CHAPTER IV.

GENERAL PODOI.

If I were a writer of the naturalistic school--that is, if I were without care for modesty or the choice of words--I should need here to summon physiology to my aid to paint in all its brutality the love that the Princess Olsdorf and Paul Meyrin felt for each other; and the lines that I should devote to this study, and the scenes that it would involve, would give their distinctive note to the book. They would probably make it successful, thanks to the unhealthy curiosity by which even the freshest readers are tainted nowadays, for we live in a strange age, when cynicism reigns alike in letters, art, business, and politics. Cynicism is indeed the only sovereign that our pseudo-republic is willing to accept.

In truth, license has never been so unbridled; never has mediocrity gone so far, impudence mounted so high, or indifferent work, dramatic and literary, had so much success, if cleverly launched. Our country, formerly known for its gallantry and good taste, has become the kingdom of what is common and vulgar.

This new state of things is due to many causes--the _abandon_ of religion, the scandalous rapidity with which fortunes have been won, the eager desire to enjoy everything, and also--it is needful that one should dare to say it--the invasion of those numberless Southerners who have carried everything with a high hand, and brought with them into the society they have gained a footing in, the vanity, the extravagance, and the boastfulness inherent in their natures. A Gascon or a Provencal may, of course, be an upright, worthy, and intelligent man, a devoted friend--I have known many with these qualities, but too often they are lacking. One might suppose they were incompatible with the terrible accent of these men, their epileptic gestures, their rage for loud talking, for calling people by their names, and for talking of their own affairs to everybody. And if the Southerner is a Jew, too, the case is worse than ever, for then no place or reward is safe from his greed.

To put against the few men of wit, the occasional writers of the first order, the two or three poets that the South has given us, what noisy, insolent, troublesome _parvenus_ Paris owes to it! It would seem that everything is these people's, of right. They slip in everywhere, shamelessly, jostling one another, greedy of place and honor rather than avaricious. Such of them as are not poets or musicians are hair-dressers, or croupiers at gambling-tables, or statesmen.

This calamitous invasion has come upon us chiefly from the right bank of the Garonne, and the sea-coast; for further inland, toward the mountainous country, these Southerners are of another kind--almost a different race. First they have a less marked accent, and, second, some indisputable qualities are theirs.

One class of these new-comers are of no particular country. They come from everywhere--from South America as well as from the banks of the Nile; from the Gulf of Mexico as well as from the far East; and the sore that eats into our very marrow is owing to the enthusiastic welcome Paris gives to their high-sounding names and suspicious fortunes. Lacking all the good points of the Southerners, whose faults usually spring from exuberant vigor and fancifulness, these foreigners take Paris for a kind of modern Capua. They are the dealers in commonplace, the readers of obscene works, the originators of every debauchery.

The result is seen in voice and gesture, in a freedom of bearing and a frivolity which, in great part, are the cause of our social fall, and, as a consequence, of the success achieved by erotic books, written in a language scarcely intelligible, and by unhealthy volumes which, stinking at one and the same time of the sewer and of opoponax, might have been printed at Lesbos.

Now, as I have no ambition to write one of these books, I will only say what is needful to make myself understood of the passion which had brought Lise Olsdorf and Paul Meyrin together. What I wish to sketch is the moral depths into which a woman quickly sinks when, yielding to her animal desires alone, she throws herself blindly and recklessly into the arms of a man who is of neither her world, race, nor education.

Love, in the pure acceptation of the word, even when it is not legitimate, must occasion an exchange of lofty sentiments, sacrifices, and devotion between those who feel it for one another. It outlives all trials; in the pride of its abnegation it will provoke them on occasion. Passion, on the contrary, when the soul is a stranger to it, is made up of egotism and material gratifications.

In such a case, in the hands of a man who knows he is more desired than loved, the woman is no longer an adorable companion in life who encourages and consoles, a faithful friend whose joy doubles our joys. She becomes an instrument of pleasure, whose jealous owner would have not only all her moments of _abandon_, but all her smiles and her most trifling thoughts. She must live for him alone, please him only, be beautiful before him alone. Destroying the aspirations of the woman who has thus rashly given herself up to him, her master soon makes of her a slave, whose heart, stifled by its surroundings, ere long ceases to beat. And when the day of satiety and _abandon_ comes, there remains of the ideal creature of God nothing but a worthless woman, soiled in her own eyes, and fated thenceforward to lead a life of weariness and disgust.

But Lise Olsdorf, abandoning herself to the fierce passion that had seized upon her, could not imagine that perhaps such a future loomed before her. The many hunting excursions of the prince left her practically at full liberty, for when the male guests of Pampeln were away hunting, there remained at the chateau scarcely any one but middle-aged, placid people, who retired early, and who, for that matter, on account of the very reputation of the princess, did not dream of spying upon her.

Moreover, there was an excellent excuse for the lovers being for hours at a time together. The day after that which had settled their fate, the painter had begun the portrait of the mistress of Pampeln, and everybody--Pierre Olsdorf more than any one else--was interested in this work, which promised to be noteworthy.

Under the empire of his passion for her, Paul Meyrin had at first wished to paint the princess as Diana the Huntress, her hair in a Grecian knot, her shoulders bare, her bust scarcely veiled; but, on seeing a sketch of the future picture, Lise Olsdorf was alarmed. It seemed to her that everything in it betrayed at once the painter's love for her, and she begged him not to go on with the work. Paul consented, but on condition that his model, re-enacting for him the shamelessness of the Italian princess for Canova, would let him some day secretly, for themselves alone, reproduce on canvas the splendor of all her beauty. And Lise, having promised in a passionate embrace, Paul Meyrin, going from one extreme to the other, painted her in a riding-habit, severely chaste.

Within a fortnight the portrait was nearly finished, and the prince, who naturally suspected nothing of his conjugal misfortunes, thanked Paul Meyrin, and authorized him to take the portrait to Paris for hanging in the next exhibition.

At each hour passed with Paul, the princess's love increased. It was in some sort purified by the admiration she felt for the artist at his work.

While the sittings lasted, at liberty to see him for a long time every day, she loved him better and less wantonly; but, wishful as the painter was to linger with his work, prudence obliged him at last to admit that he had finished, and consequently to put an end to the daily interviews in private. Then Lise's passion retook its first fierce form.

Deprived of the interviews in the course of which, satisfied and glutted, she could gather a store of calmness for the rest of the day, she became jealous, troubled, rash. Soon she was so little mistress of herself that General Podoi's wife, helped by her own experience in like affairs, guessed at a part, at least, of what was going on.

Alarmed--not in her virtue, but in her affection, which was wholly of pride--for her daughter, as to the consequences that might follow upon such an intrigue, the ex-Countess Barineff watched the princess more closely. It was soon impossible to have any doubt of her relations with the handsome foreigner, for one evening her mother caught them almost in each other's arms in the great alley of Pampeln, which had been the scene of the declaration of their love.

The general's wife was, as we have said, a woman of energy. The next morning, before breakfast, wasting no time in beating about the bush, she appeared in Paul Meyrin's room, without having her visit announced beforehand.

Astonished, to begin with, by her appearance, the artist was very soon still more so by her speech, for without preamble or oratorical devices she said:

"Monsieur, I come to ask you to bid adieu to the other guests this very day, and to leave Pampeln. You will write to the prince, who is away and will not be back before night, that you have had letters from Paris summoning you to return at once."

"I do not understand you, madame," stammered the young man.

"You had better, however, without forcing me to explain further. I introduced you to Prince Olsdorf, and I am therefore in some degree answerable for your behavior under his roof. This responsibility is already too great, and I desire not to be any longer under it."

"But, madame, were the prince to believe the excuse I should make, following your advice, for my sudden leave-taking, there are others who perhaps would be less credulous."

"That is no concern of mine. You may tell them what you like. The best way would be to say nothing--to anybody; but you must go. Give me your promise."

"Must?"

"You know well that I have the right--that it is my duty--to speak thus."

"And if I refuse to obey?"

"If you refuse, in ten minutes' time two of General Podoi's friends will wait on you with a challenge--discreet friends who will find reasons for a duel that will compromise nobody but myself. The shame of fighting with an old man will be yours, and then you can not stay here."

That good fellow Podoi had little idea that the woman who bore his name was at that moment disposing of his life so calmly. Still, she knew that there was no need to consult her husband in any event, and that in a delicate case of the kind she would find him, as he always was, ready to obey any wish of hers.

Much embarrassed, and knowing not how to get himself out of this downright trap, Paul Meyrin was silent. He was sure that he had to do with a woman that would not give way.

"Come, now," the ex-Countess Barineff went on, dryly, "will you or will you not go?"

"I will go," replied the painter, bowing.

"This evening?"

"You will surely grant me a respite of twenty-four hours. I promise I will start to-morrow morning."

"No, you must go to-day, before the prince returns. There are horses and a carriage at your disposal to take you to Mittau. You will do well to go thence straight to Paris. If your stay in Russia were heard of here, after your sudden departure from Pampeln, it might give rise to questions. I want to avoid that."

The tone she had spoken these words in did not suffer Paul to hesitate.

"Very well, then, madame," he said, "I will leave this evening."

"Without seeing--you know whom?" said Lise's mother.

"No; I won't promise that! If I did not pay my respects to all whom they are due to before I quit the chateau, in the first place I should be set down as a boor, and besides, your end would not be granted, for everybody would try to find out the cause of such singular conduct."

"You pretend not to understand me. I will speak more plainly, much as it costs me to do so. You shall not see the princess again in private."

"I can promise you one thing alone, that I will not provoke an explanation between Madame la Princess and myself. You must admit that if she honors me by demanding one I could not refuse her it."

"She will not try to see you."

"She may do so."

"I hope otherwise."

"In that case, madame, we are agreed. All shall be done as you wish. I will write now to the prince explaining my departure."

Content with having got this promise, she left him and went at once to her daughter's room.

The princess was at her toilet when her mother came into the room.

"Send away the maid," she said; "I have something to say to you."

Rather surprised, Lise Olsdorf obeyed. Then turning to her mother, she asked, with a smile:

"What have you to tell me that is so mysterious?"

"I have just requested Monsieur Paul Meyrin to leave Pampeln to-day," replied the ex-Countess Barineff.

The princess understood all, and anger flushed her face with blood; but not losing self-command, she replied calmly:

"Why do you tell _me_ this? I presume you have the prince's authority for taking such a step in respect to one of his guests."

"I have consulted nobody. Monsieur Meyrin's longer stay here might at any hour be the occasion for a scandalous scene. My duty was to do what I have done."

"Has this young man bowed to your orders without protesting or defending himself?"

"He is going away this evening."

"Very good. I will see him directly."

"It would be far better to rather avoid any interview with him."

"Why, pray? I wish to know what means you have employed to obtain from Monsieur Paul Meyrin so ready and blind a submission."

"What does that matter to you?"

"It matters this, that if Monsieur Meyrin is the man I take him for, he will not leave before having heard me."

"You must be responsible then for what may happen."

"Why, what will happen?"

"You will see."

"Come, mother, don't let us talk in enigmas. What are you imagining? By what right do you interfere in what concerns me alone?"

"What I imagine, or rather what I am certain of, I will not say, out of respect to you. My interference is a fulfillment of my duty. After rearing you with a view to create for you a future according to my ambition, after having made a princess of you, I will not suffer you to ruin everything on account of a ridiculous caprice."

Lise Olsdorf could not master a thrill of anger and pain. The glitter in her great eyes told her mother that she had overshot the mark. A ridiculous caprice, this ungovernable passion that had thrown her into Paul Meyrin's arms!

She recovered herself somewhat, however, and replied bitterly:

"Yes, that is true. You have made a princess of me, and, as you say--to satisfy your ambition. You would have acted more wisely if you had made me a happy woman. You forced me to marry a man who did not love me, and whom I did not and could not love. Is it my fault if the blood of an artiste runs in my veins?"

"Well--of an artiste?" said Mme. Podoi, haughtily.

"Bah! As if these tastes and these aspirations were not derived from yourself!"

The ex-comedienne at these words started indignantly.

The past that she had long since forgotten and wished never to recall, her daughter reminded her of. How came she to know so much? Did she not know still more?

Possessed by this thought, she said, more gently:

"It is no question of tastes or aspirations but of your honor and that of the prince, and you repay poorly my care for your peace of mind in trying to offend me. It would be better, I think, for both of us not to prolong the interview. I have spoken to you and to Monsieur Paul Meyrin, as it was my duty to speak. His going will seem quite natural when he has excused it as I have advised him to do. He will write to the prince, as I have suggested, and at least any scandal will be avoided. The day will come when you will thank me."

Lise's only reply to these last words was an ironical smile. As soon as her mother was gone, she quickly finished her toilet and went down to the dining-room, where most of the guests were already gathered.

Paul Meyrin entered the room a few moments later. He was so pale and so evidently preoccupied that several persons asked him if he were not unwell.

"No," he replied, "but I have had bad news from Paris, and must leave Pampeln to-day."

At that moment the princess signed to him to come to her, and when he had done so she said, in a low, rapid voice:

"I know what has passed between my mother and you. I will wait for you in my room after luncheon."

Mme. Podoi, who had only come into the room leaning on the general's arm at that moment, did not notice what was going on. Besides, she had made up her mind not to interfere between her daughter and the painter, to avoid an outburst. M. Paul Meyrin was going away; that was the main thing in her eyes.

They sat down to table, but Lise Olsdorf soon excused herself from keeping her guests company any longer. An hour later, while the visitors to Pampeln were making for their rooms or strolling over the park, Paul, going by a roundabout way familiar to him through the principal rooms of the chateau, stole into the princess's private apartments.

She was there impatiently and feverishly awaiting him.

"You don't love me any longer, then," she cried, springing to him, "as you have submitted so easily to my mother's orders."

"Your mother has not told you, has she, what she threatened me with if I did not go?" he asked, reassuring his mistress with a thousand kisses.

"No, but I believe she would do anything to gain her end."

"She told me simply that if I did not leave Pampeln to-day, her husband would challenge me to a duel."

"Impossible."

"That is the fact, and the thing has been cunningly thought out, for it is certain that if I were to fight the general I could not remain here afterward."

"But she would have to supply my step-father with some reason for a challenge."

"Oh, your mother is clever enough to find a reason."

"And he would obey her blindly, at the risk of being run through the body. He is simpleton enough for that. I know the influence his wife has over him."

"You see, I must needs go--not for my own sake, but for yours."

The princess grew somber and fierce. Reclining on a couch, she fixed her flashing eyes on her lover kneeling before her.

"So be it then," she said, after a moment of silence, winding her arms about Paul's neck. "So be it--go; but soon to meet again. It is my mother herself who will be to blame for it."

"Why, what do you mean?" asked the painter, pressing Lise to his heart.

"I mean that before winter is upon us I shall be in Paris. She sends you away, does she--she separates us? Well, I will go to you."

The artist gave a cry of joy; and mad, intoxicated, careless of danger, they forgot all else but their love and their dreams of the future.

That evening Paul Meyrin left Pampeln, after writing to the prince in the sense agreed on with Mme. Podoi. At the same time he made his excuses for being unable to await the prince's return, thank him in person for his hospitality, and take formal leave of him.

It was the middle of September, and the stay in Courland, according to the ordinary custom, would last until the early part of October. Lise had mapped out her course, and was so completely master of herself that her mother soon came to think that she had exaggerated the danger, and that her daughter had almost forgotten Paul Meyrin.

Two months later she saw her mistake, when the prince himself told her in St. Petersburg that his wife was going to Paris for medical advice as to the state of her health, about which she was uneasy.

At this quite unlooked-for news the general's wife had almost betrayed the anger and indignation she felt. Happily she restrained herself, and hurried to her daughter.

She found her preparing for the departure. At the first glance to the trunks that the maids were packing, she could see the absence was meant to be a long one.

"So," she said, after leading her daughter to another room, "you are going to Paris? Why did you say nothing to me of this journey?"

"I do not start until to-morrow. I was coming to say good-bye this evening."

"And this journey is taken on account of your health?"

"Undoubtedly."

"You can imagine that I don't believe that?"

"Then it would be useless to question me, as, if what you suppose be true, I can not, and ought not, to confess it to you."

What the princess could not and would not tell her mother was that she was _enceinte_ by Paul Meyrin, and that this, more even than her love for him, compelled her to leave her husband at once.

"Do you imagine that your husband will always be ignorant of what is going on?" said Mme. Podoi, after a moment's silence.

"I don't know what you mean," said Lise, shrugging her shoulders.

"Suppose I were to warn the prince?"

"Warn him? About what? It is either too late or too soon. If it is too late, nothing shall hinder me pursuing my aims; and, thanks to you, there will be a scandalous rupture between Pierre and me. If, on the contrary, it is too soon, you will do a bad action for the sake of doing it, for the prince has perfect confidence in me. He would not believe you, and I should start on my journey all the same. Come, mother, I advise you not to mix yourself up with my affair. I am married--that is, I have to render account of my conduct to my husband alone. When the day to do so shall come--if unhappily it should come ever--I shall know how to defend myself; I won't ask for your help. If you are willing you need say and stick to but one thing--that I am very far from well, and that as Doctor Psaroff, clever as he is, can do nothing for me, I am going to Paris to take the advice of more eminent men."

"Does the doctor believe you are unwell?"

"Can not women always be as ill as they wish to be, in spite of the keenest-sighted doctors?"

"Lise, there will be a bad ending to all this!"

"Fools alone make bad endings. Besides, I trust in Providence."

The dry, cutting, cynical tone of the princess in meeting each of her mother's objections left no room for insistence. Lise Olsdorf could be wounded on one point alone--her maternal love; but Mme. Podoi had omitted to speak of her son, whom she must leave in Russia. What she dreaded was that her daughter would lose the high position she had won for her. Her pride being touched, to begin with, she had not given a thought to the only weapon which she could have used with effect.

"Then, adieu," said she, rising; and without so much as kissing her daughter, she left the room.

The princess did not try to keep her, but went back to her packing.

She had made up her mind to take no servant with her, not even a lady's-maid, because to do so would be to risk exposure some day or other as to her condition.

To the affectionate concern of the prince as to her loneliness she replied that it seemed to her far better to engage a maid and a footman when once she was at her journey's end, for the few weeks she meant to remain in France, than to be troubled by servants that were strange to Paris and its manners and could therefore be only useless.

The prince gave way, and next morning his wife set out for Paris.

Forty-eight hours after, Paul Meyrin had a telegram from Konigsberg, which he had been eagerly awaiting, to announce the coming of his mistress to Paris.