Kitabı oku: «Sir Jasper Carew: His Life and Experience», sayfa 34
To sustain the character of wealth and fortune, I not only toiled without ceasing, but I entered on a career of extravagance almost as distasteful to me. Margot loved display of every kind. The theatrical passion seemed to suggest a desire for every species of notoriety; and to please her I set up a costly equipage, with showy liveries and magnificent horses. The dinners I gave were of the most extravagant kind; the bouquets I presented to her each evening at the theatre would have in their price supported a family. My earnings could never have compassed such outlay, and to meet it I became a gambler, – a practised, a professional gambler, – playing with all the calm-headed skill of a deep calculator. Fortune vacillated; but, on the whole, I was a large winner. The fine decreed against the “Drapeau” was fifteen thousand francs, – a large sum for me, and far above what any effort at accumulation could possibly compass. So, indeed, Sanson told me, and laughed at the bare thought of my attempting it. There was, however, he said, a possibility – a mere possibility – of a way to meet this, and he would think over it. I gave him a day or two, and at the end of that time he told me his plan. It was this. There was a certain minister high in the confidence of Bonaparte, whose counsels had not been always followed, nor even listened to at times. These counsels had been founded on the assumption that certain views and intentions of a particular kind were maintained by the royalists, – secretly maintained, but still occasionally shadowed forth in such a way as to be intelligible to all in the secrets of the party. To be plain, the suspected plan was neither more nor less than a union of the royalist with the republican faction to overthrow the Bonapartists. This idea seemed so chimerical to Bonaparte that to broach it was at once to lose character with him for acuteness or political foresight. Not so to him of whom Sanson spoke, and whom I at once pronounced to be Fouché.
“Then you are mistaken,” said he; “but to any other guess I will make no reply, nor, if you press me on this subject, will I consent to continue the negotiation.”
I yielded to his terms; and after a brief interval came an order for me to hold myself in readiness on a particular evening, when a carriage would be sent to fetch me to the house of the minister. At eight, the hour indicated, I was ready; and scarcely had the clock struck when the carriage rolled into the courtyard.
I have been led, as it were by accident, into the mention of this little incident, which had no bearing nor influence on my future; but now that I have touched upon it, I will finish it as briefly as I can.
I was received in a small office-like chamber by a man somewhat past middle life, but whose appearance gave him the look of even age. He was short, broad-shouldered, and slightly stooped; the figure altogether vulgar, but the bead massive and lofty, and the face the strangest mixture of dignity and cunning – a blending of the high-bred gentleman with the crafty pettifogger – I ever beheld. He received me courteously, and at once opened the business for which we met. After some compliments on the vigor of my articles in the “Presse,” he proceeded to ask what my peculiar opportunities might be for knowing the secret intentions of the two great parties who opposed the government.
My replies were guarded and reserved; seeing which, he at once said, —
“This information is to be recompensed.”
I bowed coldly, and only replied that, if he would put distinct questions to me, I should endeavor to answer them.
After some little fencing on both sides, he asked me for the writer of the leading articles in the “Drapeau” – his name and position in life.
For reasons that may be guessed, I declined to reveal these. A similar question as to the “Gazette” met a similar reply. Undeterred by these refusals, he asked me my opinion of these writers’ abilities, and the likelihood of their being available to the cause of the Government, under suitable circumstances.
I spoke half slightingly of their talents, but professed implicit trust in their integrity. He turned the conversation then towards politics, and discussed with me the questions on which I had been writing so earnestly, both for and against, in the two opposing journals. The tone of virulent abuse of both was great; and I half hinted that a personal amende was perhaps the point to which my opponent and as well myself were tending. He smiled slightly, but meaningly.
“That opinion is not yours, then, sir?” asked I.
“Certainly not,” said he, blandly. “Monsieur Bertin of the ‘Presse’ will not seek satisfaction from Monsieur Bertin of the Drapeau,’ still less of Monsieur Bertin of the ‘Gazette,’ whom he holds in such slight esteem.”
“How, sir! Do you mean to imply that I am the writer in all these journals?”
“You have just told me so, sir,” said he, still smiling; “and I respect the word of a gentleman. The tone of identity assumed on paper is exactly that you have yourself put on when advocating any of these lines of policy. I suspected this from the first; now I know it. Ah, Monsieur Bertin, you are in the mere nursery of craftiness, – not but I must admit you are a very promising child of your years.”
Far from presuming on his discovery, he spoke more kindly and more confidentially than ever to me; asked my reasons for this opinion and for that, and seemed to think that I must have studied the questions I wrote on deeply and maturely. There was nothing like disparagement in his tone towards me, but, on the contrary, an almost flattering appreciation of my ingenuity as a writer.
“Still, Monsieur Bertin,” said he, with affected gravity, “the ‘Drapeau’ went too far, – that you must allow; and, for your sake as for ours, it is better it should be suppressed. The fine shall be paid, but it must appear to have come from the royalists. Can I trust you for this?”
He looked at me calmly, but steadily as he spoke; and certainly I felt as if any deceit, should I desire it, were perfectly impossible before him. He did not wait for my reply, but, with a seriousness that savored of sincerity, said, —
“The press in France at this moment is the expression of this man or that, but it is no more. We live in a period of too much change to have anything like a public opinion; so that what is written to-day is forgotten to-morrow. Yet with all that, the people must be taught to have one religion of the State as they have one of the Church, and heresies of either kind must be suppressed. Now, Monsieur Bertin, my advice to you is, be of the good fold, – not alone because it is good, but because it is likely to be permanent. Continue to write for the ‘Gazette.’ When you want information, Sanson will procure it for you; but you must not come here again. Temper your royalist zeal with a seeming regard for your personal safety. Remember that a gentleman gives larger recognizances than a sans-culottes; and, above all, keep in mind that you serve us better in those columns than in our own. C’est de la haute politique, de faire combattre ses ennemis pour soi.”
He repeated this sentiment twice over, and then with a courteous gesture dismissed me. I was now in the secret pay of the Government, – no regular allowance made me, but permitted to draw freely; and when any occasion of real information offered, to pay largely for it.
Had time been given me for reflection, I believe I should have abhorred myself for the life I now led. It was one course of daily trick and deception. In society I was a spy; in secret, a traitor. Trusted by all, and false to all, I hurried along in a headlong career of the wildest excitement. To enable me to write, I had recourse to various stimulants; and from one excess to another I became a confirmed opium-eater. I had by habit acquired a degree of nervous irritability that almost defied sleep. For days and days frequently I took no other rest than an occasional half-hour’s repose when overcome, and then back to the desk again, – if not refreshed, at least rallied. The turmoil and confusion of my thoughts at any chance interval of quiet was terrific. So long as I was in action, all went well; when my brain was overworked, and my faculties stretched to their extreme tension, the excitement sustained me, and I could develop whatever there was in me of intellectual power. The effort over, and my task accomplished, I became almost bereft of life; a trance-like lethargy seized me; my voice failed, my sight and hearing grew dulled, and I would lie thus, sometimes for hours, scarcely breathing, indifferent to everything.
When I rallied from these seizures, I hurried off to Margot, either to her home or to the theatre. To see her, to speak to her, even to hear her, was enough to call me back once more to life and the love, of life. There was that in her own career, with all its changes and vicissitudes, that seemed to fashion her mind into moods similar to my own. On one day she would be to me like a sister, – kind and warmly affectionate; on another, she would be as though I were her accepted lover, and show me all the tender interest of one whose fate was bound up with my own; and perhaps the very next meeting she would receive me coldly and distrustfully, and darkly hint that my secret life was known to her.
These were to me moments of intense agony. To see through them was worse than any death, and the very dread of them made existence a perfect torture. Till I had seen her I never knew, each day, in what mood she might feel towards me; and if I revelled in the heaven of her smiles, felt her deep glances descending into my very heart, and thrilled with ecstasy at each word she uttered, suddenly there would come the thought that this was but a dream, and that to-morrow would be the dreadful awaking!
Her conduct was inexplicable, for it changed sometimes within the compass of a few hours, and from warmest confidence would become the most chilling reserve. She would pour out her whole heart before me; tell me how barren were all the triumphs she had achieved; how remote from happiness was this eternal struggle for fame; how her nature yearned for one true, unchanging devotion; how this mockery of passion made shipwreck of all real feeling, and left the nature worn out, wearied, and exhausted. She would, perhaps at our next meeting, efface all thought of this confidence by some passionate burst of enthusiasm for the stage, and some bold apostrophe to the glory of a great success, – scornfully contrasting such a moment with the whole happiness of a life spent m obscurity. I own that in these outbursts of her wildest imagination her beauty of expression attained its highest excellence. Her dark eyes flashed with the fire of an inspired nature, and her whole figure seemed imbued with a more than mortal loveliness; while in her softer moods there was a sad and plaintive tenderness about her that subdued the spirit, and made her seem even more worthy of love than she had been of admiration. These fitful changes, which at first were only displayed in private, became after a while palpable to the public eye. On one night she would thrill an audience with horror, and in the power of her delineations make the very sternest natures yield to terror. At another, she would shock the public by some indifference to the exigencies of the scene, walk through her part in listless apathy, and receive with calm unconcern the ill-disguised disapproval of the spectators. At such times praise or blame were alike to her; she seemed like one laboring under some pressure of thought too engrossing to admit of any attention to passing objects; and in this dreary pre-occupation she moved like one spell-bound and entranced.
To allude to these passing states of mind after they had occurred was sure to give her deep offence; and although for a while I dared to do this, yet I saw reason to abandon the attempt, and maintain silence like the rest. The press, with less delicacy, expressed severe censure on what they characterized as an insulting appreciation of the public, and boldly declared that the voices which had made could still unmake a reputation, and that the lesson of contempt might soon pass from behind the footlights to the space before them.
It was both my province to keep these criticisms from her eye, and to answer them in print; and for a while I succeeded. I wrote, I argued, I declaimed, – now casuisti-cally expressing praise of what in my heart I condemned; now seeming to discover a hidden meaning where none existed. I even condescended to appeal to the indulgence of the public in favor of those whose efforts were not always under their own control, and whose passing frames of sorrow or sickness must incapacitate them at seasons from embodying their own great conceptions. So sensitive had she become on the subject of remark that the slightest allusion to her health was now resented as an offence, and even Mademoiselle Mars dared not to say that she looked paler or thinner, or in better or worse spirits, – so certain would any allusion of the kind be to displease her.
This irritability gradually widened and extended itself to everything. The slightest sign of inattention of the audience – any movement in the house while she was acting – a want of ability in those en scène with her – an accidental error in even their costume – gave umbrage; and she would stop in her part, and only by an effort seem able to recover herself and continue. These evidences of indifference to public opinion – for so were they construed – gradually arrayed against her nearly the entire force of the press.
They who had been her most devoted admirers, now displayed all their zeal in the discovery of her faults. The very excellences they had once extolled, they now censured as stage trickery and deceit. One by one, they despoiled her of every qualification for art, save her beauty; and even that, they said, already proclaimed its perishable nature. My heart sickens as I think over the refined cruelty of these daily attacks, – the minute and careful anatomy of humanity studied to inflict misery! To stem this torrent of opinion, I devoted myself alone. Giving up all other writing, I thought only of Margot and her cause. I assailed her critics with the foulest abuse. I aspersed their motives, and not unfrequently their lives. I eagerly sought out circumstances of their private habits and actions, and proclaimed them to the world as the men who dared to teach the expressions by which virtues should be rendered, and of whose very existence they were ignorant. I contrasted their means of judgment with their daily lives. I exhibited them as mere hirelings, the cowardly bravos of a degenerate age; and, of course, – for Paris was always the same in this respect, – various duels were fastened on me for my insolence.
My skill at the sword exercise carried me safely through many of these encounters. My recklessness of life may perhaps have served to preserve it, for I was utterly reckless of it! My neglect of politics, and all interest about them, procured my dismissal from the Government journal. The “Vendee” soon followed the example; and although the violence of my articles in the “Avant Scène” had for a time amused the town, the editors told me that my defence of Mademoiselle Margot had now been carried far enough, and that I should look elsewhere for a new topic.
Not a few of Margot’s warmest admirers condemned the ill-advised zeal of my advocacy. Some even affirmed that much of her unpopularity had its origin in my indiscreet defence. I was coldly told I had “written too much.” One said I had “fought too often.” The fastidious public – which acknowledged no sincerity, nor would recognize such a thing as truth – condemned, as bad taste, the excesses into which my heartfelt indignation had hurried me. Mademoiselle Mars was a half convert to this opinion; I shuddered one day as I suspected that even Margot seemed to entertain it. I had been pressing her to do something – a mere trifle – to which she dissented. I grew eager, and at last insisted; when, looking at me steadily for some seconds, she said, —
“Has it never occurred to you that over-zeal is apt to defeat itself, from the very suspicion that it excites, that there may be a deeper motive than that which meets the eye?”
The words smote me to the heart. They were the death-knell to all the hope that had sustained me through my long struggle; and though I tried to read them in various ways less wounding to my feelings, one terrible signification surmounted all the others, and seemed to proclaim itself the true meaning. What if it were really so? was the dreadful question that now struck me. What if I had been the cause of her downfall? The thought so stunned me that I sat powerless under the spell of its terror, – a terror which has tempered every hour of life from that day to this.
CHAPTER XLIII. A PASSAGE IN THE DRAMA
One of the noted characters about Paris at this time was a certain Captain Fleury; he called himself “Fleury de Montmartre.” He had been, it was said, on Bonaparte’s staff in Egypt, but got into disgrace by having taken Kléber’s side, in the differences between the two generals. Disgusted with the service, in which he saw no prospect of promotion, he quitted the army and came to live in Paris, as some thousands live there, no one can tell how or in what manner. His chief, if not only, occupation seemed to be the frequenting of all the low gambling-houses, where, however, he rarely was seen to play, but rather waited for the good fortune which befell some other, with whom he either dined, or succeeded in borrowing a few francs. Less reputable habits than even these were likewise attributed to him: it was said that he often thrust quarrels upon people at the tables, which he afterwards compromised for money, many preferring to pay rather than risk an encounter with a professed duellist.
In his threadbare military frock and shabby hat, with broken boots and ragged gloves, he still maintained the semblance of his former condition, for he was eminently good-looking, and, in gait and bearing, every inch a soldier. I had made his acquaintance by an accident. I happened to have let fall beside my chair a bank-note for one hundred francs, one night at play. The waiter hurried after me to restore it, just as I was descending the stairs with this Captain Fleury at my side. I was not aware of my loss, and insisted that the money could not be mine. The waiter was equally positive, and appealed to the Captain to decide the question. Fleury, instead of replying, took out a much-worn pocket-book, and proceeded to examine its contents.
“I’ll wager as much,” cried I, “that this gentleman is the owner of the note.”
“And you would win, sir,” said Fleury, taking it from the waiter’s reluctant fingers, and carefully enclosing it within his case.
The waiter never uttered a syllable, but, with a look that revealed an entire history, bowed and retired. I complimented the Captain on the good fortune of his presence in such a critical moment, touched my hat to him, and departed.
It was only the next morning that I recollected the sum of money I had had about me, and perceived that the note must have been my own. It was of course too late to think of repairing the loss, but I was far from desiring to do so. The man’s appearance had interested me; I was deeply struck by the signs of poverty in his dress, and only happy to have had this slight occasion to serve him, without any infringement on his self-respect. It was, indeed, a question I often debated with myself whether or not he really believed that he was the owner of the note.
From that day forth we saluted whenever we met; and if by any chance we came together, we exchanged the usual courtesies of acquaintance. There was a degree of pleasure afforded him by even this much of recognition, from one whose air betokened more prosperous circumstances, that I gladly yielded. I had known even harder fortune than his, and could well understand the importance he might attach to such a trifle.
By degrees I began to feel a strange kind of interest for this man, – so calm, so self-possessed as he seemed in the midst of scenes of passionate and violent excitement. What signified any sudden reverse of fortune, thought I, in comparison with the daily misery of such a lot as his? And yet day after day I saw him unmoved and tranquil; he came and went like one to whom all the vicissitudes of life brought no emotion. He was a study for me, whether I met him at the play-table or the restaurant, or saw him at night in the theatre in his accustomed spot, close to the orchestra, where, with folded arms and bent brows, he stood the entire night without moving. I watched him closely during that terrible week when, each night of Margot’s appearance, the conflict of public opinion grew stronger and stronger, when, as her enemies gained strength, her former friends either gathered in little despairing knots together, or abandoned the field in defeat. I thought, or rather I seemed to feel, that this man’s eyes were fixed upon me oftentimes when I was not looking at him. I had a strange sense of consciousness that, affect what bearing I might, he was reading my secret thoughts at his leisure, and conning over traits of my character. Whenever any momentary burst of disapprobation from the audience had made me fall back in shame and anger within my box, I could feel that his eyes were following me with a glance of persecuting keenness.
Margot’s enemies were triumphant; they came each night in crowds, and by a hundred contrivances of insult displayed their bitter and undying hatred of her. The leader of the party was a Vicomte Dechaine, whose mistress was the rival of Margot, – if even third-rate powers could aspire to contend with genius such as hers! Her friend, it was said, had organized the entire conspiracy, and, being a rich man, his purse and his influence were powerful allies. At his supper-table, the writers of the papers, the young fashionables of society, and the professed critics who swayed public taste, were said to meet and concert their measures. Their victory cost them less than they had ever anticipated. Margot’s own indiscretions – I have no other word for them – had worked faster for her ruin than all their bitterest animosity. It was not a mere indifference to public opinion she displayed, – it was a downright contempt for it. If they censured any peculiarity of expression, – a pause, or a gesture, – she was sure not only to repeat, but even exaggerate it. Did any detail of her costume excite reproof, she at once assumed it as a reason for maintaining it. In a word, it seemed that all the arts others employ to win praise and secure popularity were used by her to show her utter disdain of the world’s opinion; and this, too, in a career where such opinion is the law, and where there exists no appeal against it.
To restrain this spirit, even to moderate it, her friends utterly failed. She who once heard even the humblest with deference, and accepted suggestions with a degree of humility, now rejected all counsel and guidance, and boldly proclaimed herself the only competent judge of what regarded her. A frequent subject of censure amongst her critics was a habit she had fallen into, of pressing both hands to her temples in moments of intense passion. The gesture was not alone ungraceful, but from its frequency it became, in a measure, a trick; and this they assailed with a degree of virulence far out of proportion to the offence. Mademoiselle Mars counselled her to guard against any mannerism, and mentioned this one in illustration. Margot – once the very emblem of obedience to her gifted friend – resented the advice with angry indignation, and flatly declared that her own inspirations were her best advisers.
In the temper she had now assumed, it may be imagined how difficult had all intercourse with her become. Her waywardness increased as the public favor declined; and she who once might have been permitted to indulge any caprice, was now rigidly denied even the commonest liberty. At first, the hardest task was to blind her to the censures the press was heaping upon her. Now, however, a new difficulty arose. It was to hint that she no longer could count upon the fickle favor of the multitude, and that the hour of her triumph had gone by.
At moments, it is true, in some scenes of intense passion, where a deep emotion of the soul was to find its utterance in a few broken words, a cry, or perhaps a look, her wonderful genius shone forth still; and, surmounting all the prejudices of sworn enemies, the theatre would burst forth into one of those thundering peals of applause that sound like the very artillery of human feeling. Such a passage was there in “Bajazet.” It is the scene where Roxalane listens to the warm protestations of her lover, of whose perfidy she is assured, and whom she herself overheard declaring that his love for her was little other than compassion. For a few seconds the words of adoration seemed to act on her like a spell. She drinks them eagerly and madly; her eyes sparkle; her bosom heaves, her half-opened lips seem, as it were, to catch the accents; when suddenly the truth flashes across her. Her color flies; her face becomes livid in its paleness. A terrible shudder shakes her frame. She snatches her hand from his grasp, and turns him a look of loathing, contemptuous aversion such as actually sickens the very heart to behold!
From, I know not what caprice, she disliked this part now, although once it had been her favorite above all others. Her friends made every effort to induce her to resume it, but in vain. Their entreaties, indeed, only served to excite her opposition; and the subject was at last dropped as hopeless. The Court, however, had fixed on a night to visit the “Français” and “Bajazet” was their choice. There was now no alternative left her but to accept her part or see it filled by another. The latter was her immediate resolve; and Mademoiselle Leonie, her rival, was at length installed in all the honors of the “first character.” It was evident now to all Margot’s friends that her career was over. An act of abdication like this was always irrevocable; and the Parisian public was never known to forgive what they regarded as an open act of insult to their authority in taste. Well knowing that all attempts at dissuasion would be hopeless, we made no appeal against her determination, but in calm submission waited for the course of events, – waited, in fact, to witness the last crash of ruin to that fame in whose edifice we once had gloried.
Mademoiselle Mars advised Margot to travel. Italy had been always the land of her predilection. She had even acted there with immense success in Alfieri’s tragedies, for her knowledge of the language equalled that of her own country. It would be a good opportunity to revisit it; “And perhaps, who knew,” said she, “but that the echo of her fame coming over the Alps might again rouse the enthusiasm of Paris in her favor?” I warmly supported this plan, and Margot consented to it. A dame de compagnie, an old friend of Mademoiselle de Mars, was chosen to be her travelling companion, and I was to be of the party as secretary.
We hurried on all the arrangements as rapidly as possible. We desired that she should leave Paris before the night of the command, and thus remove her from all the enthusiasm of praise the press had prepared to shower down on her rival, with the customary expressions of contemptuous contrast for the fallen idol. We well knew the excess of adulation that was in readiness to burst forth, and dreaded less the effect it might produce on Margot’s mind regarding her rival than that it should inspire her with a curiosity to witness her performance; for such was exactly the wayward character of her mode of thinking and acting.
To our joy, we discovered that Margot’s impatience equalled, if not exceeded, our own. She entered with an almost childish delight into all the preparations for the journey. We hung over the map for hours together, tracing our route, and revelling in anticipated pleasure at the thought of all those glorious old cities of the peninsula. We consulted guide-books and journals, and pictured to ourselves all the delights of a happy journey. With what ecstasy she recalled the various scenes of her former visit to Italy, and the names of those whose friendship she had acquired, and with whom she longed to make me acquainted! In her enthusiasm she seemed to recover her long-lost buoyancy of heart, and to be of the same gay and happy nature I had known her. I dare not trust myself with more of these memories; they come upon me like the thought of those moments when on a sick bed some dear friend has uttered words to be treasured up for years long, – words of promise, mayhap words of hope, for a future that was never to come; plans for a time that dark destiny had denied us!
Our arrangements were all completed, our passports procured, a courier engaged, and everything in readiness for the road. We were to set out on the following day. It was a Friday, and Margot’s prejudices would not permit her to begin a journey on such an inauspicious day. I reasoned with her and argued earnestly, for I remembered it was on that night Mademoiselle Leonie was to appear at the Français. She was resolved, however, to have her way, and I gave in. No allusion to the theatre, nor to anything concerning it, had ever escaped either of us. By as it were a tacit understanding, each avoided the theme as one only suggestive of distressing memories; and then we had so many topics that were delightful to talk over.
I went out early in the morning to make some purchases, some trifling things we wanted for the road, and on my return I found Margot with flushed face and feverish look rapidly walking to and fro in the drawing-room. She tried to seem calm and composed as I entered, she even made jest of her own agitation, and tried to laugh it off as a weakness she was ashamed of; but her efforts were sad failures: her quivering lip and trembling accents showed that deep agitation was at work within her.
