Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон
The Parisians — Complete
CHAPTER VII
A few days after the date of the last chapter, Colonel Morley returned to Paris. He had dined with Graham at Greenwich, had met him afterwards in society, and paid him a farewell visit on the day before the Colonel’s departure; but the name of Isaura Cicogna had not again been uttered by either. Morley was surprised that his wife did not question him minutely as to the mode in which he had executed her delicate commission, and the manner as well as words with which Graham had replied to his “ventilations.” But his Lizzy cut him short when he began his recital:
“I don’t want to hear anything more about the man. He has thrown away a prize richer than his ambition will ever gain, even if it gained him a throne.”
“That it can’t gain him in the old country. The people are loyal to the present dynasty, whatever you may be told to the contrary.”
“Don’t be so horribly literal, Frank; that subject is done with. How was the Duchess of ——— dressed?”
But when the Colonel had retired to what the French call the cabinet de traivail—and which he more accurately termed his “smoke den”—and there indulged in the cigar which, despite his American citizenship, was forbidden in the drawing-room of the tyrant who ruled his life, Mrs. Morley took from her desk a letter received three days before, and brooded over it intently, studying every word. When she had thus reperused it, her tears fell upon the page. “Poor Isaura!” she muttered—“poor Isaura! I know she loves him—and how deeply a nature like hers can love! But I must break it to her. If I did not, she would remain nursing a vain dream, and refuse every chance of real happiness for the sake of nursing it.” Then she mechanically folded up the letter—I need not say it was from Graham Vane—restored it to the desk, and remained musing till the Colonel looked in at the door and said peremptorily, “Very late—come to bed.”
The next day Madame Savarin called on Isaura.
“Chere enfant,” said she, “I have bad news for you. Poor Gustave is very ill—an attack of the lungs and fever; you know how delicate he is.”
“I am sincerely grieved,” said Isaura, in earnest tender tones; “it must be a very sudden attack: he was here last Thursday.”
“The malady only declared itself yesterday morning, but surely you must have observed how ill he has been looking for several days past? It pained me to see him.”
“I did not notice any change in him,” said Isaura, somewhat conscience-stricken. Wrapt in her own happy thoughts, she would not have noticed change in faces yet more familiar to her than that of her young admirer.
“Isaura,” said Madame Savarin, “I suspect there are moral causes for our friend’s failing health. Why should I disguise my meaning? You know well how madly he is in love with you, and have you denied him hope?”
“I like M. Rameau as a friend; I admire him—at times I pity him.”
“Pity is akin to love.”
“I doubt the truth of that saying, at all events as you apply it now. I could not love M. Rameau; I never gave him cause to think I could.”
“I wish for both your sakes that you could make me a different answer; for his sake, because, knowing his faults and failings, I am persuaded that they would vanish in a companionship so pure, so elevating as yours: you could make him not only so much happier but so much better a man. Hush! let me go on, let me come to yourself,—I say for your sake I wish it. Your pursuits, your ambition, are akin to his; you should not marry one who could not sympathise with you in these. If you did, he might either restrict the exercise of your genius or be chafed at its display. The only authoress I ever knew whose married lot was serenely happy to the last, was the greatest of English poetesses married to a great English poet. You cannot, you ought not, to devote yourself to the splendid career to which your genius irresistibly impels you, without that counsel, that support, that protection, which a husband alone can give. My dear child, as the wife myself of a man of letters, and familiarised to all the gossip, all the scandal, to which they who give their names to the public are exposed, I declare that if I had a daughter who inherited Savarin’s talents, and was ambitious of attaining to his renown, I would rather shut her up in a convent than let her publish a book that was in every one’s hands until she had sheltered her name under that of a husband; and if I say this of my child, with a father so wise in the world’s ways, and so popularly respected as my bon homme, what must I feel to be essential to your safety, poor stranger in our land! poor solitary orphan! with no other advice or guardian than the singing mistress whom you touchingly call ‘Madre!’ I see how I distress and pain you—I cannot help it. Listen! The other evening Savarin came back from his favourite cafe in a state of excitement that made me think he came to announce a revolution. It was about you; he stormed, he wept—actually wept—my philosophical laughing Savarin. He had just heard of that atrocious wager made by a Russian barbarian. Every one praised you for the contempt with which you had treated the savage’s insolence. But that you should have been submitted to such an insult without one male friend who had the right to resent and chastise it,—you cannot think how Savarin was chafed and galled. You know how he admires, but you cannot guess how he reveres you; and since then he says to me every day: ‘That girl must not remain single. Better marry any man who has a heart to defend a wife’s honour and the nerve to fire a pistol: every Frenchman has those qualifications!’”
Here Isaura could no longer restrain her emotions; she burst into sobs so vehement, so convulsive, that Madame Savarin became alarmed; but when she attempted to embrace and soothe her, Isaura recoiled with a visible shudder, and gasping out, “Cruel, cruel!” turned to the door, and rushed to her own room.
A few minutes afterwards a maid entered the salon with a message to Madame Savarin that Mademoiselle was so unwell that she must beg Madame to excuse her return to the salon.
Later in the day Mrs. Morley called, but Isaura would not see her.
Meanwhile poor Rameau was stretched on his sick-bed, and in sharp struggle between life and death. It is difficult to disentangle, one by one, all the threads in a nature so complex as Rameau’s; but if we may hazard a conjecture, the grief of disappointed love was not the immediate cause of his illness, and yet it had much to do with it. The goad of Isaura’s refusal had driven him into seeking distraction in excesses which a stronger frame could not have courted with impunity. The man was thoroughly Parisian in many things, but especially in impatience of any trouble. Did love trouble him—love could be drowned in absinthe; and too much absinthe may be a more immediate cause of congested lungs than the love which the absinthe had lulled to sleep.
His bedside was not watched by hirelings. When first taken thus ill—too ill to attend to his editorial duties—information was conveyed to the publisher of the Sens Commun, and in consequence of that information, Victor de Mauleon came to see the sick man. By his bed he found Savarin, who had called, as it were by chance, and seen the doctor, who had said, “It is grave. He must be well nursed.” Savarin whispered to De Mauleon, “Shall we call in a professional nurse, or a soeur de charite?”
De Mauleon replied, also in a whisper, “Somebody told me that the man had a mother.”
It was true—Savarin had forgotten it. Rameau never mentioned his parents—he was not proud of them.
They belonged to a lower class of the bourgeoisie, retired shopkeepers, and a Red Republican is sworn to hate of the bourgeoisie, high or low; while a beautiful young author pushing his way into the Chaussee d’Antin does not proclaim to the world that his parents had sold hosiery in the Rue St. Denis.
Nevertheless Savarin knew that Rameau had such parents still living, and took the hint. Two hours afterwards Rameau was leaning his burning forehead on his mother’s breast.
The next morning the doctor said to the mother, “You are worth ten of me. If you can stay here we shall pull him through.”
“Stay here!—my own boy!” cried indignantly the poor mother.
CHAPTER VIII
The day which had inflicted on Isaura so keen an anguish was marked by a great trial in the life of Alain de Rochebriant.
In the morning he received the notice “of un commandement tendant a saisie immobiliere,” on the part of his creditor, M. Louvier; in plain English, an announcement that his property at Rochebriant would be put up to public sale on a certain day, in case all debts due to the mortgagee were not paid before. An hour afterwards came a note from Duplessis stating that “he had returned from Bretagne on the previous evening, and would be very happy to see the Marquis de Rochebriant before two o’clock, if not inconvenient to call.”
Alain put the “commandement” into his pocket, and repaired to the Hotel Duplessis.
The financier received him with very cordial civility. Then he began: “I am happy to say I left your excellent aunt in very good health. She honoured the letter of introduction to her which I owe to your politeness with the most amiable hospitalities; she insisted on my removing from the auberge at which I first put up and becoming a guest under your venerable roof-tree—a most agreeable lady, and a most interesting chateau.”
“I fear your accommodation was in striking contrast to your comforts at Paris; my chateau is only interesting to an antiquarian enamoured of ruins.”
“Pardon me, ‘ruins’ is an exaggerated expression. I do not say that the chateau does not want some repairs, but they would not be costly; the outer walls are strong enough to defy time for centuries to come, and a few internal decorations and some modern additions of furniture would make the old manoir a home fit for a prince. I have been over the whole estate, too, with the worthy M. Hebert,—a superb property.”
“Which M. Louvier appears to appreciate,” said Alain, with a somewhat melancholy smile, extending to Duplessis the menacing notice.
Duplessis glanced at it, and said drily: “M. Louvier knows what he is about. But I think we had better put an immediate stop to formalities which must be painful to a creditor so benevolent. I do not presume to offer to pay the interest due on the security you can give for the repayment. If you refused that offer from so old a friend as Lemercier, of course you could not accept it from me. I make another proposal, to which you can scarcely object. I do not like to give my scheming rival on the Bourse the triumph of so profoundly planned a speculation. Aid me to defeat him. Let me take the mortgage on myself, and become sole mortgagee—hush!—on this condition,—that there should be an entire union of interests between us two; that I should be at liberty to make the improvements I desire, and when the improvements be made, there should be a fair arrangement as to the proportion of profits due to me as mortgagee and improver, to you as original owner. Attend, my dear Marquis,—I am speaking as a mere man of business. I see my way to adding more than a third, I might even say a half—to the present revenues of Rochbriant. The woods have been sadly neglected, drainage alone would add greatly to their produce. Your orchards might be rendered magnificent supplies to Paris with better cultivation. Lastly, I would devote to building purposes or to market gardens all the lands round the two towns of ——— and ————-. I think I can lay my hands on suitable speculators for these last experiments. In a word, though the market value of Rochebriant, as it now stands, would not be equivalent to the debt on it, in five or six years it could be made worth—well, I will not say how much—but we shall be both well satisfied with the result. Meanwhile, if you allow me to find purchasers for your timber, and if you will not suffer the Chevalier de Finisterre to regulate your expenses, you need have no fear that the interest due to me will not be regularly paid, even though I shall be compelled, for the first year or two at least, to ask a higher rate of interest than Louvier exacted—say a quarter per cent. more; and in suggesting that, you will comprehend that this is now a matter of business between us, and not of friendship.”
Alain turned his head aside to conceal his emotion, and then, with the quick affectionate impulse of the genuine French nature, threw himself on the financier’s breast and kissed him on both cheeks.
“You save me! you save the home and the tombs of my ancestors! Thank you I cannot; but I believe in God—I pray—I will pray for you as for a father; and if ever,” he hurried on in broken words, “I am mean enough to squander on idle luxuries one franc that I should save for the debt due to you, chide me as a father would chide a graceless son.”
Moved as Alain was, Duplessis was moved yet more deeply. “What father would not be proud of such a son? Ah, if I had such a one!” he said softly. Then, quickly recovering his wonted composure, he added, with the sardonic smile which often chilled his friends and alarmed his foes, “Monsieur Louvier is about to pass that which I ventured to promise him, a ‘mauvais quart-d’heure.’ Lend me that commandement tendant a saisie. I must be off to my avoue with instructions. If you have no better engagement, pray dine with me to-day and accompany Valerie and myself to the opera.”
I need not say that Alain accepted the invitation. How happy Valerie was that evening!
CHAPTER IX
The next day Duplessis was surprised by a visit from M. Louvier—that magnate of millionaires had never before set foot in the house of his younger and less famous rival.
The burly man entered the room with a face much flushed, and with more than his usual mixture of jovial brusquerie and opulent swagger.
“Startled to see me, I dare say,” began Louvier, as soon as the door was closed. “I have this morning received a communication from your agent containing a cheque for the interest due to me from M. Rochebriant, and a formal notice of your intention to pay off the principal on behalf of that popinjay prodigal. Though we two have not hitherto been the best friends in the world, I thought it fair to a man in your station to come to you direct and say, ‘Cher confrere, what swindler has bubbled you? You don’t know the real condition of this Breton property, or you would never so throw away your millions. The property is not worth the mortgage I have on it by 30,000 louis.”
“Then, M. Louvier, you will be 30,000 louis the richer if I take the mortgage off your hands.”
“I can afford the loss—no offence—better than you can; and I may have fancies which I don’t mind paying for, but which cannot influence another. See, I have brought with me the exact schedule of all details respecting this property. You need not question their accuracy; they have been arranged by the Marquis’s own agents, M. Gandrin and M. Hebert. They contain, you will perceive, every possible item of revenue, down to an apple-tree. Now, look at that, and tell me if you are justified in lending such a sum on such a property.”
“Thank you very much for an interest in my affairs that I scarcely ventured to expect M. Louvier to entertain; but I see that I have a duplicate of this paper, furnished to me very honestly by M. Hebert himself. Besides, I, too, have fancies which I don’t mind paying for, and among them may be a fancy for the lands of Rochebriant.”
“Look you, Duplessis, when a man like me asks a favour, you may be sure that he has the power to repay it. Let me have my whim here, and ask anything you like from me in return!”
“Desole not to oblige you, but this has become not only a whim of mine, but a matter of honour; and honour you know, my dear M. Louvier, is the first principle of sound finance. I have myself, after careful inspection of the Rochebriant property, volunteered to its owner to advance the money to pay off your hypotheque; and what would be said on the Bourse if Lucien Duplessis failed in an obligation?”
“I think I can guess what will one day be said of Lucien Duplessis if he make an irrevocable enemy of Paul Louvier. Corbleu! mon cher, a man of thrice your capital, who watched every speculation of yours with a hostile eye, might some beau jour make even you a bankrupt!”
“Forewarned, forearmed!” replied Duplessis, imperturbably, “Fas est ab hoste doceri,—I mean, ‘It is right to be taught by an enemy;’ and I never remember the day when you were otherwise, and yet I am not a bankrupt, though I receive you in a house which, thanks to you, is so modest in point of size!”
“Bah! that was a mistake of mine,—and, ha! ha! you had your revenge there—that forest!”
“Well, as a peace offering, I will give you up the forest, and content my ambition as a landed proprietor with this bad speculation of Rochebriant!”
“Confound the forest, I don’t care for it now! I can sell my place for more than it has cost me to one of your imperial favourites. Build a palace in your forest. Let me have Rochebriant, and name your terms.”
“A thousand pardons! but I have already had the honour to inform you, that I have contracted an obligation which does not allow me to listen to terms.”
As a serpent, that, after all crawlings and windings, rears itself on end, Louvier rose, crest erect:
“So then it is finished. I came here disposed to offer peace—you refuse, and declare war.”
“Not at all, I do not declare war; I accept it if forced on me.”
“Is that your last word, M. Duplessis?”
“Monsieur Louvier, it is.”
“Bon jour!”
And Louvier strode to the door; here he paused: “Take a day to consider.”
“Not a moment.”
“Your servant, Monsieur,—your very humble servant.” Louvier vanished.
Duplessis leaned his large thoughtful forehead on his thin nervous hand. “This loan will pinch me,” he muttered. “I must be very wary now with such a foe. Well, why should I care to be rich? Valerie’s dot, Valerie’s happiness, are secured.”
CHAPTER X
Madame Savarin wrote a very kind and very apologetic letter to Isaura, but no answer was returned to it. Madame Savarin did not venture to communicate to her husband the substance of a conversation which had ended so painfully. He had, in theory, a delicacy of tact, which, if he did not always exhibit it in practice, made him a very severe critic of its deficiency in others. Therefore, unconscious of the offence given, he made a point of calling at Isaura’s apartments, and leaving word with her servant that “he was sure she would be pleased to hear M. Rameau was somewhat better, though still in danger.”
It was not till the third day after her interview with Madame Savarin that Isaura left her own room,—she did so to receive Mrs. Morley.
The fair American was shocked to see the change in Isaura’s countenance. She was very pale, and with that indescribable appearance of exhaustion which betrays continued want of sleep; her soft eyes were dim, the play of her lips was gone, her light step weary and languid.
“My poor darling!” cried Mrs. Morley, embracing her, “you have indeed been ill! What is the matter?—who attends you?”
“I need no physician, it was but a passing cold—the air of Paris is very trying. Never mind me, dear—what is the last news?”
Therewith Mrs. Morley ran glibly through the principal topics of the hour: the breach threatened between M. Ollivier and his former liberal partisans; the tone unexpectedly taken by M. de Girardin; the speculations as to the result of the trial of the alleged conspirators against the Emperor’s life, which was fixed to take place towards the end of that month of June,—all matters of no slight importance to the interests of an empire. Sunk deep into the recesses of her fauteuil, Isaura seemed to listen quietly, till, when a pause came, she said in cold clear tones:
“And Mr. Graham Vane—he has refused your invitation?”
“I am sorry to say he has—he is so engaged in London.”
“I knew he had refused,” said Isaura, with a low bitter laugh.
“How? who told you?”
“My own good sense told me. One may have good sense, though one is a poor scribbler.”
“Don’t talk in that way; it is beneath you to angle for compliments.”
“Compliments, ah! And so Mr. Vane has refused to come to Paris; never mind, he will come next year. I shall not be in Paris then. Did Colonel Morley see Mr. Vane?”
“Oh, yes; two or three times.”
“He is well?”
“Quite well, I believe—at least Frank did not say to the contrary; but, from what I hear, he is not the person I took him for. Many people told Frank that he is much changed since he came into his fortune—is grown very stingy, quite miserly indeed; declines even a seat in Parliament because of the expense. It is astonishing how money does spoil a man.”
“He had come into his fortune when he was here. Money had not spoiled him then.”
Isaura paused, pressing her hands tightly together; then she suddenly rose to her feet, the colour on her cheek mantling and receding rapidly, and fixing on her startled visitor eyes no longer dim, but with something half fierce, half imploring in the passion of their gaze, said: “Your husband spoke of me to Mr. Vane: I know he did. What did Mr. Vane answer? Do not evade my question. The truth! the truth! I only ask the truth!”
“Give me your hand; sit here beside me, dearest child.”
“Child!—no, I am a woman!—weak as a woman, but strong as a woman too!—The truth!”
Mrs. Morley had come prepared to carry out the resolution she had formed and “break” to Isaura “the truth,” that which the girl now demanded. But then she had meant to break the truth in her own gentle, gradual way. Thus suddenly called upon, her courage failed her. She burst into tears. Isaura gazed at her dry-eyed.
“Your tears answer me. Mr. Vane has heard that I have been insulted. A man like him does not stoop to love for a woman who has known an insult. I do not blame him; I honour him the more—he is right.”
“No-no-no!—you insulted! Who dared to insult you? (Mrs. Morley had never heard the story about the Russian Prince.) Mr. Vane spoke to Frank, and writes of you to me as of one whom it is impossible not to admire, to respect; but—I cannot say it—you will have the truth,—there, read and judge for yourself.” And Mrs. Morley drew forth and thrust into Isaura’s hands the letter she had concealed from her husband. The letter was not very long; it began with expressions of warm gratitude to Mrs. Morley, not for her invitation only, but for the interest she had conceived in his happiness. It went on thus “I join with my whole heart in all that you say, with such eloquent justice, of the mental and personal gifts so bounteously lavished by nature on the young lady whom you name.
“No one can feel more sensible than I of the charm of so exquisite a loveliness; no one can more sincerely join in the belief that the praise which greets the commencement of her career is but the whisper of the praise that will cheer its progress with louder and louder plaudits.
“He only would be worthy of her hand, who, if not equal to herself in genius, would feel raised into partnership with it by sympathy with its objects and joy in its triumphs. For myself, the same pain with which I should have learned she had adopted the profession which she originally contemplated, saddened and stung me when, choosing a career that confers a renown yet more lasting than the stage, she no less left behind her the peaceful immunities of private life. Were I even free to consult only my own heart in the choice of the one sole partner of my destinies (which I cannot at present honestly say that I am, though I had expected to be so ere this, when I last saw you at Paris); could I even hope—which I have no right to do—that I could chain to myself any private portion of thoughts which now flow into the large channels by which poets enrich the blood of the world,—still (I say it in self-reproach, it may be the fault of my English rearing, it may rather be the fault of an egotism peculiar to myself)—still I doubt if I could render happy any woman whose world could not be narrowed to the Home that she adorned and blessed.
“And yet not even the jealous tyranny of man’s love could dare to say to natures like hers of whom we speak, ‘Limit to the household glory of one the light which genius has placed in its firmament for the use and enjoyment of all.’”
“I thank you so much,” said Isaura, calmly; “suspense makes a woman so weak—certainty so strong.” Mechanically she smoothed and refolded the letter—mechanically, with slow, lingering hands—then she extended it to her friend, smiling.
“Nay, will you not keep it yourself?” said Mrs. Morley. “The more you examine the narrow-minded prejudices, the English arrogant man’s jealous dread of superiority—nay, of equality—in the woman he ‘can only value as he does his house or his horse, because she is his exclusive property, the more you will be rejoiced to find yourself free for a more worthy choice. Keep the letter; read it till you feel for the writer forgiveness and disdain.”
Isaura took back the letter, and leaned her cheek on her hand, looking dreamily into space. It was some moments before she replied, and her words then had no reference to Mrs. Morley’s consolatory exhortation.
“He was so pleased when he learned that I renounced the career on which I had set my ambition. I thought he would have been so pleased when I sought in another career to raise myself nearer to his level—I see now how sadly I was mistaken. All that perplexed me before in him is explained. I did not guess how foolishly I had deceived myself till three days ago,—then I did guess it; and it was that guess which tortured me so terribly that I could not keep my heart to myself when I saw you to-day; in spite of all womanly pride it would force its way—to the truth.
“Hush! I must tell you what was said to me by another friend of mine—a good friend, a wise and kind one. Yet I was so angry when she said it that I thought I could never see her more.”
“My sweet darling! who was this friend, and what did she say to you?”
“The friend was Madame Savarin.”
“No woman loves you more except myself—and she said?”
“That she would have suffered no daughter of hers to commit her name to the talk of the world as I have done—be exposed to the risk of insult as I have been—until she had the shelter and protection denied to me. And I have thus overleaped the bound that a prudent mother would prescribe to her child, have become one whose hand men do not seek, unless they themselves take the same roads to notoriety. Do you not think she was right?”
“Not as you so morbidly put it, silly girl,—certainly not right. But I do wish that you had the shelter and protection which Madame Savarin meant to express; I do wish that you were happily married to one very different from Mr. Vane—one who would be more proud of your genius than of your beauty—one who would say, ‘My name, safer far in its enduring nobility than those that depend on titles and lands—which are held on the tenure of the popular breath—must be honoured by posterity, for She has deigned to make it hers. No democratic revolution can disennoble me.”
“Ay, ay, you believe that men will be found to think with complacency that they owe to a wife a name they could not achieve for themselves. Possibly there are such men. Where?—among those that are already united by sympathies in the same callings, the same labours, the same hopes and fears with the women who have left behind them the privacies of home. Madame de Grantmesnil was wrong. Artists should wed with artists. True—true!”
Here she passed her hand over her forehead—it was a pretty way of hers when seeking to concentrate thought—and was silent a moment or so.
“Did you ever feel,” she then asked dreamily, “that there are moments in life when a dark curtain seems to fall over one’s past that a day before was so clear, so blended with the present? One cannot any longer look behind; the gaze is attracted onward, and a track of fire flashes upon the future,—the future which yesterday was invisible. There is a line by some English poet—Mr. Vane once quoted it, not to me, but to M. Savarin, and in illustration of his argument, that the most complicated recesses of thought are best reached by the simplest forms of expression. I said to myself, ‘I will study that truth if ever I take to literature as I have taken to song;’ and—yes—it was that evening that the ambition fatal to woman fixed on me its relentless fangs—at Enghien—we were on the lake—the sun was setting.”
“But you do not tell me the line that so impressed you,” said Mrs. Morley, with a woman’s kindly tact.
“The line—which line? Oh, I remember; the line was this:
“‘I see as from a tower the end of all.”
“And now—kiss me, dearest—never a word again to me about this conversation: never a word about Mr. Vane—the dark curtain has fallen on the past.”
