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"Alas, monseigneur! I am only a poor woman," replied Madeleine.
And she threw back the veil which had concealed her face from the eyes of the archduke.
CHAPTER XV
The prince, carried away by the vehemence of his furious indignation, had, as he talked, come nearer and nearer the marquise, who still sat at her ease in the armchair.
When she threw back her veil, at the same time throwing her head back lightly, so as to be able to fix her eyes upon the eyes of the prince, he stood motionless, and experienced that mingling of surprise, admiration, and involuntary pain which almost everybody felt at the sight of that charming face, to which a pallid complexion, large azure blue eyes, black eyebrows, and blonde hair gave a fascination so singular.
This profound impression made upon the prince, Charles Dutertre had also received, notwithstanding his love for his wife, notwithstanding the agonising fears of ruin and disaster by which he was besieged.
For a few seconds the archduke remained, so to speak, under the fascination of this fixed, penetrating gaze, in which the marquise endeavoured to concentrate all the attraction, all the magnetism which was in her, and to cast it into the eyes of the prince, for the projecting power of Madeleine's glance was, so to speak, intermittent, subject, if we may use the expression, to pulsations; so at each of these pulsations, the rebound of which he seemed to feel physically, the archduke started involuntarily; his icy pride appeared to melt like snow in the sun; his haughty attitude seemed to bend; his arrogant countenance betrayed inexpressible uneasiness.
Suddenly Madeleine pulled her veil over her face, bowed her head, and tried to efface herself as much as possible under the ample folds of her mantle and trailing robe, which completely hid her small foot, as her wide sleeves hid the beautiful hand she had extended to the prince, who now saw before him only an undefined and chastely veiled form.
The most provoking coquetry, the boldest exposure of personal charms, would have been ingenuousness itself compared to this mysterious reserve, which, concealing from view the whole person from the point of the foot to the tips of the fingers, gave free rein to the imagination, which took fire at the recollection of the wonderful stories of the marquise current in Paris.
When Madeleine's face again disappeared under her veil, the prince, delivered from the influence which had held him in spite of himself, regained his self-possession, roughly curbed his weakness, and, as a safeguard against all dangerous allurement, forced himself to ponder the deplorable adventures which proved how fatal was the power of this woman over men known to be strong and inexorable.
But alas! the fall or transformation of these men only brought back more forcibly the irresistible fascination of the marquise. He felt the grave and imminent peril, but every one knows the attraction of danger.
In vain the prince argued with himself, that, naturally phlegmatic, he had attained the maturity of age without ever having submitted to the empire of those gross passions which degrade men. In vain he said to himself that he was a prince of the royal blood, that he owed it to the sovereign dignity of his rank not to debase himself by yielding to shameful enticements. In a word, the unhappy archduke philosophised marvellously well, but as uselessly as a man who, seeing in terror that he is rolling down a steep declivity, gravely philosophises upon the delightful advantages of repose.
Words, phrases, and pages are necessary to portray impressions as instantaneous as thought, and all that we have described at such length, from the moment Madeleine lifted her veil to the moment she dropped it again, transpired in a few seconds, and the archduke, in the midst of his efforts at self-restraint, unconsciously, no doubt, — so much did his philosophy disengage his mind from matter, — tried, we say, yes, tried again to see Madeleine's features through the lace which concealed them.
"I told you, monseigneur," said the marquise, holding her head down from the covetous and anxious gaze of the archduke, "I told you that I was a poor widow who values her reputation, and who really does not deserve your severity."
"Madame — "
"Oh, I do not reproach you, monseigneur. You, no doubt, like many others, believe certain rumours — "
"Rumours, madame!" cried the archduke, delighted to feel his anger kindle again. "Rumours! The scandalous apostasy of the poet, Moser-Hartmann, was a rumour, was it?"
"What you call his apostasy is a fact, monseigneur; that may be, but — "
"Perhaps the degradation of the cardinal legate was also a vain rumour?" continued the archduke, impetuously interrupting Madeleine.
"That may be a fact, monseigneur, but — "
"So, madame, you confess yourself that — "
"Pardon me, monseigneur, listen to me. I am called Madeleine; it is the name of a great sinner, as you know."
"She received pardon, madame."
"Yes, because she loved much; nevertheless, believe me, monseigneur, I am not seeking an excuse in the example of the life of my patron saint. I have done nothing which requires pardon, no, nothing, absolutely nothing, monseigneur. That seems to astonish you very much. So, to make myself entirely understood, which is quite embarrassing, I shall be obliged, at the risk of appearing pedantic, to appeal to the classical knowledge of Your Highness."
"What do you mean, madame?"
"Something very odd; but the acrimony of your reproaches, as well as other reasons, compels me to a confession, or rather to a very singular justification."
"Madame, explain yourself."
"You know, monseigneur, upon what condition the vestal virgins at Rome were chosen?"
"Certainly, madame," replied the prince, with a modest blush, and, he added, ingenuously, "but I cannot see what relation — "
"Ah, well, monseigneur," interrupted Madeleine, smiling at the Germanism of the prince, "if we were at Rome under the empire of the Cæsars, I would have every possible right to keep the sacred fire on the altar of the chaste goddess. In a word, I am a widow without ever having been married; because, upon my return from Europe the Marquis de Miranda, my relative and benefactor, died, and he married me on his death-bed that he might leave me his name and his fortune."
The accent of truth is irresistible, and the prince at once believed the words of Madeleine, in spite of the amazement produced by this revelation so diametrically opposite to the rumours of adventures and gallantries which were rife about the marquise.
The astonishment of the prince was mingled with a vague satisfaction which he did not care to estimate. However, fearing he might fall into a snare, he said, no longer with passion, but with a sorrowful recrimination:
"You count too much on my credulity, madame. What! when just now you confessed to me that — "
"I beg your pardon, monseigneur; do me the favour to reply to a few questions."
"Speak, madame."
"You certainly have all the valiant exterior of a man of war, monseigneur, and when I saw you in Vienna, mounted on your beautiful battle-horse, proudly cross the Prater, followed by your aides-de-camp, I often said, 'That is my type of an army general; there is a man made to command soldiers.'"
"You saw me in Vienna?" asked the archduke, whose voice softened singularly. "You observed me there?"
"Fortunately you did not know it, monseigneur, or you would have exiled me, would you not?"
"Well," replied the prince, smiling, "I fear so."
"Come, that is gallantry; I like you better so. I was saying to you, then, monseigneur, that you have the exterior of a valiant man of war, and your character responds to this exterior. But will you not confess to me that sometimes the most martial figure may hide a poltroon — "
"No one better understands that than I. I had under my orders a major-general who had the most ferocious-looking personality that could be imagined, and he was the most arrant coward."
"You will admit again, monseigneur, that sometimes the most contemptible-looking personality may hide a hero."
"Certainly, Frederick the Great, Prince Eugene, were not great in manner — "
"Alas! monseigneur, it is even so, and I, on the contrary, am different from these great men; unfortunately, I have too much manner."
"What do you mean, madame?"
"Ah, my God, yes! I am like the coward who makes everybody tremble by his stern appearance, and who is really more afraid than the most cowardly of the cowards he intimidates. In a word, I inspire that which I do not feel; picture to yourself, monseigneur, the poor icicle carrying around him flame and conflagration. And I would have the presumption to call myself a phenomenon if I did not recollect that the beautiful fruits of my country, so bright-coloured, so delicate, so fragrant, awaken in me a furious appetite, without sharing the least in the world the fine appetite they give, or ever feeling the slightest desire to be crunched. It is so with me, monseigneur, it seems that as innocently as the fruits of my country I excite, in some respects, the hunger of an ogre, I who am of a cenobitic frugality. So now I have concluded to be no longer astonished at the influence I exercise involuntarily, but as, after all, this action is powerful, inasmuch as it excites the most violent passions of men, I try to elicit the best that is possible from my victims, either for themselves or for the good of others, and that, I swear without coquetry, deception, or promises, if one says to me, 'I am passionately in love with you,' I answer, 'Well, cherish your passion, perhaps its fire will melt my ice, perhaps the lava will hide itself in me under the snow. Fan your flame, then, let it burn until it wins me; I ask nothing better, for I am as free as the air, and I am twenty-two years old.'"
As she uttered these words, Madeleine raised her head, lifted her veil, and gazed intently at the archduke.
The marquise spoke truly, for her passion for her blond archangel, of whom she had talked to Sophie Dutertre, had never had anything terrestrial in it.
The prince believed Madeleine; first, because truth almost always carries conviction with it, then, because he felt happy in putting faith in the words of the young woman. He blushed less in acknowledging to himself the profound and sudden impression produced on him by this singular creature, when he realised that, after all, she had been worthy of guarding the sacred fire of Vesta; so, the imprudent man, his eyes fixed on the eyes of Madeleine, contemplating them with passionate eagerness, drank at leisure the enchanted love-potion.
Madeleine resumed, smiling:
"At this moment, monseigneur, you are asking yourself, I am sure, a question which I often ask myself."
"What is that, pray?"
"You are asking yourself (to speak like an old-time romance), 'Who is he who will make me share his passion?' Ah, well, I, too, am very anxious to penetrate the future on this subject."
"That future, nevertheless, depends on you."
"No, monseigneur, to draw music from the lyre, some one must make it vibrate."
"And who will that happy mortal be?"
"My God! who knows? Perhaps you, monseigneur."
"I!" cried the prince, charmed, transported. "I!"
"I say perhaps."
"Oh, what must I do?"
"Please me."
"And how shall I do that?"
"Listen, monseigneur."
"I pray you, do not call me monseigneur; it is too ceremonious."
"Oh, oh, monseigneur; it is a great favour for a prince to be treated with familiarity; he must deserve it. You ask me how you may please me. I will give you not an example, but a fact. The poet, Moser-Hartmann, whose apostasy you say I caused, addressed to me the most singular remark in the world. One day he met me at the house of a mutual friend, looked at me a long time, and then said, with an air of angry alarm: 'Madame, for the peace of spirituality, you ought to be buried alive!' And he went out, but next day he came to see me, madly in love, a victim, he told me, to a sudden passion, — as sudden and novel as it was uncontrollable. 'Let your passion burn,' I said to him, 'but hear the advice of a friend; the passion devours you, let it flow in your verse. Become a great poet, and perhaps your glory will intoxicate me.'"
"And did the inebriation ever come to you?" said the prince.
"No, but glory has come to my lover to console him, and a poet can be consoled for the loss of everything by glory. Ah, well, monseigneur, have I used my influence well or ill?"
Suddenly the archduke started.
A keen suspicion pierced his heart. Dissimulating this painful doubt, he said to Madeleine, with a forced smile:
"But, madame, your adventure with the cardinal legate did not have so happy an end for him. What is left to console him?"
"There rests with him the consciousness of having delivered a country that abhorred him from his presence," replied Madeleine, gaily. "Is there nothing in that, monseigneur?"
"Come now, between us, what interest had you in making this unhappy man the victim of a terrible scandal?"
"How! What interest, monseigneur? What but the interest of unmasking an infamous hypocrite, of chasing him out of a city that he oppressed, — in short, to cover him with contempt and shame. 'I believe in your passion,' said I to him, 'and perhaps I may share it if you will mask as a Hungarian hussar, and come with me to the ball of the Rialto, my dear cardinal; it is an extravagant, foolish caprice on my part, no doubt, but that is my condition, and, besides, who will recognise you under the mask?' This horrible priest had his head turned; he accepted, and I destroyed him."
"And you will destroy me, madame, as you did the cardinal legate," cried the archduke, rising and making a supreme effort to break the charm whose irresistible power he already felt. "I see the snare; I have enemies; you wish by your perfidious seductions, to drag me into some dangerous proceeding, and afterwards to hand me over to the contempt and ridicule that my weakness would deserve. But, bless God! he has opened my eyes in time. I recognise with horror that infernal fascination which took from me the use of my reason, and which was not love even, — no, I yielded to the grossest, most degrading passion which can lower man to the level of a brute, to that passion which, to my shame and to yours, I desire to stigmatise aloud as lust, madame!"
Madeleine shrugged her shoulders and began to laugh derisively, then rising from her seat and walking up to the prince, who had stepped back to the chimney, she took him gently by the hand, and led him back to a chair near her own, without his having the strength to resist this peaceable violence.
"Do me the favour to listen to me, monseigneur," said Madeleine. "I have only a few more words to say to you, and then you will not see the Marquise de Miranda again in your life."
CHAPTER XVI
When Madeleine had seated the prince near her, she said to him:
"Listen, monseigneur, I will be frank, so frank that I defy you not to believe me. I came here with the hope of turning your head."
"So," cried the prince, astonished, "you confess it!"
"Entirely. That end attained, I wished to use my influence over you, to obtain, as I told you, monseigneur, at the beginning of our interview, two things, one considered almost impossible, the other as altogether impossible."
"You are right, madame, to defy me not to believe you," replied the prince, with a constrained smile. "I believe you."
"The two deeds that I wished to obtain from you were great, noble, and generous; they would have made you esteemed and respected. That is very far, I think, from wishing to abuse my influence over you to excite you to evil or indignity, as you suppose."
"Well, madame, come to the point; what is it?"
"First, an act of clemency, or rather of justice, which would rally around you a multitude of hearts in Lombardy, — the free and full pardon of Colonel Pernetti."
The prince jumped up from his chair, and exclaimed:
"Never, madame, never!"
"The free and full pardon of Colonel Pernetti, one of the most honoured men in all Italy," pursued Madeleine, without noticing the interruption of the prince. "The reasonable pride of this noble-hearted man will prevent his asking you for the slightest alleviation of his woes, but come generously to his relief, and his gratitude will assure you of his devotion."
"I repeat to you, madame, that important reasons of state oppose your request. It is impossible, altogether impossible."
"To be sure. I began, you know, by telling you that, monseigneur. As to the other thing, doubtless more impossible still, it simply concerns your consent to the marriage of a young man whom you have brought up."
"I!" cried the archduke, as if he could not believe his ears. "I, consent to the marriage of Count Frantz?"
"I do not know if he is a count, but I do know that his name is Frantz, since it was told me this morning by Mlle. Antonine Hubert, an angel of sweetness and beauty, whom I have loved from her childhood, and for whom I feel the tenderness of a mother and a sister."
"Madame, in three hours from this moment Count Frantz will have left Paris, — that is my reply."
"My God, monseigneur, that is admirable! All this is impossible, absolutely impossible. I say again, I admit that it is impossible!"
"Then, madame, why do you ask it?"
"Why, to obtain it, of course, monseigneur."
"What! notwithstanding all I have just said to you, you dare hope still?"
"I have that presumption, monseigneur."
"Such self-conceit — "
"Is very modest because I am not counting on my presence."
"On what, then, madame, do you rely?"
"On my absence, monseigneur," said Madeleine, rising.
"On your absence?"
"On your remembrance, if you prefer it."
"You are going," said the prince, unable to conceal his regret and vexation, "you are going so soon?"
"It is my last and only means of bringing you to an agreement."
"But really, madame — "
"Wait, monseigneur, do you wish me to tell you what is going to happen?"
"Let us hear, madame."
"I am going to leave you. At first you will be relieved of a great burden; my presence will no longer beset you with all sorts of temptations, which have their agony as well as their charm; you will banish me entirely from your thoughts. Unfortunately, by degrees, and in spite of yourself, I will return to occupy your thoughts; my mysterious, veiled figure will follow you everywhere; you will feel still more how little there is of the platonic in your inclination toward me, and these sentiments will become only more irritating and more obstinate. To-morrow, the next day, perhaps, reflecting that, after all, I asked noble and generous actions only of you, you will bitterly regret my departure, but it will be too late, monseigneur."
"Too late?"
"Too late for you; not for me. I have taken it into my head that Colonel Pernetti will have his pardon, and that Count Frantz will marry Antonine. You understand, monseigneur, that it must be."
"In spite of me?"
"In spite of you."
"That would be rather difficult."
"So it is. But, let us see, monseigneur, to mention to you only facts which you already know; when one has known how to induce the cardinal legate to masquerade as a Hungarian hussar, when one has known how to create a great poet by the fire of a single glance, when one has known how to render amorous — and I humbly confess I use the expression in its earthly sense — a man like you, monseigneur, it is evident that one can accomplish something else also. You force, do you not, this poor Count Frantz to leave Paris? But the journey is long, and before he is out of France I have two days before me. A little delay in the pardon of Colonel Pernetti will be nothing for him, and, after all, his pardon does not depend on you alone, monseigneur; you cannot imagine to what point the rebound of influence may reach, and, thank God, here in France I have the means and the liberty to act. Is it war that you wish, monseigneur? Then let it be war. I depart, and I leave you already wounded, — that is to say, in love. Ah, my God! although I have a right to be proud of my success, it is not vanity which makes me insist upon the sudden impression I have made on you; because, to tell the truth, I have not employed the least coquetry in all this; almost always I have kept my veil down, and I am dressed as a veritable grandmother. Well, good-bye, monseigneur. At least do me the favour to accompany me to the door of your front parlour; war does not forbid courtesy."
The archduke was in unutterable uneasiness of mind. He felt that Madeleine was speaking the truth, for, already, at the bare thought of seeing her depart, perhaps for ever, he experienced a real sorrow; then, reflecting that if the charm, the singular and almost irresistible attraction of this woman could act so powerfully on him, who for so many reasons believed himself protected from such an influence, as well as from others which might induce him to submit to this control, he felt a sort of vague but bitter and angry jealousy; and while he could not make up his mind to grant the pardon asked of him, or to consent to the marriage of Frantz, he tried, like all undecided minds, to temporise, and said to the marquise, with emotion:
"Since I cannot see you again, at least prolong your visit a little."
"For what purpose, monseigneur?"
"It matters little to you if it makes me happy."
"It would not by any means make you happy, monseigneur, because you have neither the strength to let me depart nor to grant me what I ask of you."
"That is true," answered the prince, sighing, "for one request seems as impossible to me as the other."
"Ah, to-morrow, after my departure, how you will repent!"
The prince, after a long silence, said, with effort, yet with the most insinuating voice:
"Wait, my dear marquise, let us suppose that which is not supposable, that perhaps some day I may think of granting the pardon of Pernetti."
"A supposition? perhaps some day you will think of it? How vague and unsatisfactory all that is, monseigneur! Why not say, positively, 'Admit that I grant you the pardon of Colonel Pernetti.'"
"Very well, then, admit it."
"Good; you grant me this pardon, monseigneur, and you consent to the marriage of Frantz? I must have all or nothing."
"As to the marriage, never, never!"
"Do not say never, monseigneur. Do you know anything about it?"
"After all, a supposition binds me to nothing. Well, to make an end of it, let us admit that I grant all you desire. I will be at least certain of my recompense — "
"You ask it of me, monseigneur? Is not every generous action its own reward?"
"Granted. But there is one, in my eyes the most precious of all, and that one you alone can give."
"Oh, make no conditions, monseigneur."
"Why?"
"Frankly, monseigneur, can I pledge myself to anything? Does not all depend on you and not on me? You must please me, that concerns you."
"Oh! what a woman you are!" said the prince, with vexation. "But, really, shall I please you? Do you think I can please you?"
"My faith, monseigneur, I know nothing about it. You have done nothing so far but receive me with rudeness, I can truthfully say."
"My God! I was wrong, forgive me; if you only knew the uneasiness, I might almost say the fear, that you inspire in me, my dear marquise!"
"Come, I forgive you the past, monseigneur, and promise you to allow myself to be captivated with the best will in the world, and, as I am very frank, I will even add that it does seem to me that I would like you so much that you might succeed."
"Truly!" cried the prince, transported.
"Yes; you are half a sovereign, and you perhaps will be one some day, and there may be all sorts of good and beautiful things for you to order through the influence of this consuming passion you have just branded like a real capuchin, — allow me the expression. Come, monseigneur, if the good God has put this passion in all his creatures, he knew what he was doing. It is an immense power, because, in the hope of satisfying it, those who are under its influence are capable of everything, even the most generous actions, is it not true, monseigneur?"
"So," added the prince, with increasing rapture, "I can hope — "
"Hope all at your ease, monseigneur, but, I tell you plainly, I bind myself to nothing. My faith! fan your flame, make it burn, let it melt my snow."
"But, in a word, suppose that I grant all that you ask, what would you feel for me?"
"Perhaps this first proof of devotion to my wishes would make a deep impression upon me, but I cannot assert it, my power of divination does not extend so far as that, monseigneur."
"Ah, you are pitiless!" cried the archduke, with a vexation that had a touch of sorrow in it, "you only know how to exact."
"Would it be better to make false promises, monseigneur? That would be worthy neither of you nor of me, and then, in a word, let us speak as people who have hearts. Once more, what is it I ask of you? to show justice and mercy to the most honourable of men, and paternal affection for the orphan you have reared! If you only knew how these poor orphans love each other! What innocence! what tenderness! what despair! This morning, as she told me of the ruin of her hopes, Antonine was moved to tears."
"Frantz is of illustrious birth. I have other plans and other views for him," replied the prince, impatiently. "He ought not to make a misalliance."
"The word is a pretty one. And then who am I, monseigneur? Magdalena Pérès, daughter of an honest Mexican merchant, ruined by failures in business, and a marquise by chance. You love me, nevertheless, without fear of misalliance."
"Ah, madame! I! I!"
"You, you, it is another thing, is it not? as the comedy says."
"At least, I am free in my actions."
"And why should not Frantz be free in his, when his tastes restrain him to a modest and honourable life, adorned by a pure and noble love? Come, monseigneur, if you were, as you say, smitten with me, how tenderly you would compassionate the despairing love of those two poor children, who adore each other with all the ardour and innocence of their age! If passion does not render you better and more generous, this passion is not true, and if I am to share it I must begin by believing in it, which I cannot do when I see your relentless cruelty to Frantz."
"Ah, my God, if I loved him less I would not be relentless!"
"A singular way to love people!"
"Have I not told you that I intended him for a high destiny?"
"And I tell you, monseigneur, that the high destiny you reserve for him would be odious to him. He is born for a happy, sweet, and modest life; his tastes are simple, the timidity of his character, his qualities even, separate him from all that is showy and pompous; is it not true?"
"Then," said the prince, greatly surprised, "you are acquainted with him?"
"I have never seen him."
"How, then, do you know?"
"Has not this dear Antonine given me all her confidence? Is it not true that, according to the way you love people, you are able to divine their true character? In a word, monseigneur, the character of Frantz is such as I have described, is it not, — yes or no?"
"It is true, such is his character."
"And you would have the cruelty to impose upon him an existence which would be insupportable to him, when there under his hand he would find the happiness of his life?"
"But, know that I love Frantz as my own son, and I will never consent to be separated from him."
"Great pleasure for you to have constantly under your eyes the sad face of a poor creature whose eternal misery you have caused! Besides, Antonine is an orphan; nothing forbids her accompanying Frantz; in the place of one child, you would have two. What a relief from your grandeur, from the adulations of a false and selfish and artificial society would the sight of this sweet and smiling happiness be to you; with what joy would you go to refresh your heart and soul in the home of these two children who would cherish you with all the happiness they would owe to you!"
"Stop, leave me," cried the prince, more and more moved. "I do not know what inconceivable power your words have, but I feel my firmest resolutions give way, I feel the convictions of my whole life growing weak."
"Do you complain of that, monseigneur! Hold! Between us, without detracting from princes, I think they would often do well to renounce the convictions of all their life, for God knows what these convictions may be. Come, believe me, yield to the impression which now dominates you, it is good and generous."
"Ah, my God, in this moment do I know how to distinguish good from evil?"
