strange shrine, the mystery, the -delicate perfume of the flowers, the unlooked-for poetry of this -posthumous idolatry, in the boat of a yachtsman and a man of business, -would, in any other circumstances, have appealed to the romanticism -innate in Pierre Hautefeuille's heart. But during all this visit he had -had but one thought,—to escape from Miss Marsh and Corancez, to be -alone in order to reflect upon the evidence, so painfully unexpected, -that his deepest secret had been discovered. So it was a relief to -depart from the boat, and still a torture to have the company of his -friend a few minutes longer. -</p> - -<p> -"Did you notice," said Corancez, "how much the dead girl resembles -Madame de Chésy? No? Well, when you meet her some time with Marsh, be -sure to observe her. The canal by the Great Lakes, his railroad, the -buildings of Marionville, his mines, his boat—he forgets them all. -He thinks of his dead daughter. If little Madame de Chésy should ask him -for the Kohinoor, he would set out to find it, for the mere sake of this -resemblance. Isn't it singular, such a sentimental trait in a rogue of -his stamp? His character ought to please you. If you are interested in -him, you will be able to study him at your leisure on the 13th, 14th, -and 15th. And let me thank you again for what you are going to do for -me. If you have anything to communicate to me, my address is Genoa, -<i>poste restante</i>. And now I must return to look after the packing. -Will you let me take you part of the way? I see the old coachman whom I -told to come here at eleven." -</p> - -<p> -Corancez hailed an empty cab which was passing, drawn by two small -Corsican ponies, who saluted the young man with a wink, his "Good day, -Monsieur Marius" revealing the familiarity of long conversations -between these two Provençaux. Pascal Espérandien, otherwise known as -the Old Man, was an alert little personage and very crafty, the pride of -whose life was to make his two rats trot faster than the Russian horses -of the grand dukes residing at Cannes. He harnessed them, trimmed them, -ornamented them so fantastically that they drew from all Miss Marsh's -compatriots, from Antibes to Napoule, the same exclamations of "How -lovely, how enchanting, how fascinating!" that they would have uttered -before a Raphael or a Worth dress, a polo match or a noted gymnast. -Doubtless the wily old man, with his shrewd smile, possessed diplomatic -talents which might make him useful in a secret intrigue, for the -prudent Corancez never took any other carriage, especially when he had, -as on this morning, a rendezvous with the Marquise Andryana. He was to -see her for five minutes in the garden of a hotel where she had a call -to make. Her carriage was to stand before one of the doors, the Old -Man's equipage before another. So nothing could have been more agreeable -than Pierre's response to this clandestine <i>fiancé</i>. -</p> - -<p> -"Thanks, but I prefer to walk." -</p> - -<p> -"Then good-by," said Corancez, getting into the cab. And, parodying a -celebrated verse, "To meet soon again, Seigneur, where you know, with -whom you know, for what you know?" -</p> - -<p> -The cab turned the corner of the Rue d'Antibes, and departed with -furious speed. Hautefeuille was at last alone. He could filially face -the idea which had been formulating itself in his thoughts with terrible -precision ever since Miss Florence Marsh had spoken these simple words, -"Your flirt, Madame de Carlsberg." -</p> - -<p> -"They all three know that I love her—the Marquise, Corancez, and -Miss Marsh. The look I caught from one of them last night, the remark -and the smile of the other, and what the third one said, and her blush -at having thought aloud—these are not dreams. They know -I love her—But then, Corancez, last night, when he led -me to the gambling-table, must have divined my thoughts. Such -dissimulation!—is it possible? But why not? He acknowledged it -himself awhile ago. To have concealed his sentiments for Madame -Bonnacorsi, he must know how to keep a secret. He kept his and I have -not kept mine. Who knows but they all three saw me buy the cigarette -case? But no. They could not have had the cruelty to speak of it and to -let it be spoken of before me. Marius is not malicious, neither is the -Marquise, nor Miss Marsh. They know—that is all—they know. -But how did they find out?" -</p> - -<p> -Yes, how? With a lover of his susceptibility such a question would of -necessity result in one of those self-examinations in which the scruples -of conscience develop all their feverish illusions. On the way back to -California and at the table where his luncheon was served to him apart, -and afterward on a solitary walk to the picturesque village of Mougins, -his life during these last few weeks came back to him, day by day, hour -by hour, with a displacement of perspective which presented all the -simple incidents of his naïve idyl as irreparable faults, crowned by -that last fault, the purchase of the gold box in a public place and in -full view of such people. -</p> - -<p> -He recalled his first meeting with Madame de Carlsberg, in the Villa -Chésy. How the peculiar beauty of the young woman and her strange charm -had captivated him from the start, and how he had permitted himself to -gaze upon her unrestrainedly, not dreaming that he was thus attracting -attention and causing remarks! He remembered how often he had gone to -her house, seizing every opportunity of meeting her and talking with -her. The indiscretion of such assiduity could not have passed -unperceived, any more than his continued presence at places where he had -never gone before. -</p> - -<p> -He saw again the golf field on those mornings when the Baroness Ely -seemed so beautiful, in her piquant dress of the bright club -colors—red and white. He saw himself at the balls, waiting in a -corner of the room until she entered with that enchantment which -emanated from every fold of her gown. He remembered how often at the -confectioner's, or La Croisette, he had approached her, and how she had -always invited him to sit at her table with such grace in her welcome. -Each of these memories recalled her amiability, her delicate indulgence. -</p> - -<p> -The memory of that charm, to which he yielded himself so completely, -augmented his self-reproach. He recalled his imprudent actions, so -natural when one does not feel one's self to be observed, but which -appear to be such faults as soon as one is conscious of suspicion. For -example, during the ten days on which the Baroness was absent from -Cannes he had not once returned to those places where he had gone simply -for the sake of seeing her. No one had met him at the golf field, nor at -any evening party, nor at any five o'clock tea. He had not even made a -call. Could this coincidence of his retirement with the absence of the -Baroness have failed to be remarked? What had been said about it? Since -his love had drawn him into this agitated world of pleasure he had often -been pained by the light words thrown out at hazard at the women of this -society, when they were not present. Had he been simply an object of -ridicule, or had they taken advantage of his conduct to calumniate the -woman he loved with a love so unhappy, ravaged by all the chimeras of -remorse? -</p> - -<p> -The words used by Florence Marsh—"your flirt"—gave a solid -basis to these hypotheses. He had always despised the things which this -word implied,—that shameful familiarity of a woman with a man, -that dangling of her beauty before his desire, all the vulgarity and -indiscretion which this equivocal relationship suggests. Could they -think that he had such relations with Madame de Carlsberg? Had this evil -interpretation been put upon his impulsiveness? Then he thought of the -sorrows which he divined in the life of this unique woman, of the -espionage that was spoken of, and again the hall at Monte Carlo appeared -to him, and he could not understand why he had not realized the -prodigious indelicacy of his action. He felt it now with most pitiful -acuteness. -</p> - -<p> -Haunted by these thoughts he prolonged his walk for hours and hours, and -when in the twilight, suddenly grown dark and cold, as it happens in the -South after days most soft and blue, as he entered the door of his -hotel, the concierge handed him a letter on which he recognized the -writing of Baroness Ely, his hands trembled as he tore open the -envelope, sealed with the imprint of an antique stone—the head of -Medusa. And if the head of this pagan legend had appeared alive before -him he would not have been more overwhelmed than he was by the simple -words of this note:— -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -"DEAR SIR—I have returned to Cannes and I should be happy if you -could come to-morrow, at about half-past one, to the Villa Helmholtz. I -wish to talk with you upon a serious matter. That is why I set this -hour, at which I am most certain of not being interrupted." -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -And she signed herself, not as in her last letters with her full name, -but as in the first she had written him—Baroness de Sallach -Carlsberg. Hautefeuille read and re-read these cold, dry lines. It was -evident that the young woman had learned of his purchase at Monte Carlo, -and all the agony of his remorse revealed itself in these words, which -he cried aloud as he entered his room:— -</p> - -<p> -"She knows! I am lost!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap04"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER IV -<br /><br /> -LOVERS' RESOLUTIONS</h4> - -<p> -The note which had thus brought Pierre's anxiety to its extreme -represented the first act in a plan invented by Madame Brion to put an -immediate and irreparable end to a sentiment for which her friendly -insight had led her to predict frightful suffering, a possible tragedy, -a certain catastrophe. After Madame de Carlsberg's sudden and passionate -confidences, she had said to herself that if she did not succeed in -immediately separating these two beings, drawn to each other by such an -instinctive attraction, the young man would not be slow to discover the -sentiment he inspired in the woman he loved. It was only thanks to his -remarkable ingenuousness and candor that he had not already discovered -it. -</p> - -<p> -When he knew the truth, what would happen? Ingenuous and candid though -she was herself, Louise Brion could not evade the true answer to this -question. As soon as an understanding took place between Hautefeuille -and Ely, she would go to the end of her desire. She had too clearly -revealed in her confession the indomitable audacity of her character, -her need of complying with the demands of her passions. She would become -the young man's mistress. Although the conversation of the night before -had imposed upon Louise the evidence of faults already committed by her -friend, neither her mind nor her heart could entertain the thought of -these faults. The mere idea of this liaison filled her with a shudder of -fright, almost of horror. All through the night she had tried to think -of some way to obtain the only escape she could see for Ely, the -voluntary departure of Hautefeuille. -</p> - -<p> -Her first thought was to appeal to his delicacy. The portrait Madame de -Carlsberg had drawn of him, his interesting face, his frank and honest -look, the naïveté of his amorous action in buying the gold box, all -revealed an exquisite fineness of nature. If she should write him, -bravely, simply, an unsigned letter, speaking of that action, of that -purchase which might have been, and no doubt had been, seen by others -too? If on this account she should beg him to leave in order to save -Madame de Carlsberg from trouble? During her long and feverish insomnia -she had tried to formulate this letter, without discovering expressions -which satisfied her. -</p> - -<p> -It was so difficult to make such a request without letting it signify, -"Go, because she loves you!" -</p> - -<p> -Then in the morning, when she had wakened from the tardy sleep that -ended this night of agony, a chance accident, commonplace enough, but in -which her piety saw something providential, gave her an unexpected -excuse for pleading, not with the young man at a distance, but with -Madame de Carlsberg herself and at once. While reading distractedly in -bed one of those newspapers of the Riviera, journals of international -snobbism which communicate information concerning all these arrant -aristocrats, she discovered the arrival at Cairo, of M. Olivier du Prat, -secretary of the Embassy, and his wife; and she rose at once to show Ely -these two lines of mundane news, so insignificant, yet so full of menace -for her. -</p> - -<p> -"If they are at Cairo," she said to the Baroness, "it means that their -Nile trip is over, and that they think of returning. What is the natural -route for them? From Alexandria to Marseilles. And if he is so near his -friend, this man will wish to see him." -</p> - -<p> -"It is true," said Ely, her heart beating wildly as she read the letters -of that name, Olivier du Prat. -</p> - -<p> -"It is true," she repeated. "They will meet again. Was I not right last -night?" -</p> - -<p> -"See," cried Louise Brion, "what it would have been if you had not had -thus far the strength to fight against your sentiment. See what it will -be if you do not put an end to it forever." -</p> - -<p> -And she continued describing with all the eloquence of her passionate -friendship a plan of conduct which suddenly occurred to her as the -wisest and most effectual. -</p> - -<p> -"You must take this opportunity which is offered to you. You will never -have a better one. You must have the young man come, and speak to him -yourself about the purchase he made last night. Tell him that others -have seen it; show him your astonishment at his indiscretion; tell him -that his assiduity has been noticed. For the sake of your welfare and -your reputation command him to go away. A little firmness for a few -minutes and it will all be done. He is not what you paint him, what I -feel him to be, if he does not obey your request. Ah! believe me, the -one way to love him is to save him from this tragedy, which is not -simply a far-off possibility, but an immediate and inevitable danger." -</p> - -<p> -Ely listened, but made no reply. Worn out by the terrible emotion of her -confidence on the previous night, she had no strength left to resist the -tender suggestions which appealed to her love itself, to struggle -against her love. There is, in fact, in these complete passions an -instinctive and violent desire for extreme resolutions. When these -sentiments cannot find satisfaction in perfect happiness, they obtain a -kind of grateful relief in their absolute frustration. Filling our soul -to the exclusion of all else, they bear it incessantly to one or the -other of the two poles, ecstasy and despair, without resting for a -moment between them. Having come to this stage of her passion, it -followed of necessity, as Louise Brion had clearly seen, that the -Baroness Ely should either become the young man's mistress, or that she -should put between herself and him the insurmountable barrier of a -separation before the <i>liaison</i>—secret romance of so many -women, both virtuous and otherwise. Yes! how many women have thus, in a -delirium of renouncement, dug an abyss between them and a secretly -idolized being, who never suspects this idolatry or this immolation. To -the innocent ones, the anticipation of the remorse which would follow -their fault gives the requisite energy; the others, the culpable, feel, -as Madame de Carlsberg felt so strongly, the inability to efface the -past, and they prefer the exalted martyrdom of sacrifice to the -intolerable bitterness of a joy forever poisoned by the atrocious -jealousy of that indestructible past. -</p> - -<p> -Another influence aided in overcoming the young woman's spirit of -revolt. Stranger as she was to all religious faith, she did not, like -her pious friend, attach anything providential to this commonplace -accident,—a newspaper account of a diplomatist's voyage,—but -had acquired, through her very incredulity, that unconscious fatalism -which is the last superstition of the sceptic. The sight of these fine -printed syllables, "Olivier du Prat," a few hours after the night's -conversation, had filled her with that feeling of presentiment, harder -to brave than real danger for certain natures, like hers, made up of -decision and action. -</p> - -<p> -"You are right," she answered, in the broken accent of an irremediable -renunciation, "I will see him, I will speak to him, and all will be -finished forever." -</p> - -<p> -It was with this resolution, made in truth with the fullest strength of -her heart, that she arrived at Cannes on the afternoon of the same day, -accompanied by Madame Brion, who did not wish to leave her; and, as soon -as she arrived, she had, almost under the dictation of her faithful -friend, written and despatched the letter which overwhelmed -Hautefeuille. She truly believed herself to be sincere in her resolution -to separate from him, and yet if she had been able to read to the bottom -of her heart, she might have seen, from a very trifling act, how fragile -this resolution was, and how much she was possessed by thoughts of love. -No sooner had she written to him from whom she wished to separate -forever than, at the same place, and with the same ink, she wrote two -letters to two persons of her acquaintance, in whose love-affairs she -was the confidante, and to some extent the accomplice,—Miss Florence -Marsh and the Marquise Andryana Bonnacorsi. -</p> - -<p> -She invited them to lunch with her on the morrow, thus obeying a -profound instinct which impels a woman who loves and suffers to seek the -company of women who are also in love, with whom she may talk of -sentimental things, of the happiness which warms them, who will pity her -sorrow, if she tells them of it, who will understand her and whom she -will understand. Usually, as she had said the night before, the -hesitation of the sentimental and timid Italian woman fatigued her, and -in the passion of the American girl for the Archduke's assistant, there -was an element of deliberate positivism, which jarred upon her native -impulsiveness. But the young widow and the young girl were two women in -love, and that sufficed, in this season of melancholy, to make it -delightful, almost necessary, to see them. She little thought that this -impulsive and natural invitation would provoke a violent scene with her -husband, or that a conjugal conflict would arise from it, whose final -episode was to have a tragic influence upon the issue of that growing -passion, which her reason had sworn to renounce. -</p> - -<p> -Having arrived at Cannes at three o'clock in the afternoon, she had not -seen him during the rest of the day. She knew that he had been with -Marcel Verdier in the laboratory, nor was she surprised to see him -appear at the dinner hour, accompanied by his aide-de-camp, Comte von -Laubach, the professional spy of His Highness, without a sign of -interest in her health, without a question as to how she had spent the -past ten days. -</p> - -<p> -The Prince had been in his youth one of the bravest and most handsome of -the incomparable cavaliers of his country, and the old soldier was -recognizable in the figure of this scientific maniac, which had remained -slender in spite of the fact that he was approaching his sixtieth year, -in the tone of command which his slightest accents retained, in his -martial face, scarred by a sabre at Sadowa, in his long mustache of -grizzly red. But what one never forgot after seeing the singular man was -his eyes—eyes of an intense blue, very bright and almost savagely -restless, under the pale, reddish brows of formidable thickness. The -Archduke had the eccentric habit of always wearing, even with his -evening dress, heavy laced shoes, which permitted him, as soon as the -dinner was over, to go out on foot, accompanied sometimes by his -aide-de-camp, sometimes by Verdier, for an endless nocturnal walk. He -prolonged them at times till three o'clock in the morning, having no -other means of gaining a little sleep for his morbid nerves. This -extreme nervousness was betrayed by his delicate hands, burned with -acids and deformed by tools of the laboratory, whose fingers twitched -incessantly in uncontrollable movements. -</p> - -<p> -From all his actions could be divined the dominant trait of his -character, a moral infirmity for which there is no precise term, the -inability to continue any sensation or to persist in any effort of the -will. That was the secret of the singular uneasiness which this man, so -distinguished in certain ways, imparted to those around him, and from -which he was the first to suffer. One felt that in the hands of this -strangely irritable person every enterprise would fail, and that a kind -of inward and irresistible frenzy prevented him from putting himself in -harmony with any environment, any circumstance, any necessity. This -superior nature was incapable of submission to facts. -</p> - -<p> -Perhaps the secret of his unbalanced condition lay in the fixed idea -that he had been at one time so near the throne and had lost it forever, -that he had seen irreparable faults committed in politics and in war, -that he had known of them while they were taking place and had not been -able to prevent them. -</p> - -<p> -Thus at the beginning of the war of 1866 he had, it was said, planned a -campaign which might have changed the face of Europe at this end of the -century. Instead he had to risk his life to execute manœuvres whose -certain failure he foresaw. Every year, on the anniversary of the famous -battle at which he had been wounded, he became literally insane for -forty-eight hours. He was equally so whenever he heard mentioned the -name of some great revolutionary soldier. -</p> - -<p> -The Archduke did not forgive himself for his weakness in continuing the -benefits attached to his title and rank when his tastes for abstract -theories and the bitterness of his blighted destiny had led him to -embrace the worst convictions of anarchistic socialism. With all that, -prodigiously learned, a great reader, and a great conversationalist, he -seemed to take revenge upon his own inconsistencies in conduct and in -action by the acuteness of his criticism. Never did his lips express -admiration without some disparaging and cruel reservation. Only -scientific research, with its impregnable certitudes, appeared to -communicate to this disordered intelligence a little repose, and, as it -were, a steadier equilibrium. -</p> - -<p> -Since the time when his disagreements with his wife had resulted in that -species of moral divorce imposed by higher authority, his researches had -absorbed him more than ever. -</p> - -<p> -Retired at Cannes, where he was kept by the beginning of an attack of -asthma, he had worked so hard that he had transformed himself from an -amateur into a professional, and a series of important discoveries in -electricity had given him a semi-reputation among specialists. His -enemies had spread abroad the report, which Corancez had echoed, that he -had simply published under his own name the work of Marcel Verdier, a -graduate of the École Normale, attached for some years to his -laboratory. In justice to the Archduke, it must be said that this -calumny had not lessened the enthusiasm and jealous affection which the -strange man felt for his assistant. For the final trait of this being, -so wavering, uncertain, and, in consequence, profoundly, passionately -unjust, was that his only attachments were infatuations. The story of -his relations with his wife was the same as with all the relations -formed in a life made up of alternations between passionate sympathy and -inordinate antipathy for the same persons, and for no other cause than -that incapacity of self-control, an incapacity which had made him, with -all his gifts, tyrannical, unamiable, and profoundly unhappy, and, to -borrow a vulgar but too justifiable epigram from Corancez, the great -Failure of the Almanach de Gotha. -</p> - -<p> -Madame de Carlsberg had had too long an experience with her husband's -character not to understand it admirably, and she had suffered too much -from it to avoid being, on her side, exceedingly unjust toward him. A -bad temper is of all faults the one that women are least willing to -pardon in a man, perhaps because it is the most opposed to the most -virile of virtues, steadfastness. -</p> - -<p> -She was too keen not to discern in that tormented face the approaching -storm, as sailors read the face of the sky and the sea. -</p> - -<p> -When on this evening of her return to Cannes, she found herself sitting -at the table in front of the Archduke, she easily divined that the -dinner would not end without some of those ferocious words with which he -relieved his ill temper. At the first glance she understood that he had -another violent grievance against her. What? Had he already been -informed by that infamous Judas, in his feline manner, of how she had -conducted herself at the gambling-table the night before, and was he, -the democratic prince, with one of his customary resumptions of pride, -preparing to make her feel that such Bohemian manners were not becoming -to their rank? Was he offended—this inconsistency would not have -astonished her any more than the other—because she had stayed at -Monte Carlo all the week, without sending a word, except the despatch to -the <i>maître d'hôtel</i> to announce her return. -</p> - -<p> -Her heart was so full of pain at the thought of her resolution that she -felt that kind of insensibility which follows moral suffering. So she -did not pay attention during the dinner to the fierce sallies with which -the Archduke, addressing Madame Brion, abused in turn Monte Carlo and -the women of fashion, the Frenchmen on the coast, and the foreign -colony—the wealthy class, in short, and all society. The livery -servants were moving silently about the table, and their knee-breeches, -silk stockings, and powdered wigs lent a contrast of inexpressible irony -to the words of the master of this princely house. The aide-de-camp, -with a wheedling mixture of politeness and perfidy, replied to the -witticisms of the Archduke in such a way as to exasperate them, while -Madame Brion, growing more and more red, submitted to the assault of -insolent sarcasms, with the idea that she was suffering for Ely, who -scarcely paid the slightest attention to such whimsical outbursts as -this:— -</p> - -<p> -"Their pleasures are the measure of a society, and that is what I like -on this coast. You see in all their perfection the folly and the infamy -of the plutocrats.—Their wives? They amuse themselves like jades, -and the men like blackguards.—The taxes, the laws, the -magistrates, the army, the clergy—all this social machinery which -works for the profit of the rich, accomplishes what? The protection of a -gilded debauchery of which we have a perfect specimen on this -coast.—I admire the naïveté of socialists, who, before an -aristocracy of this kind, talk of reforms! A gangrenous limb should -simply be burnt and cut off. But the great fault of modern -revolutionists is their respect. Happily the weakness and folly of the -ruling class are exposing themselves everywhere with such magnificent -ingenuousness that the people will end by perceiving them, and when the -millions of workingmen who nourish this handful of parasites make a -move—a move—ah! we'll laugh, we'll laugh!—Science will -make it so easy to prepare for action. Make all the children of the -proletariat electricians and chemists, and in a generation the thing -will be done." -</p> - -<p> -Whenever he proffered declarations of this order the Archduke glared -around him with a physiognomy so menacing that no one thought of smiling -at his paradoxes, as comical as they were ineffectual in these opulent -surroundings. Those who were acquainted with the secrets of contemporary -history remembered that a legend, though calumnious, associated the name -of the "Red Archduke" with a mysterious attempt made upon the life of -the head of his own family. The sanguinary dream of a demagogic -Cæsarism was too plainly visible in those eyes, which never looked at -one without a menace, and one felt one's self to be in the presence of a -tyrant whom circumstances had thwarted, but by so little that one -trembled. -</p> - -<p> -Usually after he had thus thrown out some sinister witticism no one -replied, and the dinner continued in a silence of embarrassment and -oppression, in which the disappointed despot revelled for a time. Then -it occasionally happened that, having relieved his spleen, he would show -the seductive side of his nature, his remarkable lucidity of mind, and -his immense knowledge of actual facts. This evening he was doubtless -tormented by some peculiar agitation; for he did not disarm until, just -as they returned to the parlor, a remark of Madame de Carlsberg to -Madame Brion brought forth an outburst which revealed the true cause for -this terrible mood. -</p> - -<p> -"We shall ask Flossie Marsh about that. She will lunch with us -to-morrow," the Baroness had said. -</p> - -<p> -"May I have five minutes' conversation with you?" suddenly demanded the -Prince; and, leading her aside, careless of the witnesses of this -conjugal scene, "You have invited Miss Marsh to lunch to-morrow?" he -continued. -</p> - -<p> -"Certainly," she replied. "Does that annoy Your Highness?" -</p> - -<p> -"The house is yours," said the Archduke, "but you will not be surprised -if I forbid Verdier to be there.—Don't interrupt.—For some time -I have observed that you favor the project of this girl, who has taken it -into her head to marry that boy. I do not wish this marriage to take -place. And it shall not take place." -</p> - -<p> -"I am ignorant of Miss Marsh's intentions," replied the Baroness, whose -pale cheeks had grown red as she listened to her husband's discourse. "I -invite her because she is my friend, and I am pleased to see her. As for -M. Verdier, he seems to be of an age to know whether or not it is best -for him to marry, without taking orders from any one. Besides, if he -wishes to talk to Miss Marsh, he has no need of my intermediation, and -if he was pleased to dine with her this evening—" -</p> - -<p> -"He has dined with her this evening?" interrupted the Prince in his -violent exasperation. "You know of it? Answer. Be frank." -</p> - -<p> -"Your Imperial Highness may entrust other persons with this espionage," -said the young woman, proudly, throwing at Monsieur von Laubach a glance -of mingled contempt and defiance. -</p> - -<p> -"Madame, no ironies," exclaimed the Archduke. "I will not endure them. I -wish to give you a message for your friend, and if you do not deliver it -I will speak to her myself. Tell her that I am aware of all her -intrigues. I know, understand me, I know that she doesn't love this -young man, but is an instrument in the service of her uncle, who has -heard of a discovery that we have made, Verdier and I, in my residence," -and he pointed in the direction of the laboratory. "It is a revolution -in electric railroads, this invention; but to have it, it is necessary -to have the inventor. I am neither to be bought nor married. No more is -Verdier to be bought, but he is young, he is innocent, and Mr. Marsh has -employed his niece. I perceive that he has brought you to side with him, -and that you are working for him. Listen to what I say: Visit them, the -uncle and the niece, as much as you like; join their parties at Monte -Carlo and anywhere. If you like <i>rastaquouères</i>, that is your affair. -You are free. But do not mix with this intrigue or you will pay dearly -for it. I shall know the point to strike you in. With her uncle's -millions, let this girl buy a name and a title, as they all do. There is -no lack of English marquises, French dukes, and "Roman princes to sell -their armorial devices, their ancestors, and their persons. But this man -of millions, my friend, my pupil—hands off! That Yankee would turn -his genius into a new dollar-coining machine. Never that; never, never. -This is what I beg you to say to that girl; and no remonstrance from -you.—Monsieur von Laubach." -</p> - -<p> -"Monseigneur?" -</p> - -<p> -Scarcely had the aide-de-camp time to take leave of the two ladies, so -precipitately did the Archduke depart, with the air of a man who could -no longer contain himself. -</p> - -<p> -"And that is the secret of his fury," said Madame Brion, when her friend -had repeated the brutal discourse of the Prince. "It is very unjust. But -I am glad it is only that. I was so afraid he had heard of your play -last night, and especially that imprudence. You are going to cancel your -invitation to Miss Florence?" -</p> - -<p> -"I?" said the Baroness, shrugging her shoulders, and her noble face wore -an expression of disgust. "There was a time when this boorishness -crushed me; a time when it revolted me. To-day I care no more than that -for this brute and all his rage." -</p> - -<p> -While saying this she had lit a Russian cigarette, with a long paper -stem, at a little lamp used for this purpose, and from her contemptuous -lips she blew a ring of smoke, which rose, opening and stretching out -till it was dissipated in the warm and perfumed atmosphere of the little -room. It was an atmosphere of intimacy surrounding the two friends, in -this bright parlor, with the soft shades of its tapestry, the old -paintings, the precious furniture, the vague green of the conservatory -behind one of the glass doors, and everywhere flowers—the beautiful -living flowers of the South, interwoven with threads of sunlight. Lamps, -large and small, veiled in shades of supple silk, radiated through this -retreat an attenuated light which blended with the clear, gay fire. Ah, -the unfortunate would little envy these surroundings of the rich, if -they but knew the secret agony for which these surroundings so often -serve as a theatre! Ely de Carlsberg had sunk upon a lounge; she was -saying:— -</p> - -<p> -"What do you suppose these wretched things matter to me, with the pain -you know is in my heart? I shall receive Flossie Marsh to-morrow, and -for several days after, and the Archduke may be as angry as he likes. He -says he knows the place to attack me. There is only one, and I am going -to strike it myself. It is as though he should threaten to fight a duel -with some one who has determined to commit suicide." -</p> - -<p> -"But do you not think he is right about Marsh's calculations?" asked -Madame Brion to arrest the crisis of the revolt which she saw -approaching. -</p> - -<p> -"It is quite possible," said the Baroness. "He is an American, and for -those people a sentiment is a fact like any other, and is to be utilized -as much as possible. But admitting that he speculates on Flossie's -passion for a savant and an inventor, does the uncle's speculation prove -that the sentiment of the niece is not sincere? Poor Flossie," she added -in a tone that once more vibrated with her inward torment. "I hope she -will not allow herself to be separated from the man she loves. She would -suffer too much, and if it is necessary to help her not to lose him, I -will help her." -</p> - -<p> -These two successive cries betrayed such distress, and in consequence so -much uncertainty still remaining in the wise resolution they had made -together, that the faithful friend was terrified. The thought which she -had had the night before, and had rejected as being too difficult to -execute, the thought of appealing directly to the magnanimity of the -young man, seized her again with excessive force. This time, she gave -free rein to it, and the next morning a messenger, found at the station, -delivered at the Hôtel des Palmes the following letter, which Pierre -Hautefeuille opened and read after a long night of anxiety and cruel -insomnia:— -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -"MONSIEUR—I trust to your delicacy not to seek to know who I am, or -the motive which leads me to write you these lines. They come from one who -knows you, although you do not know her, and who esteems you profoundly. -I have no doubt that you will listen to this appeal made to your honor. -A word will suffice to show you how much your honor is concerned in -ceasing to compromise, most involuntarily, I am sure, the peace and the -reputation of a person who is not free, and whose elevated situation is -exposed to much envy. You were seen, Monsieur, the night before last, in -the roulette hall at Monte Carlo, when you bought an article which that -person had just sold to a merchant. If that were an isolated -circumstance, it would not have such a dangerous significance. But you -must yourself perceive that your attitude during the last few weeks -could not have escaped malignant comments. The person concerned is not -free. She has suffered a great deal in her private life, and the -slightest injury done to the one upon whom her situation depends might -provoke a catastrophe for her. Perhaps she will never tell you herself -what pain your action, of which she has been informed, has caused her. -Be an honest man, Monsieur, and do not try to enter into a life which -you can only trouble. Do not compromise a noble-hearted woman, who has -all the more right to your respect from the fact that she does not -distrust you. Have, then, the courage to do the only thing that can -prevent calumny, if it has not already begun, and that can put an end to -it if it had begun. Leave Cannes, Monsieur, for some weeks. The day will -come when you will be glad to think you have done your duty, your whole -duty, and that you have given to a noble woman the one proof of devotion -that you could be permitted to offer—a consideration for her welfare -and her honor." -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -In the famous story of Daniel DeFoe, that prodigious epitome of all the -profound emotions of the human heart, there is a celebrated page which -symbolizes the peculiar terror we feel at revelations that are -absolutely, tragically unexpected. It is when Robinson sees with a -shudder the print of a bare foot on the shore of his island. -</p> - -<p> -A like convulsive trembling seized Pierre Hautefeuille as he read this -letter, in which he saw the proof after twenty-four hours of -incertitude—the indisputable overwhelming proof—that his -action had been seen. By whom? But what mattered the name of the -witness, now that Madame de Carlsberg was informed? His secret instinct -had not deceived him. She had summoned him in order to reprove his -indiscretion, perhaps to banish him forever from her presence. The -certainty that the subject of this interview would be the act for which -he now reproached himself as for a crime was so intolerable to the lover -that he was seized with the idea of not going to the rendezvous, of -never seeing again that offended woman, of fleeing anywhere far away. He -took up the letter, saying, "It is true; there is nothing but to go!" -Wildly, yet mechanically, as though a mesmeric suggestion had emanated -from the written words on that little sheet of paper, he rang, ordered -the timetable, his bill, and his trunk. If the express to Italy, instead -of leaving late in the afternoon, had left at about eleven, perhaps the -poor young man, in that hour of semi-madness, would have precipitately -taken flight—an action which in a few hours was to appear as -senseless as it now appeared necessary. -</p> - -<p> -But he was forced to wait, and, the first crisis once over, he felt that -he should not, that he could not go without explaining himself. He did -not think of justifying himself. In his own eyes he was unpardonable. -And yet he did not wish Madame de Carlsberg to condemn him without a -plea for the delicacy of his intentions. What would he say to her, -however? During the hours that separated him from his rendezvous, how -many discourses he imagined without suspecting that the imperious force -that attracted him to the Villa Helmholtz was not the desire to plead -his cause! It was toward the sensation of her presence that he was -irresistibly moving, the one idea around which everything centres in -that heart of a lover, at which everything ends, from the most -justifiable bitterness to the extremest timidity. -</p> - -<p> -When the young man entered the parlor of the Villa Helmholtz, the excess -of his emotions had thrown him into that state of waking somnambulism in -which the soul and body obey an impulse of which they are scarcely -conscious. This state is analogous to that of a resolute man passing -through a very great danger—a similitude which proves that the two -fundamental instincts of our nature, that of self-preservation and that -of love, are the work of impersonal forces, exterior and superior to the -narrow domain of our conscious will. -</p> - -<p> -At such times our senses are at once super-acute and -paralyzed,—super-acute to the slightest detail that corresponds to -the emotion that occupies us, paralyzed for everything else. Thinking -afterward of those minutes so decisive in his life, Hautefeuille could -never remember what road he had taken from the hotel to the villa, nor -what acquaintances he had met on the way. -</p> - -<p> -He was not roused from this lucid dream until he entered the first and -larger of the two parlors, empty at this moment. A perfume floated -there, mingled with the scent of flowers, the favorite perfume of Madame -de Carlsberg,—a composition of gray amber, Chypre, and Russian -cologne. He had scarcely time to breathe in that odor which brought -Ely's image so vividly before him when a second door opened, voices came -to him, but he distinguished only one, which, like the perfume, went to -his heart. -</p> - -<p> -A few steps further and he was before Madame de Carlsberg herself, who -was talking with Madame Brion, the Marquise Bonnacorsi, and the pretty -Vicomtesse de Chésy. Further on, by the window near the conservatory, -Flossie Marsh stood talking with a tall, blond young man, badly dressed, -by no means handsome, yet revealing under his dishevelled hair the -bright face of a savant, the frank smile, the clear meditative eyes. It -was Marcel Verdier, whom the young girl had boldly forewarned by a note, -in the American manner, and who, kept from lunching by the Archduke, had -escaped for ten minutes from the laboratory in order to get to her. -</p> - -<p> -Neither was the Baroness seated. She was pacing the floor in an effort -to disguise the nervousness which was brought to its extreme by the -arrival of him she awaited. But how could he have suspected this? How -could he have divined from her classic, tailor-made walking dress of -blue serge that she had not been able that morning to remain indoors? -She had been within sight of his hotel, as he had so often been near the -Villa Helmholtz, to see the house and to return with beating heart. And -how could he have read the interest in the tender, blue eyes of Madame -de Bonnacorsi, or in the soft brown eyes of Madame Brion a solicitude -which to a lover capable of observing would have given reason for hope? -Hautefeuille saw distinctly but one thing,—the uneasiness which -appeared in Madame de Carlsberg's eyes and which he at once interpreted -as a sign of measureless reproach. That was almost enough to deprive him -of the force to answer in the commonplace phrases of politeness; he took -a seat by the Marquise at the invitation of the romantic Italian, who -was moved to pity by his visible emotion. -</p> - -<p> -Meanwhile the gay Madame de Chésy, the pretty blonde, whose eyes were -as lively as those of Andryana Bonnacorsi were deep, was smiling on the -newcomer. This smile formed little dimples in her fresh, rounded face, -while under the cap of otter skin, and with her light figure in a jacket -of the same fur, her small hands playing with her muff, her slender feet -in their varnished boots, she was one of those charming little images of -frivolity toward whom the world does well to be indulgent, for their -presence suffices to render gay and frivolous as themselves the most -embarrassing occasions and the most ominous situations. With all that -Madame Brion knew, and all that Madame de Bonnacorsi thought, and with -all the feelings of the Baroness Ely and Pierre Hautefeuille, his -arrival would have made the conversation by far too difficult and -painful, if the light Parisienne had not continued her pretty bird-like -babble:— -</p> - -<p> -"You! I ought not to recognize you," she said to Pierre Hautefeuille. -"For ten days," she added, turning to Madame de Carlsberg, "yes, ever -since I dined beside him here the night before your departure; yes, for -eight days, he has disappeared. And I did not write about it to his -sister, who entrusted him to me. For she entrusted you to me, that is -positive, and not to the young ladies of Nice and Monte Carlo." -</p> - -<p> -"But I have not been away from Cannes for a week," Pierre replied, -blushing in spite of himself. -</p> - -<p> -Madame de Chésy's remark had pointed too plainly to the significant -coincidence of his disappearance and the absence of Madame de Carlsberg. -</p> - -<p> -"And what were you doing only last night at the table of -<i>trente-et-quarante</i>?" the young woman asked, teasingly. "If your -sister knew of that; she who thinks her brother is basking prudently in -the sun!" -</p> - -<p> -"Don't scold him," interrupted Madame Bonnacorsi. "We brought him back -with us." -</p> - -<p> -"And you didn't finish telling us of your adventure," Madame de -Carlsberg added. -</p> - -<p> -The innocent teasing of Madame de Chésy had displeased her, because of -the embarrassment it had caused in Hautefeuille. Now that he was there, -living and breathing in the little room, she, too, felt that sensation -of a loved one's presence which overpowers the strongest will. Never had -the young man's face appeared more noble, his expression more -attractive, his lips more delicate, his movements more graceful, his -whole being more worthy of love. She discerned in his attitude that -mingling of respect and passion, of timidity and idolatry irresistible -to women who have suffered from the brutality of the male, and who dream -of a love without hate, a tenderness without jealousy, voluptuous -rapture devoid of violence. -</p> - -<p> -She felt like crying to Yvonne de Chésy, "Stop. Don't you see that you -are wounding him?" But she knew well that the thoughtless woman had not -an atom of malice in her heart. She was one of the modern women of -Paris, very innocent with a very bad tone, playing childishly with -scandal, but very virtuous at heart—one of those imprudent women who -sometimes pay with their honor and happiness for that innocent desire to -astonish and amuse. And she continued, revealing her whole character in -the anecdote which Hautefeuille's arrival had interrupted:— -</p> - -<p> -"The end of my adventure? I have already told you that this gentleman -took me for one of those demoiselles. At Nice, a little woman, dining -all alone at a little table in a little restaurant. And he was doing his -best to call my attention with his 'hum! hum!'—I felt like -offering him gumdrops—and his 'waiter!' perfectly useless to make -me turn. And I did turn, not much, just enough, to let him see -me—without laughing. I wanted to badly enough! Finally I paid, -rose, and left. He paid. He rose. He left. I didn't know what to do to -get to the train. He followed me. I let myself be followed.—Have -you ever wondered, when you think of those demoiselles, what they say to -them to begin with?" -</p> - -<p> -"Things which I think I should be rather afraid to hear," said Madame -Bonnacorsi. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't think so any longer," Madame de Chésy replied; "for it is just -as stupid as what these gentlemen say to us. I stopped before the window -of a florist. He stopped beside me on my left. I looked at the bouquets. -He looked at the bouquets. I heard his old 'hum! hum!' He was going to -speak. 'Those are fine roses, madame,' he said. 'Yes, monsieur, they are -fine roses.' 'Are you very fond of flowers, madame?' I was just going to -say, 'Yes, monsieur, I am very fond of flowers,' when a voice on my -right called out, 'Well, Yvonne, you here?' And I was face to face with -the Grand Duchess Vera Paulovna, and at the same moment I saw my -follower turning the color of the roses we had been looking at together, -as he, stammering, bowed before Her Imperial Highness, and she, with her -Russian accent, 'My dear, allow me to present the Count Serge Kornow, -one of my most charming compatriots.' Tableau!" -</p> - -<p> -The laughing woman had scarcely finished her account of this childish -prank, told with the inexplicable but well-known pleasure which women of -society find in the contact with the <i>demi-monde</i>, when the sudden -entrance of a new personage into the parlor arrested the laughter or the -reproof of the friends who had been listening to this gay narrative. -</p> - -<p> -It was no other than the Archduke Henry Francis, his face red as it -usually was, his feet in heavy laced shoes, his tall, thin body in a -suit of dark clothes whose stains and grime spoke of the laboratory. -Faithful to his threat of the previous night, he had prevented Verdier -from lunching at the table of the Baroness; neither had he been present -himself. The master and the pupil had eaten, as they often did, between -two experiments, standing in their working aprons beside one of the -furnaces. Then the Prince had retired, ostensibly for a siesta, it not -appearing whether he had really wished to rest, or had planned a -decisive proof, by which to measure the intimacy already existing -between Miss Marsh and his assistant. He had, of course, not mentioned -the name of any guest to Verdier, nor had Verdier spoken of this matter. -So when on entering the parlor he saw the American girl and the young -man talking familiarly apart, a look of veritable fury came into his -face. -</p> - -<p> -His eyes glared from one group to the other. If he had had the power at -that moment, he would have put them all in irons, his wife because she -was certainly to blame for this treason, Madame Brion and Madame -Bonnacorsi because Madame de Carlsberg loved them; Madame de Chésy and -Hautefeuille because they were the complacent witnesses of this -<i>tête-à-tête</i>! In his imperious voice, which he could scarcely -control, he called from one end of the room to the other:— -</p> - -<p> -"Monsieur Verdier!" -</p> - -<p> -Verdier turned. His shock at seeing the Prince, his humiliation at being -summoned in this way before the woman he loved, his impatience with a -yoke borne so long, were audible in the accent with which he -answered:— -</p> - -<p> -"Monseigneur?" -</p> - -<p> -"I need you in the laboratory," said the Archduke; "please come, and -come at once." -</p> - -<p> -Now it was the eyes of the assistant that shone with fury. For a few -moments the spectators of this odious scene could observe the tragic -combat of pride and gratitude in the face of this superior man so -unworthily humiliated. The Archduke had been peculiarly kind to the -young man's family. A dog unjustly beaten has that way of looking at his -master; will he fly at his throat or obey him? Doubtless Verdier, -knowing the Archduke, feared to arouse the anger of that madman and a -burst of insulting insolence against Florence Marsh. Perhaps, too, he -thought that his position of an employee under obligations permitted but -one dignified course—to oppose his own correctness of deportment to -the unqualified roughness of his master. -</p> - -<p> -"I am coming, monseigneur," he replied, and, taking Miss Marsh's hand -for the first time, he dared to kiss it. "You will excuse me, -mademoiselle," he said, "for having to leave you, but I hope to be able -to call before long—mesdames, monsieur." -</p> - -<p> -And he followed his redoubtable patron, who had departed as abruptly as -he had entered, when he saw Verdier raise to his lips the hand of Miss -Marsh. -</p> - -<p> -Every one remained standing in silence, the silence that follows a gross -breach of politeness, which the company cannot criticise aloud. Neither -Madame Brion nor Madame Bonnacorsi nor Madame de Chésy dared to look at -Madame de Carlsberg, who had faced the Prince with defiance and now -trembled with anger under the affront which her husband had inflicted -upon her by so demeaning himself at the very doors of her own parlor. -</p> - -<p> -Florence Marsh, bending over a table, pretended to be hunting for the -gloves, handkerchief, and smelling salts which she had left there, -doubtless endeavoring to hide the expression of her face. As for -Hautefeuille, ignorant of the under side of this society, except for the -indiscretions shrewdly measured out by Corancez, knowing absolutely -nothing of the relations between Marcel Verdier and the American girl, -he would not have been a lover if he had not connected this outburst of -the Prince with the fixed idea which possessed him. Beyond doubt the -espionage had done its work. The Archduke had learned of his -indiscretion. How much this indiscretion was to blame for the ferocious -humor of Madame de Carlsberg's husband, the young man could not tell. -What appeared to him but too certain, after he had met the terrible eyes -of the Prince, was that his presence was odious to this man, and whence -could arise that aversion if not from reports, alas, but too well -founded. -</p> - -<p> -Ah, how could he beg pardon of the loved one for having added new -troubles to all her others? But the silence was broken by Madame de -Chésy, who, after looking at her watch, kissed the Baroness and -said:— -</p> - -<p> -"I shall be late for the train. I dine at Monte Carlo to-night. But that -will be all over after the carnival! Adieu, dear, dear Ely." -</p> - -<p> -"And we, too, must go," said Madame Bonnacorsi, who had taken Miss -Marsh's arm while Yvonne de Chésy was leaving, "I shall try to console -this tall girl a little." -</p> - -<p> -"But I have consoled myself," replied Florence, adding with a tone that -was singularly firm: "One always succeeds in anything that one wishes, -if it is wished enough. Shall we walk?" she asked of the Marquise. -</p> - -<p> -"Then you will go through the garden, and I'll accompany you for a -little air," said Madame Brion. And, kissing Ely, she said aloud: "Dear, -I shall be back in a quarter of an hour," and added, in a whisper, "Have -courage." -</p> - -<p> -The door through which they passed into the garden closed. Ely de -Carlsberg and Pierre Hautefeuille were at last alone. Both of them had -long meditated over the words they should speak at this interview. Both -had come to it with a fixed determination, which was the same; for she -had decided to ask of him precisely what he had decided to offer,—his -departure. But both had been confused by the unexpected scene they had -witnessed. -</p> - -<p> -It had moved the young woman especially in every fibre of her being; the -wild spirit of revolt, which had been dormant under her growing love, -rose again in her heart. Her wounded pride, soothed, almost healed by -that gentle influence, suddenly reopened and bled. She felt anew the -hardness of the fate which placed her, in spite of all, at the mercy of -that terrible Prince, the evil genius of her youth. -</p> - -<p> -As for Hautefeuille, all the legends gathered here and there about the -tyranny and jealousy of the Archduke had suddenly taken shape before his -eyes. That vision of the man and wife, face to face, one menacing, the -other outraged, which had been so intolerable even to imagine, had been -realized in an unforgetable picture during the five minutes that the -Prince was in the room. That was enough to make him another man in this -interview. Natures like his, pure and delicate, are liable to -hesitations and indecisions which appear feeble, almost childish, so -long as they are not confronted by a clear situation and a positive -duty. It is enough for them to think they could be helpful to one they -love in order to find in the sincerity of their devotion all the energy -which they seem to lack. Pierre had felt that he could not even bear the -look of Baroness Ely the moment he read in it the knowledge of his -action. But now he was ready to tell her himself of this action, -naturally, simply, in his irresistible and passionate desire to expiate -his fault, if it were to blame for her suffering, which he had witnessed -with an aching heart. -</p> - -<p> -"Monsieur," she began, after that silence which precedes an explanation, -and which is more painful than the explanation itself, "I have written -you that we must have a conversation upon a rather serious and difficult -subject. But I wish you to be assured of one thing at the start—if -in the course of our conversation I have to say anything that pains you, -know that it will cost me a great deal;" she repeated, "a great deal." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, madame," he answered, "you are afraid of being hard on me when you -have the right to be so severe. What I wish to assure you of at the -start is that your reproaches could not equal my self-reproach! Yes," he -continued, in a tone of passionate remorse, "after what I have seen and -understood, how can I ever forgive myself for having caused you an -annoyance, even were it but the slightest. I understand it all. I know -(from an anonymous letter that came with yours) that what I did the -night before last was seen,—my purchase of the case which you had -just sold. I know that you have been told of it, and I may divine what -you think. I do not ask you to pardon an indiscretion whose gravity I -should have felt at once. But then I didn't think. I saw the merchant -take that case, which I had seen you use so often. The thought of that -object, associated with your image in my mind—the thought of its -being sold the next day in a shop of that horrible locality, and being -bought, perhaps, by one of those frightful women like those around me -near the table—yes, this idea was too strong for my prudence, too -strong for my duty of reserve regarding you. You see, I do not attempt -to justify myself. But perhaps I have the right to assure you that even -in my thoughtless indiscretion there was still a respect for you." -</p> - -<p> -"I have never doubted your delicacy," said Madame de Carlsberg. -</p> - -<p> -She had been moved to the bottom of her heart by this naïve -supplication. She felt so keenly the contrast of his youth and -tenderness with the brutal manners of the Prince a quarter of an hour -before in this same place. And then, as she had recognized the hand of -Louise Brion in the anonymous letter, she was touched by that secret -proof of friendship, and she attempted to bring the conversation to the -point which her faithful friend had so strongly urged—timid and -fruitless effort now to conceal the trouble in her eyes, the involuntary -sigh that heaved her breast, the trembling of her heart in her voice. -</p> - -<p> -"No," she repeated, "I have never doubted it. But you know yourself the -malice of the world, and you see by the letter that was written to you -that your action was observed." -</p> - -<p> -"They will not write to me twice," the young man interrupted. "It was -not only from that letter that I understood the world's malice and -ferocity. What I perceived still more plainly a few moments ago," he -added, with that melancholy firmness which holds back the tears of -farewell, "was that my duty is clear now. My indiscretion the night -before last, and others that I might commit, it is happily in my power -to redeem, and I have come to tell you simply, madame, that I am going; -going," he repeated. "I shall leave Cannes, and if you permit me to hope -that I may gain your esteem by doing this I shall leave, not happy, but -less sad." -</p> - -<p> -"You are going!" Ely repeated. "You wish to go?" She looked the young -man in the face. She saw that delicate physiognomy whose emotion touched -her in a way she had never known before, and that fine mouth, still -trembling from the words just spoken. The thought of being forever -deprived of his presence suddenly became real to her with a vividness -which was physically intolerable, and with this came the certainty of -happiness if they should yield to the profound instinct that drew them -toward each other. She abandoned her will to the force of her -irresistible desire, and, feeling aloud, she said:— -</p> - -<p> -"You shall not go, you cannot go. I am so lonely, so abandoned, so -miserable. I have nothing genuine and true around me; nothing, nothing, -nothing. And must I lose you?" -</p> - -<p> -She rose with a passionate movement, which brought Hautefeuille also to -his feet, and, approaching him, her eyes close to his, supernaturally -beautiful with the light that illuminated her admirable face in the rush -of her soul into her lips and eyes, she took his two hands in her hands, -and, as though by this pressure and these words she would mingle her -being with his, she cried:— -</p> - -<p> -"No, you shall not leave me. We will not separate. That is not possible -since you are in love with me, and I with you." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap05"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER V -<br /><br /> -AFLOAT</h4> - -<p> -Fifteen days had passed since Madame de Carlsberg, in spite of her -promises, her resolutions, her remorse, had confessed her passion to -Pierre Hautefeuille. The date fixed for the cruise of the Jenny had -arrived, and he and she were standing side by side on the deck of the -yacht, which was bearing also the Marquise Bonnacorsi toward her -fantastic marriage, and her confidante, Miss Marsh, and pretty Madame de -Chésy and her husband for the entertainment of the Commodore. That was -the nickname given by his niece to the indefatigable Carlyle Marsh, who, -in truth, scarcely ever left the bridge, where he stood directing the -course of the boat with the skill of a professional sailor. -</p> - -<p> -This Marionville potentate would have had no pleasure in a carriage -unless he drove it, or in a yacht unless he steered it. He said himself, -without boasting:— -</p> - -<p> -"If I should be ruined to-morrow I know twenty ways of making a living. -I am a mechanic, coachman, carpenter, pilot." -</p> - -<p> -On this afternoon, while the <i>Jenny</i> sailed toward Genoa, he was at -his post on the bridge, in his gold braided hat, glass in hand, his maps -open before him, and he directed the course with an attention as -complete and scrupulous as though he had been occupied all his life in -giving orders to sailors. He had to a supreme degree that trait common -to all great workers,—the capacity for giving himself always and -wholly to the occupation of the moment. And to him the vast sea, so blue -and soft, whose calm surface scarcely rippled, was but a racecourse upon -which to exercise his love of contest, of struggle, the one pleasure of -the Anglo-Saxon. Five hundred yards to the right, ahead of the -<i>Jenny</i>, was a low, black yacht, with a narrower hull, steaming at -full speed. It was the <i>Dalilah</i>, of Lord Herbert Bohun. Farther -ahead, on the left, another yacht was sailing in the same direction. -This one was white, like the <i>Jenny</i>, but with a wider beam. It was -the <i>Albatross</i>, the favorite plaything of the Grand Dukes of -Russia. The American had allowed these two yachts to leave Cannes some -time before him, with the intention, quickly perceived by the others, of -passing them, and immediately, as it were, a tacit wager was made by the -Russian prince, the English lord, and the American millionaire, all -three equally fanatical of sport, each as proud of his boat as a young -man of his horses or his mistress. -</p> - -<p> -To Dickie Marsh, as he stood with his glass in his hand, giving orders -to the men, the whole scene reduced itself to a triangle, whose corners -were marked by the three yachts. He was literally blind to the admirable -horizon that stretched before him; the violet Esterel, with the long, -undulating line of its mountains, its dark ravines and jagged -promontories, the port of Cannes and the mole, with the old town and the -church rising behind it, all bathed in an atmosphere so transparent that -one could distinguish every little window and its shutters, every tree -behind the walls, the luxuriant hills of Grasse in the background, and -along the bay the line of white villas set in their gardens; then the -islands, like two oases of dark green, and suddenly the curve of another -gulf, terminated by the solitary point of the Antibes. And the trees on -this point, like those of the islands, bouquets of parasol pines, all -bent in one direction, spoke of the eternal drama of this shore, the war -of the mistral and the waves. But now the drama was suspended, giving -place to the most intoxicating flood of light. Not a fleck of foam -marred the immense sweep of liquid sapphire over which the Jenny -advanced with a sonorous and fresh sound of divided water. Not one of -those flaky clouds, which sailors call cattails, lined the radiant dome -of the sky where the sun appeared to expand, dilate, rejoice in ether -absolutely pure. It seemed as though this sky and sea and shore had -conspired to fulfil the prophecy of the chiromancer, Corancez, upon the -passage of the boat that was bearing his clandestine <i>fiancée</i>; and -Andryana Bonnacorsi recalled that prediction to Flossie Marsh as they -leaned on the deck railing, clothed in similar costumes of blue and -white flannel—the colors of the <i>Jenny's</i> awning—and -talked while they watched the <i>Dalilah</i> drawing nearer and nearer. -</p> - -<p> -"You remember in the Casino at Monte Carlo how he foretold this weather -from our hands, exactly this and no other. Isn't it extraordinary, after -all?" -</p> - -<p> -"You see how wrong you were to be afraid," replied Miss Marsh; "if he -saw clearly in one case, he must have done so in the others. We are -going to have a fine night on sea, and by one o'clock to-morrow we shall -head for Genoa." -</p> - -<p> -"Don't be so confident," said the Italian, extending her hand with two -fingers crossed to charm away the evil fates; "you will bring us bad -luck." -</p> - -<p> -"What! with this sky, this sea, this yacht, these lifeboats?" -</p> - -<p> -"How should I know? But suppose Lord Herbert Bohun decides simply to -follow us to the end and go with us to Genoa?" -</p> - -<p> -"Follow us to the end on the <i>Dalilah</i> and we on the <i>Jenny</i>? I -should like to see him try it!" said the American. "See how we gain on -him. But be careful, Chésy and his wife are coming in this direction. -Well, Yvonne," she said to the pretty little Vicomtesse, blond and rosy in -her dress of white serge, embroidered with the boat's colors, "you are not -afraid to go so fast?" -</p> - -<p> -"No," said Madame de Chésy, laughing; and, turning toward the bow, she -drew in a long breath. "This air intoxicates me like champagne!" -</p> - -<p> -"Do you see your brother, Marquise?" asked Chésy, pointing to one of -the persons standing on the deck of the <i>Dalilah</i>. "He is beside the -Prince. They must not feel very well satisfied. And his terriers, do you -see his terriers running around like veritable rats? I am going to make -them angry. Wait." And making a trumpet of his hands he shouted these -words, whose irony he did not suspect:— -</p> - -<p> -"Ay, Navagero; can we do anything for you at Genoa?" -</p> - -<p> -"He doesn't understand, or pretends not to," said Madame de Chésy. "But -here's something he will understand. The Prince is not looking, is he?" -And boyishly she stretched her two hands from her nose with the most -impertinent gesture that a pretty woman ever made to a company -containing a royal highness. "Ah! the Prince saw me," she cried, with a -wild laugh. "Bah! he's such a good fellow! And if he doesn't like it," -and she softly tapped her eye with the ends of her fingers, "et voilà!" -</p> - -<p> -When the frolicsome Parisienne began this piece of disrespectful -childishness the two yachts had come abreast of each other. For a -quarter of an hour they went side by side, cutting through the water, -propelled only by the force of their robust lungs of steel, vomiting -from their chimneys two straight, black columns, which scarcely curved -in the calm air; and behind them stretched a furrow of glaucous green -over the blue water, like a long and moving path of emerald fringed with -silver, and on it rolled and pitched a sailboat manned by two young men, -sporting in the wake of the steamers. -</p> - -<p> -On this wild race the deck was yet so motionless that the water did not -tremble in the vases of Venetian glass placed on the table near a group -of three women. The purple and saffron petals of the large roses slowly -dropped upon the table. Beside the flowers, amid their perfume, Madame -de Carlsberg was sitting. She had ungloved one of her beautiful hands to -caress the bloom of the flowers, and she gazed, smiling and dreamily, -from the <i>Dalilah</i> to the luminous horizon, from her -fellow-voyagers out to the vast sea, and at Hautefeuille standing, with -Chésy, beside her, and turning to her incessantly. The breeze of the -boat's motion revealed the slender form of the young man under his coat -of navy blue and trousers of white flannel, and softly fluttered the -supple red stuff of Baroness Ely's blouse and her broad tie of black -<i>mousseline de soie</i>, matched with the large white and black -squares of her skirt. The young man and the young woman both had in -their eyes a feverish joy in living that harmonized with the radiance of -the beautiful afternoon. How little his smile—the tender and ready -smile of a lover who is loved—resembled the tired laughter that -the jokes of Corancez had won from him two weeks before. And she, with -the faint rose that tinged her cheeks, usually so pale, with her -half-opened lips breathing in the healthful odor of the sea and the -delicate perfume of the flowers, with her calm, clear brow—how -little she resembled the Ely of the villa garden, defying, under the -stars of the softest Southern night, the impassive beauty of nature. -Seated near her loved one, how sweet nature now appeared—as sweet -as the perfume of the roses that her fingers deflowered, as caressing as -the soft breeze, as intoxicating as the free sky and water! How -indulgent she felt for the little faults of her acquaintances, which she -had condemned so bitterly the other night! For the eternal hesitations -of Andryana Bonnacorsi, for the positivism of Florence Marsh, for the -fast tone of Yvonne Chésy, she had now but a complacent half-smile. She -forgot to be irritated at the naïve and comic importance which Chésy -assumed on board the boat. In his blue yachting cap, his little body -stiff and straight, he explained the reasons of the <i>Jenny's</i> -superiority over the <i>Dalilah</i> and the <i>Albatross</i>, with the -technical words he had caught from Marsh, and he gave the orders for -tea:— -</p> - -<p> -"Dickie is coming down as soon as we pass the other yacht," he said, -and, turning to a sailor, "John, tell the <i>chef</i> to have everything -ready in a quarter of an hour;" then addressing Madame de Carlsberg: -"You are uncomfortable here, Baroness. I told Dickie that he should -change his chairs. He is so careless at times. Do you notice these rugs? -They are Bokharas—magnificent! He bought five at Cairo, and they -would have rotted on the lower deck if I had not discovered them and had -them brought here from the horrible place where he left them. You -remember? And these plants on deck — that is better, is it not? But -has he taken too many cocktails this morning—See how close we are -passing to the Albatross! Good evening, monseigneur." -</p> - -<p> -And he saluted the Grand Duke—a kind of giant, with the broad, -genial face of a moujik—who applauded the triumph of the -<i>Jenny</i>, calling out in his strong voice:— -</p> - -<p> -"Next year I'll build another that will beat you!" -</p> - -<p> -"Do you know I was frightened," said Chésy to Marsh, who, according to -his promise, had descended from the bridge; "we just grazed the -<i>Albatross</i>!" -</p> - -<p> -"I was very sure of the boat," Marsh continued; "but I should not have -done it with Bohun. You saw how far I kept away from him. He would have -cut our yacht in two. When the English see themselves about to be -beaten, their pride makes them crazy, and they are capable of anything." -</p> - -<p> -"That is just what they say of the Americans," gayly replied Yvonne de -Chésy. -</p> - -<p> -The pretty Parisienne was probably the only person in the world that the -master of the Jenny would have permitted such a pleasantry. But Corancez -had been right in what he said to Hautefeuille—when the malicious -Vicomtesse was speaking Marsh could see his daughter. So he did not take -offence at this epigram against his country, susceptible as he usually -was to any denial that in everything America "beat the Old World." -</p> - -<p> -"You are attacking my poor compatriots again," he said simply. "That is -very ungrateful. All of them that I know are in love with you." -</p> - -<p> -"Come, Commodore," replied the young woman; "don't try the madrigal. It -is not your specialty. But lead us down to tea, which ought to be -served, should it not, Gontran?" -</p> - -<p> -"They are astonishing," Miss Marsh whispered, when her uncle and the -Chésys had started toward the stairway that led to the salon. "They act -as though they were at home." -</p> - -<p> -"Don't be jealous," said Madame Bonnacorsi. "They will be so useful to -us at Genoa in occupying the terrible uncle." -</p> - -<p> -"If it were only she," Florence replied; "she is amusing and such a good -girl. But he—I don't know if it is the blood of a daughter of the -great Republic, but I can't endure a nobleman who has a way of being -insolent in the rôle of a parasite and domestic." -</p> - -<p> -"Chésy is simply the husband of a very pretty woman," said Madame de -Carlsberg. "Everything is permitted to those husbands on account of -their wives, and they become spoilt children. You are going down? I -shall remain on deck. Send us tea here, will you? I say us, for I shall -keep you for company," she continued, turning to Hautefeuille. "I know -Chésy. Now that the race is over he will proceed to act as the -proprietor of the yacht. Happily, I shall protect you. Sit here." -</p> - -<p> -And she motioned to a chair beside her own, with that tender and -imperious grace by which a woman who loves, but is obliged to restrain -herself before others, knows how to impart all the trembling passion of -the caress she cannot give. Lovers like Pierre Hautefeuille obey these -orders in an eager, almost religious, way which makes men smile, but not -the women. They know so well that this devotion in the smallest things -is the true sign of an inward idolatry. So neither Miss Marsh nor Madame -Bonnacorsi thought of jesting at Hautefeuille's attitude. But while -retiring, with that instinctive complicity with which the most virtuous -women have for the romance of another, they said:— -</p> - -<p> -"Corancez was indeed right. How he loves her!" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, he is happy to-day; but to-morrow?" -</p> - -<p> -But to-morrow? He had no thought for the mysterious and dangerous morrow -of all our peaceful to-days. The <i>Jenny</i>, free of her antagonists, -continued with her rapid and cradling motion over this velvet sea. The -<i>Dalilah</i> and the <i>Albatross</i> were already faint in the blue -distance, where the coast also was disappearing. A few more strokes of the -engines, a few more turns of the screw, and there would be nothing -around them but the moving water, the motionless sky, and the sinking -sun. The end of a beautiful winter day in Provence is really divine -during that hour before the chill of evening has touched the air and -darkened the sea and land. Now that the other guests of the yacht had -gone down to the dining-room, it seemed as though the two lovers were -all alone in the world on a floating terrace, amid the shrubbery and the -perfume of flowers. One of the boat's servants, a kind of agile and -silent genius, had placed the small tea-table beside them, with a -complicated little apparatus of silver, on which, as well as on the cups -and plates, was the fantastic coat of arms adopted by Marsh—the arch -of a bridge over a swamp, "arch on Marsh"—this pun, in the same -taste as that in which the boat had been baptized, was written under the -scutcheon. The bridge was in or, the marsh in sable, on a field of -gules. The American cared nothing for heraldic heresies. Black, red, and -yellow were the colors of the deck awning, and this scutcheon and device -signified that his railroad, celebrated in fact for the boldness of its -viaducts, had saved him from misery, here represented by the marsh. -Naïve symbolism which would have typified even more justly the arch of -dreams thrown by the two lovers over all the mire of life. Even the -little tea-set, with its improvised coat of arms, added to this fleeting -moment a charm of intimacy, the suggestion of a home where they two -might have lived heart to heart in the uninterrupted happiness of each -other's daily presence; and it was this impression that the young man -voiced aloud after they had enjoyed their solitude for a few moments in -silence. -</p> - -<p> -"How delicious is this hour," he said, "more delicious than I had ever -dreamed! Ah! if this boat belonged to us, and we could go thus on a long -voyage, you and I, to Italy, which I would not see without you, to -Greece, which gave you your beauty. How beautiful you are, and how I -love you! <i>Dieu</i>! if this hour would never end!" -</p> - -<p> -"Every hour has an end," answered Ely, half shutting her eyes, which had -filled with ecstasy at the young man's impassioned words, and then, as -though to repress a tremor of the heart that was almost painful in its -tenderness, she said, with the grace and gayety of a young girl: "My old -German governess used to say, as she pointed to the eagles of Sallach, -'You must be like the birds who are happy with crumbs'; and it is true -that we find only crumbs in life.—I have sworn," she went on, "that -you, that we, will not fall into the 'terrible sorrow.'" -</p> - -<p> -She emphasized the last two words, which were doubtless a tender -repetition of a phrase often spoken between them, and which had become a -part of their lovers' dialect. And playfully she turned to the table and -filled the two cups, adding:— -</p> - -<p> -"Let us drink our tea wisely, and be as <i>gemüthlich</i> as the good -<i>bourgeois</i> of my country." -</p> - -<p> -She handed one of the cups to Hautefeuille while she said this. As the -young man took it, he touched with his fingers the small and supple hand -that served him with the delight in humble indulgences so dear to women -who are really in love. His simple caress caused them to exchange one of -those looks in which two souls seem to touch, melt together, and absorb -each other by the magnetism of their desire. They paused once more, rapt -in the sense of their mutual fever so intoxicating to share amid that -atmosphere, mixed with the scent of the sea and the perfume of the -roses, with the languid palpitation of the immense waters sleeping -around them in their silence. During the two weeks that had passed since -the sudden avowal of Madame de Carlsberg they had repeated their vows of -love, they had written passionate, wild letters, and had exchanged their -souls in kisses, but they had not given themselves yet wholly to each -other. As he looked at her now on the deck of the yacht he trembled -again from head to foot to see her smile with those lips, whose fresh -and delicious warmth he still felt on his own. To see her so supple and -so young, her body quivering with all the nervousness of a creature of -fine race, recalled the passionate clasp with which he had enfolded her -in the garden of her villa two days after the first vows. She had led -him, under the pretext of a conversation, to a kind of belvedere, or -rather cloister, a double row of marble columns, overlooking the sea and -the islands. In the centre was a square space thick planted with -gigantic camellias. The ground was all strewn with blossoms, buried in -the large petals of red and rose and white fallen from the trees, and -the red, rose, and white of other flowers gleamed above amid the sombre -and lustrous foliage. It was there that he had for the second time held -her close in his arms, and again still more closely in an obscure spot -of the adorable villa of Ellenrock, at Antibes, where he had gone to -wait for her. She had come to him, in her dress of mauve, along a path -bordered with blue cineraria, violet heart's-ease, and great anemones. -The neighboring roses filled the air with a perfume like that around -them now, and sitting on the white heather, beneath the pines that -descended to a little gray-rocked cove, he rested his head upon the -heart of his dear companion. -</p> - -<p> -All these memories—and others as vivid and troubling—mingled -with his present emotion and intensified it. The total unlikeness of Ely -to all the women he had met served to quiet the young man's naïve remorse -for his past experiences, and to make him forget the culpability of that -sweet hour. Ely was married, she had given herself to one man, and had -no right while he lived to give herself to a second. Although Pierre was -no longer sufficiently religious to respect marriage as a sacrament, the -imprint of his education and his memories of home were too deep, and -above all he was too loyal not to feel a repugnance for the stains and -miseries of adultery. But Ely had been careful to prevent him from -meeting the Archduke after that terrible scene, and to the lover's -imagination the Prince appeared only in the light of a despot and a -tormentor. His wife was not his wife; she was his victim. And the young -man's pity was too passionate not to overcome his scruples; all the more -since he had, for the last two weeks, found his friend in an incessant -revolt against an outrageous espionage—that of the sinister Baron -von Laubach, the aide-de-camp with the face of a Judas. And this voluntary -policeman must really have pursued Ely with a very odious surveillance -for his memory to come to her at this moment when she wished to forget -everything except this sky and sea, the swift boat, and the ecstatic -lover who was speaking by her side. -</p> - -<p> -"Do you remember," he was saying, "our uneasiness three days ago, when -the sea was so rough that we thought we could not start? We had the same -idea of going up to La Croisette to see the storm. I could have thanked -you on my knees when I met you with Miss Marsh." -</p> - -<p> -"And then you thought that I was angry with you," she said, "because I -passed with scarcely speaking to you. I had just caught a glimpse of -that foxlike Iago von Laubach. Ah! what a relief to know that all on -board are my friends, and incapable of perfidy! Marsh, his niece, -Andryana, are honor itself. The little Chésys are light and frivolous, -but there is not a trace of ill-nature about them. The presence of a -traitor, even when he is not feared, is enough to spoil the most -delightful moments. And this moment, ah! how I should suffer to have it -spoiled!" -</p> - -<p> -"How well I understand that!" he answered, with the quick and tender -glance of a lover who is delighted to find his own ways of feeling in -the woman he loves. "I am so much like you in that; the presence of a -person whom I know to be despicable gives me a physical oppression of -the heart. The other evening at your house, when I met that Navagero of -whom Corancez had so often spoken, he poisoned my visit, although I had -with me that dear, dear letter which you had written the night before." -Then, dreamily following this train of thought, he continued: "It is -strange that every one does not feel the same about this. To some -people, and excellent ones too, a proof of human infamy is almost a joy. -I have a friend like that—Olivier du Prat, of whom I spoke to you -and whom you knew at Rome. I have never seen him so gay as when he had -proved some villainy. How he has made me suffer by that trait of his! -And he was one of the most delicate of men, with the tenderest of hearts -and finest of minds. Can you explain that?" -</p> - -<p> -The name of Olivier du Prat, pronounced by that voice which had been -moving Ely to the heart—what an answer to the wish sighed by the -amorous woman that this divine moment should not be spoiled! These -simple words were enough to dissipate her enchantment, and to interrupt -her happiness with a pain so acute that she almost cried aloud. Alas! -she was but at the very beginning of her love's romance, and already -that which had been predicted by Louise Brion, her faithful and too -lucid friend, had come true—she was shut in the strange and agonizing -inferno of silence which must avoid, as the most terrible of dangers, -the solace of confession. How many times already in like moments had a -similar allusion evoked between her and Pierre the image of that other -lover! Pierre had very soon alluded lightly and gayly to his friend, and -as the Baroness had thought it best not to conceal the fact that she had -met him in Rome, he continued to recall memories of Du Prat, without -suspecting that his words entered like a knife into the poor woman's -heart. To see how much Hautefeuille loved Du Prat—with a friendship -equal to that which the latter had for him—how could she help feeling -anew the constant menace hanging over her? And then, as at the present, -she was filled with an inexpressible anguish. It was as though all the -blood in her veins had suddenly flowed out through some deep and -invisible wound. At other times it was not even necessary that the -redoubtable name should be mentioned in their conversation. It sufficed -that the young man, in the course of the intimate talks which she -encouraged as often as her social servitude permitted, should -ingenuously express his opinion on some of the love-affairs reported by -the gossips of the coast. She would then insist upon his talking in -order to measure his uncompromising morality. She would have been pained -if he had felt differently, for then he would not have been that noble -and pure conscience unspotted by life; and she suffered because he did -feel thus, and so unconsciously condemned her past. She made him open -his mind to her, and always she found at the bottom this idea, natural -to an innocent soul, that if love may be pardoned for everything, -nothing should be pardoned to caprice, and that a woman of noble heart -could not love a second time. When Hautefeuille would make some remark -like this, which revealed his absolute and naïve faith in the -singleness and uniqueness of true love, inevitably, implacably, Olivier -would reappear before the inward eye of the poor woman. Wherever they -were, in the silent patio strewn with camellia leaves, under the -murmuring pines of the Villa Ellenrock, on the field at La Napoule, -where the golf players moved amid the freshest and softest of -landscapes, all the marvellous scenery of the South would vanish, -disappear—the palms and orange trees, the ravines, the blue sky and -the luminous sea, and the man she loved. She would see nothing before her -but the cruel eyes and evil smile of her old lover at Rome. In a sudden -half hallucination she would hear him speaking to Pierre. Then all her -happy forces would suddenly be arrested. Her eyelids would quiver, her -mouth gasp for air, her features contract with pain, her breast shudder -as though pierced by a knife; and, as at present, her tender and -unconscious tormentor would ask, "What is the matter?" with an eager -solicitude that at the same time tortured and consoled her; and she -would answer, as now, with one of those little falsehoods for which true -love cannot forgive itself. For hearts of a certain depth of feeling, -complete and total sincerity is a need that is almost physical, like -hunger and thirst. What an inoffensive deception it was! And yet Ely had -once more a feeling of remorse at giving this explanation of her sudden -distress:— -</p> - -<p> -"It is a chill that has come over me. The night comes so quickly in this -country, with such a sudden fall of temperature." -</p> - -<p> -And while the young man was helping to envelop her in her cloak, she -said, in a tone that contrasted with the insignificance of her -remark:— -</p> - -<p> -"Look how the sea has changed with the sinking sun; how dark it has -grown—almost black—and what a deep blue the sky is. It is as -though all nature had suddenly been chilled. How beautiful it is yet, but -a beauty in which you feel the approach of shadows." -</p> - -<p> -And, indeed, by one of those atmospheric phenomena more general in the -South than elsewhere, the radiant and almost scorching afternoon had -suddenly ended, and the evening had come abruptly in the space of a few -minutes. The <i>Jenny</i> moved on over a sea without a wave or a ripple. -The masts, the yards, and the funnel threw long shadows across the water, -and the sun, almost at the edge of the horizon, was no longer warm -enough to dissipate the indistinct and chilly vapor that rose and rose, -already wetting with its mist drops the brass and woodwork of the deck. -And the blue of the still sea deepened into black, while the azure of -the clear sky paled and waned. Then, as the disk of the sun touched the -horizon abruptly, the immeasurable fire of the sunset burst from the sky -over the sea. The coast had disappeared, so that the passengers of the -yacht, now returned to the deck, had nothing before them but the water -and the sky, two formless immensities over which the light played in its -fairy fantasies—here spread in a sheet of tender and transparent -rose, like the petals of the eglantine; there rolling in purple waves, the -color of bright blood; there stretching like a shore of emerald and -amethyst, and farther, built into solid and colossal porticos of gold, -and this light opened with the sky, palpitated with the sea, dilated -through infinite space, and suddenly as the disk disappeared beneath the -waves, this splendor vanished as it came, leaving the sea again a bluish -black, and the sky, too, almost black, but with a bar of intense orange -on its verge. This bright line vanished in its turn. The earliest stars -began to come out, and the yacht lights to appear, illumining the dark -mass which went on, bearing into the falling night the heart of a woman -which had all day reflected the divine serenity of the bright hours, and -which now responded to the melancholy of the rapid and fading twilight. -</p> - -<p> -Although she was not at all superstitious, Ely could not help feeling, -with a shudder, how this sudden invasion of the radiant day by the -sadness of evening, resembled the darkening of her inward heaven by the -evocation of her past. This analogy had given an added poignancy to her -contemplation of the tragic sunset, the battle of the day's last fire -with the shadows of night, and happily the magnificence of this -spectacle had been so overwhelming that even her light companions had -felt its solemnity. No one had spoken during the few minutes of this -enchantment in the west. Now, when the babble recommenced, she felt like -fleeing from it—fleeing even from Hautefeuille, whose presence she -feared. Moved as she was, she was afraid of breaking into tears beside -him; tears that she would not be able to explain. When he approached her -she said, "You must pay some attention to the others," and she began to -pace the deck from end to end in company with Dickie Marsh. The American -had the habit, while on board, of taking a certain amount of exercise -measured exactly by the watch. He looked at the time, then paced over a -measured distance until he had complied with his hygienic rules. "At -Marionville," he would say, "it was very simple; the blocks are each -exactly a half mile long. When you have walked eight of them, you know -you have done four miles. And your constitutional is finished." Usually, -when thus engaged in the noble duty of exercise, Marsh remained silent. -It was the time when he invented those schemes that were destined to -make him a billionaire. Ely, knowing of this peculiarity, counted upon -not exchanging ten words while walking with the potentate of -Marionville. She thought that the silent promenade would quiet her -overwrought nerves. They had paced thus for perhaps ten minutes, when -Dickie Marsh, who appeared more preoccupied than usual, suddenly -asked:— -</p> - -<p> -"Does Chésy sometimes speak to you of his affairs?" -</p> - -<p> -"Sometimes," answered the young woman, "as he does to everybody. You -know he has an idea that he is one of the shrewdest on the Bourse, and -he is very glad to talk about it." -</p> - -<p> -"Has he told you," Marsh continued, "that he is speculating in mining -stocks?" -</p> - -<p> -"Very likely. I do not listen to him." -</p> - -<p> -"I heard him say so," the American said, "and just a moment ago, after -tea, and I am still upset by it. And there are not many things that can -worry me. At this moment," he continued, looking at Madame de Chésy, -who was talking with Hautefeuille, "this charming Vicomtesse Yvonne is, -beyond doubt, ruined; absolutely, radically ruined." -</p> - -<p> -"That is impossible. Chésy is advised by Brion, who, I have heard, is -one of the best financiers of the day." -</p> - -<p> -"Pooh!" said Dickie Marsh, "he would be swallowed in one mouthful in -Wall Street. As for the small affairs on this side of the water, he -understands them well enough. But it is just because he understands them -that his advice will ruin Chésy. It will not bore you to have me -explain how and why I am sure that a crash is coming in that famous -silver mine syndicate which you have at least heard of. All those who -buy for a rise—whom we call the bulls—will be caught. Chésy -has a fortune of $300,000. He explained his position to me; he will lose -$250,000. If it has not happened already, it will happen to-morrow." -</p> - -<p> -"And you have told him all that?" -</p> - -<p> -"What's the use?" the American replied. "It would only spoil his trip. -And then it will be time enough at Genoa, where he can telegraph. But -you, Baroness, will help me to do them a real service. You see that if -Brion advises Chésy to join the bulls, it is because he himself is with -the bears. That is our name for those who play for a decline. All this -is legitimate. It is a battle. Each one for himself. All the financiers -who give advice to men of society do the same, and they are right. Only -Brion has still another reason: imagine Madame de Chésy with an income -of ten thousand francs.—You understand." -</p> - -<p> -"It is ignoble enough for him, that calculation," Ely said with disgust. -"But how can I help you to prevent that scoundrel from proposing to the -poor little woman to be his paid mistress, since that is certainly what -you mean?" -</p> - -<p> -"Exactly," replied the American. "I wish you would say to her, not this -evening, or to-morrow, but when things have turned the way I know they -will. 'You have need of some one to help you out of your embarrassment? -Remember Dickie Marsh, of Marionville.' I would tell her myself. But she -would think me like Brion, amorous of her, and offering money for that. -These Frenchwomen are very clever, but there is one thing they will -never understand; that is that a man may not be thinking with them about -the 'little crime,' as they call it themselves. That is the fault of the -men of this country. All Europe is rotten to the core. If you speak to -her, there will be a third person between her and me, and she will know -very well that I have another reason." -</p> - -<p> -He paused. He had so often explained to Madame de Carlsberg the -resemblance between Yvonne de Chésy and his dead daughter, which moved -him so strongly, that she was not deceived in regard to the secret -reason of his strange interest and stranger proposition. There was in -this business man, with all his colossal schemes, a touch of romanticism -almost fantastic, and so singular that Ely did not doubt his sincerity, -nor even wonder at it. The thought of seeing that pretty and charming -face, sister to the one he had loved so much, soiled by the vile lust of -a Brion, or some other <i>entreteneur</i> of impoverished women of society, -filled this man with horror, and, like a genuine Yankee, he employed the -most practical means of preventing this sacrilege. Neither was Ely -surprised at the inconsistency of Marsh's conscience when the speculator -found Brion's rascality in money affairs very natural, while the -Anglo-Saxon was revolted at the mere thought of a love-affair. No, it -was not astonishment that Madame de Carlsberg felt at this unexpected -confidence. Troubled as she was by her own unhappiness, she felt a new -thrill of sadness. While she and Marsh paced from one end of the boat to -the other during this conversation, she could hear Yvonne de Chésy -laughing gayly with Hautefeuille. For this child, too, the day had been -delicious, and yet misfortune was approaching her, from out of the -bottomless gulf of destiny. This impression was so intense that, after -leaving Marsh, Ely went instinctively to the young woman, and kissed her -tenderly. And she, laughing, answered:— -</p> - -<p> -"That is good of you. But you have been so good to me ever since you -discovered me. It took you long enough." -</p> - -<p> -"What do you mean?" asked the Baroness. -</p> - -<p> -"That you did not at first suspect that there was a gallant little man -hidden in your crazy Yvonne! Pierre's sister knows it well, and always -has." -</p> - -<p> -As the pretty and heedless young woman made this profession of faith, -her clear eyes revealed a conscience so good in spite of her fast tone, -that Ely felt her heart still more oppressed. The night had come, and -the first bell for dinner had sounded. The three lights, white, green, -and red, shone now like precious stones on the port, the starboard, and -the foremast. Ely felt an arm pass under hers. It was Andryana -Bonnacorsi who said:— -</p> - -<p> -"It is too bad that we must go down to dress; it would be so pleasant to -spend the whole night here." -</p> - -<p> -"Would it not?" replied the Baroness, murmuring to herself, "She at -least is happy." Then aloud: "It is the farewell dinner to your -widowhood; you must look beautiful. But you seem to be worried." -</p> - -<p> -"I am thinking of my brother," said the Italian woman, "and the thought -of him weighs upon me like remorse. And then, I think also of Corancez. -He is a year younger than I. That is nothing to-day, but in ten years?" -</p> - -<p> -"She too feels the menace of the future," thought Ely, a quarter of an -hour later, while her maid was arranging her hair in the chamber of -honor that had been given her next to that of the dead girl. "Marsh is -disconsolate to see Chésy confronted by a terrible disaster. Andryana -is preparing for marriage, haunted by remorse and fear. Florence is -uncertain of ever being able to wed the man she loves. And Hautefeuille -and I, with a phantom between us, which he does not see, but which I see -so clearly, and which to-morrow, or the day after, in a week or two, -will be a living man, who will see us, whom I shall see, and who will -speak,—will speak to him." -</p> - -<p> -A prey to this growing melancholy, the young woman took her seat at the -dinner table, laden with the costly flowers that delight the -ostentatious Americans. Incomparable orchids spread over the table a -carpet of the softest hues. Other orchids were wreathed about the -candles and the electric chandelier suspended from the varnished -ceiling; and amid this prodigality of fantastic corollas, gleamed a set -of goldware of the time of Louis XIV.—the historical personage who -was second only to Napoleon in the estimation of this Ohio democrat, who -evinced, on this point, as on so many others, one of the most -astonishing inconsistencies of his compatriots. And the bright tones of -the wainscoting, the precision of the service, the delicacy of the food -and wine, the brilliant toilets of the women, made this a setting for -the consummation of refinement, with the sea visible through the open -portholes, still motionless, and now touched by the rays of the crescent -moon. Marsh had ordered the boat's speed to be slackened, so that the -vibration of the screw was scarcely noticeable in the dining-room. The -hour was really so exquisite, that the guests gradually yielded to the -charm, the master of the boat first of all. He had placed Madame de -Carlsberg in front of him, between Chésy and Hautefeuille, in order to -have Madame de Chésy on his left, and in his tones and looks, as he -talked to her, there was an amused and tender affection, a protecting -indulgence, and an inexpressible depth of reverie. Resolved to save her -from the danger which Chésy's confidences had suddenly revealed, it was -as though he were going to do something more for the other, for the dead -one whose image was sleeping in the rear room. He laughed at the follies -of Yvonne, delicious in her pink dress, a little excited by the dry -champagne whose golden foam sparkled in the glass,—a gold the -color of her hair,—and still more excited by the sense of -pleasing—the most dangerous and the only intoxication that women -thoroughly enjoy. Miss Marsh, all in blue, seated between her and -Chésy, listened to his discourse upon hunting, the one subject on which -this gentleman was well informed, with the profound attention of an -American girl who is gathering new information. Andryana Bonnacorsi was -silent, but cheered by the genial surroundings, her tender blue eyes, -the color of the turquoise in her magnificent white corsage, smiled -musingly. She forgot the dangerous character of her brother, and the -future infidelity of her <i>fiancé</i>, to think of nothing but the -caressing eyes, the voluptuous lips, and the alluring grace of the young -man whose wife she would be in a few hours. Nor could the Baroness Ely -resist the contagion that floated in this atmosphere. Once more the -loved one was near her and all her own. In his youthful eyes she could -see such respect and love, timidity and desire. He spoke to her in words -that all could hear, but with a trembling in his voice which she alone -could understand. She began by replying to him, then she also grew -silent. A great wave of passion rose within her, drowning all other -thoughts. Her fears of the future, her remorse for the past—all -was forgotten in the presence of Pierre, whom she could see with his -heart beating, his breast agitated, alive and quivering beside her. How -often he was thus to see her in memory, and pardon the fearful suffering -she had caused him for the sake of her beauty at that moment! Ah! -divine, divine beauty! Her eyes were drowned in languorous ecstasy. Her -open lips breathed in the air as though half dying. The admirable curve -of her neck rose with such grace above her low-cut dress of -black,—a black that gave a richer gleam to the whiteness of her -flower-soft skin; and in the simple folds of her hair, crowning her -noble head, burned a single stone, a ruby, red and warm as a drop of -blood. -</p> - -<p> -How often he was to remember her thus, and as she appeared to him when -later she leaned on the railing of the deck and watched the water that -murmured, dashed, and sighed in the darkness, and the sky and the silent -innumerable stars; and then looked at him and said: "I love you. Ah! how -I love you." They had exchanged no promises. And yet, as surely as the -sea and sky were there around them he knew that the hour had come, and -that this night, this sky and sea, were the mystic and solemn witnesses -of their secret betrothal! Nothing was audible in the calm night but the -peaceful and monotonous respiration of the moving boat and the rhythmic -splash of the sea—the caressing sea, their accomplice, who enchanted -and rocked them in its gentle waves—while the tempest waited. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap06"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER VI -<br /><br /> -IL MATRIMONIO SEGRETO</h4> - -<p> -When the first pale rays of dawn broke upon the glass of the porthole, -Pierre rose and went on deck. Dickie Marsh was there already, regarding -the sky and the sea with the attentive scrutiny of an old sailor. -</p> - -<p> -"For a Frenchman," he said to the young man, "you surprise me. I have -seen a good many of your countrymen upon the <i>Jenny</i>. And yet you -are the first that I have seen, so far, who rises at the most delicious -hour of the day on sea.—Just breathe the breeze that comes from -the open. You could work for ten hours without feeling tired, after -taking a supply of such oxygen into your lungs.—The sky makes me a -little uneasy," he added. "We have gone too far out of our course. We -cannot reach Genoa before eight o'clock and the <i>Jenny</i> may receive -a good tossing before that time.—I never had any sympathy for -those yachtsmen who invite their friends to enjoy the hospitality of a -stateroom in company with a slop-pail!—We could have gone from -Cannes to Genoa in four hours, but I thought it better to let you sleep -away from the tumult of the port.—The barometer was very high! I -have never seen it descend so quickly." -</p> - -<p> -The dome of the heavens, so clear all the preceding day and night, had -indeed, little by little, been obscured by big, gray, rock-like clouds. -Others were spread along the line of the horizon like changing lines -fleeing from each other. Pale rays of sunlight struggled to pierce this -curtain of gray vapor. The sea was still all around them, but no longer -motionless and glossy. The water was leadlike in hue, opaque, heavy, -menacing. The breeze freshened rapidly, and soon a strong gust of wind -swept over the sullen sheet of the water. It caused a trembling to run -along the surface, as though it shuddered. Then thousands of ripples -showed themselves, becoming larger and larger, until they swelled into -countless short, choppy waves, curling over and tossing their white -crests in the air. -</p> - -<p> -"Are you a good sailor?" Marsh asked Hautefeuille. "However, it does not -matter. I was mistaken in my calculations. The <i>Jenny</i> will not get -much tossing about, after all.—We're going before the wind and -will soon be under the shelter of the coast. Look! There is the -Porto-Fino lighthouse. As soon as we have rounded the cape, we shall be -out of danger." -</p> - -<p> -The sea, by this time, was completely covered with a scattered mass of -bubbling foam through which the yacht ploughed her way easily without -rolling much, although she listed alternately to the right and then to -the left like a strong swimmer accommodating his stroke to the waves. -Close to a ruined convent, some distance ahead, a rocky point projected, -bearing a dazzlingly white lighthouse at its extremity. The promontory -was covered, as with a fleece, with a thick growth of silvery olive -trees, between which could be seen numerous painted villas, while its -rocky base was a network of tiny creeks. This was Cape Porto-Fino, a -place rendered famous by the captivity there of Francis I. after Pavia. -The yacht rounded it so closely that Hautefeuille could hear the roar of -the waves breaking upon the rocks. Beyond the promontory again stretched -the sullen sheet of water with the long line of the Ligurian coast, -which descends from Chiappa and Camogli as far as Genoa by way of Recco, -Nervi, and Quinto. Height ascending after height could be seen, the -hills forming the advance guard of the Apennines, their valleys planted -with figs and chestnuts, their villages of brightly painted cottages, -dotting the scene, and with, in the foreground, the narrow strip of -sandy soil that serves as seashore. The landscape, at once savage and -smiling, impressed the business man and the lover in different ways, for -the former said with disdain:— -</p> - -<p> -"They have not been able to make a double track railway along their -coast! I suppose the task is too big for these people.—Why, my line -from Marionville to Duluth has four tracks—and we had to make -tunnels of a different sort from these!" -</p> - -<p> -"But even one line is too much here," replied Hautefeuille, pointing to -a locomotive that was slowly skirting the shore, casting out a thick -volume of smoke. "What is the good of modern inventions in an old -country?—How can one dream of an existence of struggles amid such -scenery?" he continued, as though thinking aloud. "How is it possible to -contemplate the stern necessities of life upon this Riviera, or upon the -other?—Provence and Italy are oases in your desert of workshops and -manufactories. Have a little respect for them. Let there be at least a -corner of the world left for lovers and poets, for those who yearn for a -life of peace and happiness, for those who dream of a solitude shared -only by some beloved companion and surrounded by the loveliness of -nature and of art.—Ah! how sweet and peaceful this morning is!" -</p> - -<p> -This state of enraptured exaltation, which made the happy lover reply -with dreamy poetical reflections to the American's practical remarks, -without noticing the comical character of the contrast, lasted all -through the day. It even increased as time passed. The <i>Jenny's</i> -passengers came up on deck one by one. And then Madame de Carlsberg -appeared, pale and languid. In her eyes was the look of tender anxiety -that gives such a touching aspect to the expression of a loving woman on -the morrow of her first complete surrender. And what a happy revulsion, -what rejoicing, when she sees, as Ely de Carlsberg did in her first -glance, that the soul of her beloved vibrates in sympathy with her own, -that he is as sensitive, as tender, as loving as before! This similarity -of nature was so sweet, so deep, so penetrating, for the charming woman, -that she could have gone down upon her knees before Pierre. She adored -him at this moment for being so closely the image of what she desired -him to be. And she felt compelled to speak of it, when they were seated -side by side, as upon the night before, watching the gulf growing into -life before them, with Genoa the Superb surging from the waves. -</p> - -<p> -"Are you like me?—Were you afraid and yet longing to see me again, -just as I longed to see you and yet was afraid? Were you also afraid of -being soon called upon to differ for so much happiness? Did you feel as -though a catastrophe were close at hand?—When I awoke and saw -stretching before me the leaden sea and clouded sky, a shudder of dread -ran through me like a presentiment.—I thought all was over, that -you were no longer my Prince Beau-Temps"—this was a loving title -she had conferred upon Pierre, alleging that the sky had cleared each -time she had met him. "How exquisite it is," she continued caressingly, -with the irresistible fascination of a loving woman, "to have trembled -with apprehension and then to find you just as you were when I left you -last night—no, not last night, this morning!" -</p> - -<p> -At the remembrance of the fact that they had parted only so short a time -before, she smiled. Her face lit up with an expression in which languor -was mingled with such archness, grace with such voluptuous charm, that -the young man, at the risk of being seen by the Chésys or Dickie Marsh, -printed a kiss upon the hem of the loose Scotch cloak that enveloped -her, its long hood streaming behind in the wind. Happily the American -and his two guests had eyes for nothing but the beautiful city growing -nearer and nearer and more distinct. It towered aloft now, girdled by -its encircling mountains. Beyond the two ports, with their forests of -masts and spars, could be seen the countless houses of the town, of all -shapes and heights, pressed closely one upon the other. Tiny, narrow -streets, almost lanes, wound upward, cutting through the mass of -dwellings at right angles. The colors of the houses, once bright and -gay, were faded and washed out by sun and rain. And yet it seemed still -a city of wealth and caprice, with the terraces of its palaces outlined -and covered with rare plants and statues. The apparently endless line of -scattered villas stretching along the coast were here clustered in -groups like little hamlets, forming suburbs outside the suburbs, and -further on stood isolated in the luxuriant verdure of gardens and -shrubbery. With the simple aid of a field-glass Marsh recognized -everything, palaces, villas, suburbs, one after the other. -</p> - -<p> -"There is San Pier d'Arena," he said, handing the glass to Yvonne and -her husband, "and there are Cornegliano and Sestri to the left. To the -right you can see San Francesco d'Albaro, Quarto, Quinto, San Mario -Ligure, the Villa Gropallo, the Villa Croce." -</p> - -<p> -"Why, Commodore, there is another trade you can turn to the day your -pockets are empty," said Madame de Chésy, laughingly. "You can become -cicerone." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh," said Marsh, "it is the easiest thing in the world. When I see a -place that I cannot recognize or that I do not know, I feel as though I -were blind." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah! You are not like me," cried Chésy. "I never could understand a -map, and yet that has not prevented me getting a lot of amusement out of -my travels.—Believe me, my dear fellow, we are right not to trouble -about such things; we have sailors on sea and coachmen on land to attend -to them!" -</p> - -<p> -While this conversation was going on at the bow, Florence Marsh was aft -trying to instil a little courage into Andryana Bonnacorsi. The future -Vicomtesse de Corancez would not even glance at the town, but remained -with her eyes looking fixedly at the vessel's wake. -</p> - -<p> -"I feel convinced," she said with a sigh, "that Genoa will be fatal to -me; 'Genova prende e non rende,' as we Italians say." -</p> - -<p> -"It will take your name, Bonnacorsi, and will not return it, that is -all," replied Florence, "and the proverb will be verified!—We have a -proverb, too, in the United States, one that Lincoln used to quote. You -ought to take note of it, for it will put an end to all your fears. It -is not very, very pretty, particularly to apply to a marriage, but it is -very expressive. It is, 'Don't trouble how to cross a mud creek before -you get to it.'" -</p> - -<p> -"But suppose Lord Bohun has changed his mind and the <i>Dalilah</i> is in -the port with my brother on board? Suppose the Chésys want to come with -us? Suppose Prince Fregoso at the last minute refuses to lend us his -chapel?" -</p> - -<p> -"And suppose Corancez says, 'I will not' at the altar?" interrupted -Florence. "Suppose an earthquake engulfs the lot of us?—Don't be -uneasy, the <i>Dalilah</i> is riding at anchor in the roadstead at Calvi or -Bastia. The Chésys and my uncle have five or six English and American -yachts to visit, and it is madness to think that they will sacrifice -this arrangement for the sake of going with us to museums and churches. -Since the old prince has consented to lend his place to Don Fortunato it -is not likely that he has changed his mind—particularly as he and the -abbé were companions in prison in 1859. Between Italians anything -concerning the <i>Risorgimento</i> is sacred. You know that better than I -do. I have only one fear," she added with a gay laugh, "and that is that -this Fregoso may have sold some of his finest paintings and his most -beautiful statuary to one of my countrymen. Those pirates loot -everything, under the plea that they have not only the money but also -good taste, and that they are connoisseurs. Would you believe it, when I -was at college in Marionville, the professor of archæology taught us -the history of Grecian art anterior to Phidias with the aid of -photographs of specimens in the collection belonging to this very -Fregoso?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, what did I tell you?" Florence Marsh again asked her friend, a -couple of hours later. "Was I right? Have you come to the mud creek?" -</p> - -<p> -The passengers had landed, just as had been prearranged. The Chésys and -Dickie Marsh had gone off to visit the fleet of pleasure yachts moored -near the pier. The Marchesa had received a telegram from Navagero -announcing the arrival of the Dalilah in Corsican waters. And now a -hired landau was bearing the tender-hearted woman, in company with -Florence, Madame de Carlsberg, and Pierre Hautefeuille, toward the -Genoese palace, where Corancez was awaiting them. The carriage climbed -up the narrow streets, passing the painted façades of the old marble -houses whose columns, all over the city, testify to the pretentious -opulence of the old half-noble, half-piratical merchants. All along the -route the streets, or rather the corridors, that descended to the port -swarmed with a chattering, active, gesticulating people. Although the -north wind was now blowing keenly, the three women had insisted upon the -carriage being left open, so that they could see the crowd, the -crumbling, splendid façades, and the picturesque costumes. The Marchesa -smiled, still agitated, but now happy, in reply to Miss Marsh's words of -encouragement, as she said:— -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, you were right. I am not afraid now, and begin to think that I am -awake and not dreaming.—Yet, if any one had told me that some day I -should go with you three along the Piazza delle Fontane Morose -to do what I am going to do.—Ah! <i>Jésus Dieu</i>! there is -Corancez!—How imprudent he is!" -</p> - -<p> -It was, indeed, the Provençal. He was standing at the corner of the -famous square and the ancient via Nuova, now the via Garibaldi, the -street which Galéas Alessi, Michael Angelo's pupil, glorified with the -palaces of Cambiaso, Serra, Spinola, Doria, Brignole-Sale, and Fregoso, -masterpieces of imposing architecture that, by themselves, are -sufficient justification for the title of Superb, given to Genoa by its -arrogant citizens. -</p> - -<p> -It was certainly ill-advised to venture into the streets, risking a -meeting with some French acquaintance. But Corancez had not been able to -resist the temptation. He was playing for such high stakes that for once -his nervousness had overmastered the natural prudence of the Provençal, -ordinarily patient and circumspect, one of those people for whom the -Genoese would seem to have invented this maxim: "He who is patient will -buy thrushes for a liard each." -</p> - -<p> -By means of a messenger he had been informed of the arrival of the -<i>Jenny</i>. He had then left the safe shelter of the palace so as to be -sure that his <i>fiancée</i> had arrived. When he saw the beautiful golden -hair of Madame Bonnacorsi, a wave of hot blood seemed to course through -his veins. He jumped upon the carriage-step gayly, boyishly even, -without waiting for the carriage to stop. Without any more delay than -was required to kiss his betrothed's hand, to utter a word of welcome to -Madame de Carlsberg and Florence, and to greet Hautefeuille gratefully, -he began to tell of his two weeks' exile with his usual gayety. -</p> - -<p> -"Don Fortunato and I are already a couple of excellent friends," he -said. "Wait till you see what a comical little fellow he is with his -knee-breeches and big hat. You know him, Marchesa, so you can imagine. I -am already his <i>figlio mio</i>!—As for you, Andryana, he -worships you. He has written, specially for you, an epithalamium in -fifty-eight cantos!—And yet this religious marriage without the -civil ceremony disquiets him.—What would Count Camillo Cavour, -whose walking-stick and portrait he piously cherishes, have said of it? -Between Cavour and the Marchesa, the Marchesa and Cavour, he has been -hard pushed to make a choice. However, he has thrown in his lot with the -Marchesa, a decision that I understand very easily. All the same, he is -now afraid to even glance at the portrait and the stick, and will not -dare to do so until we have complied with all the requirements of the -Italian law.—I vowed to him that there would only be a delay of a -few days, and then Prince Pierre reassured him.—That is another -character.—You will have to visit the museum and see his favorites -there.—But, here we are!" -</p> - -<p> -The landau stopped before the imposing door of a palace, having, like -its neighbors, a marble peristyle, and brilliantly painted, like the -other houses. The balustrade of the balcony upon the first floor bore a -huge carved escutcheon, displaying the three stars of the Fregosi, an -emblem that was once dreaded all over the Mediterranean when the vessels -of the Republic swept the seas of the Pisans, the Venetians, the -Catalans, Turks, and French. -</p> - -<p> -The new arrivals were received by a <i>concierge</i> wearing the livery, -very much soiled, of the Fregosi, the buttons stamped with armorial -bearings. He carried a colossal silver pommelled cane in his hand, and led -the visitors into a vaulted vestibule at the foot of a huge staircase. -</p> - -<p> -Beyond they could see an enclosed garden, planted with orange trees. -Ripe fruit glowed among the sombre foliage, through which glimpses could -be obtained of an artificial grotto peopled with gigantic statuary. -Several sarcophagi embellished the entrance, characterized by that air -of magnificence and decay common to old Italian mansions. How many -generations had mounted that worn staircase since the gifted genius -designed the white moulding upon a yellow background that decorated the -ceiling! How many visitors had arrived here from the distant colonies -with which the great Republic traded! And yet probably no more singular -spectacle had been seen for three centuries, than that presented by the -noble Venetian lady arriving from Cannes upon the yacht of an American, -for the purpose of marrying a ruined would-be gentleman from Barbentane, -and accompanied by a young American girl, and the morganatic wife of an -Austrian archduke with her lover, one of the most artless, most -provincial Frenchmen of the best school of French chivalry. -</p> - -<p> -"You must admit that my wedding <i>cortège</i> is anything but -commonplace," said Corancez to Hautefeuille, glancing at the three women -behind whom he and his friend were standing. -</p> - -<p> -They had not met since the morning they had visited the <i>Jenny</i> at -Cannes. The acute Southerner, the moment of his arrival, had felt that -there was a vague embarrassment in Pierre's greeting and in his -expression. Upon the boat, the young lover's happiness had not been in -the least troubled by the presence of Miss Marsh and of the Marchesa, -although he knew they could not be ignorant of his sentiments. But he -also knew that they would respect his feelings. With Corancez it was -different. A mere glance of Corancez's disturbed him. "All is over," the -Provençal had evidently thought. And, with his easy-going instincts of -loose morality, Corancez was all the happier for his friend's happiness; -he rejoiced in his friend's joy. He therefore bent all his energies upon -the task of dispelling Hautefeuille's slight uneasiness, which he had -discovered with his infallible tact. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," he went on in a conciliatory tone, "this staircase is a little -more chic than the staircase of some vile <i>mairie</i>.—And it is -also delightful to have such a friend as you for my witness! I don't -know what life may hold in store for us, and I am not going to make a -lot of protestations, but, remember, you can ask me anything, after this -proof of your friendship.—There must have been a host of things -that were disagreeable to you in this expedition. Don't deny it. I know -you so well!—And yet you have faced them all for the sake of your -old friend, who is not, for all that, Olivier du Prat.—Isn't my -<i>fiancée</i> gloriously beautiful this morning?" he continued. "But, -hush! here comes the old Prince in person, and Don -Fortunato.—Watch closely, and listen; you'll find it worth your -while!" -</p> - -<p> -Two old gentlemen were just issuing from the entrance of a high windowed -hall, at the top of the staircase. They might have stepped out of one of -the pictures in which Longhi has fixed so accurately, and so -unpretentiously, the picturesque humor of ancient Italy. One was the -Abbé Lagumina, very thin, very little; with his shrivelled legs, no -thicker than skeleton's, buried in knee-breeches, and stockings that -came above his knees. His bowed body was wrapped in a long -ecclesiastical frock-coat. He rubbed his hands together unceasingly and -timidly, bowing all the time. And yet his physiognomy was so acute, so -stamped with intelligence, that the ugliness of his huge nose and his -toothless gums was forgotten and only the charm of his expression -remained. -</p> - -<p> -The other was Prince Paul Fregoso, the most celebrated descendant of -that illustrious line, whose doughty deeds are inscribed in the golden -book of Genoa's foreign wars, and, alas! in the book of brass devoted to -her civil conflicts. The Prince owed his Christian name, Paul, an -hereditary one in the family, to the legendary souvenirs of the famous -Cardinal Fregoso, who was driven from the city, and ruled the seas for -a long time as pirate. -</p> - -<p> -This grandnephew of the curious hero was a veritable giant. His features -were massive, and his eyes intensely bright. His feet and hands were -distorted by gout. In spite of his faded, sordid costume, in spite of -the fact that he was almost bent in two and leaned upon his stick, of -which the point was protected from slipping by an india-rubber shield, -Prince Paul looked every inch a descendant of the doges by his haughty -mien. He spoke with a deep, voluminous, cavernous voice, that indicated -great vigor even at his advanced time of life, for he was about -seventy-nine years of age. -</p> - -<p> -"Ladies," he said, "I beg you to excuse me for not having descended this -diabolical staircase in order to greet you as I ought to have done. -Please do not believe the epigram that our Tuscan enemies have made -about us: 'At Genoa there are no birds in the air, the sea has no fish, -the mountains are woodless, and the men without politeness.'—You -see my birds," and he pointed through the window to the gulls that -soared above the port in search of food. "I hope, if you do me the honor -of lunching with me, that you will find my mullets are as good as those -you get at Leghorn.—And, with your permission, we will go at once -into another salon, where there is a fireplace. In that fireplace you -will see plenty of wood that comes from my estates outside the Roman -gate. With such a north wind we need plenty of warmth in these big -halls, which in our fathers' time required only a scaldino.—The -first greeting is that due to the health of our guests! Madame la -baronne! Madame la marquise! Miss Marsh!"—And he bowed to each of -the three ladies, although he did not know either of them, with an -indescribable air of easy grace and ceremonious courtesy.—"The -abbé will lead the way.—I can only follow you like an unfortunate -<i>gancio di mare</i>—the deformed, miserable creature you call a -crab," he added, addressing Corancez and Hautefeuille. He made them go -on before him, and then dragged himself along in their wake with his -poor, feeble steps, to a rather smaller salon. -</p> - -<p> -Here a meagre wood fire smouldered, making much smoke in a badly -constructed chimney. The floor was formed of a mosaic of precious -marbles, and the ceiling decorated with colored stuccoes and frescoes, -representing the arrival of Ganymede at the feast of the gods. It was -painted lightly and harmoniously with colors whose brilliancy seemed -quite fresh. The graceful figures, the exquisite fancifulness of -landscape and architecture, all the pagan charm, in fact, in its very -delicacy, spoke of some pupil of Raphael. Below the moulding were hung -several portraits. The aristocratic touch of Van Dyck was apparent at -the first glance. Beneath the huge canvases antique statues were grouped -on the floor, and stools that had once been gilded, shaped like the -letter X, and without backs, gave the air of a museum to the salon. The -three women could not restrain their admiration. -</p> - -<p> -"How beautiful it is! What treasures!" they cried. -</p> - -<p> -"Look at the Prince," said Corancez, in a whisper to Pierre. "Do you see -how disgusted he is? You have got a front seat for a comedy that I can -guarantee as amusing. I am going to pay a little attention to my -<i>fiancée</i>. Don't lose a word; you will find it worth attention." -</p> - -<p> -"You think this is beautiful?" said the Prince to the Baroness and Miss -Marsh, who stood beside him, while Corancez and Madame Bonnacorsi -chatted in a corner. "Well, the ceiling is not too bad in its way. -Giovanni da Udine painted it. The Fregoso of that time was jealous of -the Perino del Vagas of the Doria Palace. That particular head of the -house was my namesake, Cardinal Paolo, the one you know who was a -pirate—before he was a cardinal. He summoned another of Raphael's -pupils, the one who had aided the master at the Vatican.—Each of -those gods has a history. That Bacchus is the cardinal himself, and that -Apollo, whose only garment is his lute, was the cardinal's -coadjutor!—Don't be shocked, Don Fortunato.—Ah, I see, he -has gone off to prepare for the marriage sacrament; <i>mene -malo</i>.—The Van Dycks, also, are not bad as Van -Dycks.—They too have their history. Look at that beautiful woman, -with her impenetrable, mysterious smile.—The one holding a scarlet -carnation against her green robe.—And then look at that young man, -with the same smile, his pourpoint made of the same green material, with -the same carnation.—They were lovers, and had their portraits -painted in the same costume. The young man was a Fregoso, the lady an -Alfani, Donna Maria Alfani.—All this was going on during the -absence of the husband, who was a prisoner among the Algerians. They -both thought he would never return.—'Chi non muore, si revede,' -the cardinal used to like to say, 'He who is not dead always -returns.'—The husband came back and slew them both.—These -portraits were hidden by the family. But I found them and hung them -there." -</p> - -<p> -The two immense pictures, preserved in all their brilliancy by a long -exile from the light, smiled down upon the visitors with that -enigmatical smile of which the old collector had spoken. A voluptuous, -culpable grace shone out of the eyes of Donna Maria Alfani, lingered -upon her crimson lips, her pale cheeks, and her dark hair. The delicate -visage, so mobile, so subtle, preserved a dangerous, fascinating -attraction even up there in the stiff outlines of the lofty green -frieze. The passionate pride of a daring lover sparkled in the black -eyes of the young man. The perfect similarity in the colors of their -costumes, in the hue of the carnations they held in their hands, in the -pose of the figures, and in the style of the paintings seemed to prolong -their criminal liaison even after death. It seemed like a challenge to -the avenger. He had killed them, but not separated them, for they were -there, upon the same panel of the same wall, proclaiming aloud their -undying devotion, glorified by art's magic, looking at each other, -speaking to each other, loving each other. -</p> - -<p> -Ely and Pierre could not resist the temptation to exchange a glance, to -look at each other with the tenderness evoked by the meeting of two -lovers with the relics of a passion long since passed away. In it could -be read how keenly they felt the evanescent nature of their present -happiness in the face of this vanished past. Ely was moved more deeply -still. The cardinal-pirate's threatening adage, "Chi non muore, si -revede," had made her shudder again, had thrilled her with the same -terror she had felt upon the boat at the sweetest moment of that -heavenly hour. But this terror and melancholy were quickly dissipated -like an evil dream when Miss Marsh replied to the commentaries of the -Genoese prince:— -</p> - -<p> -"My uncle would pay a big price for those two portraits. You know how -fond he is of returning from his visits to the Old World laden with -knick-knacks of this kind! He calls them his scalps.—But Your -Highness values them very highly, I suppose? They are such beautiful -works of art!" -</p> - -<p> -"I value them because they descend to me as heirlooms from my family," -replied Fregoso. "But don't profane in that way the great name of Art," -he added solemnly. "This and that," he continued, pointing to the -vaulted dome and to the picture, "can be called anything you like, -brilliant decoration, interesting history, curious illustrated legend, -the reproduction of customs of a past age, instructive -psychology.—But it is not Art.—There has never been any art -except in Greece, and once in modern times, in the works of Dante -Alighieri. Never forget that, Miss Marsh." -</p> - -<p> -"Then you prefer these statues to the pictures?" asked Madame de -Carlsberg, amused by the tone of his sally. -</p> - -<p> -"These statues?" he replied. He looked around at the white figures -ranged along the walls, and the grand lines of his visage took on an -expression of extreme contempt. "Those who bought these things did not -even know what Greek art was. They knew about as little as the -ignoramuses who collected the mediocrities of the Tribune or of the -Vatican." -</p> - -<p> -"What?" interrupted Madame de Carlsberg. "The Venus de' Medici is at the -Tribune and the Apollo and the Ariadne at the Vatican!" -</p> - -<p> -"The Venus de' Medici!" cried Fregoso, angrily, "don't speak to me about -the Venus de' Medici!—Look," he went on, pointing to one of the -statues with his gouty fingers, "do you recognize it? That is your -Venus!—It has the same slender, affected body, the same pose of -the arms, the same little cupid at her feet, astride a playful dolphin, -and, like the other, it is a base copy made from Praxiteles's -masterpiece in the taste of the Roman epoch which brought it into -existence.—Would you have in your house one of those reproductions -of 'Night' which encumber the shops of the Tuscan statuary -dealers?'—Copies, I tell you; they are all copies, and made in -such a way!—That is the sort of art you admire in Florence, Rome, -Naples.—All those emperors and Roman patricians who stocked their -villas with the reproductions of Greek <i>chefs d'œuvre</i> were -barbarians, and they have left to us the shadow of a shadow, a parody of -the real Greece, the true, the original, the Greece that Pausanias -visited!—Why, that Venus is a pretty woman bathing, who takes -flight to arouse desire! She is a coquette, she is -lascivious!—What has she in common with the Anadyomene, with the -Aphrodite who was the incarnation of all the world's passionate -energies, and whose temple was forbidden to men, with the goddess that -was also called the Apostrophia, the Preserver?—Think of asking -this one to resist desire, to tear Love from the dominion of the -senses!—And look at this Dromio of your Apollo.—Does it not -resemble in a confusing way the Belvedere that Winckelmann admired so -much?—It is another Roman copy of a statue by Scopas. But what -connection is there between this academic gladiator and the terrible god -of the Iliad, such as he is still figured on the pediment at -Olympia?—The original was the personification of terrible, -mutilating, tragical light. You feel the influence of the East and of -Egypt, the irresistible power of the Sun, the torrid breath of the -desert.—But here?—It is simply a handsome young man destined -to lighten the time of a depraved woman in a secluded chamber, a -<i>venereo</i>, such as you can find by the hundred in the houses at -Pompeii.—There is not an original touch about these statues; -nothing that reveals the hand of the artist, that discloses the eye -guiding the hand, the soul guiding the eye, and guiding the soul, the -city, the race, all those virtues that make Art a sacred, magisterial -thing, that make it the divine blossom of human life!" -</p> - -<p> -The old man spoke with singular exaltation of spirit. His faded visage -was transfigured by a noble, intellectual passion. Suddenly the comical -and familiar side of the man came uppermost again. His long lips -protruded in a ludicrous pout and, threateningly shaking his knotted -finger at one of the statues, a Diana with a quiver, whose countenance, -white in some parts and yellow in others, disclosed the fact that it had -been restored, he added:— -</p> - -<p> -"And the hussies are not even intact!—They are only patched-up -copies.—Just look at this one.—Ah, you baggage, you should not -keep that nose if it were not too much trouble to knock it off!—Ah!" -he continued, as a servant opened the double door at the end of the -gallery, "a thoroughbred needs no spur—Don Fortunato is ready." -</p> - -<p> -Approaching Andryana Bonnacorsi, he said:— -</p> - -<p> -"Will Madame la marchesa do me the honor of accepting my arm to lead her -to the altar? My age gives me the right to play the rôle of father. And -if I cannot walk quickly enough you must excuse me; the weight of years is -the heaviest man ever has to carry.—And don't be alarmed," added the -good old man in a whisper, as he felt the arm of his companion tremble. -"I have studied your Corancez very deeply for several days. He is an -excellent and good fellow." -</p> - -<p> -"Well," said Corancez to Madame de Carlsberg, offering her his arm, -while Florence Marsh took Hautefeuille's, "are you still as sceptical as -you were about chiromancy and the line of fate? Is it simply a chance -that I should have the Baroness Ely leaning on my arm in my wedding -procession? And is it merely hazard that has provided me with an -original like our host to amuse you during the wearisome affair?" -</p> - -<p> -"It is not wearisome," replied the Baroness, laughing. "All the same, -you are lucky in marrying Andryana; she is looking so beautiful to-day, -and she loves you so much!—As to the Prince, you are right; he is -unique. It is pleasant to find such enthusiasm in a man of his -age.—When Italians are taken up with an idea they are infatuated -with it passionately, devotedly, as they are with a woman.—They have -rebuilt their country with the help of that very quality." -</p> - -<p> -During these few minutes Miss Marsh was talking to Hautefeuille. -</p> - -<p> -"You cannot understand that feeling," she was saying, "for you belong to -an old country. But I come from a town that is very little older than -myself, and it is an ecstasy to visit a palace like this where -everything is eloquent of a long past." -</p> - -<p> -"Alas, Miss Marsh," replied Hautefeuille, "if there is anything more -painful than living in a new country, it is living in one that wants to -become new at any price when it is filled to overflowing with relics of -the past, of a glorious past,—a country where every one is making -desperate efforts to destroy everything.—France has had that mania -for about a hundred years." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, and Italy has had it for twenty-five years," said the American -girl. "But we are here," she added gayly, "to buy everything and to -preserve it.—Oh! what an exquisite chapel.—Just look at -it!—Now I'll bet you that those frescoes will finish their existence -in Chicago or Marionville." -</p> - -<p> -As she spoke she pointed out to Pierre the mural paintings that -decorated the chapel they entered at the moment. The little place where -the cardinal-pirate had doubtless often officiated was embellished with -a vast symbolical composition from floor to ceiling. It was the work of -one of those unknown masters whose creations confront one at every step -in Italy and which anywhere else would be celebrated. But there, as the -soldiers in the famous charge say, they are too numerous! This -particular painter, influenced by the marvellous frescoes with which -Lorenzo Lotto had beautified the Suardi Chapel at Bergamo, had -represented, above the altar, Christ standing up and holding out His -hands. From the Saviour's finger-tips a vine shoot spread out, climbing -up and up to the dome, covered with grapes. The tendrils wound round, -making frames for the figures of five saints on one side, and on the -other five female figures. Above the head of Christ the inscription, -"Ego sum vitis, vos palmites," gave an evangelical significance to the -fantastic decoration. -</p> - -<p> -The principal episodes in the legend of St. Laurence, the patron saint -of the cathedral at Genoa, were painted on the walls and in the panels -made by the pillars. These were: Decius slaying the Emperor Philip in -his tent; the young sou of the dead Emperor confiding his father's -treasures to Sixtus to be distributed among the poor; Sixtus being led -to the scene of his martyrdom, followed by Laurence, crying, "Where art -thou going, O father, without thy son? Where art thou going, O priest, -without thy deacon?" Laurence receiving the treasures in his turn and -confiding them to the poor widow; Laurence in prison converting the -officer of the guard; Laurence in Sallust's gardens collecting together -the poor, the halt, and the blind, saying at the same time to Decius, -"Behold the treasures of the Church!" Laurence surrounded by flames upon a -bed of fire!—The picturesqueness of the costumes, the fancy displayed -in the architecture, the fruitful nature of the landscape, the breadth -of the drawing, and the warmth of the coloring revealed the influence of -the Venetian school, although attenuated and softened by the usury of -time, which had effaced the too glaring brilliancy and toned down the -too vivid warmth of the painting. It had taken on something of the faded -tone of old tapestry. -</p> - -<p> -The whole gave to the marriage that was being celebrated in the old -oratory of the ancient palace of an aged prince by a Gallophobe priest a -fantastic character that was both delightful and droll. The ultra-modern -Corancez kneeling with the descendants of the doges with Don Fortunato -to bless them, in a setting of the sixteenth century, was one of those -paradoxes that only nature dare present, so pronounced are they as to be -almost incredible! And equally incredible was the simple-mindedness of -the abbé, the impassioned worshipper of Count Camillo. He rolled out a -little oration to the young <i>fiancés</i> before uniting them. This -oration was in French, a condescension he had determined upon making, in -spite of his political hatreds, for the sake of the foreigner to whom he -was to marry his dear marchesa. -</p> - -<p> -"Noble lady! Honored sir! I do not intend to say much.—Tongueless -birds furnish no auguries.—Sir, you are going to marry this dear -lady in the presence of God. In thus consecrating the union of a great -Venetian name with that of a noble French family, it seems as though I -were asking once more for the blessing of Him Who can do all things, -that I were appealing to Him to consecrate the friendship between two -countries which ought to be only one in heart; I mean, my lady, our dear -Italy, and your beautiful France, my lord!—Italy resembles that -figure painted by a master, a genius, upon the wall of this chapel. It -is from her that proud Spain and brilliant France, two young branches of -the Latin race, have sprung as from a fruitful vine. The same vigorous -sap courses through the veins of the three nations. May they be reunited -some day! May the mother once more have her two daughters by her side! -May they be united some day as they are already by the relationship of -their languages, by the communion of their religion! May they be bound -together by a bond of love that nothing can break, such as is going to -unite you, my dear lord and lady! Amen!" -</p> - -<p> -"Did you hear him?" Corancez asked Hautefeuille an hour later. -</p> - -<p> -The <i>Ita missa est</i> had been spoken; the solemn "I will" had been -exchanged, and the luncheon—including the mullet that surpassed those -of Leghorn—had been brought to an end amid toasts, laughter, and the -reading of the epithalamium upon which Don Fortunato had worked so long -and so patiently. The entire company had adjourned to the gallery for -coffee, and the two young men were chatting in the angle of a window -close to the repaired Artemis. -</p> - -<p> -"Did you hear him? The good old abbé simply worships me.—He -worships me even too much, for I am not as noble as he has made me -out.—He has given Andryana a proof of inalienable affection in -consenting to our secret marriage. He is as intelligent as it is -possible to be. He knows Navagero to the very marrow and dreaded an -unhappy future for Andryana if she did not escape from her brother's -clutches. He is also a clever diplomatist, for he persuaded his old -companion in <i>carcere duro</i> to lend us his little -chapel.—Well, intelligence, diplomacy, friendship, and all the -rest are swept on one side in the Italian soul by the law of -primogeniture. Did you not hear how, in his quality of Cavour's friend, -he made us feel that France was only the youngest scion of the great -Latin family?—In this case the youngest has fared better than the -eldest! But I pardoned all Don Fortunato's presumption when I thought of -the face my brother-in-law will pull, Italian though he is, when he is -shown the piece of paper which bears your name beside that of the -Prince.—Would you like another proof of Corancez's luck? Look over -yonder." -</p> - -<p> -He pointed through the window to the sky covered with black clouds and -to the street below, at the foot of the palace, where the north wind, -sweeping along, made the promenaders huddle up in their cloaks. -</p> - -<p> -"You don't understand?" he went on. "Don't you see you cannot sail again -while such a sea is on? The ladies will stay at the hotel all night." As -he spoke the Provençal smiled with an easy-going, semi-complicity. -Happily the newly made vicomtesse drew near and brought the -<i>tête-à-tête</i> to an end. She was leaning on Madame de Carlsberg's -arm. The two young women, so beautiful, so graceful, so delicate, so -enamoured, formed a living commentary as they thus approached the two -young men. And the pagan air that one seems to breathe in Italy was so -keen, so penetrating, that Pierre's uneasy scruples were soothed by the -love he could read in his mistress's brown eyes that were lit up by the -same tender fire that shone in the blue eyes of the Venetian when she -regarded her husband. -</p> - -<p> -"You have come to us from the Prince, I suppose?" asked Corancez. "I -know him! You will have no peace until he has shown you his treasures." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, he has been asking for you," said Andryana. "But I came on my own -account.—A husband who abandons his wife an hour after marriage is -rather hurried." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, it is a little too soon," repeated Ely. And the hidden meaning of -the words, addressed as it was in reality to Hautefeuille, was as sweet -as a kiss to the young man. -</p> - -<p> -"Let us obey the Prince—and the Princess," he said, bearing his -mistress's hand to his lips as though in playful gallantry, "and go to -the treasure-house. You know all about it, I suppose?" he added, turning -to his friend. -</p> - -<p> -"Do I know it?" replied Corancez. "I had not been here an hour before I -had gone through the whole place. He is a little bit—" and he tapped -his forehead significantly, pointing to the old Prince and Don -Fortunato, who were going out of the gallery with Miss Marsh. "He is a -little bit crazy.—But you will judge for yourself." -</p> - -<p> -All the procession—to use the term employed by the "representative -of a great French family," as the Abbé Lagumina styled the -Provençal—followed in Fregoso's wake and descended a narrow staircase -leading to the private apartments of the collector. He was now leading, -eager to show the way. As is often the case in big Italian mansions, the -living rooms were as little as the reception halls were big. The Prince, -when alone, lived in four cramped rooms, of which the scanty furniture -indicated very plainly the stoicism of the old man, wrapped up in a -dream-world and as indifferent to comfort as he was impervious to -vanity. The twenty or twenty-five pieces that formed his museum were -hung on the walls. At the first glance the Fregoso collection, -celebrated all over the two hemispheres, was made up of shapeless -fragments, rudely carved, that could not fail to produce the same -impression upon the ignorant in such matters that Corancez had felt. -Fregoso had studied antique art so closely that he now cared for nothing -but statuary dating from an epoch anterior to Phidias. He worshipped -these relics of the sixth century which afford glimpses of primitive and -heroic Greece—the Greece that repulsed the Asiatic invasion by the -simple virtue of a superior, elevated race placed face to face with the -countless hordes of an inferior people. -</p> - -<p> -The Genoese nobleman had become the most devoted of archæologists after -being one of the most active conspirators. And now he lived among the -gods and heroes of that little known and distant Hellas as though he had -been a contemporary of the famous soldier carved upon the stele of -Aristion. -</p> - -<p> -The gouty old man seemed to be miraculously rejuvenated the moment the -last of his guests crossed the threshold of the first chamber, which -usually served him as a smoking-room. He stood erect. His feet no longer -dragged upon the floor as though too heavy for his strength. His dæmon, -as his beloved Athenians would have said, had entered into him and he -began to talk of his collection with a fire that arrested any -inclination to smile. Under the influence of his glowing language the -mutilated marble seemed to become animated and to live again. He could -see the figures of two thousand four hundred years ago in all their -freshness. And by a species of irresistible hypnotism his imagination -imposed itself upon the most sceptical among his auditors. -</p> - -<p> -"There," he said, "are the oldest carvings known.—Three statues of -Hera, three Junos in their primitive form: that is, wooden idols copied -in stone by a hand that still hesitates as though unfamiliar with the -work." -</p> - -<p> -"The xoanon!" said Florence Marsh. -</p> - -<p> -"What! You have heard of the xoanon?" cried Fregoso. And from this point -on he addressed only the American girl. "In that case, Miss Marsh, you -are capable of understanding the beauty of these three examples of art. -They are unique.—Neither that of Delos, that of Samos, or that of -the Acropolis is worthy to be compared with them.—You can see the -creation of life in them.—Here you see the body in its sheath, and -what a sheath!—One as shapeless and rough as the harshest of -wools. And yet it breathes, the bosom is there, the hips, the legs are -indicated.—Then the material grows supple, becoming a delicate -fabric of fine wool, a long divided garment that lends itself to every -movement. The statue awakes. It walks.—Just look at the grandeur -of the torso under the peplum, the closely fitting cloak gathered in -closely fitting folds on one side and spread fanlike on the other. Don't -you admire the pose of the goddess as she stands, the weight of her body -thrown upon the right foot, with the left advanced?—Now she moves, -she lives!—Oh! Beauty! Heavenly Beauty!—And look at the -Apollos!" -</p> - -<p> -He was so excited by his feverish enthusiasm that he could no longer -speak. He pointed in speechless admiration to three trunks carved in -stone that had been turned red by a long sojourn in a ferruginous soil. -They were headless and armless, with legs of which only the stumps -remained. -</p> - -<p> -"Are they not the models of those at Orchomenos, Thera, and Tenea?" -asked Miss Marsh. -</p> - -<p> -"Certainly," replied the Prince, who could no longer contain his -happiness. "They are funeral images, statues of some dead hero deified -in the form of Apollo.—And to think that there are barbarians in the -world who pretend that the Greeks went to Egypt and to Mesopotamia in -search of their art!—Do you think an Egyptian or an Asiatic could -ever have imagined that proud carriage, that curved chest, that strong -back?—They never made anything but sitting idols glued to the -wall.—Just look at the thighs! Homer says that Achilles could leap -fifty feet. I have studied the subject deeply, and I find that the -tiger's leap at its maximum is exactly that distance. It appears -incredible to us that a man could do that. But look at those -muscles—that makes such a leap a possibility. Art is seen at its -perfection there; magnificent limbs capable of magnificent efforts. 'I -moti divini,' as Leonardo said. If you put that energy at the service of -the city and represent that city by gods, by its gods, you have Greece -before you." -</p> - -<p> -"And you have Venice, you have Florence, you have Sienna, you have -Genoa, all Italy, in fact!" interrupted Don Fortunato. -</p> - -<p> -"Italy is the humble pupil of Greece," replied Fregoso, solemnly. "She -has received touches of grand beauty, but she is not the grand beauty." -</p> - -<p> -Looking around, he added mysteriously:— -</p> - -<p> -"Ah! we must close the shutters and lower the curtains. Will you help -me, Don Fortunato?" -</p> - -<p> -When the room had thus been darkened, the old man handed a lighted taper -to the abbé and made a sign for them all to follow him. Approaching a -head carved in marble placed upon a pedestal, he said, in a voice broken -with emotion:— -</p> - -<p> -"The Niobe of Phidias!" -</p> - -<p> -The three women and the two young men then saw by the light of the tiny -flame a shapeless fragment of marble. The nose had been broken and -shattered. The place where the eyes ought to have been was hardly -recognizable. Almost all the hair was missing. By chance, in all the -dreadful destruction through which the head had passed, the lower lip -and the chin had been spared. Accustomed as he was to the almost -infantile <i>mise-en-scène</i> of the archæologist, Don Fortunato let the -light shine full on the mutilated mouth and chin. -</p> - -<p> -"What admirable life and suffering is displayed in that mouth!" cried -Fregoso, "and what power there is in the chin!—Does it not express -all the will and pride and energy of the queen who defied -Latona?—You can hear the cry that issues from the -lips.—Follow the line of the cheek. From what remains you can -figure the rest.—And what a noble form the artist has given the -nose!—Look at this." -</p> - -<p> -He took up the head, placed it at a certain angle, drew out his -handkerchief, and taking a portion of it in his hands, he stretched it -across the base of the forehead at the place where there was nothing but -a gaping fracture in the stone. -</p> - -<p> -"There you have the line of the nose!—I can see it.—I can -see the tears that flow from her eyes," and he placed the head at -another angle. "I can see them!—Come!" he said, sighing, after a -silence, "we must return to everyday life. Draw up the curtains and open -the shutters." -</p> - -<p> -When daylight once more lit up the shapeless mass Fregoso sighed again. -Then, taking up a head, rather less battered than the Niobe, he bowed to -Miss Marsh, whose technical knowledge and attentive attitude had -appealed in a flattering way to his mania. -</p> - -<p> -"Miss Marsh," he said, "you are worthy of possessing a fragment of a -statue that once graced the Acropolis.—Will you allow me to offer -you this head, one only recently discovered? Look how it smiles." -</p> - -<p> -The head really seemed to smile in the old man's hands, with a curious, -disquieting smile, mysterious and sensual at the same time. -</p> - -<p> -"It is the Eginetan smile, is it not?" asked the American girl. -</p> - -<p> -"Archæologists have given it that name on account of the statues upon -the famous pediment. But I call it the Elysian smile, the ecstasy that -ought to wreathe forever the lips of those tasting the eternal -happiness, revealed in advance to the faithful by the gods and -goddesses.—Remember the line Æschylus wrote about Helen: 'Soul serene -as the calm of the seas.' That smile expresses the line completely." -</p> - -<p> -When Hautefeuille and the three women were once again in the landau that -was taking them toward the port after the fantastic marriage and the -more fantastic visit, they looked at each other with astonishment. It -was about three o'clock in the afternoon and it seemed so strange to be -again in the streets full of people, to see the houses with the little -shops on the ground-floor, to read the bills that covered the walls, and -to form part of the swarming, contemporary life. They felt the same -impression that seizes one after a theatrical performance in the daytime -when one is again on the boulevard flooded with sunshine. The deception -of the theatre, which has held you for a couple of hours, makes the -reawakening to life almost painful. Andryana was the first to speak of -this uncomfortable sensation. -</p> - -<p> -"If I had not Don Fortunato's epithalamium in my hand," she said, -showing a little book she held, "I should think I had been -dreaming.—He has just given it to me with great ceremony, telling -me at the same time that only four copies of it had been printed at the -workshop where the proclamations of Manin, our last doge, used to be, -printed. There is one for Corancez, one for Fregoso, one for the abbé -himself, and this one!—Yes, I should think I had been dreaming." -</p> - -<p> -"And I also," said Florence, "if this head were not so heavy." She -weighed the strange gift which the archæologist had honored her with in -her little hands. "Heavens, how I should like to visit the museum -without the Prince!—I have an idea that he hypnotized us, and that -if he were not there we should see nothing.—For example, we saw -the smile on this face when Fregoso showed it to us.—I cannot find -the least trace of it now. Can you?" -</p> - -<p> -"No!—Nor I!—Nor I!—" cried Ely de Carlsberg, Andryana, -and Hautefeuille in chorus. -</p> - -<p> -"I am certain, however," the latter added, laughingly, "that I saw -Niobe, who had neither eyes nor cheeks, weeping." -</p> - -<p> -"And I saw Apollo run, although he had no legs," said Madame de -Carlsberg. -</p> - -<p> -"And I saw Juno breathe, though she had no bosom," said Andryana. -</p> - -<p> -"Corancez warned me of it," said Hautefeuille. "When Fregoso is absent, -his collection is a simple heap of stones; when he is there, it is -Olympus." -</p> - -<p> -"That is because he is a believer and impassioned about art," replied -the Baroness. "The few hours we spent with him have taught me more about -Greece than all my promenades in the Vatican, the capital, and the -Offices. I do not even regret being unable to show you the Red Palace," -she said, addressing Hautefeuille, "notwithstanding the fact that its -Van Dycks are wonderful." -</p> - -<p> -"You will have plenty of time to-morrow," said Miss Marsh. "My uncle -will sail to-night, I know; but he will leave us here, for the -<i>Jenny</i> is going to have a rough time, and he will not allow any -one to be sick on his boat. Look how the sea is already rolling in to -the port.—There is a tempest raging out at sea." -</p> - -<p> -The landau arrived at the quay where the yacht's dingy was awaiting the -travellers. Little waves were breaking against the walls. All the -roadstead was agitated by the rising north wind and was a mass of tiny -ripples, too small to affect the big steamers riding at anchor, but -strong enough to pitch about the pleasure boats and fishing smacks. What -a difference there was between this threatening gray swell that was felt -even in the port, in spite of its protecting piers, and the wide -mirror-like expanse of motionless sapphire which had spread before them -the day before at the same hour in the open sea off Cannes! What a -contrast between this cloudy sky and the azure dome that smiled down -upon their departure, between this keen north wind and the perfumed -sighing of the breeze yesterday!—But who thought of this? Certainly -not Florence Marsh, completely happy in the possession of the archaic scalp -she was taking on board. Certainly not Andryana, to whom the prospect of -a night spent on shore was full of such happy promise; she was to meet -her husband, and the idea of this clandestine and at the same time -legitimate rendezvous after her romantic marriage had filled the loving -woman with happiness. It was the first time for many years that she had -forgotten her dreaded brother. Nor did Hautefeuille or his mistress -notice the contrast, for the long hours of the night were to be spent -together. The young man, who had fallen behind with Ely de Carlsberg, -said gayly and yet tenderly, as they walked down toward the dingy of the -Jenny, whose red, white, and black flag crackled in the breeze:— -</p> - -<p> -"I am beginning to believe that Corancez is right about his lucky -line!—And it appears to be contagious." -</p> - -<p> -At the very moment he spoke, and as Ely answered him with a smile full -of languor and voluptuousness, one of the sailors standing on the quay -near the boat handed a large portfolio to Miss Marsh. It was the -vessel's postman, who had just returned with the passengers' mail. The -young girl rapidly ran through the fifteen or twenty letters. -</p> - -<p> -"Here is a telegram for you, Hautefeuille," she said. -</p> - -<p> -"You will see," he said to Ely, continuing his badinage, "it is good -news." -</p> - -<p> -He tore open the yellow slip. His visage lit up with a happy smile, and -he handed the telegram to Madame de Carlsberg, saying:— -</p> - -<p> -"What did I tell you?" -</p> - -<p> -The despatch said simply:— -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -"Am leaving Cairo to-day. Shall be at Cannes Sunday or Monday at latest. -Will send another telegram. So happy to see you again. -</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">OLIVIER DU PRAT."</p></blockquote> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap07"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER VII -<br /><br /> -OLIVIER DU PRAT</h4> - -<p> -The second telegram arrived, and on the following Monday, at two -o'clock, Pierre Hautefeuille was at the station at Cannes, awaiting the -arrival of the express. It was the train he had taken to come from Paris -in November, while still suffering from the attack of pleurisy that had -been nearly fatal to him. Any one who had seen him getting out of the -train on that November afternoon, thin, pale, shivering in spite of his -furs, would never have recognized the invalid, the feverish -convalescent, in the handsome young fellow who crossed the track four -months later, supple and erect, rosy-cheeked and smiling, and with his -eyes lit up with a happy reflection that brightened all his visage. -Between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five, in that period of life -when the vital principle is ripe and intact, the most timid of men have -at times a keen joy in life which betrays itself in every gesture. It is -a sign that they love, that they are beloved, that all around smiles -upon their love. And the sensation that no obstacle stands between them -and their passions fills them to overflowing with happiness. Their very -physique seems to be transfigured, to be exalted. They have a different -bearing, another look, a prouder attitude. It is as though some magnetic -current emanated from happy lovers, that clothes them with a momentary -beauty intelligible to every woman. They recognize at once the -"enraptured lover," and hate him or sympathize with him, according as -they are envious or indulgent, prosaic or romantic. -</p> - -<p> -To this latter class belonged the two people whom Hautefeuille met face -to face on the little central platform that serves as a sort of -waiting-place at the Cannes station. One of these was Yvonne de Chésy, -accompanied by her husband and Horace Brion. The other was the Marchesa -Bonnacorsi,—as she still called herself,—escorted by her -brother, Navagero. To reach them, the young man had to work his way -through the fashionable crowd gathered there, as is usual at this hour, -awaiting the train that is to carry them to Monte Carlo. The comments -exchanged between the two women and their escorts during the few minutes -that this operation took proved once more that the pettiness of -malignant jealousy is not the characteristic of the gentler sex solely. -</p> - -<p> -"Hallo! there is Hautefeuille!" said Madame de Chésy. "How pleased his -sister will be to see him so wonderfully changed!—Don't you think he -is a very handsome young fellow?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, very handsome," assented the Venetian, "and the prettiest part of -it is that he does not seem to be aware of it." -</p> - -<p> -"He won't keep that quality long," said Brion. "It is 'Hautefeuille -here, 'Hautefeuille' there! You hear of nothing but Hautefeuille at your -house," addressing Yvonne, "at Madame Bonnacorsi's, at Madame de -Carlsberg's. He was simply a good, little, inoffensive, insignificant -youngster. You are going to make him frightfully conceited." -</p> - -<p> -"Without considering that he will compromise one of you sooner or later -if it continues," said Navagero, glancing at his sister. -</p> - -<p> -Since the trip to Genoa the artful Italian had noticed an unusual air -about Andryana and had been seeking the motive of it, but in the wrong -direction. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah! That's it, is it?" cried Yvonne, laughingly. "Well, just to punish -you I am going to ask him to come into our compartment, and shall invite -him to dine with us at Monte Carlo, so that he can take charge of -Gontran—who needs some one to look after him. I say, Pierre," she -went on, addressing the young man who was now standing before her, "I -attach you to my service for the afternoon and evening.—You will -report it to me if my lord and master loses more than one hundred -louis.—He lost a thousand the day before yesterday at -<i>trente-et-quarante</i>. Two affairs like that every week throughout -the winter would be a nice income.—I shall have to begin thinking -of how I am to earn the living expenses." -</p> - -<p> -Chésy did not reply. He tugged at his mustache nervously, shrugging his -shoulders. But his features contracted with a forced smile that was very -different from the one his wife's witty sallies usually provoked. The -catastrophe Dickie Marsh had predicted was slowly drawing near, and the -unfortunate fellow was childish enough to try to offset the imminent -disaster by risking the little means he had left upon the green cloth at -Monte Carlo. Heedless to say, his wife was entirely ignorant of the -truth. Thus Yvonne's remark was singularly cruel for him, and for her, -uttered as it was, in the presence of Brion, the professional banker of -needy <i>mondaines</i>. Hautefeuille, who had been enlightened by his -conversations with Corancez and Madame de Carlsberg, felt the irony -hidden in the pretty little woman's conversation at such a moment, and -said:— -</p> - -<p> -"I am not going to Monte Carlo. I am simply waiting for one of my -friends—for Olivier du Prat—whom, I think, you know." -</p> - -<p> -"What! Olivier! Why, he is an old sweetheart of mine, when I was staying -with your sister.—Yes, I was crazy about him for at least a -fortnight. Bring him along then and invite him to dine with us this -evening. You can take the five o'clock train." -</p> - -<p> -"But he is married." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, invite his wife as well," cried the giddy creature, gayly. "Come, -Andryana, persuade him. You have more power over him than I have." -</p> - -<p> -Continuing her teasing like a spoilt child, she took Navagero's arm, and -turning away, nothing amused her more than to see the expression on the -Italian's face when he saw his sister in conversation with some one of -whom he was suspicious. She was ignorant of the service she was -rendering her friend, who profited by the few instants of her brother's -absence to say to Pierre:— -</p> - -<p> -"He also arrives by this train. I only came down to see him. Will you -tell him that I am going to meet Florence upon the <i>Jenny</i> to-morrow -morning at eleven o'clock? And, above all, don't be annoyed if Alvise is -not very polite. He has got the idea that you are paying me -attentions.—But here is the train." -</p> - -<p> -The locomotive issued out of the deep cutting that leads into Cannes, -and Pierre saw Corancez's happy profile almost immediately. He jumped -out before the train stopped, and, embracing Hautefeuille, said loudly, -so that his wife could hear:— -</p> - -<p> -"How good of you to come to meet me!" adding in a whisper, "Try to get -my brother-in-law away for a minute." -</p> - -<p> -"I cannot," replied Hautefeuille; "I am expecting Olivier du Prat. Did -you not see him in the train? Ah! I see him." -</p> - -<p> -He left the Provençal's side without troubling himself further about this -new act in the <i>matrimonio segreto</i> which was being played upon the -station platform, and ran toward a young man standing upon the step of -the train looking at him with a tender, happy smile. Although Olivier du -Prat was only the same age as Pierre, he looked several years older, so -stern and strongly marked was his bronzed, emaciated face. His features -were so irregular and striking that it was impossible to forget them. -His black eyes, of a humid, velvety black, the whiteness of his regular -teeth, his thick, flowing hair, gave a sort of animal grace to his -physiognomy which counterbalanced the bitterness that seemed to be -expressed in his mouth, his forehead, and, above all, his hollow cheeks. -Without being tall, his arms and shoulders denoted great strength. -Hardly had he stepped down from the carriage when he embraced -Hautefeuille with a fervor that almost brought the happy tears to his -eyes, and the two friends remained looking at each other for a few -seconds, both forgetting to offer a helping hand to a young woman who -was, in her turn, standing upon the high step awaiting with the most -complete impassibility until one of the young men should think about -her. Madame Olivier du Prat was a mere child of about twenty years of -age, very pretty, very refined, and with a delicacy in her beauty that -was almost doll-like and pretty. Her hair was of a golden color that was -cold through its very lightness. In her blue eyes there was, at this -moment, that indefinable impenetrable expression that can be seen on the -faces of most young wives before the friends of their husband's youth. -Did she feel sympathy or antipathy, confidence or suspicion, for -Olivier's dearest friend, who had been her husband's groomsman at their -marriage? Nothing could be gathered from her greeting when the young man -came and excused himself for not having welcomed her before and assisted -her to the platform. She hardly rested the tips of her fingers upon the -hand that Pierre held out to her. But this might only be a natural -shyness, as the remark she made when he asked her about the journey -might express a natural desire to rest:— -</p> - -<p> -"We had a very pleasant journey," she said, "but after such a long -absence one longs to be at home again." -</p> - -<p> -Yes, the remark was a natural one. But, uttered by the lips of the -slender, chilly little wife, it also signified: "My husband wished to -come and see you and I could not prevent him. But don't be mistaken, I -am very dissatisfied about it." At any rate, this was the involuntary -construction Hautefeuille placed upon the words in his inner -consciousness. Thus he was grateful to Corancez when he approached and -spared him the difficulty of replying. The train started off again, -leaving the road clear for the passengers, and the Southerner walked up, -holding out his hand and smiling. -</p> - -<p> -"How do you do, Olivier?—You don't remember me?—I am Corancez. -We studied rhetoric together. If Pierre had only told me that you were in -the train, we could have travelled together and had a good gossip about -old times. You are looking splendidly, just as you did at twenty. Will -you present me to Madame du Prat?" -</p> - -<p> -"As a matter of fact, I did not recognize him," Olivier said a few -minutes later, when they were in the carriage that was rolling toward -the Hôtel des Palmes. "And yet he has not changed. He is the type of -the Southerner, all familiarity that is intolerable when it is real and -is ignoble when it is affected. Among all the detestable things in our -country—and there is a good assortment — the most detestable is the -'old schoolfellow.' Because he has been a convict with you in one of -those prisons called French colleges, he calls you by your Christian -name, he addresses you as though you were his dearest friend. Do you see -Corancez often?" -</p> - -<p> -"He seems to think a great deal of you, Monsieur' Hautefeuille," said -the young wife. "He embraced you the instant he was on the platform." -</p> - -<p> -"He is rather demonstrative," replied Pierre, "but he is really a very -amiable fellow, and has been very useful to me." -</p> - -<p> -"That surprises me," said Olivier. "But how is it you never spoke to me -of him in your letters? I should have been more communicative." -</p> - -<p> -This little conversation was also unimportant. But it was sufficient to -establish that feeling of awkwardness that is often sufficient to -destroy the joy felt in the most dearly desired meeting. Hautefeuille -divined there was a little reproach in the remark made by his friend -about his letters, and he felt again the sensation, of hostility in -Madame du Prat's observation. He became silent. The carriage was -ascending the network of roads that he had traversed with Corancez upon -the morning of their visit to the Jenny, and the white silhouette of the -Villa Helmholtz stood out upon the left beyond the silvery foliage of -the olive trees. His mistress's image reappeared in the mind of the -young man with the most vivid intensity. He could not help making a -comparison between his dear beloved Ely and his wife's friend. The -little Frenchwoman seated by his side, a little constrained and stiff in -spite of her elegant correctness, suddenly appeared to him so poor, so -characterless, such a nullity, so uninteresting beside the supple, -voluptuous image of the foreigner. -</p> - -<p> -Berthe du Prat was the embodiment of the quiet and somewhat negative -distinction that stamps the educated Parisienne (for the species -exists). Her travelling costume was the work of a famous <i>costumier</i>, -but she had been so careful to shun the merest approach to eccentricity -that it was completely impersonal. She was certainly pretty with the -fragile, delicate prettiness of a Dresden china figure. But her visage -was so well under control, her lips so close pressed, her eyes so devoid -of expression, that her charming physiognomy did not provoke the least -desire to know what sort of a soul it hid. It was so apparent that it -would only be made up of accepted ideas, of conventional sentiments, of -perfectly irreproachable desires. This is the sort of woman that men who -have seen much life ordinarily seek for wives. After having corrupted -his imagination in too many cases of irregularity, Olivier had naturally -married the child whose beauty flattered his pride and whose -irreproachable conduct was a guarantee against any cause for jealousy. -</p> - -<p> -It was not less natural that Pierre, educated in the midst of -conventional ideas, and who had suffered from the prejudices of his -family, should remark in the composition of the young woman her very -evident poverty of human sympathy, as well as all that was mean and -mediocre, particularly by comparison. -</p> - -<p> -Impressions of this kind quickly produced that shrinking, that retreat -of the soul, that we call by a big word, convenient by reason of its -very mystery; that is, antipathy. Pierre had not felt this antipathy at -the first meeting with Mademoiselle Berthe Lyonnet, now Madame du Prat. -And yet she ought to have displeased him still more, among her original -surroundings, between her father, the most narrow-minded of solicitors, -and her mother, a veritable dowager of the better class of Parisian -middle life. But at that time the romantic side of the young man was as -yet dormant. The intoxication of love had awakened him, and he was now -sensitive to shades of feminine nature that had been hidden from him -before. Being too little accustomed to analyzing himself to recognize -how the past few weeks had modified his original ideas, he explained the -sentiment of dislike that he felt for Berthe du Prat by this simple -reason, one that helps us to justify all our ignorance on the subject of -another's character. -</p> - -<p> -"What is it that is changed in her?—She was so charming when she was -married! And now she is quite a different woman.—Olivier has also -changed. He used to be so tender, so loving, so gay! And now he is quite -indifferent, almost melancholy. What has happened?—Can it be that he -is not happy?" -</p> - -<p> -The carriage stopped before the Hôtel des Palmes just as this idea took -shape in Pierre's mind with implacable clearness. He kept repeating the -question while watching Olivier and his wife in the vestibule. They -walked about, chatting of the orders to be given about the luggage and -to the chambermaid. Their very step was so out of harmony, so different, -that by itself it opened up a vista of secret divorce between the two. -It is in such minute, in the instinctive fusion, the unison in the -gesture of both, that the inner sympathy animating two lovers, or -husband and wife, must be sought. Olivier and his wife walked out of -step metaphorically, for expressions have to be created to characterize -the shades of feeling that can neither be defined nor analyzed, but -which are attested by indisputable evidence. And what a world of -evidence was contained in a remark made by Du Prat, when the hotel clerk -showed him the rooms that had been kept for him. The suite was composed -of a large room with a big bed, two <i>cabinets de toilette</i>, one of -which was huge, and a drawing-room. -</p> - -<p> -"But where are you going to put my bed?" he asked. "This dressing-room -is very little." -</p> - -<p> -"I have another suite with a salon and two contiguous bedrooms," said -the clerk; "but it is on the fourth floor." -</p> - -<p> -"That doesn't matter," replied Du Prat. -</p> - -<p> -He and his wife went up in the elevator without even glancing at the -beautiful flowers with which Pierre had embellished the vases. He had -beautified the conjugal chamber of Olivier and Berthe in the way he -would have liked the room to be decorated which he would have shared -with Ely. Left alone breathing the voluptuous aroma of mimosa mingled -with roses and narcissus, he looked through the window across the clear -afternoon landscape, the Esterels, the sea, and the islands. The little -sunny chamber, quiet and attractive, was a veritable home for kisses -with such perfumes and such a view. And yet Olivier's first idea had -been to go and seek two separate rooms! This little fact added to the -other remarks, and, above all, to his involuntary, intuitive -conclusions, made Hautefeuille become meditative. A comparison between -the passionate joy of his sweet romance and the strange coldness of this -young household again arose in his mind. He recalled the first night of -real love, that night in heavenly intimacy on the yacht. He remembered -the second night, the one Ely and he had passed at Genoa. How sweet it -had been to slumber a brief moment, his head resting upon the bosom of -his beloved mistress. He thought of the very preceding evening when Ely -had yielded to his supplications to allow him to visit her that night at -the Villa Helmholtz, and he had glided into the garden by means of an -unprotected slope. At the hothouse he found the door open with his -mistress awaiting him. She had taken him to her room by a spiral -staircase which led to the little salon and which only she used. Ah! -What passionate kisses they had exchanged under the influence of the -double emotions of Love and Danger! This time he left the room with -despair and heartburning. He had returned alone, along the deserted -roads, under the stars, dreaming of flight with her, with his beloved, -of flight to some distant spot, to live with her forever, husband living -with his wife! Could it be that Olivier had not the same sentiments -toward his young wife; that he could forego that right to rest upon her -adored heart all the night and every night? Could he forego that -precious right, the most precious of all, of passing all the night and -every night, half the year to the end of the year, half a lifetime to -the end of life, with her pressed close to him? Could he renounce the -ecstasy of her presence when, with her dress, the woman had put off her -social existence to become once again the simple, true being, beautified -only with her youth, with her love, to become only the confiding, -tender, all-renouncing creature that no other sees? -</p> - -<p> -But if they loved each other so little after so short a married life, -had he ever really loved her? And if he had never really loved her, why -had he married her?—Pierre had got to this point in his reflections -when he was abruptly aroused by a hand being laid upon his shoulder. -Olivier was again standing before him, this time alone. -</p> - -<p> -"Well," he said, "I have arranged everything. The rooms are rather high, -but the view is all the more beautiful. Have you anything to do just -now? Suppose we go for a walk." -</p> - -<p> -"How about Madame du Prat?" asked Hautefeuille. -</p> - -<p> -"We must give her time to get settled," replied Olivier, "and I admit -that I am very glad to be alone with you for a few minutes. One can only -talk when there are two. By one I mean 'us.'—If you only knew how -glad I am to be with you again!" -</p> - -<p> -"My dear Olivier!" cried Pierre, deeply moved by the sincere accent of -the remark. -</p> - -<p> -They took each other's hands and their glances met, as at the station. -No word was spoken. In the Fioretti of St. Francis it is related how St. -Louis one day, disguised as a pilgrim, came and knocked at the door of -the convent of Santa Maria degli Angeli. Another saint, named Egidio, -opened the door and recognized him. The king and the monk kneeled, the -one before the other, and then separated without speaking. "I read his -heart," said Egidio, "and he read mine." The beautiful legend is the -symbol of the meeting of friends such as the two young people. When two -men who know each other, who have loved each other since infancy, as -Pierre and Olivier did, meet face to face again, they have no need of -protestation, no need of fresh assurances of their reciprocal -faithfulness, esteem, confidence, respect, devotion; all the noble -virtues of male affection need no words to explain them. They shine and -glow, their mere presence sufficing, like a pure and steady flame. -Once again the two friends felt that they could count upon each -other.—Once more they felt how closely they were united with the -bonds of fraternal love. -</p> - -<p> -"So you were good enough to think of putting flowers in the rooms to -welcome us?" said Olivier, taking his friend's arm. "I will just give -orders for them to be taken up to our apartments.—Let us go -now.—Not to the Croisette, eh?—If it is like what it used to -be when I stayed here before, it must be intolerable. Cannes was a real -'Snobopolis' at that time, with its army of princes and prince -worshippers!—I remember some lovely spots between California and -Vallauris, where the scenery is almost wild, where there are big forests -of pines and of oaks—with none of those grotesque feather brushes -they call palms, which I hate." -</p> - -<p> -They were by this time leaving the hotel garden, and Du Prat pointed, as -he spoke, to the alley of trees that gave its name to the fashionable -caravansary. His friend began to laugh, as he replied:— -</p> - -<p> -"Don't throw too much sepia over the gardens of poor Cannes. They are -very excellent hotbeds for an invalid! I know something about it." -</p> - -<p> -This was an allusion to an old joke that Pierre had often made in their -youth when he would liken the wave of bitterness that seemed to sweep -over Olivier in his evil moments to the jet of black liquid projected by -the cuttlefish to hide its whereabouts. Olivier also laughed at the -memories the souvenir recalled. But he continued:— -</p> - -<p> -"I don't recognize you in your present state. You fraternize with -Corancez, you the irreconcilable! You, the master of Chaméane, love -these paltry gardens, with their lawns that they turn up in spring, with -their colored metallic trees and with their imitation verdure!—I -prefer that." -</p> - -<p> -And he pointed, as he spoke, to the turning of the road, where the -mountain showed itself covered with a fleece of dark pines and light -larch trees. At its foot the line of villas from Cannes to Golfe Juan -continued for a little distance and then ceased, leaving nothing upon -the mountain side right up to the peak but a growth of primitive forest. -To the right spread the sea, deserted, unbroken by even a single sail. -The sense of isolation was so complete that for a moment, glancing from -the verdant mountain to the shimmering sea, the illusion of what the -landscape must have been before it had become a fashionable -wintering-place was startlingly complete. -</p> - -<p> -The two young men walked on for a few hundred yards further and plunged -into mid-forest. The red trunks of the pines were now growing so thickly -around them that the azure brilliancy of the waves could only be seen -fitfully. The black foliage above their heads was outlined against the -open sky with singular distinctness. The refreshing, penetrating odor of -resin, mingled at intervals with the delicate perfume of a large, -flowing mimosa, enveloped them in a balmy atmosphere. -</p> - -<p> -Olivier surveyed the forest with its northern aspect with all the -pleasure of a traveller returning from the East, tired of sandy -horizons, weary of that monotonous, implacably burnished nature, and who -feels a keen joy at the sight of a variegated vegetation and in the -multitudinous colors of the European landscape. -</p> - -<p> -Hautefeuille, for his part, looked at Olivier. Disquieted to the verge -of anxiety by the enigma of a marriage that he had formerly accepted -without remark, he began to study the changing shades of thought, grave -and gay, that flitted across his friend's candid physiognomy. Olivier -was plainly more at ease in the absence of his wife. But he retained the -expression of scorn in his eyes and the bitter curve on his lips that -his friend knew so well. These signs were the invariable forerunners of -one of those acrimonious fits of which Madame de Carlsberg had told -Madame Brion. Pierre had always suffered for his friend when these -crises attacked Olivier, and when he began to speak about himself and -about life in a tone of cruel scorn that disclosed an abnormal state of -cynical disillusion, he suffered doubly to-day; for his heart was -unusually sensitive by reason of the love that filled it. What would his -suffering have been could he have understood the entire significance of -the remarks in which his companion's melancholy sought relief! -</p> - -<p> -"It is strange," Olivier began musingly, "how complete a presentiment of -life we have while still very young! I remember, as clearly as though it -were this very moment, a walk we took together in Auvergne.—I am -sure you do not recall it. We had returned to Chaméane from La Varenne, -during the vacation after our third year. I had spent a fortnight with -your mother, and upon the morrow I was to return to that abominable -rascal, my guardian. It was in September. The sky was as soft as it is -to-day, and the atmosphere was as transparent. We sat down at the foot -of a larch for a few minutes' rest. I could see you before me. I saw the -sturdy tree, the lovely forest, the glorious sky. All at once I felt a -nameless languor, a sickly yearning for death. The idea suddenly came -over me that life held nothing better for me, that I need expect -nothing.—What caused such an idea? Whence did it come, for I was only -sixteen then?—Even now I cannot explain it. But I shall never forget -the intense suffering that wrung my soul that mild afternoon under the -branches of the huge tree, with you by my side. It was as though I felt -in advance all the misery, all the vanity, all the disasters of my -life." -</p> - -<p> -"You have no right to speak in that way," said Hautefeuille. "What -miseries have you? What failures? What disasters?—You are -thirty-two. You are young. You are strong. Everything has smiled upon -you. You have been lucky in fortune, in your career,—in your -marriage. You have an income of eighty thousand a year. You are going to -be First Secretary. You have a charming wife—and a friend from -Monomotapa," he added laughingly. -</p> - -<p> -Olivier's deep sigh pained him keenly. He felt all the melancholy that -had prompted his outbreak, which to others would have seemed singularly -exaggerated! And, as he had often done before, he combated it with a -little commonplace raillery. It was rare that Du Prat, with his -delicate, critical turn of mind, sensitive to the least lack of good -taste, did not also change his mood when his friend spoke in such a way. -But this time the weight upon his heart was too heavy. He continued in a -duller, more hopeless tone:— -</p> - -<p> -"Everything has smiled upon me?" and he shrugged his shoulders. "And yet -it seems so when one makes up the account with words.—But in -reality, at thirty-two youth is over, the real, the only youth is -finished.—Health and good fortune still preserve you from a few -worries, but for how long?—They are not additional -happinesses.—As to my career.—Don't let us speak on that -idiotic subject.—And my marriage?" -</p> - -<p> -He paused for a second as though he recoiled from the confidence he had -been about to make. Then with a bitterness in his voice that made Pierre -shudder, for it revealed an interior abscess that was full to bursting -with an evil, malignant substance:— -</p> - -<p> -"My marriage? Well, it is a failure like all the rest, a frightful, -sinister failure.—But," he added, shaking his head, "what does it -matter, either that or anything else?" -</p> - -<p> -And he went on while Pierre listened without further interruption:— -</p> - -<p> -"Did you never wonder what decided me to marry? You thought, I suppose, -like everybody else, that I was tired of a solitary life, and that I -wanted to settle down, that I had met a match that fulfilled all the -conditions requisite for a happy alliance. Nothing was lacking. There -was a good dowry, an honorable name, a pretty, well-educated girl. And -you thought the marriage the most natural thing in the world. I don't -wonder at it. It was simply an illustration of ordinary ideas. We are -the slaves of custom without even knowing it. We ask why so-and-so has -not married like every one else. But we never think of asking why -so-and-so has married like every one else when he is not every one -else.—Besides, you did not know, you could not know, what bitter -experiences had brought me to that point.—We have always respected -each other in our confidences, my dear Pierre. That is why our friendship -has remained so noble, so rare, something so different from the loathsome -companionship that most men designate by the name. I never spoke to you -about my mistresses, about my loves. I never sought to hear of yours. -Such vilenesses, thank God, have always remained outside our affection." -</p> - -<p> -"Stop," broke in Hautefeuille, hurriedly, "don't sully your souvenirs in -that way. I don't know them, but they must be sacred. If I have never -questioned you about the secrets of your sentiments, my dear Olivier, it -is through respect for them and not through any respect for our -friendship.—Our affection would not have been limited by association -with a true, deep love. Do not calumniate yourself. Do not tell me that -you have never loved truly and deeply, and do not blaspheme." -</p> - -<p> -"True love!" interrupted Olivier, with singular irony. "I don't even -know what the two words taken together mean. I have had more than one -mistress. And, when I think of them, they all represent wild desire, -followed by deeper disgust; bitter sensuality, saturated with jealousy, -much falsehood understood, much falsehood uttered, and not an emotion, -not one, do you understand? Not one that I would wish to recall, not a -happiness, not a noble action, not a satisfaction! Whose fault is it? Is -it due to the women I have met or to myself, to their vileness or to my -poverty of heart?—I cannot say." -</p> - -<p> -"The heart is not poor," interrupted Hautefeuille, with just as much -earnestness, "in him who has been the friend that you have been to me." -</p> - -<p> -"I have been that friend to you because you are yourself, my dear -Pierre," replied Olivier, in a tone of absolute sincerity. "Besides, the -senses have no place in friendship. They have a big one in love, and my -senses are cruel. I have always suffered from evil desires, from wicked -voluptuousness. And I cannot tell you what leaven of ferocity has worked -in the deepest depths of my soul every time that my desires have been -strongly aroused.—I do not justify myself. I do not explain the -mystery. It exists, that is all. And all my <i>liaisons</i>, from the -first to the last, have been poisoned by this strange, fermenting mixture -of hatred." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," he went on, "from the first to the last.—Above all, the -last!—It was at Rome, two years ago. If ever I thought I could -love it was at that time. In that unique city I met a woman, herself -unique, different from the others, with so much unflinching courage in -her mind, so much charm in her heart, without any meanness, without any -smallness, and beautiful!—Ah! so beautiful!—And then our -pride clashed and wounded us both. She had had lovers before -me.—One at least, whom I was sure about.—He was a Russian, -and had been killed at Plevna. I knew she had loved him. And although he -was no more, that unreasoning jealousy, the unjust, inexpressible -jealousy of the dead, made me cruel toward the unhappy woman, even -before our first rendezvous, from our first kisses!—I treated her -brutally.—She was proud and coquettish. She avenged herself for my -cruelty. She accepted another lover without dismissing me—or I -thought she did, which amounts to the same thing.—In any case she -made me suffer so horribly that I left her, the first. I left her -abruptly one day without even saying farewell, swearing that never again -would I seek satisfaction in that way. -</p> - -<p> -"I was at the middle of my life. From the passionate experiences I had -tasted, all that remained to me was such a poverty of sentiment, such a -singular interior distortion, if I may so explain myself, such a -terrible weariness of my mode of life, that I made a sudden resolution -to change it, certain that nothing would be, nothing could be, -worse.—There are marriages of calculation, of sentiment, of -convenience, of reason. I made a marriage of weariness.—I don't -think that such cases are rare. But it is much more rare for one to admit -having made such a marriage. I admit it.—I never had but one -originality. I was never hypocritical with myself. I hope to die without -having lost the quality.—There you have my story." -</p> - -<p> -"And yet you seemed to love your <i>fiancée</i>," said Pierre. "If you had -not loved her, or if you had not thought you loved her, you, the -honorable friend, whom I know so well, would never have linked your life -with hers." -</p> - -<p> -"I did not love her," replied Olivier. "I never thought I loved her. I -hoped to love her. I told myself that I should feel what I had never -felt at the contact of this soul so different, so new, so fresh, and in -a life that resembled my past so little. Yes, once again I hoped and -tried to feel." He accentuated the words with singular energy. "The real -evil of this twilight of the century is the obstinate headstrong -research of emotion. That malady I have.—I said to myself, to soothe -my conscience: 'If I do not marry this girl, another will. She will be -swept off by one of those countless rascals that flourish upon the Paris -boulevards and one who is only hungry for her dowry. I shall not be a -worse husband than such a one.'—And then I hoped for children, for a -son.—Even that would not stir my heart now, I believe. The experiment -has been made. Six months have been enough. My wife does not love me. I -do not love, I never shall love, my wife.—There is the whole -account.—But you are right. Honor still remains, and I will keep my -word to the best of my ability." -</p> - -<p> -He passed his hand before his eyes and across his brow, as though to -drive away the hideous ideas that he had just evoked with such brutal -frankness, and went on more calmly:— -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know why I should sadden you with my nervousness in the first -moments of our meeting.—Yes, I do know.—It is the fault of -this forest, of the color of the sky, of the souvenir of sixteen years -ago, a souvenir so exact that it is a veritable obsession. However, it is -finished. Don't speak; don't console me. The bitter pill has to be -swallowed without a word." -</p> - -<p> -Then, with a smile, once again tender and open, he said:— -</p> - -<p> -"Let us talk about yourself. What are you doing here? How are you? I see -from your face that the South has cured you. But upon these shores, -where the sun does you good, the weariness of life does you so much -harm, that it is more than compensated for." -</p> - -<p> -"But I assure you I am not weary, not the least in the world!" replied -Pierre. -</p> - -<p> -He felt that Olivier could not, that he ought not to, speak any more -intimately about his married life. His heart was torn by the confidences -he had just been listening to, and he could only wait until the wounds -which had been so suddenly exposed to his view were less irritated, more -healed. There was nothing left for him to do other than to give way to -his friend's capricious curiosity. Besides, if Du Prat was going to stay -at Cannes for any length of time, he must be prepared to see him going -about and paying visits. He, therefore, continued:— -</p> - -<p> -"What do I do?—Really, I hardly know. I simply go on -living.—I go out rather less than ordinarily. You have not yet -felt the charm of Cannes, for you stayed here too short a time. It is a -town of little circles. You must be in one or two to feel the sweetness -of this place. I have been lucky enough to fall into the most agreeable -of all.—Tennis, golf, five o'clock teas, dinners here and there, -and you have the springtime upon you before you have even noticed that -August has ended. And then there is yachting.—When I received your -telegram from Cairo, I was at Genoa making a cruise on board an -American's yacht. I will introduce you to him. His name is Marsh. He is -very original, and will amuse you." -</p> - -<p> -"I doubt it very much," replied Olivier. "I don't get along very well -with the Americans. The useless energy of the race tires me even to -think of. And what a lot of them there is!—What numbers I saw in -Cairo, or on the Nile, men and women, all rich, all healthy, all active, -all intelligent, observing everything, understanding everything, knowing -everything, digesting everything!—And all had gone, were going, or -were going again round the world. They seemed to me to be a moral -representation of those mountebanks one seeks at the fairs, who swallow -a raw fowl, a shoe sole, a dozen rifle-balls, and a glass of water into -the bargain.—Where do they store the pile of incoherent -impressions which they must carry away with them?—It is a puzzle -to me.—But your Yankee must be of a different sort, since he seems -to have pleased you.—What reigning or dethroned prince had he on -board?" -</p> - -<p> -"None!" replied Hautefeuille, happy to see the misanthropic humor of his -friend disappearing before his gayety. "There was simply his niece, Miss -Florence, who has, I must admit, the ostrich-like stomach which amuses -you so much. She paints, she is an archæologist and a chemist, but she -is also a very fine girl.—Then there was a Venetian lady, the -Marchesa Bonnacorsi, a living Veronese." -</p> - -<p> -"I like them best in pictures," said Olivier. "The resemblance of -Italians to the paintings of the great masters was my despair in Rome. -You enter a salon and you see a Luini talking to a Correggio upon a sofa -in the corner. You draw near them. And you find that the Luini is -telling the plot of the vilest and stupidest of the latest French novel -to the Correggio, who listens to the Luini with an interest that -disgusts you forever with the Madonnas of both painters. But, all the -same, you had a pretty cosmopolitan party on your boat. Two Americans, -an Italian, and a Frenchman.—What other nations were represented?" -</p> - -<p> -"France, or rather Paris, and Austria, that was all.—Paris was -represented by the two Chésys. You know the wife; Yvonne.—Don't you -remember?—Mademoiselle Bressuire." -</p> - -<p> -"What, the girl whom your sister wanted me to marry? She who displayed -her shoulders to the middle of her back and painted her face at sixteen -years old?—Who is her lover?" -</p> - -<p> -"Why, she is the best little woman in the world!" replied Hautefeuille. -</p> - -<p> -"Then she was a poor representative of Paris," said Olivier. "What about -the Austrian?" -</p> - -<p> -"The Austrian?" replied Pierre. -</p> - -<p> -He hesitated for a second. He knew that he would have to speak of his -mistress sooner or later to Olivier. He had only mentioned his cruise in -the yacht in order to bring her name into their first conversation. And -yet he was afraid. What remark would his idol's name call forth from his -ironical friend? There was a little unsteadiness in his voice as he -repeated: -</p> - -<p> -"The Austrian?" and he added, "Oh, Austria was represented by the -Baroness de Carlsberg, whom you met in Rome. We have often spoken about -you." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I met her in Rome," said Olivier. -</p> - -<p> -It was now his turn to hesitate. At the sound of that name spoken by his -friend in the silence of the wood where was heard but the rustling of -the pines, his surprise was so great that his very countenance changed. -His hesitation, this alteration in his physiognomy, the very reply of Du -Prat, ought to have warned Hautefeuille of some impending danger. But he -dared not look at his friend, who had now mastered his quivering nerves, -and said:— -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I remember, the Archduke has a villa at Cannes.—Does she live -with him now?" -</p> - -<p> -"Why, was she separated from him then?" asked Pierre. -</p> - -<p> -"Legally, no; in reality, yes," replied Olivier. -</p> - -<p> -He was too much of a gentleman to make even the least slighting remark -about a woman of whom he had been the lover. The bitter, profound grudge -he bore her manifested itself in a strange way. As he could not, as he -would not speak any evil of her, he began to praise her husband, the man -whom he detested the most in the world. -</p> - -<p> -"I never knew why they could not agree," he said. "She is very -intelligent, and he is one of the first men of his time. He is one of -the three or four important personages, with the Emperor of Brazil, the -Prince of Monaco, and the Archduke of Bavaria, who have taken a place in -the ranks of science to the honor of royalty. It appears that he is a -true scientist." -</p> - -<p> -"He may be a true scientist," replied Hautefeuille; "I don't deny it. -But he is a detestable creature.—If you had only seen him as I did, -in his wife's salon, making a violent scene before six people, you would -admire her for supporting life with that monster, even for a single day, -and you would pity her." -</p> - -<p> -He spoke now with a passionate seriousness. At any time Olivier would -have been surprised at the intensity of this openly avowed interest, for -he knew Pierre to be very undemonstrative. But now, agitated as he was, -the sincerity of his friend surprised him still more, stirred him more -deeply. He looked at him again. He perceived an expression that he had -never before seen on the face he had known from childhood. In a sudden -blinding flash of overpowering intuition, he understood. He did not -grasp the entire truth as yet. But he saw enough to stun him. "Does he -love her?" he asked himself. The question sprang into being in his mind -suddenly, spontaneously, as though an unknown voice had whispered it in -him in spite of himself. -</p> - -<p> -The idea was too unexpected, too agonizing, for a reaction to fail to -follow instantly. "I am mad," he thought; "it is impossible." And yet he -felt that it was beyond his strength to question Pierre about the way he -had made the acquaintance of Madame de Carlsberg, about their trip to -Genoa, about the life he led at Cannes. Such inability to lay bare the -truth seizes one before certain hypotheses which touch the tenderest, -most sensitive part of the heart. He replied simply:— -</p> - -<p> -"Perhaps you are right. I was only going upon hearsay." -</p> - -<p> -The conversation continued without any further mention of the Baroness -Ely's name. The two friends spoke of their travels, of Italy, of Egypt. -But when the spirit of observation is once aroused, it is not soothed to -slumber by a mere act of the will. It is like an instinctive and -uncontrollable force working within us and around us, in spite of us, -until the moment that it has satisfied its desire to know. During the -long promenade, upon their return, during and after dinner, all -Olivier's powers of attention were involuntarily, unceasingly, painfully -concentrated upon Pierre. It was as though there were two beings in him. -He joked, replied to his wife, gave orders about the service. And yet all -his senses were upon the <i>qui vive</i>, and he discovered signs by the -score that he had not noticed at first, absorbed as he had been by the -joy of revisiting his friend, and then later by his thoughts about -himself and his destiny. -</p> - -<p> -In the first place, he saw the indefinable but unmistakable indications -of a more virile, more decided personality in Pierre, in his looks, in -his features, in his gestures and attitude. His former <i>farouche</i> -timidity had yielded to the proud reserve that the certainty of being -loved gives to some delicate, romantic natures. Next he noted the -principal, the infallible sign of secret happiness, the expression of -tender ecstasy that seemed to lurk in the depths of his eyes, and a -constant faraway look. Never had Olivier noticed this abstraction in -their former conversations. Never had Pierre's thoughts been in other -climes while his friend spoke. Lovers are all alike. They speak to you. -You speak to them. They know not what to say, nor do they hear you. -Their soul is elsewhere. At this moment Pierre's thoughts were upon the -deck of a yacht illumined by the moonbeams; upon the staircase of an old -Italian palace; in the patio of the Villa Helmholtz, far away from the -little table of the hotel dining-room; far away from Madame du Prat, -upon whom he forgot to attend; far away from Olivier, whom he no longer -even saw! -</p> - -<p> -And then Olivier noticed tiny details of masculine adornment, little -nothings which disclosed the tender coquetting of a mistress who would -not have her lover make a gesture without being reminded of her by some -caressing souvenir. Pierre wore a ring upon his little finger that his -friend had never seen, two golden serpents interlaced, with emerald -heads. A St. George medal, which he did not recognize, was hanging to -his watch-chain. In taking out his handkerchief it gave forth a delicate -perfume that Pierre had never formerly used. Olivier had been engaged in -too many intrigues to be mistaken for an instant about any of these -evidences of feminine influence. They were only additional proofs. They -simply confirmed the change he had noticed in Pierre's inexplicable -acquaintance with Corancez, in his liking for cosmopolitan society, in -the unexpected frivolity of his mode of life, in his evident sympathy -for things at Cannes that Olivier had expected would have most shocked -his friend. -</p> - -<p> -How was it possible not to put these facts together? How was it possible -not to draw the conclusion from them that Pierre was in love? But with -whom? Did the energy with which he had attacked the Archduke prove that -he loved Madame de Carlsberg? Had he not defended Madame de Chésy with -the same energy? Had he not equally warmly sung the praises of Madame -Bonnacorsi's beauty, of Miss Marsh's grace? -</p> - -<p> -While Olivier was studying his friend with a super-acute and almost -mechanical tension of the nerves, these three names occurred to him -again and again. Ah! how he longed for another sign among all these -indications; for one irrefutable proof, something that would drive away -and annihilate the first hypothesis, the one that he had seen for an -instant as in a flash, and yet plainly enough for him to be already -possessed by it as by the most ghastly, threatening nightmare. -</p> - -<p> -Toward eleven o'clock Pierre withdrew upon the pretext that the -travellers must be longing to rest. Olivier, having taken leave of his -wife, felt that it was impossible any longer to support this -uncertainty. Often, in former days, when Pierre and he were together in -the country, if one was suffering from insomnia, he would awake the -other, and they would go out for a walk in the night air, talking -incessantly. Olivier thought that this would be the surest way of -exorcising the idea that was again beginning to haunt him, an idea that -stirred up in him, without his knowing why, a wave of unreasoning, -violent, almost savage, revolt. Yes, he would go and talk to -Hautefeuille. That would do him good, although he did not know how nor -of what they would talk. -</p> - -<p> -The most elementary delicacy would prevent him speaking a word that -could arouse the suspicions of his friend, no matter what were the -relations that existed between Pierre and Ely de Carlsberg. But the -conversations of close friends afford such opportunities! Perhaps an -intonation of the voice, a look, a movement, would furnish him with the -passionately desired sign after which he would never again even think of -the possibility of Pierre having a sentiment for his former mistress. -</p> - -<p> -He was already in bed when this idea seized him. Automatically, without -any further reflection, he rose. He descended the staircases of the -immense hotel, now silent and in semi-darkness. He arrived at -Hautefeuille's door. He knocked. There was no reply. He knocked again, -and again there was silence. The key was in the lock. He turned it and -entered. By the light of the moon that flooded the room through the open -window, he saw that the bed was undisturbed. Pierre had gone out. -</p> - -<p> -Why did Olivier feel a sudden pain at his heart, followed by an -inexpressible rush of melancholy, as he noticed this? He went and leaned -on the window rail. He glanced over the immense horizon. He saw all the -serene beauty of the Southern night, the stars that glittered in the -soft, velvety blue of the sky, the bronzed golden moon whose beams -played caressingly with the sea—the sea that rolled supple and -vast afar off. He saw the lights of the town shining among the black -masses of shrubbery in the gardens. The warm breeze enveloped him with -the languorous, enthralling, enchanting odor of lemon blossom. What a -divine night for the meeting of lovers! And what a divine night for a -lover dreaming of his mistress, as he wandered along the solitary -paths!—Was Pierre that lover? Had he gone to meet his mistress? Or -was he simply pursuing his vision in the perfumed solitude of the -gardens?—How was he to know?—Olivier thought of the Yvonne -de Chésy with whom he had danced. He recalled all the Americans and the -Italians he had ever known, in order to compose a Marchesa Bonnacorsi -and an ideal Florence Marsh.—It was in vain! Always did his -imagination return to the souvenir of Ely de Carlsberg, to that mistress -of a so short time ago, whose image was still so present. Always did his -thoughts return to the memory of those caresses, whose intoxicating -tenderness he had tested. And he sighed, sadly and mournfully, in the -pure night air:— -</p> - -<p> -"Ah! What unhappiness if he loves her! My God! What unhappiness!" -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -His sigh floated off and was lost in the soft voluptuous breeze which -bore it away from him who unconsciously called it forth. At this moment -Pierre was making his way through the shrubbery of the Villa Helmholtz -gardens as he had done once before. He arrived at the door of the -hothouse. A woman awaited him there, trembling with love and -terror.—What caused the terror? Hot the fear of being surprised in -this secret meeting. Ely's courage was superior to such weaknesses. No. -She knew that Olivier had returned that day. She knew that he had passed -the afternoon talking with Pierre. She knew that her name must have been -pronounced between them. She was certain that Pierre would not betray -their dear secret. But he was so young, so innocent, so transparent to -the observer, while the other was so penetrating, so keen!—She was -going to learn if their love had been suspected by Olivier, if this man -had warned his friend against her in revenge.—When she heard -Pierre's slow, furtive footsteps upon the pathway, her heart beat so -strongly that she seemed to hear it echo through the deathly silence of -the hothouse!—He is here. She takes his hand. She feels that the -beloved fingers reply with their old confident pressure. She takes him -in her arms. She seeks his mouth and their lips unite in a kiss in which -she feels that he is all hers to the depths of his soul. That other has -not spoken! And now tears begin to flow down the cheeks of the loving -woman, warm tears that the lover dries with his burning kisses, as he -asks:— -</p> - -<p> -"What, are you weeping! What is it, my beloved?" -</p> - -<p> -"I love you," she replies, "and they are tears of joy." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap08"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER VIII -<br /><br /> -FRIEND AND MISTRESS</h4> - -<p> -Olivier du Prat thought he knew himself. It was a pretension he had -often justified. He was really, as he had said to Hautefeuille, a child -of the declining century in his tastes, in his passion, almost mania, -for self-analysis, in his thirst for emotions, in his powerlessness to -remain faithful to any one of his sensations, in his useless lucidity, -as regarded himself, and in his indulgence of the morbid, unsatisfied, -unquiet longings of his nature. He felt his case was irremediable, the -gloomy sign that characterizes the tragically disturbed age we live in, -and one of the infallible marks of decadence in a race. Healthy life -does not entirely rest upon a freedom from wounds. For the body as for -the soul, for a nation as for an individual, vigorous life is indicated -by the power to heal those that are made. Olivier was entirely without -this capacity. Even the most distant troubles of his childhood became so -real as to be agonizing when he thought of them after all the years that -had passed. In recalling their walk among the mountains of Auvergne, as -he had done the night before to Pierre, he had simply been thinking -aloud as he always thought to himself. His imagination was incessantly -occupied in turning and returning with an unhealthy activity of mental -retrospection, to the hours, the minutes, that had forever vanished. In -his mind he reanimated, revived, the past and lived it over again. And -by this self-abandonment to a past sensitiveness he continually -destroyed all present sensitiveness. He never allowed the wounds that -had once been made to heal over, and his oldest injury was always ready -to bleed afresh. -</p> - -<p> -This unfortunate singularity of his nature would, under any -circumstances, have made a meeting with Madame de Carlsberg very -painful, even though the dearest friend of his youth had not been -concerned in it. And he would never have heard that his friend loved -without being deeply moved. He knew he was so tender-hearted, so -defenceless, so vulnerable! Here, again, he was the victim of a -retrospective sensitiveness. Friendship carried to the extreme point -that his feeling for Hautefeuille occupied is a sentiment of the -eighteenth rather than of the thirty-second year. In the first flush of -youth, when the soul is all innocence, freshness, and purity, these -fervent companionships, these enthusiasms of voluntary fraternity, these -passionate, susceptible, absolute friendships, often appear to quickly -fade away. Later in life self-interest and experience individualize one -and isolation is unavoidable. Complete communion of soul with soul -becomes possible only by the sorcery of love, and friendship ceases to -suffice. It is relegated to the background with those family affections -that once also occupied a unique place in the child and in the youth. -Certain men there are, however, and Olivier was one of the number, upon -whom the impression made by friendships about their eighteenth year has -been too deep, too ineffaceable, and, above all, too delicate, to be -ever forgotten, and even to be ever equalled. It remains an incomparable -sentiment. These men, like Olivier, may pass through burning passions, -suffer all the feverish shocks of love, be bruised in the most daring -intrigues, but the true romance of their sensitive natures is not to be -found in these passions. It is to be found in those hours of life when, -in thought, they project themselves into the future with an ideal -companion, with a brother that they have chosen, in whose society they -realize for an instant La Fontaine's sublime fable, the complete union -of mind, tastes, hopes:— -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">"And one possess'd nothing that the other did not share."</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -In the case of Olivier and Pierre this ideal comradeship had been -sacredly cemented. Not only had they been brothers in their dreams, they -had been brothers in arms. They were nineteen years of age in 1870. At -the first news of the immense national shipwreck both had enlisted. Both -had gone through the entire war. The first snowfall of the winter that -saw the terrible campaign found them bivouacking upon the banks of the -Loire. It was as though this friendship of the two students, now become -soldiers in the same battalion, had been heroically baptized. And they -had learned to esteem as much as they loved each other as they simply, -bravely, obscurely risked their lives side by side. These souvenirs of -their youth had remained intact and living in both, but particularly in -Olivier. For him they were the only recollections unmixed with -bitterness, unsullied by remorse. Before these memories his life had -been full of sadness, completely orphaned as he had been early in life -and turned over to the guardianship of a horribly selfish uncle. Sensual -and jealous, suspicious and despotic as he was, he had only known the -bitterness and the pains of love apart from his souvenirs of Pierre. -Nothing more is necessary to explain to what a degree this illogical and -passionate, this troubled and disillusioned being was moved by the mere -idea that a woman had come between his friend and him—and what a -woman, if she were Madame de Carlsberg, so hated, despised, condemned by -him formerly! -</p> - -<p> -Olivier's imagination could only attach itself to two precise facts -during the night that followed the arousing of his first -suspicions,—a night that was given up to the consideration, one by -one, of the possibilities of a love-affair between Ely and Hautefeuille. -These were the character of his friend and that of his former mistress. -The character of his friend made him fear for him; the character of his -former mistress made him fear for her. Upon this latter point also his -feelings were very complex. He was convinced that Ely de Carlsberg had -had a lover before him, and the idea had tortured him. He was convinced -that she had had a lover at the same time with him, and he had left her -on account of this idea. He was mistaken, but he was sincere, and had -only yielded to proofs of coquetry that appeared sufficiently damaging -to convince his jealous nature. This double conviction had left in him a -scornful resentment against Ely; had left that inexpiable bitterness -which compels us to continually vilify in our mind an image that we -despairingly realize can never become entirely indifferent to us. He -would have considered a <i>liaison</i> with such a creature a frightful -misfortune for any man. What, then, were his feelings when he saw that -she had made herself beloved by his friend or that she might make -herself beloved?—Having such a prejudiced, violent contempt for -this sort of woman, Olivier divined what was really the truth, although -it had remained so for so short a time. Ely had been angered by his -departure. She had felt the same resentment with him that he had felt -with her. Chance had brought her face to face with his dearest friend, -with Pierre Hautefeuille, of whom he had so often spoken in exalted -terms. She must have decided upon revenge, upon a vengeance that -resembled her—criminal, refined, and so profoundly, so cruelly, -intelligent!—In this way Du Prat reasoned. And, although his -reasoning was only hypothetical, he felt, as he fed his mind with such -thoughts, a suffering mingled with a sort of unhealthy and irresistible -satisfaction that would have terrified him had he considered it calmly. -To suppose that Madame de Carlsberg had avenged herself upon him with -such calculation was to suppose that she had not forgotten him. The -windings in the human heart are so strange! In spite of the fact that he -had insulted his former mistress all the time they had been together, -that he had left her first, without a farewell, that he had married -after due reflection, and had resolved to keep his vows -honorably—in spite of all this, the idea that she still remembered -him secretly stirred him strangely. It must be remembered that he was -just passing through one of the most dangerous moments of conjugal -existence. Every moral crisis is complicated with a multitude of -contradictory elements in souls such as his,—souls without fixed -principles, that are turned aside at every moment by the influence of -their faintest impression. Marriages contracted through sheer lassitude, -such as the one he admitted having contracted, bring down their own -punishment upon the abominable egoism that prompts them. They have to -pay a penalty worse than the most redoubtable catastrophe. They are -followed immediately by profound, incurable weariness. The man, thirty -years of age, who, thinking he is disgusted forever with sensual -passions, and who, mistaking this disgust for wisdom, settles down, as -the saying is, quickly finds that those very passions that sickened him -are as necessary to him as morphine is to the morphine maniac who has -been deprived of his Pravaz syringe, as necessary as alcohol is to the -inebriate put upon a <i>régime</i> of pure water. He suffers from a -species of nostalgia, of longing for those unhealthy emotions whose -fruitlessness he has himself recognized and condemned. If a brutal but -very exact comparison can be borrowed from modern pathology, he becomes -a favorable medium for the cultivation of all the morbid germs floating -in his atmosphere. And at the very moment when everything seems to point -to the pacific arrangement of their destiny, some revolution takes -place, as it was doing in Olivier,—a revolution so rapid, so -terrible, that the witness and victims of these sudden wild outbursts -are left almost more disconcerted than despairing. -</p> - -<p> -He had therefore passed the night meditating upon all the details, -significant and unimportant, that he had observed in the afternoon and -evening, from the moment he had remarked the unexpected intimacy of -Pierre with Corancez until the instant he had entered his friend's -chamber hoping for an explanation, and had found it empty. -</p> - -<p> -Toward five o'clock he fell asleep, slumbering brokenly and heavily as -one does in a railway train in the morning. He dreamed upon the lines of -thought that had kept him awake, as was to be expected. But it -heightened his uneasiness by an appearance of presentiment. He thought -he was again in the little salon of the palace at Rome, where Ely de -Carlsberg used to receive him. Suddenly his wife arrived, leading Pierre -Hautefeuille by the hand. Pierre stopped, as though smitten with terror, -and tried to scream. Suddenly paralysis struck him down, turning his leg -rigid, forcing out his left eye, drawing down the corner of his mouth, -whence not a sound issued! The suffering caused by this nightmare was so -intense that Olivier felt its influence even after he was awake. -</p> - -<p> -He felt so ill that he could not even wait to see his wife before going -out. He scribbled a line telling her that he was suffering from a slight -headache, and that he had gone out to try and seek relief. He added that -he had not liked to disturb her so early in the morning, and that he -would be back about nine o'clock. He told her, however, that she was not -to await his return should he happen to be late. -</p> - -<p> -He felt that he must steady his nerves by means of a long walk so as to -be prepared to cope with the events of the day, which he was convinced -would be decisive. Prolonged walks were his invariable remedy in his -nervous crises, and he might have been successful this time if, after -having walked straight before him for some time, he had not come, about -ten o'clock, to the corner of the Rue d'Antibes, the most animated and -interesting part of Cannes. -</p> - -<p> -At this hour the long corridor-like street was one mass of sharply -outlined shadow, swept and freshened by one of those brisk breezes that -impart a touch of crispness to the burning air of morning in Provence. -The carriage wheels seemed to roll more rapidly, the horses' hoofs -seemed to ring more resonantly upon the white roadway. -</p> - -<p> -Young people were passing to and fro, English for the most part, -attending with characteristic thoroughness to their after-breakfast -constitutional or their before-lunch exercise. They walked along, -overtaking or meeting young girls with whom they chatted gayly, having -doubtless arranged the meeting upon the preceding evening. Others were -hastening to the station to catch the train for Nice or Monte Carlo. -Their manner, bearing, and costume bore that indescribable imprint of a -frivolous life of amusement. Olivier was all the more deeply impressed -by this from the mere fact that he had formerly been a leader in such an -aimless mode of life. -</p> - -<p> -Mornings such as this recurred to his mind. He remembered his life in -Rome just two years before. Yes, the sky was of the same shade of blue, -the same fresh breeze softened the sun's burning rays in the streets. -Carriages rolled along there with the same busy hurry, people walked -about wearing the same unconcerned look of amused idleness. And he, -Olivier, was one of those promenaders. -</p> - -<p> -He remembered just such a morning when he had gone to meet Ely at some -appointed place. He had bought some flowers in the Piazza di Spagna to -brighten the room where he was to meet her. -</p> - -<p> -Moved by that mechanical parody of will which remembrance sometimes -calls into action, he entered a florist's in this Rue d'Antibes, which -had recalled to him the Roman Corso for a moment. Roses, pinks, -narcissus, anemones, mimosa, and violets were piled up in heaps on the -counter. Everywhere was displayed the glorious prodigality of the soil -which, from Hyères to San Remo, is nothing but a vast garden nestling -upon the shores of the sea. The shop was filled with a sweet penetrating -odor which resembled the perfumes that enveloped them in their hours of -love long ago. -</p> - -<p> -The young man carelessly selected a cluster of pinks. He came out again -holding them in his hand. And the thought flashed into his mind: "I have -no one to whom I can offer them!" As a contrast to this thought the -image of his friend and Madame de Carlsberg recurred to him. The thought -provoked another sentiment in addition to those of which he had been the -prey for some sixteen hours. He felt the most instinctive, the most -unreasoning jealousy. He shrugged his shoulders and was just upon the -point of flinging the pinks into the road when he thought, in a rush of -the ironical self-analysis with which he often found relief for his -weary heart:— -</p> - -<p> -"It is your own doing, Georges Dandin," he thought. "I will offer the -bouquet to my wife. It will give me an excuse for having gone out -without saying good morning." -</p> - -<p> -Berthe was seated before her desk, writing a letter in her long, -characterless hand, upon a travelling pad, when he entered the salon of -their little apartment at the hotel, to carry out his project of marital -gallantry,—something very novel for him. Around the blotter a -score of tiny knick-knacks were arranged—a travelling clock, -portraits in leather frames, an address book, a note pad—all ready -as though she had inhabited the room for several weeks, instead of -several hours. She was dressed in a tailor-made costume which she had -put on with the idea that her husband would certainly return to show her -around Cannes. Then, as he was late, she began to reply to overdue -correspondence with an apparent calmness that completely deceived -Olivier. -</p> - -<p> -She did not let him see the slightest sign of vexation or reproach when -he came in. Her rigid features remained just as cold and fixed as -before. The two young people had begun this life of distant politeness -in the early weeks of their married life. Of all forms of conjugal -existence, this form is the most contrary to nature and the most -exceptional in the beginning. The fact that a marriage has been a -failure must be an accepted one before it is possible to realize that -politeness is the sole remedy for incompatibility of temper. It, at any -rate, reduces the difficulties of daily intercourse which is as -intolerable when love is lacking as it is sweet and necessary in a happy -marriage. -</p> - -<p> -But even in the most inharmonious households this very politeness often -conceals in one of the two persons displaying it all the violence of -passion, kept in check because misunderstood. Was this the case with -Madame du Prat, with this child of twenty-two, with this woman so -completely mistress of herself that she seemed to be naturally -indifferent? Did she suffer because of her husband without showing it? -The future would show. For the moment she was a woman of the world -travelling, tranquil in aspect, who held up her forehead for the kiss of -her lord and master, without a complaint, without a shade of surprise, -even when he began:— -</p> - -<p> -"I am sorry I let the luncheon hour go by. I hope you did not wait for -me. I have brought you these flowers in the hope that you will excuse -me." -</p> - -<p> -"They are very beautiful," replied Berthe, burying her face in the -bouquet and inhaling its subtle perfume. -</p> - -<p> -The brilliant reds of the large flowers, so warm and rich in hue, seemed -to accentuate all the coldness of her blond beauty. Her blue eyes had -something metal lie in their depth, something steely, as though they had -never felt the softening influence of a tear. And yet, from the manner -in which she revelled in the musky, pungent odor of the flowers offered -her by her husband, it was easy to detect an almost emotional -nervousness. But there was no trace of this in the tone with which she -asked:— -</p> - -<p> -"Have you been out without eating?—That is very foolish.—Has -your headache disappeared?—You must have slept badly last night, -for I heard you walking about." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes; I had a little attack of insomnia," replied Olivier, "but it is -nothing. The open air on such a beautiful morning has put me all right -again.—Have you seen Hautefeuille?" he added. -</p> - -<p> -"No," she replied dryly. "Where could I see him? I have not been out." -</p> - -<p> -"And he has not asked after me?" -</p> - -<p> -"Not that I know of." -</p> - -<p> -"He is perhaps also unwell," continued Olivier. "If you don't mind, I -will go and ask after him." -</p> - -<p> -He left the salon before he had finished speaking. The young woman -remained with her forehead resting upon her hand in the same attitude. -Her cheeks were burning, and although she was not weeping, her heart was -swollen with grief, and her breathing was agitated and hurried. She -became another woman with Olivier absent. Apart from him she could -abandon herself completely to the strange sentiment that her husband -inspired in her. She felt a sort of wounded and unrequited affection for -him. Her feelings could not seek relief either in reproaches or in -caresses. They were, therefore, in a constant state of mute irritation. -Under such moral conditions Olivier's visibly partial affection for -Pierre could not be very sympathetic to the young woman, particularly -since their return to Cannes, which had delayed their return just at the -moment she was longing to see her family again. -</p> - -<p> -But there was another reason that caused her to detest this friendship. -Like all young women who marry into a different circle from their own, -she was mortally anxious about her husband's past. Olivier, in one of -those half-confidences that even the most self-contained men fall into -in the moment of candor following marriage, had allowed her to see that -he had suffered a particularly cruel disillusion in the latter part of -his bachelor life. Another half-confidence had enabled her to learn that -this incident had taken place at Rome, and that the cause of it was a -foreigner of noble birth. -</p> - -<p> -Olivier had completely forgotten these two imprudent phrases, but Berthe -treasured them in the recesses of her memory. She had even not been -content to brood over the avowals; she had put them side by side, and -had completed them by that species of mental mosaic work in which women -excel, seizing a detail here, another there, in the most insignificant -conversation to add them to the story upon which they are at work. They -make deductions in this way that the most scientific observers, the most -wily detectives, cannot equal. -</p> - -<p> -Olivier had not the least suspicion of this work going, on in Berthe's -mind. Still less did he suspect that she had discovered the first name -of this unknown mistress, a name whose very singularity had helped to -betray it. It happened in this way: When they were married he had -destroyed a number of letters, thrown a lot of faded flowers into the -fire with many a portrait. Then—it is the common story of those -mental <i>autos da fé</i>—his hand had trembled in taking up some -of these relics, relics of a troubled, unhappy youth, of his youth. And -this had made him treasure a portrait of Madame de Carlsberg, in -profile, so beautiful, so clear cut, so marvellously like the profile of -some antique medallion that he could not bear to burn it. He slipped the -portrait into an envelope, and, some one happening to call upon him at -this moment, he placed the envelope in a large portfolio in which he -carried his papers. Then he forgot all about it. He had never thought -about the portrait until he was in Egypt. Again he decided to burn it, -and again he could not bear to destroy it. -</p> - -<p> -In the cosmopolitan society into which his diplomatic functions called -him it is a frequent thing for women to give their photographs bearing -their signatures to their friends, sometimes even to mere acquaintances. -Ely's name written at the foot of the photograph, therefore, signified -nothing. Berthe would never find the portrait, or if she did all that he -would need to do would be to speak of her as an acquaintance. He, -therefore, returned the photograph to its hiding-place in the portfolio, -and one day the improbable happened in the simplest way in the world. -They were staying at Luxor. He happened to be away from the hotel for a -short time. Berthe, who during the entire journey kept the accounts of -their expenses with a natural and cultivated exactitude, was looking for -a bill that her husband had paid, and, without thinking, opened the -portfolio. There she found the photograph. But the second half of -Olivier's reasoning was faulty. She never thought of questioning him -upon the subject. The presence of the portrait among Olivier's papers, -the regal and singular beauty of the woman's face, the strangely foreign -name, the elegant toilet, the place where the photograph had been -taken,—Rome,—all told the young wife that this was the -mysterious rival who had taken up such a large place in her husband's -past. -</p> - -<p> -She thought about it continually. But she could not speak to Olivier -without his thinking that she had spied upon him, that she had -deliberately searched among his papers. And besides, what was there to -ask him about? She divined all that she did not actually know. So she -kept silent, her heart seared with this torturing and fatal curiosity. -</p> - -<p> -Her knowledge was sufficient to make her think, when her husband went -out the day before with the most intimate friend of his youth: "They are -going to talk about her!" For who could be in Olivier's confidence if -not Pierre Hautefeuille? Was any other reason necessary to explain her -antipathy? She had noticed Olivier's agitation upon his return from the -walk with his friend. And she had said to herself: "They have talked -about her." In the night she had heard her husband walking restlessly -about in his room, and she had thought: "He is thinking about her." And -this was the reason why she remained, now that the door was again -closed, alone, her brow resting upon her hand, motionless, with her -heart beating as though it would burst, and hating with an intense -hatred the friend who knew what she ignored. By dint of concentrated -reflection, she had divined a part of the truth. It would have been -better for her, better for Olivier, better for all, had she only known -it all! -</p> - -<p> -Olivier's heart was also beating rapidly when, after having knocked at -Pierre's door, he heard the words, "Come in," spoken by the voice he -knew so well and whose sound he had so longed to hear the night before -upon this very staircase. Pierre was not yet out of bed, though it was -eleven o'clock. He excused himself merrily. -</p> - -<p> -"You see what Southern habits I have fallen into. I shall soon be like -one of the Kornows who stays here. Corancez called the other day and -found him in bed at five o'clock in the afternoon. 'You know,' said -Kornow, 'we are not early risers in Russia.'" -</p> - -<p> -"You do well to take care of yourself," said Olivier, "seeing that you -have been so ill." -</p> - -<p> -He had spoken with some embarrassment and a little at random. How he -wished his friend would tell him of his nocturnal promenade in reply! -But no, a little crimson flush colored Pierre's cheek, and that was all. -But it was sufficient to remove all doubt from Olivier's mind as to the -reason of his midnight absence. His mind suddenly made a choice between -the two alternatives imagined when he had found the room empty. The -evidence was overpowering. Pierre had a mistress and he had gone to meet -her. He saw the countenance, still so youthful, reposing upon the pillow -and bearing the traces of a voluptuous lassitude imprinted upon it. The -eyes were sunken, his face had that pallor that follows the excesses of -a too exquisite passion, as though the blood were momentarily fatigued, -and his lips were curved in a smile that was both languid and yet -contented. -</p> - -<p> -While chatting upon one thing and another, Olivier noted all these -overwhelming indications. He suffered, almost physically, as he remarked -them, and â pang of agonizing pain shot through his heart, a pain that -almost wrung a cry from him, at the idea that the caresses which had. -left Pierre weary, and still intoxicated, had been lavished upon him by -Ely. -</p> - -<p> -With the passionate anxiety of a trembling friendship, of an awakening -jealousy, of a longing that refuses to be calmed, of a curiosity that -will not slumber, he continued his implacable and silent reasoning. Yes, -Pierre had a mistress. And this mistress was a society woman, and not -free. The proof of this was the hour fixed for their meeting, in the -precautions taken, and, above all, in the strange pride in his beloved -secret that the lover had in the depths of his eyes. To meet her he must -have had to go through a thicket in some garden. Upon his return, Pierre -had flung his soft hat that he had worn during his promenade upon the -drawers. Little twigs of shrubbery still remained on the brim, and a -faint green line bore witness to a passage through foliage pushed on one -side with the head. The young man had placed his jewellery near the hat, -and lying in close proximity to the watch and keys and purse, was the -ring that Olivier had already noticed, the two serpents interlaced, with -emerald heads. Du Prat rose from his chair under the pretext of walking -about the room, in reality to take up the ring. It fascinated him with -an unhealthy, irresistible attraction. As he passed before the commode, -he took up the ring, mechanically and without ceasing to talk, and -turned it about in his hand for a second with an indifferent air. He -noticed an inscription engraved in tiny letters upon its inner surface. -<i>Ora e sempre</i>, "Now and forever." It was a phrase that Prince Fregoso -had used in speaking about Greek art, and, as a souvenir of their voyage -to Genoa, Ely had had the idea of having the words engraved upon the -love talisman she gave to Pierre upon their return. Olivier could not -possibly divine the hidden meaning of this tender allusion to hours of -ecstatic happiness. He laid down the ring again without any comment. But -if any doubt had remained in his mind as to what was causing him such -secret anxiety, it would have disappeared before his immediate relief. -He found nothing in the ring to suggest, as he had expected, a present -from Madame de Carlsberg. On the contrary, the words, in Italian, again -suggested the idea that Pierre's mistress might just as easily be Madame -Bonnacorsi as the Baroness Ely. He thought, "I am the horse galloping -after its shadow once more." And, looking at his friend, who had again -crimsoned under Olivier's brief scrutiny, he asked:— -</p> - -<p> -"Is the Italian colony here very large?" -</p> - -<p> -"I know the Marchesa Bonnacorsi and her brother, Navagero.—And I must -admit the latter is a sort of Englishman much more English than all the -Englishmen in Cannes!" -</p> - -<p> -Hautefeuille reddened still more as he spoke of the Venetian. He guessed -what association of ideas had suggested Olivier's question so quickly -after having toyed with the ring and after having undoubtedly read the -inscription. His friend thought the souvenir was the gift of some -Italian. And who could this be if not the Marchesa Andryana? Any one -else would have hailed with satisfaction the error that turned his -friend's watchful perspicacity in a wrong direction. Hautefeuille, -however, was too sensitive not to be pained by a mistake that -compromised an irreproachable woman, to whose marriage he had even been -a witness. -</p> - -<p> -His embarrassment, his crimson cheeks, a slight hesitation in his voice, -were only so many signs to Olivier that he was upon the right path. He -felt remorse at having yielded to an almost instinctive impulse. He was -afraid he had wounded his friend and he wished to ask his pardon. But to -ask pardon for an indiscretion is sometimes only to be more indiscreet. -All that he could do, all that he did, was to make up a little for the -impression his sarcasm upon the day before must have made upon -Hautefeuille if he was in love with the Venetian. Navagero's Anglomania -served him as a pretext to caricature in a few words a snob of the same -order whom he had met in Rome and he then said, in conclusion:— -</p> - -<p> -"I was in a vile temper yesterday, and I must have appeared somewhat -prudish in my fit of sepia.—I have often been amused by the motley -society one meets in watering-places, and I have felt all the charm of -the women from other countries!—I was younger then.—I -remember even having been fond of Monte Carlo!—I am curious to see -it again. Suppose we dine there to-day? It would amuse Berthe, and I -don't think it would bore me." -</p> - -<p> -He spoke truly. In such mental crises, purely imaginary, the first -moments of relief are accompanied by a strange feeling of -light-heartedness, which shows itself in an almost infantile gayety, -often as unreasoning as the motives from which it springs. During the -rest of the time until the train started for Nice Olivier astonished his -wife and friend by the change in his temper and conversation, a change -that was inexplicable for them. The <i>Ora e sempre</i> of the ring and its -sentimentality; all his recollections of the simplicity, of the -naïveté of Italians in love; the opulent beauty that Pierre had -suggested in comparing Madame Bonnacorsi to a Veronese,—all gave him -the idea that his friend was the lover of an indulgent and willing -mistress, one who was both voluptuous and gentle. It pleased him to -think of this happy passion. He felt as much satisfaction in -contemplating it as he had suffered at the thought of the other -possibility. And he believed in all good faith that his anxiety of the -night before and of the morning had been solely prompted by his -solicitude about Hautefeuille, and that his present content grew out of -his reassured friendship. -</p> - -<p> -A very simple incident shattered all this edifice of voluntary and -involuntary illusions. At Golfe Juan Station, as Hautefeuille was -leaning a little out of the window, a voice hailed him. Olivier -recognized the indestructible accent of Corancez. The door opened and -gave admittance to a lady, no other than the ex-Marchesa Bonnacorsi, -escorted by the Southerner. When she saw that Pierre was not alone, -Andryana could not help blushing to the roots of her beautiful blond -hair, while Corancez, equal to every circumstance, always triumphant, -beaming, smiling, performed the necessary introduction. The conjugal -seducer had thought of everything, and before leaving for Genoa he had -established a meeting-place in one of the villas at Golfe Juan in which -to enjoy the prolongation of their secret honeymoon. Andryana had -managed to cheat her brother's watchfulness and had gone to meet her -husband upon the first day of his arrival. Her happiness began to give -her the courage upon which the wily Southerner had counted to bring his -enterprise to a successful conclusion, but he had not yet trained her to -lie with grace. Hardly was she seated in the compartment when she said -to Olivier and his wife, without waiting for any question:— -</p> - -<p> -"I missed the last train, and as Monsieur de Corancez did the same, we -decided to walk to Golfe Juan to take the next train instead of waiting -wearily in the station at Cannes." -</p> - -<p> -All the time she was speaking Olivier was looking at her little patent -leather shoes and the hem of her dress, which gave such a palpable lie -to her statement. There was not a speck of dust upon them and her -alleged walking companion's gaiters had very evidently not taken more -than fifty steps. The married plotters surprised Olivier's look. It -completed the Italian's confusion and almost provoked a wild fit of -laughter in Corancez, who said merrily:— -</p> - -<p> -"Are you going to Monte Carlo? I will perhaps meet you there. Where -shall you dine?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know," replied Olivier, with a forbidding tone that was almost -rude. -</p> - -<p> -He did not speak another word while the train fled along the coast, -flying through tunnel after tunnel. The Southerner, without taking any -notice of his old comrade's very apparent bad temper, entered into a -conversation with Madame du Prat, which he managed to make almost a -friendly one. -</p> - -<p> -"So this is the first time you have been to the gaming-rooms, madame? In -that case I shall ask you to let me play as you think best, in case we -meet in the rooms.—Good, here is another tunnel.—Do you know -what the Americans call this bit of the railway?—Has Miss Marsh -not told you, Marchesa?—No?—Well, they call it 'the flute,' -because there are only a few holes up above from time to -time.—Isn't it pretty? How did you like Egypt, madame?—They say -Alexandria is like Marseilles.—But the Marseillais would say they -have no mistral.—Hautefeuille, you know my <i>cocher</i>, L'Ainé, -as they call him?—About a couple of months ago at Cannes—one -day when all the villas were rocking—he said to me: 'Do you like -the South, Monsieur Marius?'—'Yes,' I replied, 'if it were not for -the wind.' '<i>Hé, pécheire</i>!' he cried, 'wind! Why, there is never -any wind upon this coast, from Marseilles to Nice!' 'What is that?' I -asked, pointing to one of the palms on the Croisette, which was so much -bent upon one side that it was slipping into the sea. 'Do you call that -the wind, Monsieur Marius?' he said; 'why, that is not wind—it is -the mistral, which makes Provence so bright and cheerful!'" -</p> - -<p> -"No, Corancez is the Italian's real lover," thought Olivier. He had only -needed to see Hautefeuille with Andryana a couple of minutes to be quite -convinced. She was certainly not the unknown mistress with whom the -young man had passed part of the previous night. -</p> - -<p> -The evident intimacy existing between her and the Southerner, their -pleasure together, the too apparent falsehood she had told, the -fascination Corancez's showiness had for her, as well as a host of -indications, left no room for doubt. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," he repeated, "there is her lover.—They are worthy of each -other. This beautiful, luxuriant woman, who might sell oranges on the -Riva dei Schiavoni, is a fitting mate for this handsome chatterbox! -Heavens! What an accurate observer he was who said:—'Will you be -quiet a minute, Bouches-du-Rhône?'—Just look how complacently -Hautefeuille listens to him! He does not seem at all astonished at these -people vaunting their adultery in a train side by side with a young -married couple. How he has changed!" -</p> - -<p> -With all his scepticism, Olivier was still a slave to current illogical -prejudices. While he was young it had seemed the most natural thing in -the world for him to carry on his intrigues under the shelter of -pure-minded women who might happen to be friends or relatives of his -mistresses. And yet he was astonished that Pierre was not shocked at the -idea of Madame Bonnacorsi and Corancez installing themselves comfortably -in the same compartment as Monsieur and Madame du Prat! But the -principal portion of his reflections had to do with the painful -deductions that had been interrupted for a few hours. "No," he thought, -"this plump Italian and this mountebank from the South cannot interest -him.—If he tolerates them at all, it is because they are in his -secret; they represent an easy-going complicity, or they are simply -people who know his mistress.—For I am sure he has one. Even -though I did not know that he had passed the night away from his room, -even had I not seen him in bed this morning, with sunken eyes and pallid -complexion, even had I not held in my hands his ring with its -inscription, I should only have to look at him now.—He is another -man!" -</p> - -<p> -As he soliloquized in this way Olivier watched his friend intently, -taking note of every movement with eager avidity, observing the very -fluttering of his eyelids, of his respiration, as closely as a savage -would note, analyze, and interpret the trampled grass, a footprint in -the earth, a broken branch, a crumpled leaf upon the road taken by a -fugitive. -</p> - -<p> -He also noticed the weakening of the exclusively Gallic character in -Pierre, which he had formerly liked. The young man had been in love with -Ely only three months; it was only three weeks since he had learned that -she loved him; but by dint of thinking of her all his associations of -ideas, all his quotations, had been modified insensibly but strikingly. -His conversation was tinged with an exotic quality. He referred to -Italian and Austrian matters quite naturally. He who formerly astonished -Olivier by his absolute lack of curiosity, now appeared to enjoy with -the pleasure of the newly initiated the stories of the cosmopolitan -society to which he was attached by secret but none the less living -bonds. He had now an interest in it, was accustomed to it, sympathized -with it. And yet nothing in his letters had prepared his friend for this -metamorphosis. -</p> - -<p> -Olivier continued to seek indications disclosing the identity of the -woman he loved in his conversation, in the expression on Pierre's face, -in the least important words of the three speakers. Berthe, who had -hardly deigned to reply to Corancez's attempts to interest her, now -appeared absorbed in contemplation of the beautiful view across the sea. -The afternoon was drawing to its close. The sheets of blue and violet -water slumbered in the indented coast. The foam tossed about, appearing -and disappearing around the big wooded promontories. And on the other -side, shutting in the horizon, beyond the deep mountains, were outlined -the white sierras of the snowclad peaks. -</p> - -<p> -But the young woman's self-absorption was but in appearance. And if -Olivier had not been too startled by the sound of a name suddenly -mentioned he must have seen that the name also made a shudder run -through his wife. -</p> - -<p> -"Are you dining at the Villa Helmholtz to-morrow?" Madame Bonnacorsi -asked Hautefeuille. -</p> - -<p> -"I shall go later in the evening," he replied. -</p> - -<p> -"Do you know whether the Baroness Ely is at Monte Carlo to-day?" asked -Corancez. -</p> - -<p> -"No," answered Hautefeuille; "she is dining with the Grand Duchess -Vera." -</p> - -<p> -Simple as was the sentence, his voice trembled as he spoke. It would -have seemed to him both puerile and ignoble to attempt to hide anything -from Olivier, and it was perfectly natural for Corancez, who knew of his -relations with Madame de Carlsberg, to ask him about such a trifling -matter. But the gift of second sight seems to descend upon lovers. He -felt that his friend was watching him with a singular expression in his -eyes. And—more extraordinary still—his friend's young wife was -also observing him. The knowledge of the tender secret he carried hidden -in his heart, a sanctuary of adoration, made the glances so painful to -support that insensibly his face disclosed his feelings just -sufficiently to enable the two people spying upon him at the moment to -find food in his momentary agitation for their thoughts. -</p> - -<p> -"The Baroness Ely?—Why, that is the name on the portrait!"—How -was it possible for Berthe to avoid the rapid reflection? And then she -thought: "Can this woman be at Cannes? How embarrassed both Olivier and -Pierre look!" -</p> - -<p> -As for Olivier, he thought: "He knows all about her movements.—How -naturally Corancez asked him about her!—That is just the tone such -people adopt in speaking with you about a woman with whom you have a -<i>liaison</i>.—And yet, is it possible there is such a -<i>liaison</i>?" -</p> - -<p> -Was it possible? The inner voice, stilled for a moment by the words -engraved on the ring, again began to be heard. It replied that a -<i>liaison</i> between Ely and Pierre was not only possible; it was -probable; it was even certain.—And still the indisputable facts to -support this feeling of certitude were far from numerous. But others -began to be gathered. In the first place, Pierre disclosed a secret to -his friend in the name of Corancez, who had not been blind to the -coldness of his old schoolfellow. -</p> - -<p> -"You were not very pleased to see Corancez walk into our compartment. He -felt it. Now admit it." -</p> - -<p> -"That is one of the customs of this region," replied Olivier. "I simply -think he might have spared me this association with my wife. All the -better for him if Madame Bonnacorsi is his mistress, but for him to -present her to us in the way he did is, I think, rather cool." -</p> - -<p> -"She is not his mistress," replied Hautefeuille. "She is his wife. He -has just asked me to tell you. I will explain all about it." -</p> - -<p> -Pierre continued with the story, in a few hurried words, of the -extraordinary secret marriage, of Navagero's tyranny over his sister, of -the resolution the lovers had taken, of the departure of them all upon -the yacht, and of the ceremony in the ancient Genoese palace. To make -this disclosure he had seized the moment, in the vestibule of the -restaurant, when Berthe was taking off her veil and cloak a few paces -away, and while they themselves were handing their overcoats to the -cloak-room attendant. It was the first minute they had had alone since -the arrival of the train. -</p> - -<p> -"But, with all that to do, you cannot have had time to see Genoa?" said -Olivier, as his wife approached. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, yes. The sea was so rough that we did not return until next day." -</p> - -<p> -"They passed the night together there," thought Olivier. Even if they -had passed it on the boat, his conclusion would have been the same. And -then, just as though Fate were obstinately trying to dissipate his last -lingering doubts, Hautefeuille stopped as they were traversing the -restaurant to secure a table. Among the mingled crowd of diners Pierre -saluted four people seated round a table more richly appointed than the -others and embellished with rare flowers. -</p> - -<p> -"Did you not recognize your former cotillon partner?" he asked Olivier, -when he was once more with the Du Prats. -</p> - -<p> -"Yvonne de Chésy? How little she has changed.—Yes, she is very -young," replied Olivier. -</p> - -<p> -Before him there was a large mirror, in which he saw reflected all the -picturesque confusion of the fashionable restaurant. He could see the -tables surrounded by women of the highest society and women of the most -dubious, in gorgeous toilets and coquettish bonnets, elbowing each -other, chatting to their companions, men who knew the women of both -classes. The position in which he was placed gave him a view of Yvonne's -profile. In front of her was her husband, no longer the dazzling, -rattlebrained Chésy of the <i>Jenny</i>, but a nervous, anxious, -absent-minded creature, the exact type of the ruined player who amid the -most brilliant surroundings is wondering whether or not he will leave -the place to blow out his brains. -</p> - -<p> -Between this poor being, visibly ill at ease, and the laughing young -wife, who never dreamed of anything so tragic, was seated an individual -of ignoble physiognomy, flabby-cheeked, with double chin, piercing, -inquisitorial, brutal eyes set in a full-blooded countenance. He had the -rosette of the Legion d'Honneur at his buttonhole, and he was paying -manifest court to the young wife. -</p> - -<p> -Between Yvonne and Chésy, a second woman was placed. At first Olivier -could only see the back of her head. Then he noticed that this woman -turned some three or four times to look toward their table at them. -There was something so strange in the action of the unknown, the -attention she paid to the group in which Hautefeuille and Olivier were -was in such total contrast to the reserved expression on her face and to -her quiet bearing, that Olivier had for a moment a flash of fresh hope. -What if this woman, so pretty, so refined, with an expression that was -so gentle and interesting, were Pierre's beloved mistress? As though -absent-mindedly, he asked:— -</p> - -<p> -"Who are the Chésys dining with? Who is the man with the decoration?" -</p> - -<p> -"It is Brion, the financier," replied Hautefeuille. "The charming woman -in front of him is his wife." -</p> - -<p> -Again Olivier looked in the mirror. This time he surprised Madame Brion -with her eyes evidently fixed upon him. His memory, so tenacious of all -touching his sojourn in Rome, awoke and reminded him of the time he -heard the name last, reminded him in a souvenir that brought back the -name as pronounced by an unforgetable voice. He pictured himself again -in a garden walk at the Villa Cœlimontana, talking to Ely about his -friendship for Pierre and entering into a discussion with her such as -they often had. -</p> - -<p> -He declared that friendship, that pure, proud sentiment, that mixture of -esteem and affection, of absolute confidence and sympathy, could not -exist except between man and man. She averred that she had a friend upon -whom she could depend just as he could upon Hautefeuille. And she had -then spoken of Louise Brion. It was Ely's friend who was now dining a -few feet away. And if she was regarding him with that singular -persistence, it was because she knew.—What did she know?—Did -she know that he had been Madame de Carlsberg's lover?—Without doubt -that was it. Did she know that Pierre was her lover now? -</p> - -<p> -This time the idea became such a violent, such an imperious obsession -that Olivier felt he could no longer stand it. Besides, was there not a -means close at hand of learning the truth, and that immediately? Had not -Corancez told them that he should finish the evening in the Casino? And -he must certainly know, seeing that he had passed the winter with -Hautefeuille and Madame de Carlsberg. -</p> - -<p> -"I will ask him about it openly, frankly," said Olivier to himself. -"Whether he replies or not, I shall be able to read what he knows in his -eyes.—He is so stupid!" -</p> - -<p> -Then he felt ashamed of such a proceeding, as though of a frightful -indelicacy in regard to his friend. -</p> - -<p> -"That is what comes of a woman stealing in between two men. They become -vile at once!—No, I will not try to get the facts of the case from -Corancez. And yet—" -</p> - -<p> -Was Corancez stupid? It was impossible to be more mistaken about the -wily Southerner. Unfortunately, he was at times too astute. And in the -present case, his excessive subtlety made him commit the irreparable -fault of definitely enlightening Olivier. For the scruples of this -latter were, alas! powerless to withstand the temptation. After all he -had thought, in spite of all he felt so clearly, he succumbed to the -fatal desire to know. And when, about ten o'clock, he encountered -Corancez in one of the rooms of the Casino, he asked him abruptly:— -</p> - -<p> -"Is the Baroness Ely, of whom you spoke in the train, the Madame de -Carlsberg I knew in Rome?—She was the wife of an Austrian archduke." -</p> - -<p> -"The very same," responded Corancez, saying inwardly: "Hallo! -Hautefeuille has not said anything.—Du Prat knew her in Rome? Heaven -grant he has no feeling in that quarter, and that he will not go -chattering to Pierre!" -</p> - -<p> -Then, aloud, he said:— -</p> - -<p> -"Why do you ask?" -</p> - -<p> -"For no reason," replied Olivier. -</p> - -<p> -There was a short silence. Then he said:— -</p> - -<p> -"Is not my dear friend Hautefeuille somewhat in love with her?" -</p> - -<p> -"Ah! Now for it," thought the Southerner. "He'll be sure to learn all -about it sooner or later. It had better be sooner. It will prevent -mistakes." -</p> - -<p> -And he replied:— -</p> - -<p> -"Is he in love with her? I saw it from the beginning. He simply worships -her." -</p> - -<p> -"And she?" asked Olivier. -</p> - -<p> -"She?" echoed Corancez. "She is madly in love with him!" -</p> - -<p> -And he congratulated himself upon his perspicacity, saying to -himself:— -</p> - -<p> -"At any rate, I feel more at ease now. Du Prat will not commit any -folly." -</p> - -<p> -For once the Southerner had not realized the irony of his own thoughts. -He was as naïve as his secret wife, simple-minded Andryana, who, -discovering Madame du Prat at one of the roulette tables, replied to the -questions of the young wife without noticing her trouble, answering with -the most imprudent serenity. -</p> - -<p> -"You were talking about a Baroness Ely in the train.—What an odd -name!" -</p> - -<p> -"It is a diminutive of Elizabeth, and is common enough in Austria." -</p> - -<p> -"Then she is an Austrian?" -</p> - -<p> -"What! You don't know her? It is Madame de Carlsberg, the morganatic -wife of the Archduke Henry Francis.—You are sure to meet her in -Cannes. And you will see for yourself how beautiful and good and -sympathetic she is." -</p> - -<p> -"Did she not live in Rome for some time?" continued the young wife. -</p> - -<p> -How her heart beat as she asked the question! The Venetian replied in -the most natural tone:— -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, for a couple of winters. She was not on good terms with her -husband then, and they lived according to their own guise. Things are a -little better now, although—" -</p> - -<p> -And the good creature was discreetly silent. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap09"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER IX -<br /><br /> -FRIEND AND MISTRESS—<i>Continued</i></h4> - -<p> -The sentiment of perfect happiness that Ely experienced when she was -convinced, in talking to Pierre, that Olivier had not disclosed anything -to his friend did not continue long. She knew her former lover too well -not to understand the constant danger threatening her. She knew that he -still remembered her, and she realized the intensity of morbid passion -of which the unhappy man was capable. It was impossible that he should -not feel toward her now as in the past, that he should not judge her in -the present as during the time of their liaison, with a savage cruelty -allied to a suspicion that had so wounded her. She knew how dearly he -loved Hantefeuille. She knew how solicitous, how jealous that friendship -was. No, he would not suffer her to possess his beloved companion -without a struggle, were it only to save him from her whom he judged so -hardly. -</p> - -<p> -Besides her tact, the intuition of the former mistress was not to be -deceived. When the man whom she knew to suffer, as from a malady, from a -sensuality that was almost ferocious, should learn the truth, his worst, -most hideous jealousy would be aroused into action. Had she not counted -upon this very thing in the first place when she had nourished a scheme -of vengeance that to-day filled her with shame? -</p> - -<p> -All these ideas crowded into her mind immediately Hautefeuille left her. -Again, as after his first visit, she accompanied him as far as the -threshold of the hothouse, clasping his hand and leading him through the -salon plunged in darkness, with a feeling of terror and yet of pride -when she felt that the hand of the young man, indifferent to danger, -never trembled. She shuddered at the first contact of the cold night -air. A last embrace, their lips united in a yearning final kiss, the -kiss of farewell,—always heartrending between lovers, for fate is -treacherous and misfortune flies swiftly,—a few minutes during which -she stood listening to his steps resounding as he walked down the -deserted pathways of the garden, and then she returned to her room, -returned to find the place, now cold, where her beloved had reposed in -her solitary bed. In the sudden melancholy mood caused by separation her -intelligence awoke from its vision of happiness and forgetfulness, awoke -to a sense of reality. And she was afraid. -</p> - -<p> -Here fear was intense, but short-lived. Ely descended from a line of -warriors. She was capable of carrying out actively an energetic policy. -She could think out clearly a situation. Resourceful and proud natures -like hers have no time for the feverish creations of an unsound -imagination enfeebled by terror. She was one of those who dare to look -upon approaching danger. Thus in the first flush of her dawning passion -for Hautefeuille, as her confession to Madame Brion proved, she had -foreseen with a clearness that was almost a certainty the struggle that -would take place between her love and Olivier's friendship for Pierre. -</p> - -<p> -But this power of courageous realization allows such natures to measure -the danger once they are face to face with it. They lay bare, with the -greatest clearness, the facts of the crisis through which they pass. -They have the strength that comes from daring to hope, from having an -exact idea of the danger in moments that appear desperate. Thus though -Ely de Carlsberg was a victim to a return of her awful anxiety, after -Hautefeuille's departure, when she again laid down her head upon the -pillow, though she suffered from a disquietude that kept her awake, when -she arose the following morning she again felt confidence in the future. -She had hope! -</p> - -<p> -She had hope, and for motives that she saw clearly, just as the General, -her father, used to see a battlefield laid out in imagination definitely -and accurately. She had hope, in the first place, in Du Prat's love for -his wife. She had felt how refreshing to the heart is the love of a -young, pure nature innocent of the world. She had experienced it -herself. She knew how the moral nature is restored, reformed, -re-created, is purified by contact with the belief in the good, the -magnanimity of generous impulses, the nobility of a broad charity. She -knew how such an association washes away all shameful bitterness, all -evil sentiment, all traces of vice. Olivier had married the girl of his -choice. She loved him and he loved her. Why should he not have felt all -the beneficent influence of youth and purity? And in that case where -would he find the strength to wreck the happiness of a woman whom he had -loved, whom he judged severely, but in whose sincerity he could not fail -to believe? -</p> - -<p> -Ely had this basis for her hope. She trusted in the truth of her passion -for Pierre, in the evidence that would confront Olivier of his friend's -happiness. She said to herself: "Once his first moment of suspicion is -passed, he will begin to observe, to notice. He will see that with -Pierre I have been free from any of the faults that he used to magnify -into crimes, that I have been neither proud nor frivolous nor -coquettish."—She had been so single-minded, so upright, so true in -her love! Like all people possessed by a complete happiness, she thought -it impossible for any one to misunderstand the truth of her heart. -</p> - -<p> -Then, again, she trusted in the honor of both—in Pierre's, to -begin with. Not only was she sure he would not speak of her, she knew in -addition that he would use all his strength to prevent his secret being -suspected by even his most intimate friend. Then she trusted in Olivier. -She knew him to be of a scrupulous delicacy in all things, to be careful -in his speech, to be a perfect gentleman! He would certainly never -speak. To utter the name of one who had once been his mistress when -their relations had been conducted under certain unrevealed conditions -would be an infraction of a tacit agreement, as sacred as his word of -honor, would be to be disgraced in his own eyes. Olivier had too much -self-respect to be guilty of such a fault, unless it were in a moment of -maddening suffering. This condition was lacking in his case. He could -never have this excuse under the circumstances in which he returned, -married and happy, after an absence of months and months, almost two -years! No, there could not arrive this crisis in his life now. And, -above all, he would never cause his friend to -suffer.—Besides—and this was the final motive upon which -Ely's hopes were based, was the most solid of all, and only that proved -how thoroughly she knew Olivier—if he spoke of her to Pierre it -would place a woman between them, it would trouble the ideal serenity of -their affection, which had never been dimmed by a cloud. Even should he -lose his self-respect, Olivier would never lose his respect for his -friendship. -</p> - -<p> -It was in such thoughts that the unhappy woman sought relief upon the -day following Olivier's arrival in Cannes. It was the very day that the -young man's suspicions took bodily form, the day when all indications -pointed to one thing only, accumulated around him and were condensed -into absolute certainty by the well-meant but irreparable words spoken -by Corancez! -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Ely de Carlsberg hoped, and her reason confirmed her hopes. But that -very same reason was to destroy, bit by bit, the ground for hoping in -the week following Olivier's return. And this, also, without her once -meeting him. She dreaded nothing so much as meeting him face to face, -and yet she would have preferred an explanation, even a stormy one, to -this total lack of intercourse. That they did not meet was evidently an -intentional act upon the part of the young man, for it was an -impoliteness that could not be accidental. -</p> - -<p> -There was only one way left for Ely to learn the truth, the talks that -she had with Hautefeuille. How her suffering was intensified, how her -agony was increased! Only from Hautefeuille could she hear of Olivier -during the week. Through Hautefeuille she followed the tragedy being -enacted in the heart of her former lover. To Pierre it was quite natural -to tell his dear confidante of all the anxiety that his friend caused -him. He never dreamt that the least important detail was full of -significance for her. In every conversation with Pierre during the first -eight days she descended deeper and deeper into the dangerous abyss of -Olivier's thoughts. She saw a possible catastrophe approaching from the -first,—a possible catastrophe that became a probability, even a -certainty, at last. -</p> - -<p> -The first blow to Ely's hope was dealt upon the day following the dinner -at Monte Carlo, when she again saw Pierre, not this time in the quiet -intimacy of a nocturnal meeting, but at the big soirée which had been -spoken about in the train. It was late when he arrived. The salons were -quite full, for it was nearly eleven o'clock. -</p> - -<p> -"Olivier insisted upon keeping me," he said, excusing the lateness to -Madame de Carlsberg. "I began to think he would never let me go." -</p> - -<p> -"He wanted to keep you for himself," she replied; "it is so long since -he saw you." -</p> - -<p> -With a beating heart she waited to hear if Du Prat had manifested any -repugnance when he knew that Pierre was coming to her house. -</p> - -<p> -"You must not wound the susceptibility of an old friend." -</p> - -<p> -"He is not susceptible," replied Pierre. "He knows well enough how -attached I am to him. He kept me talking about his married life." -</p> - -<p> -And, he added, sadly:— -</p> - -<p> -"He is so unhappy! His wife is so badly suited to him. She does not -understand him He does not love her and she does not love him.—Ah! -it is frightful!" -</p> - -<p> -So the rejuvenation of Olivier's heart by the love of a girl, the -sentimental renewal upon which his former mistress had counted, was only -one of her illusions. The man was unhappy in the very marriage in which -she would have liked to see a sure guarantee of forgetfulness, the -effacing of both their pasts. The revelation was so full of menace to -the future of her own happiness that she felt she must know more, and -she kept Pierre in a corner of the little salon, questioning him. They -were near the foot of the private staircase leading to her room. By one -of those contrasts that re-vivify in two lovers the fiery sweetness of -their secret this salon, traversed by them with peril, in complete -obscurity, hand clasping hand, this little salon, witness of their -secret meetings, was now blazing with light, and the crowd moving about -gave, as it does to all the fêtes on the Riviera, the sensation of a -worldly aristocracy. -</p> - -<p> -It served as a passage between the brilliantly lighted hothouse and the -rooms of the ground-floor, decorated with shrubs and flowers and -overflowing with guests. The prettiest women in the American and English -colonies were there, extravagantly displaying their wealth of jewels, -talking and laughing aloud, with the splendid complexion that -characterizes the race. And mingling with them were Russians and -Italians and Austrians, all looking alike at the first glance: all -different at the second. The ostentations elegance of toilets, all -daringly bright-colored, spoke loudly of the preponderance of foreign -taste. -</p> - -<p> -Evening coats were sprinkled about among these women, worn by all the -authentic princes in the wintering-place and also by the society men of -the place. All the varieties of the kind were represented there. The -most celebrated of sportsmen, renowned for his success as a pigeon shot, -elbowed an explorer who had come to Provence in search of rest after -five years spent in "Darkest Africa," and both were chatting with a -Parisian novelist of the first rank, a Norman Hercules with a faunlike -face, contented smile, and laughing eyes, who a few winters later was to -die a death worse than death, was to see the wreck of his magnificent -intellect. -</p> - -<p> -This evening an air of gayety appeared to hang over the salons, lit by -innumerable electric lamps and ventilated by the balmy breath of early -spring. In a few more days this society would be dispersed to the four -corners of the continent. Did the fête owe its animation to this -sentiment of a season that was almost finished, to the approach of an -adieu soon to be spoken? -</p> - -<p> -In any case this spring seemed to have penetrated even as far as the -master of the house—the Archduke Henry Francis—in person. It -was his first appearance in his wife's salon since the terrible day when -he came there in search of Verdier to take him off almost by force to the -laboratory. Those who had assisted at his cavalier entrance upon that -occasion, and who were again present this evening, Madame de Chésy, for -example, Madame Bonnacorsi, Madame Brion, who had come from Monte Carlo -for two days, and Hautefeuille, were astounded by the change. -</p> - -<p> -The tyrant was in one of his rare moments of good humor, when it was -impossible to dislike him. He went about from group to group with a -kindly word for all. In his quality of Emperor's nephew, and one who had -almost ascended the throne, he had the princely gift of an infallible -memory for faces. This enabled him to call by their names people who had -been presented to him only once. And he joined to this quality another, -one that disclosed him to be a man of superior calibre, an astonishing -power of talking with each upon his special subject. To a Russian -general, famous for having built at great peril a railroad through an -Asiatic desert, he spoke of the Trans-Caspian plains with the knowledge -of an engineer, coupled to a thorough familiarity with hydrography. He -recited a verse from the Parisian novelist's first work, a volume of -poems now too little known. With a diplomatist who had been for a long -time in the United States he discussed the question of tariffs, and -immediately afterward recommended the latest model of gun, with all the -knowledge of a maker, to the celebrated pigeon shot. He talked with -Madame Bonnacorsi about her ancestors in Venice, like an archæologist -from the St. Mark library; with Madame de Chésy about her costumes, -like some habitué of the Opéra, and had a kindly and private word for -Madame Brion about the Rodier firm and the rôle it was playing in an -important Austrian loan. -</p> - -<p> -This prodigious suppleness of intellect, assisted by such a technical -memory, made him irresistibly seductive when he chose to be winning. -</p> - -<p> -He had thus arrived, amid general fascination, at the last salon, when -he saw his wife talking with Hautefeuille. At this sight, as though it -were an additional pleasure to surprise Ely <i>tête-à-tête</i> with the -young man, his blue eyes, which shone so brightly in his ruddy face, -became even more brilliant still. Advancing toward the pair, who became -silent when they saw him approaching, he said in an easy manner to the -Baroness, the friendliness of the tone accentuating the irony of the -words:— -</p> - -<p> -"I do not see your friend Miss Marsh this evening. Is she not here?" -</p> - -<p> -"She told me she would come," replied Madame de Carlsberg. "She is -perhaps indisposed." -</p> - -<p> -"Have you not seen her to-day?" asked the Prince. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I saw her this morning.—Will Your Highness tell me why you -ask the question?" -</p> - -<p> -"Simply because I am deeply interested in everybody who interests you," -replied the Archduke. -</p> - -<p> -As he uttered the insolently mocking phrase, the eyes of the terrible -man shot a glance at Hautefeuille that was so savage that he felt an -almost magnetic thrill shoot through him. It was only a flash and then -the Prince was in another group talking, this time about horses and the -last Derby with the Anglomaniac Navagero, without paying any more -attention to the two lovers, who separated after a couple of minutes, -heavy with unuttered thoughts. -</p> - -<p> -"I must go and speak to Andryana," said Madame de Carlsberg. "I know the -Prince too well not to be sure that his good temper hides some cruel -vengeance. He must have found some way of embroiling Florence with -Verdier.—Good-by for the present.—And don't be cast down over -the misery of your friend's married life.—I assure you there are -worse." -</p> - -<p> -As she spoke, she gently waved a big fan of white feathers. The perfume -she preferred, the perfume that the young man associated with the -sweetest emotions, was waved abroad by the feathers. She gently bowed as -a sign of farewell, and her soft brown eyes closed with the tender look -of intelligence that falls upon a lover's heart like an invisible kiss. -</p> - -<p> -But at that moment Pierre was unable to feel its sweetness. Again he had -experienced, in the presence of the Archduke, the pain that is one of -the frightful penalties of adultery; to see the beloved one ill-treated -by the man who has the right because he is the husband, see it, and to -be unable to defend her. He watched her going away now with the bearing -of a beautiful, graceful queen, so proudly regal in her costume of pink -moiré shot with silver. Upon the beloved visage which he saw in profile -as she crossed the room, he discerned traces of profound melancholy, and -again he pitied her with all his heart for the bitterness of her married -life. He never dreamt that the Archduke's sarcasm left Madame de -Carlsberg completely indifferent, nor that the relations of Miss Marsh -and Verdier did not interest her sufficiently to cause such a complete -feeling of depression. No. It was this idea that was weighing upon the -mind of the young woman, that was lying upon her heart like lead in the -midst of the fête: "Olivier is unhappily married! He is miserable. He -has not gained that gentleness of heart that he would have done had he -loved his wife.—He is still the same.—So he hates me -yet.—It was enough for him to learn that Pierre was to pass the -evening with me for him to try to prevent him from coming -here.—And yet he does not know all.—When he does!" -</p> - -<p> -And hoping against hope, she forced herself to think, to say, to repeat: -"Well! When he does know he will see that I am sincere; that I have not -made his friend unhappy; that I never will make him suffer." -</p> - -<p> -It was also Pierre who awoke her from the second illusion that Olivier -would be touched by the truth and purity of her love. Three days passed -after the soirée, during which the young man did not see his mistress. -Cruel as were these separations, Ely judged it wisest to prolong them -during Du Prat's stay. She hoped to make up for it later; for she -counted upon passing the long weeks of April and May at Cannes with -Hautefeuille, weeks that were so mild, so covered with flowers, so -lonely upon the coast and among the deserted gardens. The idea of making -a voyage to Italy, where they could meet, as they had done at Genoa, in -surroundings full of charm, also haunted her. The prospect of certain -happiness, if she could escape from the danger menacing her, gave her -strength to support the insupportable; an absence that contained all the -possibilities of presence, the torture of so great a love, of being so -near and yet not seeing each other. -</p> - -<p> -It was the one way, she believed, of preventing suspicion from awakening -in Olivier. After these three weary days of longing, she appointed a -meeting with Pierre one afternoon in the garden of the Villa Ellenrock, -which recalled to both an hour of exquisite happiness. While her -carriage rolled toward the Cap d'Antibes, she looked out upon the -foliage of the climbing roses, peering over the coping of the walls, the -branches, already long and full of leaves, falling under their heavy -load, instead of standing out strong and boldly, and casting heavy, deep -shadows. A conflagration of full-blown roses blazed upon the branches. -At the foot of the silvery olive trees, a thick growth of young wheat -covered the loose soil of the fields. All these were the visible signs -that the year had passed from winter to springtide in the three weeks. -And a shudder of melancholy shot through the young woman at the sight. -It was as though she felt the time slipping away, bearing her happiness -with it. In spite of a sky, daily warmer and of a softer azure; in spite -of the blue sea, of the odors permeating the soft, balmy air; in spite -of the fascination of the flowers, blooming all around, as she strolled -down the alleys, still bordered with cinerarias, anemones, and pansies, -she felt that her heart was not as light as when she had flown to the -last rendezvous. She perceived Hautefeuille, in profile, awaiting her -under the branches of the big pine, at the foot of which they had -rested. She felt at the first glance that he was no longer the lover of -that time, enraptured with an ecstatic, perfect joy, and without a -hidden thought. It seemed as though a shade hovered before his eyes and -enveloped his thoughts. It could not be that he was vexed with her. It -could not be that his friend had revealed the dreaded secret. And yet -Pierre was troubled about Olivier. He admitted it at once before Ely had -time to question him. -</p> - -<p> -"I cannot think," he said, "what has come between us. I have the strange -impression that certain things in me irritate him, unnerve him, -displease him.—He is vexed with me about trifles that he would not -even have noticed formerly; as, for example, my friendship with Corancez. -Would you believe it? He reproached me yesterday for having witnessed -the ceremony at Genoa, as though it were a crime.—And all because we -met poor Marius and his wife in the train at Golfe Juan yesterday! -</p> - -<p> -"'Our nest is built there,' Corancez said to me, adding—these were -his very words—that 'the bomb was going to explode,' meaning that -Andryana was going to speak to her brother.—I told the story to -Olivier to amuse him, and he flew into a temper, going so far as to talk -of its being 'blackmail,' as though one could blackmail that abominable -creature Navagero!—I replied to him, and he answered me.—You -cannot imagine in what terms he spoke to me about myself, about the -danger that I ran in frequenting the society of this place, of the -unhappiness my change of tastes and ideas gave him.—He could not -have talked more seriously had Cannes been tenanted by a gang of thieves -who wished to enroll me in their ranks.—It is inexplicable, but -the fact remains. He is pained, wounded, uneasy because I am happy here. -Can you understand such madness in a friend whom I love so sincerely, -who loves me so tenderly?" -</p> - -<p> -"That is the very reason why you must not feel angry," replied Ely. -"When one suffers, one is unjust. And he is unhappy in his married life. -It is so hard to have made a mistake in that way." -</p> - -<p> -She spoke in this way, prompted by a natural jealousy. Her passionate, -ungovernable nature was too proud, too noble to employ the method of -secretly poisoning the mind of husband or lover against friendships that -are disliked, a method that wives and mistresses exercise with a sure -and criminal knowledge. But to herself she said:— -</p> - -<p> -"Olivier has discovered that Pierre loves some one. Does he suspect that -it is I?" -</p> - -<p> -The reply to the question was not a doubtful one. Ely had too often -noticed, when in Rome, the next to infallible perspicacity displayed by -Olivier in laying bare the hidden workings of the love intrigues going -on all around them. Although she continued, in spite of all, to hope in -his honor, she dreaded, with a terror that became daily more intense, -the moment when she would acquire the certitude that he knew. These two -beings began to draw closer together by means of Hautefeuille, began to -measure each other's strength, to penetrate each other's minds, even -before the inevitable shock precipitated them into open conflict. -</p> - -<p> -Again it was Pierre who brought to his suffering mistress the proof for -which she longed and which she feared.—It was the seventh night after -Olivier's arrival, and she was awaiting Pierre at half-past eleven, -behind the open door of the hothouse. She had only seen him in the -afternoon long enough to fix this nocturnal meeting which made her pulse -throb as with a happy fever. The afternoon had been cloudy, heavy, -stormy. And the opaque dome of clouds stretched over the sky hid every -ray of moonlight, every twinkling star. Heavy lightning glowed upon the -horizon at moments, lighting up the garden, disclosing everything to the -eyes of the young woman who stooped forward to see the white alleys -bordered with the bluish agaves, the lawns with their flowering shrubs, -the green stems of the bamboos, a bunch of parasol pines with their red -trunks whose dark foliage stood out for a moment in the sudden flash of -light followed immediately by a darker, more impenetrable shadow. Was it -nervousness caused by the approaching tempest, for a heavy gust of hot -wind swept across the garden, announcing the advent of a hurricane, or -was it remorse at the idea of exposing her friend to the violence of the -storm when he parted from her, that made Ely already anxious, troubled, -and unhappy? When she at last saw Hautefeuille, by the light of the cold -and livid lightning, passing along the fringe of bamboos, her heart beat -with anxiety. -</p> - -<p> -"Heavens!" she said to him, "you ought not to have come upon such a -night.—Listen." -</p> - -<p> -Big drops of rain began to fall upon the glass of the hothouse. Two -formidable thunderclaps were heard in the distance. And now the drops of -rain became more and more general, so that around the two lovers under -the protecting dome of glass there was a continuous, sonorous rattle -that almost drowned the sound of their voices. -</p> - -<p> -"You see our good genius protects us," answered the young man, -pressing her passionately to his heart, "since I got here just in -time.—And, besides, I should have come through the tempest without -noticing it.—I have been too unhappy this evening. I felt I must -see you to comfort me, to help me." -</p> - -<p> -"You look disturbed," she replied. And touching his face in the darkness -with her soft, caressing hands, she added, her voice changing: "Your -cheeks are burning and there are tears in your eyes.—What is the -matter?" -</p> - -<p> -"I will tell you presently," Pierre answered, "when I have been -comforted by feeling that you are near me.—God! How I love you! How -I love you!" he repeated with an intensity in which she discerned -suffering. -</p> - -<p> -Then, later, when they were both in the solitude of her room, he -said:— -</p> - -<p> -"I think Olivier is going mad. These last few days he has been even -stranger than ever.—This evening, for example, he regarded me with -a look that was so curious, so insistent, so penetrating, that I feel -positively uneasy. I have not reposed any confidence in him, and yet I -had the impression that he read in me — not your name.—Ah! -happily, not that—not that!—but how am I to explain -it?—my impatience, my desire, my passion, my happiness, all my -sensations? And I had a feeling that my sentiments filled him with -horror.—Why?—Is he not unjust? Have I taken away from our -friendship in loving you? I was very miserable about it. Finally at ten -o'clock I bade good night to him and his wife.—A quarter of an -hour later some one knocked at my door. It was Olivier.—He said, -'Would you mind coming for a walk? I feel that I cannot sleep until I -have taken a stroll.'—I replied, 'I am sorry I cannot; I have some -letters to write.' I had to find some excuse. He looked at me again with -the same expression that he had had during dinner.—And all at once -he began to laugh. I cannot describe his laugh to you. There was -something so cruel in it, so frightfully insulting, so impossible to -tolerate. He had not spoken a word, and yet I knew that he was laughing -at my love. I stopped him, for I felt a sort of fury rising in me. I -said, 'What are you laughing at?'—He replied, 'At a souvenir.' His -face became perfectly pale. He stopped laughing just as brusquely as he -had begun. I saw that he was going to burst into tears, and before I -could ask him anything he had said 'Adieu' and gone out of the room." -</p> - -<p> -There is a necessity for conflict in the natural, logical issue of -certain situations, a necessity so inevitable that even those who feel -they will be destroyed by it accept the struggle when it comes without -seeking to avoid it. It is thus, in public life, that peoples go to war, -and in private life rivals accept the duel with a passive fatalism that -often contradicts their complete character. They recognize that they -have been caught in the orbit of action of a power stronger than human -will. -</p> - -<p> -When Pierre Hautefeuille had left Ely that night, she felt very cruelly -the impression that a struggle was inevitable and that it was not only a -struggle with a man, but with destiny! As long as her lover remained -near, her tense nerves dominated this impression, but when he had gone -she gave herself up to its contemplation. Alone, without sufficient -strength to go to her bed, she crouched, thoroughly unnerved, upon a -sofa. She began to weep, a crisis that lasted indefinitely, as though -she felt herself trapped, threatened, conquered in advance! Her last -hope had just been shattered. She could no longer doubt, after the scene -that Pierre had told her of, that Olivier knew all. Yes, he knew all. -And his nervousness, his fits of anger, his laughter, his despair, -proved only too clearly that he would not accept the situation, and that -a tempest of ungovernable desires were unchained within him. Now that he -had arrived at such a point of exasperation and of knowledge, what was -he going to do? In the first place, he would try to meet her again. She -felt as certain of this as though he had been standing there before her -laughing the cruel laugh that had wounded Hautefeuille's heart. In a few -days—perhaps in a few hours—she would be in the presence of -her mortal enemy, an enemy not only of herself but of her love. He would -be there; she would see him, hear him moving, breathing, living! A -shudder of horror ran through her frame at the idea. The thought that -this man had once possessed her filled her with a kind of acute -suffering that made her heart almost stop beating. The remembrance of -caresses given and returned induced a feeling of nausea and crushed her -with shameful distress. She had never felt so much as at this minute how -her sincere, deep love had really changed her, had made of her another -woman, a rejuvenated, forgiven, renewed creature!—But it could not -be helped. She would accept, she would support the odious presence of -her former lover. It would be the punishment for not having awaited her -love of the present in perfect purity; for not having foreseen that one -day she would meet Hautefeuille; for not having lived worthy of his -love. She had arrived at that religion—she, the reasoner, the -nihilist, atheist, had come to accept the mysticism of her happiness so -natural to the woman truly in love, and which makes all previous -emotions not provoked by the loved one a sort of blasphemous sacrilege. -She would expiate the blasphemy by supporting his odious -presence.—Alas! Olivier would not be content with simply -inflicting the horror of his presence on her. He would speak with her. -What would he say? What would he want? What would he ask?—She did -not deceive herself for a moment. The sentiments of this man as regarded -herself had not changed. As Hautefeuille had told her of the incident in -his room, she had again heard his laugh, cruel and agonizing and -insulting, that she knew so well. And with this laugh had come back to -her all the flood of jealous sensuality that had sullied her formerly to -so great an extent that the traces were still to be seen. After he had -outraged her, trampled her under foot, left her, after having placed the -irreparable obstacle of marriage and desertion between them, she felt -and understood this monstrous thing, one impossible in any other man, -but quite natural in him, that Olivier loved her still. He loved her, if -it can be called love to have for a woman that detestable mixture of -passion and hatred which calls forth incessantly the cruelty of -enjoyment, the ferocity of pleasure. -</p> - -<p> -He loved her. His attitude toward her would have been inexplicable -without this anomalous, hideous sentiment which had lived in him through -all and in spite of all! And, at the same time, he treasured his friend -with that jealous, stormy, passionate friendship which was tearing his -heart at this moment with unheard-of emotions and sufferings. To what -extent might he not be led by the frenzy of such torture agonizing as a -steel blade turned and re-turned in a wound? What could equal the pain -of having loved, of still loving, a former mistress,—of loving her -with such evil, sinister love,—and of knowing that woman was the -mistress of his best, his most tenderly beloved friend, of a brother by -adoption, cherished more than a brother by blood? -</p> - -<p> -As clearly as she saw the first rays of dawn piercing the curtains at -the end of this night of terrified meditation, Ely saw these sentiments -at work in Olivier's heart. -</p> - -<p> -"He who sows the wind shall reap the tempest," says an Austrian proverb. -When she wished to meet Hautefeuille, to make herself dear to him, she -wanted to strike Du Prat in the tenderest, most vulnerable spot in his -organization, to wound him through his friendship, to torture him -through it, to avenge herself in this way. She had succeeded only too -well! What blow was he going to strike in the rage of suffering now -consuming him? She had changed so much since the moment she had -conceived the project of cruel vengeance that she asked herself what she -was to do, what path she was to take? What if she appealed to this man, -made supplication to him, sought to melt his mood?—Or would it be -better to play with him, to cause him to think no <i>liaison</i> existed -between her and Hautefeuille, for, after all, he had no proof.—Or -better still, why not oppose a bold front, and when he dared to appear -before her, drive him from her door, for he had no claim upon -her.—Her pride revolted against the first, her nobility of -character against the second, her reason against the third. In such a -decisive crisis as the one through which the poor woman was passing, the -mind calls instinctively upon all the most secret resources of nature, -just as it collects, summons to the centre of the personality, all its -hidden strength. Ely was remarkable by her need of truth and energy in -the middle of a society that is refined to excess and composite to the -verge of falsity. As she said to her confidante in the alleys of the -Brions' garden, on that night that was so recent and seemed so distant, -it was the truth in Hautefeuille's soul that had first of all attracted -her, charmed her, seduced her. It was in order to live a true life, to -feel true emotions, that she had entered the paths of this love, whose -dangers she had foreseen. After having in thought taken up and laid -down, accepted and rejected a score of projects, she finished by -deciding within herself that she would trust to the simple truth in the -redoubtable scene she felt was drawing near, thinking:— -</p> - -<p> -"I will show him all my heart, just as it is, and he may trample on it -if he can find the strength." -</p> - -<p> -This was the policy that this woman, capable of any error but not of -meanness or common calculation, arrived at after her wretched -wakefulness. She did not find forgetfulness in it for a peril drawing -near. But it gave her the courage that every human being feels in being -completely, absolutely logical in thought, wish, and belief. She was -not, therefore, as much surprised as she even expected when, about ten -o'clock, she received a note that proved how accurately she had -reasoned. -</p> - -<p> -The letter was very short. But it was full of menace for her who read it -in the same little salon where she had made up her mind to dismiss -Pierre Hautefeuille,—a resolution that had been so weakly broken, -and that had been prompted by the very terror of the catastrophe that the -few lines announced:— -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -"MADAME—I shall have the honor of calling upon you to-day at two -o'clock. May I hope that you will receive me? or if the hour does not -suit you, that you will fix another? Let me assure you that your -slightest wishes will always be commands for -</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 45%;">"Yours respectfully,</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">"Olivier du Prat."</p> -</blockquote> - -<p> -"Very well," she said, "I shall be at home this afternoon." -</p> - -<p> -It was impossible for her to answer the letter in writing. Commonplace -though it was, she could see that Olivier had written it in a singular -state of agitation and decision. Ely knew his handwriting, and she could -see from the few lines that the pen had been clenched, almost crushed in -his hand. -</p> - -<p> -"It is war!" she said to herself. "So much the better. I shall know what -to expect in a few hours." -</p> - -<p> -But in spite of her native energy, in spite of the power of resistance -that her passion gave her, the hours seemed so long to her. Her nerves -became more tense, painfully and unceasingly, as she counted the -minutes. She had given orders that she was not at home to any one except -her dreaded visitor. It seemed that she must regain her strength in a -final solitary retirement before engaging in the duel upon which the -future of her happiness depended. -</p> - -<p> -For this reason she could not completely hide her disappointment when -about half-past one she saw Yvonne de Chésy, who had insisted upon -being admitted, enter the salon. She had only to give one glance at the -face of the pretty little frivolous Parisienne to see that a tragedy was -being enacted in her life also, a life that seemed created only to enjoy -perpetual happiness. The childish countenance of the young woman was -marked by an expression of astounded suffering. Her eyes, usually so -sparkling and laughing, had in their blue depths an expression of -terror, of stupefaction, as though brought suddenly face to face with -some horrible vision. Her gestures betrayed a strained nervousness that -was in strange contrast with her habitual gayety and butterfly -frivolity. -</p> - -<p> -Ely suddenly remembered Marsh's conversation on the boat. She at once -guessed that Brion had begun his amorous blackmailing of the poor child. -She reproached herself for her momentary impatience, and even with all -her own anguish she welcomed the poor girl with all her accustomed -grace. Yvonne stammered an excuse for her insistence. -</p> - -<p> -"You were quite right in coming in," replied Ely; "you know that I am -always at home for you.—But you are all upset. What is the matter?" -</p> - -<p> -"Simply," replied Yvonne, "that I am lost unless I can find some one to -help me.—Ah!" she continued, holding her face in her hands as -though to shut out some dreadful nightmare, "when I think of all that -has taken place since yesterday, I cannot help thinking that I am in a -dream.—In the first place we are ruined, absolutely, irreparably -ruined. I only heard of it twenty-four hours ago.—Poor Gontran did -everything to keep me from learning the truth right to the -end,—and I reproached him for gambling at Monte Carlo! Poor, dear -fellow! He hoped that a lucky chance would give him a hundred or two -hundred thousand francs, something of a capital with which to rebuild -our fortune.—For he is going to work! He is determined to do -something, no matter what.—If you only knew how good and -courageous he is!—It is only on my account he feels the -misfortune. It was for me, to obtain everything for me, that he entered -into too risky investments. He does not know how little I care for -wealth.—I can live on next to nothing, I have already told -him.—All I want is a little <i>couturière</i> whom I can direct -to make my costumes according to my ideas; a little establishment at -Passy in one of those tiny English houses; a hired carriage or a coupé -for my visits and for going to the theatre, and I should be the happiest -woman. I would go to the market in the morning, and I am sure I should -have a better table than we have now. And I know I should be happy in -such a life.—As a matter of fact, I was not born to be -rich—happily!" -</p> - -<p> -She sketched out this little programme that she thought so modest and -which would have necessitated at the least 50,000f. a year, with such a -charming mixture of girlishness and courage that Madame de Carlsberg's -heart ached. She took her by the hand and kissed her, saying:— -</p> - -<p> -"I know your kind heart, Yvonne.—But I hope everything is not yet -lost.—You have many friends, good ones, beginning with -myself.—At first one is terrified, and then it is always -discovered that the ruin is not as complete as was thought." -</p> - -<p> -"This time it appears that the contrary is the case," said the young -woman, shaking her head. "But it is precisely because I know you to be -my friend," she went on, "that I have come to see you this morning. The -other evening the Archduke spoke to my husband of the difficulty he -experienced in finding some upright superintendent to look after his -estates in Transylvania.—And as the Prince was so pleasant to us -that evening we thought—" -</p> - -<p> -"That Chésy could become his superintendent," interrupted Ely, who -could not keep back a smile at her friend's naïveté. "I wouldn't wish -such a fate for my worst enemy.—If things are really at such a point -that your husband has to seek a position, there is only one man who can -help him." -</p> - -<p> -As she spoke, she saw Yvonne's infantile visage, which had brightened -for a moment under the influence of her bright welcome, become again -overclouded, and her look betrayed a feeling of pain and disgust. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," went on Ely, "there is only one man, and it is Dickie Marsh." -</p> - -<p> -"The Commodore!" said Madame de Chésy, with manifest astonishment. -</p> - -<p> -Then, shaking her head again, with her mouth closed in a bitter smile, -she added:— -</p> - -<p> -"No, I know now too well the value of these men's friendships and the -price they place upon their services. I have only been ruined a short -time, and already some one,"—she hesitated a second,—"yes, -some one has offered me wealth.—Ah! dear Ely,"—and she -clasped her hands over her eyes, blushing with indignation,—"if I -would become his mistress. You do not know, you cannot know, what a -woman feels when she suddenly discovers that for months and months she -has been tracked and waited for by a man whom she thought her friend, -like an animal tracked by a hunter.—Every familiarity she has -allowed, without thinking, because she saw no harm in it, the little -coquettishness that she has innocently shown, the intimacy that she has -not guarded against, all return to her with shame, with sickening shame. -The vile cleverness that was hidden under the comedy of friendliness she -has not seen, and now it is as clear as daylight. She has not been -culpable, and yet it seems as though she had been. I will never suffer -another such affront! Marsh would make me the same ignoble proposition -that the other did.—Oh! it is horrible, shameful!" -</p> - -<p> -She had spoken no name. But by her trembling, by her look of outraged -innocence, Madame de Carlsberg could imagine the scene that had taken -place, that very morning, perhaps, between the good, if imprudent, -creature and Brion, vile and despicable as he was. She understood for -the second time that the Parisienne was really pure and innocent and -that she was being initiated in the brutalities of life. There was -something pathetic, something that was heartbreaking, in her remorse, -her scruples, the sudden revulsion of a soul that had remained naïve by -irrealism. -</p> - -<p> -Threatened though she was by another man, Ely felt her soul go out -toward the unhappy child. She determined to speak to her about Marsh, to -tell her of the conversation on the yacht, of the promise made by the -American, when, with that acuity of the senses that is awakened by our -inquietude at certain moments, she heard the door of the outer salon -open. -</p> - -<p> -"It is Olivier," she said to herself. -</p> - -<p> -At the same time, with instinctive superstition, she looked at the still -trembling Yvonne and added mentally:— -</p> - -<p> -"I will help her. Such an action will surely bring me good luck." -</p> - -<p> -Turning away, she said:— -</p> - -<p> -"Do not be alarmed. I cannot speak to you just now, as I am expecting -some one. But come again to-morrow afternoon and I promise you I will -have found the very thing you want for Gontran. Let me act as I think -best,—and, above all, no weakness!—No one must suspect -anything.—You must never let people know that you suffer!" -</p> - -<p> -The heroic counsel was addressed to herself. And she illustrated the -remark at the same moment, for the footman opened the door and announced -Monsieur Olivier du Prat. Madame de Chésy could never have guessed, to -see Ely so calm, with such a welcoming smile, what Hautefeuille's -mistress felt as she saw the newcomer enter the little salon. Olivier, -not less calm and polite than the two women, excused himself for not -having called sooner. -</p> - -<p> -"You are forgiven," said Yvonne, who had risen upon Olivier's entrance -and had remained standing. "Really, if the society round had to be gone -through on one's wedding journey, it would not be worth while having a -honeymoon.—Make yours last as long as you can! That is the advice -your old cotillon partner gives you—and excuse me for running -away. Gontran was to come and meet me, and I don't want to miss him." -</p> - -<p> -Then, turning to Ely, with a parting kiss, she said, in a whisper:— -</p> - -<p> -"Are you satisfied with me?" -</p> - -<p> -And the courageous little woman went off with a smile that her friend -'had hardly strength enough to return. Olivier's first glance had been a -terrible trial to support for Madame de Carlsberg. She read in it so -distinctly that brutality of a physical souvenir so intolerable for a -woman after the breaking off of an intrigue, so intolerable, in fact, -that they often prefer the scandal of an open rupture rather than -undergo the torture of meeting a man whose eyes say plainly: "Go on with -your comedy, my dear friend! Receive everybody's adulation, respect, -affection! I know you, and nothing you understand, nothing can efface -that souvenir." -</p> - -<p> -In love, as she was, still glowing with the memory of Hautefeuille's -caresses of the past night, Ely's soul was so wrung by this impression -that she could have shrieked had she dared. She had only one idea, to -cut his visit short. She felt that if it was prolonged to any extent she -should faint before the end. But, suffering torture though she was, -terrified to the verge of unconsciousness, she was still the woman of -the world, the semi-princess, one who preserves her dignity in the midst -of the most cruel explanations. And she had all the grace of a queen as -she said to the man who had once been her lover and whom she so much -dreaded:— -</p> - -<p> -"You wished to see me? I might have refused to receive you, for I have -that right. But I would not exercise it.—Still, I beg you to remember -that this interview is hideously painful to me. Whatever you have to -tell me, say it without a word that can increase my suffering, if it is -possible.—You see, I have neither hostility, bitterness, nor distrust -for you. Spare me any insinuations, any sarcasm, any cruelty.—It is -all I ask, and it is my right." -</p> - -<p> -She spoke with a simple dignity that astonished Olivier. He no longer -noticed the air of defiance that formerly used to exasperate him with -her. From the moment he entered the salon he had been struck by a change -in the character of her beauty. Her countenance was always the same, -with its noble, pure outline, with its delicate and proud features, lit -up by those fathomless eyes, so charming with their touching -languorousness. But there was no longer that mobile curious expression, -that look of unquiet yearning there used to be imprinted on it. -</p> - -<p> -This sensation was, however, too vague to impress her old lover, to -change his hostility into tenderness. He had brooded over one idea too -intensely during the last week, and an anger that was hardly restrained -betrayed itself in his voice as he replied:— -</p> - -<p> -"I will try to obey you, madame! Still, in order that the interview that -I asked for may be understood, I shall have to say some things that you -might perhaps wish unspoken." -</p> - -<p> -"Say them," she said, interrupting him. "All that I ask is that you -should not add anything that is not distinctly necessary." -</p> - -<p> -"I will be very brief," said Olivier. -</p> - -<p> -There was a moment's silence. Then, in a still more bitter tone, he -said:— -</p> - -<p> -"Do you remember about two years ago in Rome, at the Palazzo -Savorelli,—you see I am being exact,—a young man being -presented to you, a young man who did not even think about you, and with -whom you were—How can I describe it without wounding you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Say at once that I coquetted with him," Ely again interrupted, "and -that I tried to make him love It is the truth." -</p> - -<p> -"Since you have such a good memory," went on Olivier, "you surely -recollect that these coquetries went so far that the young man became -your lover." -</p> - -<p> -What a shudder of horror shot through Ely, making her eyelids tremble -with pain, as he accentuated the word with the cruelty that she had -prayed him to spare her! -</p> - -<p> -He continued remorselessly:— -</p> - -<p> -"You remember also that this love was a very miserable one. The man was -sensitive, suspicious, jealous. He had suffered very much in his life. A -woman who loved him truly would have had but one thought,—to lull to -slumber the horrible malady of distrust that raged in him. You did just -the opposite. Close your eyes and look back in memory to a certain ball -at the Countess Steno's, and that young man in the corner of the salon -and you dancing—with whom?" -</p> - -<p> -This allusion to a forgotten episode of the saddest part of their past -brought a wave of blood to Ely's cheeks. She saw again, as her -implacable questioner had asked her, one of the Princes Pietrapertosa -paying his court to her. He was one of the imaginary rivals that Olivier -had detested the most. -</p> - -<p> -She replied— -</p> - -<p> -"I know. I acted wrongly." -</p> - -<p> -"You admit it," went on Du Prat, "and you will also admit that the young -man with whom you played so cruelly had the right to judge you as he -did, to leave you as he did, because when near you he felt all his worst -impulses rise to the surface, because you made him evil, cruel, through -his suffering. Is that also the truth?—And is it not also true that -your pride was wounded by his desertion and that you determined to be -revenged?—Will you deny that, having encountered later the most -intimate, the dearest friend of that man, the deepest and most complete -affection that had ever entered his life, you conceived a horrible idea? -Will you deny that you determined to make his friend love you with the -hope, the certainty, that he would learn, sooner or later, and would -suffer horribly from the knowledge that his former mistress had become -the mistress of his best, his only friend? Do you deny it?" -</p> - -<p> -"No. It is true," she replied. -</p> - -<p> -This time her beautiful face became livid. Her pallor, her aching head -bowed as though under the weight of the blows it received, the fixed -look in her eyes, her half-open mouth gasping for breath, the humble -character of her replies, which proved how sincere she was in her firm -resolve to not offer any defence of her action, ought to have disarmed -Olivier. -</p> - -<p> -But as he uttered the words "to the mistress of his friend" the image -again rose before his eyes, the vision that had tortured him from the -moment he had suspected the truth. He again saw Hautefeuille's face -close to her lovely countenance, his eyes looking into hers, his lips -pressed upon hers. Ely's avowal only increased the tangibility of the -vision. It completed his madness. He had never thought he loved her so -well, that he had such a desire for the woman he had treated so -brutally. His passion took complete possession of him. -</p> - -<p> -"And you admit it!" he cried; "calmly, frankly, you admit it? You do not -see how infamous, how abominable, monstrous your vengeance is? Think of -it; you take a being such as he is, pure, youthful, delicate, one -incapable of distrust, one all simplicity, all innocence, and you make -him love you at the risk of destroying him, of ruining his soul -forever.—And for what?—To satisfy the miserable spite of a -flirt angry at being deserted.—Even his freshness and nobility of -soul did not make you hesitate. Did you never think that to deceive such -a defenceless creature was infamous? Did you never think of what you -were destroying in his soul? Knowing as you did the friendship that -bound him to me, if there had been a spark of—I will not say -nobility—a spark of humanity in your heart, you must have recoiled -from this crime, from the loathsome infamy of soiling, of ravishing him -from his noble, beautiful affection, to give him in exchange a frivolous -<i>liaison</i> of a few days, just long enough for you to find amusement -in the vileness of your caprice!—He had done nothing to you! He -had not deserted you! He had not married another!—Oh, God! What a -cowardly, loathsome vengeance.—But at any rate I cry in your face -that it was cowardly, cowardly, cowardly!" -</p> - -<p> -Ely sprang to her feet as her implacable enemy flung the insulting words -in her face. Her eyes were fixed on Olivier with a regard in which there -was no anger or revulsion of feeling under his affront. Her eyes even -seemed to have an expression of calmness in their sincerity. She took a -few steps toward the young man and put her hand on his arm—the arm -that menaced her—with a gesture so gentle, and at the same time so -firm, that Olivier stopped speaking. And she began to reply to him in a -tone of voice that he did not recognize. It was so simple, so human, -that it was impossible to doubt the sincerity of her words. Her heart -was really disclosed before him. He felt that her words penetrated to -the very centre of his inner nature. He loved this woman more than he -knew himself. He had sought, without being able to create it, to call -into being exactly what he now saw in the woman whose beauty he -idolized. The soul that he saw shining through her tender, sad eyes, the -passionate, shy, ardent soul, capable of the greatest, the most -complete, sacrifice to love, was what he had divined to exist in her, -what he had pursued without ever capturing, what he had longed for and -had never possessed in spite of all their caresses, of all the violence -and brutality of his jealousy! Her real nature had been awakened by -another! And that other was his dearest friend!—He listened to -Ely, for she was now speaking. -</p> - -<p> -"You are unjust, Olivier," she said, "very unjust. But you do not know -all—you cannot know.—You saw that I did not try to -contradict you when you reproached me, that I did not try to brave it -out. I was not the proud woman with whom you fought so often in years -gone by.—I seem to have no pride left! How could I have when I -see, as I listen to you, what I was, what I should be still had I not -met Pierre, and without the love that has taken possession of my soul -like an honored guest?—When I told you that I at first thought -only of making him love me to avenge myself upon you, I told you the -truth. You ought to believe me when I tell you that the mere idea now -fills me with the same horror that you feel.—When I got to know -him, when I realized the beauty, the nobility, the purity of his nature, -all the virtues that you have just been speaking of, I awoke to the -sense of the infamy I was going to commit. You are quite right, I should -have been a monster if I had been able to deceive a soul so youthful, -so innocent, so lovable, so true! But I have not been such a -monster.—I had not talked with Pierre more than twice when I had -utterly renounced all idea of such a frightful revenge, when he had won -my love entire. I loved him! I love him!—Do you think that I have -not said, that I do not say every day, every hour, to myself all that -you have just spoken? Do you think I have not felt it ever since I knew -what my sentiments were for him? I loved him, and he was your friend, -your brother. I have been your mistress, and I knew that a time must -come when you would meet again, when he would speak to you of me—a -time when he would perhaps know all. Do you think I did not dread that a -time would come when I should see you again and you would speak to me as -you have just been speaking?—Oh, it is horrible, agonizing!" -</p> - -<p> -She dropped Olivier's arm and pressed her clenched hands upon her eyes -with a movement of physical anguish. It was in her being that she -suffered, in the body once abandoned completely to the man who heard -her, as she continued:— -</p> - -<p> -"But pardon me. I do not concern you. It is not what I have suffered -that we have to think of, but of him.—You cannot doubt now that I -love him with all there is in me that is noble, good, and true. You also -must have realized how he loves me with all the wealth of affection that -you know so well. All this week while he was speaking to me I saw -you—with what agony!—I felt that you were laying bare our -secret hour by hour.—Now you know that secret. Pierre loves me as -I love him, with an absolute, unique, passionate love.—And now, if -you choose, go and tell him that I was once your mistress. I will not -defend myself any more than I did a few minutes ago. I have not strength -enough to lie to him. The day he asks me, 'Is it true that Olivier has -been your lover?' I shall reply, 'It is true!'—But it is not I -alone whom you will have killed!" -</p> - -<p> -She ceased speaking, and fell into her chair with her head resting on -the back, as though exhausted by the effort of laying bare her thoughts, -in which were mingled so many sad and bitter memories. She waited -Olivier's reply with an anxiety so intense that her strength seemed to -be ebbing away, and she closed her eyes as in dread. With the logic of a -woman deeply in love, she had forced the man who had come there to -threaten and insult her into a position where he must take one of the -two courses that their wretched situation left open to him,—either -to tell all to Hautefeuille, who would then decide for himself whether he -loved Ely enough to trust her after he knew that she had been his -friend's mistress; or, to spare him this torture, to leave Hautefeuille -in ignorance with his happiness. In this latter case Olivier would have -to go away, to put an end forever to his own misery, and to cease -inflicting the pain of his presence upon Ely, a pain that, in itself, -was the cause of a nervous state sufficient to reveal sooner or later -their past relations. -</p> - -<p> -What would he do? He did not reply; he, who only a few minutes before -had been so eager to speak, so bitter in his reproaches. Through her -half-closed eyes, quivering with the intensity of her anxiety to know -the worst, Ely saw that he was regarding her with a strange, impassioned -look. A struggle was going on within him. What was its cause? What would -be its result? She was about to learn, and also what sort of a sentiment -her heartbreaking appeal had awakened in the heart that had never been -able to tear itself away from her entirely. -</p> - -<p> -"You love him?" he said at last. "You love him?—But, why do I ask? -I know you love him. I feel it, I see it.—It is only love that -could have prompted such words—could have imprinted such an -accent, such truth upon them.—Oh!" he went on bitterly, "if you -had only been, when we were in Rome, what you are now; if only once I -had felt that you vibrated with genuine emotion!—But you did not -love me and you love him!" He repeated, "You love him!—I thought -we had inflicted upon each other all the pain that is in a human being's -power, and that I could never suffer any more than I did in Rome, than I -have done during these past days when I felt that you were his -mistress.—But beside this—that you love him—my -sufferings were nothing.—And yet how could you help loving -him?—How was it that I did not understand at once that you would -be touched, penetrated, changed; that your heart would be imbued with -the charm of his grace, of his youth, of his delicacy, of all that makes -him what he is?—Ah! I see you now as I longed to see you once, as -I despaired of ever seeing you, and it is through him, it is for him!" -</p> - -<p> -Then, with a moan as of some stricken animal, he cried:— -</p> - -<p> -"No! I cannot support it. I suffer too much, I suffer too much!" -</p> - -<p> -And words of grief, mingled with words of rage and love, poured forth in -a wild stream. -</p> - -<p> -"Since you hate me enough to have thought of such a brutal vengeance," -he cried, cruelly, savagely, "since you longed to make me jealous of him -through you, enjoy your work.—Look at it.—You have succeeded." -</p> - -<p> -"Spare me, spare me!" cried Ely. "Oh, God! do not talk like that!" -</p> - -<p> -His sudden outburst, the strange betrayal of his feelings, even in her -suffering, made her shudder. With a mingled feeling of indescribable -terror and pity she had a glimpse into another secret recess in the -heart of the tortured being who, during a half hour of mortal anguish, -had insulted, humiliated, despised, then had understood, accepted, -justified, pitied, and who now cursed her. She had felt, as she listened -to Pierre's confidences on the subject of his friend, that a reflux of -loathing sensuality still seethed in her former lover's heart. She saw -it now. And she also saw that a deep, true passion had always lived, -palpitated, germinated under his sensuality, under his hate. His passion -had never developed, grown, put forth its blossom, because she had never -been the woman he sought, the woman he yearned for, the woman he felt -was in her. Thanks to the miracle worked by love for another, she had -now become the woman he desired. What a martyrdom of suffering for the -unhappy man! Forgetting her fears and inspired only by a movement of -compassion, she said:— -</p> - -<p> -"What! rejoice in your grief?—Think of my vengeance yet. Did you not -feel how sincere I was, what shame I feel at ever having conceived such -a hideous idea? Did you not see how bitterly I loathe, how I regret my -life at Dome? Do you not feel that my heart bleeds at the sight of your -suffering?" -</p> - -<p> -"I am very grateful for your pity," interrupted Olivier. -</p> - -<p> -His voice suddenly became dry and cold. Was he trying to recover his -dignity? Was he wounded by her womanly pity, a pity that is humiliating -when given in place of love? Was he afraid of saying too much, of -feeling too deeply if the interview was prolonged? -</p> - -<p> -"I beg your pardon for not having kept my nerves under better -control.—There is nothing more to say. I promise you one thing: I -will do everything in my power to keep Pierre from ever knowing. Don't -thank me. I will keep silent on his account, on my own account, so as to -preserve a friendship that has always been dear to me, that always will -be dear. I did not come here to threaten you that I would disclose the -past to him. I came to ask you to be silent, to not push your vengeance -to its last extreme.—And now, as I bid you farewell forever, I still -ask you that. You love Pierre, he loves you; promise me that you will -never use his love against our friendship, to respect that feeling in -his heart." -</p> - -<p> -There was a supplicating humility in Olivier's voice. All the religious -sentiment of his friendship, which Ely knew filled him, betrayed itself -in his tone, sadly, almost solemnly! And with a solemn emotion she -replied:— -</p> - -<p> -"I promise you." -</p> - -<p> -"Thank you again," he said, "and farewell." -</p> - -<p> -"Farewell," she replied. -</p> - -<p> -He took a few steps toward the door. Then he turned and approached her. -This time she read in his eyes all the maddening vertigo of love and -desire. She was seized with such a terror that she could not move. When -he arrived at her chair, he took her head between his hands and -frantically, passionately pressed it to his heart. He covered her brow, -her hair, her eyes with kisses, and strove to kiss her lips with a mad -frenzy that restored the woman all her strength. Thrusting him from her -with all the vigor that her indignation gave her, she rose and took -refuge in the corner of the salon, crying, as though appealing for help -to the being who had the right to defend her:— -</p> - -<p> -"Pierre! Pierre! Pierre!" -</p> - -<p> -As he heard the name of his friend, Olivier seized a chair as though he -were about to faint. And suddenly, without looking at Ely, who was -crouching against the wall almost swooning, with her hand pressed upon -her heart, without saying a single word either of adieu or to ask -pardon, he left the salon. -</p> - -<p> -She heard him traverse the bigger room and heard the second door close. -He went away with the terrified air of a man who had almost succumbed to -the temptation to crime and who flees from himself and his loathsome -desire. He passed, without seeing them, the two footmen in the -vestibule, who had to run after him with his cane and overcoat. He went -along one of the alleys in the garden without knowing it. The rush of -emotion that had flung him upon his former mistress, now the mistress of -his dearest friend, now gave way to such a flood of remorse, he was so -tossed about on the sea of conflicting emotions caused by the kisses -pressed upon the face he had longed for so secretly, with such -intensity, during the past few days, by the sensation of her lips -seeking to avoid contact with his own, of the beloved figure thrusting -him away with repulsion and horror, that he felt his reason was giving -way. -</p> - -<p> -All at once, as he turned round the corner of the railing surrounding -the villa, he saw that some one was awaiting him in a carriage. The -sight arrested him with the same ghastly terror he would have felt at -seeing the spectre of some one he believed dead and resting in the bosom -of the earth. It was the avenger whom Ely had called to her aid. It was -Hautefeuille! -</p> - -<p> -"Olivier!" -</p> - -<p> -It was all he said. But his voice, his deadly pallor, his eyes, in which -shone the suffering of a heartbreaking anguish, told his friend that he -knew all. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap10"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER X -<br /><br /> -A VOW</h4> - -<p> -The most extraordinary results are always brought about by the simplest -causes, just as the most unexpected things are always logical -happenings. A little reflection would oftener than not have been -sufficient to prevent the one and to foresee the other. But the -characteristic of passion is that its object absorbs its attention -completely. It takes no note of the fact that other passions exist -outside itself, as furious as itself, as uncontrollable with which it -must come in contact. It is a train flying along under full steam, with -no signal to warn it that another train is coming in the opposite -direction on the same line. -</p> - -<p> -Swept away by a torrent of suffering, wrapped up in his thoughts during -this week of mortal agony, Olivier had not noticed that there was a -being near him living, trembling, suffering also. Monomania is full of -such egoism, of such forgetfulness. He had not noticed the working of -his wife's mind, nor foreseen the natural possibility that, exasperated -by her suspicions, Berthe might appeal to her husband's friend for help, -that she might implore Hantefeuille to aid her! This was just what she -finally did, and the interview between them had as result one easy to -prognosticate—that the young wife's jealousy tore off the bandage -that covered the eyes of her husband's unwitting friend. In one minute -Pierre understood everything! -</p> - -<p> -This tragedy—such an interview was one, and one that was big with a -terrible dénouement—was brought about by a last mad imprudence on -Olivier's part. The eve of his meeting with Madame de Carlsberg he had -manifested a more than usually feverish agitation. Not one of the -indications of this state of mind had escaped his wife's notice. He had -walked about in his room almost all the night, sitting down at intervals -to try and write the letter he was going to send to Ely in the morning. -Through the thin dividing partition of the room Berthe, awake and her -senses acutely tense, heard him walk, sit down, rise, sit down again, -crumpling up and tearing papers, walk about again, crush up and tear -other paper. She knew that he was writing. "To her," she thought. Ah! -how she longed to go, to open the door, which was not even locked, to -enter the room, and to know if the anxiety that had consumed her during -the last week was well founded or not, to learn if Olivier had really -met again the mistress he had known in Rome, to discover if this woman -was the cause of the agitated crisis he was going through, if, yes or -no, that former mistress was the Baroness Ely she had so much longed to -meet in one of the salons at Cannes. -</p> - -<p> -But, without her being able to say anything, her husband arranged -something for every day, and they had not paid a single visit or dined a -single time with any of their friends. She was too intelligent not to -have understood at once that Olivier did not wish to mix with the -society of Cannes, and that he would not, on the other hand, go away -from the town. Why? A single premiss would have enabled Berthe to solve -the enigma, but she had not that premiss. Her wifely instinct, however, -was not to be deceived—there was a mystery. With an infallible -certainty all pointed to this fact. -</p> - -<p> -By dint of thinking and observing, she came to this conclusion: "This -woman is here. He regrets her, and yet is afraid of her.—He longs for -her, and that is why we remain here and why he is so unhappy.—He is -afraid of her, and that is why he will not let me mix in society here." -</p> - -<p> -How many times during the week she had been tempted to tell him that -such a situation was too humiliating, that he must choose between his -wife and his former mistress, that she had determined to go away, to -return to Paris, to be once more at home among her own people! -</p> - -<p> -And then Hautefeuille was there, always making a third; Hautefeuille, -who certainly knew all the truth! She hated him all the more in -proportion as she suffered from her helpless ignorance. When alone with -Olivier an invincible timidity prostrated her. She had a shamed terror -of owning that she had discovered the name of the Baroness Ely. She -dreaded having to own she had seen the portrait, as though she had been -guilty of some vile spying. She trembled with fear lest some irreparable -word should be spoken in the explanation that must follow. The unknown -in her husband's character terrified her. She had often heard the -histories of households broken up forever during the first year of -married life. Suppose he should abandon her, return to the other in a -fit of rage? The poor child felt her heart grow cold at the mere idea. -</p> - -<p> -She loved Olivier! And even without any question of love, how could she -accept the idea of seeing her conjugal happiness wrecked with the -scandal of a separation, she so calm, so reasonable, so truly pure and -simple-minded? -</p> - -<p> -Again during the miserable night preceding Olivier's meeting with Ely -she had listened to the restlessness of her husband and had kept silent, -in spite of her suffering, of her sense of desertion, of her jealousy! -Every footstep in the adjoining room made her pray, made her long for -strength to resist the temptation to have finished forever with all her -suffering. A dozen times she compelled herself to begin the comforting -prayer, "Our Father—" and every time when she arrived at the -sentence, "As we forgive them that have trespassed against us," her entire -being had revolted. -</p> - -<p> -"Forgive that woman? Never! never! I cannot." An almost insignificant -detail—are there any insignificant details in such -crises?—completed the tension of her nerves. Toward nine o'clock -her husband, ready dressed for going out, entered her room. He had a -letter in his hand slipped between his gloves and his hat. Berthe could -not read the address on the envelope, but she saw that it bore no stamp. -With her heart beating wildly with expectation of the reply he would -make to the simple question, she said to her husband:— -</p> - -<p> -"Do you want a stamp?—You will find one in my writing case on the -table." -</p> - -<p> -"No, thank you," replied Olivier. "It is simply a line to be delivered -by hand. I will leave it myself." -</p> - -<p> -He went out, adding that he would be back for luncheon. He never dreamed -that his wife burst into a passion of weeping the moment she was alone. -She was now certain the letter was for the Baroness Ely. Then, like -every jealous woman, she gave way to the irresistible, savage instinct -of material research which mitigates nothing, satisfies nothing—for, -suppose a proof of the justice of suspicion is discovered, does that -make the jealous suffering inspired by that suspicion any easier to -bear? -</p> - -<p> -She went into her husband's room. In the wastepaper basket she saw the -fragments of a score of letters, thrown there by the feverish hand of -the young man. They were the drafts of the letters she had heard him -begin and crumple up and destroy the night before. With trembling hands -and burning cheeks, her throat parched with the horror of what she was -doing, she gathered together and rearranged. She thus reconstituted the -beginnings of a score of letters, letters of the most utter -insignificance to any one unaided by the intuition of wounded love, but -terribly, frightfully clear and precise to her. -</p> - -<p> -They were all addressed to a woman. Berthe could read the incoherence of -Olivier's thoughts in them. The entire gamut of sentiment was gone -through, by turn ceremonious: "Madame, will you allow a visitor who has -not yet had the honor;" ironical, "You will not be surprised, madame, -that I cannot leave Cannes;" familiar, "I reproach myself, dear madame, -for not having called upon you before this." -</p> - -<p> -How the young man's pen had hesitated over the form of asking such a -simple thing—the permission to pay a visit! This hesitation was, in -itself, the certain proof of a mystery, and one of the fragments thus -put together again revealed its nature: "Some vengeances are infamous, -my dear Ely, and the one you have conceived—" -</p> - -<p> -Olivier had written this in the most cruel minute of his insomnia. His -suffering found relief in the insolent use of the Christian name, in the -insulting remembrance of an ineffaceable intimacy. Then he tore up the -sheet of paper into minute fragments which betrayed the rage consuming -him. After she had put together and deciphered this fatal phrase Berthe -saw nothing else. All her presentiments were well founded: Baroness Ely -de Carlsberg, of whom Corancez had spoken to Hautefeuille in the train, -was her husband's former mistress! He had only wanted to come to Cannes -because she was there, so as to see her again! The letter in his hand a -few minutes before had been for her! He had gone with it to her villa! -</p> - -<p> -Face to face with this indisputable and overwhelming certainty, the -young woman was seized with a convulsive trembling that increased as the -hour for luncheon drew near.—It burst all bounds when, toward -noon, she received a card from Olivier upon which he had scribbled in -pencil—always the same handwriting!—that a friend whom he -had met had insisted upon keeping him for luncheon, and he begged her -not to wait for him! -</p> - -<p> -"She has won him back from me! He is with her!" -</p> - -<p> -When she had realized this thought, weighted with all the horrible pain -given by evidence that pierces to the heart, like some glittering, icy -cold knife, she felt that she could not support this physical suffering. -With the automatic action that comes upon such occasions she put on her -hat and veil and gloves. Then when she was dressed and ready for going -out a final gleam of reason showed her the folly of the project she had -conceived. She had thought of going to her rival's house, of surprising -Olivier, and of finishing with it all forever! -</p> - -<p> -To finish with it all! She looked at herself in the mirror, her teeth -chattering, her face lividly pale, all her body convulsively trembling. -She realized that such a step in her present state with such a woman -would be absurd. But suppose some one else took this step? Suppose some -one else went to Olivier and said, "Your wife knows all. She is dying. -Come." -</p> - -<p> -The idea of him whom she believed to be her husband's confidant had no -sooner occurred to the mind of the unhappy woman when she rang for her -chambermaid with the same automatic nervousness. -</p> - -<p> -"Beg Monsieur Hautefeuille to come here, if he is in his room," she -said, she who had never had a single conversation in her life -<i>tête-à-tête</i> with the young man. -</p> - -<p> -But she cared nothing for conventionality at the moment. Her nervousness -was so great that she had to sit down when the chambermaid returned, and -said that Monsieur Hautefeuille was coming. Her limbs would no longer -support her. When he entered the room about five minutes later she did -not give him the time to greet her, to ask why she had sent for him. She -sprang toward him like some wild creature seizing her prey, and, taking -his arm in her trembling hand with the incoherence of a madwoman who -only sees the idea possessing her and not the being to whom she speaks, -she said:— -</p> - -<p> -"Ah! you have come at last.—You must have felt that I suspected -something.—You must go and tell him that I know all, you hear me, -all,—and bring him here. Go! Go! If he does not come back I shall -go mad.—You have an honorable heart, Monsieur Hautefeuille. You -must think it wrong, very wrong, that he should return to that woman -after only six months of married life. Go, and tell him that he must -come back, that I forgive him, that I will never speak about it again. I -cannot show him how I love him.—But I do love him, I swear that I -love him.—Ah! my head is reeling." -</p> - -<p> -"But, Madame du Prat," said Pierre, "what is the matter? What has gone -wrong? Where must I go to find Olivier? What is it that you know? What -is it that he has hidden from you? Where has he returned to?—I -assure you I do not understand a single thing." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah! you are lying to me again!" replied Berthe, more violent still. -"You are trying to spare me!—But I tell you I know all.—Do you -want proofs? Would you like me to tell you what you talked about in your -first conversation together the day we arrived, when you left me alone -at the hotel? Would you like to know what you talk about every time that -I am not present?—It is of the woman who was his mistress in Rome, of -whom he has never ceased thinking.—He travelled with her portrait in -his portfolio during our honeymoon! I saw that portrait—I tell you I -saw it! That was how I learned her name. The portrait was signed at the -bottom, signed 'Ely.'—You are satisfied now.—Do you think I did -not notice your agitation, the uneasiness of both of you, when some one -spoke of this woman before me the day we went to Monte Carlo?—You -thought I did not see anything, that I suspected nothing.—I know, I -tell you, that she is here. I will tell you the name of her villa if you -like. It is the Villa Helmholtz.—I know that he only came to Cannes -to see her again. He is with her now, I am certain.—He is with her -now! Don't tell me I am wrong. I have here the pieces of letters that he -wrote to her this past night asking for a meeting." -</p> - -<p> -With her trembling hands, which had hardly strength enough to lift up -the sheets of paper upon which she had arranged the damning fragments -with such patience, she showed Pierre all the beginnings of a letter, -among them the irrefutable sentence that had another significance for -him. He was trembling so violently, his features expressed such anguish, -that Berthe was convinced of his complicity. This fresh proof, after so -many, that her suspicions were well founded, was so painful to the poor -woman that before Pierre's eyes she gave way to a fit of hysterics. She -made a sign to show that her breath was failing her. Her heart beat so -furiously that she felt she was suffocating. She pressed her hand upon -her heart, sobbing, "Oh, God!"—Her voice died away in her throat, and -she fell upon the floor, her head hanging loosely, her eyes gleaming -whitely, and with a little foam at the corners of her mouth as though -she were dying. -</p> - -<p> -The young man recovered his senses before the necessity of helping the -poor woman, whose anguish terrified him, of succoring her by the -simplest means that could be imagined readily, of summoning the -chambermaid, of sending for the doctor and of awaiting his diagnosis. -These cares carried him through the frightful half hour that follows -every such revelation, the half hour that is so terrible. -</p> - -<p> -He only recovered consciousness of the reality of his own misfortune -when the departure of the doctor had reassured him of the young woman's -state. The physician recommended antispasmodics and promised to come -again during the evening. Although he did not seem much alarmed, the -young wife's illness was serious enough to demand the presence of the -husband. -</p> - -<p> -Hautefeuille said, "I am going for M. du Prat," and went off in the -direction of the Villa Helmholtz. It was on the way, while his carriage -was rolling along the road now so familiar to him, that he felt the -first attack of real despair. The news he had just heard was so -stunning, so unexpected, so disconcerting, and full of anguish for him -that he felt as though in the grasp of some hideous nightmare.—He -would awake presently and would find everything as it was only that -morning.—But no.—Berthe's words suddenly recurred to him. He -saw again in imagination the opening of the letter, written in the hand he -had known for twenty years: "Some vengeances are infamous, my dear Ely, -and the one you have conceived—" -</p> - -<p> -In the light of the terrible sentence, Olivier's strange attitude since -his arrival in Cannes became quite comprehensible with a frightful -clearness. Indications to which Pierre had paid no attention crowded -pell-mell into his memory. He recalled glances his friend had cast at -him, his sudden silence, his half confidences, his allusions. All -invaded his recollection like a flood of certainty. It mounted to his -brain, which was stupefied by the fumes of a grief as strong and intense -as though by the influence of some poisonous alcohol. As his horse was -walking up the steep incline of Urie he met Yvonne de Chésy. He did not -recognize her, and even when she called to him he did not hear her. She -made a sign to the driver to stop, and laughing, even in all her -trouble, she said to the unhappy youth:— -</p> - -<p> -"I wanted to know if you had met my husband, who was to have met me. But -I see that a herd of elephants might have gone by without your seeing -them! You are going to call upon Ely? You will find Du Prat there. He -even deigned to recognize me." -</p> - -<p> -Although Pierre had not the least doubt that Olivier was at Madame de -Carlsberg's, this fresh evidence, gathered by pure chance, seemed to -break his heart. A few minutes later he saw the roofs and the terraces -of the villa. Then he came, to the garden. The sight of the hedge he had -passed through only the night before with so much loving confidence, so -much longing desire, completed the destruction of all the reason that -remained to him. He felt that in his present state of semi-madness it -was impossible for him to see his friend and his mistress face to face -with each other without dying with pain. This was why Olivier found him, -awaiting his arrival, at a turn of the road, livid with a terrible -pallor, his physiognomy changed, his eyes gleaming madly. -</p> - -<p> -The situation of the two friends was so tragic, it presaged so painful -an interview, that both felt they could not, that they must not, enter -into an explanation there. -</p> - -<p> -Olivier got into the carriage as though nothing were amiss, and took the -vacant place. As he felt the contact of his friend, Pierre shivered, but -recovered himself immediately. He said to the coachman:— -</p> - -<p> -"Drive to the hotel quickly." -</p> - -<p> -Then, turning to Du Prat, he continued:— -</p> - -<p> -"I came for you because your wife is very ill." -</p> - -<p> -"Berthe?" cried Olivier. "Why, when I left her this morning she seemed -so cheerful and well!" -</p> - -<p> -"She told me where you were," went on Hautefeuille, avoiding a more -direct reply. "By accident she has found among your papers a photograph -taken in Rome and bearing a striking signature. She heard some one -mention this name here. She at once came to the conclusion that the -person bearing the name, and who lives at Cannes, was the original of -the portrait from Rome. She discovered the torn fragments of some -letters in which the same name occurred, and in which you asked for a -rendezvous. In fact, she knows all." -</p> - -<p> -"And you also?" asked Olivier, after a silence. -</p> - -<p> -"And I also!" assented Pierre. -</p> - -<p> -The two friends did not exchange another word during the quarter of an -hour the carriage took to arrive at the Hôtel des Palmes. What could -they have said in such a moment to increase or diminish the mortal agony -that choked their utterance? -</p> - -<p> -Olivier went straight to his wife's room the moment the carriage -arrived, without asking Pierre when they would meet again and without -Pierre asking him. It was one of those silences that happen at a -death-bed, when all seems paralyzed by the first icy impression of the -unchangeable, when all is stifled in the grip of the "nevermore"! -</p> - -<p> -The crisis of weakness, the necessity of expansion that follows such -struggles, began for Du Prat on the threshold of Berthe's room. He was -saluted by the sickly odor of ether upon his entrance. Outlined, pale -and haggard, against the pillow, regarding him with eyes swimming in -tears, he saw the wasted face of the girl who had trusted him, who had -given him her life, the flower of her youth, all her hopes and -aspirations. How unyielding he must have been toward the suffering, -self-contained creature for her to have concealed all her feelings from -him, loving him as she did! -</p> - -<p> -He could not utter a word. He sat down near the bed and remained for a -long time looking at the poor invalid. The sensation of the suffering -that enveloped all four—Berthe, Pierre, Ely, and -himself—pierced him to the heart. Berthe loved him and knew that -her lave was not returned. Pierre loved Ely, and was beloved by her, but -his happiness had just been poisoned forever by the most horrible of -revelations. As for himself, he was in the grasp of a passion for his -former mistress, one whom he had suspected, insulted, deserted, and who -had now given herself to his dearest friend. -</p> - -<p> -Like a man who falls overboard in mid-ocean, who is swimming desperately -in the raging sea, and who sees the waves assembling that will swallow -him up, Olivier felt the irresistible power of the love he had so -yearned to know, rising all around, within him and on every hand. He was -in the influence of the storm, and he felt it sweeping him away. He was -afraid. While he sat near the bedside, listening to the irregular -breathing of his young wife, he felt for an instant the intellectual and -emotional vertigo that imparts to even the least philosophical natures -at such moments the vision of the fatal forces of nature, the implacable -workers-out of our destinies. And then, like a swimmer tossed about by -the palpitating ocean, making a feeble effort to struggle against the -formidable waves before they engulf him, he tried to recover -himself—to act. He wanted to speak with Berthe, to soften all that -it was possible to soften of her suffering. -</p> - -<p> -"You are angry with me?" he said.—"And yet you see that I came the -moment I knew you were ill.—When you are well again I will explain -all that has taken place. You will see that things have not been what you -believe.—Ah! what suffering you would have spared us both if you had -only spoken during the past few days!" -</p> - -<p> -"I do not condemn you," said the poor girl, "and I do not ask you to -explain anything.—I love you and you do not love me; that is what I -know. It is not your fault, but nothing can change it.—You have just -been very good to me," she added, "and I thank you for it. I am so worn -out that I would like to rest." -</p> - -<p> -"It is the beginning of the end," thought Olivier, as he passed into the -salon in obedience to his wife's wish. "What will become of our -household?—If I do not succeed in winning her back, in healing her -wounded heart, it will mean a separation in a very short time, and for -me it will mean the recommencement of an aimless life.—Heal her heart -when my own is bleeding!—Poor child! How I have made her suffer!" -</p> - -<p> -Through all the complications caused by his impressionability, he had -retained the conscience of an honorable man. It was too sensitive not to -shrink with remorse from the answer to this question. But—who does -not know it by experience?—neither remorse nor pity, the two noblest -virtues of the human soul, has ever prevailed against the dominating -frenzy of passion in a being who loves. Olivier's thoughts quickly -turned from the consideration of poor Berthe to the opposite side. The -fever of the kisses he had pressed on Ely's pale, quivering face burned -in his veins. The image of his friend, of the lover to whom the woman -now belonged, recurred to him at the same time, and his two secret -wounds began to bleed again so violently that he forgot everything that -did not concern Ely or Pierre, Pierre or Ely. And a keener suffering -than any he had yet experienced attacked him. What was his friend, his -brother, doing? What had become of the being to whom he had given so -large a part of his very soul? What was still left of their friendship? -What would there still be left to-morrow? -</p> - -<p> -Face to face with a prospective rupture with Hautefeuille, Olivier felt -that this was for him the uttermost limit of anguish, the supreme stroke -that he could not support. The wreck of his married life was a blow for -which he was prepared. His frightful and desperate reflux of passion for -Ely de Carlsberg was a horrible trial, but he would submit to it. But to -lose his consecrated friendship, to possess no longer this unique -sentiment in which he had always found a refuge, a support, a -consolation, a reason for self-esteem and for believing in good, was the -final destruction of all. After this there was nothing in life to which -he could turn, no one for whom and with whom to live. It was the -entrance into the icy night, into total solitude. -</p> - -<p> -All the future of their friendship was at stake in this moment, and yet -he remained there motionless, letting time slip by that was priceless. A -few minutes before, when they were in the carriage returning to the -hotel, he could not say a single word to Pierre. Now he must at all -costs defend this beloved, noble sentiment, take part in the struggle of -which the heart of his friend, so cruelly wounded, was the scene. How -would he receive him? What could they say to each other? Olivier did not -ask. The instinct that made him leave his room to go down to -Hautefeuille's was as unconscious, as irreflective, as his wife's appeal -to Hautefeuille had been, that appeal which had ruined all. Would -Olivier's advances be followed with as fatal results? -</p> - -<p> -When he had passed the threshold of the room, he saw Pierre sitting -before a table, his head resting on his hands. A sheet of paper before -him, still blank, showed that he had intended to write a letter, but had -not been able. The pen had slipped from his fingers upon the paper and -he had left it there. Through the window beyond this living statue of -despair Olivier saw the wonderful afternoon sky, a soft pile of delicate -hues in which the blue was deepened into mauve. Glorious masses of -mimosa filled the vases and filled with their refreshing and yet heavy -perfume the retreat in which the young lover had revelled during the -winter in hours of romantic reverie, in which he was now draining the -vast cup of bitterness that the eternal Delilah fills for her dearest -victims! -</p> - -<p> -Olivier had suffered many a poignant shock during this tragic afternoon, -but none more agonizing than the silent spectacle of this deep, endless -suffering. All the virility of his friendship awoke and his own grief -melted in a fathomless tenderness for the companion of his childhood and -youth, who was dying before his eyes. He put his hand upon Pierre's -shoulder, gently and lightly, as though he divined that at his contact -the jealous body of the lover must rebel and shrink back in horror, in -aversion. -</p> - -<p> -"It is I," he said; "it is I, Olivier.—You must feel that we cannot -remain with this weight upon our hearts. It is a load under which you -are reeling and which is stifling me. You are suffering; I am also in -torture. Our pain will be less if we bear it together, each supporting -the other.—I owe you an explanation, and I have come to give it you. -Between us there can be no secret now. Madame de Carlsberg has told me -all." -</p> - -<p> -Hautefeuille did not appear to have heard the first words his friend -uttered. But at the sound of his mistress's name he raised his head. His -features were horribly contracted, betraying the dreadful suffering of a -grief that has not found relief in tears. He replied in a dry voice in -which all his repulsion was manifest. -</p> - -<p> -"An explanation between us? What explanation? To tell you what? To -inform me of what? That you were that woman's lover last year, and that -I am your successor?" Then, as though lashing himself to fury with his -own words, he went on:— -</p> - -<p> -"If it is to tell me again what you did before I knew whom you were -talking about, you may spare yourself the pain. I have forgotten -nothing.—Neither the story of the first lover, nor of the other, -nor of the one who was the cause of your leaving her.—She is a -monster of falsehood and hypocrisy. I know it, and you have proved it. -Don't let us begin again. It hurts me too much, and, besides, it is -useless. She died for me to-day. I no longer know her." -</p> - -<p> -"You are very hard upon her," replied Olivier, "and you have no right to -be." -</p> - -<p> -The cynicism of the insults Pierre was hurling at Ely was insupportable. -It betrayed so much suffering in the lover who was thus outraging a -mistress whom only the night before he had idolized! And then the -passionate, true tone of the woman was still ringing in his ears as she -spoke of her love. An irresistible magnanimity compelled him to witness -for her, and he repeated:— -</p> - -<p> -"No, you have no right to accuse her. With you she has neither been -deceitful nor hypocritical! She loves you, loves you deeply and -passionately.—Be just. Could she tell you what you now know? If she -has lied to you, it was to keep you; it was because you are the first, the -only love of her life." -</p> - -<p> -"It is a lie!" cried Hautefeuille. "There is no love without complete -sincerity.—But I would have forgiven her all, forgiven all the -past, if she had told me.—Besides, there was a first day, a first -hour.—I shall never forget that day and that hour.—We spoke -of you that very day when I first met her. I can still hear her uttering -your name. I did not hide from her how much I loved you. She knew -through you how dearly you loved me.—It was an easy matter to -never see me again, to not attract me, to leave me free to go my way! -There are so many other men in the world for whom the past would have -been nothing more than the past.—But no; what she wanted was a -vengeance, a base, ignoble vengeance! You had left her. You had married. -She took me, as an assassin takes a knife, to strike you to the -heart.—You dare not deny it.—Why, I have read it; I know you -believe that, for I have read it in your handwriting! Tell me, yes or -no, did you write those words?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, but I was wrong," said Olivier. "I believed it then, but I was -mistaken. Ah!" he continued with a tone of despair, "why must it be my -lot to defend her to you?—But if I did not believe that she loves you -do you not think that I should be the first to tell you, the first to -say, 'She is a monster'?—Yes, I thought she had taken you in a spirit -of revenge. I thought it from the day of my arrival, when we wandered in -the pine forest and you spoke of her. I saw so clearly that you loved -her, and oh! how I suffered!" -</p> - -<p> -"Ah! You admit it!" cried Pierre. -</p> - -<p> -He rose, and, grasping his friend by the shoulder, he began to shake him -in a fury of rage, repeating:— -</p> - -<p> -"You admit it! You admit it! You knew that I loved her, and yet you said -nothing. For an entire week you have been with me, been near me, you -have seen me giving all my heart, all that is good in me, all that is -tender and affectionate to your former mistress, and you said nothing! -And if I had not learned from your wife you would have let me sink -deeper and deeper in this passion every day, you would have left me in -the toils of some one you despise!—It was at the beginning you ought -to have said, 'She is a monster!'—not now." -</p> - -<p> -"How could I?" said Olivier, interrupting. "Honor forbade it. You know -that very well." -</p> - -<p> -"But honor did not forbid you writing to her," replied Pierre, "when you -knew that I loved her, to ask her for a meeting unknown to me; it did -not prevent you going to her house, when you knew I was not there." -</p> - -<p> -He looked at Olivier with an expression in which shone a veritable -hatred. -</p> - -<p> -"I see clearly now," he went on. "You have both been playing with -me.—You wanted to use what you had discovered to enter into her life -again. Judas! You have lied to me.—Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!" -</p> - -<p> -With the cry of some stricken animal, he sank into a chair and began to -weep passionately, uttering among his sobs:— -</p> - -<p> -"Friendship, love; love, friendship, all is dead. I have lost all. Every -one has lied to me, everything has betrayed me.—Ah! how miserable I -am!—" -</p> - -<p> -Du Prat recoiled, paling under the influence of this flood of invective. -The pain caused by his friend's insult was deep enough. But there was no -anger, no question of egoism in his feelings. The terrible injustice of -a being naturally good, delicate, and tender only increased his pity. At -the same time the sentiment of the irremediable rupture of their -affections, if the interview finished like this, restored a little of -the sangfroid that the other had quite lost. With a voice that was full -of emotion in its gravity, he replied:— -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, you must be suffering, Pierre, to speak to me in that -way—me, your old companion, your friend! your brother—I a -Judas? I a traitor?—Look me in the face. You have insulted me, -threatened me—almost struck me—and you see I have no feeling -in my heart for you except the friendship that is as tender, as sentient -as it was yesterday, as it was a year, ten years, twenty years ago! I -have played with you?—I have deceived you?—No, you cannot -think that, you do not believe it!—You know well enough that our -friendship is not dead, that it cannot die!—And all"—here -his voice became agitated and bitter—"because of a woman!—A -woman has come between us, and you have forgotten all, you have -renounced all.—Ah! Pierre, arouse yourself, I implore you; tell me -that you only spoke in your anger; tell me that you still care for me, -that you still believe in our friendship. I ask it in the name of our -childhood, of those innocent moments when we met and mourned because we -were not really brothers. Is there a single recollection of that time -with which I am not connected?—To efface you from my life would be -to destroy all my past, all that part of it that I turn to with pride, -that I contemplate when I want to free myself from the vileness of the -present!—For God's sake, remember our youth and all that it held -of good and noble and pure affection. In 1870, the day after Sedan, when -you wanted to enlist, you came to seek me, do you recollect? And you -found me going off to your house. Do you remember the embrace that drew -us heart to heart? Ah! if any one had told us that a day would arrive -when you would call me traitor, that you would call me, by whose side -you wanted to die, a Judas; with what confidence we should have replied, -'Impossible!' And do you remember the snowy night in the forest of -Chagey, toward the end, when we learned that all was lost, that the army -was entering Switzerland and that on the morrow we had to give up our -arms? And have you forgotten our oath, that if ever we had to fight -again, we would be together, shoulder to shoulder, heart to heart, in -the same line?—Suppose the hour should come, what would you do -without me?—Ah, you are looking at me again, you understand me, -you feel with me.—Come to my arms, Pierre, as on that third of -September, now more than ten years ago, and yet it seems like -yesterday.—Everything else in this life may fail us, but not our -friendship.—Everything else is passion, sensual, delirium, but -that feeling is our heart, that friendship is our very being!" -</p> - -<p> -As Olivier spoke Pierre's attitude began to change. His sobs stopped and -in his eyes, still wet with tears, a strange gleam appeared. His -friend's voice betrayed such poignant emotion, the vision evoked by his -brotherly love recalled such ideal thoughts to the unhappy -man—visions of heroic deeds and courageous efforts—that, -after the first shock of horrible pain, all his manly energy was called -to life by the appeal of his old brother in arms. He rose, hesitated a -second, and then seized Olivier in his arms. And they embraced with one -of those noble sentiments that dry the tears in our eyes, that -strengthen the wavering will and renew the strength of generosity in our -hearts. Then briefly and simply Pierre replied:— -</p> - -<p> -"I beg your pardon, Olivier; you are better than I am. But the blow was -such a terrible one, and came so suddenly!—I had such entire, -complete confidence in that woman. And I learned all in five minutes, -and in that way!—I knew nothing, suspected nothing.—Then -came the two lines in your handwriting after what your wife had told me, -and on the top of your confidences!—It was like a ship upon the -ocean at midnight cut in two by another vessel, and plunging beneath the -waves forever.—A man could go mad in such a moment.—But let -us say nothing more about that. You are right. We must save our -friendship from this shipwreck." -</p> - -<p> -He put his hand before his eyes as though to shut out another vision -that was paining him. -</p> - -<p> -"Listen, Olivier," he said, "you may think me very weak, but you must -tell me the truth.—Have you ever seen Madame de Carlsberg since you -parted in Rome?" -</p> - -<p> -"Never!" replied Olivier. -</p> - -<p> -"You wrote a letter to her this morning. Not the one of which I read the -beginning, but another. What did you write about?" -</p> - -<p> -"To ask for an interview, nothing more." -</p> - -<p> -"And she? Did she reply?" -</p> - -<p> -"Not personally. She sent word that she was at home." -</p> - -<p> -"Why did you ask for this meeting? What did you say to her?" -</p> - -<p> -"I said what I then thought was the truth. I was overwhelmed by the idea -that she was trying to revenge herself upon me through you, and I felt I -must arouse a sense of shame in her. She replied to my reproaches and -proved to me that she loved you." -</p> - -<p> -And he added:— -</p> - -<p> -"Do not ask me anything more." -</p> - -<p> -Pierre looked at him. The fever of such an interrogation began to scorch -him again. A question was burning his lips. He longed to ask, "Did you -speak of your past? Did you speak of your love?" -</p> - -<p> -Then his native nobility recoiled before the baseness of such a -degrading inquisition. He became silent and began to walk up and down -the room, the living scene of a struggle which his friend watched in -mortal anguish. The questions that he had just put brought Ely present -before him with a too cruel vividness. They had reanimated the -sentiments Olivier's manly and apologizing appeal had exorcised a few -minutes before. Love, despising, disabused, vilified, and cruel, but -still love, struggled with friendship in his aching heart. Suddenly the -young man stopped. He stamped upon the floor, shaking his clinched fist -at the same time. He uttered a single "Ah!" full of repulsion, of -disgust, and of deliverance, and then, looking straight into his -friend's eyes, he said:— -</p> - -<p> -"Olivier, give me your word of honor that you will not see this woman -again, that you will not receive her if she comes to see you, that you -will not answer if she writes to you, that you will never ask after her -no matter what may happen, never, never, never." -</p> - -<p> -"I give you my word of honor," said Olivier. -</p> - -<p> -"And I," said Hautefeuille, with a deep sigh that betrayed both despair -and relief, "I give you my word of honor to do the same, that I will -never see her again, that I will never write to her.—There is not -room for you and her in my heart. I feel it now, and I cannot lose you." -</p> - -<p> -"Thank God!" said Olivier, taking his friend's hand. An inexpressible -emotion overcame him, a mixed feeling of joy, of gratitude, and of -terror—joy because of their beloved friendship, gratitude for the -delicacy which had made Pierre save him the pangs of the most horrible -jealousy, terror of the terrible agony imprinted upon his friend's face -as he made his vow of self-sacrifice. -</p> - -<p> -Hautefeuille seemed eager to escape from the room where such a terrible -scene had taken place, and opened the door. -</p> - -<p> -"You have a patient upstairs," he said. "You ought to be near her. She -must get better quickly so that we can go away, to-morrow if possible, -but the next day at the very latest.—I will come with you and will -await you in the salon." -</p> - -<p> -The two friends had hardly stepped into the corridor when they were met -by a servant of the hotel. The man had a letter upon a tray, which he -held out to Pierre, saying:— -</p> - -<p> -"The bearer is waiting for a reply, Monsieur Hautefeuille." -</p> - -<p> -Hautefeuille took the letter and looked at the superscription. Then, -without opening it, he handed it to Olivier, who recognized Ely's bold -handwriting. He returned the letter to Pierre and asked:— -</p> - -<p> -"What are you going to do?" -</p> - -<p> -"What I promised," replied Hautefeuille. -</p> - -<p> -Re-entering his room, he put the unopened letter in another envelope. He -then wrote on it Madame de Carlsberg's name and the address of her -villa. Returning to the corridor he handed it to the servant, -saying:— -</p> - -<p> -"There is the reply." -</p> - -<p> -And when he again took Olivier's arm he felt it trembled more than his -own did. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap11"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER XI -<br /><br /> -BETWEEN TWO TRAGEDIES</h4> - -<p> -Ely awaited Pierre's reply to her letter without apprehension. -Immediately Olivier had left she wrote, impelled by an instinctive, an -irresistible desire to refresh and purify herself in Hautefeuille's -loyal, devoted tenderness, after the cruel scene from which she issued -broken, humiliated, and soiled. Not for a single minute did she do -Olivier the injustice of suspecting that he would, even though possessed -by the most hateful love, try to destroy the image that Pierre had of -her—an image that bore no resemblance to her in the past, but now so -true—so true to the inner nature of her present being. -</p> - -<p> -She said nothing in this letter to her lover that she had not told him -twenty times before—that she loved him, then again that she loved -him, and, finally, that she loved him. She was sure that he would also -reply with words of love, already read and re-read a score of times, but -always new and welcome as an untasted happiness. When she received the -envelope upon which Pierre had written her address, she weighed it in -her hands, with the joy of a child. "How good he is to send me such a -long letter!" And she tore it open in an ecstasy of love that was at -once changed to terror. She looked first at her own letter with the seal -unbroken and then again at the envelope bearing her name. Was it -possible that such an insult had really been paid her by "her sweet," as -she called her lover, with the affectation common to all sentiments? -Could such an insult really have come from Pierre, who that very night -had clasped her to his bosom with so much respect, mingled with his -idolatry, with piety almost in his passion? -</p> - -<p> -Alas, doubt was not possible! The address was in the young man's -handwriting. It was certainly he who returned the letter to his mistress -without even opening it. Following the terrible scene of a short time -before, this refusal to hear from her, this return of her letter, -signified a rupture. The motive of it was indicated to Ely's terrified -eyes with hideous plainness. It was impossible for her to guess the -exact truth. She could not divine that it had been brought about by -Berthe du Prat's jealousy,—a jealousy awakened by so many suspicions -which started the long-continued inner tragedy and ended in the -irresistible impulse which drove the young wife to make the most -desperate appeal to the most intimate friend of her husband, to make an -appeal that revealed all to him. It was a succession of chances that -nothing could have foretold. -</p> - -<p> -On the other hand, a voluntary indiscretion on the part of Olivier -appeared so probable, so conformable to the habitual meanness of wounded -masculine pride! Ely never thought of any other cause, never sought any -other motive for the crushing revolution wrought in Pierre's soul, of -which she had before her a mute proof, more indisputable, more -convincing than any phrase. The details of the catastrophe appeared -before her simply and logically. Olivier had left her frantic with anger -and desire, with jealousy and humiliated pride. In an excess of -semi-madness he had failed of his honor. He had spoken! What had he -said? All?— -</p> - -<p> -At the mere idea the blood froze in the poor woman's veins. From the -minute when, upon the quay of the old port at Genoa, Hautefeuille had -held out to her the despatch announcing Olivier's return, she had -traversed so many horrible hours that it appeared as though in her -thoughts she must have become accustomed to the danger, that she must -have admitted the possibility of this event. But, when in love, the -heart possesses such stores of confidence, united to a keen power of -self-deception, that she came face to face with the actuality as -unprepared, unresigned, as unwittingly as we all meet death.—Ah! if -she could only see Pierre at once. If she could only be alone with him, -could only talk to him, could only plead her cause, defend herself, -explain to him all she once had been and why, show him what she had now -become and the reason, tell him of her struggles, of her longing to -unbosom herself to him at the beginning, and that she had only kept -silence through fear of losing him, through a trembling terror of -wounding him in his tenderest feelings! If she could only see him to -show him that love had caused it all, that it was love!— -</p> - -<p> -Yes, see him! But where? When? How? At the hotel? He would not receive -her. Olivier was there watching, guarding him. See him at her own villa? -He would not come there again. Make a rendezvous with him? She could -not. He would not even open her letter! She felt in the depths of her -nature, which had remained so primitive and unrestrained, all the savage -spirit of her Black Mountain ancestors rebelling against the bonds that -tied her. With all her wretchedness she could not keep down a movement -of reckless violence. Her powerless rage found vent—it was the only -outlet possible—in a letter written to her cowardly denunciator, -Olivier. She despised him at this moment for all the faith that she had -felt in his loyalty. She loathed him with the same energy that she loved -Pierre. -</p> - -<p> -This second letter was useless and unworthy of herself. But to give free -course to her rage against Olivier was to give relief to her passion for -his friend. Besides—for in stirring up the depths of our nature -suffering arouses that vague foundation of hope that remains with us in -spite of the deepest despair—was it not possible that Olivier, when -he once saw how infamously he had acted, would go to his friend and say: -"It was not true; I lied when I told you she had been my mistress"? -</p> - -<p> -This whirlwind of mad ideas, vain rage, and senseless hypotheses was -shattered and driven away by an event as brutal as the first. Ely sent -the letter to Olivier by one of her footmen about seven o'clock. Half an -hour later, when she was finishing her toilet in a fever of anxiety, the -man brought back the reply. It was a large sealed envelope with her -address written in Olivier's handwriting. Inside was her letter -unopened. -</p> - -<p> -The two friends had thus made a compact. They both insulted her in the -same way! It was as plain to her as though she had seen them take each -other's hand and swear a pact of alliance against her in the name of -their friendship. -</p> - -<p> -For the first time this woman, usually superior to all the pettiness of -her sex, felt against their friendship all the unreasoning hate that the -ordinary mistress has for even the simple companionships of her lover. -She felt that instinctive impulse of feminine antipathy for sentiments -purely masculine, and from which the woman feels excluded forever. -During the hours following the double insult, Ely was not only a woman -in love repulsed and disdained, a woman who loses with him she loves all -joy in life, a woman who will die of the effect of her loss. She was not -only this, she also suffered all the pangs of a devouring jealousy. She -was jealous of Olivier, jealous of the affection he inspired in Pierre -and that Pierre returned. In the despair that the certainty of the cruel -desertion caused her, she felt mingled an additional pang of suffering -at the idea that these two men were happy in the triumph of their -fraternal tenderness, that they dwelt under the same roof, that they -could talk with each other, that they esteemed each other, loved each -other. -</p> - -<p> -True, such impressions were out of conformity with her innate -magnanimity. But extreme sufferings have one trait in common: they -distort the natural feelings and sentiments. The most delicate nature -becomes brutal, the most confiding loses the noble power of expansion, -the most loving becomes misanthropic when in the grasp of a great grief. -There is no more ill-founded prejudice than the one echoed in the famous -line— -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">"Man is an apprentice; suffering, his master."</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -It may be a master, but it is a degrading, depraving master. Not to be -corrupted by suffering one must accept the trial as a punishment and a -redemption. And then it is not the suffering that ameliorates one, but -faith! -</p> - -<p> -Without doubt if poor Ely had not been the disabused nihilist who -believed, as she once said energetically, that "there is only this -world," all the obscure fatalities that were crushing her down would -have been made clear with a blinding light. She would have recognized a -mysterious justice, stronger than our intentions, more infallible than -our calculations, in the encounter that made the punishment of her -double adultery issue from the friendship of those who had been her -guilty partners in her failings, and caused those same accomplices to be -each a punishment to the other. But in the blow that overwhelmed her she -saw only the base vengeance of a former lover. And such a form of -suffering could only end in degrading her. All her virtues of generous -indulgence, of tender goodness, of sentimental scrupulousness that her -love, magnificent in its enthusiastic spontaneity, had awakened in her -heart, had receded from her. And she felt that all the most hideous and -all her worst instincts were taking their place at the idea that these -two men, both of whom had possessed her, one of whom she loved to the -verge of madness, despised her. And in imagination she again saw Pierre -as he was there before her, only twenty-four hours before, so devoted, -so noble, so happy!—Ah! Pierre!—All her bitterness melted into -a flood of tears as she cried aloud the beloved name. Ah! to what good was -it that she cried for him? The man for whom such passionate sighs were -breathed would not even listen to them! -</p> - -<p> -What an evening, what a night the unfortunate woman passed, locked in -her room! What courage it needed not to remain there all the following -day, with windows closed, curtains down! How she longed to flee the -daylight, life, to flee from herself, plunged and engulfed in a night -and silence as of death!—But she was the daughter of an officer and -the wife of a prince. She had thus twice over the trait of a military -education, an absolute exactitude in carrying out her promises, a trait -that causes the disciplined will to rise superior to all events and to -execute at the appointed time the duties imposed. She had promised the -night before to intercede with Dickie Marsh in Chésy's favor, and she -was to give his reply in the afternoon. Her lassitude was so great in -the morning that she nearly wrote to Madame Chésy to postpone her visit -and that to the American's yacht. Then she said, "No, that would be -cowardly."—And at eleven o'clock in the morning, her face hidden by a -white veil that prevented her reddened eyes and agitated features from -being seen, she stepped from her carriage on to the little quay to which -the Jenny was moored. When she saw the rigging of the yacht and her -white hull outlined against the sky, pale with the presage of heat, she -remembered her arrival upon the same sun-scorched stones of the little -quay, in the same carriage, only a fortnight before, and the profound -joy she felt when she saw Pierre's silhouette as he looked for her from -the boat anxiously. Those two weeks had been long enough for her -romantic and tender idyl to be transformed into a sinister tragedy. -Where was the lover who was with her when they left for Genoa? Where was -he trying to hide the awful pain caused by her and which she could not -even console? Had he already left Cannes? Ever since the night before -the idea that Pierre had left her forever had made her heart icy with -cold terror. And yet she devoured with her eyes the yacht upon which she -had been so happy. -</p> - -<p> -She was now near enough to be able to count the portholes, of which the -line appeared just above the rail of a cutter moored near the Jenny. The -seventh was the one lighting her cabin, their cabin, the nuptial refuge -where they had tasted the intoxicating joy of their first night of love. -A sailor was seated upon a plank suspended from the rail washing the -shell of the boat with a brush that he dipped from time to time in a big -bucket. The triviality of the detail, of the work being done at that -minute and at that place, completed the faintness of the young woman -caused by the air of contrast. She was speechless with emotion when she -stepped upon the gangway leading from the quay to the boat. Her -agitation was so apparent that Dickie Marsh could not resist an -inclination to question her, thus failing for once to observe the great -Anglo-Saxon principle of avoiding personal remarks. -</p> - -<p> -"It is nothing," she replied; "or rather nothing that concerns me." -</p> - -<p> -Then, making his question an excuse for introducing the subject of her -visit, she said:— -</p> - -<p> -"I am all upset by the news I have just learned from Yvonne." -</p> - -<p> -"Shall we go into the smoking-room?" asked the American, who had -trembled at the sound of Madame de Chésy's name. "We shall be able to -talk better there." -</p> - -<p> -They were in the office where Marsh was busy when Ely arrived. The dry -clicking of the typewriter under the fingers of a secretary had not -stopped or even slackened a moment upon the entrance of the young woman. -Another secretary went on telephoning to the telegraph office, and a -third continued arranging documents. The intensity of their industry -proved the importance and the pressing nature of the work being done. -But the business man left his dictations and his calculations with as -little compunction as an infant displays when he casts aside his hoop or -ball, to question Yvonne's messenger with a veritable fever of anxiety. -</p> - -<p> -"So the bolt has fallen! Are they ruined?" he asked, when they were -alone. Then, in reply to Ely's affirmation, he went on: "Was I not -right? I have not seen the Vicomtesse for some little time. I have not -even tried to see her. I thought Brion was at the bottom of all. I was -sure you would make me a sign at the right moment, unless—But no, -there is no unless—I was sure the poor child would estimate that man -for the abominable cad that he is, and that she would show him the door -the first word he uttered." -</p> - -<p> -"She came to see me," said Ely, "trembling, and revolted at the ignoble -propositions the wretch made to her." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, what 'punishment' he merits!" said Marsh, with an expressive -gesture that accentuated the energetic boxing term. "Did you tell her to -apply to me? Is her husband willing to work?" -</p> - -<p> -"She came to see me to ask for a place for Gontran as superintendent on -the Archduke's estate," replied Ely. -</p> - -<p> -"No, no!" interrupted Dickie Marsh. "I have the very thing for him. It -is better for me even than for him, for I have a principle that all -services ought to be of some use to him that renders them. In -that way, if the man you oblige proves ungrateful, you are paid in -advance.—This is the affair. Since we were in Genoa we have done a -lot of work. We have founded in Marionville—by we I mean myself -and three others, the 'big four,' as we are called—a society for -working a score of ruined ranches we have bought in North Dakota. We -have thus miles and miles of prairies upon which we want to raise not -cattle, but horses.—Why horses? For this reason: In the States a -horse is worth nothing. My countrymen have done away with them, and with -that useless thing, the carriage. Railways, electric tramways, and cable -cars are quite sufficient for every need. In Europe, with your standing -armies, things are different. In another five years you will not be able -to find horses for your cavalry. Now follow me closely. We are going to -buy in the horses in America by the thousand for a song. We shall -restore them to the prairies. We shall cross them with Syrian stallions. -I have just bought five hundred from the Sultan by telegraph." -</p> - -<p> -Excited by the huge perspective of his enterprise, he left the "we" to -use the more emphatic "I." -</p> - -<p> -"I am going to create a new breed, one that will be superb for light -cavalry. I will supply a mount for every hussar, uhlan, and chasseur in -Europe. I have calculated that. I can deliver the animals in Paris, -Berlin, Rome, Vienna at a fourth less than the State pays in France, -Germany, Italy, and in your country. But I must have some competent and -trustworthy man to look after my breeding stables. I want Chésy to take -this place. I will give him $115,000 per year, all his travelling -expenses paid, and a percentage upon the profits. You will perhaps say -that when you want to make wealth by the plough you must put your hand -to it.—That is true. But with the cable I am at hand if only my man -does not rob me. Now, Chésy is honest. He understands horses like any -jockey. He will save for me what a rascally employee would steal and all -that an incompetent one would waste. In ten years he can return to -Europe richer than he would ever have been by following Brion's advice -and without owing me anything.—But will he accept?" -</p> - -<p> -"I can answer for that," replied Ely. "I have an appointment with Yvonne -this afternoon. She will write to you." -</p> - -<p> -"In that case," Marsh continued, "I will cable instructions for the -furnishing of their residences in Marionville and Silver City to be -hurried on. They will have two houses at the society's expense. I shall -go to the States to start him upon his duties. They can be there for -June.—And if they accept will you tell the Vicomtesse that we -start for Beyrout the day after to-morrow on the <i>Jenny</i>? I want -them to go along with me. Chésy could begin his work straight away. He -will prevent the Bedouins selling me a lot of old nags in the batch. I -will write to him, however, more at length upon the matter." -</p> - -<p> -There was a short silence. Then he said:— -</p> - -<p> -"There is some one I should like to take with them." -</p> - -<p> -"Who is that?" asked Ely. -</p> - -<p> -The contrast was a very striking one between the sentiment of silent -misery, of despairing prostration, of the uselessness of everything that -prostrated her, and the almost boundless energy of the Yankee business -man. In addition to her sorrow she felt a sort of bewilderment, and she -forgot all about Marsh's intention in regard to his niece's marriage. -</p> - -<p> -"Who?" echoed the American, "why Verdier, naturally. I have also my -secret service bureau," he went on. This time there was even more energy -in his manner. Admiration and covetousness were visible in all his being -as he sounded the praises of the Prince's assistant and of his -inventions. "I know that he has solved his problem. Has he not spoken to -you about it? Well, it is a marvel! You will realize that in a -minute.—You know that aluminum is the lightest of metals. It has -only one fault; it costs too much. Now, in the first place, Verdier has -discovered a process of making it by electrolysis, without the need of -any chemical transformations. He can thus get it very cheap. Then, with -his aluminum, he has invented a new kind of electric accumulator. It is -fifteen times more powerful according to its weight than the -accumulators at present in use.—In other words, the electric -railway is an assured fact. The secret is discovered!—I want to -take Verdier with me to the States, and with the help of his invention -we shall wreck the tramway companies in Marionville and Cleveland and -Buffalo. It means the death of Jim Davis; it means his end, his -destruction, his complete ruin!—You don't know Davis. He is my -enemy. You know what it is to have an enemy, to have some one in the -world with whom you have been fighting for years; all your life, in -fact? Well, in my case that some one is Jim Davis. His affairs are shaky -just now. If I can get Verdier's invention, I can crush him into pieces -and utterly smash up the Republican party in Ohio at the same time." -</p> - -<p> -"Still," said Madame de Carlsberg, interrupting him, "I cannot go to the -laboratory to ask him for his invention." -</p> - -<p> -In spite of her trouble she could not help smiling at the flood of -half-political, half-financial confidences that issued pell-mell from -Marsh. With his strange mixture of self-possession and excitability, he -did not lose sight of his objects for a single moment. He had just -rendered a service to the Baroness Ely. His motto was, give and take. It -was now her turn to serve him. -</p> - -<p> -"No," he replied eagerly, "but you can find out what the young man has -against Flossie. You know that I planned their marriage. Did she not -tell you? It is a very good match for both—for all. To him it -means a fortune, to her it means happiness, to me, a useful instrument. -Ah! what a superb one this genius will be in my hands!" he cried, -closing his hands nervously like a workman seizing the levers of an -engine that he is starting in motion. "Everything seemed to be going on -all right when, suddenly—bang! All came to grief. About five or -six days ago I noticed that the girl was very silent, almost sad. I -asked her point-blank, 'Are you engaged, Flossie?' 'No, uncle,' she -replied, 'and I never shall be.' I talked with her and drew her -out—not too much, simply enough to know that some lovers' quarrel -is at the bottom of it all. If you would talk to her, Baroness, she -would tell you more than she will me, and you can also talk to Verdier. -There is no sense in letting the affair drag on in this way when they -love each other as they do. For I know that they are both in love. I met -Mrs. Marsh—she was then Miss Potts—one Thursday at a bazaar. -On the following Saturday we were engaged. There is no time to lose, not -a day, not an hour or minute ought to be thrown away. We shall waste -enough when we are dead!" -</p> - -<p> -"So you would like me to learn from Florence why she is so sad and why -the affair is broken off? I will find out. And I will rearrange the -whole thing if you like." -</p> - -<p> -"That's it, Baroness," said Marsh, adding simply, "Ah! if my niece were -only like you! I would make you a partner in all my business affairs. -You are so intelligent, so quick and matter of fact when it is -necessary. You will find Flossie in her room. As to Chésy, it is an -understood thing. If you like, I will cable for them." -</p> - -<p> -"Do so," said Ely, as she walked away toward Miss Marsh's cabin. -</p> - -<p> -She had to pass the door of the one she had occupied on that -never-to-be-forgotten night. She pushed open the door with a frightful -feeling of melancholy. The little cabin, now unoccupied, was so blank, -seemed so ready to welcome any passing guest, to afford a refuge for -other happiness, other sorrows, other dreams, or other regrets! Was it -possible that the joy felt in this place had disappeared forever? -Whether it was Marsh's conversation which had communicated some of his -energy and confidence to the young woman or that, like the instinct to -struggle to the last that animates a drowning man, the soul is moved by -a vital energy at a certain point of discouragement, whether it were one -or the other motive it is hard to say, but Ely replied, No! to her own -question. Standing upon the threshold of the narrow cell that had been -for her an hour's paradise, she vowed that she would not surrender, that -she would fight for her happiness, that she would again recover it. It -was only a minute's respite, but it sufficed to give her courage to -compose her features so that Miss Marsh, a keener observer than her -uncle, did not notice the marks of a deep sadness imprinted too plainly -upon her face. The young American girl was painting. She was copying a -magnificent bunch of pinks and roses, of yellow, almost golden pinks, -and of blood-red, purple roses, whose deep tints seemed almost black. -The harmonious combination of yellow and red had attracted her eye, -always sensible to bright colors. Her unskilful brush laid coats of -harsh color upon the canvas, but she stuck to her task with an obstinacy -and energy and patience equal to that displayed by her uncle in his -business. And yet she was a true woman, in spite of all her decision and -firm manner. Her emotion upon Ely's entrance was only too visible. She -divined that the Baroness, whose villa she had avoided for several days, -was going to talk to her about Verdier. She did not employ any artifice -with her friend. At her first allusion she replied:— -</p> - -<p> -"I know it is my uncle who has sent you as intermediary. He was quite -right. What I would not tell him, what, in fact, I could not tell him, I -can tell you. It is quite true, I have quarrelled with Monsieur Verdier. -He believed some wicked calumnies that he heard about me. That is all." -</p> - -<p> -"In other words you mean that it is the Archduke who has slandered you, -do you not?" asked Madame de Carlsberg, after a short silence. -</p> - -<p> -"Everything appeared to condemn me," replied Florence, ignoring the -Baroness's remark, "but when there is faith there can be no question of -trusting to appearances. Do you not think so?" -</p> - -<p> -"I think that Verdier loves you," said Ely, in reply, "and that in love -there is jealousy. But what was the matter?" -</p> - -<p> -"There can be no love where there is no esteem," said the young girl, -angrily, "and you cannot esteem a woman whom you think capable of -certain things. You know," she went on, her anger increasing in a way -that proved how keenly she felt the outrage, "you know that Andryana and -her husband hired a villa at Golfe Juan. I went there several times with -Andryana, and Monsieur Verdier knew about it. How I do not know, and yet -it does not astonish me, for once or twice as we went there about -tea-time I thought I saw Monsieur von Laubach prowling about. And what -do you think Monsieur Verdier dared to think of me,—of me, an -American? What do you think he dared to reproach me with? That I was -chaperoning an intrigue between Andryana and Corancez, that I was -cognizant of one of those horrible things you call a liaison." -</p> - -<p> -"But it was the simplest thing in the world to clear yourself," said -Ely. -</p> - -<p> -"I could not betray Andryana's secret," replied Florence. "I had -promised to keep it sacred, and I would not ask her permission to speak; -in the first place, because I had no right to do so, and in the second," -and her physiognomy betrayed all her wounded pride and sensation of -honor, "in the second because I would not stoop to defend myself against -suspicion. I told Monsieur Verdier that he was mistaken. He did not -believe me, and all is over between us." -</p> - -<p> -"So that you accept the idea of not marrying him," said Ely, "simply -through pride or bitterness rather than make a very simple -explanation!—But suppose he came here, here upon your uncle's boat, -to beg you to forgive him for his unjust suspicions, or rather for what he -believed himself justified in thinking? Suppose he did better still; -suppose he asks for your hand, that he asks you to marry him, will you -say him nay? Will all be over between you?" -</p> - -<p> -"He will not come," said Florence. "He has not written or taken a step -for the last week. Why do you speak to me in that way? You are taking -away all my courage, and, believe me, I have need of it all." -</p> - -<p> -"What a child you are, Flossie!" said Ely, kissing her. "You will -realize some day that we women have no courage to withstand those we -love and those that love us. Let me follow my idea. You will be engaged -before this evening is over." -</p> - -<p> -She spoke the last words of exhortation and hope with a bitter tone that -Florence did not recognize. As she listened to the young girl telling of -the little misunderstanding that separated her and Verdier, she had a -keen sensation of her own misery. This lovers' quarrel was only a dispute -between a child—as she had called Miss Marsh—and another -child. She thought of her rupture with Pierre. She thought of all the -bitterness and vileness and inexpiable offence that there was between -them. Face to face with the pretty American's pride before an unjust -suspicion, she felt more vividly the horror of being justly accused and -of being obliged either to lie or to own her shame while asking for -pity. At the same time she was overwhelmed with a flood of indignation -at the thought of the odious means employed by the Archduke to keep -Verdier with him. She found in it the same sentiment that had aroused -her hatred against Olivier the night before: the attachment of man for -man, the friendship that is jealous of love, that is hostile to woman, -that pursues and tracks her in order to preserve the friend. True, the -sentiment of the Prince for his coadjutor was not precisely the same -that Pierre felt for Olivier and that Olivier felt for Pierre. It was -the affection of a scientist for his companion of the laboratory, of a -master for his disciple, almost of a father for a son. -</p> - -<p> -But this friendship, intellectual though it might be, was not the less -intense after its kind. Madame de Carlsberg, therefore, felt a personal -satisfaction as though she were avenging herself in taking steps to -thwart the Prince's schemes as soon as she had left the Jenny. It was a -poor revenge. It did not prevent her feeling that her heart was broken -by the despair caused by her vanished love, even amid all the intrigues -necessary to protect another's happiness. -</p> - -<p> -Her first step after her conversation with Florence was to go to the -villa that Andryana occupied on the road to Fréjus, at the other end of -Cannes. She had no need to ask anything of the generous Italian. No -sooner had she heard of the misunderstanding that separated Verdier and -Miss Marsh, than she cried:— -</p> - -<p> -"But why did she not speak? Poor, dear girl! I felt sure something was -the matter these last few days. And that was it? But I will go straight -away and see Verdier, see the Prince and tell them all the truth. They -must know that Florence would never countenance any evil. Besides, I -have had enough of living in hiding. I have had enough of being obliged -to lie. I mean to disclose the fact of my marriage to-day. I only -awaited some reason for deciding Corancez, and here it is." -</p> - -<p> -"How about your brother?" asked Ely. -</p> - -<p> -"What? My brother? My brother?" repeated the Venetian. -</p> - -<p> -The rich blood swept to her cheeks in a flood of warm color at this -allusion and then fled, leaving her pale. It was plain that a last -combat was taking place in the nature so long downtrodden. The remains -of her terror fought with her moral courage and was finally conquered. -She had two powerful motives for being brave,—her love, strengthened -by her happiness and rapture, and then a dawning hope of having a child to -love. She told it to Ely with the magnificent daring that is almost -pride of a loving wife. -</p> - -<p> -"Besides," she added, "I shall not have any choice for very much longer. -I think I am about to become a mother. But let us send for Corancez at -once. Whatever you advise, he will do. I do not understand why he -hesitates. If I had not perfect confidence in him, I should think he -already regretted being bound to me." -</p> - -<p> -Contrary to Andryana's sentimental fears, the Southerner did not raise -any objection when Madame de Carlsberg asked him to reveal the mystery -or comedy of the <i>matrimonio segreto</i> to the Archduke and his -assistant. The occasion would have furnished his father with an -opportunity of once more using his favorite dictum, "Marius is a cunning -blade," if he had been able to see the condescending way with which he -accorded the permission that brought to a culminating-point the desires -of the cunning intriguer. There is both Greek and Tuscan in the -Southerners from the neighborhood of Marseilles, and they appear to have -written in their hearts the maxim which contains all Italian or -Levantine philosophy: "Chi ha pazienza, ha gloria." He had expected to -make his marriage public the instant there was a chance that he was to -become a father. But he had never hoped for an opportunity of appearing -both magnanimous and practical, such as was afforded him by consenting -to the announcement upon the request of the Baroness Ely, and that out -of chivalrous pity for a girl who had been calumniated. All these -complexities, natural to an imaginative and practical personage, were to -be found in the discourse that he held with the two women, a discourse -that was almost sincere. -</p> - -<p> -"We have to yield to fate, Andryana," he said. "That is a maxim I -revere, you know. The story of Miss Marsh and Verdier gives us an -indication of what we have to do. We must announce our marriage, no -matter what happens. I should have liked to keep the secret a little -longer. Our romance is so delightful. You know that I am romantic before -everything, that I am a man of the old school, a troubadour. To see her, -to worship her," he indicated Andryana, who blushed with pleasure at his -protestations, "and without any witnesses of our happiness other than -such friends as you"—he turned toward Ely—"such as Pierre, -as Miss Marsh, was to realize an ideal. But it will be another ideal to -be able to say proudly to every one, 'She chose me for a husband.' But," -and he waited a moment in order to accentuate the importance of his -advice, "if Corancez is a troubadour, he is a troubadour who knows his -business. Unless it's contrary to your idea, I do not think it would be -very wise for Andryana and me to announce our marriage to the Prince in -person. Let me speak frankly, Baroness. Besides, I never was good at -flattery. The Prince—I hardly know how to say it—the Prince -attaches a great deal of importance to his own ideas. He does not care -to be thwarted, and Verdier's feelings for Miss Marsh are not very much -to his taste. He must know of their little quarrel. Indeed, he may have -spoken very harshly of the young girl before his assistant. He wants to -keep that youth in his laboratory, and it is only natural. Verdier has -so much talent. In short, all that cannot make it very agreeable for two -people to come and say to him, 'Miss Marsh has been slandered; she has -been the friend of the most honorable and most loyal of women, who is -honorably and legally married to Corancez.' -</p> - -<p> -"And besides, to have to admit that you are in error in such a matter, -and in public, is a very difficult position to be in. Frankly, it -appears to me simpler and more practical, in order to bring about the -final reconciliation, to let the Prince learn all about the matter from -you, my dear Baroness, and from you alone. Andryana will write a letter -to you this very moment. I will dictate it to her, asking you to be her -intercessor with His Royal Highness, and announce our marriage. -Everything else will work easily while we are arranging as well as we -can with good old Alvise." -</p> - -<p> -The most diverse influences, therefore, combined to bring Madame de -Carlsberg again into conflict with her husband at the moment she was -passing through a crisis of such profound sorrow that she was incapable -of forethought and of self-defence, or even of observation. She often -thought about this morning later, and of the whirl of circumstances in -which it seemed as though neither Pierre nor Olivier nor herself could -be dragged, a rush of circumstances which had carried her away in the -first place, and had then reached the two young men. That Chésy had -stupidly ruined himself on the Bourse; that Brion was ready to profit by -his ruin to seduce poor Yvonne; that this latter woman resembled feature -by feature Marsh's dead daughter, and that this identity of physiognomy -interested the Nabob of Marionville to such an extent that he was -determined upon the most romantic and the most practical form of -charity; that Verdier had made a discovery of an immense value to -industry, and that Marsh was trying to gain the benefit of this -invention by the surest means in giving his niece as a wife to the young -scientist; that Andryana and Corancez were waiting for an opportunity to -make their astounding secret marriage public,—were only so many facts -differing with those concerning her own life, facts which appeared to -have never touched her, save indirectly. -</p> - -<p> -And yet each of these stories had some bearing, as though by -prearrangement, upon the step that she was about to take, acting on the -advice of Corancez. This step itself was to prepare an unexpected -dénouement, a terrible dénouement for the moral tragedy in which she -had plunged without any hope of ever issuing. This game of events, -widely separate from each other, which gives to the believer the -soothing certainty of a supreme justice, inflicts on us, on the -contrary, an impression of vertigo when, without faith, we notice the -astounding unexpectedness of certain encounters. How many times did Ely -not ask herself what would have been the future of her passion after the -interview of Olivier with Pierre, if she had not gone upon the <i>Jenny</i> -that day to render a service to Yvonne, if Marsh had not asked her to -bring about a reconciliation between Verdier and Florence, and, finally, -if the marriage of Andryana and Corancez had not been announced to the -Archduke under conditions that seemed like bravado, and which only -increased his exasperation and bitterness. -</p> - -<p> -These are vain hypotheses, but they are felt bitterly by those who give -themselves up to the childish work of rebuilding their life in thought. -It seems a manifestation of the irresistible nature of fate. -</p> - -<p> -As she approached the Villa Helmholtz, with Andryana's letter in her -hand, Ely had not the faintest suspicion of the terrible tragedy drawing -near. She was not happy; in fact, joy did not exist for her now that she -was separated so cruelly from Pierre. But she felt a bitter satisfaction -in her vengeance, a feeling that she was to pay for very dearly. -</p> - -<p> -Hardly had she entered the house when she sent a request to the Prince, -who never lunched with her now, to be granted an audience, and she was -ushered into the laboratory, which she had only visited about three -times. The heir of the Hapsburgs, a big apron wrapped around him and a -little cap upon his head, was standing in the scientific workshop before -the furnace of a forge, in which he was heating a bar of iron which he -held in his acid-eaten hands. A little further away Verdier was -arranging some electric batteries. He was dressed like his employer. -There was nothing in the entire room, which was lighted from the -ceiling, except complicated machines, mysterious instruments and -apparatus whose use was unknown to any but the scientists. The two men, -thus surprised in the exercise of their profession, had that attentive -and reflective physiognomy that experimental science always gives to its -followers. It is easy to recognize in it a certain submission to the -object, a patience imposed by the necessary duration of a phenomenon, the -certainty of the result to be gained by waiting—noble, intellectual -virtues created by constant attention to natural law. Nevertheless, in -spite of the calmness he displayed in his work, it was plain that care -hung over the assistant. The Prince appeared rejuvenated by his gayety, -but it was an evil, wicked gayety, which the presence of his wife -appeared to render even more cruel. He met her with this sentence, the -words being full of hideous allusions:— -</p> - -<p> -"What has given us the honor of your visit to our pandemonium? It is not -very gay at the first glance, yet we are happier here than anywhere -else. Natural science gives you a sensation that your life does not even -know of—a sensation of truth. There cannot be either falsehood or -deception in an experiment that has been carefully performed. Is that -not so, Verdier?" -</p> - -<p> -"I am happy to hear Your Highness speak in that way," replied the young -woman, returning irony for irony. "Since you are so fond of the truth, -you will help me, I hope, to secure justice for a person who has been -cruelly slandered here, perhaps even to you, Your Highness, and -certainly to Monsieur Verdier." -</p> - -<p> -"I don't understand," said the Archduke, whose visage suddenly darkened. -"We are not society people, and Monsieur Verdier and I do not permit any -one to be calumniated before us. When we believe anything against any -one, we have decided proof. Is not that so, Verdier?" and he turned -toward his assistant, who did not reply. -</p> - -<p> -The Baroness Ely's words had been as clear to the two men as though she -had named Miss Marsh, and Verdier's look revealed how he loved the young -American, and what suffering it had caused him to know that he could no -longer esteem her. This additional avowal of a hated sentiment was -distasteful to the Archduke, and his voice became authoritative, almost -brutal, as he went on:— -</p> - -<p> -"Besides, madame, we are very busy. An experiment cannot be kept -waiting, and you will oblige me very much if you will speak plainly and -not in enigmas." -</p> - -<p> -"I will obey Your Highness," replied Madame de Carlsberg, "and I will be -very plain. I learn from my friend, Miss Marsh—" -</p> - -<p> -"The conversation is useless if you have come to speak of that -intriguing woman," said the Prince, brusquely. -</p> - -<p> -"Your Highness!" -</p> - -<p> -It was Verdier who spoke as he took a step forward. The insult the -Archduke had cast at Florence had made him tremble to his innermost -being. -</p> - -<p> -"Well," demanded his master, turning toward his assistant, "is it true -that Madame Bonnacorsi arranges for meetings in a little house at Golfe -Juan? Did we see them enter? Do we know by whom the house is engaged and -the lover whom she goes there to meet? If you had a brother or a friend, -would you let him marry a girl whom you knew to be in the secret of such -an intrigue?" -</p> - -<p> -"She is not in the secret of any intrigue," interrupted Ely, with an -indignation that she did not seek to dissimulate. "Madame Bonnacorsi has -not a lover." She repeated: "No, Madame Bonnacorsi has no lover. Since -you have authorized me, let me speak frankly, Your Highness. The 14th of -this month, you understand me, at Genoa, I was present at her marriage -with Monsieur de Corancez in the Chapel of the Fregoso Palace, and Miss -Marsh was also there. Sight or wrong, they did not wish the ceremony to -be made public. I suppose they had their motives. They have not these -motives any longer, and here is the letter in which Andryana begs me to -officially announce to Your Highness the news of her marriage. You see," -she went on, addressing Verdier, "that Florence was never anything but -the most honest, the most upright, and the purest of young girls. Was I -not right when I said that she has been cruelly, unworthily -calumniated?" -</p> - -<p> -The Archduke took Andryana's letter. He read it and then returned it to -his wife without any comment. He looked her straight in the face with -the keen, haughty regard that seems natural to princes, and whose -imperious, inquisitorial scrutiny reads to the bottom of the soul. He -saw she was telling the truth. He next looked at Verdier. And now the -anger in his eyes changed into an expression of deep sadness. Without -paying any more attention to Ely than if she were not there, he spoke to -the young man with the familiarity that the difference in their ages and -positions authorized, although it was a familiarity that the Prince did -not usually take in speaking to his assistant before witnesses. -</p> - -<p> -"My dear boy," he said—and his voice, usually so metallic and harsh, -became tender—"tell me the truth. Are you sorry for the resolution -you took?" -</p> - -<p> -"I am sorry that I have been unjust," replied Verdier, with a voice -almost as broken as that of his master. "I regret to have been unjust, -Your Highness, and I would like to ask the pardon of the woman whom I -have misjudged." -</p> - -<p> -"You will have all the time you want to ask pardon in," replied the -Archduke. "Of that you may be assured. It is from her that this -knowledge comes. Is it not so, madame?" he replied, looking at Ely. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," replied the young woman. -</p> - -<p> -"You see I was right," replied the Prince. "Come," he said, with a -peculiar mixture of pity and abruptness, "look into your heart. You have -had eight days in which to make up your mind. Do you still love her?" -</p> - -<p> -"I love her dearly," replied Verdier, after a short silence. -</p> - -<p> -"Another good man ruined," said the Prince, shrugging his shoulders. He -accompanied the brutal triviality of his remark with a deep sigh which -took away its cynicism. -</p> - -<p> -"So," he continued, "the life that we lead together, a life that is so -full, so noble, so free, does not suffice now: our manly joy and the -proud happiness in discovering that we have so often felt together, that -has rewarded us largely, royally, and fully so often, is no longer -enough for you? You want to re-enter that hideous society that I have -taught you to judge at its true value? You wish to marry, to leave this -refuge, leave science, leave your master and your friend?" -</p> - -<p> -"But, Your Highness," interrupted Verdier, "can I not be married and -continue to work with you?" -</p> - -<p> -"With that woman? Never!" replied the Archduke, in a tone of passionate -energy. His anger increased; and he repeated: "Never—Let us separate, -since it has come to that. But let us separate without hypocrisy, -without falsehood, in a manner that is really worthy of what we have -been for each other. You know well enough that the first condition of -your marriage with that girl will be that you make known to her brigand -of an uncle, this secret," and he touched with his hand one of the -accumulators standing on the table. "Don't tell me that you would refuse -to make it known, because the invention belongs to us both. I give you -my part. Do you hear? I give it to you. You would certainly betray me -sooner or later, either through weakness or through that cowardly love -that I see in your heart. I want to spare you that remorse. Marry that -woman. Sell our invention to that business man. Sell him the result of -our research. I give you full authority, but I shall never see you -again. For the secret that you are selling to him is, believe me, -Science. Follow your own will, but it shall at any rate not be said that -you did not know what you were doing, or that in doing it you -participated in all the ignominy of this age: that you lent aid to that -vast collective crime which idiots call civilization. You will continue -to work. You will still have genius, and from this discovery and others -that you will make, your new master will secure millions and millions. -Those millions will signify an abject luxury and viciousness on high, -and a heap of misery and human slavery below. How well I judged that -girl from the first day! Behold her work! She appeared and you have not -been able to hold firm. And against what? Against smiles and looks which -would have been directed at others if you had not been there, which -would have been for the first imbecile who had turned up with a manly -figure and a pair of mustaches!—Against toilet, against dresses, and -against riches. Let me continue for a moment. In an hour you will be -near her, and you can laugh with her at your old master, your old -friend, as much as you like. You do not know what it is to have a friend -like me, one who loves you as I do. You will understand it some day. You -will realize it when you have measured the difference between this -feeling that you are leaving one side, between our manly communion of -ideas, our heroic intimacy of thought, and that which you now prefer, -the life which you are about to commence—an idle, degraded, poisoned -life! -</p> - -<p> -"Good-by, Verdier," and this strange person, in saying the word -<i>good-by</i>, spoke with a tone of infinite sadness and bitterness. "I -read in your eyes that you will marry that girl, and since it is to be -so, go. I prefer never to see you again. Make a fortune with the -knowledge that you have secured here. You would certainly have learned -it elsewhere, so we are quits. The happiest hours of my life for years -have been due to you, and I forgive you on that account. But I tell you -again, I see you for the last time. Everything is over between you and -me. -</p> - -<p> -"As for you, madame," he continued, casting a glance of bitter hatred at -Ely, "I promise you I will discover some means of punishing you." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="chap12"></a></h4> - -<h4>CHAPTER XII -<br /><br /> -THE DÉNOUEMENT</h4> - -<p> -The Archduke's threat was uttered in a way that betrayed an inflexible -resolution. It did not cause the young woman to flinch or to lower her -gaze. She did not remember anything of this scene, one, nevertheless, -that was momentous for her, since it called down upon her the hatred of -the most vindictive and unjust of men. She did not remember anything -that had passed when she regained her room save one thing, and that was -quite foreign to herself. As she had listened to the Archduke's -passionate cry, wrung from him by wounded friendship, she saw, as though -in a flash of blinding revelation, what had been the strength of the -bonds uniting Olivier and Pierre. She realized keenly the sentiment that -linked them in their revolt against her—the revolt of suffering Man -against Woman and against Love. She understood at last the impulse that -had made them take refuge in a virile fraternal affection, the one -fortress which the fatal passion cannot subdue. She had seen the -passions of Love and Friendship in conflict. -</p> - -<p> -In Verdier's heart love had conquered. He had for the Prince only the -affection of a pupil for his master, of a debtor for his benefactor. It -was a sentiment made up of deference and gratitude. Besides, Verdier -esteemed the woman he loved. How different would have been his attitude -had he returned his protector's friendship with a similar sentiment, had -he felt for the Prince the affection that Olivier had for Pierre, that -Pierre had for Olivier! And, above all, what a change there would have -been in him had he had to condemn Miss Marsh as Pierre had been forced -to condemn his mistress! -</p> - -<p> -This analogy and its contrast forced themselves upon Ely's notice, when -she left the laboratory, with an intensity that completely exhausted all -the physical strength that was left in her. She was no longer supported -by the necessity of working for the sake of others. She was now alone, -face to face with her grief. And, as often happens after any violent -emotion that has been followed by too energetic efforts, she succumbed -under the shock. Hardly had she reached her room than she was -overpowered by an agonizing nervous headache. Such a crisis is really -the shattering of the nervous system, whose strength has been exhausted -by the force of will, and which has finally to surrender. -</p> - -<p> -Ely did not try to struggle any longer. She lay down on her bed like -some one in death agony, at one o'clock, after having sent off a -despatch to the one woman whose presence she felt she could support, the -one woman upon whom she could rely—to Louise Brion, whose devotion -she had almost forgotten during the past weeks. -</p> - -<p> -"She is my friend," she thought, "and our friendship is better than -theirs, for the friendship of those men is made up of hate!" -</p> - -<p> -In the extremity of her distress she, therefore, also had recourse to -the sentiment of friendship. She was mistaken in thinking that Louise -was more devoted to her than was Pierre to Olivier, or than was the -Archduke to Verdier. But she was not mistaken in thinking the devotion -of her friend was of a different character. In reality, feminine -friendship and masculine friendship have a striking difference. The -latter is almost always the mortal foe of love, while the former is most -often only love's complacent ally. It is rare that a man can regard with -any indulgence the mistress of his friend, while a woman, of even the -most upright character, has almost always a natural sympathy for her -friend's lover so long as he makes her friend happy; it is because the -majority of women have a tender feeling for love, for all love, for that -of others as well as for that which concerns them more closely. Men, on -the contrary, have an instinct which remains in them, a relic of the -savage despotism of an earlier barbarism. They do not sympathize with -any love that they do not feel, that they do not inspire. -</p> - -<p> -Louise Brion had felt a pity for Hautefeuille at the very moment when -she had received Ely's confession in the garden of her villa, at the -very moment she had implored her friend to give up the dangerous passion -she had inspired in the young Frenchman. From that evening she had felt -an interest in the young man, in his sentiments, in his movements, even -though at the time she was using all the eloquence that her trembling -affection could suggest to persuade Ely to see him no more. When Ely -gave herself up entirely to her passion later, Louise had withdrawn, had -effaced herself, on account of her scruples, and in order that she might -not be a witness of an intrigue which her conscience considered a great -crime. She had gone away through discretion, so as to not impose an -inopportune friendship on the two lovers, and delicacy had also had its -share in her retirement, for she had felt all the shrinking of the pure -woman from forbidden ecstasy. But she had not felt the least hostility -to Pierre in her retirement and self-effacement. Her tender woman's -imagination had not ceased to link him, in spite of herself, with the -romantic passion of her friend. The singular displacement of her -personality, which had always made her lead, in imagination, the life -Ely was living, rather than her own individual existence, had continued, -had been even accentuated. -</p> - -<p> -Since Olivier's return this identification of her feelings with those of -her dear friend had been more and more complete. The dinner at Monte -Carlo with the Du Prats in such close proximity had made her feverish -with anxiety. She had expected an appeal from her friend from that -moment. She had lived in expectancy of this summons to help Ely to bear -her terrors, to fight with her friend, to share the sufferings of a love -whose happiness she had vainly striven to ignore. -</p> - -<p> -She was thus neither surprised nor deceived by Ely's despatch, which -simply spoke of a little indisposition. She divined the catastrophe that -had happened at once, and before the end of the afternoon she was -sitting at the bedside of the poor woman, receiving, accepting, -provoking all her confidences, without any further inclination to -condemn her. She was ready to do anything to dry the tears that flowed -down the beloved face, to calm the fever that burned in the little hand -she held. She was ready for anything, weak enough for anything, with -indulgence for all and in the secret of all! -</p> - -<p> -For a day and a half Ely was helpless with a severe headache. Then she -asked her friend to assist her in her plans. Like all people of vigorous -frame, Ely was never either well or ill in extremes. When at last she -was able to sleep the heavy slumber that follows such a shock, she felt -as well, as energetic, as strong-willed as upon the day her happiness -had been so completely destroyed. But she did not knowhow to employ her -recovered energy. Again and again she asked herself the question, upon -whose answer her movements depended: "Is Pierre still in Cannes?" -</p> - -<p> -She hoped to see some one in the afternoon who would inform her, but -none of the visitors who came to see her even uttered Hautefeuille's -name. Upon her part she had not the courage to speak of the young man. -She felt that her voice could not utter the beloved syllables without -her face suffusing with blood, without her emotion being apparent to -every one. -</p> - -<p> -And yet there were only very dear friends who called upon her that -afternoon. Florence Marsh was one of the first. Her eyes were bright -with a deep, contented happiness. Her pleasant smile wreathed her lips -at every moment. -</p> - -<p> -"I felt that I had to come to thank you, my dear Baroness. I am engaged -to Monsieur Verdier. I shall never forget all that I owe you. My uncle -asked me to excuse him to you. He has so many things to do, and we leave -to-morrow upon the <i>Jenny</i>. My <i>fiancé</i> comes with us." -</p> - -<p> -How could Ely mingle any of the pain which oppressed her heart with the -joy whose innocence caused her deep suffering? How could she let -Andryana, who came in smiling at the footman's announcement, "Madame la -Comtesse de Corancez"—how could she let Andryana suspect her pain? -</p> - -<p> -"Well," said the Venetian, "Alvise took it very calmly. How childish it -was to be afraid! We might have spared ourselves so much trouble if I -had only spoken to him from the first. But," she added, "I do not regret -our folly. It is such a pleasant memory. And I had told such tales about -Alvise to Marius that he was afraid. What could he do to us now?" -</p> - -<p> -Next the Chésys arrived, Madame Chésy quivering with her new-found -gayety, while Gontran was simply astoundingly impertinent as he spoke -with aristocratic nonchalance of his rôle of horse-breeder in the West. -</p> - -<p> -"When horses are in question, poor Marsh is simply a child," he said. -"But he is such a lucky fellow. At the very moment that he undertakes -such an enterprise he finds me ready to hand!" -</p> - -<p> -"I am glad I am going to see the Americans at home," said Yvonne. "I am -not sorry to be able to give them a few lessons in real <i>chic</i>." -</p> - -<p> -How was Ely to trouble this little household of childlike Parisians? How -could she stop their amusing babble? She congratulated herself that they -did not even speak of the subject that lay so close to her heart. She -listened to them talking of their American expedition with a gayety that -gave the impression that they were once more playing at housekeeping, -forgetful of the terrible trial they had just gone through. -</p> - -<p> -Ely could not help envying them these faculties of forgetfulness, of -freshness, of illusion. But were not the destinies of Marsh, of Verdier, -and of Corancez all alike? Had they not all before them space, and the -future? Did they not resemble ships sailing upon a vast flood carrying -them toward the open ocean? Her destiny, on the contrary, was like that -of a boat locked in the narrow turn of a river, arrested and imprisoned -by some barrier beyond which lie the rapids, the cataract, the -precipice! A word uttered by Yvonne, who was wild with joy at the idea -of seeing Niagara, brought this simile up in Ely's mind. The idea -pleased her. It was a true image of her sentimental isolation. And while -her visitors stayed she looked incessantly at Louise as if she wished to -convince herself that there was one witness to her emotions, that there -was one heart capable of understanding her, of pitying her, of serving -her. Above all, of serving her! -</p> - -<p> -In spite of the conversation she listened to, notwithstanding the -questions to which she replied, her thoughts followed one idea. She felt -she must know if Pierre had left Cannes. And this was the question that -came quite naturally to her lips the instant she was alone with Madame -Brion. -</p> - -<p> -"You heard all they said?" she said to her. "I know no more than I did -before. Is Pierre still here? And if he is, when is he going away? Ah! -Louise!" -</p> - -<p> -She did not finish. The service she wanted to ask of her friend was of -too delicate a nature. She was ashamed of her own desire. But the tender -creature to whom she spoke understood her and was grateful to her for -her hesitation. -</p> - -<p> -"Why do you not speak frankly?" she said. "Would you like me to find out -for you?" -</p> - -<p> -"But how can you?" replied Ely, without feeling any astonishment at the -facility with which her weak-minded friend lent herself to a mission -that was so opposed to her own character, to her principles, and to her -reason. -</p> - -<p> -What result could possibly come from this inquiry about Pierre's -presence and about his approaching departure? Was not this the occasion -for Louise to repeat, with still more energy, the counsels she had given -to Ely after her first confidence? There could be nothing but silence -and forgetfulness between Madame de Carlsberg and Hautefeuille in -future. For them to see each other again would be simply to condemn them -to the most useless and painful explanations. For them to recommence -their relations would be purgatory. Louise Brion knew all this very -well. But she also knew that if she obeyed Ely's wishes, those dear -eyes, now so sad, would be brightened by a gleam of joy. And the only -reply she gave to the question was to rise and say:— -</p> - -<p> -"How can I arrange it? That is the simplest thing in the world. In half -an hour I shall know all you want to know. Have you the list of visitors -here?" -</p> - -<p> -"You'll find it on the fourth page of one of the papers," said Ely. "Why -do you wish to see it?" -</p> - -<p> -"In order to find the name of a person whom I know and who is staying at -the Hôtel des Palmes. I have it. Here it is, Madame Nieul. Try and be -patient until I get back." -</p> - -<p> -"Well," she said, re-entering the salon about half an hour later, as she -had said she would, "they are both here, and they do not leave for a few -days. Madame du Prat is very ill. It cost me little to find that out," -she added, with a little nervous smile. "I went to the Hôtel des Palmes -and asked if Madame Nieul was there, and sent up my card. Then I looked -through the list of visitors and questioned the secretary with an -indifferent air. 'I thought Monsieur and Madame du Prat had already -left,' I said to him. 'Do they stay much longer?' And his answer told me -all I wanted to know." -</p> - -<p> -"How good you were to take all that trouble for me!" replied Ely, taking -her hand and stroking it lovingly. "How I love you! It seems to have -given me a fresh lease of life. I feel that I shall see him again. And -you will help me to meet him. Promise me that. I must speak with him -once more, only once. I feel that I must tell him the truth, so that he -may know at least how well I have loved him, how sincere and passionate -and deep is my love for him! It is so hard not to know what he thinks of -me." -</p> - -<p> -Yes! What did Pierre Hautefeuille think of the mistress whom he had -idolized only a few days before, of the mistress who had stood so high -in his esteem, and who was suddenly convicted in his eyes so shamefully? -</p> - -<p> -Alas! The unhappy youth did not even know himself. He was not capable of -finding his way among the maze of ideas and of contradictory impressions -that crowded, jostled, and succeeded each other in his soul. If he had -been able to leave Cannes at once, this interior tumult might have been -less intense. It was the only plan to be followed after the vow that -Olivier and he had exchanged. They ought to have gone away, to have put -distance and time and events between them and the woman they both loved, -and that they had sworn to give up to their friendship. But what can the -will do, no matter what its strength, against imagination, sentiment, -against the emotion in the troubled depths of the heart? We are only -masters of our acts. We cannot govern our dreams, our regrets, and our -desires. They awake, quiver, and increase by themselves. They bring back -memories until recollection becomes an obsession. All the charm of -looks, of smiles, of a face, all the splendor of outline, the beauty of -form of a beloved creature, is made a living reality, and the old fever -once more burns in our veins. The mistress whom we have abandoned stands -before us. She wishes for us, she calls for us, she recovers possession -of us. And if we are in the same city with her, if it only requires a -quarter of an hour's walk to see her again, what courage is needed in -order not to yield! -</p> - -<p> -Pierre and Olivier felt the necessity of this saving flight, and they -had taken a resolution to go away. Then an unfortunate event kept them -in the hotel. As the secretary had told Louise Brion, Madame du Prat was -really ill. She had felt the influence of a shock too great for her -strength, and she could not recover from it. A weakness of the heart -remained, of such intensity that even when she could leave her bed and -stand erect, the least movement brought on palpitations that seemed to -suffocate her. The doctor studying her case forbade her to even attempt -to travel for several days. -</p> - -<p> -Under these circumstances, if Hautefeuille had been wise, he would have -gone away alone. This he did not do. It was impossible for him to leave -Du Prat alone in Cannes. He said to himself that it was because he could -not leave his friend at such a moment. If he had gone down to the bottom -of his heart, if he had probed the place where we dissemble thoughts of -which we are ashamed, where lie hidden plans and secret egoism, he would -have discovered that there were other motives that kept him there, -motives that were much more degrading. Although he had the most complete -confidence in Olivier's word, he trembled at the idea of his remaining -alone in the same town as Ely de Carlsberg. In spite of the heroic -effort to preserve a friendship that was so dear to them both, -notwithstanding the esteem, the tenderness and pity they felt for each -other, in spite of so many sacred recollections, in spite of honor, a -woman stood between them. And that woman had introduced with her all the -fatal influence that so quickly creeps into friendly relations, all the -instinctive jealousy, the quivering susceptibility and uneasy -taciturnity that destroys all. -</p> - -<p> -They were not long in feeling this. Each understood how deeply the fatal -poison had eaten into their souls. And soon they understood a thing that -is both strange and monstrous in appearance, and yet is really so -natural—they realized that the love whose death they had vowed in -the name of their friendship was now bound up in that friendship by the -closest ties! -</p> - -<p> -Neither one nor the other could think of his friend, could look at him, -or hear him, without immediately seeing Ely's image, without immediately -thinking of the mistress who had belonged to them both. They were in the -grasp of an idea that turned the few following days of intimacy into a -veritable crisis of madness, a madness that was all the more torturing -because they both avoided the name of the woman out of fidelity to their -promise. -</p> - -<p> -But was it necessary for them to speak of her, seeing that each knew the -other was thinking of her? How painful these few days were! Although -they were not many, they seemed interminable! -</p> - -<p> -They met the morning following their conversation about ten o'clock in -Olivier's salon. To hear them greet each other, to hear Pierre ask about -Berthe, to listen to Olivier's replies, and then to hear the two speak -of the paper they had been reading, of the weather, of what they were -going to do, one would never have thought their first meeting so -painful. Pierre felt that his friend was studying him. And he was -studying his friend. Each hungered and thirsted to know at once if the -other had had the same thoughts, or rather the same thought, during the -hours they had been separated. Each read this thought in the eyes of the -other, as distinctly as though it had been written upon paper like the -horrible sentence that had enlightened Pierre. The invisible phantom -stood between them, and they were silent. And yet they saw through the -open window that the radiant Southern spring still filled the sky with -blue, still beautified the roads with flowers and sweetened the air with -perfume. -</p> - -<p> -One of them proposed a walk, in the vain hope that a little of the -luminous serenity of nature might enter their souls. They used to like -to walk together formerly, thinking aloud, keeping step in their minds -as in their bodies. They went out, and after ten minutes conversation -came to an end between them. Instinctively, and without prearrangement, -they shunned the quarters in Cannes where they ran the risk of meeting -either Ely or any one of her set. They kept away from the Rue d'Antibes, -La Croisette, and the Quai des Yachts. They avoided even the pine forest -near Vallauris, where they had spoken of her upon the day that Olivier -arrived. -</p> - -<p> -Behind one of the hills which served as outposts to California, they -found a deserted valley, quite neglected on account of its northern -situation. In this valley there was a kind of wild park, which had been -for sale for years. There, in this ravine without horizon, they came -almost like two wounded animals taking refuge in the same fold. The -roads were so narrow that they could no longer walk abreast. This gave -them a pretext for ceasing to talk. The branches stung their faces, -their hands were torn with thorns before they arrived at the little -rivulet running at the bottom of the gorge. They sat down upon a rock -among the tall ferns, and the savageness of this corner of the world, so -solitary, and yet so close to the charming city, soothed their suffering -for a few moments. The fresh humidity of the vegetation growing in the -shadow recalled to their minds similar ravines in the woods of -Chaméane. And then they could speak again together, could recall their -childhood and their distant friendly souvenirs. It seemed as though they -felt their friendship dying away, and that they sought desperately the -place whence it had sprung in order to revive its force. From their -childhood they passed to their youth, to the years spent together in -college, to the impression the war had made upon them. -</p> - -<p> -But there was something forced in these glances backward. There was -something conventional, something prearranged, that arrested all freedom -of intercourse between them. They felt too keenly in comparison with -their former talks in the same way that the spontaneity, the plenitude -that had been the charm of their most unimportant conversations formerly -was now lacking. -</p> - -<p> -Was their affection any less than at that distant period? Would their -friendship never be happy again? Would it never be delivered from this -horrible taint of bitterness? -</p> - -<p> -In addition, during their morning and afternoon walks, they only were -witnesses to their suffering. If they did not speak freely of their -thoughts, at any rate there was no deception. There was no necessity to -act before each other. This was all changed during the meal times. They -lunched and dined in the salon so that Berthe could be present. -</p> - -<p> -The immediate recommencement of a daily familiarity after such scenes as -those which had taken place between the two friends and the young woman -appeared at first impossible. In reality it is quite simple and easy. -Family life is made up of that only. Olivier and Pierre forced -themselves to talk gayly and incessantly out of delicacy toward their -companion. The effort was a painful one. And then even the most guarded -conversation may be full of danger. A phrase, a word even, was -sufficient to send the minds of both back to their relations with Ely. -If Olivier made any allusion to something in Italy, Pierre's imagination -would turn to Rome. He could see Ely, his Ely of the terrace covered -with white and red camellias, his Ely of the garden of Ellenrock, his -Ely of the night he had spent at sea. But instead of coming to him she -was going toward Olivier. Instead of pressing him to her heart, she -flung her arms round Olivier and kissed him. And the vision, prompted by -a retrospective jealousy, tortured him. -</p> - -<p> -And if, on his part, he made the most innocent allusion to the beauty of -the promenades around Cannes, he saw his friend's eyes dim with a pain -which recalled his own sufferings. Olivier could see him in thought -walking with Ely, taking her in his arms, kissing her lips. This -communion of suffering in the same thought, while it wrung their souls, -attracted them with a morbid fascination. How they wished at such -moments to question each other about the most secret details of their -reciprocal romance! How they wished to know all, to understand all, to -suffer at every episode! -</p> - -<p> -When they were alone, a final remnant of dignity forbade them giving way -to these hideous confidences, and, when Berthe was there at table, they -turned the conversation at once so as not to cause any suffering to the -young woman. They could hear her breathe with that uneven respiration, -at times short and at others too deep, the breathing that reveals -heart-disease. And this sensation of a physical suffering so close to -them stirred up a remorse in Olivier and a pity in Pierre that took away -all power to act. -</p> - -<p> -Thus the mornings and afternoons and evenings passed away. And both -awaited with fear and impatience the moment of retiring. With -impatience, because solitude brought with it the liberty of giving -themselves up completely to their sentiments; with fear, because they -both felt that the vow they had exchanged had not settled the conflict -between their love and their friendship. -</p> - -<p> -It is written, "Thou shalt not commit adultery." And the Book adds, "He -that hath looked upon the wife of another with desire in his heart hath -already committed adultery." The phrase is admirable in its truth. It -defines in a word the moral identity that exists between thought and -act, concupiscence and possession. The conscience of the two friends was -too delicate not to feel with shame that their thoughts, when once -alone, were but one long, passionate infidelity to their vow. -</p> - -<p> -Olivier would begin to walk about from his room to that of his wife when -Pierre had left him, talking to her, trying to utter affectionate words, -fighting against the haunting idea which he knew would completely -possess him shortly. Immediately he entered his room, what he called -"his temptation" grasped him, bound him, and dominated him. All his -Roman souvenirs recurred to his imagination. He saw Ely again. Hot the -proud, coquettish Ely of former times, not the woman he had brutalized -while desiring her, hated while loving her, through despair of never -possessing her completely, but the Ely of the present moment, the woman -whom he had seen so tender, so passionate, so sincere, with a soul that -resembled her beauty. And all his soul went out toward this woman in an -impulse of love and longing. He spoke to her aloud, appealing to her -like a madman. The tone of his own voice would awake him from his dream. -He felt all the horror and madness of this childishness. He realized the -crime of his cowardly yearning. He thought of his friend, saying to -himself, "If he only knew!" He would like to have begged his pardon for -the impossibility of ceasing to love Ely, and also pardon for having -made the vow he had not the power to keep. He knew that at the same -moment Pierre was suffering as he was himself. The idea was dreadful. At -these moments of his martyrdom one thought recurred again and again to -Olivier's mind, one idea possessed his heart. He felt that he ought to -go to Pierre and say: "You love her, and she loves you. Remain with her, -and forget me." -</p> - -<p> -Alas! when such a project, with all its supreme magnanimity, occurred to -him, he felt strongly that Pierre would reply, No! and that he himself -was not sincere. He understood it with a mingling of terror and shame. -In spite of all it was a joy for him—a savage, hideous joy, but -still a joy—to think that if Ely was no longer his mistress she -would nevermore be the mistress of his friend. -</p> - -<p> -They were cruel moments. The time was not less miserable for Pierre. He -also, the moment he was alone, tried not to think of Ely. And in trying -he felt that he was yielding. In order to drive her image away he would -call up in his mind the image of his friend, and this formed the very -nature of his suffering. He would tell himself that Olivier had been -this woman's lover, and this fact, which he knew to be the truth, which -he knew to be of the most complete, the most, indisputable verity, took -possession of his brain. He felt as though a hand had taken him by the -head, a hand that would never let him go again. -</p> - -<p> -While Olivier was thinking about his mistress in Rome, a softened, -ennobled mistress, transformed by the love that Pierre inspired in her, -Pierre perceived, beyond the sweet and gentle Ely of the past winter, -the woman whom Olivier had described to him without naming her. He saw -her again, coquettish and perverse, with the same beautiful face in -which he had believed so sincerely. He told himself that she had had two -other lovers, one when she was Olivier's mistress and one before then. -Olivier, Pierre, and those two men made four, and probably there were -others of whom he did not know. The idea that this woman, whom he had -believed he possessed in all the purity of her soul, had simply passed -from one adultery to another, the idea that she had come to him sullied -by so many intrigues, maddened him with pain. All the episodes of his -delightful romance, of his fresh and lovely idyl, faded away and became -vile in his eyes. He saw nothing in it now save the lustful desire of a -woman, wounded in her pride, who had attracted him by one artful plan -after another. -</p> - -<p> -Then he would open the drawer in which he preserved the relics of what -had been his happiness. He would take out the cigarette case he had -bought at Monte Carlo with such happiness. The sight of this foreign -trinket wounded his soul, for it brought back to him the words uttered -by his friend in the woods of Vallauris, "She had lovers before me; at -any rate she had one, a Russian, who was killed at Plevna." -</p> - -<p> -It was probably this lover who had given Ely the object around which he, -Pierre, had woven so many cherished ideas, which he had worshipped -almost with a scrupulous piety. This ironical contrast was so -humiliating that the young man quivered with indignation. -</p> - -<p> -Then he would see in another corner of the drawer the packet of letters -from his mistress. He had not had strength to destroy them. Other words -spoken by Olivier recurred to his memory—words in which he had -affirmed, had vowed that she had loved him, Pierre, truly and sincerely. -Did not every detail of their romantic intimacy prove that Olivier was -right? Was it possible that she had lied upon the yacht, at Genoa, and -in so many other unforgetable hours? A passionate desire to see her -again took possession of Pierre. It appeared to him that if he could -only see her, question her, understand her, his sufferings would be -soothed. He imagined the questions that he would ask and her replies. He -could hear her voice. All his energy melted away before the fatal -weakness of his desire, a degraded desire whose sensuality was sharpened -by scorn. And at such moments the young man hated himself. He remembered -his vow. He remembered all he owed to his self-respect, all he owed to his -friend. What he had said at the moment of the sacrifice was true—he -felt that it was true. If ever he again saw Ely, nevermore could he meet -Olivier. He had a confused impression already that he hated them both. -He had suffered so much from him on her account; so much from her on his -account. Honor finally always won the day, and he would hold himself -erect, strengthen himself in the renunciation he had resolved upon. "It -is only a trial," he said to himself, "and it will not last forever. -Once I am far from here I shall forget it." -</p> - -<p> -This singular existence had lasted five days, when two incidents -happened, one after the other, one caused by the other—two incidents -that were to have a decisive influence upon the tragic dénouement of -the tragic situation. -</p> - -<p> -The first was a visit from the jovial and artful Corancez. Pierre had, -in fact, expected him before. In order to put a bar to any tentative at -reconciliation, the young man had given strict orders that he was at -home to no one. But Corancez was one of those people who have the gift -of triumphing over the most difficult obstacles. And on the morning of -the sixth day, a morning as bright and radiant as the one upon which -they had visited the Jenny together, Hautefeuille saw him again enter -his room, the everlasting bunch of pinks in his buttonhole, a smile on -his lips, a healthy color in his face, and his eyes bright with -happiness. A patch of dry collodion upon his temple bore witness to the -fact that he had received a severe blow either the night before or very -recently. The purple swelling was still visible. But this sign of an -accident did not diminish his good humor nor the gayety of his -physiognomy. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, this little cut," he said to Hautefeuille, after having lightly -excused himself for insisting upon seeing him, "you want to know what -caused it? Well, it's another proof of my luck. And, in spite of the -homily of Monseigneur Lagumina, the Frenchman has cheated the Italian. -It was caused by a little attempt that my brother-in-law made to bring -about my death. That is all," he added, with his usual jesting laugh. -</p> - -<p> -"You are not speaking seriously," said Hautefeuille. -</p> - -<p> -"I never was more serious in my life," replied Corancez. "But it is -written that I shall meet with a cheerful end. I do not lend myself to -tragedy, it appears. In the first place, you know that my marriage was -made public about five days ago. That is why you have not seen me -before. I had to pay my wedding visits to all the highnesses and lords -in Cannes. I met with a great deal of sympathy and provoked a vast -amount of astonishment. Everybody was asking, 'But why did you have a -secret marriage?' Acting under my advice, Andryana invented an old vow -as the reason. Everybody thought it was very original and very charming. -</p> - -<p> -"I had even too much success, above all with Alvise. He only made one -reproach—that we had hidden it from him, that we had ever supposed -for a moment he would have stood in the way of his sister's happiness. It -was 'my brother' here, 'my brother' there. It was the only thing one -heard in the entire house. But we Southerners understand revenge, -particularly when Corsicans, Sardinians, or Italians are in question. I -asked myself at every moment, 'When is the sword going to fall?'" -</p> - -<p> -"It was very imprudent of him to get so quickly to work," interrupted -Pierre. -</p> - -<p> -"You don't know the anecdote," said Corancez, "of some one who saw a -poor devil going past on his way to the gallows. 'There is a man who has -miscalculated,' he said. Every murderer does that, and, after all, he -hadn't calculated so badly as you think. Who would ever have suspected -Count Alvise Navagero of having made away with his sister's husband, the -man who was his intimate friend? I told you before that he was a man of -the time of Machiavelli, very modernized. -</p> - -<p> -"Just judge for yourself. I kept my eyes open, without appearing to -notice anything. A couple of days ago, just about this hour, he proposed -that we should go for a bicycle ride. It's funny, isn't it, the idea of -Borgia bicycling along a public road with his future victim? I suppose I -am the only one who ever enjoyed this spectacle. We were going along as -quick as the wind, descending the winding road of Villauris upon the -edge of a species of cliff which cut sheer down at one side, when -suddenly I felt my machine double up under me. I was thrown about twenty -metres—on the opposite side to the abyss, luckily. That's the cause -of this cut. I was not killed. In fact, I was so little hurt that I -distinctly read on my companion's face something which made me think -that my accident belonged to the sixteenth century, in spite of the -prosaic means employed. Navagero went off to get a carriage to bring me -back. When I was alone I dragged myself to the ruins of my bicycle, -which still lay in the road, and I saw that a file had been cleverly -used on two of the pieces in such a way that, after a half hour of -violent exercise, the whole thing would break up—and me with it." -</p> - -<p> -"And didn't you have the wretch arrested?" asked Hautefeuille. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I don't like a scandal in the family," replied Corancez, who was -enjoying his effect. "Besides, my brother-in-law would have maintained -that he had nothing to do with it. And how could I have proved that he -had? No, I simply opened my other eye, the best one, knowing very well -that he would not wait long before recommencing. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, yesterday evening, before dinner, I entered the salon and there I -found this rascal with his eyes gaining so brightly and with such a -contented air that I said at once to myself, 'It is going to take place -this evening.' -</p> - -<p> -"I can't explain how it was that I began to think about Pope Alexander -VI. and the poisoned wine which killed him. I suppose I have a good -scent, like foxhounds. You know, or perhaps you don't know, that -Andryana drinks nothing but water, and that Anglomaniac, my -brother-in-law, only drinks whiskey and soda. -</p> - -<p> -"'I think to-night,' I said, when we were at table, and wine was offered -me, 'I think I will follow your example. Give me some whiskey.' -</p> - -<p> -"'All right,' he replied. -</p> - -<p> -"To be poisoned with an English drink by a Venetian struck me as rather -novel. At the same time he was so calm when I refused to take any wine -that I thought I must have been mistaken. But he praised a certain port -that he has received from Lord Herbert so highly that I at once had the -idea that this was the particular wine I must not touch. He pressed it -upon me. I allowed the servant to pour me out a glass and smelled it. -</p> - -<p> -"'What a singular odor,' I said to him, calmly. 'I am sure there must be -something in this wine.' -</p> - -<p> -"'It must be a bad bottle,' said Navagero; 'throw it away.' -</p> - -<p> -"His voice, his look, his bearing, convinced me. I felt I was right. I -said nothing. But at the moment the <i>maître d'hôtel</i> was going to take -away my glass I laid my hand upon it, and asked for a little bottle. -</p> - -<p> -"'I am going to take this wine to an analyst,' I said, with the most -natural air in the world. 'They say that port made for the English -market never even sees a grape. I am curious to know if that is the -truth.' -</p> - -<p> -"They brought me a little bottle, and with the greatest calmness -possible I filled it with the wine, corked it up and placed the bottle -in my pocket. I wish you could have seen my brother-in-law's expression. -We had a little explanation later on in the evening, at the end of which -it was decided between us, in quite a friendly way, that I would not -denounce him to the police, but that he would leave for Venice to-day. -He will reside in the Palace, he will have a decent income, and I am -certain he will not begin again. I warned him, in any case, I would have -the wine analyzed, and that the result of this analysis would be placed -somewhere safely. I may tell you that he had put a strong dose of -strychnine in the bottle. I have two copies of the analyst's report. One -of them I have given to Madame de Carlsberg and the other I would like -you to keep. Will you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Gladly," replied Pierre, taking the paper that the Southerner held out -to him. -</p> - -<p> -Such is the egoism of passion that, notwithstanding the astounding -adventure of which he had just been made the confidant, Ely's name, -uttered by chance, had moved him more than all the rest. It appeared to -him that, as he spoke of Madame de Carlsberg, Corancez looked at him -inquisitively. He wondered whether he had brought a message for him. No! -Ely was not a woman to choose such a man as Corancez as ambassador. -</p> - -<p> -But Corancez was just the man to undertake such a conciliatory mission -upon his own responsibility. He had gone to Ely's villa the night before -to tell her the same story and to ask of her the same service. He had -naturally spoken of Hautefeuille, and he had suspected a quarrel. This -strange creature had a real affection, almost a religion, for Pierre. He -felt a tender gratitude to Ely. Forgetting his own story, of which he -was nevertheless very proud, he at once began to try to bring the two -lovers together again. With all his intelligence he could not guess the -truth of the tragedy being enacted in the souls of these two beings. He -had seen them so loving and so happy together! He thought that to tell -Pierre that Ely was suffering would be sufficient to bring him back to -her. -</p> - -<p> -"Is it long since you saw Madame de Carlsberg?" he asked, after having -finished commenting upon his adventure, which he did very modestly, for -he was amiable enough in his triumph. -</p> - -<p> -"Not for several days," replied Hautefeuille. And the question made his -heart beat. -</p> - -<p> -In order to keep his word scrupulously, he ought not to have permitted -his wily friend to go any further. On the contrary, he could not resist -asking:— -</p> - -<p> -"Why?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, nothing," said Corancez. "I only wished to ask your opinion about -her. I am not satisfied that she is very well. She was very charming -last night, as usual, but nervous and melancholy. I am afraid her -household affairs are going from bad to worse, and that brute of an -Archduke is leading her a life of martyrdom—all the more because she -has helped Verdier to marry Miss Marsh. Did you not know? Dickie, our -friend of the Jenny, has left for the East with the Chésys, his niece, -and Verdier on board. You can just imagine the Prince's fury." -</p> - -<p> -"So you think he is cruel with her?" asked Pierre. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't think it, I am sure. Go and see her, it will do her good. She -feels a real affection for you. Of that I am convinced. And she was -thinking about you, I feel certain, when she said that all her friends -had abandoned her." -</p> - -<p> -So she was unhappy! While Corancez was speaking, it seemed to Pierre -that he heard the echo of the sigh that had issued from the heart of the -woman he loved so much! He saw again the sad, longing look of the -mistress he judged so harshly. This indirect contact with her, short as -it was, moved him deeply—so deeply, in fact, that Olivier noticed his -agitation. He immediately suspected that something had happened. -</p> - -<p> -"I met Corancez leaving the hotel," he said. "Did you see him?" -</p> - -<p> -"He has just paid me a long visit," replied Pierre. He told Olivier the -story of the two attempts which had been made upon the life of -Andryana's husband. -</p> - -<p> -"He would only have had what he deserves," said Olivier. "You know what -my opinion is about him and his marriage. Was that all he had to tell -you?" -</p> - -<p> -There was a short silence. Then he added:— -</p> - -<p> -"He did not speak to you of—you know whom?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," replied Pierre. -</p> - -<p> -"And it has pained you?" asked Olivier. -</p> - -<p> -"Very much." -</p> - -<p> -The two friends looked at each other. For the first time in six days -they had made a definite allusion to the being constantly in their -thoughts. Olivier hesitated, as if the words he was going to say were -beyond his strength. Then he went on in a dull tone of voice:— -</p> - -<p> -"Listen, Pierre," he began; "you are too miserable. This state of things -cannot last. I am going away the day after to-morrow. Berthe is almost -well again. The doctor authorizes her to return to Paris; he even -advises it. Let things stay as they are for another forty-eight hours; -then, when I am no longer here, return to her. I release you from your -vow. I shall not see her, and I shall not know that you have seen her. -Let what is past remain dead between us. You love her more than you love -me. Let that love triumph." -</p> - -<p> -"You are mistaken, Olivier," replied Pierre. "Of course it pains me; I -do not deny it. But the suffering does not come from my -resolution—that I have never regretted for a moment. No, the -suffering is caused by the past. But it is past, and forever. It would -be intolerable for us both were I to return to her under these -conditions. No, I have given you my word and I repeat it. As to what you -say, that I love her more than I love you, you have only to look at me." -</p> - -<p> -Big, heavy tears were in his eyes and rolling down his cheeks as he -spoke. Tears also sprang from Olivier's heart to his eyes at the sight. -For a few moments they remained without speaking. This common suffering, -after their long silence, brought their souls closer together again. The -same impulse of pity had made Olivier release Pierre from his vow and -had made Pierre refuse to be released. It was the same impulse of pity -that brought tears to their eyes. Each pitied the other and each felt he -was pitied. Their affection returned in all its strength, and their -friendship moved them so deeply that once again love was conquered. -</p> - -<p> -Pierre was the first to dry his eyes. With the same resolute tone as -when he made his vow, he said: "I shall leave when you do, in two days, -and it will not cause me a single pang. To remain here would be -impossible. I will not do you that injustice. I will not be a traitor to -our friendship." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, my dear boy," replied Olivier, "you give me a fresh lease of life. -I would have left you without a single reproach, without a complaint. I -was very sincere in my proposition, but it was too hard. I believe it -would have killed me." -</p> - -<p> -After this conversation they passed an afternoon and evening that were -strangely quiet, almost happy. When the soul is ill, there are such -moments of respite, just as when the body is diseased—moments of -languid calm, when it appears as though one were brought to life again, -still feeble and bruised, it is true. -</p> - -<p> -This sensation of recovery, fragile and feeble though it might be, was -increased in the two friends by the convalescence of Berthe. Olivier had -contented her and brought about her recovery, by what charitable -deceptions no one but he knew. But the young wife was much better and -could walk about, devoting her attention to the many details of their -approaching departure. She was so visibly happy to go away that a tiny -trace of reserve seemed to melt away before her pleasure. She had -suffered so much in these last few days, and the suffering had been -sufficient to awake her feminine tact from its long sleep. She had made -a resolution. It was to win her husband's love, and to merit it. Such -efforts are touching to a man who can understand them, for they indicate -such humility and so much devotion. It is so hard for a young wife, it -is so opposed to her instincts of sentimental pride, to beg for a -sentiment, to provoke it, to conquer. It is so hard to be loved because -she loves, and not because she is loved. -</p> - -<p> -Olivier had too much delicacy not to feel this shade of sentiment. He -gave himself up to the peculiar impression which a man feels who suffers -through a woman, when he receives from another the caresses of which his -unhappy love has taught him the value. He smiled at Berthe as he had -never previously smiled, and Pierre was even deceived by this -semi-cheerfulness of his friend. Was it not in a certain sense his own -work? Was it not the price of the sacrifice he had made when he had -renewed his vow? It was one of those moments which often appear just -before the event of some great crisis of which the deceitful calmness -impresses our mind later, which astonishes us and makes us tremble when -we look back. Nothing bears a more eloquent witness that life is but a -dream, that we are simply the playthings of a superior power which urges -us along the road we have to take, in which we can never see to-day what -to-morrow will bring forth. Danger approaches and stands face to face -with us. The masters of our destiny are by our side. They live and -breathe without seeming to realize the work which is reserved for them. -Is it hazard, fatality, providence? What lot does Fate reserve for us? -</p> - -<p> -Corancez called on Friday. The friends were to leave Cannes on Sunday. -On Saturday morning, about eleven o'clock, Hautefeuille was in his room -packing some of his clothes, when a knock at the door startled him. -Although he was firmly resolved to keep his word, he could not help -hoping. Hoping for what? He could not have told himself. But an -unconscious, irresistible intuition warned him that Ely would not let -him go without trying to see him again. And yet she had not given any -sign of life since he had returned her letter. She had not sent any one -to see him, for Corancez had come without her knowledge. But the young -man was in the state of nervous anxiety which presages and precedes any -great event close at hand. And his voice trembled as he called out "Come -in" to the unknown visitor who knocked at his door. He knew that this -visitor, no matter who it was, came from Ely. -</p> - -<p> -It was simply one of the hotel servants. He brought a letter. It had -been delivered by a messenger who had gone away without waiting for a -reply. Hautefeuille looked at the envelope without opening it. Was he -going to read this letter? He knew it had been sent him by Madame de -Carlsberg. The address was not written in her handwriting. Pierre cast -about in his memory to find out where he had seen this nervous, uneven, -almost timid-looking writing. All at once he remembered the anonymous -note he had received after the evening spent at Monte Carlo. He had -shown it to Ely, who had said, "It is from Louise." The letter he held -in his hand also came from Madame Brion. -</p> - -<p> -There was no longer any possible doubt. To open the envelope was to -communicate with Ely, to seek to hear from her, to break his word, to -betray his friend. Pierre felt all this, and, throwing the tempting -letter from him, he remained for a long while his face buried in his -hands. To do him justice, he did not try to excuse himself by any -sophistry. "I ought not to read this letter," he thought. "I ought not -to read it!" And then, after a few moments, after having locked the door -like a robber preparing for his work, his face purple with shame, he -suddenly tore the envelope open with trembling hand. A letter fell out, -followed by a second envelope, sealed and unaddressed. If there had -remained the least doubt in Pierre's mind as to the contents of this -second envelope, Madame Brion's note would have dissipated it. It read -as follows:— -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -"DEAR SIR—A few weeks ago you received a letter which begged you to -leave Cannes, and not to bring a certain misfortune upon some one who -was severely tried and who merited your regard. You did not listen to -the advice contained in this letter from an unknown friend. The dreaded -misfortune has now arrived, and the same friend begs you not to repulse -the second appeal as you did the first. The person into whose life you -have entered and taken up so large a place never hopes to recover the -happiness of which she has been robbed. All that she asks is that you -will not condemn her unheard. If you will search in your conscience, you -will admit that she has the right to ask it. She has written you a -letter which you will find enclosed in this one. Do not send it back, as -you did her first, with a harshness that is not natural to you. If you -ought not to read it, destroy it at once. But if you do, you will be -very cruel to a being who has given you all that has remained in her -that is sincere, noble, delicate, and true." -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -Pierre read again and again the simple, awkward sentences that were yet -so eloquent to him. He felt in them all the passionate fondness Louise -Brion had for Ely. He was touched by them as all unhappy lovers are -touched by proofs of devotion shown to their mistress. He felt such a -longing to know that she was loved, protected, and cared for, although -at the same moment he hated her with the most implacable hatred, -although he was ready to condemn her with all the madness of rage. And -what devotion could be greater than this shown by the pure-minded Louise -in going from weakness to weakness so far as to charge herself with a -letter from Ely to Hautefeuille. She had longed to go in person to the -Hôtel des Palmes to ask for Pierre, to speak with him, to give him the -envelope herself, but she had not dared. Perhaps she would have failed -had she done so, whereas this indirect expedient conquered the young -man's scruples. The emotions that the simple note had aroused left him -powerless to contend with the flood of loving souvenirs that swept over -him. He opened the second envelope and read:— -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -"PIERRE—I do not know whether you will even read these few words, -whether I am not writing them in vain, just as the tears that I have -shed in thinking of you ever since that frightful day have been shed -vainly. I do not know whether you will let me tell you once more how I -love you, whether you will let me tell you that I never loved any one in -the world except you, that I feel I shall never love any one else. But I -must tell it to you with the hope that my plea may reach you, the humble -plea of a heart that suffers less from its own pain than from the -knowledge that it has caused you to suffer. When I received back the other -letter I wrote,—the one that you would not open,—my heart bled -at the thought that you must have been mad with pain, or you would not -have been so harsh with me. And I felt nothing except that you were -suffering. -</p> - -<p> -"No, my beloved, I cannot speak to you in any other way than I have done -since the hour when I called you to me to ask you to go away, the hour -when I took you in my arms. I have tried to conquer my feelings. It -caused me too much pain not to disclose all that I felt. If you do not -read these lines, you will not hate me for the loving words I have said -to you, for you will not know of them. But if you read them—ah! if -you read them you will remember the hours which passed so quickly on the -seashore in the shade of the calm pines at the Cap d'Antibes, the hours -spent upon the deck of the yacht, hours spent at Genoa before you were -struck down by the terrible blow, hours when I could still see you -happy, when I could still make you happy! You do not know, sweetheart, -you cannot know, what it is for a woman to make the man she loves happy! -If I did not tell you at once what you know to-day, it was because of -the certainty that never again should I see in your eyes the clear light -of complete happiness which shone from your enraptured soul—a light -that I have seen so much and loved so much. -</p> - -<p> -"Understand me, beloved, I do not wish to excuse my crime. I was never -worthy of you. You were beauty, youth, and purity—all that is best, -tenderest, and most loving in this world. I had lost the right to be -loved by such a man as you. I ought to have told you the first day I met -you. Then, if you had wished for me, you could have taken me and left me -like a poor being that only lived for you, that was only made to please -you a moment, to distract you and then say good-by. I thought of it, -believe me, and I have paid very dearly for the movement not of pride, -but of love. I had a horror of being despised by you. And then the woman -that you had called into being in me was so different from what I had -been before I knew you. I said to myself, 'I am not deceiving him.' And, -believe me, I did not lie when I told you that I loved you. My heart was -so completely changed. All! how I loved you! How I loved you! You will -never know how much nor even I myself. It was something so deeply -implanted in my heart, it was so sad when I thought of what might have -been if I had only waited for you. -</p> - -<p> -"You see, Pierre, that I speak of myself in the past as one speaks of -the dead. Do not be afraid. I have not any idea of ending my life. I -have caused you too much sorrow to increase your suffering by remorse. I -live, and I shall live, if that can be called living in a being who has -known you, who has loved and been beloved by you, and who has lost you. -I know that you are leaving Cannes, that you are going away to-morrow. I -cannot think that you will leave me forever without speaking to me. My -hand trembles even in writing. I cannot find the words with which to -explain my thoughts. Yet it will be too cruel if you leave me without -giving me the opportunity of making what excuse I have for the life I -once led. If you were near me for only one hour, you could go away and -then you would think differently of me. What once was can never be -again. But I wish to carry with me into the solitude which will surround -my life in future the consolation of thinking that you see me as I am, -and that you do not believe me capable of something I have never -committed. My beloved, the time is so short. You leave to-morrow. When -you read this letter, if you do read it, we shall not even have an -entire day to be in the same city. If you do read my poor letter, if it -touches you, if you find that my request is not too great, come to me at -the hour you used to come. At eleven o'clock I will wait for you in the -hothouse. If you condemn me without any appeal, if you refuse to grant -me this last interview, good-by again, and again good-by. Not a reproach -will ever find place in my heart, and I shall always say forever and -ever, 'Thanks, my beloved, for having loved me.'" -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -"I will not go," said the young man to himself, when he had finished -reading the pages, eloquent with a passionate emanation of love. He -repeated: "I will not go." But he felt that he was not frank with -himself. He knew that he could not resist. He knew that he would yield -to her imploring appeal, that he would obey the voice of the woman, a -voice whose music rang in every word of her letter, a voice that -implored him, that told of her adoration, that soothed his wounded heart -like a sad caress sweet as death. -</p> - -<p> -But the nearer Pierre drew to the meeting-place the more he felt an -unspeakable sadness. His action appeared to him so culpable when he -realized all its infamy that he was overwhelmed. And yet he would not -draw back. On and on he went. The love potion the words of the letter -had poured into his veins continued to dominate his failing will. He -went on, but the contrast between this despicable, clandestine walk to a -woman that he despised, to a woman who made him despise himself for -longing for her, was very different from the pilgrimages he used to make -toward the same villa, along the same road, filled with a happy fervor. -</p> - -<p> -And Olivier? Heaven! if Olivier could see him at present! If Olivier, -whom he was betraying so cruelly, could only see him! -</p> - -<p> -The tension of his nerves was so great, he was so shaken by the double -emotions of love and remorse, that the tiniest noise startled him. The -surrounding objects took on an aspect that was both menacing and -fantastic. His heart beat and his nerves quivered. He was afraid. He -seemed to hear footsteps following him in the night, and he stopped to -listen. At the moment that he was going to ascend the slope by which he -had been accustomed to enter Ely's garden, the idea that he was being -followed became so strong that he retraced his steps, peering about -along the road, among the bushes and heaps of stones. He avoided the -strong rays of light of an electric lamp standing on one of the pillars -of the fence as though he had been a robber. -</p> - -<p> -His examination, however, was fruitless. But the idea was so strong that -he was afraid to enter by the same path. It appeared too open, too easy -of access. He began to run, as though he had really been followed, -around the little park which ended the garden of the villa at its upper -end. A wall enclosed a part of it. With the help of the branches of an -oak growing at its foot, he climbed over. While still on the coping he -listened again. He heard but the sound of the dying breeze, the -quivering of the foliage, the vast silence of night, and far, far away, -the barking of a dog in some isolated house. He thought he must have -been dreaming, and slipped down on the other side of the wall. It was -about three metres in height, and he was lucky enough to fall upon a -spot of soft earth. Then he made his way toward the house. -</p> - -<p> -A few minutes later he was at the door of the greenhouse. He pushed it -open gently and Ely's hand took his own. -</p> - -<p> -But what would have been his thoughts if he had known that his fears -were well founded, if he had known that he had been followed since he -left the hotel, that the witness whose presence he had felt so near him -in the dark, until the moment he began to run, was none other than -Olivier? -</p> - -<p> -The house stood closed and silent in all the mystery of its shadows, -with isolated spots of light where the lamp shone full upon it. The same -vast silence of night that had oppressed Pierre while upon the wall, the -silence broken by the distant baying of a dog, still enveloped the -country. The trees still quivered, and the flowers poured forth their -perfume. The stars still shone, and Olivier remained motionless at the -edge of the garden, in the place where he had thrown himself down so -that his friend might not see him. -</p> - -<p> -His suffering at this moment was not the suffering of some one who -struggles and fights. When he saw Pierre at luncheon, his contracted -features, his shining eyes, his trembling lips, had revealed to him that -something had happened. He was so weary of fighting, so tired of always -struggling with his own heart, of seeing so much suffering in his -friend's heart! Besides, what more could he ask him after the -conversation of the night before? So he kept silent. What was the good -of continually torturing each other? -</p> - -<p> -Then, as Hautefeuille's agitation increased, his suspicions were -aroused. He thought, "She has written to him asking for a meeting!" But -no, it was not possible! To receive a letter from Ely, read it, and not -speak about it was a crime against their friendship under their present -relations that Pierre would never be guilty of. Olivier struggled to -convince himself of the madness of his suspicion. The emotion of his -friend communicated itself to him. He felt, when he took his hand upon -separating for the night, that his betrayal was near, was certain, was -even then an accomplished fact! -</p> - -<p> -Why did he not speak to him at that moment? A heart that has been -deceived often yields to such an impulse of renunciation. It is -impossible to struggle against certain unexpected events, it is -impossible to complain of them. What reproach could he make to Pierre? -What was the good of reproaching him if he had really conceived the idea -of breaking the compact he had entered into with him? Yes, what was the -good? And Olivier remained leaning upon the windowsill, summoning up all -his dignity to keep from going to his friend's room while repeating that -it was impossible. -</p> - -<p> -And then, at a certain moment, he thought he saw Pierre's profile as -some one crossed the garden of the hotel. This time he could resist no -longer. He felt compelled to go down and question the concierge. He -learned that Pierre had just gone out. A few minutes later he himself -took the direction of the Villa Helmholtz. He recognized his friend and -followed him. He saw him turn, listen, and go on again. Just as Pierre -was entering the garden, Olivier could not help making a step forward. -It was at this moment that Pierre heard him. Olivier drew back into the -darkness. His friend passed quite close to him. Indeed, he almost -touched him, and then began to run, most probably toward another -entrance with which he was familiar, and Olivier ceased to follow him. -</p> - -<p> -He sank down on the slope and gave way to unutterable despair, in which -were reunited and collected all the sorrow and suffering he had gone -through during the last two weeks. He knew that at that very minute, in -the silent house so near him, Ely and Pierre were together. He knew that -they had forgiven each other, that they loved each other. And the -thought caused him a pang of agony so keen that he could not move. He -almost fainted under the emotions caused by his passionate love for this -woman and the sentiment that his friend, a friend so dear to him, had -trampled him under foot on his way to her, mingled with the tortures of -jealousy and the bitterness of betrayal. He ended by flinging himself, -face downward, upon the cold earth, the gentle earth that takes us all -into her embrace one day, whose weight, while crushing us down, also -crushes out the intolerable sufferings of our heart. There he lay, his -arms extended, his face buried in the grass, like a corpse, longing for -death, longing to be free, longing to love this woman no more, to never -again see his friend, to have finished with existence, to sleep the -sleep that is without dreams, without memory, a sleep in which Ely and -Pierre and himself would seem as though they had never been. -</p> - -<p> -How long did he remain thus, face to the ground, a prey to the complete, -irremediable sorrow which ends by calming the heart through its very -intensity? A sound of voices behind the hedge which separated him from -the garden aroused him abruptly from the paroxysm of suffering which had -overwhelmed him. They came from some men walking without a light, -measuring their steps, speaking in muffled tones. They came so close to -Olivier that he could have touched them if he had risen to his feet. -</p> - -<p> -"He entered here, and went out again by this place the other nights that -he came, monseigneur," said one of the voices, a whispering, -insinuating, almost inaudible voice. "We cannot possibly miss him." -</p> - -<p> -"Are you certain that none of your men suspect the truth?" said another -easily recognizable voice. -</p> - -<p> -"Not one, monseigneur. They think they have to do with a robber." -</p> - -<p> -"Monsieur von Laubach," said a third voice, the voice of an inferior, -"the gardener says that the door of the hothouse is open." -</p> - -<p> -"I will go and see," went on the first speaker, while the second -imperious voice uttered a "Verfluchter Esel." -</p> - -<p> -This exclamation showed how disagreeable this detail of surveillance was -to him who had ordered this trap. A trap for whom? Knowing what he knew, -Olivier had not a moment's doubt: the Archduke had learned that a man -was with his wife, and he was preparing for his vengeance. He desired an -anonymous vengeance, as was shown by the question he had asked of his -aid-de-camp, and afterwards his wrath against the "cussed ass" who had -mentioned the hothouse door. The lover was to be killed like a common -burglar, "to spare Ely's honor," reflected Olivier, who now got up and, -leaning his head forward, listened to the voices dying out in the -distance. Doubtless the Archduke and his lieutenant were completing the -surrounding of the garden. Pierre was lost. -</p> - -<p> -Pierre was lost! Olivier rose to his feet. The possibility of saving the -friend he loved so dearly flashed across his mind. Suppose he entered -the garden? Suppose he penetrated as far as the greenhouse door, of -which one of the watchers had spoken and whence it was evident the man -they were about to kill would issue? Suppose he then rushed out so as to -make them believe he was returning to town? -</p> - -<p> -The idea of such a substitution with its self-sacrifice took possession, -with irresistible force, of the unhappy man who had so keen a longing -for death. He began to walk along, at first in the shades of the bank -and then of the wall, which he climbed at almost the same place as his -friend had done. Then he walked straight toward the villa, which stood -silent and still before him, not a ray of light issuing from the -interstices of the shuttered windows. -</p> - -<p> -Olivier regarded it with a strange ardor shining in his eyes. How he -longed to be able to pierce the walls with his gaze, to penetrate there -in spirit, to appear before him for whom he was risking his life! -</p> - -<p> -Alas! Would his courage for the sacrifice he was about to make have been -strong enough to withstand the sight of Ely's room as it was at that -moment? Could he have supported the picture presented, in the rays of a -pink-shaded lamp, of Ely's head nestling close to Pierre's on the same -pillow? -</p> - -<p> -The beautiful arm of the young woman was wound round his neck, and she -was saying:— -</p> - -<p> -"I believe I should have died before morning of love and grief if you -had not come. But I felt you would come; I felt you would pardon me. -When I touched your hand, before I could even see you, all my sufferings -were forgotten. And yet, how hard you were to me at first! What cruel -things you said! How you made me suffer! But it is all forgotten! Say -that all is forgotten! You have taken me to your heart again, you know -that I love you, and that you let me love you! Tell me that you love me! -Ah, tell me again that you love me as you did upon the boat when we -listened to the sighing of the sea! Do you remember, sweet?" -</p> - -<p> -And her eyes sought those of her lover, trying to find in them the light -of complete happiness, of which her letter had spoken. Alas! it was not -there. An expression of settled sadness and remorse dwelt in their -depths. -</p> - -<p> -And this was soon to change to one of terror. At the very instant that -Ely pressed her more tender, more caressing, more loving lips on the -young man's eyelids, trying to drive away the melancholy she read in his -gaze, a report rang out in the garden, then a second, then a third, shot -after shot. A cry rent the air. -</p> - -<p> -Then all was still again. A terrifying silence now reigned. The two -lovers looked at each other. The same idea flashed through their minds -at the same moment. -</p> - -<p> -"Hide yourself behind the curtains," said Ely. "I will find out what has -happened." -</p> - -<p> -She threw a dressing-gown over her shoulders and drew one of the -curtains of the alcove before the young man. Then, lamp in hand, she -walked toward the window, opened it, and asked in a loud voice:— -</p> - -<p> -"Who is there? What is the matter?" -</p> - -<p> -"Do not be alarmed, my dear," replied a voice whose sinister irony made -her shiver. "It was only a robber trying to break into the villa.—He -must have two or three bullets in him. We are just looking for him. -Don't be frightened. <i>He will never come back again</i>! Laubach fired at -him point-blank." -</p> - -<p> -Ely closed the window. When she turned she saw that Pierre was already -more than half dressed. He was very pale, and his hands were trembling. -</p> - -<p> -"You are not thinking of going?" she cried. "The garden is crowded with -men!" -</p> - -<p> -"I must go!" he replied. "They were shooting at Olivier!" -</p> - -<p> -"At Olivier?" she repeated. "You are mad!" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, at Olivier," he said with an agonized energy; "they took him for -me. He must have seen me leave the hotel and he followed me. They were -his steps that I heard." -</p> - -<p> -"No, I cannot, I will not let you go," she said, standing in front of -the door. "Stop here for a few moments, I implore you. It was not -Olivier, it could not be he! They will kill you. Oh, my love, I pray you -to stay! Do not go, do not leave me!" -</p> - -<p> -He had now finished dressing. He thrust her rudely to one side, and -said: "Let me go! Let me go!" without a look, without a word of adieu. -</p> - -<p> -He had descended the stairs, passed through the hothouse into the -garden, before she could move. She remained leaning against the wall -where he had thrown her, listening, her head bent forward, listening -with an anguish that was maddening.—But there was no further report. -Pierre did not meet either the Prince or his men, for they were occupied -in hunting for some traces of the first fugitive. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah" she moaned, "he is safe!—If the other has only escaped!" -</p> - -<p> -Pierre's terror had taken possession of her. Yes, the unknown visitor at -whom the men had shot could be no one but Olivier. She had understood -too well the Prince's tone. Her husband had learned that she was with -her lover. He had laid a trap for him. Who, then, could have fallen into -it instead of Pierre?—For the first time in many years this woman, so -broad-minded, so permeated with the spirit of fatalism and nihilism, -this woman felt an impulse to appeal to a higher power. She was blinded -with terror at what she foresaw if she and Pierre had really brought -about the death of the man who had been her lover, of the man who had -been Pierre's sole friend; she was so overwhelmed that she fell upon her -knees and prayed that this punishment might be spared them. -</p> - -<p> -Vain prayer! As fruitless as the mad flight of her guilty accomplice who -tore along the road, halting at intervals to cry, "Olivier! Olivier!" -</p> - -<p> -He received no reply to his calls. At last he arrived at the hotel. He -would soon know whether he was not under the influence of some evil -dream. What were his feelings when the porter said in answer to his -inquiries:— -</p> - -<p> -"Monsieur du Prat? He went out immediately after you had left, sir!" -</p> - -<p> -"Did he ask if I had gone out?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, sir. I'm surprised that you did not meet him, sir. He went along -the same road immediately after you." -</p> - -<p> -So his presentiments had not deceived him! Olivier had really followed -him. Olivier had been taken by surprise in the garden. Was he dead? Was -he wounded? Where was he lying helpless? -</p> - -<p> -All night long Hautefeuille wandered about the roads, searching in the -ditches, among the hedges, the stones, feeling about on the ground at -the foot of the trees. In the morning he was returning, literally mad -after his useless researches, when, going toward the hotel by another -road, he met two gardeners pushing a handcart. In it was laid a human -form. He walked up to it and recognized his friend. -</p> - -<p> -Olivier had received two balls in the chest. Upon his face, soiled with -the sand of the road, was an expression of infinite sadness. Judging -from the place where the gardeners had found him, he must have walked -for a quarter of an hour after being wounded. Then his strength had failed -him; he had fainted and had died—probably without ever coming to -himself again—of a hemorrhage caused by his wounds and the effort he -had made. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Where are the dead, our dead? Where go those who have loved us, whom we -have loved, those to whom we have been gentle, kind, helpful, those -towards whom we have been guilty of inexplicable wrongs, those who have -left us before we have ever known if we have been pardoned? -</p> - -<p> -But whether this life of the invisible dead which surround our -terrestrial existence be a dream or a reality, it is certain that Ely -has never dared to see Pierre or to write to him since that terrible -night. Whenever she takes up the pen to draw near him again, once more -something prevents her. And something always stays Pierre's hand when he -tries to give her a sign of his existence. -</p> - -<p> -The dead stands between the living, the dead who will never, never -disappear. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>THE END</h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TRAGIC IDYL ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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